the sky, thickly veiled in white smoke, gradually darkened. i paced the house, obsessively looking out the window as the wind picked up, swirling through branches and laying grasses down flat. it seemed the promised rain might actually arrive. like much of the west, montana’s summer has once again been plagued with drought and fire. we desperately need rain, yet the occasional thunderstorms blowing through place us on edge; every lighting strike could spark another conflagrat

nights come early now, darkness settling in even before we sit down to dinner. the snow melts; the last aspen leaves rattle and flutter away with passing winds; snow falls again. daylight appears as in a watercolor, pellucid, devoid of color. ropy clouds drape across a pale blue sky. how we mark these days. the holidays approach, and for many of us they will look different. travel and extended family gatherings out of the picture. we will gather in smaller groups, or even a

i’ve heard it said that winter is never far away in the north country. you can feel its presence just beyond the mountain; hovering, biding its time. it’s time. this past week, three snowstorms worthy of january: the first, heavy wet flakes just right for building a snowman; the second, cold and powdery; the third, falling right now, steadily, steadily; deep. when the clouds lift, the newly dusted mountainside will reveal scars–stark gashes of white across a forested flank

the morning dawns under cover, accompanied by a steady drumbeat of rain. a low ceiling, not quite grey and not quite white. throughout the day this curtain rises and falls, its feathered hem revealing glimpses of the mountains beyond. raindrops drip off leaves and eaves, steady; an invitation to meditation. while i long, on the one hand, for the warm summer sun, i find myself sinking into these rainy days. slowing down: physically, of course, but also slowing down the frettin

the neighbor mows his lawn and the air smells sweet; later, spicy as rain releases the balm of creekside cottonwoods. thunder rumbles low, a child’s laughter peals. we dance to silly songs and play outside with rocks and sticks. the sun feels hot on my arms for the first time this season. backlit illumination on the dog’s fur, making her glow. leaves begin to unfurl, willow and crabapple, currant and gooseberry. the apple tree still in bud, silvery grey and fuzzy. these are t

Winter rain, now tell me why, Summers fade, and roses die. The answer came; the wind and rain. Golden hills, now veiled in grey, Summer leaves have blown away Now what remains? The wind and rain. — Weather Report Suite, The Grateful Dead I’ve felt this before. The disorientation, the tumbling, not knowing which way is up. The rules that appeared to govern the world torn asunder; scattered, fluttering to the ground. The feeling okay one moment, the tears the next. The uncert

the last days of february bring with them an ennui, a longing. a yen for color and life and warmth. elsewhere in the country, signs of spring begin to emerge: green shoots, buds swelling on trees, perhaps even a flower. as another snow squall descends, blotting out the world, one line from robert service loops through my mind: “the white land locked tight as a drum.” even in this, though, the signs–subtle as they may be–are there. the extra minutes of morning light, the dry p

ensconced inside walls of glass and wood, a human-scale snow globe, the world outside awash in white. flakes falling steadily: sometimes heavily, fat and lacy, thick in the damp air. sometimes urgently, more granular, staccato pellets rushing to meet the ground and clattering against interfering windows. sometimes en masse, so dense that the scene fades to ice, snowflake curtains blotting out houses, trees, parked cars, lampposts. inside, we cozy up. steam swirls up from mugs

Easter morning clouds swirl low over the mountains, encircling peaks in wreathing mist, tumbling down to the valley floor. The air heavy with damp and chill, mingled with the green of emerging vegetation and the sweet of woodsmoke. Yesterday a storm front rolled through, moving slow and steady, gracing us with a symphony of thunder rumbling for half an hour straight. No interruptions, no break in the vibration. From there a downpour, torrents beating down on the metal roof, a

The winter was so hard and cold, Froze ten feet ’neath the ground. — Grateful Dead, “Dire Wolf” The winter: Cold and long, even by north country standards.  Hard. It started out mild and manageable. We skated through Thanksgiving and Christmas with tempered cold and scattered snow; even January exercised restraint. Then February arrived, and with it an unrelenting deep freeze. All through the month, every night subzero. Many days, too. March came, and the mercury dipped even

