Bye Bye Running Water

On the last day of 2011, our water froze. It's to be expected in -40 degree temperatures. But nevertheless, it's a certain something no one really wants to deal with. In such an area, getting anything fixed is tough- getting a professional is impossible. So we have three or four residents who know how to fix frozen water pipes underground- all of which do not work on New Years. So now our pipes freeze over even worse. There is of course some main things one cannot do without running water. Laundry in a washer- not exactly terrible for me. Living homeless in Illinois prepared me for handwashing clothes (which used to occur in a gas station sink). No showers- once again not completely terrible although I do much enjoy my warm baths. A basin will work, I really don't mind- once again at least it's not a gas station sink. And then there are dishes. I've always done those by hand with water heated on the woodstove anyways. So I suppose, as long as I have internet to document my experience- there isn't much to worry about.

Native Tales

I'm a collector of odds and ends- the lost forgotten peices of other's broken collections. I like fur scraps, lost feathers, old buttons, and keys without their locks. Lately I've delved into stories with unnamed authors. Some of my favorite are the native stories told around here. They're odd in many ways. Some are almost terrifying, others are just ridiculous, most have a hidden ethic too insane to see, and all of them are inspired by the most fascinating notions anyone could have. They teach lessons most people wouldn't even think to learn. They tell stories, some hearts are too weak to hear. And I find my mind expanded a little further by each and everyone.

Harsh Cold

I've felt the coldest bits of wind touch my cheek. -40 F degree weather has overtaken my western Alaska home. My interior and northern neighbors have faced such extremes before, but I, a lonesome sea dweller, have felt barely colder than -20. It's a sharp nip against my pale pale cheeks. The dark tone of the Eskimo's skin doesn't redden as much as mine. My cheeks are completely blushed by the time I arrive at any destination. They notice, but are too kind to point out the change in my tones. I know it strikes many of them as odd. Even I find it unbelievable at times. Who knew Jack Frost could be so harsh?

Smoke In The Sunrise

The way smoke from my neighbor's chimney bellows into the pink and purple sunrise is one of my favorite things. It's sillhoutte is a shade of purplish blue as it rises and disappears. There's something almost Alice In Wonderland about the way it slowly trails its way into the colors behind it. Like the puffs from the caterpillar as he sits atop his mushroom smoking away. It's alot like that. The colors are even unreal. The perfect lines of clouds in the distance look more like a painting than a reality. And the ideal shades of light pink, yellow, orange, and purplish blue are ones that would be carefully picked and created by a picky artist. But the smoke is my favorite part. It doesn't ruin the landscape, but rather enlightens it. The way it dances into the reflections of the early dawn is almost peaceful in a way.

Corn and Peanuts

Chipper got a hardy serving of corn and peanuts and sunflower seeds today. He's been absent for a while. But now that I've scattered a large harvest on the ground he's made his appearance once again. He's getting fat- but that's a good thing. In the -20 degree temperatures all of that extra fur and weight will keep him nestled in his own heat. I couldn't imagine a better way to stay warm. At the moment he's jumping up and down from his little squirrel house. He carefully stores the food away in his cheeks and then arranges it in his wooden home. Up and down and up and down all day long. Quite a character he is. Isn't afraid of anything. Even the village dogs know that they wait their turn. I haven't seen a squirrel so confident or so greedy in my entire life. But I suppose corn is a treat too valuable to resist.

Heartbroken For Them

Well, of course Santa came. It was a bittersweet experience. To watch two children open gifts from a character whom they had always assumed ignored them was... kind of unexpectedly heartbreaking. They were shaking from excitement. They were silent, speechless I suppose. They didn't know what to do or what to say. For the longest time they had always thought Santa was just a cartoon on television around Christmas time. And now, all of the sudden those doubts they had are a reality. They're always so comfortable at my house, but today it seemed foriegn to them. They were unsure, skeptical, almost in a way frightened. I don't know why I feel bad- I know they loved the gifts. But... I suppose I can't help but pity them for having never experienced the joy of a Santa Claus gift before. In a way it tears me up in side. How could it not? One of my dearest childhood memories was nonexistant to them for eight years. It wouldn't be right of me to not feel wrong about that.

Santa's Arrival

Sometimes magick happens. And last night it did. Santa came to my home, ate my cookies, drank my milk, took the letters, and left a letter... and some gifts. The letter explained to the girls how he had been very busy giving gifts to children who don't get presents from their parents and it thanked them for believing in him nevertheless. He said as long as they believe, he will be real. And I know, in the logical part of my mind (which is a very small percent by the way) that it was me who wrote the letters, ate the cookies, burnt the notes, drank the milk, and left the gifts. But I just... well, on the other 99 % of the my brain I just don't believe it. It wasn't me. I don't have enough coins to spend on toys- I can barely afford my water bill. I'm not Santa. Santa is Santa, and his spirit did all of those things. Santa is a magnificant idea that so few people choose to think about. Perhaps he wears a red suit and has a white beard. But it's his heart, his charity, his ability to make dreams come true and tears fade away for a day, that really matters. Santa may be a person, but he's also the entire reason- the thought- the feeling- the inspiration one recieves when doing something kind simply to do something kind. No thank-you needed. No awknowledgement wanted. No name, no face, no identification to the good deed. Santa is that overwhelming sensation that merely doing something wonderful is reward enough. I'm not a Christmas person, but I have a Christmas spirit. I enjoy the holiday because it creates that bit of... care... that so many people seem to lack all other times of the year. And that care is what left the gifts. Santa left those gifts. I hope they understand that someday. I hope they remember it. And I hope they realize what exactly it means to do something good and who exactly Santa Claus is.

My Longest Post

As luck would have it, I locked myself out of my house a few days ago and within an hour froze to the point I decided I would have to swallow my pride and walk down to my neighbors. The ones who own Riley- who I have come to learn is a girl and also is in the hands of a very responsible ten-year-old. I feel much better about that. I have also accumulated two more very dear friends. They are ten  and eight years old, and are the sweetest girls you have ever met. They spent a majority of the week visiting me- making crafts, baking cookies, adventuring through the many treasures of my caravan.

And last night, on Christmas Eve, fate stepped in, in a way I least expected. Now first, you must know, I am an elf- one of Santa's helpers. There is no one more loyal to the ole' Mr. Claus than I- even though I am neither Christian nor a Christmas Celebrator myself. You see, Santa Claus is merely the act of doing good things anonymously. The jolly fellow means that one can and should do things not for recognition or pride, but simply because they want to do so. And that- my dears- is something I undeniably believe in. And even so, amongst all of the giving Spirit that Santa has blessed me with- I have always dearly wanted to watch a child open one of the gifts. Doing good things anonymously doesn't give much room for watching- unless of course I peered through the window in a very creepy manner.

But yesterday the two little girls whispered to me a secret. They believed in Santa even though he had never left them gifts. And well, of course, I am an avid believer as well and I just couldn't fathem the idea of them not getting gifts. So we baked cookies, left milk, wrote notes to tell him we believed, even made crafts for Mrs. Claus and the elves (their idea). And tonight I wait... on a very special Christmas Eve, with the very special belief that Mr. Santa Claus himself will bring his jingle bells and reindeer to my home tonight. For the girls will be checking in the day after Christmas and I sincerely hope they find their cookies replaced with something special.

Fostering Children

Children stop by my caravan from time to time. There's a special place in my heart for native children. They're beautiful young souls. Just like every other race I suppose, but the mother within me has made a sincere appearance only since I moved to the village. The child in me has collected a large array of craft supplies. And the children outside come in to adventure through it all and inspire their own imaginations. I love them, each and every one. Ever since I was thirteen, I knew that a part of my greater plan was to be a foster mother and to ultimately adopt. Sometimes fate works in odd ways, and I have known for quite some time now that the reason I was brought to this village was to have my eyes opened to the orphaned native kids. For, the few that are taken away, typically come from drunken broken homes and will be moved away from their culture to a bigger city. The families are usually large and the siblings will be handed out amongst different households. Tears fill my eyes each time the thought arises in my heart. I would give anything to make a small impact- be a mother to as many as possible. House them on their native land. Teach them the love of a sober home. If, by some odd twist of financial goodness, I am stable at the age of twenty-one (when one can begin the fostering process), I will undoubtedly take up the responsibility that I have been waiting half of my life to have.

Happy Whimper

Riley happy whimpered today. For those of you who own a dog- you know what a happy whimper is. It's when your pup is so overjoyed to see you he literally cries with excitement. He heard me close my front door from two houses away and came running up the road. I was outside to pick up some wood for the fire when his cute little paws pounced on my back. The way he runs up is disheartening. He's low to the ground, skeptical, and a bit scared- as though he's been kicked in the past. He's extra cautious now. But he knows that I am merely a friendly human heart who wouldn't dare do such a thing, so once he reaches my side he straightens out and wags his tail. Today he happy whimpered and dug his big ears into me. My heart skipped a beat when I heard that sweet little gleeful cry. I've heard that earning a sleddog's respect is one of the hardest things to accomplish- and that they choose who they listen to and who they ignore. Riley would listen to me. He already does. His ears are attuned to my light-hearted footsteps on the snow. His eyes only speak love to my heart. Ugh, it kills me yet fulfills me all at once. How can a tragedy in the waiting feel so blessed before it happens? Why am I letting my arms reach out to hug the one thing that is inevitably going to break my heart?

