Batten down the hatches. Sit tight.
August 27, 2011 § Leave a comment
The storm’s a-raging.
Here in Colorado, we have still grey skies after a cooker of a morning. Life as I know it goes on. Things happening in other places seem so distant as to be stories, not realities.
But out of sight, out of mind isn’t always a good thing.
As Hurricane Irene flails along the eastern U.S. coast through the weekend, I hope all those far away from my mountain/plains home remain safe, warm, well-fed.
Let us know what you need when you climb out, and see what damage may or may not have happened.
Prayers and thoughts are directed east tonight.
Smoke, rails, and hay bales
August 27, 2011 § Leave a comment
I got my first kinda-close look at Wyoming last week on my jaunt to and from the Black Hills. And I liked it. A lot. Most Coloradoans I’ve met rather rag on Wyoming, as Minnesotans often do of Iowa, and so I had prepared myself for a dull drive.
It wasn’t dull. The landscape, with its few scattered homes and ranches and acres and acres of wide open, felt like peace. Like a rest for thought. Like those yoga-moments of focused breathing. I looked around and watched as the mountains disappeared and reappeared briefly off to the left, as the landscape stretched out flat and rolled into hills and sometimes rocks, caught sight of windmills and hay fields and felt so happy that there are still places where you can be alone, surrounded by so much earth.
At one point I had to go to the bathroom so badly it couldn’t wait for wherever the next town might be. I left my car idling on the side of the road and stepped carefully down into the ditch.
The wind. The sound of it covered the idling of the engine and yet it seemed like a version of quiet. It tossed my hair towards me in a way that is both pushy and comforting, like a friend giving you a playful shove on the arm or slap on the back. Hello, a greeting, familiarity.
I found a sort-of hill and grasses to hide behind, but still I had an audience of red Herefords and black-baldies, two small herds on either side of the road. I laughed. “I bet you don’t see people out here much.”
It’s such a funny feeling to go from that wild quiet expanse back into the car, where you have the radio and your iPod and your cell phone. These things connect you to the wider world and yet at the same time shut out the much wider one immediately around you. For awhile I pulled out my earbuds so I could just be in this place while I drove. It wasn’t quite enough. I needed to be walking through those yellow grasses, climbing the rocks and bluffs, riding on horseback over the roll of the land.
So that is where I was. A place traveled through, not known well. Yet. Perhaps. I often think about places and if I could live there, and how I would live there. In Wyoming, I imagine a worn-wood horse barn, dusty boots and leather gloves, and a pot of herbs on a kitchen windowsill.
But that is imagination. Real sights: Smoke from, maybe, a wildfire. A slow-moving train. A small town where, at the gas station, a well-dressed man walking by asked about my license plate and if I was familiar with a certain place he’d been in Iowa. Crooked fences, dirt roads. Hay bales against the horizon.
Words and The New World
August 25, 2011 § Leave a comment
Today I am in and away from the sun. In the shade, on the couch, with coffee. A day for writing and editing. A little cleaning, and watching The New World.
Each time I watch this film I wonder why it isn’t better known. It seemed hardly publicized, and perhaps that’s because it isn’t the sort of movie that aims to please the mass market. This is not the next thriller or chick flick, though those have a kind of place in our enjoyment of things. But this is pure art.
A gentle, quiet exploration. Stunning scenes and scenery. Understated, powerful emotion.
It is a gift, this sort of film. I want to send notes of thanks to the director. Watch it! But not late at night, or when you’re tired . . . at times it’s so soothing in its beauty that it might lull you to sleep, like a good story. Like a well-crafted poem.
You’ll see the stark contrast between the colony of the white man and the nature-life of the Native American.
You’ll feel love and its aftermath.
You’ll visit the New World in its brilliance.
Enjoy.
Summer sunlight
August 23, 2011 § 2 Comments
I am glad for the evening sun.
Right now it is making the living room pink and gold, filtering through the railing, the blinds and windows, the white curtains. It isn’t burning. It seems gentle.
Tamed. But only for a few short moments, and the night of sleep. Tomorrow, the sun will be back up in its high throne of sky, sending its beams down to Boulder County. I will hope for a shelter of clouds.
This has been my second summer in a row of hating the sun. I used to curl up in sunlight, crave it, those Minnesota years, when summers were short and hot days were, relatively, few. Now I hide from it. I do want to be outside, but I do not want to be baked, fried, or scorched.
