Pictured above are west coast woods
the ancestors I left behind to seek adventure in unfamiliar forests
I will always be a stranger here, but I am welcomed
by maple, oak, birch, hemlock, cherry
by lightning bugs, the deep darkness of the winter sky, the circle of life in swift rotation
by the vast extremity of seasonal shift in this northern clime and how I’ve married it to my insides, to my bones, to the lens through which I view the world
by the perfectly imperfect tangle of community we find on a little hill
in a little town
in the shadow of a mountain
Sometimes I feel a bit like I’m living out some sort of Laura Ingalls Wilder fantasy, complete with the despair of loss after much toil, peppered by the happier times that seem to find us through sheer luck as we homestead on what could very well be the most awkward, resistant, unsuitable (yet beautiful) piece of land we could find.
It wasn’t the plan. But, here we are. Sloped, heavily wooded, soil full of boulders, brambles, ticks, and fox dens. Here we dream, and each year, we create just a wee bit more harmony with this place. We’ve got a long way to go. Also, we have day jobs.
Thanks for stopping by. I’ll reward you with recipes, tutorials, poetry and pictures.