2.4.12

{this has been the craziest winter. yesterday it was 60. today it's snow - with no warning}

Late Winter Afternoon

6:36 ~ February 6, 2011

{can i just say that i'm getting sick of pictures of snow. . .}

Looking Up

I am a sun-seeker. I find God in the sky peeling back and when he isn't there it's hard to turn from the curtains framing my view.

Sometimes I just hold the fold of cloth and pray into it, softly, until she appears.

Survival tip for winter melancholy:: Remember to look up. I whisper it to the winter and winter nods her head and – i. look. up.

I walk outside, wrapped in my yellow coat. Snowflakes fall fast and furious. The cold envelops me, wraps me in aliveness and I know in my bones that god holds me here too.

And life returns in fits and starts. And I see the miracles all around me. All because I looked up.

6:36 ~ February 2, 2011

{when i went home for lunch today this little female dark-eyed junco was sitting on the fence. she was kind of skittish but i was patient. occasionally one picture comes out just right. to me, this is one of them.}

Storm Preparation

Just before the storm was scheduled to hit I went to Arlington to see if R. needed anything. He gets worried about the weather, like most of us are prone to do. When I asked what he needed he said that he was out of toilet paper and that someone told him to be sure and have an extra gallon of milk.

Knowing it was useless to argue with him about the milk (he had about a half gallon) I headed to Arlington's only grocery – the tiny Apple Seed IGA. I could visualize the scene in my head before I got there. . .the milk case would be picked clean and what would I tell R?

Much to my surprise when I arrived, the milk case was fully stocked. There were quite a few folks in line. Slowly, a funny feeling settled over me as I looked around. The twelve other people patiently standing with me all had beverages. They just weren't holding milk jugs.

I looked behind and almost laughed out loud.

There wasn't a can or bottle of beer left in the joint. The beer case was picked clean.

And I thought Arlington was a quiet little town. . .

6:36 ~ January 31, 2011

{Before the Storm}

Izzy Knows

Izzy knows that the best place to snooze is in a pile of warm sheets, straight out of the dryer. With a foot or more of snow, sleet, ice and general icky-ness on it's way, perhaps we should all take a cue from Iz. . .it's just too bad I have to go to work to keep her in cat food!

6:36 ~ January 29, 2011

6:36 ~ January 23, 2011

{icicle shadows}

6:36 ~ January 21, 2011

{any guesses?? it's frost on the kitchen window that faces the sunrise this morning at work}

A Winter Walk

{i'm currently in love with the silhouettes of single trees in these stark Ohio winter fields}

{a little splash of red}

{an empty nest}

{these deer walked here before we did}

6:36 ~ January 11, 2011

{i'm coming to the revelation that my life is incredibly dull. this really isn't news to me, but since i've been attempting to take a photo every night at 6:36 it's really been brought home. there are only so many ways i can photograph my supper. so, rather than abandon the project as i am wont to do when the going gets rough, i will make it a photo a day. and if i haven't taken anything by 6:36 you'll just have to endure my frosted flakes or spinach quiche.

the above photo was an experiment in the snowfall this afternoon. i wanted to try to focus on the flakes that were flying fast and furious, and let the human in the composition blur out. i think it might have been a bit more successful if the flakes had been a little bigger. and had not been coming down like small torpedos out of the sky. whatever happened to lazy flakes??}

Hungry

I'm hungry for color. My eyes devour it as though starving for vitality and spice on a grey landscape. It's like food for thought when my mind is famished.

Seeds cling to these branches because they are life, regenerating.

When winter winds blow we scurry inside, waiting for spring's first warm breezes. But the trees wait more patiently that we do.

I remind myself on a daily basis that the shortest day of winter, the day with the least daylight, is behind us already. The longest day is slowly, gingerly inching its way to us.

The trees always know first. But they aren't saying anything yet.

Reservoir in Winter

A Winter Gift

{yesterday was a rare winter gift - 60 degrees on New Year's Eve. coming home from Arlington i saw this old barn and the colors just seemed so brilliant and alive to me. funny how a month of looking at snow will do that to ya! that green barn roof just made me swoon!}

The Less of Winter

fallow 1 |ˈfalō|

adjective

(of farmland) plowed and harrowed but left unsown for a period in order to restore its fertility as part of a crop rotation or to avoid surplus production : incentives for farmers to let the land lie fallow in order to reduce grain surpluses.

This morning I opened my back door and with Oliver on the leash beside me, I took a deep breath of the scent of winter. We stood there for a moment in the cold and looked through the thin, bare branches of our walnut tree and saw the stars winking slowly at the two of us. The moon was a fingernail of light. In that single moment I did not wish to be anywhere but right there.

That moment felt sacred. And I do not often feel that holiness in winter.

Winter is a season of less. There is less daylight. Less heat from the sun to warm my bones and chase the chill. There are fewer fruits and vegetables in the garden and at the market. Only meager dried up leaves on the trees.

Our little corner of Earth's bounty lies fallow. Perhaps I should follow her cue instead of mourning the loss of more.

So this morning Oliver and I took a moment to appreciate less. The silhouette of bare branches against a gray sky. The glitter of dew drops on blades of yellowing grass just barely peeking though the covering of snow. The pink and orange sunsets sandwiched between the shadowy horizon and threatening clouds. The lyrical rattle of dried seed pods clinging to a tree.

When I take a moment to notice the magic in the world all around me I feel just a little less empty. Filled just a little bit more.

Winter – life in the simplest garb – less in the best sense of the word.

Snow-Capped

This little fella sits perched on an old, rotting stump in my garden.

He should be nested and warm in the garage by now, but I left him guarding the yard instead.

All day yesterday, I looked out the window and he made me smile.

I am so easily amused.

Decoration

It’s that time of year, the holiday decorations are going up,

everywhere I look there are twinkling lights and sparkles and,

with just-perfect timing, snow.

Yesterday nature decorated the outside.

We've already taken care of the inside.

Dancing snowflakes flitted, slowly drifting down


in grays and blues

that shifted into white

on the sleeping beds of summer.

Jack Frost painted the windows while we slept.

Soon, I will be dreaming of green, because I will miss it.

Soon, I will long for color in my little corner of the world.

Soon, I will grow tired of the cold and wish to feel the sun on my face.

But before that I will enjoy the sparkling lights


and the scent of pine


as I fill the house with pretty things

and love and gratitude

and giving.

But this morning

there is this outside my living room window,


reminding me to stop every so often
and

breathe in the white stillness.

Early December

It's been chilly and bleak in Ohio. The color grey dominates the days now. The pumpkins that are still staring at those passing on the street are rotting grotesquely. The mums that once announced the genesis of fall are shriveled and thin. At the slightest provocation they crumble.

A wise person might look at the landscape and pronounce everything dead.

They would be wrong.

Everything's dead but the wind, which is now in its element. It sends the few remaining leaves scuttling. It animates the reluctant trees to bend their branches into the arthritic fingers of winter. It whistles through the alleys and around the corners of our house. It reddens our cheeks and pinches the tops of our ears.

No, everything is not dead. Winter is just waking up and beginning to hum it's favorite tune.