Sterling silver & a super old stock cut of rugged Arizona turquoise:  for girls who like to leave a mark.

 Last week was a nice week.  I finally feel truly settled in here, and know I am because Robert and I spent the weekend together driving back roads in our truck, hiking into little lakes, fishing, reading, kayaking, sipping iced tea and simply enjoying being together and being in love.  We’re still in love, you know?  Really in love.  We’ve been married for nine years but I still feel like I’m nineteen and seeing him for the first time, every single day.

Speaking of love, I am head-over-heels-rump-over-tea-kettle crazy for the woods.  Stark raving mad.  Cuckoo!  Berserkers for the forest.  I was like this last year, too.  If I see a big ponderosa pine tree, I have to hug it, or stop and gaze up at it, dumb in its marvelous presence.  I am filled with such deep appreciation.  Laying my palms against the trunk of a tree makes me feel close to God.  It’s like I’m completing a circuit, there with my feet on earth, my hands on a tree, the tree against the heavens.  It’s electric.  Sometimes it makes me cry, the very aliveness of it, the smallness and hugeness of it.

Tree jottings from this week past:  

When we live here, I am continually dwelling on the idea of trees, the very essence of them, I mean their steadfastness and nature of servitude.

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Why can’t people be more like trees?

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The forest is a boisterous place.  It’s often described as a bastion of quietude and peace but I should choose to more clearly define it as a place free of human racket.  Isn’t a respite from humanity what we are truly seeking when we go out into nature?  I write this from the loft deck at the cabin and all around me is bird racket, the various pitches and frequencies of buzzing bugs, a raven shouting at the wind and beating his wings on the thinness of air, the rapid fire rattle of chipmunks and squirrels, the watery sound of the tree tops surfing the breeze.  It is loud here.  There is sound swirling all around me, tinged and punctuated by the pizzicato of  many living things, but I am not made weary by it like I am the sounds of traffic or the spill and shrill of humans in conversation.  Here, in the forest, it is anything but quiet.

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This is mid-June.  I see and feel the forest cresting, reaching and stretching for the climax of full bloom.  The green is still fresh and new, rich with the effort of merit.  The trees don’t speak, but I know what they are saying, up there, up high, when they clap their leaves and chime their emotions under moon and sun.  I pin a bright badge of respect to the bark of every tree I pass.  Oh, good, tall, stalwart friends.

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Trees for president!

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A forest is a fortress, the very thing to hold me safely in.

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I’ll never get over the ways a ponderosa pine tree wraps its bark, branches and needles around the wavering curves of daylight.  A pondi is a wrangler of sunshine, a true cowboy of a tree, a tall stout thing that gentles the sky, draws it in, makes it into a brave partner and friend. In the kind and splaying hands of the pondi, the spirit of the sky is never broken.  Every needle is a fragrant feather, a remembrance of earth and stone, a glimmer of ground and a tiny defeat of gravity.  How I love the ponderosa pine.

I hiked up to Copper Glance, hoping to do a little fishing.  The lake had a sheet of ice on it so I hiked up the snowless ridge line to the North of the lake and eventually stopped to eat an apple and enjoy the views.  Not a waste of a day at all.  Simply divine.

The swallowtail butterflies are resplendent, a flittering wisp of my childhood.  I chase after them, willing them, begging them to land on my open hand, to stick to me with the lonesome velcro of their thorny feet.  The tangerine orange of the Airstream door romances them deeply.  They try to lick at it for nectar, bonking into it repeatedly as their wings whir, fooled over and over again by the shout of the hue.

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It seems impossible that this is the skirt of June and eternal daylight and the rising, rising, rising until we reach the peak, the crown of day, the solstice.  I wonder where I will be on that short night?  I wonder which dress I’ll wear, how many braids I will weave into my hair?  Doesn’t  it seem sad that the bulk of sumemer, the heat and green reaching of it, comes so late after that long, that longest June day?  I fear I already begin to miss these lengthy days, before June is even here.  I look too far ahead instead of living here and now.  It makes me melancholy, to be far seeing.  My mind dwells on fading and eventual loss when I see life as life coming instead of life actual and arrived which is the very truth about now and here.  Why do I do that?  Live outside of now?  Do we all do it?  Let ourselves fade into the distances of past or future, instead of residing in the strength and full color of now?

I cut off all of Robert’s hair.  He asked me to.  It wasn’t a Sampson and Delilah situation.  Not at all.  Now he looks like a beautiful barn owl with his heart shaped face.  Perhaps that’s why he is so good at flying, because secretly, he has very broad wings.

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I miss Robert when he is at work during the day.  Moving to the Methow Valley for six months of the year makes for more than just a geographical transition.  I also have to adjust to living much more seperately from my best friend and husband.  It’s hard, at times, to make that shift.  There are sudden, wide gaps in the structure of my life that can make things feel rickety and unstable.

