Woosh. Beltane arrived last week and along with it the moment of panic when I realized we are now more than halfway to the solstice. (I also remembered how many other springs I had the same thought and how I always seemed to catch up with the season somehow.) And then a fabulous spell of May weather arrived and just like that, something clicked.
In the last week, we have picnicked at our favorite spot on the bluff, I have taken my first real bike ride, a box full of chirping chicks arrived in the mail, and I discovered that with all this glorious morning light, I can fit in a five-mile walk before work. I feel like I’ve found my footing in this season.
The morning walk is probably the most exciting part of that list. It’s a sweet spot of a walk where it’s long enough that I can usually tire out the chattiest of the voices in my head and find some quiet, but it doesn’t feel like a workout. It takes me through some beautiful old forest and around a little lake in a nearby state park that feels pretty distant from the homestead, but I don’t have to drive anywhere, or even see a road. It just feels really grounding to start the day with that much time outside. Here are some signs of spring from a recent morning:
And I can’t resist because it just never gets old… chicks! in the mail!
A little show-and-tell for you today. I finished knitting this mantle just in time for my recent meditation retreat. I can’t decide if it’s brilliant or ridiculous but I think I love it. (Though it was really pretty ideal for days of sitting and walking in moody spring weather.)
Knitters are the biggest shawl enthusiasts, because a shawl is basically just a flexible canvas for all sorts of interesting knitting. And I really think that the next candidate for underappreciated garment to bring back is the mantle. It’s basically a sweater without the pesky design considerations, which translates to a bigger canvas and no shoulder geometry.
My original motivation was to use up a whole pile of leftover Lopi yarn, which meant that I had to modify the original design to suit the colors and amounts of yarn on hand. I drew the yoke design with colored pencils and graph paper during our February snowstorm and then knit it furiously to see if it would actually work (a few on-the-fly modifications required but mostly, yes). I lost momentum when I got to the solid blue but it got exciting again as key colors dwindled. In the end, I managed to use every last inch of the light blue, and had less than a yard left of the oatmeal and the dark blue.
This was just the sort of knitting project I’m enjoying these days – good pattern inspiration paired with plenty of room for creativity, low yarn investment, and an unfussy finished product.
I returned home this weekend after only a week away and was shocked by how different it looked. The grass grew a foot or more. (Really. We have grass, not lawn.) The big maple trees outside the upstairs windows transformed from branches of light-filled chartreuse blossoms to green leafy canopies. The daffodils are fading and the cherries are in peak bloom.
I could keep going, but I don’t think there’s any need. It’s spring… a frenzy of growth, a riot of green, an endless transition.
Forty-seven new baby chicks are due to arrive next week. We will be ready, or ready enough. But right now… I feel a little unsteady in the sea of change. So I am huddled under a quilt inside, remembering this sky from my morning walk.
‘as you are.’ says the universe. ‘after…’ you answer. ‘as you are.’ says the universe. ‘before…’ you answer. ‘as you are.’ says the universe. ‘when…’ you answer. ‘as you are.’ says the universe. ‘how…’ you answer. ‘as you are.’ says the universe. ‘why…’ you answer. ‘because you are happening now. right now. right at this moment and your happening is beautiful. the thing that keeps me alive and brings me to my knees. you don’t even know how breathtaking you are. as you are.’ says the universe through tears
A reminder that I needed today, and maybe you do, too.
Nayyirah Waheed is one of my favorite voices on Instagram right now, interjecting poetry that catches my breath into the usual scroll.
And my very beginner calligraphy practice feels a little like embodied poetry. Moving slowly, feeling out the shapes of each line and letter. Letting go of everything I think I know about writing the words and allowing them to sink into me.
Right in character, April has been full of showers so far, and the green seems to be rising up almost in real time. I have been watching nettles and dandelion appear and multiply, tufts of grass poking up through the colorless pale of winter pasture… all these individual bits of spring life. And then suddenly one morning walk, the ground was a sea of green, punctuated by some old husks of last year’s growth hanging on among all the new.
It was the same story with the alders and willows and such… I watched the buds swell on bare brown branches and then, seemingly overnight, all the tiny leaves sprouted and they were a sea of bright green branches, shifting the whole hue of the landscape.
It brings back memories of last spring on the trail, watching spring rise up through the layers of the deciduous forest, slowly filling in with more and more density of green week after week.
I thought those observations were the introduction to something more, but it turns out that might be all I have to say right now.
