1.24.15 I fall in love too easily

It's good I'm this age, with these circumstances, because I fall in love too easily. I fall in love with daylight and evening and Witch Hazel blossoms in winter and snow-flecked young Birches and Sumac and moonless nights and the sound of snow crunching beneath boots and the distant patter of rushing waters from the stream in the ravine at the end of the field and the feel of cold winter air on cheeks as darkness falls and the delight of a pup romping in a storm and the edges of the forest as snow obscures and the bright lights of home far up on the hill while tromping back home.

1.24.15 At almost 2, the discovery of field mice

1.24.15 If It Was 23 Years Ago

Today finds us here in a quieted, muffled dark world.

     If it was 23 years ago, there would be diapers to change and small ones to bring out to move and shout and exhaust themselves  and then bring back in, noses running and cheeks red and small bodies relieved of the need for fresh air and movement.

      If it was 23 years ago, there would need be crafts ideas and game ideas and snacks on time and meals and naps; and friend arrangements for the 12 year old, laundry to do and spats between the 2 and 3 year old, and those periodic walks around the block with the two dogs and small ones in tow.

If it was 23 years ago, there would be drives to and from Berkshire East Ski Resort, where the 12  year old would be doing the racing program, all day both days, and the small ones and I would spent 2 hours in the car driving to and fro, while my husband tried in vain to work on his dissertation.

     On one of these drives, either Saturday or Sunday, morning or evening, I encountered on the radio a story about a universe that existed behind the walls of a local mall. I kept catching it again and again, as I drove week after week, handing back snacks and toys and juice water bottles into the back seat to the two locked into their carseats.

      Somehow between Greenfield and Charlemont, I was transported in time and space by the program, often while executing that fine parental art...of sneakily unwrapping a Charleston Chew candy bar sooooooooo slowly......soooooo gradually.....that only a few times would the three year old say, warily, " What's THAT?" to the small crinkle, and look at me askance when I spoke with a bite in my mouth, diction a bit off, me almost laughing hysterically in my early parenthood isolation and lunacy, while trying to do the right thing.

     But here we are, 23 years later, the arduous delicious work of parenting quieted to a small intermittent simmer; the life quieted to a whisper of days.

     This morning I brought out Shiva Louisa, almost 17 1/2 and doing just fine, thank you very much, with much upkeep and love. I had on my husband's old Sorels, barefoot, coat slung on, nightgown rippling in the snowstorm, impatiently out with her, and camera in hand, I wandered about a bit, grateful for my life here in silence and privacy, on this foothill. I made my way up to the compost to see if there had been a night time visit from the tiny small coyote, and there had, all alone, I saw, as I traced their tracks from all the way up the field to the compost, and all the way back down. Still, no other members of their pack, and alone is unusual. But there the small one is, persisting and visiting. And they will have no predators ,save cold and hunger, so the best of luck to them.

     In the meantime, the snow is stilled to a constant small flurry, the winds coming through intermittently to push the snows off branches, as it lands in plops all through the yard and forest. 

As the birds happily swoop in to feed all day long, and the pup awaits the romp across the field now, as the thick grey skies darken, and all about us is mute with midwinter and snow.

1.23.15 Time Spent With the Secrets of the Winter Forest

Yesterday morning was dark with interspersed cloud-cover, once the early morning blue and white had passed. Dark days are so hard for so many, most probably that genetic aspect. Myself, the darker/wetter/colder, in some ways, the better. Being a MacLean/McClellan? Scotland to Nova Scotia to New England? Who knows.

 Somehow, your bright sunny days seem glaring, the summer colors all a bit much. Though of course, the ease at which we move from indoors to outdoors welcome, the fewest obligatory clothes the better.

 We arrived at the most isolated conservation path in the Fir/Pine/Beech woods. The dirt road was glare ice, and took some machinations to get Sorrels on, perch in the back seat to fit the pup up with harness et al, repeat to him to be 'Careful. Careful' , which he knows in his Shepherd heart, is for me, so tries his best to glance at me over and over, and not pull. But we reach the area further in, and I call to him, and unleash him, whispering "RUN!" And he smiles, taking off into stream and woods and leaping up sleek icy hills with his sharp dog claws stabilizing him, and off we go.

