Faithful readers,
I'm trying out a wordpress site over at skileskatharine.com
Check it out!
xoSky
Monday, 11 March 2013
Friday, 8 March 2013
What winter looks like
Hello Friends.
I know. It's been a while. How are you?
Some sunshine has fallen on Calgary, but we're still a long way from green here. The key to survival and happiness is the mountains of course. Last weekend Sara and I skied Sunshine and swooshed through 40 cm of fresh snow.
Sara and I were talking about how we had fallen in love with the Rockies on the chairlift and she said, "I've come to wonder if I can live without them."
Right now I'm waiting for my parents to arrive. They're flying in today from Minneapolis and I can't wait to see them. They just landed (don't worry, they're renting a car, so I'm not neglecting them) and I just pulled a fresh loaf of sourdough bread out of the oven. That's another thing about winter--plenty of time to learn to do new things. Dan grew us a sourdough starter and he fusses over it every day like a little pet. It's very sweet. The bread is really beautiful, crusty and full of holes. You can see why people fall in love with baking. There's so much that goes into it--mixing and kneading and rising and forming and rising again and baking and settling. All that before you can take one little bite. The process has a life of its own. Like writing. Or lots of things. You start with a few simple things--flour, water--a computer, words--and somehow it becomes something interesting and unexpected.
Or, as bread mastermind Chad Robertson puts it: "Bread to me is a mixture of flour and water that is transformed into something--through the course of fermentation--that transcends the simplicity of those basic ingredients. (And really...his bread is heaven...it's worth flying to San Francisco just to taste it.)
The other thing I love about winter? Sunday mornings with a cozy blanket, a cup of coffee, and long uninterrupted hours with a book.
I hope spring is blowing in wherever you might be. I hope you spot a bud or a flower ready to burst, that you happily unzip your hoodie and happily tie it around your waist.
Love, Sky
Wednesday, 13 February 2013
I heart San Francisco
Sometimes, I miss San Francisco.
But its the magic that I miss.
Sometimes I would run through the Marin Headlands on a sunny day after the spring rain, the hills would be so green and the ocean would just stretch on and on and I would think: this must be what heaven looks like.
Sometimes I would go down to Ocean Beach with a friend or a lover and a six pack at sunset and watch the sky turn orange while a plump harvest moon rose over the city. I would be so bowled over that I could just do that--watch the sun set over the Pacific on any old day.
Sometimes I'd see this girl hula hooping with headphones in--but she was really hooping, jamming out like no one was watching--in Washington Square Park. People really know how to hula hoop in San Francisco.
Once I walked down the street in the mission in a yellow skirt and a yellow ribbon in my hair and a man called out, "Hello yellow, I'll be your mellow fellow!" and we both burst out laughing and kept walking in our opposite directions.
On one weekend in May, you'd find adults dressed as pirates or salmon or in tutus or painted gold or downright naked at the train station and just smile and shrug.
I always had a reason to wear glitter and plop feathers in my hair.
You could just head out toward anywhere and find a totally unexpected adventure. I mean there's a dutch windmill, a field of bison, and an indoor rainforest within half a mile of one another. You can watch the Blue Angels, see Emmy Lou Harris, and then slap on your fur and party with Burners over the course of 24 hours. My friend once called it "the San Francisco playground" and that's really what it's like--a playground for adults with all these crazy characters and things to do and rides to take. When you live there it's like you and everyone around you are in on this great secret and you wink at each other and sometimes you hug a stranger because you both just. Get it.
I could go on forever like this.
One time, Dan and I went down to Ocean Beach for sunset. It was the weekend of Outside Lands--the huge music festival in Golden Gate Park. We could hear Thievery Corporation thumping behind us. And just as the sky blushed pink, humpback whales started breaching offshore. That's the kind of magic I'm talking about--where somehow Thievery Corporation, an ocean sunset, and humpback whales come out to play in your backyard. It's so beautiful it's impossible--and yet there it is.
Dan can get annoyed when he can tell I'm getting wistful--and start listing off the reasons we left--but I can't help it. I'll always miss her. Like an old friend, like a first love--she's a part of me.
We had a friend over dinner (hi Sara!) and she asked: "Should I visit San Diego or San Francisco?" and of course my answer galloped out of my mouth before she even finished the question. Could explain to her why?
