Two sides to the canyon

Wandering the lower reaches of our dual-minded canyon yesterday, tracking from the north-facing south side and the southern-exposed north side, I experienced some deep ecology.
On the south side, four inches of fresh powder covered the beaten and blasted crust remaining from the rest of the winter's snowfall. Still deep shadows on both sides of the canyon made for pockets of snow on the north slope. The thing that struck me, though, was the divergence of sound and life on either side.
With the dogs alternately stepping on my snowshoes and leaping far ahead in search of new smells, I listened to the still, quiet eternal shade of winter on the southern slopes.  A  few birds chirped and twittered in the pines and bare maples, and that was about it. Not much else stirred; there are places on that side of the canyon that don't get direct sun for two or three months of the cold season.
Ambling along, I noticed that there were black dots in the otherwise pristine, fresh snow. Beside a stretch of fishable water, that's a winter sign sought after by anglers everywhere; there had been a hatch of flying bugs at some point of the afternoon. Though it was four in the afternoon as I ambled up the trail, a few hours earlier, it had been warm enough to coax the wee bugs out of their pupae on the trunks of trees and into the air for a flurry of feeding and copulation before the air became too cold. Their bodies lay on the snow, mostly motionless, having succumbed to the call of life and eventual death, all in one short afternoon.
This starts happening more frequently here in February as the sun gains momentum and better angles, so in that this was the first time I'd seen it this year in January buoyed hope for the eventual spring. I shivered and noted that I hadn't been in the sun at all during the time I'd hiked up the south side, so I glanced up from the stilled flies and caught sight of the honey-yellow limestone scree slopes of the north side of the canyon, still bathed in sunlight at four thirty in the afternoon.
When on that side, there were more birds making much more racket; chirps, songs, caws, and calls were quite plentiful in the Juniper and Piñon. The temperature, because of the sun and lack of snow on the limestone-strewn slope, was at least eight degrees warmer and certainly above the freezing 28º on the other side.  There were a few squirrels about, and the flies dead on the other side still buzzed lazily in the waning sunlight. The incline was steep and footing dicey at times, but on this ‘other side’ of the canyon, it seems a privilege and miracle to be in a different environment within sight of the other.
While Zöe couldn’t care any less to be scrambling about on the loosey slopes, Old Moshe was quite annoyed and embarrassed to be stumbling behind, so we headed back after only a few minutes of wandering the ‘desert’ of the spit canyon.  I was struck by the contrasts of our little canyon’s personality during this time of year, and while one never knows what to expect from the climate from year to year, it’s good to be able to hope for just about anything.

Rhythm and Flow

There's not much in the way of rhythm in my life or heart right now, it's the middle of the dark, cool (not consistently cold this year!) winter and snow covers the ground on and off, alternating with dead, matted grass and freeze-thaw mud. One day it's mud, the next three, snow, four or five of mud, three of frozen mud, and so on.
The creeks are flowing well, but I haven't had much time and energy for fishing or really, for driving to the streams. The kids are fun to watch run in and out the front door, not worried about the cold or dark, so I follow them around a bit and find something else to do inside or not too far from the house.
The earth is not hard frozen very deep this year, either, so I've been out digging around a bit to see what is stirring beneath the frost; worms, roots and a few odd insects having taken shelter where they could emerge when it's time in a few more months. The colors are normal for this time of winter, browns, tans, light greens and grays; with fleeting blue and white from time to time above the digging site. Sunsets have been a joy all through the fall and into this winter, from time to time. That's a good thing and looked forward to as something that joins all seasons 'round here.
Most things flow well, but there's not much in the way of predictability. That is a lesson to be internalized with gusto and eyes wide open. Nothing is often to be expected from life, and when something blessed can be looked forward to with regularity, there's one thing that ought be done.
That's the very thing that needs be done anyhow, anyway, and in any season.
Give deep thanks often; the ride won't last long.

Hipstaprojections

Been taking some time in collaboration with my little brother at one of his sites, http://www.hipstaproject.com/ .
Some photography and commentary with the occasional haiku hidden amongst the werds.
Check it out should you care to.

Thoughts in Winter

Spent the week preparing for the spring semester of teaching to begin at Snow; plenty of time comparing old syllabi and what I hope to make happen in my classroom this coming term. I've noticed how rapidly I ramp up the writing toward the end of the semester, to the point of making things a little difficult on freshmen realizing that they procrastinate too much in all classes. I dialed it down a little, but not too much...
I'm glad that the day's getting longer, and even though it's been quite warm and dry 'round here, it's good to have some hope for the way things are headed. Speaking of hope, I do look forward to a change of weather for at least a couple of months here, but it's always good to have a little light and progression toward equinox.
We spent some time up at the cabin this week, too, looking for things that need to be done to finish it (after sixteen years of diddling at its construction) or seal it up where the squirrels and mice have made a shambles.  The stoves need to be put where they should be, too. Lots of soffit, fascia and staining.

But the place is nice. You can go about anywhere for at least thirty miles 195 degrees east of the place and see no one and no sign but prints and tracks here and there, and hear not much but the snow, the wind and the odd un-migrated bird this time of year.
It does a heart good to be out with its dog and a whistle on its lips.

Onward, ho!

