july 15

no one has been here since
the last rain, the sand dimpled below

the paths of stormclouds.  This heat
feels different, like a breath

that lays against you, steals your air.
the killdeer nest is empty

even the eggshells are gone and the evening
feels new and brightly cracked.

again and again you submerge
in the goldgreen light of the river, opening

your eyes to smooth stone,
to the hazy cold

that is always here
at the edge of the world.

july 14

morning sun through waterstained windows
while the coffee brews, midsummer

slowly stretches through the house, the garden
lazily weeded, the plans for the day unwritten.

waiting in uncertainty is what I do
when I wait for you, the grass morningwet

nearly to my knees, the sky still undecided.
the robins have finished with their nest

so I can finally take it down
and paint the shed they built on.

the first day

For the first time in months, ice turned to water

and the sun made heat instead of just shadows.

For the first time the day felt like it was not
entirely winter, but beginning the soft caving in

that begins something else.  A V of geese, low and perfect
over the roof are lit differently today; the slant of sun

lighting the precision of their wings
softens suddenly and without fanfare.

I have an unexpected day to myself, a chair
near the woodstove, a cleared table to work at.

I'm still being realistic.  The frost still blurs to opaque
the mudroom windows.  The sparrows still crowd

the branches of trees like dark commas.  We are still
at winter's heart.

But the shift has happened, a collection of light
between trees one minute sooner, then another;

the shell has cracked and
there's no putting it back
together.

Lyme

Just days past solstice and the hours stretch
like strung wires across another sky rippled blue

her fever's been gone for days and still
it is your fear that snaps you from bed

each morning.  You run on wide dirt roads
because the snakes are out 

and you need to see

where your feet fall.  Just yesterday 
 you passed a small one, the diamonds
along its back just coming into focus.

You run farther and faster than you ever have-
antelopes freeze on hilltops and you
are the only moving thing for miles.

When she wakes you'll hold her and ask
all the same questions, how do you feel

how do you feel?  The olive tree blooms
and fills the air with thick honey, wet

black calves are licked clean by their mothers,
the river runs lower than it should.

It's June and unbelieveably lovely and
what you feel is the bright stone of fear

between your lungs.  This disease doesn't
exist where you live, each question turns back

on itself.  You watch her sleep away
the middle of each blue day, imagining
the fight happening in her small pale body.

You wait each hour out and try to trust
the medicine, trust her same freckled smile.

Her sister finds a swallow's nest, reads
paperbacks on the porch, dreams

of mountain lions walking
right up to the house.

beginning again, a rough draft

It seems it shouldn't feel so hard, this sitting down

for a minute to type a few words, or

knowing where to begin, choosing between

describing the small puffed clouds of her sleeves,

the campfire ash and marshmallow 

contentment of her face,

or the way her older sister's bare feet

curled around the warm belly of her pony,

sideways spring sunlight holding her.

Knowing where to start 

is where I falter.

But the light this morning is perfect, fat robins

perched on every fencepost, the invisible trill

of sandhill cranes overhead.  We work ourselves into

a rhythm even when we feel the most scattered.

Mike has eased into spring work, spending seven days

a week in the fields, with a kind of grace I could never have.

But I've learned to blend most of the farmchores into my days

driving the old blue truck out, followed by a trail of hungry mama cows,

setting the stick shift to the slowest gear, holding the steering wheel

at a straight course, then jumping from the cab to climb

aboard the moving trailer, to balance while we roll across the field,

forking hay to my hungry friends.  I'm becoming more graceful

with this whole process, and it feels something like a parade,

my pose altogether different than a beauty queen waving

from a convertible.  My legs wide for balance, pitchfork wielding 

last year's grass, baler twine hanging from my back pocket,

my mind and body in the same place at the same time,

and maybe starting again 

isn't so hard after all.

getting there

We leave later than planned, last minute

stop at the gas station, grocery store, 

water bottles filled, almonds and candycorn 

clutched in fists.

Facing north we start to sing - we know 

a few Halloween songs, 

wagon wheel, the circle game.

Our valley unfolds like a rumpled

bedsheet, the last stands of bright aspen,

cottonwood vibrate gold against the muted brown

of October farmland.  We follow the river north.

The wind

becomes a force like the highway itself- 

pushing back

as we move through it.

Bruised sky and sudden dash of rain 

against the windshield, the car quiets as the girls pull on 

headphones, drift off through time and space 

in a magic treehouse.

Near Deer Lodge the sky clears again,

sideways light of late afternoon turns semis

into magical beasts, each falling leaf caught

in the draft of traffic into pirates' gold.

I've been traveling these highways

all my life, they are familiar paths

to the places I love.  I have a story for 

every small town along they way; I know 

that my grandmother would order 

the grilled cheese at Trixie's Saloon

in Ovando,  I know the fishing access where my 7th grade

class stopped for lunch on a field trip,

my wonderful teacher reading us poetry as we sat beside

the Little Blackfoot.  I know the empty, rolling stretch

of highway where, at thirteen, my stepdad pulled over

and told me to switch seats with him so I could learn

to drive.