There are the obvious things--the beauty. The food. The Golden Gate Bridge.
But its the magic that I miss.
Sometimes I would run through the Marin Headlands on a sunny day after the spring rain, the hills would be so green and the ocean would just stretch on and on and I would think: this must be what heaven looks like.
Sometimes I would go down to Ocean Beach with a friend or a lover and a six pack at sunset and watch the sky turn orange while a plump harvest moon rose over the city. I would be so bowled over that I could just do that--watch the sun set over the Pacific on any old day.
Sometimes I'd see this girl hula hooping with headphones in--but she was really hooping, jamming out like no one was watching--in Washington Square Park. People really know how to hula hoop in San Francisco.
Once I walked down the street in the mission in a yellow skirt and a yellow ribbon in my hair and a man called out, "Hello yellow, I'll be your mellow fellow!" and we both burst out laughing and kept walking in our opposite directions.
On one weekend in May, you'd find adults dressed as pirates or salmon or in tutus or painted gold or downright naked at the train station and just smile and shrug.
I always had a reason to wear glitter and plop feathers in my hair.
You could just head out toward anywhere and find a totally unexpected adventure. I mean there's a dutch windmill, a field of bison, and an indoor rainforest within half a mile of one another. You can watch the Blue Angels, see Emmy Lou Harris, and then slap on your fur and party with Burners over the course of 24 hours. My friend once called it "the San Francisco playground" and that's really what it's like--a playground for adults with all these crazy characters and things to do and rides to take. When you live there it's like you and everyone around you are in on this great secret and you wink at each other and sometimes you hug a stranger because you both just. Get it.
I could go on forever like this.
One time, Dan and I went down to Ocean Beach for sunset. It was the weekend of Outside Lands--the huge music festival in Golden Gate Park. We could hear Thievery Corporation thumping behind us. And just as the sky blushed pink, humpback whales started breaching offshore. That's the kind of magic I'm talking about--where somehow Thievery Corporation, an ocean sunset, and humpback whales come out to play in your backyard. It's so beautiful it's impossible--and yet there it is.
Wednesday, 6 February 2013
Anything is possible
Something seemingly impossible happened this week.
Dan and I returned home from a weekend away skiing with the family and I had this little message waiting in my inbox--saying that I won something. I've been entering all these contests lately--mostly those ones for a trip to India or whatever that you'll never ever win--it's become sort of a joke that I'm determined to win a free trip for us. So at first I thought that's what it was. But it was even better than that, friends.
I had actually won a writing competition that I almost forgot I had entered way back in October. Now here I am inclined to post about ten exclamation marks (!!!!!!!!!!!!) in order to syntactically illustrate to you how bowled over I was by the words, "Congratulations on being the Best List winner for your entry, 'The Weekend Warriors Guide to Backpacking the Canadian Rockies.'" I had to read it about 200 times before it really sunk in, and then I just walked around the house repeating, "I can't believe it. I just can't believe it."
Now, I know this not the Pulitzer or anything. But it's been a while since I felt any sense of accomplishment around writing/creative pursuits. In fact I spent much of last year feeling like maybe I would just give up.
I once read someone compare writing/creative work to marriage or a long term relationship. He said something along the lines of, we expect our writing to just fulfill us because we fell in love with it. But the writing won't give back unless we give to it--unquestioning, generous, fully. Any long term love or pursuit is not easy, it's not a given. You have wrestle with it, you have to give yourself up to it, you have make sacrifices. It's messy. And sometimes it's great, sometimes it sucks, and sometimes, when all the stars align, it's sublime.
So my writing gave me this little piece back. I stayed up late on Sunday because I couldn't sleep and of course the little buzz wouldn't last forever, so I just sat in our La-z-boy and soaked it in. I felt my 20-something year old self sitting on my shoulder whispering, You see, anything is possible.
P.S. If you want to listen to my Radio Show from the other week, you can download it here.
Dan and I returned home from a weekend away skiing with the family and I had this little message waiting in my inbox--saying that I won something. I've been entering all these contests lately--mostly those ones for a trip to India or whatever that you'll never ever win--it's become sort of a joke that I'm determined to win a free trip for us. So at first I thought that's what it was. But it was even better than that, friends.