It's been a good twelve months.
I find myself answering people when they ask me how things are going, "The kids are healthy and as happy as they can be and they sure make me feel happy, too." That makes sense to me.
The mountains were beautiful this year, all year long; from last winter's thick snowpack to the summer's long beginning and ardent wildflowers and the long autumn starting with a quick temperature slam that froze the bones of the high country followed by a long slide into this odd, dry winter's beginning.
I've been grateful for the desert, too.  We took some fine trips out into the sage and red rock, too; the weather in the mountains treated the high deserts just the same. There was color and abundant movement of the wildlife living there.
We enjoyed our little house and garden like we haven't in years. Drie's leadership in that department has really come into its own and the kids really took pride in their individual plants and crops.
There were setbacks and a general feeling of isolation, too, but when I think on the kids, things are going better than I'd ever thought possible when Drie and I set off on this grand experiment.
Happy New Year to you, and may the reflection and results of each day therein bring you joy that carries forward into whatever eternity you hope for.

The End of 2011

53
by e.e. cummings

may my heart always be open to little
birds who are the secrets of living
whatever they sing is better than to know
and if men should not hear them men are old

 may my mind stroll about hungry
and fearless and thirsty and supple
for even if it's sunday may i be wrong
for whenever men are right they are not young

 and may myself do nothing usefully
and love yourself so more than truly
there's never been quite such a fool who could fail
pulling all the sky over him with one smile

About six months before before I found Mr. Eliot's little book in the Bountiful library, I was browsing the poetry section and found the collection of e.e. cummings, a person I had been made aware of during a seventh grade English class as slightly off-kilter sort of guy who liked to mess with the rules.
I was fair excited when I found that book.
Winter was nearing its end that year, and I was looking for something to take me in a different direction. One's ninth grade year does that to a person. Edward Estlin did just that; his writing took me somewhere I imagine hip-hop mc's have been taking youth for a few decades now. I loved how he wrote with disregard for rules and grammar. His ideas were conveyed through words without the direction or distraction of punctuation or capitalization, and when he did use them, there was an ulterior motive behind it. My mind was free to wander the fields of his ideas, pausing and parsing when I wanted or thought necessary.
I didn't understand the adult world much at all. I thought adults had rational reasons for their actions for the most part, and when they didn't for much of a stretch, that's when they turned to crime, atrocities or other tomfoolery. I wasn't aware that they were rooting around for reasons and sanity as much as I was, or that the rules of the world were much like grammar; if you rose to an appropriate level of acceptance or standing, you could apply and ignore the rules as you wished, needed or saw fit.
At least Mr. cummings' work is beautiful and insightful in its disregard of conventions.

Ever Rising Cost of Education

This is trouble.
In an article in The New Yorker, James Surowiecki explains the college debt crisis in soberingly clear terms.  It brings a few other problems into focus; including rising medical costs and really, why it costs so much to keep any school running.

Lily puts the bike to shame, really.
A nice little production.
Long may they ride...

To write.

I've been filling wee notebooks and dropping them in different places lately.
A version of what I do here on the 'puck', I don't know if they'll be thrown in the garbage or enjoyed by someone for the sheer curiosity of the find. The subjects and manners of writing have been varied like the colors of the leaves on the ground and still on trees here in the high desert, from still green to vibrant yellows and deep browns.
I've written straight for twenty minutes at a time, noticing the variations in my own mood and writing as I press onward across the tiny pages. The moods I experience change as much as my hand, and that change is reflected, too, on the prose and poetry.
Other times I write until I get sick of it, then go on a walk around the building, house, yard, or wherever I find myself, returning to the page renewed and wishing that I could erase what I'd already written.  Often the writing is interrupted by what I need to get done; grading, interviews, teaching, or just lapsing into a planning session for a class looming on the horizon.  I don't often get much more than ten minutes at a time to spill ink onto the paper, but when I do, it interests me beyond what I can express that sometimes it really stinks, but if I am patient and persistent, it comes around to something I can reflect upon as beautiful.
Has anyone read anything I left on a desk, a square of concrete, or a tree? Maybe not. Sometime I think it's more likely 'probably not'. I'm afraid that some of the folios have been almost illegible to anyone besides me, and I like that part, too. I'm coming to peace with my own impermanence and intractable imperfection these days as the sun wanes in his northern sphere. The death of light reflects my mind and spirit in some ways, even as my attitudes and energy retain some relation to youth's energy and verve, the night comes on quickly in my joints and bones. It's as if the marrow and brain's core are where undoing start.
The paper doesn't matter; nor does the ink or much the thoughts to anyone who might come upon them. To someone, someday, it might provoke a smile or an exasperated eye roll, but I feel that's good on both points. Maybe they're being cleaned up and thrown in the garbage by people energized by the opportunity to dispose of odd ephemera left about in places they don't belong. That's good, too.
Not sure how much longer this might last. I'm trying to choose a place to end; a place where I don't just get bored and slack off like I do so terribly often, a time where I can do it and make a good end of the process for now. I'm glad I always have the blog to practice a little of the same process, though, and for the opportunity to understand the process a little more though a slightly different project.

Corporate Responsibility

The evolving role and responsibility of corporations; an examination of Friedman and other socio-economic ideas in the LA Times.

The Wolf Debates

Credit: Rich Addicks for The New York Times

An update on the anti/pro wolf conundrum in and around Montana, from the NYTimes.

Americans practicing their rights to assemble and speak:
Occupy Oakland Live Feed Today.

An interesting interpretation and graph of Mr. Cain's amazingly marketable but tragically flawed 9-9-9 'plan'.

Attempt

Been thinking on what fuels individual fires
and allows them to burn at a rate that
keeps colors bright, yet minimizes scorching and pain
Keeping that as short as juniper leaves during winter days
What is your fuel?
Does it flow and combust without pause?
Or does it give shivers as your thoughts turn to stars or lost cattle
or God's Eye?