It feels like another time of transition. Nothing radical, but a few natural endings creating some space. I’ve found myself reading more than usual, watching some television, listening to a few extra podcasts. It feels like a time to just take in a lot of input and let it all stew together a bit before I can figure out how it will become output.
So hello over there. Whatever kind of internal season you find yourself in, I hope you find some delight in watching the spring come to life around you.
Late March sky. Vibrant and blue with the promise of all things new and renewed. Streaked with the evidence of the constant movement, change, the energy of all that is stirring.
The frogs are croaking, the ducks flush from the wetlands on my early walk, the geese fly overhead in pairs, alerting me with their honking. And the long slow parade of green unfurlings marches another step each day.
But my attention keeps returning to the sky. This time of year, with the light changing so fast, I feel the humming energy inside me. If I try to control it, to hold it in, it becomes anxiety. So I try to let it move through me.
I look up and think about how I strain to imagine what this patch of earth looked like a hundred or five hundred or five thousand years ago, but beings from all time gazed up at the sky and saw the same dance of light and color, the same pageant of cloud. This little reminder of the vastness of time and place is so good when the light is unsettling and work feels urgent on all fronts and the news cycle is a never-ending nightmare.
And sometimes, the blossoms and the sky appear together, and it might be the most magical of all.
Hello? Words feel tentative and strange after all the silence here of late… I was walking to the library yesterday, and passed these cherry trees at the primary school in full bloom. And immediately, I remembered taking photos of the cherry trees along the river in Portland five years ago, how that was the moment when the idea of this space first felt real and possible. Yesterday’s unexpected cherry blossoms felt like the nudge from the universe to come back here.
I decided back in January that it was time to let go of this space, that it didn’t quite fit me anymore and I was ready to close it up. And it felt important to me that I do that, somehow state my intention and not just trail off in the middle of a thought. But somehow, I never quite found the words or made it back here to do that.
And then, a couple weeks ago, something shifted. It occurred to me that while this space didn’t quite fit me anymore, I was free to change that. The container of the blog was a little stale, but it was really how I was showing up to it that wasn’t working for me. When I started writing here five (!!) years ago, I didn’t know what that would look like but over time, I found a groove. Since then, my life and my interests and the things that really engaged me have continued to evolve, but how I shared here didn’t so much.
I want to change that. I want to try to write about the things that feel alive for me right now, even when they feel too vague or weird. I want to reject the narrative that no one else could possible be interested in photos of the sky, because they sure seem to captivate me. Or whatever I’m fascinated by next. I really don’t know how this will go or what it might look like, but I guess that’s the sort of thing that you mostly just have to figure out by doing.
Thanks for coming along on the ride.
The ride! The most recent musical hole I’ve (happily) fallen down has been Amanda Palmer’s new album, and I highly recommend it, starting with the epic song The Ride.
Hello again. I have more pictures of winter skies. A lot of them, actually, although I’ve really tried to cull it down to some number that seems reasonable to impose on you and your kind attention here.
As has become our tradition, we saw in the new year at the beach. It was a pretty classically fantastic winter beach weekend, with moody dawns and brilliant dusks and a few spots of blinding blue in between. The waves crashed non-stop for three days, the kind of roaring and breaking that vibrates through your whole body and glues you to a spot in the sand, staring, absorbed by the ceaseless rhythm of it all until suddenly you are scrambling to keep your feet dry and looking around sheepishly to see who might be witnessing your high-stepping.
Going into the weekend, the turning of the calendar didn’t feel much like an event that needed marking this year. I had several big transitions in the last few months, and did my share of reflecting on what they meant to me, on our journeys and lessons and gratitudes for 2018. But it turns out that there’s always room for more reflection, or at least there was this time. So I stood on the beach and felt the waves and thought about all the living that we crammed into the last year, and what kind of hopes I have for the next year. And it felt good, especially that part about new hopes.
I hope that you, too, can stand and look at a horizon and feel peace and possibility this year. I hope that you will be awed by light and clouds. I hope that you will find a bit more trust in the innate goodness of yourself and the universe. Maybe even enough trust to allow a new crack in the protective armor you have constructed for your heart, a crack that might allow you to be seen a little more honestly or to feel something you thought was too uncomfortable. Maybe that crack will open just wide enough for some of that light to sneak in. I guess what I’m saying is, I hope that your heart feels a little brighter this year.
