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

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,

There are moments that remind us, that throw into sharpest relief, just how precious and fleeting life really is.  Moments that make us fall to our knees in raw grief and disbelief, yet also flood our souls with immeasurable gratitude for each and every moment that we do have.  As we live these moments, embody their pain and jagged beauty and love, we offer them up as a tribute to each and every beloved being on this Earth with whom we are privileged to share our journey. It’

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

Summer has rolled into this Montana town. The mercury is soaring, the air thick with haze.  Kids on street corners sell lemonade and Otter Pops; families flock to the swimming hole to float the afternoon away.  Some days, like today, are graced with an afternoon thunderstorm; temperatures drop 25 degrees in an instant and the wind carries the heady scent of pine and rain.  Plants drink up every last drop, as if they know the storms will become ever less frequent as the season

This past weekend was the summer solstice, the longest day of the year.  Which made me both happy (so much sunshine! so much daylight!) and sad (don’t start getting shorter yet, days!).  When I lived in Alaska, the tradition was to strip down into your skivvies (or less, if you were so brave) and jump into the frigid waters of the lake in celebration.  This year, here in Montana, I wasn’t quite so bold (not to mention that I wasn’t near a lake); instead, I opted to participat

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

The lowing of some happy cows; that was my weekend alarm clock.  It made me smile as I lay in bed, early morning sunlight slanting through the blinds, hearing them moo.  As the days wore on, I would see the little herd standing on the ridgeline across the street, silhouetted against the sky.  There is a little calf amongst the group.  It seems to have the energy of my herding dogs, running circles round the cows just the same. This weekend was beautiful blue sky, sunny and wa

When I think back on all of my years of schooling–everything I read, everything I heard, everything I memorized (and the many things I promptly forgot)–there are a few little gems that have stuck with me.  One of them, from my college soils class, is this: “Dirt is just misplaced soil.” How perfect.  Dirt is just misplaced soil.  A weed is just a misplaced plant.  These are the things I think about as I’m digging in the garden.  And the digging is starting to pay dividends! G

The pause. Pausing is not something we seem to do much of these days; running from one task to another, then another; filling our so-called “down time” with texting, email, social media, television.  It’s exhausting.  And it makes the pause, when we do, all the more powerful. In yoga, kumbhaka is the pause between the inhale and the exhale, between the exhale and the inhale.  The pause represents pure potential, endless possibility, boundless creativity.  When we stop and not

This past weekend, we had a one-day break in the rain.  There is nothing quite like feeling the sun on your skin after so many grey sky days.  Muscles sequentially relax–muscles you didn’t even realize were tense in the first instance.  Couple that with the bouquet of floral essences that hangs in the air after a rain, and it’s a little slice of heaven.  I’m pretty sure everyone in town took full advantage: hiking, biking, gardening, barbequing.  I joined them–going for a hik

On Monday, May 25th, we celebrated Memorial Day, a day of remembrance, respect, and recognition for those who died while serving in the United States Armed Forces.  The holiday offers an opportunity for reflection, a chance to honor those who have given their lives so that we might live ours–so that we might do our best to lead our lives in an honest, genuine, and gracious manner. Throughout the holiday weekend, I was reminded time and again of how many honest and genuine peo

I am a morning person.  The first few hours after waking are, to me, the most perfect and pure part of the day.  Everything is new: the air is fresh, the slate is clean, and it is blessedly quiet.  No clutter, no chatter, no chaos. The moments of morning are sacred.  They offer the opportunity to set an intention and tone for the day.  For me, part of setting that intention and tone flows from the meditation of the morning ritual: rising with the sun (at least now, as we enjo

When I saw the forecast for this weekend–40s and rain–I sighed.  It’s spring and I want to be outside, hiking and gardening and soaking up sunshine!  But it’s May, one of our wettest months here in Montana, and we are in desperate need of the moisture after a winter nearly devoid of snow. Besides, when I awoke on Saturday morning and heard the patter against the window pane, I smiled and snuggled deeper under the covers.  I was reminded of the luxury of rainy days.  Everythin

I love books. Spring, it would seem, is the season for reading. But as I considered that point, it got me thinking: It’s undeniably true that each year, when spring (or perhaps more accurately, spring break) rolls around, it’s time to pack up the beach towel, sunglasses, and a few good paperbacks. Before too long, summer’s heat sets in and I spread a blanket beneath the shade of a good tree and sprawl on my belly turning a hardcover’s pages. As the leaves begin to turn and th