I had actually won a writing competition that I almost forgot I had entered way back in October. Now here I am inclined to post about ten exclamation marks (!!!!!!!!!!!!) in order to syntactically illustrate to you how bowled over I was by the words, "Congratulations on being the Best List winner for your entry, 'The Weekend Warriors Guide to Backpacking the Canadian Rockies.'" I had to read it about 200 times before it really sunk in, and then I just walked around the house repeating, "I can't believe it. I just can't believe it."
Now, I know this not the Pulitzer or anything. But it's been a while since I felt any sense of accomplishment around writing/creative pursuits. In fact I spent much of last year feeling like maybe I would just give up.
I once read someone compare writing/creative work to marriage or a long term relationship. He said something along the lines of, we expect our writing to just fulfill us because we fell in love with it. But the writing won't give back unless we give to it--unquestioning, generous, fully. Any long term love or pursuit is not easy, it's not a given. You have wrestle with it, you have to give yourself up to it, you have make sacrifices. It's messy. And sometimes it's great, sometimes it sucks, and sometimes, when all the stars align, it's sublime.
So my writing gave me this little piece back. I stayed up late on Sunday because I couldn't sleep and of course the little buzz wouldn't last forever, so I just sat in our La-z-boy and soaked it in. I felt my 20-something year old self sitting on my shoulder whispering, You see, anything is possible.
P.S. If you want to listen to my Radio Show from the other week, you can download it here.
Friday, 1 February 2013
Wednesday, 30 January 2013
Bright shiny new things
It's still dark outside. Cold. I'm tucked under a cozy blanket. I've always loved the lonely way of morning. Just me and the darkness and my coffee and the blanket. Somehow this time of day seems to belong to me a little bit more than the rest.
Good morning. :)
This week I am thinking about doing new things. Things that drum up the heart. That scare us through and through.
On Sunday I hosted a two hour radio program. I spent all week preparing and got totally swept away by the project until I was lost. I literally could not tear my eyes away. Listening to music, watching videos, arranging the songs and re-arranging. I wish I felt like this more often--completely committed and immersed and just a tiny bit insane. Something to strive for, I suppose.
I found so many inspiring things. This video by M83.
M83 'Wait' Official video from The Creators Project on Vimeo.
A group called The Wonder Revolution. "More than a band, The Wonder Revolution is a collective that features musicians and visual artists, all seeking a return to wonder." I myself am concerned with wonder, so I really love this concept. (And do I adore the spazzy white-haired gnome man on the front page of their website? Yes indeed I do.)
Also, The Cinematic Orchestra put out an album called "In Motion, pt 1" that "provide[s] soundtracks to or musical re-imaginings of seminal work by great avant-garde film-makers." This is really neat. The song (top) and video for "Manhatta" below. Mute the movie and then play them together.
Sometimes (often actually) people just amaze me.
We spent Sunday skiing at Lake Louise, a mostly-sunny day in the most spectacular setting you can possibly imagine. (You guys. The mountains...)
Our friend Cindy drove us out and we talked a lot about work, who we are, and how we'd like to be. It's always refreshing to be around someone as self-reflective and honest as Cindy is.
I've learned a lot about myself this year. I realize that if there is an external deadline (like a two hour radio show I have to host) I will work my tail off to make it awesome. But if it's just me holding myself to a deadline, I will procrastinate to holy heck. It takes a while to fully accept the things we'd rather not about ourselves. But I think we must so that we can figure out ways around them. Right?
We got back and ate our weekly batch of pho (little bowl of heaven from the Vietnamese restaurant down the street) and then my calm ski-pho bliss rapidly disintegrated into a hummingbird-paced heart and a crazed bundle of nerves. I mean... what business do I have being on the radio?
I used to host a reading series in San Francisco, and about an hour before the show this always happened to me. I would turn into a crazy person. Dan would patiently help me gather up my things, complete last minute tasks, tell me I looked pretty. And on Sunday it was the same. Me jumping in and out of the shower commanding him to Turn on the computer! Hook up the printer! Print that! No not that--get out of the way--let me do it!
You're going to be fine, he said. You worked really hard on this. (It's moments like this--when you've gone out of your damn mind and your partner still loves you--that you fall in love a little bit more.)
I made it through. I spoke, I played the music. There were a few glitches, but mostly, it was pretty great.