And I know the destination.  A place 

stitched into my soul- the smell

of glacial silt and lakewater, the mix

of mist and larch needles, and in October

the sound of geese

moving on.

a million things to be: portraits 5/52

"Well, if you want to sing out, sing out
And if you want to be free, be free
'Cause there's a million things to be
You know that there are..."

If you lived here, there are things you would know

You'd know that when the February air

gets cold enough, much

much colder than zero, a wide halo

of crystals forms around the sun

glistening like a muted rainbow.  The sky, too

pales on the coldest days, thins

out into a breakable boneblue.

The buses don't run, fuel thickens

in the lines, but the secretary calls each

family to assure us that the school day

will proceed.  You'd know the morning voices

of the married couple who own the local AM

radio station.  Her laughing voice tries 

to steer him from politics, and she never forgets

a celebrity's birthday.  If you lived here

you'd know that the sound of a line of cattle

shuffling across a frozen white field 

is like the sound of running water,

a warm sound that makes you stop

in momentary confusion.




You'd know the clipped sound of  axe blade
splitting a log of lodgepole,

the precise heft of a perfect
downward swing as you fill

the woodbox.  Or the fitting of burls
and knots together

like puzzle pieces in the body of the stove
to make it burn tight and hot.  You'd fight

frozen water lines only to a point

because by now you know that sometimes

it is just too goddamn cold to thaw.

On your morning commute, you'd watch

through your cracked windshield, 

the etched ridgeline of the Pioneer Mountains 

grow rosy with morning and know that,

for a moment,

you are peeking into some other 

wild and desolate world.

a week in the desert - portraits 4/52

They love having bare legs in January.

                           *                                              *                                             *
And climbing trees in parking lots.  Always.

outtakes, portraits 3/52

Sometimes the outtakes tell the story best.

looking for runaway horses: portraits 2/52

* * *

new year: portraits 1/52

Once in awhile I get lucky behind my camera, and I take a picture of one of my girls that really captures some part of who she is.  I'm planning to post weekly portraits of each of them here.  

Fearless sledder.

Skeptical sledder.

Sorting cows on Christmas

Later, after the sky has changed

from silver 

with a rim of pink

lacing the Ruby Mountains

to a pale airy blue,

we shuffle from pajamas

into jeans and carhartts

and leave the warmth 

of the wood stove for the cold

bluegold of the day.  We sort

the three oldest calves 

into a new pen, leave them

with a bit of grain to ease

the transition.  They watch us

from behind long frosted lashes,

as we leave them 

to their new home.

For me, the day that follows

Christmas morning has never looked

quite like this.  As a child

my family went skiing after presents,

or my sister and i began to pack

for our cross-country flight

the next morning to visit our dad.

I still feel somewhat unaccustomed to

the life of a farmer, the serious

need of the animals waiting for you.

The responsibility of taking 

good care.  I am even less prepared

for my own willingness to trade in

my perceptions of what a perfect holiday

should look like, to walk through cold

sunny fields to do the work of a rancher

on Christmas.  But I am willing, and I 

continue to be surprised by my ability

to stretch 

and become someone

I never knew I could be. 

This  year I was very aware

of the fluidity of tradition.  

Most of our Christmas storage bins

stayed unopened in the basement.

Instead, simplicity.  Fewer decorations,

few gifts, less stuff.  More time

and space for the meaningful

bits of our days, the elemental.

Wood for warmth, candles for light,

meals grown and raised

entirely on our own land.

And I keep waiting for the let down,

the post-holiday low after 

so much anticipation.

But I'm starting to realize

it's not coming this year.

That I am ready to move forward

into the new year, into the heart 

of winter, with a new kind of trust

in the rightness of my days.

the pictures I didn't take

It snowed last night.  Even when you know

to expect it, there is something so surprising

about waking up in a world that looks so different

than the one you fell asleep in.

My parents have both asked me in the last few days;

have you been writing about all of this?

And I haven't.

I've put together phrases in my head

and I've thought a lot about writing

as my imagined version of the next year

shifts and remakes itself.

I haven't taken pictures either, though

I have all these images in mind

of pictures I didn't take 

over the last eight weeks.

The image of myself

standing at the bathroom sink

holding the test and breathing

out one quiet expletive 

as I watched the tiny screen change.

Or the list of names

held to the refrigerator with a magnet, 

written in Amelia's neat

handwriting.  The soft fleece

of a tiny sweater that I'd packed away

years ago.  Smiling and 

thinking how I hadn't planned

to need it again.

Or sitting in the the waiting room,

knowing before anyone else did

that something wasn't right, 

that the tiny ocean I carried inside

was a much quieter place

than it should have been.

Or the way my body refused

to loosen its grip, and the strange

days of waiting for an ending.

I am raking leaves and waiting to miscarry.

I am splitting firewood and waiting to miscarry.

I am lying awake in bed waiting to miscarry.

Then finally the surgery,

the sweet nurses who said they were sorry,

the white round lights of the operating room,

the bits of memory wiped clean with anesthesia,

that slowly resurfaced

hours or days later.

Or thinking it was all finally over

the moment my dr. called to tell me

there could be dangerous cells

that were left behind, there will be 

testing and more testing 

ahead.

