Adventures in the New Year

Spokane was engulfed in a gorgeous snowstorm yesterday, and the above photo was taken from my apartment window at sunset. This view is such a balm in the cold winter months--a sight that is still a marvel to me every year.

Speaking of the years, sending each of you very warm and happy wishes for 2015. I am excited and hopeful for these brand new months ahead, and ever grateful to be here writing and sharing words, ideas, discoveries, and projects.

Here's how the turn of 2014 into 2015 has looked these past few days:

 

This awesome backpack was a gift from my older sister for Christmas. It holds everything from books and notebooks to gym clothes and my lunches. 

{It also has an adorable grimace, which I discovered the other night.}

One of the very first meals of the year was from this amazing cookbook, Toro Bravo, a collection of recipes inspired by and also served at its namesake restaurant in Portland, Oregon. Joe and I were lucky enough to eat there last October, and we absolutely loved the cocktails, the grilled flat bread with arugula and truffle cheese, and some amazing seafood dishes, including the Paella Toro--beyond delicious!

Joe made the flat bread and he also found a new recipe for us to try: sauteed chard with egg--both were perfect. We're excited for more tasty new recipes in 2015, and I'll keep doing my best when it comes to the baked goods--pies and breads ahead, methinks.

This adorable couple greeted us when we arrived at Manito Park yesterday. Apparently not all the ducks have flown south, and I'm not sure what this means, but they were pretty cute.

{So is this guy.} 

 

There were dozens of cross-country skiers and sledders in the park, too. I've never tried cross country skiing, but this looked like a wonderful way of getting around yesterday--far better than driving, for sure. It was one of the busiest Sundays we've ever seen, and the snow just kept coming for hours. *Breathtaking*

And more ducks. It's a mystery to me, but it looks like they're here to stay through the season. The snow was here for a day and was replaced by rain in the middle of the night. We woke up to sloshy puddles and a lingering fog, which isn't nearly as thrilling, but alas, it's probably just right for a Monday. I hope you're starting your week off in good spirits and with happy memories from the holiday weekend.

Before I sign off, here are some older, but still very relevant words from writer George Saunders on kindness in The New York Times. This is one of my favorite passages:

Some of this “becoming kinder” happens naturally, with age. It might be a simple matter of attrition: as we get older, we come to see how useless it is to be selfish — how illogical, really. We come to love other people and are thereby counter-instructed in our own centrality. We get our butts kicked by real life, and people come to our defense, and help us, and we learn that we’re not separate, and don’t want to be. We see people near and dear to us dropping away, and are gradually convinced that maybe we too will drop away (someday, a long time from now). Most people, as they age, become less selfish and more loving. I think this is true. The great Syracuse poet, Hayden Carruth, said, in a poem written near the end of his life, that he was “mostly Love, now.”

Cheers, xo

Solstice Tidings

These have been some dark days, somehow darker than I remember them ever being before. Of course there may be some selective memory at work when it comes to winter, and the inevitable cropping of days, the diminishing sunlight, the brief bursts of sun before it sinks low in the sky.  But it's also an exquisite time of year, in spite of, or perhaps because of its somber, more severe character.

I struggle with the lack of sunlight, like many people, but I also feel a comfort in the steady rhythm of the seasons. There's something magical in the shortest, darkest days of the year--we must seek it out in the same way we chase the light, and in some instances, we must struggle to stay grounded, to remain calm and carry warmth within us when December presents us with its abbreviated, and sometimes bone-chilling days. 

I feel a deeper compulsion this time of year to relish even the most fragmented moments of light, whether it's the sun suddenly piercing through my windows at work, beckoning my gaze toward the trees outside, or if I'm lucky to be out of doors, when the sun suddenly breaks through the grey and the winter sky takes on a muted pink glow, illuminating everything--the sidewalks, the tops of buildings, the trees, passerby--everything seems to sigh with relief, even if only for a moment. The good news is, we've reached and have now officially surpassed the winter solstice, and little by little, the sun will slowly return.

On Saturday, the eve of the Solstice, we woke up to a rainy, soggy winter's morning, and though the weather persisted all day, we were determined to find our way into the woods for a much-needed hike. While we were a little worried we'd be forced to abandon our trek due to soggy clothes and muddy boots, we had a happy discovery: the trees provided a warm, protective canopy over us, leaving us to wander up the trails in a cloud of mist--which felt very much like being near the ocean. 

The cool air, the bursts of green moss creeping along the sides of rocks and trees, and the sounds of geese honking and trumpeting in lovely lines and V's across the sky were all such hopeful, bright moments in what might have otherwise remained a very dark, very short day.

We spotted this cute little tree all on its own, a solitary vestige of autumn days.  We wished it well and wondered how its orange could persist like this?  Such a sweet little one.

Joe was excited to see what had become of the eagle's nest we'd spotted in the late summer.  We saw the nest, but no eagles this time. My assumption, without being keen to the migratory patterns of any bird, is that they've found a new haven for the winter months. I'll have to investigate this one further...

Perhaps one of the happiest moments of the hike: Happening upon a foursome of deer eating a late lunch in a bed of grass. My head was down, checking my footfalls, trying to avoid stumbling, and when I looked up I locked eyes with this lovely creature. We were at a comfortable distance not to frighten them away, and to avoid ruining their grazing hour, we cut off the trail and veered left so we could peek back from time to time, but avoid coming too close.

This photo is a little foggy, but I was happy the outline of our deer friend came through. I'm also happy to report that they all remained exactly where they were, undisturbed, though a staring contest ensued for a good while there.

It was completely dark as we drove home, the rain beating down on the windshield, and I felt so relieved that we'd had this time outside. So quiet, so still, so much brighter.

And then there was this hot toddy after dinner. (Yes, that's also chocolate cake in the background. Not homemade, but absolutely divine. Both a very good idea this time of year.)

Cheers to you this post-solstice evening. I'm excited to share other holiday projects and treats this week, and so very happy to have some much-needed time with family and loved ones, both here in Spokane and in Seattle for the Christmas holiday. We wish we could be in two places at once, but a few hours apart from our home bases isn't so bad, either.

What are your plans this week?  Is a stroll in the woods in the cards?  I'd love to hear.

Late Autumn Strolling

One of Spokane's truly beloved little spots is Manito Park--a sprawl of green grassy hills and trees, a sweet little pond for the ducks, discrete paths and plenty of space for kiddos, walkers, joggers, picnics, gatherings, solo drifting, frisbee golf, and even a little larping action (when the weather's nice).

I find myself at the park at least once a week, sometimes more than this, depending on my mood and how much I'm in need of the quiet refuge. I'm a runner, so it's perfect for this, but to really appreciate how serene this spot is, walking is my favorite mode.

Even better when I'm with my favorite walking companion.

The evenings come much earlier these days (around 4:45, it seems), so today we stole away for a late afternoon walk and followed the sun's fast fade into twilight. I love how even after the sun was gone, the park still glowed in this soft blue light.

A few lingering patches of gold and yellow to kick up along the way

The park is so still at this hour--the gloaming. My thoughts quiet down, my breath freezes and hangs in the air for a split second before it disappears, and my nose goes numb, so I pull my scarf a little higher across my face and we make it back just before night falls. So grateful for this place.