That night I was exhausted, but I couldn't sleep. All the adrenaline still pumping through my veins.
I have learned that fear can really mean you're on to something good. But I'm still figuring out how wander in the direction of fear and wrestle with it. That's another thing I've been thinking about: how to be brave.
I'm leaving you with my very favorite song from Sunday's show. Antony and the Johnson's Swanlights. It's heartbreakingly beautiful.
"Living is a golden thing. It means everything." Is anything more true?
(Note: this is the video I could find. The track I played is from their new live album Cut the World, and I highly recommend tracking down that version if you can.)
Good morning. :)
This week I am thinking about doing new things. Things that drum up the heart. That scare us through and through.
On Sunday I hosted a two hour radio program. I spent all week preparing and got totally swept away by the project until I was lost. I literally could not tear my eyes away. Listening to music, watching videos, arranging the songs and re-arranging. I wish I felt like this more often--completely committed and immersed and just a tiny bit insane. Something to strive for, I suppose.
I found so many inspiring things. This video by M83.
M83 'Wait' Official video from The Creators Project on Vimeo.
A group called The Wonder Revolution. "More than a band, The Wonder Revolution is a collective that features musicians and visual artists, all seeking a return to wonder." I myself am concerned with wonder, so I really love this concept. (And do I adore the spazzy white-haired gnome man on the front page of their website? Yes indeed I do.)
Also, The Cinematic Orchestra put out an album called "In Motion, pt 1" that "provide[s] soundtracks to or musical re-imaginings of seminal work by great avant-garde film-makers." This is really neat. The song (top) and video for "Manhatta" below. Mute the movie and then play them together.
Sometimes (often actually) people just amaze me.
We spent Sunday skiing at Lake Louise, a mostly-sunny day in the most spectacular setting you can possibly imagine. (You guys. The mountains...)
Our friend Cindy drove us out and we talked a lot about work, who we are, and how we'd like to be. It's always refreshing to be around someone as self-reflective and honest as Cindy is.
I've learned a lot about myself this year. I realize that if there is an external deadline (like a two hour radio show I have to host) I will work my tail off to make it awesome. But if it's just me holding myself to a deadline, I will procrastinate to holy heck. It takes a while to fully accept the things we'd rather not about ourselves. But I think we must so that we can figure out ways around them. Right?
 |
| Cindy's the bomb! |
I used to host a reading series in San Francisco, and about an hour before the show this always happened to me. I would turn into a crazy person. Dan would patiently help me gather up my things, complete last minute tasks, tell me I looked pretty. And on Sunday it was the same. Me jumping in and out of the shower commanding him to Turn on the computer! Hook up the printer! Print that! No not that--get out of the way--let me do it!
 |
| I don't know why he puts up with me. |
You're going to be fine, he said. You worked really hard on this. (It's moments like this--when you've gone out of your damn mind and your partner still loves you--that you fall in love a little bit more.)
I made it through. I spoke, I played the music. There were a few glitches, but mostly, it was pretty great.
That night I was exhausted, but I couldn't sleep. All the adrenaline still pumping through my veins.
I have learned that fear can really mean you're on to something good. But I'm still figuring out how wander in the direction of fear and wrestle with it. That's another thing I've been thinking about: how to be brave.
I'm leaving you with my very favorite song from Sunday's show. Antony and the Johnson's Swanlights. It's heartbreakingly beautiful.
"Living is a golden thing. It means everything." Is anything more true?
(Note: this is the video I could find. The track I played is from their new live album Cut the World, and I highly recommend tracking down that version if you can.)
Wednesday, 16 January 2013
Of the stars
This week I'm thinking about friends.
The ones I always think about, but the ones I was really close to when I was younger and who drifted away for whatever reason. There's been this very moving coming together since Katie passed away last week. I feel like I've gotten really close to this part of my life that I don't take the time to think about all the time. It's nice to know that memories are floating around for us to pluck out of the sky when we need them.
And. Simply, I don't know what I would do without my friends.
And speaking of friends, my friend Laura Lee has this wonderful blog called A Tad Bookish, and I loved her post this week. Please read it here. It ties in with this beautiful book about work that I'm reading called Crossing the Unknown Sea by David Whyte.
