In the Land of Winter

In the land of winter, 

birch trees glow in gold morning light, 

and hemlocks bow to greet the ice-bound land. 

Dense 

snow-quiet, 

cracks open 

with the clattering of iced-bone branches. 

Warm sunlight pries away the grip of ice.

One by one, small, half-tube bits, 

clink down to the crusted snow.

Blessed with ice magic here at RavenWood, 

and grateful that it has been gentle.

Not too thick, and no high winds 

has saved us from power outages. 

For me, the loss of electricity

means hauling water, cooking on 

the wood stove, and using the "Luggable Lou". 

Not to mention daily forays on snowshoes 

to a hole dug way down in the snow 

to empty said bucket. 

Sparkling moments, crystalline forms, 

and expanses of blue-white landscapes:

I am under the Ice Queen's enchantment. 

Still awaiting the arrival of the new heater, 

my studio sits, frozen and buried in the snow. 

A quickening within me promises

the birth of new work, though, as it is 

with my cycles of creativity, 

exactly what it looks like is a mystery. 

 I balance walking, shoveling, and bringing in

 wood with afternoon tea and a good book. As the 

semester progresses, there will be more school-prep, 

more student needs, more demands on my time.

For now, I find myself in the moment,

feeling the weight and texture of the wood I carry, 

and my body's appreciation of gentle movement 

and deep breathing. 

Things on my long list don't seem as urgent as they

did a month ago. I am trusting in divine timing 

and the profoundly beneficial gift of 

rest and regeneration. 

"Blue Night", watercolor on paper, 4"x4"

Deep Winter Whispering

"Grandmother", clay, wool & feathers

The snows have come like an ancient, 

whispering grandmother, silent and powerful.  

Walking through the cold crunch of snow, 

listening to cracking trees and high, 

whistling winds, I hear winter stories 

from deep within my bones. 

Deep dreaming brings me always to my ancestors. I 

wonder about those ancient ones who survived winters

in the Northern lands of Latvia and beyond. There were 

ancestors who came from Bohemia and others from the 

Celtic lands. Still others from Georgia, so my father heard.

Though I wish their stories had been handed down like 

the silver, the story-chains have broken. It is in these times 

of deep dreaming, that something of them rises to the 

surface and broken threads are mended through my 

remembering of them. 

As a granddaughter of northern folk,   

I wonder if it is woven into me to love the 

quiet whispering of winter, and to feel 

the ancestral stories pulsing through me 

as I sit at the fire. 

Winter has blessed the forest with light and fluffy 

snow so far, with cold days and bitter nights.

Pasha and I find ourselves warming by the 

fire long into the morning. I enjoy daily 

walks in the forest or along the road, 

but Pasha is finding it just a bit too cold 

to sustain a long walk.  

Before the snows were too deep, 

I could convince him to join me for a romp 

around the yard, but as more and more 

snow has fallen, and temperatures dip 

way below freezing, I find myself 

keeping company with the puffed-up 

birds and burrowing red squirrels. 

(Do click to see the tunneling red squirrel, above)

The last storm dumped over two feet of snow, 

making getting out the back door a challenge!

The snow piles and banks along the paths grow 

steadily higher. Tonight we are expecting 

another four to eight inches. 

The snow has found itself a lovely throne in the 

winter garden, Pasha's spot for an

afternoon nap in summer. 

On my snowshoe through the forest, 

I am captivated by the simple lines of a

delicate branch, starkly contrasting with the 

white field of snow. 

Deep in the woodlands, the snow has 

decorated the trunks

with stripes. 

There is a magical beauty in the winter light, 

and a mysterious comfort I feel when the house 

is all tucked in with snow. 

Pasha questions my decision to stay out hours at a time, 

here he has crawled through the secret passageway 

to the porch and pleads with me to let him in, 

he has had enough!

On my way home from an afternoon errand, the sky

was full of winter fire in the west, 

while behind me in the east, the waxing moon rose 

 in the cool, blue sky. 

 I watch the moon glowing through the hemlocks 

as I write. Still no sign of the storm they say is coming, 

but my larder is stocked in case 

I'm house-bound tomorrow. 

Classes begin for me on Wednesday,

and another rhythm to my days.

The deepest of winter dreaming 

fades as the days grow slowly longer. 

With the slight lengthening of daylight, 

so, too, some shift in me. I feel a 

new inspiration, and look forward to 

seeing what stories emerge as 

I turn once again to my work. 

Slowing, Rooting & Winter Work

"Root Woman", mixed media

Outside, occasional snowflakes glide to 

the earth, as a small crescent moon waxes with 

the new year. Inside, I sit by the fire, appreciative 

of the trees who gave their lives so that I may be warm. 

Deeper inside, I sink to my roots, slowing to the speed 

of tree and stone, listening to stories of 

the winter forest.

I had other plans this week - plans to make art, 

to winterize the studio, to finally complete the 

last few tasks on my list. But a borrowed heater was 

too small, a fuse blew because I plugged in two heaters, 

and the mis-marked fuse panel gave me the gift of 

time to reflect on what was really 

necessary right now... 

rest.

I have a gift of slowing, a few more weeks until 

classes begin. I need to dream. I am dreaming. 

Not sleep-dreaming.... I am soul dreaming.

And it is absolutely a necessary ingredient in 

my creative life. I am filling up with visual 

stories, listening, finding deep presence in 

a moment. I remember myself. I feel 

the slowed heartbeats of the bears

in their dens, beating close to 

the rhythms of the earth. 

At the end of the day, I sit outside with Pasha, 

who has begged for one more outing to watch 

the dipping of the sun. It is cold. We watch 

the sky and listen to a fox bark getting closer.

She dashes past, not expecting to see us sitting 

along her usual trail.

It is good to watch and listen with Pasha. He knows how 

to be slow, and watchful, and patient. We share 

an intimate silence as the sky shifts 

towards evening. 

Yesterday, we cleared some trees in preparation to 

build the new studio. Next winter the wood will 

heat the building, keeping me warm as I 

tell stories in paint and spin tales by the fire. 

Shelby and Tim, friends and talented woodsmen 

cleared the land and split piles and piles of wood. 

They made a pile of wood from diseased beech trees 

dry enough to be burned this season. I spent the morning

stacking it in my shed and feeling like a happy squirrel

with a nest full of nuts. I never quite know if I'll have 

enough wood to get me through the season, so to 

re-stock in January is a wonderful feeling.

Later in the day I visited a friend's hill-top farm, 

and stayed out too long in the cold admiring 

the trees silhouetted against a yellow-orange sky. 

Later by her fire, we chatted about our days 

working with trees. She had spent the day

splitting a huge, ancient maple that had come 

down in an ice storm and hauling it 

out of the woods. 

On days of winter work and slow listening, I find 

myself wondering what a different world we might

live in if everyone remembered the language of trees,  

and practiced the art of soul-dreaming.