Running With A Sled Dog

Riley came again today. Typically I will play with him for a few minutes and then throw him a chunk of frozen fish. He'll grab the fish and run off to eat. But today he simply smelled the fish and then came running back to me. He didn't care about the food, he only wanted attention. It was a sweet moment. I know his true owners watch from their window and growl that I'm stealing their dog. Perhaps if they fed him and played with him he wouldn't care for me so much. But they don't, so he does. I usually just rub down his tummy, but today we played. I ran through the deep snow into our backyard. It's above my knees, so I fell the whole way. But like the true sled dog that he is he broke trail through the snow and easily hustled beside me. He'd stop and wait when I fell, and nip my hood to pull me back up. We ran back in forth for a while. Then we'd stop and wrestle and he'd give me kisses. As poetic as I wish this would all sound, I can't truly write this in my stereotypical creative way. For this dog, to me, has become a part of my life. He's not just a little tidbit, but rather a thought that crosses my mind on an hourly basis. I know his owners will probably chain him up soon so he won't come play with me. Their lazy ways will keep him starved without food. He'll be in the back- a place I can't secretly walk to visit him. And my heart will break. I've said it before- I would give anything to let him be my own. But life doesn't always work that way. I understand that. My landlord is to strict, my coins are too few, and his true owners too stubborn. I hope I can give him a bit of happiness before we're taken from one another. For he's given me so much.

Like An Old Yup'ik Soul

The older Yup'ik women, I adore. Whenever they come around they bring their children or an 'English speaking helper'. Their company always whispers to me 'She's old, she can't speak English.' or 'She only speaks Yup'ik'. I just smile sweetly. And as soon as their company disappears into the crowd the sweet little old ladies come to me. They speak English flawlessly- or perhaps I'm just accustom to their native tongue and the way the pronounce familiar words. Nevertheless we understand eachother just fine. And they tell me stories and give me tips on sewing fur. They show me things I wouldn't usually see. They give me secrets that I often times wonder if other's know. They smile to me in a way they don't smile to other's in town. It's like they see something within me that's different from the rest. Perhaps it's my Eskimo heartbeat or my constant yearning of their ancient culture. Perhaps it's that certain something that their kind of my generation have lost- yet I, a lonesome outsider, somehow have found. Perhaps through my white skin, blond hair, and blue eyes, they see a soul that finds home admist this land. And through some unspoken likeness we know eachother in a way that even their grandchildren couldn't understand.

Parka Ruff

Sewing fur has become a habit, a tradition, a part of my newfound culture. So, as fate would have it, my darling in a nonchalant tone requested himself a parka ruff. A parka ruff? you ask. Yes, a parka ruff. A strip of sewn furs that line the hood of a parka in order to shade the face from the cold arctic wind. And then he chose himself a few thick strips of fur from the neck of a white wolf and a wolverine. Living where we do, the only supplies available are limited and sometimes nonexistant. So I was stuck using snapping needles, cheap thread, and an old arrow head as a thimble. Twelve hours later and the tuffs of white and brown have blended together flawlessly. My darling walks around in triumph, as if he himself is the proud bearer and creator. If only he knew the work that such a thing actually entails.

Walking Porcupine Quills

I told my darling it just wasn't possible. There is no way that porcupine quills can just up and walk around. But according to an old lady (says my darling) you have to put a lid on the quills when they are in your house or they will walk around. I didn't believe it. I've done nothing to hurt porcupines, why would their spirit want to hurt me? I should have known better. There's a reason to the Eskimo superstitions. And, right when I sat on the couch after carefully gathering and storing away the quills in a container without a lid... I sat my foot right upon one. How did it happen? The only logical answer is that it walked there. That darn little quill hopped out of my container and walked its way right over to the couch even though I had been absolutely careful with each and every one. I will never doubt another superstition again, the Yup'ik spirit has given me a lesson in belief that neither my mind nor foot will ever forget.

Swimming Majestically

The blackfish have begun their spoiled treatment. Bloodworms and bottemfeeder tablets are the only things that have been delivered thus far. But, they seem quite happy nibbling away on those two options. It's very neat to watch them shivver their way to the edge of the water and gobble up a nice big slosh of bugs. They really do have a beautiful aura. The way their fins literally wave through the water is gorgeous. And yet amongst their majestic movements they're humble and kind- not confidently stubborn fish. I find them utterly intrigueing. How could I not? They enchant me for hours on end from their home in the corner of my livingroom.

Riley

His name is Riley. I know I shouldn't name the stray village dogs. They're more likely to be shot than they are to be loved. Puppies are the only reason for pest control out here. I understand it- it's more ethical to kill a dog than it is to watch it starve and wander aimlessly around the village. But Riley... well he's different. He's a big dumb puppy. Too big for the children to be infatuated with anymore- so he doesn't get much attention. Except from me of course. Every time I walk out of the house he pops out of no where to greet me with lots of kisses and playful jumps. I wish I had a place to keep him, or the nerve to pawn him off of the kids that have carelessly claimed him as their own (for they don't much take care of him). I sneak him dry fish and frozen leftovers. He rewards me with sweet little eyes and an innocently darling smile. The two minutes of the day that I secretly spend in his company are the most sincerely bittersweet of them all. I've fallen in love. It's a disheartening thought. Someday I'll witness the police target him down simply because I have no way to persuade his actual owners to take better care of him. I wish fate would step in. I promise I would never take for granted his beloved goofy actions. He's too big and he hasn't grown into his long legs. He's awkward and adorable and the most kind-eyed being you ever did see. I would do anything to claim him as my own...

Animal Actions

Big snowflakes are falling majestically, but the winds getting stronger. I love a slow whimsical fall. The strong winds make a white blanket in the air- I like a light dance. There's something eerie about this weather right now. Typically I like a blizzard. But the blackfish in my livingroom are stirring anxiously. Chipper, the squirrel has burrowed his way into the side of our wall- a place he only goes when something bad is going to happen. All other times he is not allowed to hide away there. The voles are scurrying under our floors. And the rabbits, whom usually come to nibble on the squirrel food that has been knocked to the ground, have all but disappeared into the willow. My darling is trapping today. The actions of the animals make me nervous. The snow is quickly gaining speed. I hope he finds his way home before long...

Recognizing Ravens

Black feathered ravens find happiness in the salmon scraps I leave for the stray dogs in my backyard. Their little squabbles cause havoc amongst the scenery. Supposedly they’re a bad omen. I like to think they're unaware of that fact. Their cruel little faces seem friendly to me. The way they play and communicate is human-like to say the least. They’re all little children just chasing over each other for the chance at a treat. People say a raven can recognize a face. I wonder if they know me as the young girl who leaves them scraps? I wonder if that recognition will come to my superstitious aid someday…

Blackfish Biologist

I think I shall be a blackfish biologist... or marinologist? Simplified: blackfish scientist. Because, these fish my dears, are extrodinary creatures. Gold fish are stereotypical hardy fish. A self-proclaimed children's fish because they can withstand the most extreme of situations as a pet. And I laugh at that- because obviously gold fish have never met a blackfish. Perhaps they are not a bright orange, but they are spotted with beautiful bits of tan and brown. And these fish are talented little ones. Like gold fish, they can breathe air. Except these fish can breathe air in the midst of -20 degrees. They eat fish, larva, anything really. And they're friendly little things. They come right up to my finger in the water and meet it with a gentle little nip. And they're much cuter than gold fish. Much hardier as well. A kid could take it out of water and play with it for a few minutes- set it back in the tank- and let it live another two years. How do I know? Well, I'm that kid of course. An adult child with a near future in blackfish expertise.

Spotted Fish Children

My darling has a lot of patience with me. For although I have the maturity and hobbies of a fifty year old woman, I often tend to drift into childish acts of spontaneity. Included of which- is buying an aquarium in the hopes of collecting a few little blackfish friends. Alaskan blackfish. Lovable little creatures with supernatural abilities. My darling got me six tiny ones and two big ones. And then I ventured out with him to the trap to collect some water plants. And we put them all in my aquarium along with some large river rocks I had collected from the Yukon during the summer. But I couldn't stop there, upon recieving my early Christmas gifts I ordered lots of food. All kinds. Bloodworms and fly larva and bottomfeeder food and mosquitos. Spoiled little fishies. My childish actions have the hint of motherhood within. For a teenage girl, I suppose it's best I pass on my parenting abilities to a something that requires a bit less responsibility than a child. Blackfish will suffice for now. They're cute and loveable just the same.

Lady Moose

Today as my darling and I took a ride through the willows across the river we met three friendly faces. Women, of course, for they tend to be drawn to me. When I'm... having that womanly time of the month, other womanly creatures tend to drift to me. So as we weaved in and out of the thick tree paths we caught sight of the first pretty lady. She stood about five yards away hidden into the taller trees. Oh, and she was a moose. Quite a lovely little animal, if you ask me. Not so little- but yet amongst her large size- still timid and of a kind aura. And then as we exited the trees and hit ourselves into a frozen slough we noticed two more lovely little faces. Also moose. A mother and a daughter. The mother frolicked away. The daughter stumbled along into the deep snow. She fell once. I wanted to run up and hug her and comfort her. 'I'm not a wolf'- I wanted to say. But they wouldn't understand my human words. I hope they felt my human heart. For I truly adore them, all three. My magnificant little ladies, running through the trees with me.

Happiness Again

Happiness is escaping my soul once more! I had a bit of a downfall, a pitiful time of lonesome unanswered questions. It was one of those moments when the darkness of winter is all consuming. The weather either too cold or too wet to wonder around. My heart ached so badly to wonder the land. And then it drifted into a place of secret. It was no longerer an adventurer, but rather a hider- hiding away like the one who knows no adventure at all. I was sad, yes. I go through the phases sometimes. Don't we all? A few weeks of unknown morning and self-pity. I was most certainly enveloped in myself. A place no good heart should ever be. Such a location causes greed and lost dreams. So here I am again- hoping for others the same light I found at the end of my tunnel. I love the snow, the dark days, and the blizzard winds. How could I ever let them draw me to a place of silent selfish residence? Never again. This is my favorite season. I shant let it bring me down.