After months of working in the Galapagos as a Naturalist, he's contemplating what's ahead of him and he writes,
I thought of the old Latin root of the word desire, meaning de sider, of the stars. To have a desire in life literally means to keep your star in sight, to follow a glimmer, a beacon, a disappearing will-o'-the-wisp over the horizon into someplace you cannot yet fully imagine. A deeply held desire is a star that is particularly your own; it might disappear for a while, but when the skies clear we catch sight of it again and recognize the glimmer.
A star that is particularly your own. I could dwell on that image all day.
Take care my friends. I hope that disappearing will-o-the-wisp is pulling you right along.
The ones I always think about, but the ones I was really close to when I was younger and who drifted away for whatever reason. There's been this very moving coming together since Katie passed away last week. I feel like I've gotten really close to this part of my life that I don't take the time to think about all the time. It's nice to know that memories are floating around for us to pluck out of the sky when we need them.
And. Simply, I don't know what I would do without my friends.
And speaking of friends, my friend Laura Lee has this wonderful blog called A Tad Bookish, and I loved her post this week. Please read it here. It ties in with this beautiful book about work that I'm reading called Crossing the Unknown Sea by David Whyte.
After months of working in the Galapagos as a Naturalist, he's contemplating what's ahead of him and he writes,
I thought of the old Latin root of the word desire, meaning de sider, of the stars. To have a desire in life literally means to keep your star in sight, to follow a glimmer, a beacon, a disappearing will-o'-the-wisp over the horizon into someplace you cannot yet fully imagine. A deeply held desire is a star that is particularly your own; it might disappear for a while, but when the skies clear we catch sight of it again and recognize the glimmer.
A star that is particularly your own. I could dwell on that image all day.
Take care my friends. I hope that disappearing will-o-the-wisp is pulling you right along.
Tuesday, 8 January 2013
Today.
A friend of mine died yesterday morning. She was 32 years old.
Last May, she sent out an e-mail telling us she had a rare form of liver cancer. Something that usually affects older people with a history of drinking and smoking. This woman was one of the healthiest, greatest athletes I've ever known. Sometimes life just makes no sense at all.
I happened to go out to San Francisco around the time she had a major surgery to remove her tumor, and saw her in the hospital with two other high school friends. It was so surreal sitting there in her room--she in a hospital bed and blue gown, a spectacular view of Golden Gate Park, the bridge, the blue bay--four high school friends from Minnesota there in San Francisco.
We walked around the hallway, compared notes about having Canadian husbands and talked about the future. It was the conversation I would have with any old friend I hadn't seen in a while. It was the last time I saw her.
I had a restless sleep last night. Dreams so intense they felt like being awake. When the alarm did go off, I couldn't stop thinking: I can't believe she's not waking up to the world today. I can't believe she didn't brush her teeth, snuggle up next to her husband under the covers and kiss him goodnight. How can this day look like every other day?
I'm overwhelmed by how quickly things can change. I keep thinking about the things we don't know about our future. And that all we can do is hold who and what we care about as close as we can and just love and love and love.
The other day, I stumbled onto this moving video of an interview between Terry Gross and Maurice Sendak. He says,
"I am in love with the world...
It is a blessing to read the books and listen to the music...
Live your life, live your life, live your life."
It made me realize that I too am hopelessly, shamelessly in love with the world. It confuses me and astounds me--is it so unfair and random and beautiful--it inspires me, disappoints me, makes me sad and blissed out and angry and it fills me to the brim with wonder.
My dear friends, I want to say with all my heart- thank you for reading my little blog. I can't tell you how much it means to me. Let's go read the books and listen to the music.
-------------------------------------
P.S. This is a title I'm trying out. What do you think? This is a temporary re-design. I hope it will be prettier some day.
Last May, she sent out an e-mail telling us she had a rare form of liver cancer. Something that usually affects older people with a history of drinking and smoking. This woman was one of the healthiest, greatest athletes I've ever known. Sometimes life just makes no sense at all.
I happened to go out to San Francisco around the time she had a major surgery to remove her tumor, and saw her in the hospital with two other high school friends. It was so surreal sitting there in her room--she in a hospital bed and blue gown, a spectacular view of Golden Gate Park, the bridge, the blue bay--four high school friends from Minnesota there in San Francisco.
