questions answered, part seven (seasonal transitions)

I said I was going to spend January getting my act together before settling back in here, but I miss writing. So I thought I’d revisit a few more of the questions you asked last year that I never got around to. I’m telling myself to keep my answers brief – a couple of paragraphs – something I can knock out in just a few minutes. We’ll see how that goes.

Since I was just talking about transitions, I thought I’d address Sue’s question about seasonal transitions, although I’m not sure about the specifics here. I know that they can be tricky to navigate for a lot of people – particularly in the fall and in the spring. One of the things I like best about where we live is that we have four distinct seasons here. There are things that I love about each one of them, and I try to focus on those things as we launch into each new one. And there are things that get old each season, and although I try to just enjoy where I am in the moment, I still can slide into complaint mode. In my defense, how much swing can the human body really tolerate? We’ve experienced a 114 degree difference in recorded temperatures in the last six months (July-January), and nearly 140 degrees difference between wind chill and heat index for the same time period. So maybe a little griping is justified.

More than anything, I love the anticipation of the coming season. Each one allows me the opportunity to relinquish something for awhile, and embrace something new. It’s hard for me to let go of running in the winter, but the darkness forces me to do it – even more than the cold does. Every year I give a feeble attempt to move the running indoors, but it never sticks. Instead, I focus on other forms of physical activity – and this winter I’ve really pushed myself in strength training. I know that the gym will hold less appeal once the days grow longer and the temperatures start to rise. Those late winter / early spring runs are just glorious – even more so after a brief hibernation.

I miss the academic year in my adult-always-working mode. But I get a taste of it with the girls. I love summertime, and all the things that we pack into it, despite working full time during it. I love those hot and sticky nights at the Muny and the abundance of the farmer’s market. And just when blasting the air conditioning starts to get old, the days reach perfect running weather status again and I can fly. If I could freeze anytime, I’d stretch out fall a little longer. I think it can be a difficult time – it definitely feels like grief season for us, and I find that there are a lot of triggers for that in the season itself. I also have to actively work against feeling anxious in the fall. Part of it is just feeling like the season is so fleeting – sometimes it feels like the busyness of upcoming holiday season creeps in earlier and earlier. And I miss the sunlight, and each day that feeling increases a little more. But I think it’s good for me to practice at letting it go. Maybe that’s what fall does for me each year, forces me to turn off a few things, one by one. Let a few things slide, stop chasing (or fleeing) things, and settle into them a bit, in the dark. Because the sun will surprise me again in January, and the temperatures will surpass expectations at some point during February, and March will bring new bulbs and earth smells and magic and I can’t can wait.


I read somewhere recently (I can’t recall where) that it can be a good thing not to jump right into New Year’s resolutions in January, but to instead wait for February to begin. January is a weird transition time between the holidays (full of disrupted schedules), and the more mundane and monotonous days of late winter. There were lots of good points to this theory that resonated with me. I typically feel behind the game when January 1st rolls around because we’re always out of town and then trying to come home and settle in and push the reset button in the tiny little cracks and spaces around the work and school schedules that immediately start back up again. We’re almost halfway through January and I feel that we’ve accomplished half a year’s worth of tasks, but there’s an urgency there that I can’t quite justify or articulate. I don’t want the momentum to stop, so I’m having a hard time pushing the pause button. I don’t want to write about what I’m doing because then I’m not actually doing it. I just want January all to myself – to regain my footing and figure out where I’m headed this year.

So I’m taking that space for myself, but I can’t control everything in my path. M is sick with the flu, which will likely impact the schedule of his upcoming appendix removal that was slated for this Friday. I have a dozen things I’m involved with that need attention, but I can’t seem to catch up on the emails and the correspondence and the scheduling. We have our own deadlines with the house project that seemed doable until they didn’t. It’s Sunday afternoon and I’m tired and frustrated and impatient. I’ve pushed worry over M’s surgery to the back of my mind, but now that it’s here – and maybe on hold again – I’m realizing that the stress is hanging out there, even unacknowledged and ignored. I want the broken parts fixed, I want him healthy and home and healed. I want it over.

Transitions aren’t easy. And sometimes figuring out when I’m in the throes of one is the toughest part of all.

holiday letter 2017

I’m writing this letter in my head as I cut and glue. Earlier today I sat at my desk at work while tuckpointers worked outside my window, grinding mortar out of joints all day long. It felt like an extended visit to the dentist – not a dull background noise, but one that vibrates the body and pierces the skull. By the time I arrived home my senses were dulled. I wanted to curl into a ball under the covers and listen to the sound of my own breathing and the silence of nothing else. I wanted to draw a warm bath and read my book until the water chilled, and then move the book reading to the couch in front of the fire. I wanted a long pause, with warmth and silence.

Instead I started dinner. I emptied the dishwasher while the oil warmed in the skillet. I sliced green onions and minced ginger and poured a glass of malbec as I worked. M tidied up around the first floor, sorted through the mail, folded some laundry. E rested, pale and feverish, and F played quietly in her room. It wasn’t silent, but it was warm, and there was a different sort of hum to the evening. We finished dinner and moved through baths and showers. The girls went to sleep and M joined me for awhile at this table where I’m still sitting. He’s asleep now too, and I’m once again in this place, working late in a quiet house, thinking about this past year and the year ahead.


