It has been a good long while since we were here on the blog, and in that time the world has twirled a full pirouette, our new little state a small patch blurred into the skirt of the skies. I watch for falling stars sometimes, now that there is, when the moon is away, darkness. In that year, we have moved into our first home, and spent a few seasons cozying into our place on the hill overlooking the harbor. (Quick note that the good photos are Walker's; the blurry ones are my iPhone!)…
When people keep saying "only six weeks left of winter," I actually feel . . . sad. I have grown to love this season so much, and Walker's passion is far beyond mine. So we're quite happy right now. In addition to all the beautiful, slidey ways to glide through forests or slip down hills, and the simple quiet of the snow falling around our little village, I love this time when being inside at night draws out contemplation, and we can look back at the sunny times from earlier, and think of them…
The winds are so forceful right now that it feels like we are inside a car wash, and the winds are great dry brushes swiping around the corners of the house. This is our first real Maine blizzard, and it is hard not to personify its moods and vigor. But I can tell you that about every 3 minutes, I jump out of my chair from the noise to check that the house is still planted on the street, and not levitating. January has dipped us in and out of these arctic pushes and so without much interest in…
As I'm writing at 2:50pm, the sun is so low over the ocean it has dissolved into a foil ribbon of glimmer straight into our living room. So bright and present, the glare so painful and we cannot look back or forward but close our eyes and feel where we are. It's a strange thing for me not to be planning trips this time of year, but sitting in the warm sun is its own gift still, and in many ways for us, this year was about practicing presence, being where we are and not living ahead or backwards…
The past year has modulated our lives small tones at a time and then sudden key changes, so much that it has been hard to write with clear distinctions about each place we are, and how we are in that place. But this week, we are all thinking much about the milestone of a year since the shifting starting and in that longer expanse, it is easier to see a then and a now. We have lived in four places in few-month groupings this year, and some of them I have not had a chance to share here. Who we…
The serenity of a clear fall day is among life's greatest delights, clean and pure: the slightly darkened blue sky, rainbows of orange and red mums, warty pumpkins at the farmer's market. October is always my favorite. We are still in Minnesota, and it has been my favorite month here, just as it is back east. It is the feeling of the evening before your birthday all month. Life's pacing has warped the last 6 months: long days with crackling fires and talking late into the evening--single…
This post is the third of the Small Noticings series, started here. In New York, I can't see the moon from our windows, and its light is replaced by round, buzzing street lamps. But with thin curtains over open windows at night in this quiet cabin, I notice the brightness of the moon's variations. Right now it is waxing, growing bit by bit. The night before the full moon, we work on our small fire, and the clouds blow thin and fast over the moon, blurring it. Last night, I reached to pull…
This post is the second of the Small Noticings series, started here. At first, I found it hard to notice nature here at the cabin. Everything is still. The water is a dark, pure mass. But at lunch we take the paddleboat into a glassy lake, and watch the runners slicing open the water's surface. We pull into the dock, and a boreal chorus frog (I look up later) sits so still I put my camera almost to his back and he doesn't take a breath. I touch his thigh and he still holds. This great…
This post is the first of the Small Noticings series, started here. I have spent no time on lakes, I realize when I'm talking to my mom on the phone, and they make me uneasy. When the wind blows and all the water rushes south, I can't figure out where it goes. It seems to be an endless flow and yet the lake has a tight limit, the grass and birches holding it in. Sun-warmed on top, wind stirred, what is in the lake can't hide in the marsh grass long. A turtle head in the distance. A loon…
From our small perch, it has been tempting to look at the world not through our own windows, but the news right now. These very wide lenses project vast change and uncertainty. The ruminations of what could be ahead for the entire state, country, world are expansive and uncharted. Much as the horizon view seems to keep others centered, looking at everything at once is too much of a stretch for my head right now. So for the past two months, I have been writing field notes nearly daily, small…