I took these images several weeks ago at this point, before packing up boxes for friends and family, before writing cards. Right in the midst of the hubbub of all the making and baking and everything that I’ve come to think of as “decembering”.
After all that, the holidays themselves usually feel like a deep breath, or maybe a long exhale. It didn’t go quite as planned this year. A big wind storm on the 20th knocked our power out and it stayed out for more than two days. So there were lots of candles for the solstice, but by evening number two they were feeling decidedly less charming.
The power returned, the house recovered, and after a few more days of baking and sewing and cleaning and re-stocking, christmas went on (almost) just as planned. And every afternoon, I managed to get out for a walk to actually feel those deep breaths. Without trying, I think I came back with photos of the sky every day. Sky with moon, sky with fog, sky with light playing on the clouds… it was all captivating in real time.
In retrospect, it’s a lot of photos of winter skies.
There were a few oddballs, like the winter greenery or christmas dinner.
Hello from deep December. Deep in the dark days, when sunrises like this one come well after 7a and slowly, and some days it feels like it never quite gets fully light.
And I’m sure that it has been an endless stretch of gray half-light until I look back at my photos and I am reminded that there were a few gloriously cold and bright days a few weeks ago, and I even took a long beach walk on one of them.And then I remember it was dumping rain every chance I had to get out for a walk yesterday, so when it finally cleared after the sun had set, I went out despite the dark. And the moonlight was brilliant and I couldn’t stop marveling at my shadow and the stars and the glory of a landscape awash in night-light.
So clearly the gray has not been continuous.
But there is much gray, and I try to find the beauty in it to counter the tendency to feel oppressed by it. I find myself drawn to the shades and grades in the gray, allowing my eyes to adjust to the dimness and discovering that there is more subtlety than just “gray”. And perhaps conversely, I find beauty in the almost-monochromatic scenes, like bare branches and broad sky. Like maybe color is just beside the point in this light.
Greetings from deep fall. Light is in short supply on these days of big gray skies and so I’m drawn to the half-light, wondering at how it can appear with so many subtle differences in the seemingly narrow space between gray and white.
It feels like an age since I last wrote here. I spent four weeks in retreat and have now spent another four weeks finding my way back to routine and forward into life after a seven-month-long sabbatical. Lots of reconnecting with friends and community. Lots of picking up little bits of my life and appreciating them with fresh eyes, or realizing that it’s time to set them down for good. Honestly, I’m not sure where this space fits. I feel like the things that are most interesting to me these days are things that I don’t know how to write about. Ideas that float by, ways of seeing the world just a little differently, all the feelings that are apart of this human experience.
But then I did a little rug surgery this week and snapped a few photos and thought, “I’d like to share this”. So here I am today.
In the earliest days of this blog, I finished a cotton braided rug project. It was my first go at rug braiding and it was perfectly serviceable and also a little wonky, just as you’d expect. But then at some point I washed the rug, and the “little wonky” became a persistent buckle. My best guess is that the the cotton twine I used to lace it shrunk more than the braided fabric. I’ve been feeling motivated to do more re-making this winter. Mostly inspired by standing in front of a shelf full of hand-knit sweaters and thinking about the next one I “need” to make to have something to wear out. I want to try again on the collar that sits funny or the body I’m always tugging at to be an inch longer or whatever it is. Unravel a bit and re-make this thing I have instead of buying a pile of new yarn and getting entranced by the idea that this time I’ll pick the perfect pattern and the perfect yarn and knit the perfect sweater.
So in that spirit, I guess it’s not surprising that one evening this week I looked at the rug with the bump and grabbed a scissors and started unbraiding.
In the end, it was probably only an hour of work. I pulled out two rounds of braid, reconnected the strands with some ugly but hidden hand-sewing, and then re-laced it into the rug. The result is certainly not perfect, but it lays flat, and I’m pretty satisfied to have been able to make it better.
Knitting! After being forced to concede that trail knitting was not to be, I had my longest break from yarn and needles since I first picked them up. So the local yarn store was near the top of my list of places to visit in August when we found ourselves off the trail. Especially after the realization that trail knitting wasn’t a good fit because it was too similar to walking in the way that both occupy the mind and body just enough but not too much. When I had hours of walking in my day, I wanted some other kind of diversion; but when I those hours suddenly disappeared from my days, knitting was just the right thing to pick up.
This shawl was a good post-trail project – easy but not boring, it required just one pair of needles and no fussy fitting, and it was just enough knitting to keep me busy until we got home.