“I was just passing by

when the wind flared

and the blossoms rustled

and the glitterling pandemonium

leaned on me.”

[Mary Oliver :: Goldenrod]

Everything here is a direct, boisterous reminder of my childhood.  I feel I must be slipping and sinking into the gentle innocence of a simple, beautiful life; a life uncomplicated by grown-up things.  The forest takes me back.  We fall asleep to the sound of night birds, a fleet of frogs on the marsh below the cabin, a pair of owls in halting dialogue at  dusk.  If it is breezy, the wind in the douglas firs and ponderosa pines sounds like the rush of water.  Air is a current of its own sort.  During the day, there is the sound of ruffed grouse calling out for love, the very drum beat of my childhood.  There are awkward, wild turkeys on the road as I drive down to town; the black eyes and white tails of the deer.  The wildflowers!  Oh!  The wildflowers.  The land is rupturing with a bevy of color and a cacophony of scent.  I walk around with a thousand soft sighs on my lips because this is love.  I am in love.  I love it here.

I am guilty, at times, of working myself into complete exile.  It’s just how it is.  I put my head down.  I forget to eat.  I am grumpy and rumpled outside of the studio.  I reside in this strange land of metal and gems and everything else falls by the wayside.  Forgive me.

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Today: Two osprey, two mule deer bucks with their blunt antlers bundled in precious velvet and a tremendously close encounter with a white tailed deer (a doe).  Also, a red tailed hawk above the twin leaning ponderosa pines on Lookout Road, and a snarky raven using the cabin roof as a landing pad.  Bear scat West of the cabin on the road where it grows thick with alder.  Pizza for dinner.

I saw a blue racer snake, belly up, dead on the road while I was out running.  The ants and wasps were already doing their tiny butchering.  In the morning, the next day, it was gone.  Nature is so quick to put everything to good use, even the dead.

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Here in the shade with the ferns, the stones are sinking.  Everything in this clearing seems heavy with the promise of gravity.  Even the wildflowers lean in the afternoon light, fat with dust and seed.   But I, I feel myself rising.

I ran past a patch of wild rose blooming.  That is the scent of pure pink.

[the good life]

Sorry for the stops and starts here, little honeys!  The Airstream suffered a power slump and it fried my computer…Robert says I may have been running too many machines all at once…I can get a little zealous, I reckon.  I’m just home from the big city where I took my hunk of computer junk to the doctor (he was super nerdy and talked like a robot) and everything is up and running again.  Thank goodness!  Let’s get together tomorrow so I can tell you all about this glorious land of summer.  Ok?  Ok.

Until then.

X

 We made it!

As always, it seems to take so much longer than expected to get everything set up and humming once more.  Uprooting is tiring.  We’ve been having interwebular struggles and just last night found what may be our best and only option for an internet connection out here in our lovely little mountain nook.  We are SO glad to be back.  I didn’t realize how much I missed this place, my gorgeously alive forest, my little cabin, the owls at twilight, the frog song rising up from the marsh, my hammers pinging in the glorious Airstream…

All is beautiful.  Soggy too.  It’s been raining heaps.  I think I’m growing moss.  I missed you so!  Tra la la!  More soon.

X

Congratulations to Lindsey G!  She was commenter number 15 in the comment section for this giveaway and I can’t wait to bundle up some goodies and send them her way.

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[Sketching Spring Necklace :: sterling silver]

You’ve done it again.  Your support has helped us over the hump of winter, fed us, clothed us, paid our mortgage, put fuel in our trucks, fed our dogs their kibbles, the cat his tuna and our chickens their grub.  The best way I know how to say thanks is to do a giveaway and to say, thank you, until you know I really, deeply, truly mean it.

Thank you.

So much.

For all you do.

Thank you for reading this blog, for claiming my work (big pieces or small), for the encouraging notes you send me by mail, email, Etsy convo (sorry it takes me so long to respond, I really am the worlds worst emailer).  Thanks for telling me to write a book or to publish a collection of prose and poetry.  Gosh.  Thanks for that.  This is one of my main goals this summer, hold me to it.  Most of all, thanks for being just who you are because there are times when I think of you, or I read your comments on a blog post, and I really feel warm inside and understood and received and like my views and my lifestyle and the very who of me is respected and cherished — whether you live your life similarly or not — and that’s the sort of thing that makes me want to continue in this work and continue sharing my life with you in all the ways that I can.  You are courageously openhearted and open minded.  I’m proud of you for that.  You are part of a beloved community here and having you in my world, in our world, is a blessing.  All day long.  Every day.