We walked around the hallway, compared notes about having Canadian husbands and talked about the future. It was the conversation I would have with any old friend I hadn't seen in a while. It was the last time I saw her.
I had a restless sleep last night. Dreams so intense they felt like being awake. When the alarm did go off, I couldn't stop thinking: I can't believe she's not waking up to the world today. I can't believe she didn't brush her teeth, snuggle up next to her husband under the covers and kiss him goodnight. How can this day look like every other day?
I'm overwhelmed by how quickly things can change. I keep thinking about the things we don't know about our future. And that all we can do is hold who and what we care about as close as we can and just love and love and love.
The other day, I stumbled onto this moving video of an interview between Terry Gross and Maurice Sendak. He says,
"I am in love with the world...
It is a blessing to read the books and listen to the music...
Live your life, live your life, live your life."
It made me realize that I too am hopelessly, shamelessly in love with the world. It confuses me and astounds me--is it so unfair and random and beautiful--it inspires me, disappoints me, makes me sad and blissed out and angry and it fills me to the brim with wonder.
My dear friends, I want to say with all my heart- thank you for reading my little blog. I can't tell you how much it means to me. Let's go read the books and listen to the music.
-------------------------------------
P.S. This is a title I'm trying out. What do you think? This is a temporary re-design. I hope it will be prettier some day.
Thursday, 3 January 2013
Work and dreams and everything in between.
 |
| Christmas + Bear Hats! |
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| and sparkly tights- Hooray! |
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| Road to the mountains |
I made Dan a photobook for Christmas this year. There, over 50 pages, were all of our photographs 2012. One year of memories.
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| Playing with new Christmas toys! |
I find it so easy to get bogged down in mourning what I don't have--girlfriends nearby, a job, enough money to travel wherever whenever I want to. (As our friend Matt used to say: white people problems.) That little book was just what I needed to remember everything we do have, and everything we have done.
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| Dan polished off Where'd You Go Berndaette?A great book! |
"What was your favorite thing we did this year?" I asked Dan.
"The cottage at Georgian Bay with Nate, Dana and Brad," he said. "Or the dance party to Fun. at Laura Lee and Robbie's house." He paused. "Florida was pretty awesome."
Neither of us could settle on one.
 |
| Couldn't resist this shot of my new Cookie Monster mittens frolicking on the antler coat hangers. |
We rented this little cabin in the middle of nowhere B.C. for New Year's (really! We had to snowshoe to and from our car). It was the kind of place where you really can't do anything so you do all the nothings you crave to do. Like read by the fire for hours and hours with a hot drink in your hand.
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| This picture pretty much encapsulates the weekend. |
I read Just Kids by Patti Smith. It gave me a lot of food for thought about being an artist. She writes, "I would go as far as I could and hit a wall, my own imagined limitations. And then I met a fellow who gave me his secret, and it was pretty simple. When you hit a wall, just kick it in."
I learned a lot about sacrifice and commitment, and how important it is to have someone believe in you before you believe in yourself. Patti and Robert Mapplethorpe nearly starve at points. They live in dilapidated spaces, ones with no bathrooms. Robert keeps telling Patti she should sing. Patti keeps telling Robert he should take his own pictures.
There's this scene where Patti is consoling Janis Joplin after a guy goes home with a pretty girl over Janis and Janis sobs and sobs to Patti. I thought- by god. Janis Joplin was just a girl too. Sometimes it's easy to forget.
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| Dan chopping wood outside our sweet cabin. |
There was a moment not so long ago that I was kind of ready to give up on writing. It just seemed too hard, maybe even impossible. It seemed like I would always be only-ok at it.
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| I nearly froze my hands off to capture this Dr. Suessian tree. |
I found an old journal a friend made me. It's filled with pictures of our adventures and lyrics to songs like "Into the Mystic" and "Visions of Johanna." Colorful pictures of our mid-twenties blissfully misbehaving--about the ages of Patti and Janis when Janis cried on Patti's shoulder. I never quite filled it up because I always wanted whatever I wrote in there to be perfect. To somehow match up with the words of Van Morrison and Bob Dylan. But I'm learning more and more that we have to make a lot of messes before we make what we actually intend to make.
