journeying in a single place
When I lived in Alaska, I observed the first year that living there was like traveling continuously while staying in the same place. Which is what we're all doing, all the time anyway, of course, traveling around the sun; but close to the poles, it's palpable. Parts of the year are almost punitively lush, the view foreshortened, all bower, arbor, marsh. And then the months of stark snowscape, and the gray-brown in betweens.
Moving to a place where day and night give and take more evenly around the year has clearly been kind to me and my mercurial moods. But this is the desert; this is also a place of extremes.
moving into winter, some language-dancing""
This morning I woke up with blanket. Blankets plural, actually. All the blankets I own were piled on top of me, folded double, and I still hadn't slept well for being goose-bump cold. It's getting into the 40s at night (and I'm a very chilly girl). And yet the sun shines by day, it warms up enough that I cling to leaving the windows open wide, letting the air dance through the little house.
Yesterday I finally, reluctantly, closed my back door. Save during a couple thunderstorms, it's been open the whole time I've lived here up to now.
It's November, after all! In Alaska, I'd be wearing multiple layers all over; it's snowing there.