INSTRUCTIONS FOR GIVEAWAY ENTRY:

If you would like to enter your name in the drawing for this Sketching Spring Necklace, please simply leave a comment on this blog post.  You can say anything you would like to say.  I would love to know the title of the best book you have read recently or the name of the album you are playing on repeat lately.  If you are shy, just say “Hi!”  There aren’t any rules.

 I’ll randomly draw a winning name as soon as I am settled in the Methow Valley, at our summering grounds.  As always, my giveaway packages are little care packages so be prepared for the arrival of a bevy of love in your mailbox if you are the winner.  PLEASE NOTE:  If your comment does not appear in the comment section immediately it’s because it’s sitting in my behind-the-scenes comment moderation area and I’ll publish it as soon as I have an internet connection up and running once more.

Until then, with abiding affection,

The Noisy Plume

XX

Here’s what happened.  I was running around town all morning long, like a mad hatter, and once I arrived home, I got to cleaning the Airstream in preparation for loading the studio into its summer space.  Halfway between then and now, I found myself working on three of my canvasses in the studio (to my great delight, they’re coming along beautifully).  After painting, I felt a touch hungry so I wandered towards the house, only to stop to hang the wet laundry on the line before making my way to the kitchen.  By the time I finally arrived at the refrigerator and looked inside that cool contraption, I couldn’t imagine what to make myself to eat.  I shut the fridge, turned around, and there was my jar of garbanzo beans I’ve been sprouting the past three days.  Voila!  Fresh hummus.  Here’s how I did it.  You’re going to thank me for a hundred years for this extremely simple recipe.

The Hummus To Rule Them All

1 clove of garlic chopped

1 can of garbanzo beans (half the liquid reserved)

4 tbsp lemon juice

2 tbsp tahini

1 tsp salt

black pepper to taste

2 tbsp olive oil

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Throw it all in the blender and whip it until it’s smooth-ish, light and fluffy.  Once it has reached a consistency you like, scoop/pour it into your serving container and devour with the aid of fresh veggies, a slab of toasted bread, or tortilla chips.

So easy, it really is criminal.

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Because I am rebellious by nature, I never directly follow a recipe so here are the changes I made:

*I used 3 cloves of garlic instead of 1 (love the stuff, always use more than a recipe calls for).

*I sprouted my own garbanzos instead of using canned garbanzos which is, yes, good for you.  Here is what my sprouter set up looks like.  Very simple.  It’s a mesh screw on lid attached to a mason jar.  Get one as soon as you can.  You can sprout all kinds of stuff:  beans for bean salads, clover, mustard, wheat grass, lentils, chia, ALL types of seeds…broccoli…the list goes on and on.

*I also squeezed two large lemons into my blender instead of using four measly tablespoons of the stuff.  Again.  I really really like lemon, and lime.  My hummus has a very zesty flavor.  If you don’t love the zest, don’t use this much lemon.

*Once I have my garden going in Winthrop, I’ll be adding fresh herbs to this recipe for a little extra zing.

I can’t wait to make this for RW when he gets home from Spokane tomorrow.  He’s going to take one bite and then run out to buy me a brown and white spotted pony.  Yup.  It’s just that good.

Speaking of buying things, this morning I splurged on what is going to really elevate our cooking efforts this summer.  As some of you know, the little cabin in the woods is equipped with only a two burner electric hot plate.  I HATED it last summer.  I hated it with the fire of a thousand burning suns.  This year, I’m going to be baking and doing all kinds of crazy stuff with my new, beautiful, toaster oven.  Oh man.  Just thinking about it puts my turquoise soul in some kind of fuzzy little heaven.  Hit that link and just look at that thing!  I’m going to bake bread, muffins, pizzas…holy coyote!

Holy coyote.

Oh, one last thing, have you seen the Airstream bed?  Robbie finished it!  It’s amazing.  As we all knew it would be.  Yay!

Everything is coming together now and when we go, I’ll go gladly.

[Ruth Necklace & Rings :: sterling silver & 23 karat gold]

