Monday, December 1
I have always loved the first day of a new month. There is a razor edge of possibility cutting the air. A beginning again. A clean dive into new stories, whispered to skies full of winter stars and midnight. What can I tell you of my Alaska winter on this first day of December?
There is a rawness to living in elements such as this, a harvesting of spirit. There is a rhythm to dry cabin living - the pulse of inside outside - wood for the stove, path to the outhouse, dumping of water, re-filling of water, hauling of trash, plowing of snow, warming of engines. The day will advance in a dreamy light, like oil riding water - memories from my youth of growing up in a cement city, discovering pothole pools of swirling iridescent color. Night returns quickly - cold snaps around in dark - I light candles and rest with warm wooden walls around me. There is something genuine and persistant about winter. The way she comes on un-apologetically and teaches me slowly how to love her. She shows me her lines and her attention to detail as she drifts snowflakes across my hands. She promises a passage of season, to unfold in a sure circle of graced time. First though, I must sail out, rippling blue moonlight into her long night and drift on dreams of returning light on new leaves...