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| Ah, glorious Fernie! |
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| Dan is a master dishwasher when there's no running water around. |
That book is one of the greatest gifts I have ever gotten. So is my little journal. So the man who puts up with my mood swings, my despair, my excitement, my frustration, my fleeting highs, and for who-knows-what-reason sticks with me through it all.
Sometimes I have to stop--take stock--turn it it all over in my hands and pull it in close.
 |
| Cabin decor. |
I'm not sure how it was for other people--but in my twenties, my dreams felt like these big beautiful things that someday I'd just bounce around in, like a cloud playground in the sky. It has taken me some years to learn that dreams live right here with us on earth, and to live them is just plain old hard back-heart-breaking work. (I'm an easy dreamer, and a slow learner.)
So I am leaving grandiose dreams behind. My goal this year is only to not give up. And maybe--to kick a wall in.
Monday, 17 December 2012
Christmas & Magic
Well it's frozen and cold in Canada, Friends.
I chased temperate climates for most of my twenties (save that one year in Boston.) But because I grew up in Minnesota, winter is familiar--like an old friend. I recognize its icy kiss, the way the air scrapes at your throat, the gust of heat when you walk through the door, and the way it's almost impossible to get out of a hot shower, or worse--out of bed in the morning. I pretty much want to live under a soft blanket. You come to savor warmth in a kind of spiritual way.
Winter's ok with me around the holidays. There are lights sparkling on the tree, and the house smells like evergreen and gingerbread, I splurge on a weekly hot apple cider, and I even love to hate the constant drone of Christmas Carols in every store.
My family loved tall fat trees--the biggest one we could possibly fit in the designated nook. It was such an event! getting the tree. Hauling the decorations out of the attic, blasting The Nutcracker on the stereo while we decorated, Dad getting out the step ladder so that we could reach the high branches, squabbling over which ornaments we got to hang.
As the days went by, we'd inspect the presents every morning, counting the packages with our names on them. Oh the mystery and wonder those wrapped packages held!
We helped Mom bake hundred of Gingersnaps--the secret family recipe, she'd always remind us.
We'd roll the batter into tiny balls then send them swimming in a sea of sugar.
Yes indeed, I was a glutton for gingersnaps.
Christmas was full of magic. Real beguiling magic that nearly made my little heart burst every Christmas morning, as I opened my bedroom door and found that first little present sitting in the doorway. My brother, sister and I convened in one of our rooms to inspect these first gifts from Santa while we waited for 7 AM when we were allowed to wake up Mom and Dad, and then ran full throttle for their door and jumped all over their bed and cried, "It's Christmas! It's Christmas!" before tearing into the stockings.
Then Dad would make us wait at the top of the stairs while he got the video camera and set the coffee brewing. "Dad!" we'd cry. "Huuuuurrryyyyy!!" Oh the sweet agony of that wait at the top of the stairs, heart a-fluttering.
Dad would walk over in his robe, eye peering through the video camera lens taunting us, "Did he come? Do you think he came, Kids?"
Then we'd practically tumble over each other as we ran down the stairs and beheld the mountain of gifts. "He came!" we squealed, "He came!"
Although Christmas traditions came and went, that morning was always the same. It was always just us, just ours--and yet everyone's.
I often long for that magic feeling that intoxicated us on Christmas. Oh, I've found it in adulthood. On other continents, in random wanderings with friends, in the desert, in music, it showed up at our wedding, and it lives wild places. It's not something you can hold onto, so you just have lay back and let it fall over you while it lasts.
I hope there are flurries of magic wherever you are.
Happy New Year
Love, Sky
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| The Bow River |
Winter's ok with me around the holidays. There are lights sparkling on the tree, and the house smells like evergreen and gingerbread, I splurge on a weekly hot apple cider, and I even love to hate the constant drone of Christmas Carols in every store.
My family loved tall fat trees--the biggest one we could possibly fit in the designated nook. It was such an event! getting the tree. Hauling the decorations out of the attic, blasting The Nutcracker on the stereo while we decorated, Dad getting out the step ladder so that we could reach the high branches, squabbling over which ornaments we got to hang.
As the days went by, we'd inspect the presents every morning, counting the packages with our names on them. Oh the mystery and wonder those wrapped packages held!
We helped Mom bake hundred of Gingersnaps--the secret family recipe, she'd always remind us.
We'd roll the batter into tiny balls then send them swimming in a sea of sugar.