I married a man.  Or, I thought I married a man.  It’s more complex than that.  I married fire.  I married the smoke of burning forests and grasslands, the hiss of singed deer as they drop down into lakes and streams, the billowing black that stains lungs and stings eyes, the rasping cough of tall flame.  I married lightning strikes, the violent explosions of tree trunks,  yellow shirts and green pants filthy with ash and sweat, the buzz of chainsaws, the danger of hovering helicopters, the maniacal purr of bulldozers and the crimson stripes of retardant turning mountain slopes to checkerboards.  I married the long, hot kisses of homecoming.  I  married cooking for one.  I married the blown out knees, the compressed vertebrae, the broken bones that come with too many hard landings.  I married the whispering silk of parachutes and the hum of industrial sewing machines.  I married a new lexicon; now I speak Canadian, American and fire.  I married childbearing in my late thirties, or early forties, or not at all.  Maybe I married lonesomeness in old age.  Maybe I married freedom and adventure for all my life.  I married the eternal wait for permanent positions, the bureaucratic crap that comes with federal employment, the tangle of job applications, the hope for interviews, the joy of reunions with our fire family at the start of the season and throughout winter.  I married missing Idaho and all her wild lands and all her dizzy skies.  For now, I am married to the Methow Valley.  I married summers alone but thank God for those short nights and long lasting sunsets and my little cabin in the woods.  I married winters of leisure, with just him and I.  I love winter.  I married the bros.  Then I married all their wives.  I married the last minute work details, the wilderness areas without cell service, the breakdown in communication after too many weeks apart.  I married trying not to cry on the phone.  After all, what can he do about it when he is so far away?  I married the black soot that rims the shower after he washes up.  I married stinky boots.  I married Pendleton whisky in a little green flask — his, not mine.   I married chewing tobacco — not his, theirs.  I married all of these things, but there are things I did not marry.  I did not marry fear, too stillness, evaporation of dreams.  I did not marry resentment.  I did not marry charcoaled wastelands, only clean slates and bald openness which green will velvet and the fuzz of fireweed blossoms will paint magenta.  There is the blessing and curse of opposites, bumping and whirling like magnets at play: I did not marry water, I married flame, though water I may be.  Perhaps this is pure spring creek flowing through me, water siphoned through steady bedrock, filtered with diamonds; a cool, melodic laugh rising up as I trip my way down mountain slopes and cascade in clouds from the razor edges of slate.  Perhaps I am the thing to soften, the thing to wear away the weary skin of tired things, the thing to make room for newness, the thing to quench all of these flames, the thing to unlock the trap of heat, to weight the power of the wind.  Perhaps I am the thing to calm and gently quell, to put out the smoulder of red where it licks against the black of night.  Perhaps, in the end, the true job of a fire wife is to provide for the ache of thirst, to be the small rain when it’s wild flame as far as a man can see.  If so, it’s a good thing I married fire.  I think I’m just what it needs.

[soon the plums will come]

It’s a morning of pure, springtime glory here.  I’m telling you, it’s simply exquisite outside.  When I stepped out the back door of the house this morning, the sunshine came on like thunder, I reached a hand up and shielded my eyes from the light as I scanned the tree tops for the source of bird songs.  Then, oh holy of holies, I took a deep breath in through my nose and smelled the perfumes of the fruit trees in the yard.  Such sweetness.  Such promise.  And oh, the color of the peach blossoms!  I wandered around the yard, yanked at random weeds, rearranged the clematis vines on the trellis of the front porch, and wished I could spend the entire afternoon engineering my succulent garden under the big kitchen window.

We’ve officially tipped off the edge of sanity and into the depths of chaos here, as we seem to do before we make our summer move.  There’s so much to do.  Appointments to make and keep, random errand running, a truck to send into the shop…I’m stalling.  I’m hiding out in the studio most hours of the day.  When I go running on the mountain or hiking with the dogs, I go further and higher than usual, because coming home means working towards something I’m not keen to work on: moving.  Blah.  I’m writing postcards to friends when I should be making lists of all the things that need doing, cleaning, buying, selling, collecting, cleaning, gleaning…lists schmists.  Blah.

It’s overwhelming.  I’m overwhelmed.

What do you do when you are overwhelmed?  I shouldn’t be so avoidant about the packing and moving work.  I should grab the bull by the horns and really give it all heck.  Maybe I will.  Later.  Maybe.  Maybe tomorrow.

Because I am not thankful about having to pour energy into packing and moving, I think it would be a good idea to make a list of all the things I am thankful for today.

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-this very fine morning, the quality and strength of springtime light

-the fresh garlic I am going to pick and roast this afternoon

-how hard Robert is working to make this as smooth a transition as possible, I’m thankful I don’t have to do it alone

-your incredible support over at the Etsy shop this week (amazing amazing amazing)

-the Airstream (which is sort of like a mythical beast, a true griffin in this life of ours) and the way it makes so much possible for us

-my job

-Robert’s job

-the always good company of the dogs

-the stability of my usually terribly wobbly thyroid

-the 400 black tulips I have blooming in the front yard

-this excellent cup of coffee

-the elk steak we have defrosting for dinner (food, in general)

-the robins on the front lawn

-the view of the mountains from my office window

-the neighbor’s flowering quince

-the blue egg my hen laid me this morning (each one is a perfect little miracle)

-the rabbit skull I found yesterday

-these polka dot socks

-the freedom I feel, every single day, to simply develop and grow and learn and worship and work and express and be and live (not everyone has all these kinds of freedoms)

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I feel better now.  Less like a spoilt brat.  More like myself.  Brighter.  Fuller.  More grateful.  More aware.  More focused.  Ready to work.

What are you thankful for today?