Unmotivated Times

I am in a quiet mode, not motivated for much at all. I've spent a lot of time doing nothing lately. It's not so much a terrible time, but quite uneventful. I like silence- alone time- thinking time. In the cold darkness of winter I often find myself consumed with my own thoughts. The hardest part amongst the absence of sunlight is keeping a good emotion. I tend to fall into cabin fever. So at this point in time much motivation has left me. I'm trying hard to keep my head high. Winter is my favorite time, I hate to think it's causing my littlest bits of sadness.

Cold Arctic Air

Cold cold arctic air has made it's way over the landscape. It's too chilled for my warm heart to step out in. I fear every bit of me would freeze. Even the birdies tend to be cuddling into themselves to stay warm admist it all. The snow is getting harder. The rivers long been frozen over. And the wonderful little world around us has all but become still in the unbelieveable temperatures. The first few days of cold are always the most shocking. To go from warm to freezing in a matter of a month is a lot for one to grasp. I love the cold, but jack frosts' nip can be quite harsh if you let it.

Wol

My darling named the owl Wol. He came back again this morning- deeply to Chipper's dismay. Nevertheless the owl has had lucky finds of many voles and took rest within the rafters of our steam house. He's quite an adorable fluffy little thing. Confident and unafraid of humans. I suppose the tiny Eskimo hunter children haven't noticed him yet. If not, like Chipper, he would quickly learn who to trust and who not to. It's a pleasure to see him again though. I wonder if he will become a regular visitor. I still dearly hope he will.

Lost In Books and Trees

I find solitude next to the frozen creek in my snowey backyard. There's a small grove of alders that hover within eachother's branches. They create a sort of tent from the outside. So I crawl within them, a vintage book in hand, and sit down nestled in their twigs. It's quiet now that the river isn't flowing. Every once in a while a small bird will tweet, a rabbit skitter, or a squirrel named Chipper will chatter. Other than that though, I am left in silence to delve into my storybook. There's something about reading in nature. The open air helps transport you to the read image. It's nipping chill sends your imagination on a trip. Sometimes I find myself so lost within the pages of a book and the branches of the alder that I can barely find my way out. I stay wondering for hours in one small spot. It's a nice lost though, a happy little adventure. And I go back there only with the intent to get lost again.

Little Owl Company

Chipper was running hysterically around the house we put up for him in the backyard. He has his winter's food stashed away there. And when I noticed why he was frantic I sat in astonishment. There, upon a loose post of our smoke house, sat an owl. A tiny little owl with bright yellow eyes and brown and white feathers. I've had my fair share of pet birds and knew by the way he was sitting that he had just fulfilled himself on the voles that scurry around our house. He was tired, most certainly. His feathers were fluffed up, his head relaxed into his shoulders, and one leg tucked up into his tummy. He was calm and didn't quite mind the gazing eyes of my darling and I through an open window. They say the presence of an owl means important new knowledge is headed your way. I wonder what wonderful learning awaits me? Nevertheless I like this little owl's company. I hope he stays around for a while. For he's quite a treat- perhaps not for Chipper (who is scared the owl shall take his food for his own)- but for myself.

The Romance of Trapping

My darling is a trapper and although I've stated it many a times today will be one of the first days I say it with the meaning that at this exact moment he is trapping. I, myself, am not a trapper- just a mere lover of trapping. Which may sound odd. Why would someone be a lover of trapping and not trap? Well, you see, I'm not much fond of the killing part. It's the tracking part I enjoy. It's the curiousity that forces your mind to overcome mother nature's abilities. It's the anticipation of what you caught and where and how. It's learning how to outsmart one of the earth's blessfully smart creatures. Whether a lynx, a marten, a beaver, or an otter, somehow I can't help but find the ways that my darling traps utterly fascinating. And although I adore fur, I avoid the death part of the ordeal. It's not the reason I go. I go to stalk prey, to learn about nature through the simple little clues she leaves behind. It's not so much the idea of trapping an animal that makes trapping so enjoyable- but rather the romance of knowledge that comes forth when keeping so much of your attention on one single being.

Craft Maker

I'm a craft maker, creator, thinker of unthought things. My hands work with the grace of Cinderella's mice creating odds and ends with no use at all. There is yarn and string and hemp cord. There are beads and fabric and furs. I'll take river rocks and glue them into small terrarium caves. I'll take ptarmigan feet and make charms with keychain rings. Give some crayons, colored paper, and peace of mind- and I'll be just fine. I love the idea of art. I like finding it in odd things. Like the shape of a couch- that was once created by an artist. Or the style of a car- an artist created that. Odd things like sweaters and flower bouques. And then I think to myself- well I shall make something! And I do. Just like that, out of nowhere. Artistic inspiration just occurs and I'm out in a frenzy caught up in the ways of hot glue and jewels.

Uneducated Genius

I was raised in a prestigious military family. A stubborn daughter of well educated parents. Both my mother and father were college graduates. My father was so dearly disappointed when he found out I would not be chasing after a journalism career through four years of higher education. I simply told him my heart wasn't in it and skipped away into this big ole world called life. I've had my downfalls, yes. I've had my tragic moments of debt and despair. But I've also had an unimaginable amount of good luck- which I give credit to for blessing me with such a perfect life. I chose not to attend college for the mere reason I loved to learn. I didn't want to be forced to know things, I wanted to want to know them on my own time. Which has lead me to create a quite full library of odds and ends books. Do my college-attendy counterparts know how to identify all the trees of their state? Can they point out almost any country on a globe? Do they read poetry and traditional literature for fun? I chose to know these things, to do these things. And what exactly makes me less educated than the one whom holds a degree? I feel as though I am more so in many ways. I have experience, a great deal of passion, and an open mind to the real ways of the world. Say what you will- but the absence of a higher education has lead me to feel more knowledged than any genius of the world.

Amsterdam Trinkets

My parents returned from Amsterdam and of course mailed some precious foriegn gifts to me. My father, being a general in the military, has many international friends. In which, he and my mother are blessed with the ability to venture much near anywhere and have a personal tour guide shift them around. And as much as I envy their journeys I know someday I will have my chance- when my collections of coins has grown a little. For now though I merely enjoy the simple trinkets they bring back to me. A pink hat for the cold subarctic winters I endure. A keychain of wooden shoes- for I have a great fondness of the European accessories. Some waffle cookies, of which I have fallen madly in tasteful love with. And licorice- which I don't much care for and shared with my darling. All in all a lovely array of things. I do love boxes from my mother. She always includes silly little things like candy or American Girl Doll magazines. She knows my childish heart may act mature but still has so much fondness for the little kids sort of things. Of course, she's my mother, so I suppose it's her job to know such a fact about me.

Weaving Willows

Now is the ideal time to pluck willow branches. They're hybernating for the winter and their wood is of perfect texture. So I've ventured into my backyard- where willow is thick- and plucked a few short sticks. I bring them inside, shave them into a few long strips, and begin to weave. It's not so much an art. Your hands do a majority of the work and the end result doesn't necissarily have to be perfect. Imperfection is just as beautiful, especially with baskets. And shaved willow branches make some of the prettiest whicker baskets. It's an experiment I attempted last year. For I had never really participated in basket weaving before. But I must say, it's become a lovely pastttime of mine. I bring my outdoor timber inside. Once I've weaved them, I'll let them sit for a while until they dry. It's really quite fulfilling. And once the deed is accomplished I'm blessed with a nice little carrier for the summer berries I so dearly love to pick.

Grandmother's Birthday Gift

For my grandmother's birthday earlier this month I sent her a window box with flowers and a poem. The flowers were her favorite shade- lavendar. The poem read of the bittersweet childhood memories I hold dear of her. One line simply states of a bird whom we called Red Fred. Long after her children had left the nest and the youngest of her grandchildren (my brother and I) had been born, mother nature sent her a friend. He was a small winter cardinal. Bright red feathers and friendly eyes. And each morning as she sipped her coffee next to the backyard kitchen window of her farmhouse, he would perch upon the windowsill and sit with her. And she shared him with me, this sweet little fellow. And she named him Red Fred. Needless to say his important cure of her lonliness leaves red birds treasured in her heart. And the poem touched her so deeply she wrote me a letter of gratitude which I recieved in the mail today. It has truly made my evening, my entire day. Heartfelt gifts not only touch the one who unwraps them, but the gift-giver as well.

Across The River

With the river being fully frozen we are now blessed enough to venture across. I must admit I do love taking trips away from the village. The unmapped landscape is my real home. A house may be a warm place to sleep, but trees are pleasant company when one is awake. The willows, alder, and cottonwood do seem to hug me as I enter their midst. Their branches extend like arms and wrap me in sweet greetings. I hug them back of course. I am one of those odd tree hugging dirt worshipper types. But my heart flutters with glee when I'm around plants. They have a way of whispering happy secrets into your ear when you take the time to listen. And such interesting tales can truly make one's life a lot more simple and much more happy.

Riverside Sunrise

As my new friend and I sat to drink coffee and gossip our lives, I couldn't help but envy her window scenery. For she lives atop the hill top on the riverbank side of town. Each window in her home overlooks the magnficant sunrise and sunset of the tundra. There's a mountain in the distant right. A never ending riverbend to the left. And awe inspiring forever ongoing tundra to the immidiate straight view. Oh an sunrises over a frozen river with all of nature showing her best self. My, it's a sight to take in. And I apologize to admit this, but I did drift from our friendy conversation to silent admiration of the scene. Sometimes a view can just catch you by surprise and capture your attention. Not even the sincerest secret could drift me away from a riverside sunrise.

