It was -12 degrees F this morning. My car did not want to start. My dog was shivering so badly she could hardly stand. My winter jacket, which was fully dry, somehow managed to freeze on the two-minute walk to get the paper at the end of the driveway.
I was just starting to enjoy winter...the flocked evergreen trees, the sparkly walkways, the icy maple tree branches, deep breaths of clean fresh cold air...and this morning, I could hardly breathe in because it actually hurt. My eyelashes froze.
I want to snap my fingers and have it be springtime. Or at least +20 degrees F. But this will help me appreciate the spring rains so much more, I suppose. And hot tea.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Peace and Quiet
I had an entirely different experience snowshoeing today than yesterday.
It was overcast and the trails were empty, no dog by my side. Just me and the snow weighing heavily on the tree branches. I reached a part of the trail where the branches were bent down, enclosing the trail at the top while the packed snow insulated the bottom. A lone raven called just once over my head, and a thin ribbon of icy water trickled below the trail. The whole scene was very cozy and intimate. I felt more at peace in that moment than just about any other moment I can remember, and for that I am grateful.
It was overcast and the trails were empty, no dog by my side. Just me and the snow weighing heavily on the tree branches. I reached a part of the trail where the branches were bent down, enclosing the trail at the top while the packed snow insulated the bottom. A lone raven called just once over my head, and a thin ribbon of icy water trickled below the trail. The whole scene was very cozy and intimate. I felt more at peace in that moment than just about any other moment I can remember, and for that I am grateful.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Being Alone vs. Not Fitting In
I love snowshoeing with just my dog. It is so peaceful being able to enjoy the woods, the snowflakes falling like glittering confetti through the trees, sun reflecting off the whitened fields, fresh icy air in the lungs with a peppy dog by your side.
I love pulling on each leg of my patched up old Carhartt pants over my long johns and wool socks, wrestling into layers of breathable clothing like polypro and wool sweaters, wrapping my 10-ft. long homemade scarf around my neck three full times and donning the huge movie star sunglasses. I walk through the woods, fully enjoying my life here and taking in the scenery.
And then, two cross country skiiers enter my path. I say hello and smile, put my exuberant dog on a leash and allow them to pass first. They mutter a greeting through tight lips and upturned noses, and I notice how all their clothes are coordinated, sleek, name brand and likely very expensive. To them, I probably look like I'm homeless and living near the compost piles on the property.
I have asked this on a number of occasions, but I still do not understand: when did it become more important to look outdoorsy than to just get out and enjoy? Why the stigma placed on people who cannot or will not buy the expensive clothing when good enough is just fine?
It was a reminder that, regardless of age, the old cliques from the school yard never really go away. The cool kids always think they're cool, and the dorks will always feel, well, dorky. We nerds often spend time alone, free from judgement of the cool kids, and I would argue that might allow us to connect on a deeper level with nature around us.
Regardless, I still enjoy New England wintertime fun, but the empty trails seem to call me more than the well-trodden ones.
I love pulling on each leg of my patched up old Carhartt pants over my long johns and wool socks, wrestling into layers of breathable clothing like polypro and wool sweaters, wrapping my 10-ft. long homemade scarf around my neck three full times and donning the huge movie star sunglasses. I walk through the woods, fully enjoying my life here and taking in the scenery.
And then, two cross country skiiers enter my path. I say hello and smile, put my exuberant dog on a leash and allow them to pass first. They mutter a greeting through tight lips and upturned noses, and I notice how all their clothes are coordinated, sleek, name brand and likely very expensive. To them, I probably look like I'm homeless and living near the compost piles on the property.
I have asked this on a number of occasions, but I still do not understand: when did it become more important to look outdoorsy than to just get out and enjoy? Why the stigma placed on people who cannot or will not buy the expensive clothing when good enough is just fine?
It was a reminder that, regardless of age, the old cliques from the school yard never really go away. The cool kids always think they're cool, and the dorks will always feel, well, dorky. We nerds often spend time alone, free from judgement of the cool kids, and I would argue that might allow us to connect on a deeper level with nature around us.
Regardless, I still enjoy New England wintertime fun, but the empty trails seem to call me more than the well-trodden ones.
Friday, January 9, 2009
of banjos and buddies
I was playing banjo last night, or rather, plunking away and trying desperately to transition between D7 and C on the fretboard while my dog huddled in the corner, when I started thinking.
I remembered back at Penn State when I would ride in the middle of the seats of my friend Brian's restored Model A, with him in the driver's seat, his friend Dave in the passenger's seat, and me in between waving to people on College Ave. One day in particular, it was a gorgeous fall afternoon and Brian called me up for a drive. The three of us drove up into the nearby mountains, worn down over the years by wind, weather, human activities.
We drove on a gravel backroad, winding our way through the orange, crimson and honey colored leaves, enjoying the smells of autumn in the Appalachian Mountains. Each road switchback would cause us to spin the tires a bit, swerving in response to the spray of rocks and dirt. On the straightaways, Brian hit the gas and we were speeding along at a hasty 35 mph with the top down on a gorgeous boxy old vehicle. Every now and then he hit the "Aoooga" horn for my pleasure.
We ended up at Dave's log cabin in the hills about 45 minutes away from Penn State, near Juniata. Dave had assembled his friends for a modest bluegrass jam. There we sat in his completely awesome log cabin kitchen, him playing the banjo, his friends playing fiddle, harmonica, acoustic guitar, Brian played the spoons on his knee, and I sat there with a huge grin on my face, loving the music they were creating in this space. It's hard to think of a time when I was more present than that, absolutely soaking up every second of the moment.
I remembered back at Penn State when I would ride in the middle of the seats of my friend Brian's restored Model A, with him in the driver's seat, his friend Dave in the passenger's seat, and me in between waving to people on College Ave. One day in particular, it was a gorgeous fall afternoon and Brian called me up for a drive. The three of us drove up into the nearby mountains, worn down over the years by wind, weather, human activities.
We drove on a gravel backroad, winding our way through the orange, crimson and honey colored leaves, enjoying the smells of autumn in the Appalachian Mountains. Each road switchback would cause us to spin the tires a bit, swerving in response to the spray of rocks and dirt. On the straightaways, Brian hit the gas and we were speeding along at a hasty 35 mph with the top down on a gorgeous boxy old vehicle. Every now and then he hit the "Aoooga" horn for my pleasure.
We ended up at Dave's log cabin in the hills about 45 minutes away from Penn State, near Juniata. Dave had assembled his friends for a modest bluegrass jam. There we sat in his completely awesome log cabin kitchen, him playing the banjo, his friends playing fiddle, harmonica, acoustic guitar, Brian played the spoons on his knee, and I sat there with a huge grin on my face, loving the music they were creating in this space. It's hard to think of a time when I was more present than that, absolutely soaking up every second of the moment.
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