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.
Beaver Fur Hat
My darling has been asking me for quite some time to sew him a fur hat for winter. While trapping the deep Alaskan wilderness last March, he lost his treasured hat in the endless snow. I am quite the procrastinator unfortunately, so in mid autumn is when I finally decided to begin the deed. Living in an Ekimo village, fur is a staple and fur hats are a necessity to keep from dreadful frostbite in the -30 degree weather. I have never sewn fur before and this entire ordeal was quite new to me. There are no patterns available for a traditional Alaskan trapper hat, and I absolutely hate math, but managed to create seemingly ideal measurements. We lack any materials or sewing machines so I quickly learned the pain staking work of hand-sewing leather. I used an old pair of black jeans and the liner of an old coat for the fabric parts of the hat. A beaver my darling caught last spring would be the much needed insulation to our harsh cold. Two rainy days in a row I worked, a total of twelve hours. And a night when my darling left to visit friends, I finished the article and left it on a kitchen chair where he could see it when he got home. Trying it on it was a bit big. The strings I made of old shoelaces hung a bit low and the stitches were a bit crooked. But it was warm, and he being the wonderful man he is, was forever grateful. So the sore hands and frustrating work was well worth it. And I am so so very pleased with the end result.
Making Messes
It has been a terribly long day. While making my last batch of blackberry jam I managed to spill the boiling hot pot to the floor. I should have known that was the beginning of my bad luck, and just to give up then. But of course I did not. And I continued on. I made what was left of the jam only to burn it terribly. And as I strained out the burnt parts I spilt even more across my clean countertop. When I finally finished cleaning, I decided I would relax and begin to sew a fur hat for my hubby this winter. Once he saw what I was doing he felt the need to point out what I was doing wrong, and after much bickering I forcefully took his measurements and began. Only to realize that my pattern was terribly difficult to make. It took me two hours to create it and by the time I was finished I didn't even care to sew anymore. So now I am sitting online, much to the dismay of my darling who was wishfully thinking I would have his new hat finished by this evening. Some days are just bad. That is something I accept. I just wish I knew where this bad karma originated.
Hans Christian Andersen
Hans Christian Andersen. A character I so sincerely appreciate. For he, like me, has a beautiful mind. How do I know? Well his stories, of course. He writes fairytales. He was born Apri 2, a mere three days before my birth day. That would make us both lovely little Aries creatures. Diamond birthstones. Of course, he died practically a hundred years before I ever took my first breath on this earth. So our paths never crossed. Yet he has inspired me so dearly. With words of poems passed on through generations enlightening the minds of millions of young children, he too touched me. They've been tossed into ballets, movies, dances, and picture books. They are... amazing. I've always been a love of authors. There are many that touch my soul, and he is just one of the few that brings inspiration to my heart. Yet he seems to share an odd connection to me, one I have not yet configured. Perhaps I too will write a fairytale, or even better, I'm living one.
Slumber Together
Last night was, well, it was wonderful. As we lay through the evening hours in a bed that is oh so habitual to us, my darling acted differently. I don't know what possessed him to do so, for we were both partly in dream land. Typically we will lay lifelessly. He'll face away from me and I'll curl into his body for warmth. But last night he turned over and curled back into me. Now, for most couples this would seem... normal. But with us, we're comfortable with the fact that I do the cuddling, not him. So as unusual as it may seem, the fact that his arms were wrapped around me last night was utterly magical. It's been almost a year and I still get butterflies when spontaneous acts of romance happen between us. And how well I did sleep with him draped across me. Nothing can touch me when I'm in his arms. I'm safe, protected, and secure. And in such a place, slumber is easy. The night was flawless.
Lonely Books
I feel bad for lonely books. What are lonely books? Something like the Illustrated Columbia Encyclopedia A-Apu. A book seemingly no one would want. For what is the use of just one book of an Encyclopedia collection? Why would a person only need to look up words starting with A to Apu? But I bought that one book anyways. The poor little thing was all rejected. No one even cared to glance at the little misfit. A child had colored his pages and a few of them were torn. But I didn't care. He was a spectacular book nevertheess, full of boundless knowledge. And he isn't the only one. I have dozens of books without their series. Lost parts of bigger collections. Sad books with torn covers. Old books with worn pages. Lonely books. Books that need a home and a reader. A lover willing to learn the knowledge they teach. I am that lover. My heart is open to any such item. For the overlooked stories often tell the best tales.
Surprise Jam Jars
I've made the last of my jam. Three jars of blackberry, three jars of blueberry. As I waterbathed them to preserve them, I rearranged the jars unaware of the fact that once heated they would look absolutely identical. So after removing them I looked them over carefully only to realize that they all looked the same. And now what was supposed to be seperate blackberry and blueberry, is now a mixture of both. For I have no idea which is which. I have now entitled them all "surprise jam" where with each jar you open you find out what kind it is by tasting it. You get what you get, but either way I'm sure they're bound to be delicious. Sweetened with a bit too much sugar and enlightened with lime syrup, any sort of berry preserves are a treat in this home. I would choose them over chocolate anyday.