And I expect it will be in heavy rotation for the next few weeks. Which would be true just given the changing fall weather, but especially true when my plan for this fall includes lots of sitting and walking. Mostly just sitting and walking, actually. Before I return to all the routines of home and life, I’m taking a few weeks of personal meditation retreat. So this space will be quiet for awhile, and in the meantime, I’ll be watching the maple leaves flutter or the raindrops splat or whatever tiny wonders appear here:
We arrived just after sunset last Friday night. I set my two small travel bags down on the floor and exhaled with the kind of relief that comes from knowing that you belong right where you are, and you don’t have to leave anytime soon.
We walked through the house and assured ourselves that it was all here and then I sunk into that particular comfort of my own bed. By 6a the next morning I couldn’t stand waiting any longer, so I explored the yard by headlight to see how all of the trees and gardens had fared through a whole season apart (mostly just fine).
The trip home was a cross country drive. It was only the second time I’ve driven from coast to coast, the last one in the opposite direction not long after the end of my first long hike more than a decade ago. This time we were helping some dear friends move house, so the chariot was a 15-foot U-Haul truck. A bit of a transition for me who had resisted any driving for the first month off trail, but I can’t help but get a little romantic about any long road trip (and frankly, I was mostly a passenger). All the better with friends. And especially when it involves watching the season change quite literally before your eyes. I wouldn’t have guessed it but somehow the fall colors emerged more and more as we drove west.
The days since have felt disorienting – a whirlwind of organizing the chaos in the silverware drawer, re-folding all the towels, and generally putting everything back to just the way I prefer it; reconnecting with friends and neighbors and this place generally; long stretches of just needing to sit on the couch and stare out the window and slowly settle in. Discovering the little ways that we changed and things around us changed and how it all fits together slightly differently now.
It’s been awhile since I’ve visited this space. Time has felt suspended as we have passed the last few weeks without any pressing requirements or obvious landmarks. I started this post days ago and despite coming back to it a few times, I can’t seem to find any tidy way to share a brief update and move on.
There are these photos of late August on the Maine coast that seem far off… but still somehow calming.
I also spent a week wandering around Brooklyn and discovered that I enjoy urban miles more than I expected. The photos aren’t exactly representative of the ground I covered since I was too self conscious to pull out my camera in most neighborhoods but still feel like a good reminder of the diversity of life in someplace as dense as the city.
And this week we took the first step in the direction of home. I can feel my mind shifting toward another center, summer and the hike and travels giving way to autumn and home. But we’re not there yet so I am doing my best to ground myself in the ground beneath me.
We are in between the trail and home, a liminal span of weeks. A space that could easily be mistaken for blank or empty, a time to be passed until the next transition.
Perhaps because of this, it feels essential right now that my days be OF the time and place that I occupy. That I exist in a context.
August in Maine means the beach.
I am really not a beach person. I start to feel overexposed after mere minutes of direct sunlight and the texture of sand gives me heebie-jeebies to a degree I generally describe as a sand phobia. And yet, it has felt like some kind of magnetic pull since we landed in Maine.
Our first day here I was scouring goodwill for a bathing suit and a day later we were packing towels and chairs and Italian sandwiches for our first outing. I played in the waves with a stupid grin on my face until I stumbled drunkenly on wobbly legs back to my blanket. The next day, we found a nearby river swimming hole.
In the water or out, I feel content. My mind is quiet. Everything feels simpler for a couple hours. I gaze at the horizon, or read a book with the sun on my back, or close my eyes and listen to the gulls squawk.
We’ve been off trail for a week but already it feels impossibly more distant. Part of me believes that any lasting insights will emerge on their own, and in their own time, but another part of me believes that it’s important to intentionally take the time to reflect in order to process the whole experience.
But we’re not home and won’t be for several more weeks, so it’s difficult to carve out the time and space for that processing. Today’s small step: make a (simple, imperfect) slideshow from of my daily photo project. I took a photo of my feet nearly every day of our hike. (I missed several, most often when we were in town.)
I have no idea if this will be interesting to anybody else. My mind takes these little snapshots and translates the light or the rock to a whole memory of that time and place but obviously you have only the snapshot.
But here it is, 1600 miles of trail in two minutes of my feet:
I didn’t know it then, but this is what our last day on the AT (for 2018) looked like. After four months, we conceded that while our hearts and minds and most of our bodies were aching to walk another 550 miles, Lucy (as I’ve dubbed Dean’s left foot) demanded and frankly, deserved otherwise.