Knowledgable Friends

Making friends is a habit I treasure. A beautiful trait I hope never to lose. I'm a social creature, somewhat spontaneously outgoing. But it makes it easy for me to find a someone, an anyone, to befriend. And lately I have come across a lovely little lady Eskimo whom has taken me into her wonderful home. She is knowledged on the ways of sewing fur and beading tiny jewels. I have the secrets of baking and gardening and crafting innocent trinkets. And it's quite a lovely duo we make. For she wants to learn my teachings, and I want to learn hers. So we have arranged a lovely little exchange of one another's thinks. I believe some of the very best friends are the one's whom you teach and learn from. Walking away from friendship with knowledge is another habit I treasure. A beautiful trait I hope never to lose.

Prancing With The Blizzard Winds

With cotton woven anklets adorned with wooden beads, I will dance barefoot on the cabin floor. The snow falls like the whistful pounce of my light blond hair. Caught between the world of winter and an indoor fireplace I prance around like the snowshoe rabbit outside my window. Sometimes one must just feel the beat of the world. Dancing to the hum of the wind as it hits my house is a simple joy of mine. Keeping rythem to a rhymeless sound is the best way to atune every aspect of one's spirit. And my soul- when jumping carelessly with the breeze is as full with happiness as any songbird at spring.

Ireland and Alaska

A special thank you to an online genius, and I have found my answer to the ircenrraat and leprechaun question. Do Ireland and Alaska share a gateway through the earth in which their 'fairy folk' use to travel between the two locations? No, Ireland and Alaska are not on longitude opposites. But Ireland's opposite would be in the middle of the Bering Sea, which just so happens to border my home immidiately to the west. So I can't help but think, or more so believe, that my celtic rituals and newfound Yup'ik traditions combine for a reason. I have no doubt in my mind that ircenrraats and leprechauns are the same characters, seperated on exact opposite parts of the earth. Living beneath the ground, they share a hidden doorway between the worlds. Going directly from one end to the other, they can either play games in the Bering Sea and adventure Alaska or drift happily through the Irish hills. And so things are beginning to come into perspective. Perhaps I was brought here to be with my cultural fellows in a land slightly foriegn yet to perfect to pass by. Perhaps I am here, not by the path of my life, but by the calling of the inrcenrraats. I'm here because they are, so that they may share the land with a celtic believer of both worlds, both creatures, and a sincere understanding of both cultures. I am the key between the worlds holding knowledge so few peopel know exists.

Snow Shaping Wind

Oh, I know I've spent countless posts reviewing the actions of snow. But I love snow! I just absolutely love it. I suppose that's why I'm here in Alaska; for one must love snow in order to thrive here. And yet another blizzard has made its way upon my home. The winds are a humming melody ringing through the cracks in my walls. The white falling flakes are a blinding wisp tracing the shape of the wind. I love the way it happens. One could argue forever that the wind is invisible. But snowfall is like the dust that makes the unseen seen. It takes each and every breeze, blow, and trickle of air- and brings it forth in a way the human eye can see. What once was merely atomic particles too small for the view of me, is now a quick moving cloud of white that my eyes can follow. Snow is my gateway to the invisible, creating the shapes of the wind that my mind can ponder on for hours.

Ircenrraats and Leprachauns

Ircenrraats have made an appearance once again in my beautiful life. My dearest Eskimos never fail to amaze me with their intrigueing stories. I have met a dearest friend whom shares the same fascination. We sit together, her of Yup'ik blood- I of Celtic. And yet amongst our different cultures, beliefs, and life traditions we find the common ground of leprechauns and ircenrraats. One must wonder if the unimaginable similarities of these two places, these two peoples, match together for a reason. I am still unsure how the dwarves could become present in such identical ways on opposite sides of the world. Perhaps my next project is too learn if Ireland and Alaska are on the exact polar sides of one another. If so, perhaps the invisible line between them that crosses the earth is a sort of gateway between two worlds. A gateway the leprechauns and ircenrraats use to share their lives and land.

End of the Wind

It's been a day since the wind settled. It didn't get nearly as bad as I had assumed. I should have known better, for the media can make a hassle out of a double knotted shoe. How in the world will they ever untie it!? But the fact of the matter is, everyone stayed safe nestled away in their little cabins. It's a relief- for my dearest Eskimo friends on the coast could have dealt their cards wrong. But all is well, and peaceful, and calm once again. Our heat is gone, but luckily this old shack of a home is blessed with a hot burning woodstove. So I'm nestled away in my blankets on my old ratty couch, reading my favorite Whinnie-The-Pooh tales. The dawn is late to break, but the morning wait is well worth the noon sunrise.

Surviving The Storm

The winds are ravaging now. They began slowly, growing in an omonous secrecy throughout the day. But now they are among some of the strongest I have felt. I want to dare myself to step outside, but the warmth of my old Irish quilt is too comforting to leave- even for a moment. So I am watching with glittering eyes outside of the window. We cannot see but a few feet- even across the street is a forever white glow from the street lights. It all is twisted up like the innocently abused teddybear of a child. Storms are a guilty pleasure of mine. The winds and the power they bring to the earth- they are unimaginably inspiring. Mother nature, in her angriest sincerest form. Is it not a lovely feeling? Protected by my caravan's wood walls I peer through insulated glass at the winds that may just crack them. The glass will hold I'm sure, the newly summer grown branches on my willow- perhaps not. But they shall survive this storm, just as I wish every other life among it does.

Alaska Storm Warning

The winds have begun to pick up. It feels eerie, bad. There's a warning in the wind. This is one of the worst known to the record books. Not that I read record books, but I've been told. So everyone's hearts are pounding. I live a little inland from the Bering Sea coast, but my dearest friends are on the edge. This could be a life threatening storm. It's not like a blizzard. This one is a winter hurricane. Even the crows have hidden away in the smoke houses. Chipper has snuggled into the side of our wall. Not a single animal dares to step out in this wind. Not a single human soul barely breathes. We're waiting now, in simple- scared- anticipation. My hearts always loved nature, but this is the first time it's feared it's fury.

Curled Away

Sometimes it's nice to curl away in a pile of blankets. I like to hide from the outside world. Keep my social contact minimal. I go through phases I suppose. There are times I like to visit the outdoors, admire the evens it shares with me. And then there are long moments of withdraw. I'm not sure what causes it, but I close away- happily. I write and I draw. I create. And when my inspiration has faded away I venture out into the abiss once again. The two continueing parts of my life. To journey and to document those journeys through hundreds of miscellaneous creations. I am in my artistic place now. It's comfortable here, warm. Not like the outside where the snow ravages the trees. I love the snow, but my feet are cold enough on the wood floors lately. I suppose I'll keep from freezing right now. The blankets keep me warm.

Mid Fairytale Novel

I've been writing a fairytale. Lately it's taken a gruesome dark turn. It's odd how when writing a story the author becomes emotionally enveloped into the characters. I infuse myself into their positions although their reality is so far from mine. I just, I can't quite fathom the fact I am their creator. Writing is like playing a God. I like to think they are real and I am just documenting their lives as they did happen, not creating their fates. It's a beautiful story surrounded with arctic wildlife, animals, Eskimos, and spirits. I love the idea, I just hate the way I'm writing it. Even as I go from one word to the next I am unsure of what exactly is going to happen. It's terrifying yet exhilerating. I'm spelling out a phenomenon of my imagination, that even I can't foretell.

Back Window Scenery

The river is freezing over now, although I would never know. For I have been burried away in the back corner room of my little caravan. I like to peer outside my little cracked glass window. It's a beautiful scene out there in my tiny backyard. There's a creek you see. In the summer you hear it flowing. Now it's frozen, quiet, completely silent beneath the ice. And there's a weeping willow, small and dainty. I planted it this summer with the hopes it would grow. It did. Twice it's size in fact. There's two small wooden square gardens that are now empty and burried under the white. And there's thickets of willows and alders for as far as the eye can see. We have a smoke-house where a squirrel lives and an old sled where voles reside. Redpolls fly and sometimes hares visit. Once in a blue moon a fox wonders in. I haven't ventured out lately. My mind's been preoccuppied. But the scenery keeps me company as I think.

Dancing In Fur

There is nothing more elegant, more remonescent of beauty, more naturally inspiring, than fur.I love the feel, the appearence, the delicate wave in the wind. I wear mukluks on my feet, a ruff around my hair, and cuffs on my arms. If I could afford a coat I'd curl into it each and every waking moment. I feel the aura of the animal, the power of their soul, the love of their life. I respect them and infuse myself with their beauty. It's different than eating meat, or hunting, or fishing. It's... becoming one with the spirit of a being whom gave it's life so that it may forever leave it's pelt to the gawkers of the world. It never felt wrong to me. I feel connected to the animal more than a way I could anywhere else. When nestled into it's warm fur, when in awe of it's luxery, I fall in love in a way. I'm transformed into a person who doesn't care about the expense, but rather the aura of the anima it holds dear. I feel it within me as I wear it upon me.

Bering Sea Blizzard

A Bering Sea blizzard has overtaken the village. The strong winds rattle the metal of my woodstove. The snow is wet and thick, making even the littlest distance ahead invisible. We went off to take a ride today, but upon approaching the river, quickly realized the white stuff was blinding. Had we ventured too far we would have risked losing our way and falling through the thinly frozen ice atop the mighty flowing Yukon River. The current is strong and although the ice is thin enough to fall through, it's thick enough to keep you under. The terrifying reality of losing your way and meeting that kind of fate can keep even the most daring Eskimo home. We chose not to risk such an event, ourselves and quickly turned around. It's the first blizzard of the season. But when the wind is blowing so densely outside, it creates a cozy warm darkness in the cabin. I like the dim light and the whispers of a cloudy day. Creates a kind of solumn peace amongst the ravaging weather.