 The clouds hide the morning sun, the air a 20 degrees, so mittens and polar-fleece turtle neck and scarf and hat and all....the pathway ice covered from melts and rains, so the way to go is hugging the crunchy sides, as we pass by the amber colored waters of the stream, the ice growing on limbs that lay across the waters, splashed upon. The ice upon them glistening like jewels.

 The tiny house being worked upon, that is situated at the entrance to the conservation path, has been inserted into my novel, with a protagonist living in it, so always the sight of it begins some story, rolling about in my brain, and I call to it "Wait. Wait until the walk is over" , as it pulls on my sleeves and tickles my ears with its murmurings, it's luring of what is happening now in the story. But it quiets, responsive, and I smile at my funny sweet brain, now all quiet and in this present moment, just right now.

 We walk up a small incline, and round a corner, heading upward. To the right I see a very steep hill, reached by going over the bridge and through the woods...yes. To the right is the rolling country beneath the forest, with small brooks revealing themselves, then hidden by the snow.

 The air is delicious- crisp and cold and scented faintly with the Pine and the Fir...and the more you take note of it, the more you notice, as you breathe it deep into your lungs, as the pup races across the hills and path and stream, unearthing and lugging about big sticks and limbs, and small , bashing through the forest.

 Next to the path are two small openings, where someone living beneath the ground dug out, to venture out;  front and back doorways of their cozy earthy home, curled round roots and rocks, their stash of nuts and things saved, as they move in and out of deep torpid sleep.

We continue on our way, we approaching the two trees that fell and created a bridge to walk beneath on the path, I smile, my small incrementally increasing distance reached. I stand, a bit breathless, and some small cloud passes by overhead, dropping a flurry of snowflakes, that glisten as they fall from far overhead, through the bright green limbs of the woods. They fall and fall and I feel them finally on my face, watching them swirl about me, and then gone.

Turning about to make our way back. I bend to inspect a protruding limb with feigned interest, so that Dante will come near, and I can stomp upon his trailing leash, and hitch him up for the walk back. His responsiveness and training progressing, but not this well. 



At this moment, the clouds part, and a stream of sunlight passes through the woods, landing along this tree, that limbs, a bit of the stream, lines of sunlight upon the bright fir-needle covered snow. I pause, taking it all in. The quiet, save the rippling of the brook; the particular wind song that comes when the forest is bare, with the exception of  the conifers. That small whistling refrain winding it's way through the forest.

 Further down, the sun crests a nearby hill, the clouds lessen, and light spills its way across the woods, through the small dead end dirt road neighborhood, and everything is alight for a bit.



We pass by  what can only be described as a towering Pine. No wonder that is such a common phrase- it is so apt. I notice the melt of snow and ice that has happened on warmer days, on this and other large trees, the stream of water flowing down one side of the tree. Then,  cold night or colder days arriving, and all of it freezing.  The green of the north side of each tree is held within a shining layer of ice. I lean back back to peer at the very top of the old Pine, the swath of ice down it’s long trunk shining; verdant green.

 On the way back down the path, we come upon the scene of what I imagine to be an Owl's dinner, deep in the night. Feathers, a bit of blood and some organ parts. This is the  life that we know happens , but rarely see, that  did happen here. The survival, the prey and predator. All of it silently taking place beyond our reach, inasmuch as they can manage.

We pass by all the fallen trees, slowly degrading, gradually giving life to that valuable Adaptogen herb Turkey Tails, which in winter’s wet, foster the same deep green moss as the dark side of trees, and so much else, in the wooded places.

 We slip and slide and manage to get the pup into the car, get my boots switched from huge lugging functional to sleek comfortable, and start the car, a backward glance at the conservation woods; the patiently waiting part of my brain pulling at the bit to turn on SIRI and begin speaking the new part of the story into the little phone. "Hang on a minute", I urge , as I turn the car about, and there is BIGFOOT, a 2 dimensional, maybe 7' black painted creation that appeared just before Halloween this year! I delight in seeing it each time, while Dante freaks out, understandably. The person who owns the tiny house works carefully on an immaculate stone wall, and creates a Bigfoot, while taking their time with the rest of the renovation. Makes me smile.

As we reluctantly leave the land of forest and stream, and begin our way home.