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

and just like that, two more seasons have come and gone. the sweet summer, sunlit and green; the fall, golden and resplendent. the mornings of late: darker now as we spin away from the sun, darker now for the clouds of grey mist suspended low in a heavy sky. as the curtains rise, they reveal snowfall in the high elevations. sunlight, when it peeks through the clouds, cuts through the atmosphere a pale silver; the rich light of autumn having given way, already. the air outside

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

waking up this sunday morning; a sunday morning, in some ways, like every one that has come before. outside a silver disc of sun presses through steely clouds; fine-grained snow pelts the trees standing tall in the 2-degree air. and yet. for those generations of humankind walking the earth today, this sunday morning has no precedent. we go about our morning routine: breakfast, dishes; we get dressed and ready for the day. though, of course, we won’t be going anywhere. there a

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

driving over ice-glazed roads under a sky quilted white, seams stitched with blue. contemplating the state of the world, which, perhaps, isn’t the way to start the week off right. instead, back home, i focus on the criss-cross maze of deer tracks etched across the snow. last night i was awakened by the resounding clang of antler against gutter; a buck searching for edible browse alongside the house. today: a bald eagle, silhouetted against the sky, perched high among fractal

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

and january is gone, just like that, sliding into the shortest month of the year. february, to me, will always be the month-of-the-garden-catalog. arriving in the mailbox, pages a-shimmer with pinks and oranges and yellows and greens; splashes of color to liven the imagination when the world outside reflects only shades of grey. reminding us that despite today’s slush, the season of birth and renewal is right around the corner. buckwheat buttermilk cinnamon rolls another week

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

My experience of late, and that of many others with whom I’ve talked, is one of time hurtling forward. Faster and faster. Dizzying and relentless. Defying nearly all efforts to rein it in. One thing I’ve found allows me to pull back just a bit. To pause. To notice the moment and savor it. And that is ritual. Not elaborate or time-consuming ritual (indeed that’s the very thing I am trying to avoid—the rapid consumption of time). Rather: ritual as slow, mindful attentiveness

Bow your head down When you break bread together; Close your eyes, Make a circle of hands. — Jeffrey Foucault, Dishes Early morning sun slants through the windows, catching steam curls from coffee mugs and flour clouds from countertops. Sweet apple and pumpkin spice mingle, wafting through hallways and up stairs, rousing anyone who might be thinking about sleeping in. There is much to do but it is unhurried and accompanied by laughter. Hours pass amidst piles of apple peels a