About Reading

There's something about reading. Getting lost in a land that existed so perfectly clearly in someone elses imagination. Isn't it intrigueing? To think that the words that take you places were written by a person who somehow went there. They created a world so far from the known, yet vivid enough to transport you in your mind. I love the idea. Of sharing a secret place with the brain of another human being. A place we can only go on paper, but can venture to by the candlelight from the side of our beds. The entire world, traveling to the same place, while staying exactly where they always were. There's something about reading...

Spotted Seal Skin Mukluks

My mukluks arrived today! Oh I am so thrilled. One can only hope so long for an Eskimo sewn pair of spotted seal skin boots. I found them online a few days ago, and bought them from a man whom was selling the long lost objects of an estate sale. Evidentally they came from a woman who often traveled and collected trinkets from the world. Among them, a pair of boots that just so happened to be the exact treasure I was looking for. They fit perfectly and I adore them so. They smell of seal oil and urine (that was used to preserve the fur), but I refuse to take them off. There's something about them. The memory of the lady who traveled the world. The aura of the old Eskimo woman who worked so delicately to perfectly stitch them. And the love of a teenage girl who just so happened to put her entire heart (and feet) into the caribou skin soles.

Honeycomb

Honeycomb. It's something I never got the chance to chew on as a child, but as an adult I'm willing to try anything with innocent intentions. So today I took my very first taste of honey in the comb. The sweet fresh, untouched bee-created sweetness is overwhelming at first. It's hard not to pucker your cheeks. But I love the feeling nevertheless. The comb was so delicious. Different, I must admit. At first I was skeptical. But I'm blessed with a man who forces me to walk outside of my comfort zone. And as the sweet substance oozed away it tasted so good. Soon enough I was chewing a raw peice of wax. So I pulled it out and blessed my tongue with one more bite. Surely my darling will be regretting sharing his secret treasure with me.

Labrador Tea

Brrr. The days are getting chilled, hitting nearly twenty below freezing (note, not twenty below zero- thank goodness). But twelve degrees farenhiet is still quite cold. It's days like today when I'm grateful for the abundance of labrador tea I gathered through the summer months. It grows practically everywhere on the tundra. It's sweet, and the aroma just brightens my soul. It has a light scent to it- kind of like sunshine. I heat it in the kettle, sweeten it with fireweed honey, and sip it up to warm my insides. Surely it's not the hot coacoa my childhood self dreamed of, but it's most certainly perfection in my young adult mind. Naturally delicious, but most importantly a liquid blanket against the cold arctic air.

Lynx's Prance

Lynx tracks prance along the Yukon River. This time of year their curiously wondering all over the place. They have their own little free spirit dance. One second their jumping between washed up logs. The next their rolling themselves in the snow beside a large rock. It's neat to see. All summer long you go absent mindedly unaware of the animals that walked before you. But with this new fresh fallen snow every single paw print made before your footstep tells the story of the actions that took place just a day or two prior to your appearance. Lynx, fox, and otter are my favorite. They're the most playful of them all and have no real rythem to their step. I love that. The way they live their entire lives just as free as can be, without barely a care in the world. Their tracks leave a story for me to read, in solumn entertainment with silence of the trees.

Nothing-Go-Right Days

On my bad days, during my just-nothing-can-go-right moments, when absolutely everything has found a way to go wrong, I have made a sincere habit of locking myself away. Today, unfortunately, seems to be one of those days. One can awake in the very best of moods and by the end of noon be turned to a sobbing blubber because of the cruelity of the world. For the most part I am not a pessamist, but on my bad days, I just sit down and hide away. Obviously the world doesn't want me out, so I'll just stay in. It's a simple answer really. When all goes bad, wait until the bad has passed and then begin to play again. You wouldn't walk through a thunderstorm would you? So why would you do things when things aren't going right? Sleep on it, wait until the rain passes, and then proceed to journey out once more. It works. Although many would claim I'm a coward, a non-liver, an introvert, I like to think I'm simply a bit more aware- a bit more intelligent than the one who gets struck by lightening.

Late Still Mornings

Waveless river water mirrors the sky and opposite bank. The trees whimsically echo their shadows to the water below. The slow to rise sun glows ever so slightly behind them. And I stand there on the other side peering across. The village is quiet. Our dirt roads are empty of traffic in the morning. Eskimos are slow to rise from slumber. I don't have the chance to walk alone too often. But as my darling pulls the boat with his snow mobile from the riverside to a higher elevation he leaves me to gaze upon the barren waters. I like the silence. Even the breeze isn't awake. The seagles temporarily nestled away. The crows fly quietly. And it's a beautiful time absent of even the littlest sound. Everywhere else in the world crickets chirp, finches sing, and frogs croak. But here, in the middle of the arctic, just with the humans, nothing wakes up till noon. Even the sun is late to rise. I like to wake up before the rest sometimes. For in my life quietness has become a sort of comfort blanket that allows me to think without interruption.

A Female Dr. Suess

Have you ever thought 'perhaps I was met to do wonderful things, change the entire world, touch each and every human soul'? Have you ever wondered why the tracks you're following are so much bigger than the footsteps you leave behind? As if you're on your way to a place where only big things happen? I think this quite often. In the deepest pit of my stomache I yearn for something extravegantly more than any person should ever have. Not wealth or success or power, but a meer recognition of a beautiful soul. I'd like to think someday I will leave this earth known as the female Henry David Thoreau, Edgar Allen Poe, and Dr. Suess. Long after my days are passed I will be remembered, loved, and an inspiration to the lost souls of the future. A poet, a writer, a misunderstood comedian, an unorganized free-thinker, and a lover of every being. A role-model for young children. A pride for the generations who raised me. And a single person who somehow, against all odds, made a connection to every single soul that walked this earth after she was gone.

Beginning of Wintery Bliss

Oh the snow, I love the snow. White, fluffy, and beautifully coating each and every object that sits outside my front door. We have nearly six inches now. Everything is officially wintery. And winter is my comfort zone time. I feel more comfortable in the frigid arctic air than I do anywhere else in the world. I could win a month long trip to Hawaii and my heart wouldn't have the courage to fly away from my tundra home. I am so dearly happy now that it's white outside once again. Seven months of pure bliss ahead of me. Blizzards and snowflakes and frozen river roads. What more could a girl with an Eskimo heart ask for? What more would she want to ask for?

Old-Like Typing

I like to type on type-writers. They aren't nearly as ancient as they seem to me. I realize my age has it's disadvantages when it comes to what I consider vintage. So the idea that in my mind the type-writer has an aged old beautiful aura, could mean it's merely a childhood trinket to someone a generation or two apart from me. Even so, I love them for that exact reason. The fact that they were never a part of my life in a typical sense. They were always an antique. They were always an item that ones my age didn't have to use. I never had to use one, but I do. It's like writing with a feather ink pen. It's a natural flow that is enduced by the tool you use. Writing in it's rawest form. Typing in it's rawest form.

First Calm Blizzard

There's a blizzard stirring outside my window. Well, I suppose it's not quite a blizzard. But the slowflakes are lightly falling with quite the density. I love the sight. There's just something about winter that warms me. Ironic, I know. For obviously the colder months are not nearly the warmth most people yearn for. But to me the white winter covered ground brings a sense of solitude and contentment that only snow can do. It's merely October, a month when most people are just beginning to pull out their knit sweaters and raking their autumn leaves. For further reference, our leaves are still falling here. But the later days of this month are often the time when everything turns white. And the trees that have not yet dropped their brownings, will be hidden in the snow nevertheless. It's a time most would have trouble gaining a fondness of. But the friendly touch of a falling snowflake is something I wait my entire summer to feel.

The Alder Path

I have many favorite places. Spots lost in the rural landscape of western Alaska. I love the barren tundra ground. I adore the willow trees. My beaver dams, my river bends, my innocently whisical driftwood collections. But one particular path brings giddiness to my child-like soul. I call it the Alder Path. Quite original. But it has this name for the particular reason that it is the only path in this area that is made purely of alders. No willows, no ferns, no cranberry patches. Everytime I walk down it something happens, like I'm transported into a fairytale. I become Alice in Wonderland. There are rabbit trails at my feet and branches reaching out to shake my hand. They love me, those alders. I'm safe within their company, and they mine. It's a mutual understanding of something only the rarest people and plants can feel. They know me and I know them. It's a love of sorts. For I know all of my plants, my animals, and my landscaped hills, but these particular alders- well they know me back. And they show it in the way they greet me as I walk through their path.

Stacked Firewood

The last of the firewood has been chopped and stacked in a pile outside of our home. My darling strained his back many hours to keep me warm through the cold months. In early spring locals begin to gather logs for next winter. They venture out in the flooded waters to collected drifting fallen trees and pull them back to land. Our lovely tundra landscape lacks adequate firewood so timber floating on the river is the only selection. For the entire summer piles of logs will sit scattered neatly along the banks of the Yukon, tangled with old salmon nets and lost children's shoes. And the next year before the river freezes everyone will cut and gather the wood to set in their front yards. Ours is now fully stacked. Although the work was not of personal strain to me, I acknowledge it was in general to those around me. And as each other woman in the town would be, I am especially grateful to my darling. For he truly in the most literal sense will keep me warm in the cold.

