i have inadvertently created a new winter ritual: a pause to notice and enjoy the setting sun. it feels like an anchor of light, a reminder that the days really are growing longer and longer.

yesterday, or maybe the day before, i was outside as twilight tiptoed out and nightfall tiptoed in. as i followed the light from west to east, the color of the sky shifted from royal blue to deep indigo to midnight blue.

then, as i was going through photos of my beloved lake, i noticed these two images. they reminded me how the light (how everything) changes from moment to moment, even when the changes are subtle.

“Said the river: I am part of holiness. And I too, said the stone. And I too, whispered the moss beneath the water.”

~ Mary Oliver

atlas says:

“i have been waiting and waiting and waiting. if you won’t come out of the snow, i will come in after you, but i will not like it.”

“arrrrrrrrrrrrrooooooooooooooo! the snow is too deep and i am too tired. i am done with this nonsense.”

“i am king of the world!”

“i seem to have turned myself sideways. this hill is more confusing than i thought. i think i will be done now.”

“hey there. i have been waiting and waiting and waiting so i’m just checking up on you.”

“good. you’re still there. you will have to get out on your own. i am going away now.”

(yes, atlas is still alive and well. it’s been so cold lately that he is in full-on hibernation mode. as he told you already, he is very sensible.)

{this adventure comes to you by way of a blue jay named fred.}

today, i tried to land on a cloud.

my mother told me about clouds, but the world is so white and i was flying so fast that i really thought the cloud was a snowbank.

fortunately, i caught myself as i tumbled through the white mist.

right now, i am sitting in a lilac bush. i am going to have a snack and collect myself before i go home and tell my mother about my adventure.

(as i was tumbling through the cloud, i found myself wishing that i was tumbling down a snowbank. doesn’t that sound fun? let’s try it sometime.)

your friend, fred

won’t you come along on my favorite snowshoe hike? it’s not far away; it’s a little ways down the road.

i keep trying to find the right words to describe its enchantment and magic, and i keep coming up short, so i think i will just let my pictures speak for me.

whenever i go snowshoeing, i get a song from a children’s christmas book stuck in my head: “snowshoe rabbits in the snow, off to grandma’s house we go”. (it snows on christmas eve so the little rabbits use snowshoes to get to their grandma’s house for christmas.)

the other day, on a snowshoe hike with my dad, i learned that there are indeed snowshoe rabbits! apparently you can recognize their tracks because their long hind legs fall in front of their short front legs when they land.

the last time i was on this particular trail, it was covered with snow and what seemed like a hundred million rabbit tracks.

today, i went for a walk in the sunshine, to find wonder and magic with my camera.

instead, i got caught up in my thoughts. probably because i wanted to walk down the long and winding road, and atlas wanted to walk around the neighborhood.

atlas won.

while i was walking along, lost in thought, a flock of birds flew overhead.

the sight of their white breasts against the blue sky jolted me out of my head and into the present moment. they landed on a power line nearby, so i stood still and waited, hoping they’d fly away – in my direction – and i’d have a chance to capture the image of white on blue with my camera.

while i waited, one of the birds turned sideways, and i realized it was a blue jay.

i love blue birds, including blue jays. they remind me of happiness. there was a pair of blue birds and a pair of stellar jays that visited me daily in oregon. i’ve been calling them in here. it took a while, but the other day, a blue jay visited my parents’ bird feeder.

well, they were all blue jays.

10 of them, to be exact.

(i know it looks like there are 9 birds in the picture, but the fifth bird is actually two birds, one in front of the other.)

i was filled with wonder.

it reminded me that sometimes, we need someone (or something).

to take us out of our head and into the moment.

to point us toward wonder and magic.

i want to point you toward wonder and magic.

won’t you join me for hope floats in winter?

let’s find the wonder + blessing + magic in the coldest and darkest of seasons.

a threshold. a secret door. a swiftly tilting planet.

welcome to 2014!

may the new year bring you joy, pleasure, deep connection, a feeling of being held & supported, and a sense of your incredible being-ness.

in other news.

these photos were taken two days apart: december 30th and today.

i just can’t get over all the white.

i think we are on track for a record snowfall. there are snowbanks that are higher than my head. two days ago, there was probably a foot of snow on the ground by morning. i shoveled for my dad yesterday and it took me two hours.

you can tell that i am not jaded.

my two hours of shoveling felt like thirty minutes.

my dad and brothers did all the shoveling when i was growing up, and my dad still does all the shoveling. when i get the chance to shovel myself, it is a privilege and a pleasure and not a chore. (atlas watches me out the window and i wave at him every time i look in his direction. on zero degree days, he has no interest in joining me outdoors.) also, i find it very gratifying. i love straight lines and order and neatness.

what is your winter like?

i’d love to hear.

on the solstice, my sister, atlas, and i went to the lake.

the last time i was there – this fall – i walked down the stairs, walked a few feet over the sand and jewel-colored lake superior rocks, and found the waves lapping at the water’s edge.

now, after weeks of cold and snow, everything has changed.

the colors are different.

everything is white and grey-blue and black and grey.

the landscape is different too.

huge waves of ice and snow have built up, transforming the beach and the lake into an icy wintry playground.

we walked to the edge and looked down at a ledge of icicles that cascaded into the water below.

of course, atlas walked to the edge too.

i wish i could say that i was the sort of person who trusted her puppy and watched him calmly and serenely.

alas, i am not.

i sounded more like this: “oh! oh! oh! watch out! don’t fall in the water! stay back! oh! oh!”

(i am pretty sure that if atlas ever does fall into the lake, it will be because i startle him, not because he slips.)

it’s been a long time since i saw this side of the lake i love so very much.

she might look icy and cold, and she might crackle and sting and bite, but there is an exhilarating loving warmth to her just the same.

(i suspect the same can be said for all of us.)

all of it – the company and the colors and the landscape – made for a perfect way to celebrate the return of the light.

p.s. if you love the wild places, or if you want to experience winter through a lens of beauty + magic + wonder, join me in january as i find the beauty in the cold and the dark and the snow.

happy christmas, if you celebrate.

merry wednesday, if you don’t.

either way, here is a dose of merriment from atlas and me. we hope that you enjoy it.

“It is the life of the crystal, the architect of the flake, the fire of the frost, the soul of the sunbeam. This crisp winter air is full of it.”

~ John Burroughs, Winter Sunshine

{i don’t know who john burroughs is, but i need to read his book because it seems to be full of the most marvelous thoughts about winter.}

{this photo comes to you courtesy of an old truck, sunshine, and snowflakes. i am so loving finding the magic in winter.}