She slowly emerges from the tall grasses at the lip of the crumbling fish ladder. Her head swings from side to side as she surveys the river corridor, all senses alert, scanning for threats. For the moment, she perceives none. The large male bears–boars, as they are called–that dominate this prime fishing spot are elsewhere. Most females with cubs steer far clear of this fishing site. It’s too dangerous; the threat to cubs from the boars too great. But this mom holds her own,

An almost imperceptible shift in the light. A slant of golden, the earth’s turning reflected in sunflowers’ faces. The skies blue again after a good night’s wind and rain scrubbed the smoky haze that had descended over the mountains, stacking them like so many cardboard cutouts. Around the edges the air is cool, threaded with the promise of chill. The creek meanders along, more leisurely than lazy, having left the frenetic pace of runoff behind. A grasshopper symphony plays f

Walking along an ice rink road riddled with puddles, there is a whisper in the air; an undercurrent. Spring is not here yet in the north country, but there is a promise in the breeze. Hold on just a little longer, says the wind to the buds that have begun to swell on the trees. The morning sunlight has shifted, now angling gold through the bay window. I look up and a bald eagle soars overhead, low enough that i can hear each wingbeat. vanilla caramel cashew buckwheat clusters

This morning there is rain, a steady drumbeat against the corrugated tin roof, streams pouring out of gutter spouts and a grey mist blanketing the hills.  Yesterday afternoon the the impending cold front was palpable: the air still warm, but the wind stirring leaves from the trees and clouds slowly moving in across the sky.  Leaves crunched underfoot, releasing an earthy aroma of autumn into the air. Seasons change as we orbit once again around the sun. The weekend, however,

I had pie for breakfast today.  I mean, I didn’t *only* eat pie.  But pie was definitely present.  Maybe topped with a couple of tablespoons of coconut ice cream. There are several reasons for this.  First: Monday.  Second: it’s “healthy” pie, filled with plums! (I keep telling myself this.)  Third: pie reminds me of Alaska–and as you know, I love Alaska.  Alaska may have been where I baked my very first pie, and it’s certainly where I’ve baked most of them.  This is because

Weekends go by so fast.  This one was a good one.  Summer days in Montana, celebrating the best the season has to offer. Saturday began with a trip to the county fair, where two-day old Vietnamese potbellied pigs suckled or slept under the warmth of a heat lamp.  So tiny, so delicate, so clearly brand new to this world.  One tiny piglet awoke from his nap, stood up on spindly legs, tottered, and then gave a long, slow, delicious stretch.  A stretch worthy of any practiced yog

There are things we believe.  Things that ground us.  Things that hold us close–more than we can ever hold them.  Things divine, that reflect our inner light; things that tap into and reveal who we really are, that embody what it means to truly live.  Things that are infinite, timeless, and eternal. The great Jim Harrison captures the essence of such things in his poem “I Believe,” from the collection “In Search of Small Gods.”  I reread this poem other day, and started ponde

Years ago, I had a word-of-the-day calendar.  I love this idea, this ritual of bringing a new concept into the everyday.  Of diving into the depths of language and storytelling and perceptions of consciousness.  I love losing myself in books, poems, songs; strings of words woven together to produce a richly colored tapestry of the human experience.  I love how lyrics and prose can transport, can switch on the projector inside the brain–or perhaps it’s the soul–and spin reel u

This year marks 50 years for the best band ever. Forever. So many of my friends from near and far, from different chapters and far flung corners of the Earth, converged this weekend at Soldier Field in Chicago for the Grateful Dead’s “Fare Thee Well” shows.  It pains me more than I can describe not to be there!  Through the wonders of YouTube, I can watch the performances–Friday night’s rendition of Ripple (amazing!) left me choked up–but there is nothing that can compare to

Change is the only constant. That adage, attributed (or misattributed, depending what you read) to the Greek philosopher Heraclitus, rings especially true for me this month. Flux upon flux. Shift upon shift. Seasons progressing, flowers unfolding, lives evolving, coming, going … all beneath clouds scudding across the sky.  I took my first stand up paddleboard yoga class this past weekend and it seems a perfect metaphor for life: standing steady and moving through the flow—tru