Children Sledding

Even with the slightest bit of snow the village children have climbed the hill beside my house with the intent to slide down. The torn old strings of their worn old sleds are tied around their wrists as the drag the plastic tabagon upward and then ride it downward again. They laugh and they scream and they smile with joy. The drivers are aware of the "big hill" road and try to avoid it so that the little ones can have a place to play. Their little Eskimo hearts were born for the snow. Dressed in their little parkas with the fluffy village pups following them about. Barely an inch remains in the brightness of the sun, yet even such a miniscule amount can hold hours of treasured fun for the little ones here. It takes a special person to see the light amongst the dark cold long winters of the arctic. But with sledding children outside your window it's quite practically impossible not to be an optimist.

Sky With Moon and Sun

Occassoinally in Alaska our daylight sky holds a sort of phenomenon that I've seemed to find rare in other parts of the world. Our sun and our moon share one sky. For with the sun staying low on the horizon in the winter months, it gives way a great amount of darkness that allows the moon to also shine. When the moon is on the proper side of the earth and the sun is held low to the ground, for the mere six hours that the sun is evident the moon will also shine. In one direction daylight, in one direction midnight. When standing beside a grove of trees one can see the reflection of the sun on the frost covered branches, and in the distance the moon still holding high and bright in the sky. It's a whimsical sight that truly brings everything into wonder. The unison of opposites. Intrigueing in the most astrological of ways.

Sheppard Beaver Family

It's a few miles trek up the banks of the Yukon River to a camp called "Sheppard's Camp". The water is low, making travel easy. It leaves behind level ground covered in nature's gravel. The camp gets it's name from the family who owns the land. Much of the landmarks in this area are not artistically titled, but rather a literal interpretation of what it is. Sheppard's Camp, is the Sheppard's families fishing camp, where they spend their summer fishing days. It's in a wonderful area, famously known for the beaver family (which I have playfully named the "Sheppard's Beaver Family") that resides there. Beside the camp runs a deep stream where the dam and wooden stick home of the Sheppard Beaver Family sits. They have accumulated quite the collection of willow this year- enough to hold them through the winter. It's a reassuring thought to know they will survive. Although my darling and I ventured to their home in the hopes of trapping one, we do want the rest to live. It's our first trap of the season. If the creature does give it's life, it will feed us meat and clothe me with a winter hat I dearly need. The trap itself is quick and lies beneath the surface of the water. The furry will pass almost immidiately. It's disheartening, even to me. For I so deeply admire their hardworking auras. The real reason we go, I believe, is not with the intent of the trap itself, but rather the pure joy of the scent of fresh timber breeze and sound of slow flowing water.

Bear Footsteps

As I traced the slides of otters in a vacant stream running to the river, I stumlbed across the steps of a bear. My darling had often warned me not to frolic in the parts I was frolicing. Remembering his warning I froliced my way back to his side. He carries the gun, a nuisance that is also a necessity here. In most moments the protection of a bullet isn't needed, but in the few instances it is such an item can spare a human life. We were off in a venture. He had been collecting mammoth bones that often wash up on the banks of the river in our area, but our actual goal was in the sparce trees where the steps of the bear lead. We wondered anxiously through them, aware of every snapping branch. We never caught sight of the leaver of the prints. Even so we walked with careful steps. The fear is beautiful in a sense. You're not afraid of the animal itself, but more so the power it holds. For the footsteps it leaves behind are twice the size of your own. Just the knowledge of it's existance is enough to cause alert. And it creates respect, awe, even in a way love. For although the clash of two souls is inevidentally tragic, the distant admiration of one another is beyond exhilerating. Adrenaline in it's finest natural form.

Dream Speaking

Today I was given the news that an elderly woman in our village has passed. Eskimo funerals are untypical when compared to typical American ones. The body remains in the home of the deceased' family for three days. They dress and wash the body themselves as everyone around town continuously visits with condolences. After the three days of mourning have passed, they hold a "typical" funeral like service and bury the body. Although I have never been to a funeral, I am quite aware of the traditions involved. Unfortunately they are common here. This funeral no different from the rest. But the oddest part, for me, is last night I had a dream. A vague dream I don't remember in any detail. But a passing thought forgotten yet still aware in my mind. I was speaking to an elderly Yup'ik woman. She taught me the many ways of the life she lived. And a part of me, in the most paranormal of ways, wonders if the woman who spoke to me subconciously was the same whom I learned of leaving this world this morning. If I only I would have caught her name.

Skipper's Release

It's late evening and my heart is heavy. The little furry whom I was trying to capture in our kitchen, stumbled into one of my darlings rat traps. A loud, mortifying snap awoke me in my sleep. Earlier this evening I had caught another vole outside for Skipper, but as I introduced them a terrible quarrel ensued. With no choice left, I took the terrarium outside and released them both into the wild. Skipper's leg is healed. He's healthy, happy, and active. But saying goodbye to any such animal is hard. It was selfish of me to ever think I could keep him inside. He's wild heart, much like my gypsy soul. It would have been unfair to keep him for my own. He belongs to the vast tundra grass, just as I belong to my wondering caravan.

Kitchen Trapping

Yesterday evening my darling and I caught a friend vole for Skipper. Unfortunately as we were moving her from the bucket we caught her in, to the cage with Skipper, she became superman. My husband dropped her in, she flew half way across the room, hit the ground, and started running. I have no idea how in the world she accomplished such a feat, but she did. We tore the place apart up and down trying to find her, but she was no where to be found. In every knoock and cranny she was gone. Finally we gave up and I gave my darling permission to capture the critter... dead or alive, for the sake of our kitchen. But today, as he went off to cut some wood and I sat reading on the couch I heard a small scruffling in the kitchen. I looked over and vaguely saw the outline of a small furry little thing making its way along the cupboards. Immidiately I jumped up and grabbed a bucket, running over to capture her alive. But she was gone by the time I got back. So now I have devised a clever little contraption (with the bucket and a few bits of cardboard) to bring her safetly into my home. Now the wait has begun, and I sit here patiently whispering only the clicks of my keyboard into the air. Perhaps she'll get up the nerve to visit again soon. I surely hope so, for I would dearly like to impress my darling with my newfound trapping skills.

Sapper

I've always heard the rumor that an insignificant heartbeat of an animal can completely alter one human's entire being. I've had my fair share of animal familiars. Like all gypsies I have surrounded myself with the magical properties of nature, of which dearest furries can be a part of. But out of all beautiful animals only one takes a significant spot in my childhood. Sapper. A large black mut. For the many hours my brother and I spent venturing through the backroads of rural Illinois, Sapper was by our side. Many a years he spent every waking moment playing the seasonal games of wondering nature with children. When we ventured into an unknown farm to meet face to face with an angry bull, Sapper forcefully stood between us until we safetly reached the other side of the fence. When we ran wildly through the praries that lines our backyard Sapper was one step ahead scaring off skunks, raccoons, and snakes before they had the chance to meet our barefeet. If we walked too far onto the thinly frozen ice of our neighbor's pond Sapper nipped our snowsuits and drug us outward. Never once did we not escape danger. Between the fragil ages of five to twelve Sapper stayed by my Indian spirit side. Out of anything he fought off I would have never assumed a car would be his tragic end. Yet without adue he became an angel at the time I began to fade away from my tree climbing expeditions. As I look back today in amazement of the ways he could be, I have no doubt in my mind that an insignificant heartbeat of an animal can completely alter one human's entire being

Village Life

This tiny slum of a village is really the tip of the iceburg of perfection in my mind. The people are kind. The dogs run wild and howl through the night. The lawns are never mowed. The yards are never free of scattered toys. And the roads are made of dust. It's much like the opposite of a "perfect" city subarb. Nothing about this place is perfect. But everything about this place is wonderful. A slow pace full of patience. Not a eye awakes till noon. Not a one complains when things take time to finish. Things move as fast as needed, no faster. Most of the year it's quiet. Only the pitter pattering of children's feet and mouse steps on the snow. Occassionally the happy chattering of a squirrel. I cannot imagine life anywhere else. Well, I suppose I can. But I can't imagine that life being any better than this one. Perfect amongst it's beautiful imperfections.

Feeling A Fallen Feather

In America many feathers are illegal for one to possess. Eagle, swan, hawk, and owl. One not dare bring them into their possession. Even a collection in a pocket is a crime. So I do not bring them home. The one's I find scattered about on the banks of the sloughs. Rather, for just one moment, I pick them up in admiration. Feel the soul of the bird they once helped sour in the sky. Isn't it magical? To know you are holding an item that once created an absence of gravity. Oh how dearly I admire the beat that comes from a fallen feather of a wild one. I want to dance with them held high in the air. The magestic fluttering ways of a lighthearted object, putting a flying feeling in my soul in only the way a bird feather can.

Unused Buttons

I've developed the interesting habit of collecting buttons, fabrics, and other inspirational things. Many a times I have stopped along the dirty roads of the village and plucked the buttons off of a dirty blouse left along the side. It breaks my heart to see useful things thrown away. My craft room is overwhelmed with beach glass, driftwood, and other's trash (that has oh so easily become my treasures). Can you blame me? I cannot just pass beautiful trinkets by. They need a home just as well as brand new glass beads. In fact, they need a home even more. For they are the long forgotten jewels awaiting their chance to be polished and worn again.

Wild Pink Roses

There are wild roses bushes here. They spiratically dot the side of the roads. Daisies, dandelions, and poppies are also common knowns that line the dirt streets. But the wild rose bushes are truly among the finest flowers. Small, dainty, and a bit fragil. Yet they withstand the strong Siberian winds that make their way across the Bering Sea to my home. Curled in their own tiny pink manner, I fall in lust with the sight of them. The sign of a secret admirer. A wild rose with the intent of hidden love. I've never plucked one, for fear of jynxing my own chance at a secret fairytale. Instead I admire from afar, somewhat like the message they tell when left on a stranger's doorstep.