I spent the past week in South Dakota with my family. And there, I seemed to learn to love summer again. Was it chance or is it simply so much cooler up there? I don’t know, but the days were how I remembered summer days being, with some heat and light but not in a way that assaulted you; frequently now and again a cool breeze; a chilly cloudy day and afternoon thrown in just for good measure. This. is. summer. It felt like relief, to know that I wasn’t crazy, that I hadn’t passed some un-fun grown-up marker that makes you not find the fun in summer anymore.
I just don’t like summers in states any further south than, well, Minnesota.
Where, or where, is my wintery home? My red cabin in Wisconsin or Vermont? My piles-of-snow winters and loons-on-the-lake summers? I can’t seem to stop longing for them.
Everyone else in my family is tired of long winters and would prefer to move south. And I would prefer to live by my family. (I cried for an hour this morning when I left them at the campground. If you count on-and-off again crying, more like three. Yes, it’s true.) So where will we be? It’s sad for me to think of future summers where I hide inside during the high afternoons, and only venture outdoors in the mornings and evenings. I’m remembering summer camp and how the afternoons were free time, so out we’d go tromping down the hill in swimsuits, our brightly-colored towels flung over our arms. Sometimes even shivering before we got in the water! Sure enough, there could be hot stretches. But not hot months after months.
Maybe I will adapt. And maybe summer vacations to northern climates will have to become a routine.
Meanwhile, I am glad for this one.
(I can’t wait to share all the pictures with you! Soon.)
An afternoon’s happiness
August 14, 2011 § Leave a comment
Happiness is sliding into a nap on the couch.
Silent rain on the patio, an open door, window blinds tapping one another.
The sound of the wind pushing around corners.
A yawning dog.
Along the gravel drive
August 9, 2011 § Leave a comment
Just about every week I drive to a little town between Boulder and Longmont to pick up my milk, from a small farm where I have a share in the herd. I am obsessed with this milk. The icing on the cake (cream on the top?) is that in order to obtain it I get to go out to a farm and smell that dairy smell, see new kittens lingering the doorways with their dewy glassy eyes, say hello to the curious gray goat, and watch the hens pecking around and making feed bags crinkle.
The last two times I’ve gone to the farm, I’ve gotten some additional glimpses of the good ol’ country life in this state of Colorado. (Something I am always glad to see persisting despite the influx of wealthy outdoor adventurers and trendy corporate professionals.) Two weeks ago (I missed a week between), as I was pulling around a corner to go out the long gravel drive, there in front of me were two girls on horseback. They were probably in their early teens, on chestnut horses, just ambling down the way and laughing with each other. Such a scene I’ve imagined or read about so many times I can’t count. Every horse-crazy girl imagines long rides on horseback with her best of friends and her best of horses. It made me happy to realize that this does still happen, in real life, not just in the imagination. Despite the blur of speeding-up technology and speeding-up society, and also the speeding-up of growing up, there can still be these slowed-down, timeless, quiet, enjoying-childhood moments.
I wanted to wish those girls all the good that life can hold. It’s strange to be older now, a real grown-up, not living on so much hope of the future as you used to, having fulfilled some dreams and abandoned others, having reworked perspectives, having come through difficulty and sought after strength. It’s strange to see these young ladies in the thick of girlhood and to remember how that was, to rather miss it, to hope that their choices and experiences are as good as some of yours, and much better than others.
Then, today, as I drove away from the little shed with my half-gallon jars full of whole milk, down that same drive, I saw to my left that a horse camp or group riding lesson was happening. There is a small paddock on the farm, just past the shed where I pick up the milk, and I’ve noticed before that it seems the farmer’s wife or some other relative must regularly offer riding lessons there. Today a collection of probably 8 – 10 year olds were lined up with their horses – mainly chestnuts and bays, all prettily matching – and they watched as one after another worked at circling barrels. I laughed – I did – I couldn’t help it. Cowgirls and cowboys are not the same, quite, as they used to be back in the height of the Wild West and all the myths that surround it, but they are still alive and well out here, a new version based on the old prototypes. They hold onto certain passions, practices, and, to some extent, a set of values. Cowboy boots and hats and Wranglers are worn shamelessly, even proudly. Just the other day I made a new acquaintance who has a seven-week-old baby girl. She said to me, while nursing her daughter in the seat of her pickup, “When we were naming her we went with Kylie Rose over Kylie Grace, because my husband says it’s a better cowgirl name.”
Oh. It’s just too good. And my little-girl dreams of being a Colorado cowgirl have never been so close. I was a wishful, pining dreamer, and to think all this time God had this up his sleeve. Life is incredibly interesting. And even when I’m broke and trying to figure out the next step and wondering if I’m wasting my talent and am yet still so full of ambition, there is so much to be grateful for, amused by, and celebrated.
