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.