Matching Ivory Ring

He placed it beside my coffee cup on our anniversary morning. A small circular trinket handcarved of white ivory. I was surprised and confused, but so impressed. The ring fit perfectly around my finger, remonescent of the wedding band I hope we someday share. Polished and beautiful with the slightest natural imperfections making it personlized to me and only I. I love rings, bracelets, anklets, and necklaces. Jewelry has always had a special place in my wardrobe. For even the simplest skirt and top can seem extravegant when embellished with chains and bangles. I suppose that's the gypsy in me. A collector of all things, but a lover of the one's I can wear. And of course, a man whom I have shared every waking moment with for three hundred and sixty five days would know such a fact about my being. In which he has blessed me with an additional peice. Carved by him of course, to match the ivory bracelet he had given me prior.

Chipper Is Back

Chipper is back! My darling little squirrel that made a home in my attic is back. For a few moments my darling blocked access to our attic so that he couldn't put things away up there. But now we've began to lead him to a birdhouse that I bought for him and placed in our backyard. Today he finally realized how wonderful of a place it is and began to store his winter's supply inside. I am so dearly happy. His silly little antics are such a wonderful site. So he's home, safe and sound, and all is wonderful in my village home again. Chipper is chipping. Skipper is skipping. And my darling little animals are brightening my each and every day.

Fresh Tropical Fruits

Although my summer garden didn't flourish in the dreary gray days we had, I am still in a green thumb mood. Using the few coins I have saved over the past month, I went out and found a few lovely little tropicals to decorate my caravan with. A sweet lady in the lower part of America has mailed me a flawless collection of baby greenies. Two banana trees, a lemon tree, a black pepper plant, aloe, a pinapple bush, elephant ears, a starfruit plant, basil starts, and a sprig of lavendar. It sounds so overwhelming to list them all out individually, but together they are a wish come true. I have spent a majority of my day dreaming of fresh fruits and herbs, a delicacy that rarely arrives in my rural home. It's the one thing I miss most from my time in the city. And it's the one thing I am determined to bring to my lovable area here.

One Year

One year ago today I left everything I had ever known to venture to a remote place called Alaska. Just twelve months. Just three hundred and sixty five days. I said farewell to a life I had known so habitually well in the small towns and backroads of rural Illinois. Never did I imagine I would find a whimsical fairytale sewn through the winter snow paths. But it has been one full year I've spent with a man who in his own sense has become my epitome of a prince charming. So today we merrily drink dandelion wine that I brewed four months prior. We kiss and we hug and we rejoice for the beautiful blessing of love. When I left Illinois a heartbroken lost soul, I never thought I would find healing and contentment in a place so far removed from my wonderland. Yet through the bitter cold, the blizzard days, and the amazing inspiration of Yup'ik Eskimos I have found a home a part of my heart knows it can never leave. For I may step off my beaten path, take journeys and trips, but I know within me that life will always lead me back here. Back to my darling, back to my willows, alders, and Yukon River. Back to home. It's amazing how one year can impact the entire astrological being of one life.

Little Skipper

I named it Skipper. My circus vole. I have named it Skipper. The little thing is doing wonderful. It's created a tissue stuffed home out of a hollow peice of driftwood I put in the large washbowl I am keeping it in. The water is quickly vanashing from the small clay container in the corner. And I have fed a majority of my supply of alder seeds and pilot bread crackers to the hungry fluff ball. It's leg was broken, bent, and dragging limply behind it's body. But with much rest and no stress, the healing process seems to be taking place. The tiny fragil bones are sure to mend up quickly. I have truly fallen in love with the little thing. It's scurry little movements and sweet black eyes put a smile on my face. At the moment it's still quite young, I'm guessing no more than four or five weeks in age. With it's youth I hope it will tame to me, for I so dearly have gained a fondness of it.

Nettles, Prickly Weeds

The gardening season has finished poorly this year. Months of precious care of seedlings has ended me with a few small potatoes, onions, carrots, and greenbeans. Harvest enough for one making of soup. Quite disappointing. And now that our first frost has set in, I have made my way out to clear what few weeds have made it through, so that my garden can be clean for next year. In the process of being a responsible young adult, I managed to hapazhardly grab a very painful handful of nettles. A small prickly Alaskan weed that jabs hundreds of tiny needles deep into your skin when touched. How painful it was. I released my grip and immidiately the stinging set in. I worked through the pain to quickly finish up the last bit of the weeds, and then headed inside. I soothed my hand in cold water, then hot water, then cold again. Only to find the tiny needles would only come out with time, not prying and pushing. It's been two days now and all but a few of the needles have made their way out of my sensative palms. I have learned a lesson within all of this. Look before you pull a weed.

Taming Voles

All of the sudden he was hollering my name running through our foreway and into the livingroom. Of course, I panicked. My darling is rarely ever hysterical. But, he had good reason tonight. We had seen them quite often. Red back voles. A small gerbil looking thing. Super adorable. And I always wanted one so terribly bad. So of course, being the amazing man he is, he offered to catch me one if the opportunity ever presented itself. In the late evening sunset hours the opportunity arose. He found this small baby vole next to it's dead mother. Immidiately he grabbed it and ran into the house, where he blessed me with my newest pet. The poor little thing was hungry, thirsty, and utterly exhausted. Although my darling asked me not to, I fed the adorable little thing a small chunk of my hubby's homemade cookies (a stash he takes an immense amount of possession over). Immidiately the poor little thing sat down and began to eat. He, or she, I'm really not sure stuffed it's little cheeks and then gobbled down and entire tablespoon of water. After the delicious meal he rested up for a nap. Two hours later I fed him some pizza crust, and more water. And now, once again he is resting curled into some tissue, woodchips, and cardboard. I'm beginning to think I will create the first Alaskan mouse circus. Just a dream, a little over-exaggerated considering I only have one vole. But it shall be a goal nevertheless. Meet the Lone Alaskan Gypsy, creater of the only and best Vole Circus!

River Cleaned Bones

What I love about my dearest Eskimo neighbors is that they truly love wild game. I too prefer the natural version to the farm raised. But that's not the point I'm attempting to reach. Rather, it's that they throw the bones into the river, where earth cleans them to her natural ability. And a few months later I can walk the wave ravaged rocks and find myself my own intricate designs of animal's lives passed. I collect the teeth, skulls, claws, even knee caps. Store them away in the pockets of my apron and make my way home. I brush off the dirt, wash off what's left. And then I use them. From salmon vertebra I make beads. From claws and teeth I make charms. I paint the bones with simple designs. I find peace in knowing no part of an animal is lost in value when I am near. I appreciate every part of their sacrifice. Never do I associate myself with the cruel goodbyes of a living being. But once the deed is done I am forever grateful for their life and death. Collecting the peices of them left behind gives me closure they are appreciated even after their soul has passed. For it is with every peice of them that I love and cherish their fellow living companions.

First Snowfall

There are only two months in the year that Alaska has "normal" daylight hours. Either all night is sparkled by the sun, or all day is lit by the moon. Now is our time of equality. March and September. But today is the last day of September and within my heart I know this is the beginning of my farewell to autumn. Winter is always a sweet welcome. My heart thrives in barren ice. The long nights and short days make for a sense of midnight calm. Our first snow fell two days ago. How bittersweet the sight of rain-mixed white flakes is. I want to hug my green grass goodbye, kiss it and wish it a quick return. But how deerly I do love my knit sweaters. And now is the time to layer them in gleeful warmth.

Aurora Circus

He took my hand and lead me outside to gaze and the midnight black sky. The aurora has been active in our northern home and he swore to me we'd share a gaze at it together. So he drove me to the edge of town and off the gravel road where we drove through the tundra a ways. When village lights were no longer in view, he stopped, and we sat in the still autumn air. There in front of us the green northern lights played innocent games with the stars and the moon. They danced their way across the blackness shooting randomly in their free spirit directions. To sit in awe of an unexplainable phenomenon that centuries before you has played out, is utterly breathtaking. The chills that the sky pulls through you is ten times stronger than that of the cold crisp air. And as I sat there in awe-inspiring meditation, he held my hand. Together we watched as the unsunlit light played circus tricks over the landscape.

Songs He Wrote

I didn't mean for it to turn romantic. I just mentioned that while cleaning I had come across a few of his song lyrics and I thought they were beautiful. We're writers, my darling and I. We're artists. And his words speak deeper to me than any other person I have met. We discussed it shortly and then he went to his room to grab his guitar and old box of poorly inked papers. He came out and asked me to play a song with our record player. The God of Wine. And he began to play and sing. And I sat back with the television off and the woodstove on. I closed my eyes and tapped my foot as he sang me bittersweet love songs. And the hours passed and the darkess over took the sky, yet we still sat. Sifting through memories of music we used to love. He sang to me with a voice he hadn't used in so long. But the melody was still as tranquil as practiced vocals. The night went on into the late hours. Dawn began and we felt our way in the early light to the bedroom where we layed down and slept the day away.

Documenting Discoveries

I've always liked the idea of a porquipine quill pen and old paper notebook binded with a leather cover. It appeals to that frontier adventurer within me. The tan pants and a feather hat. Long tangled dirty blond hair waving in the wind as I sit atop a hill overlooking rivers, sloughs, and untouched land. A big white canvas tent where I can visit to document my findings. Sleep on a worn cot with a woodstove fueled by small twigs and pinecones. I like the idea of seeing things never seen before. Finding animals previously undiscovered. Drawing birds, naming fish, placing dead butterflies in a glass box. I would love to find new things. Step into a world human's haven't had the chance to destroy. How magical that would be. To drink water from an unpoluted stream. To run barefoot without the worry of a rusty nail. Perhaps we could create that world again. Not just in our imagination, but on the very earth we live. A clean place. A healthy place. A place of rediscovered beauty.

