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.