How do you feel?

Really, the simplest words are best.

Sad.

Mad.

I don't know.

I'm reminding myself that now is not the time

for grand decisions

but all I want is for something to change,

it feels like not enough

to simply pick up

where my life left off

in October.

I have the utmost faith in time.

I know I will feel differently in a week,

or a month.  But I'm trying to tell myself

that's it's okay to not let this go yet.

As my friend, Sarah, wrote me, I need 

"to sit and feel what I'm feeling - let it

weave and wave its way out."

The snow is still falling,

a bit lighter now.

Just this, stopping to put it all

into words

was what I needed.

To give these weeks the weight they deserve,

to hold them until 

they are not so heavy

and I can carry them

with something like grace.

right now

I'm doing something very ordinary, but it feels so adventurous.  I am sitting in an airport lounge, drinking an IPA, writing on my little laptop like a real grown up.  It's just beginning to get dark outside the huge plate glass window, but the mountains are so familiar that I don't feel lonely or alone.  The Bridgers, my brother is named after them, they're old friends.  I am flying across the country for three days, leaving my family in Montana. I'm going to lay eyes on Weston, my beautiful new nephew, and to see my sister transforming into someone new, a mama.

Driving here this afternoon, I talked on the phone with friends. We laughed and 'high-fived' across the miles, they rallied and cheered me on as I take flight alone for the first time in over six years.  My heart is light and happy.  I have a new book, and the latest podcast of 'This American Life' cued up on my IPod.  I am such a happy geek!!

I am struck by the total joy that can be found in this life.

New babies,

family, adventure, 

thanking the universe for 

ALL these incredible moments.

I am so

intensely

grateful.

Maybe it's not so ordinary after all. 

fall notes: roadtrip

You leave town later than you'd planned,
nearly 11 by the time you fill the gas tank
and point the car north.  But the day

is radiant, and entirely yours. 
Your daughters sing along
from the backseat; The Lumineers,

Modest Mouse, the Avett Bros. 
Familiar landmarks stand
a bit taller than usual
against the brilliant
blue of sky.  The highway

unfurls beneath your tires
in limitless possibility.
It is Sunday
and you've packed a lunch,
bathing suits, a camera.
An adventure is in order.


 

Picnic at the Lewis and Clark Caverns.

 

Dark skies on the way to Norris.

 

Weary traveller.

 

Waiting for the storm to pass at Norris Hot Springs. Nearby lightening cleared the pool.


Yes! Mom, the pool's open!

 

Recharged and perhaps fueled with a bit of junk food.

 

Dropping into Ennis for dinner.


The day's last light. And many miles still to go.


Sandhill Cranes above, wet highway below.

From your booth at the diner in Ennis, 

you watch the windows grow completely black.  

There are three small televisions 

on the walls, all showing the same football game.

The girls alternately cheer for Chicago,

then Pittsburg, amusing the quiet tables

of flyfisherman and cowboys.  You give them quarters

to ride the automatic horse, the little train

with seats for two.

It is after 8 when you drive back

onto the highway.

In the backseat, the girls nestle

beneath their blankets

and close their eyes.

The going is slow.  Heavy clouds

and rain, a nearly empty highway,

lousy windshield wipers, the possibility

of hormonal deer charging into

your headlights.  You squint, grip

the stearing wheel.  55 mph 

for the next two hours.  

Gillian Welch sings her sad

songs as the occasional

semi sends waves of rain

into your windshield.

You can hear the girls

breathing quietly from the backseat

and you remember how,

as a child you loved 

driving at night with your parents,

how safe and warm, and protected

you felt moving across black

landscapes long after bedtime.

You take a deep breath,

relax your grip

and put your trust 

in the miles of dark highway

ahead.

singing hallelujah

We roll into the empty parking lot, 

windows down, afternoon light all 

angled and golden.  In the backseat, the girls 

are "singing hallelujah for the first time," 

along with The Head and The Heart.  

It is the begining of the first weekend of the school year 

and so we come to the river.
 

Wading in, I try to memorize the feel 

of moving water against my legs 

even as the current crawls to a whisper.

I lean deep into 'lasts' this time of year.  

Maybe I shouldn't.  Maybe I should be 

someone who lives easily in the present, 

devouring the seconds and minutes 

as I move  through them.  

But the end of summer 

makes me nostalgic in ways I can't ignore.  

This could be my last river swim until next summer.

This could be the last week we sleep

with every window in the house

open.

This will be the last summer

my children look this small,

need me 

in this particular way.

I float on my back, 

feet pointed downriver the way 

you're supposed to.  

I watch and listen as the girls

play orphan cave sisters, 

gathering seaweed for the long

voyage to the north shore.

And for a second

I get a glimpse 

of the perfect completeness

of this moment, this perfect arc

of sunlit afternoon, of ending summer,

of my daughters; exactly as they are

today.

And I remember that this day is ours,

and so is the next, that the future is one 

enormous mystery to move through.

Lucky us.*

 

*My friend, Nici, wrote a blog post last spring that ends with these same two words.  Simple as they may be, I think about them often.  Lucky us.  Helps keep everything in perspective.