Girl, we gotta talk.

I know you’re hung up fierce on Old Man Winter, but I gotta lay it to you straight:  you have got to move on.

He’s a cold fish.  A windy bluster.  Wet, dark, vicious, and dead.  He’s no good for you, little filly, and your delicate ways.

I know he was good to you.  I know the romance of a soft falling snow felt good and sweet.  We all fall for that, the thick accent and sly smile of different and far away.  It’s totally normal and you’re not alone.  Take heart.  I hear you.

But girrrrrl ~~~~ get it together.  Like, now.  You are falling apart on the insides and that’s no good.

He’s changing you.

Dry your eyes, slow the sinews of rage flooding from the hills.  Open your heart to the dawn of new love, the shine of the sun, and give me your hand, my friend.  Together we will walk through this chasm of heartbreak and get you to the other side.

There’s someone there I’d like you to meet.

His name is Summer.

And he’s totally hot.

tunes…  joni mitchell  :: california

It’s hard to translate what happens to the mind when you remove yourself from your regular surroundings for an extended period of time.

No work.  No expectations.  No routine.

The kiddos and I went to Arizona, where I was raised, for a couple of weeks.

Things have changed.  (There’s a really big fence there now.)  And they haven’t.  (The clouds are still trippy and cool.)

There’s a sense of the infinite that comes from the desert…like you’re the only person on earth and all thoughts are magnified beyond the bounds of our fragile human shells.  The weather remains in a continuum of hot and not hot, the sun always shines.  Always.  Every day.  When I return there, I feel completely open and completely suffocated all at once.

My sense of time was created here.  Or lack thereof, I should say.  A quixotic ray of light that gleams from mountain to mountain, shooting, bouncing, faster than they eye can see.

It’s kind of a pain in the ass.  Something I’ve apologized for often in my life.

Not so much these days.

Though the locations change and shift, I have been raised by The Rockies.  The dust, the wildflowers, the delicacies of small changes…remind me to remain flexible.  The solid foundations of granite, mineral, compacted formations of sand…remind me to remain strong.

I’m often asked what brought me to Montana.

Intuition is sometimes an answer that feels close.  A longing for a sense of time.  A space that’s grand enough to let the wildest of thoughts unfurl to their very ends, shake loose, and return again.  Tamed.

It’s beautiful.  And true.  And like a wild animal, shy and intriguing.  Close enough to touch.

This is the place that has taught me about time and consequence.  About integrity and promises.  About survival and determination, the will to live and the acceptance of fate.  Surrender.  Acceptance.  Grit.  Hope.  Self-reliance.

Trees.  Snow.  Grizzly bears.  That which the eye cannot see, and that which the mind cannot believe.

It’s a space on the earth.

One of many.

Right now, it’s home.  A defining aspect of me, but not my definition.

I know myself too well for that.

I’m not sure if it was the sharpness of the cut or if it was the soul of the tree, but I swear I can still see this one.  Or see through it, rather.

I like trees.

Well, this is the way home.  Whatevs.

It’s June 10th.  It’s snowing.

I would like to say this is unusual but it isn’t.

You get through it.

You take a deep breath.

You focus on the positive (fewer fires in August and September).

You hunker down.

You accept it.

You bake.

You think about other things.

You get through today.

You make it to the next tree.

You clean your house.

You organize the closets.

You look at old photographs.

You let your kids watch tv.

You remind yourself that it won’t be this way forever.

You’re grateful.

You don’t complain.

You suck it up.

You do it.

Because that is what needs to be done.

And that is the essence of living in Montana.  The lesson that shapes the people who choose to let their hearts and bodies roam free in these mountains and prairies.

A lesson that most places have forgotten.

Some of you know, some of you don’t, but we took a grand family journey back to Arizona over the last week.  Good medicine for the slow drag of winter come February.  I feel cryptic and filled with color, a feeling almost forgotten in my three year baby-growing respite from the road.

Simple sensations of home are fresh and wonderful once again.

Touching :: The faces of my sweet beauties, who are upside down and inside out from three days of confinement.

Tasting :: The memory of carne asada.  And salsa.  And fresh tortillas.  Sighhhhhhhhh….

Smelling :: Fresh mountain air ~ clean, campfirey, and instinctively familiar on a deep and satisfying level.

Hearing :: The preening of birds and the purring of cats.

Seeing :: The beloved big skies of home.

Stay tuned for pictures.  Lots of pictures.

I take it back about not making any New Year’s Resolutions.  The other day we were out playing under the blueberry sky again and I stumbled across a solution that solved a lot more than my query about how to make the mountains look bigger with my simple camera…

Aim higher.

The winter lasts a long time in Montana.

A looooooong time.

We are currently in the throngs of Winter 2, the post-Christmas lull before the real deep-freeze madness sets in.

This year we have been graced with plenty of still, blue skies and precocious black birds to waken our dreary eyes.  A refreshing preparation for our next season.

Still Winter.

Hang in there, say the black birds. Make new plans for gardens and summertime frills, fix the parts of your insides that ask for attention still.

Thank you for your message, Brother Birds.  You hang in there too.