Finishing The Harvest
Autumn is reaching it's middle. The crisp air is even harsher on my still summer-blushed cheeks. The tundra appears on fire with shades of gold and red. We've gathered our ending berries. Blackberries and cranberries are the last to ripen. Cranberries are often hard to find, but the blackberries are a neverending abundance. My darling has gotten the last bit of geese for the winter, and our moose has been harvested. Needless to say our freezers and cupbords are full. It's a relieving feeling. To know that we have finished our fall harvest and can now prepare for the long Alaskan winter. Surviving on what we can find is more of a necessity than option here. Our grocery store offers a limited supply and that supply is often dwindled down in the winter. Having a stock of natural food is practically the only way to survive. And fall is the time to create that stock. We've done well this year. I feel comfortable in our stock. Canned fish, frozen goose and moose, jarred jams and berries. We won't starve this winter. And that is enough to saticfy the ache in my back from all the hard work.
Black Auras
I hate when I feel tension in the room. It's like this underlying aura that completely obliviates every sense of happiness in my soul. It's overwhelming. When I ask "What's wrong", I get odd looks and haphazard answers. I suppose they don't believe someone can just 'sense' negativity. But I can, I do. I feel it so powerfully that it takes every inkling of my being to keep from going utterly insane. Like a huge boulder sitting atop my shoulders I struggle to stay standing. It's just continually pushing me to the ground. I feel it. I feel the angry, the sad, the depressed, the worried, the nervous. I see the nonchalant hidden emotion in their eyes. I hear the sharp sting of gloom in their voice. Can know one else see it? How can no one else know it's there? I know it's there, it's so clear to me. And yet, admist this hurt, the one whom I share this unbearable ailment with will never admit to me their pain. I will never prove my sanity, and they will be the only one who ever knows I'm not insane.
Three Red Fungi Circles
Oh, I found the most wonderful thing. There's a small opening amongst the baby willow on the edge of Wonderstruck Island. Often times it makes me want to pretend I am a horse. I know I am much too old for such imaginary rubbish. But I can't help it. And because no one is ever present with me there, I gallop around pretending my feet are hooves and my hair is a mane. And the last time I went there, as I was trotting along, I stopped quite randomly at a spot I couldn't quite say was special. Until... I looked down. And there in front of me I saw the most interesting unimportant thing. A small peice of driftwood surrounded perfectly by three random dots of red fungi. I contemplated it's existance. It was raining quite hard that day. The clouds and wind just wouldn't quit. And I was sick of being wet and cold. So I closed my eyes and aloud said a wish on that little magical spot. "For sunshine and good weather". In less than a minute the rain parted and the sun came out. For the remainer of that day the sun followed me and the breaks in the clouds never failed to part as I entered their arena. Twas magical indeed. And it created the most perfect circumstances. So as I got home that evening I thanked my magic spot and the wish it granted me. Sometimes fates way of showing me things is amazing. If it weren't for my childish actions and odd nature-inspired superstitions, the rainy day would have been quite miserable.
Wonderstruck Island
I don't exactly enjoy watching the geese fall to the ground. I know they'll feed us for the winter and I'm very grateful for their sacrifice, but even so that's not the reason I go on the trips. Instead I hop onto that boat with a different intent. For we are taking a half hour journey to a small island that I find absolutely magical. The willow and water reed grasses grow differently there. They glow. And there are knooks and paths through the timber that spell out the secrets of the river's spring floods. It's something unexplainable, but the aura of that small nearly a square mile peice of land that just has a sense of wonder to it. And I find it fascinating. I could spend all day wondering the sandy ground, and often times do, getting completely lost in a small peice of land that holds just as much magic as the entire universe.
Bye-Bye Chipper
After I bought Chipper a new home he chose rather he wanted to have a slightly higher elevated place to reside. So for the past two weeks he has huddled away in my attic storing his snacks away. I tried to keep the secret hush, but he really doesn't mind clammering around in a terribly loud way. So my darling soon discovered the little rascle had made a home of our precious upper floor. Unfortunately, it just wasn't the right place for a squirrel. So even after my pleading and begging, I was forced to quit feeding my new found pet. Since then my neighbor has begun to leave treats. I must admit I'm a bit envious he so easily gave up my love for hers. But I'm happy he's found a better home. One where I can continue to watch his antics, except this time not so very intimately.
My Treasure Chest
There's a lit candle on my vintage sewing table disfusing berry aromas into the air. It sits in the dark corner next to my front door. The sewing table is much too worn down to be used for it's original purpose. Instead it houses a vary of collectables. Two old jars. One filled with flowers. The other a grape goo it was found containing. It smells of old wine, but I wouldn't dare pop the cork to try a taste. A bowl of poppouri lies in front of them, a fox mask to the side with a full insence burner accompanying it. And then there's my small wooden treasurechest engraved in gold with my name. My father brought it back to me from his wordly travels. When unlocked, it's velvet lined den holds my sincerest trinkets. Pins, lost keys, old charms, jewels, and tiny ornaments. The candle flickers dance along my golden name. It taunts me with a come hither shadow, drawing me in to treasures only I would find valuable.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)