Right now, I am especially thankful for this cup of coffee, bacon in the fridge, a swimmed-out sleeping dog, several articles to be written and published, the best sister in the world, and the likelihood of riding lessons in the near future.
Practical farmers, practical beekeepers – and the first giveaway!
August 4, 2011 § 5 Comments
Two things I want to share with you all:
1. Practical Farmers of Iowa. This is a great nonprofit where I worked as an intern a few summers back, and in addition to feeling even more a part of the Iowa agriculture community, I learned a whole lot. Here’s a statement about/by the organization:
At Practical Farmers of Iowa, we come together every day to advance profitable, ecologically sound and community-enhancing approaches to agriculture through farmer-led investigation and information sharing.
We are working toward the day when:
- Farms are prized for their diversity of crops and livestock … Their wildlife, healthy soils, innovations, beauty and productivity …Their connection to a rich past and a fulfilling present where individuals and families earn a good living.
- Wholesome food is celebrated for its connections to local farmers, to seasons, to hard work and good stewardship.
- Communities are alive with diverse connections between farmers and friends of farmers … Places where commerce, cooperation, creativity and spirituality are thriving … Places where the working landscape, the fresh air and the clean water remind us of all that is good about Iowa.
Practical Farmers of Iowa is also a gathering place — a place for all types of farmers who want to be better stewards of their land while making a good living farming. As members, they become a part of something bigger than themselves — They become part of a network of individuals sharing information with and supporting each other.
They’re just great. Check ’em out. Attend a field day. Meet new friends! Support and learn. And join the movement! Practical Farmers of Iowa also recently asked me to review a book for their quarterly newsletter. Which leads me to:
2. Honeybee: Lessons from an Accidental Beekeeper by C. Marina Marchese. This is the most warmly-written, engaging, straightforward, informative book/story on beekeeping that I’ve read. In addition to sharing the author’s personal journey into beekeeping, the book includes helpful illustrations. recipes, and appendixes. It makes the whole process seem like yes, an adventure, but one you can take on and enjoy. You can learn more about Marchese and her bees at her website, www.redbee.com.
If you become a member of PFI, guess what? Among other benefits, you get the newsletter. Which means you get to read things like my book review. And then maybe you could purchase the book . . . and get some hives . . . and make some honey. If you do, please send me some!
Just joking. (Kind of.) Right now it’s my turn to do the giving. Comment on this post by telling me (a) your favorite honey recipe and/or (b) one of your favorite farms or farmers, and you’ll get your name in a drawing to receive a copy of Honeybee: Lessons from an Accidental Beekeeper. The drawing will take place one week from today, so be sure to comment before then. Looking forward to hearing from you!
Meandering sidewalks
August 2, 2011 § Leave a comment
This morning I got out of bed and before doing anything else (other than throwing on something to wear), I grabbed Miss T.’s leash to take her out for a walk. Forever I have been promising myself and her that we would start mornings with a walk through the neighborhood, and forever this has been an off-and-on thing – much more “off” than “on.”
So out we went, with me still bleary-eyed and really hoping not to see anyone who might happen to care how I looked, or make me care how I looked. Whatever. Tassie pranced along and I went after, and in my my head I kept thinking, “See, this is a good thing. How nice it would be to get up at 5:30 each morning before work and just have this space of time to be with my dog and pray and ponder. It would be a healthy, slow, energizing, wake-up-and-greet-the-world start, just a bit of time for me and the quiet world, before going forth to dive into work.”
But. Silly suburban neighborhoods! Why must you have illogical routes that curve and wind, and small instead of big trees that don’t offer much shade, and houses that all look the same? I have walked this neighborhood numerous times and still I get lost in there, in its twists and turns and depressingly garden-center-patched-together yards (I’m sorry, I don’t mean to judge, but hardly any of the houses we walked past had interesting landscaping and I don’t think even one had a vegetable garden – mainly we saw the same annual flowers over and over – and oh how boring. Come on, use that wonderful space that you have for food and creativity! You’re so luck to have it, and the opportunity to tend it. For the far-too-busy, maybe you can find a business like this one to help: Love and Carrots. What a cool idea!). Walking on. Where were we? And why were we here? And would we get out? The houses even blocked the mountains so that I had to stand on tiptoe and peer through gaps in yards to find out where west was. (Oh. Or I could look at the sun, there’s a thought.)