Reading Like My Mother

My darling and I have made a wonderful habit of reading aloud each night. We just finished our very first book. Every evening I sat on the couch in the silent Alaskan nights next to our woodstove and read "Where The Red Fern Grows". My mother read this book to me many times as a child. It holds the bittersweet memories of Illinois nights. I loved the evenings on our front porch in my barefeet listening to my mothers voice atune to the crickets and frogs in the background. I can't help but take pride in the fact that I mimick the childhood memories of my mother's actions. It's a beautiful thought. And when I ended the story so beautifully written I, like my mother, began to cry. My darling, being the wonderful man he is, comforted me. And I smiled and laughed at my sensative nature the same way my mother did. It was a wonderful moment. A feeling of maturity and my entire childhood all wrapped into one. A simple reminder of how every part of this world in it's own little way connects to the next.

Adventuring With Maps

Maps intrigue me. Although I would much rather go off and wonder in the real world, on a rainy day I truly love to pull out a map and adventure on paper. There are so many places I hope to see someday. England, Scotland, Whales, Ireland, France, Spain, Sweden, Germany, South Africa, Aulstralia. I could ramble on forever on the subject. Maps are my gateway to imagination. Targetting the waterways and country roads of far away lands. And in a way they give me the chance to run recklessly through a place my feet have never touched. I see the mountains, the seashores, the grasslands and praries. It's a sight to behold in the back of my mind. The only trip I can take until my coins add up. And how precious the mind can be when running your fingers across an old ripped forgotten map. In a way the places it portrays is enough to suffice one's need for a walk in unknown places. My fingers trace the footsteps I will someday take. Promoting dreams and goals that my heart yearns to make come true.

Fate Goes Fate's Way

Seeing as though this wonderful earth chooses it's own path for me, I don't quite believe in walking by myself anymore. I've just come to realize fate has a plan for me. I'll know when I know and things will always turn out fine. Granted, I let my life go as it pleases. I've given up on control quite sometime ago. I don't really have any. No one does. So why bother with pretending like everything is going as I planned? Nothing is going as I planned. Had anyone asked me as a child where I would end up, I would have confidently said as a famous actress in Hollywood. I would reside in a big house in a big city with a big lot of money. And yet here I am. In a small caravan, in a small village, with a terribly small collection of coins. But amongst all of those opposites, I am happy. Yes, nothing went the way I had hoped. Nothing went the way I had planned. I would have gone to school, but I found knowledge through nature and books. I would have gotten rich, but I found wealth in harmony and simple things. I would have done many things, but life wouldn't let me. I wouldn't have been happy, but life wouldn't let that happen. Life didn't take the road I drew, it took the path to happiness.

Earth's Secrets

When the trees speak whispers in my ear through the rustling of the wind in their leaves, my heart pumps rapidly. My ears attune to the sound interpretting the secrets they bestow to me. And I sit on an old log in an abandon forest simply enjoying the company of the breeze and it's music. For it's in the simple moments of silence that one can learn all of the secrets of the world. To sit in awe of one wild moment can open a person to millions of ounces of knowledge that this mother earth just let's slip by. Following the path of a stream. Dancing in the rain of falling autumn leaves. Or resting your head on the shoulder of a worn canyon rock. It's what you chose to know that you learn.

Dark Corner Days

Somedays are seemingly the end of the world. When nothing goes right and everything goes wrong and darkness can not come soon enough. I hate these days, as does everyone else I am sure. But I truly hate these days. My optimistic heart hates to be caught in a pessamistic mood. Perhaps it's the looming fog blocking my precious sunlight. Perhaps it's the arrival of the first frost. Perhaps it's the leaves falling from the trees. But all of these things, well they are remonescent of autumn. And fall is my favorite time. So perhaps it's a deeper thing. A gloom of anonomous sorts. A far off crying soul that has some how impacted me. On my most dreadful days when the reason is not apparent I cannot help but think that my heart is mourning for someone else. That my sadness, anger, jealousy, and defeat is in the name of a lost soul. And even though the world is perfect for me, it is evil to them. And in a way, for some unknown pass of fate, for one day I share their pain. And in that small insignifant act I give them a sense they are not alone. So for the days that I sit in the corner and lie curled in a dirty quilt, let me be. My heart is breaking for a nameless faceless person. My heart is breaking so that their's can heal.

Alder Cones

As my darling sat in the swamp hoping the swans come in gunshot range, I froliced about in an innocent manner. Twas the second time I visited the swamp. The journey out is quite interesting. Lots of mud and water and sticky tundra ground. It's like a constant quick sand at every step. About a mile journey. Yet, when we arrive at our spot, I am immidiately overblessed with energy. Energy I shouldn't have after the exhausting suction at every step prior. Yet off I go in search of alder cones. They are, in my mind, a tiny immitation of a pine cone. And I've always had quite a fondness for tiny things. So of course I gather them. I pluck every one I see from every tree in walking distance. My whicker basket is wearing down so I lined it with a plastic bag to avoid any dropping through the rotting holes. And I filled it to the brim. Upon arriving home I stick them atop our woodstove and enlighten my home with the sent of the wild. Once dried I remove the seeds and throw them outside. All that is left- tiny dried alder cones, perfect for my many creative attempts.

My Ivory Bracelet

I have heaps of jewelry. Gold bracelets, pearl necklaces, beaded things of shells, wood, and glass. All colors. All shapes. Large and dramatic. Small and subtle. But somewhere amongst the tangled array lies my most precious of all wearalbles. It has no designer name. It's fairly worn and it's shine has disappeared. Imperfections imprinted around it. But, it's a bracelet. And not just any bracelet, an ivory bracelet carved of walrus and mammoth. And it was carved, in the sincerest form, by a man I call my own. He is my darling, my future husband, my life and my world. And he worked so dearly hard to create for me this peice of art that I so proudly wear about. It's strings have loosened and it's polish has fade. Yet to me it is the most beautiful item in the world. Compared to anything else I would choose it in an instant. Versus a diamond ring, a saphire necklace, a golden bracelet, it would still win. For engraved inside in the smallest letters. lies an eye with a heart with a "U". His handwriting has never been legible, but I can read his scribbles flawlessly. And these three small characters and all they represent makes that one piece of jewelry more meaningful, more precious, than every gemstone in the world.

Grandmother's Tea Party

Oh how I would dearly enjoy a tea party. Perhaps when I visit my mother and grandmother in their far away land one can be arranged. And we can sit out in the yard of my grandmother's cottage. She focuses so much of her summer energy on flowers and trees. Her garden is always the most tranquil of a place. And out in the far corner sits a little set of table and chairs. She likes to sit there and wave to the passerbyers of her small hometown. Other than that they don't hold much use. Her darling, my grandfather, is getting too old to enjoy such simplicities with her anymore. I would much like to visit her soon. The thousands of miles between us slightly breaks my heart. I know if I told her I was on my way for a tea party she would excitedly pull out her nicest china wear and lace table cloth. She would dust off the old tea set her grandmother passed down to her. Grab one of the few unused vases, fill it with her finest seasonal flowers, and set up perfection for my mother and I. How lovely it would be. To sit with three generations making waves among differences in the common thoughts of love. Sharing stories, laughter, and sincere small moments. Next spring when I make my yearly visit, I think I shall make an effort for such an event to take place.

Moss Covered Utopia

Wondering through the willow forests that trace this tundra landscape is ideal in my mind. They are spontaneously dotted with cottonwoods and alders. And it really doesn't matter what kind of trees they are, for it's the base of their branches that makes them so wonderful. For all along the ground of this swampy land is moss. Moss, to me, is such a magical thing. Combined with the vibrant white mushrooms and grayish white bark, it creates a magical landscape. Old tree stumps house intricate designs of nature's green fabric. The lower part of living trees is hugged with the same thing. The grass grows short on dry land here. It's like a never-ending perfectly manicured lawn among the trees. And I love to just wonder amongst the shade admiring the many beautiful sights of the practically flat land. In most places out here you can see for miles. But in the thick clumps of trees you can barely see a few feet. To me it's inspiring. You can wonder for hours in lonesome silence, merely having your ears blessed with the whisper of the breeze for company. In a way it reminds me of where I always wanted to be. A moss covered utopia if you may. A perfection that you must choose to appreciate. But I never chose to love this home. I just always did, for not quite one reason at all.

Circles In Wood

Along my Yukon River bank, opposite the town I live, I have discovered the most magical little things. Each year the river floods leaving treasures tracing the beaches. One of my most favorite past times is wondering through the miscellaneous colored rocks finding little things that catch my eye. I rarely go across the river during the summer months. But yesterday I ventured there. And upon reaching the other side I jumped off of my boat to pull it from the current. But as my feet hit the ground and I looked down I lost concentration. They were just peices of water ravaged wood. But oh goodness what beautiful peices they were. They had been tossed in the waves being smoothed to perfection. And this small occurance in their life left them in beautiful condition. The circular patterns that traced the branches they once had are now engraved beautifully into the small pebble size peices of timber. The lines in them swirled and swayed like the dance of a star-struck couple. The circles exchanged patterns keeping in tone with the one next to it. It's impossible to describe, and immidiately I began to collect them. Luckily I always take a bagon my ventures, for I am quickly becoming a nature hoarder, so I could gather up a good amount. And so I brought them home. These beautiful peices of trees long past. And I have set them on my bookshelf, my oh so cluttered book shelf. But they fit in just perfectly with the other treasures I've found around.