It’s dark and still in the house. Flames are dancing wildly in the wood stove and a tea candle is dim on the altar. Oatmeal-raisin-walnut-chocolate-chip cookies are still warm on the stove and in my belly. Tulsi’s sweet sleeping breath is just a few feet away. I can see a giant moon creeping up over the dark mountain ridge; it’s glow will soon spill into our little house and cast grand shadows on the walls of an angel, a canopy of enormous, pear-shaped leaves, and a chicken man on a stove pipe.  It is frigid outside and snow-covered, but it’s cozy in here. I am free floating in random circles and sways in the hammock while I type. Per Tulsi’s request, we recently traded out our rocking chair for a hammock, and I love it.

I appreciate the comments on my last post. Thank you, for honoring my Grandma’s life, too.

I’ve been feeling quiet this week; new fallen snow will do that to a person’s mind, especially here in the mountains. I feel reflective with the end of another year (and another book).  I’ve been letting my head empty so new ideas can fly in, and there will be space for them to come to life.

I am addicted to the shaky stillness I sense when staring into the middle of a clear, deep New Mexico sky; a dizzy excitement of not knowing whether I’m down, looking up, or up, looking down — a weightlessness and freedom of swinging into the realm of infinite possibilities. I feel a creative, productive winter coming…


A vertical panorama on our hike, Thanksgiving Day, 2009, Lama Mountain.