Yes indeed, I was a glutton for gingersnaps.
Christmas was full of magic. Real beguiling magic that nearly made my little heart burst every Christmas morning, as I opened my bedroom door and found that first little present sitting in the doorway. My brother, sister and I convened in one of our rooms to inspect these first gifts from Santa while we waited for 7 AM when we were allowed to wake up Mom and Dad, and then ran full throttle for their door and jumped all over their bed and cried, "It's Christmas! It's Christmas!" before tearing into the stockings.
Then Dad would make us wait at the top of the stairs while he got the video camera and set the coffee brewing. "Dad!" we'd cry. "Huuuuurrryyyyy!!" Oh the sweet agony of that wait at the top of the stairs, heart a-fluttering.
Dad would walk over in his robe, eye peering through the video camera lens taunting us, "Did he come? Do you think he came, Kids?"
Then we'd practically tumble over each other as we ran down the stairs and beheld the mountain of gifts. "He came!" we squealed, "He came!"
Although Christmas traditions came and went, that morning was always the same. It was always just us, just ours--and yet everyone's.
I often long for that magic feeling that intoxicated us on Christmas. Oh, I've found it in adulthood. On other continents, in random wanderings with friends, in the desert, in music, it showed up at our wedding, and it lives wild places. It's not something you can hold onto, so you just have lay back and let it fall over you while it lasts.
I hope there are flurries of magic wherever you are.
Happy New Year
Love, Sky
Tuesday, 4 December 2012
Thanksgiving. And time.
Well, dear friends, I am back from Florida.
And not just because I was turning in beaches and sun and sand and sunsets for freezing temperatures and snow.
I had to say goodbye to these sweet faces too.
I'm getting sentimental in my old age. Thanksgiving makes me all gooey with nostalgia.
The boat ride we've made a thousand times.
My brother still making the Christmas Card photo session impossible.
Mom, yet again, cooking the perfect bird.
I don't mean to brag, but we had the best Thanksgiving ever. Every year, we eat with old family friends, the Spencers, and this year, we added another family we've known forever and ever, the Bassetts. I'm doubly lucky because the eldest Bassett Peter married my cousin/best friend Meghan, and they brought their four-month old son, Gunnar.
I couldn't stop thinking: aren't we the luckiest?
The tradition was in full effect, with Ed's fine wines flowing in abundance.
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And each of us writing what we're thankful for on a colored feather to add to the turkey.
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| Construction paper turkey with our Thanksgiving musings pictured here. |
Plus, we had Gunnar. The cutest baby of all time.
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| Doesn't this face just melt your heart? |
There was a sing along to The Circle of Life. And then, dancing...
Also, this happened.
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| Surfin' USA was playing! |
In Florida, we're all within walking distance. People would pop by for a glass of wine, a walk, a chat. You know those times when you are acutely aware of how happy you are? Doing something that's nothing--like playing bocce or Smashball or just sitting around after the sun's gone down--that's really everything?
Or eating ice cream.
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| Maddy's blissful anticipation of this bite just makes me smile. |
I've been thinking a lot about time.
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| Bingo is one of Boca Grande's hottest nightlife activities. |
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| Look at Pat's concentration. So heavy he can barely sit up. |
About how even though our parents still refer to us as "the kids," we're really not anymore.
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| Dancing to the Boca Bande: my dad's favorite Thanksgiving tradition. |
It's crazy how the years add up.
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| Please note hippie right behind me and Dan. |
Dan and I had dinner with another couple on Friday and we talked about this--time, that is. She said when we're kids we're anticipating growing up, and so time stretches out and feels so long, like we'll never get there. Once we're grown, we ache for it to slow down, to remain where we are, and thus, it feels too fast.
He said that if all our days are the same, time races by. If we do things--adventures big or small--if something major happens--a big move, a life event--time slows down.
Indeed, Dan asked me if I felt like this year had gone fast. I told him no. Last Christmas seems ages ago. This year was full of new things--a new landscape, new adventures... a new life.
Sometimes I wish there was a sunset that lasted forever. Where we would sit on our beach chairs, with a glass of my dad's cheap chardonnay and listen to him tell us it was most definitely a green flash kind of night, and watch as the sun just hovered there, the earth refusing to turn.
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