We walked and walked and the sun got hotter and hotter. T. was panting and I was wrinkling my eyebrows and squinting and thinking of ice cubes. Sun! Go away! And it actually sort of did. A scattering of clouds and a breeze pushed through right about the time I was wondering if we’d ever find our way back or would just have to wander through suburbia for the rest of the morning until I got over my pride and slovenliness and asked someone to point us back towards our apartment complex.
Some curved road led us back to home, somehow. T. kept looking for shady spots to walk in, for lighter pavement to keep from burning her paws. Thirsty seems to be the prominent state of my body these days, and this was cold lemon-water thirst. My morning desire for hot coffee was pretty much gone. I am sorry to say that, in fact, I had a mango popsicle for breakfast and should make something more nutritious next, but eating isn’t much fun in the summer heat.
The whole “peaceful morning walk” idea didn’t uphold itself, today. But we may try again tomorrow. 5:30 a.m. will be earlier, but also cooler, than 8:30 a.m. And afterwards, it is satisfying to know that my girl is exercised and content for the rest of the day, and I can do my thing knowing I’ve started off well.
In July, we welcome clouds
July 26, 2011 § Leave a comment
Today started off so quietly, so calmly overcast. Then the sun and the clouds took turns, the lightning made an appearance, and evening came in thick clouds and contrasts, gray-blue and glowing white.
A shelter from the sun. A coolness. This is reflective time, work-without-speaking time, idle-on-the-porch time. This is lie-on-your-stomach-with-the-door-open-and-read-poetry weather. It is walk-across-the-asphalt-barefoot weather. Rain might fall, or it might not. But either way, for a little while the ground is not baked, and the dwellers of the earth are not scorched and reaching for sunscreen.
It feels like a reprieve. And so it is. I want to page through favorite books in all this slowness. In a moment I’m going to take the beets off the stove and let them chill for tomorrow’s lunch, and then I’m going to put on socks and sweats and a tank top, and spread out with a pile of how-to-grow-things manuals, right where the breeze can reach me.
Good summer evening, all.
A Sunday summit: 14,060 feet
July 25, 2011 § Leave a comment
Over a year in Colorado and no 14er yet climbed! It was time to do one. So when my (fun, blonde, Dutch, creative, athletic) cousins came from Iowa to visit their sisters we just had to get ourselves up a mountain. We found a 14er we thought we could handle on a day we could all make work . . . and then we emailed about it excitedly for several weeks . . . and then the day finally got here!
We started our ascent of Mt. Bierstadt around 6:20 a.m., which meant my roommate Kayla and I left our apartment at the wee small hour of 4. At 5:30 we all met up in Georgetown and cousin Katie bravely drove the winding, switchbacking road up to the trailhead. All geared up? Off we go!
Photo Credit: Kayla Chapman
It started off with such a lovely tramp through a green, bushy sort of meadow, with wildflowers and frost and mist rising from the small lake. And a creek crossing. I love water!
Do you see the moose? Thanks to the hikers who pointed him out!
The meadow went down, and then up slightly, and then the mountain rose steeply and our legs started to burn. Ooh, it felt good and healthy to get the heart beating that fast!
Of course we happened upon some good photo opportunities. My cousin Emily and I have been close friends for ages and have not had a photo together in years. Time to make it happen!
We stopped for a few breathers but kept trucking up. Everyone was happy, and joking, and encouraging, and patient, and optimistic. Are we all so great? Or were the endorphins at work? Or was it just the good old beauty of nature affecting our spirits? (I’m going to go with all of the above.)
And . . . snow!
Photo Credit: Evan Feekes
(We like pink, ja.)
For the last stretch we had to scramble up boulders. So many people had dogs and as we reached the top we saw more and more. Miss T. didn’t come because I didn’t quite know what we’d be getting into, and because she’d still been limping the day before. (She seems fine now, if y’all were worried.)
And around 9 a.m. we summited! All of us, together and triumphant.
Photo Credit: Kayla Chapman
We hung out, chatted with other hikers, looked and looked and looked around. So far to see. The colors and textures, the shade and light. The way the clouds left full shadows over the swells and vales.
Photo Credit: Kayla Chapman
And then, down.
Such sweet little flowers all along the path. I realized, on our descent, that they made me feel like Heidi (in the book Heidi, which, if you haven’t read, you really ought to. It was my favorite book in second grade, in close competition with Black Beauty, which you should also read). Heidi lives in the Swiss Alps with her grandfather and there are goats and mountain hikes and crisp air and, I imagine, flowers somewhat like these.
At the bottom, we felt tired and happy, and parted with hugs and promises of coffee (to ourselves) and another adventure soon (to each other).
A successful first 14er for me! I rather want to do it again.
Kinds of Honey 