For the one from Maine, everything since Georgia has been a “Katahdin approach trail”. The mountains and lakes and miles I was most excited to see still lay north. It’s heartbreaking to let that go.
And yet… I know that the trail was always just a sturdy container for the real journey, and the wildest wilderness is the one inside me.
Slowly (and with a fair bit of resistance) I am learning to relinquish my imagined plans and to surrender to the way it is.
And… because I got behind on sharing the last couple weeks, I still have photos from the hike from our travels through Massachusetts and southern Vermont.
It was my favorite stretch in many miles, the transition toward bigger forests and wilder country unmistakable. It was also a mess, the trail a giant mud pit from the intense nightly storms.
Lots of signs of progress since I last wrote. We completed the New York and Connecticut sections of the trail. We passed mile markers that were round numbers (1400! 1500!) and meaningful fractions (2/3!). The calendar even turned to August, a very real reminder that the darkness creeping into our evenings is only going to steadily increase.
Time marches on. We continue to pluck our way northward. And yet…
It feels very much like we have been hiking every day for long enough that it’s hard to remember what waking up at home felt like. And the 670ish miles of remaining trail feel like we will be doing so for the foreseeable future. So every day I put on the same smelly clothes and chew through a mountain of dense food and walk under a green canopy, up and down, rocks, rain, bugs, blah blah blah.
We are in the doldrums. We are making progress. Both are true.
Progress feels more true when the sun shines, though. I wish it were more complicated than that, and really I’m sure it is. But… blue skies sure help.
Vistas of more forest than anything else, a real novelty of late (when the clouds allowed a view). Wild berries. Signs announcing a pond as “one of the seven natural wonders of NJ”.
Also, monsoon season rains and vicious swarms of mosquitoes. (actual snippet of conversation: “maybe we can pretend like we’re on an exotic vacation to India”) A night tenting in a town park, tormented by streetlights and dogs barking. Gorgeous boardwalks over wetlands and sketchy bog bridges.
We made it to NY, and felt a small sense of accomplishment, and then immediately embarked on a few miles of rocky ridges requiring bouldering moves, wet and slippery from all the rain, and were humbled once again.
No update on the foot troubles I wrote about last time. It still hurts, we are still hiking north. Still a bit slower, still hoping.
The last time I wrote, the whole idea of being in Pennsylvania was full of the triumph of reaching the north, of getting over the hump and marking northward progress. Just below the surface of that triumph was a simmering anxiety about the storied rocks of PA. It turns out this stretch of trail was a bit like a protracted game of mercy for us. And that even our pride was no match for the pain.
Overall, our bodies feel strong and settled. But Dean’s left foot has grown more painful than is sustainable for another 900 miles over the last couple weeks. So progress has slowed while we sort that out. In the last week and a half, we have more than doubled the number of non-hiking days of our entire trip. We spent an entire day procuring him a new pair of shoes, a day that culminated in 180 miles of freeway driving in a Ford F-150 (mind bending, terrifying, and exhausting). We also walked many miles of Pennsylvania rocks, alternately convincing ourselves that it wasn’t nearly as bad as the stories we had heard and that it was cleverly devised torture aimed very personally. We got a visit from my sister and her family to buoy our spirits. And we were forced to admit that right now, these rocky miles were threatening to derail our whole trip.
So we skipped the last 50ish miles of Pennsylvania and opted to spend that time resting instead. We stayed in town long enough to get Dean in to see a foot doctor. We put our feet up, and tried not to think about it all too much. Because we don’t know, and of course we never do, but right now that truth feels a little too raw. I feel a little raw, frankly. The paradox of bodily rest is that it is the opposite of rest for your mind. My mind is at ease when I’m walking these days, or watching the fireflies outside the tent at night. Holed up in a hotel, anxiety is a noisy mental narrative and acceptance of this vulnerability an occasional visitor. So mostly, I avoid it all by escaping into a book (thank you library ebook loans) or some similar distraction. Like any other part of life, I suppose, but stripped to such simplicity that it’s all unavoidably obvious.
The verdict at the doctor was that a high threshold for pain (check) and some serious anti-inflammatories might be sufficient. So tomorrow, we plan to tentatively venture north, humbly hoping New Jersey is gentler on us than Pennsylvania. Wish us luck!