Go up to a high place, just to fall in love with the land, to meet the sky face to face, to run your fingertips across buds and blossoms, to press your soul against the green, to drink from the sun. Take your time, your sweet old time. Dawdle. Sit in the sagebrush. Listen to the birds and feel the wind. Don’t come down until the half moon is strung up in the feathers of the fir trees, the dogs are hungry and your hands are cold. I’m sure you’ll agree, it’s the perfect way to spend an evening.
I always say you can tell a lot about a person by the way they treat their horse (and you can tell a lot about a man by the way he drives his truck). I came across this herd over in Arbon Valley, the next valley West of the Portneuf Valley, just a hop over a mountain pass from where I live. I don’t know how I ended up in Arbon Valley yesterday except I was driving my truck, I had country music playing on the radio, the dogs and my ski gear in the back, the world was covered in fresh snow and dappled with springtime sun — I felt like seeing some country so I did a little wandering on the blue highways. When I saw this posse of horses out on their winter range, I pulled off, grabbed my camera and made some friends.
As I walked to the fence, they picked their heads up from grazing, looked at me from a far, and then the leader began to walk to me — an old swaybacked paint with wind woven dreadlocks in his mane. One by one they wandered over, sweet and curious, eager to exchange scent with me. They nosed my pockets for treats. Let me rub their cheeks, press my cold hands beneath their wild, tangled manes as they draped their heavy heads over my shoulders. I touched the softness of their muzzles and fell into the pools of their kind eyes. These horses have a good cowboy and cowgirl. I can tell.
Horses are good for the soul.
Doesn’t that buckskin have a beautiful tail? It hits the ground!
Hello, friends, and happy Monday to you! I combed through the archives this morning to round up a handful of strays — images that never made it to the blog, that is! We had a lovely dumping of snow here yesterday and I’m headed out with the dogs to skijor for most of the day. It’s my main priority today and it’s about time. I have a serious case of cabin fever even though I’ve been out on the mountain every single night for the past 31 days! Let me tell you first hand, March came in like a lion and went out like a lion. I’ve loved all the roaring!
I’ll be downshifting in the studio over the next few days as I have run my metal supply down to the nubs. I plan to place an enormous re-supply order this week (that they will probably have to deliver by armored truck…it’s going to be so darn big…) and take a few days off to run about the forests and rivers like a little scoundrel. I hope you are all well! This week is looking bright. Get after it!
I’ve been looking for a sacred writing space, a writing desk, for longer than you can imagine. When I saw this one, it was love at first sight. I knew it was mine. This desk has a feel to it like no other, a feel like many a magazine article, poem, essay, story have been written on its surface. I can’t really explain it except to tell you that the moment I laid eyes on it, the moment I ran my hands over it, I knew I wanted to be a part of that legacy, needed to be a part of that legacy. I told the owner of my favorite antique shop in town to put a SOLD sign on it. I slept on it for a few days and then I walked back into that shop and slapped some cash down on the counter, loaded this desk up into the bed of the Dodge and drove it on home.
This desk is huge, ENORMOUS, and it is very tall. There is room for two at its writing surface.
Heavy old oak. Brass knobs. A slanted writing surface which is SO comfortable to write on. I like it so well that it is easy to pen eight pages every morning right now.
I hope this piece helps me cultivate my writers heart and mind.
My writing time in the mornings has become such a sacred thing for me now that I have a holy little space to do it in.
I hope I write my first book on this glorious wooden surface.
I hope I write a thousand poems here.
I’m thankful I was able to make it mine.