The idea for this card came to me just after we witnessed the solar eclipse this past August. We had made a lot of plans around the event, traveling out of the city to the family vineyard of close friends, and all the grandparents joined us for the adventure.  We experienced two and a half minutes of totality, and from our perch on a hill we could watch the distinct line of darkness spread across the valley below us. Stars began to appear in the sky, and we all took off our glasses to stare at the moon and the corona around it.

For a moment it felt like the world had turned upside down. But the moon’s location in front of the sun didn’t flip a switch between night and day. It was a movement that occurred over the span of several hours, and during its passage it slowly revealed things that were there all along – the stars, the shadows, the cricket-song. It was experiencing the ordinary in an out-of-order way, collectively, that was so profound and moving. We spin and orbit and travel and turn in ways we never think about, but what magic there is when everything aligns for a moment and focuses our attention and makes the big things small and elevates the little things for all to see and hear and feel.

In September we went camping with friends for the weekend. On our second night there, the four of us walked to the end of the road, away from the campfire and tents. We turned off our flashlights and let our eyes adjust for a few minutes.The sky came alive in front of us. The longer we stood in the darkness, the more we could see above us. More stars than I can remember seeing at one time, the band of the Milky Way stretched out in front of us. There were so many stars that in places it looked like land masses covered in sparkling snow. I thought about the vast number of stars above us, I thought about the vast number of snowflakes that must fall to blanket the ground below us. I started to think about them both together, and decided to paint the stars turning to snow on the page.

I dive into our favorite winter books – Owl Moon, by Jane Yolen and The Snowy Day, by Ezra Jack Keats. I want to paint large sheets with watercolors and cut out full moons from them. I set up a board and mix up paints in shades of pale yellow to warm gray. I add layers of paint a few minutes at a time – before breakfast, after dinner, anytime I pass by the table and have a moment to pause. I decide to slice a crescent shaped void into the front of the card to reveal a portion of the moon from the outside. I cover the dining room table with a drop cloth, and paint four sheets of black paper at a time – using a toothbrush, I splatter paint in tiny spots, building them up at the base of the sheet into a hillside covered in stars-turned-snow. Each sheet is different, I change the technique some as I go. I work in batches until my hands cramp, and then I stack them up when dry. Regular life moves around the piles, as it always does. I dream about a studio space away from the center of the house as I work, but then I realize I like this setup. The girls set up their own projects now and then next to me. M joins me at the table occasionally. They bake all our gifts next to me, and it smells divine as I work.

I think about what I want to add to the scene. I start with our house, and then I add in more of the neighborhood. I layer the rooftops of other buildings as they look from F’s third floor windows. The buildings give way to trees, and I think of the vastness of Forest Park in the middle of our city. It’s my escape, the place where I run, and the shape of treetops are added in. I highlight the windows in our house a little more, and I add a few trees next to the house. I want a wrought iron fence that marches down the street, but it seems crazy. So tiny and so many pieces to cut, when there are one hundred to make. I save them until the end, just in case I can’t do it. But I know myself – I’ll do it. Somehow I find a way. I find the minutes somewhere, pull them out of the darkness of night. I’ve taught myself to find rest in places other than my bed – I find it in movement – running and lifting and stretching, in the kitchen, in books, in the garden, over breakfast with the girls, at the theater with M. I find it in December with this tradition. It gives me the space to think, to be quiet and still, to dream about the new year ahead.

The piles of black silhouettes are complete, and I’m ready to glue. I move through the stack but something is missing. I try a wreath on the house, greenery on the fence. It’s not right, and the color distracts. The moon seems to glow on the sheet, and I wonder about pulling the yellow light down below. I make a rough cut star and try it on the tree. That’s it. I cut ninety-nine more and I am done.

I’m in my favorite bookstore on a Sunday afternoon working at a book fair. In between greeting customers, I read poetry. I work through several thin books as I stand. I gravitate towards poetry for the resistance – I want to read poems that speak to protest, that lift the vulnerable, that fuel the fire. I read Denise Levetov’s Making Peace for the second time, but this time it sits with me in a new way because of the card idea I’m working on. I read it as I think about process, as I think about diving into something new and challenging and hard even when I can’t clearly see the finished product in my head. The fourth stanza sits with me as a charge for the days and years ahead.

I think about peace all the time, and I think about it in the context of this city, in times of protest, in the fight for justice and equity. Our desire for peace can seem holy and good on the surface, but too often its call is a mask for oppression. Peace can be a system put in place to quiet the noise of rancor and protest and pain. Keeping the peace can be easier than talking about difficult things. Desiring peace keeps us out of the streets, even when that’s the only place some voices are ever heard. Pushing peace lets us off the hook, which is in direct opposition to so many of the religious teachings of this season. Peace is offered to overcome fear. With less fear, we can speak up, speak out, fight for justice, and center equity in everything we do.

Ah, but the end of that poem!  “Each act of living one of its words, each word a vibration of light – facets of the forming crystal.” I recite it in my head again and again as I splatter paint across the pages, stars to snow. The finished cards are no masterpiece, but the process of making them was a gift. I share this challenge with you in the coming year – may we all find the courage to stand for what is just and right, and let those acts – and those words – open the way for peace to appear.

To the work ahead –
Kristin, Marcus, Ella and Frances