I Was Going to Put Off Writing This Quotidian Update, but

Christmas is jumping down my throat and I still have a present to mail. No, no, no I haven’t been procrastinating. There were just a lot of snafus involved. First, I ordered it from Amazon a month ago but forgot to change the destination address so I am now in possession of two large gift-wrapped containers of horse cookies that would cost more to mail to their REAL destination than they cost to buy. THEN…

I designed and ordered notecards featuring the big crane painting. Originally they were going to get here three days ago and now? Maybe today. Maybe the 22nd. They are part of the present that is now sitting in the “room of all cool things”. Seriously. For a person who had “finished Christmas” Thanksgiving weekend, this isn’t going well…

Sigh. Other procrastination? Dog poop in the frozen yard. New batteries in the motion sensor lights. You know. The stuff we don’t do.

Yesterday my friends and I went to the museum in Del Norte to see the Christmas show. The museum has had slow but steady business during this month. I could tell that because 1) the grab bags are mostly gone, and 2) Louise, who runs the museum, told me. 🙂

My paintings look good on the wall, still (no change there) and one of them is sold along with a garden sign, some cards and a small tree ornament. Not bad. My friends posed in front of my paintings and I told them to smile. This really IS history, though I think we might be wearing masks into perpetuity. I actually thought about whether the mask I planned to wear yesterday went with my outfit. Seriously.

It wasn’t a long adventure, but, on the drive home, I got to talk about something that’s troubling my mind. The talk was so needed, and she was so helpful. One thing about this bizarre moment in time is that it’s a little difficult to have those helpful, needed, conversations. I treasure my friendship with these two women.

Now I’m going to put on my puffy coat and head out to the frozen waste (ha ha)…

UPDATE: Poop picked up, batteries changed.


Quotidian Update 7,000,000.a.2iv

There are a couple of little kids waiting in anticipation this morning for me to drink my coffee, eat my breakfast, wash up and head to their house. It’s a very strange thing to be the BIG DEAL in anyone’s day. We will be making these:

Paper bag mask featuring Teddy T. Dog

which was something I remember making in school.

Yesterday Bear, E, K and E’s husband, B, and I went to walk at the Refuge. It was a perfect day and a good time was had by all. There were dozens of cranes, the mountains were white in the distance, the air was cool, the wind was mostly quiet. It was a perfect day and everyone had a good time.

K and E walked faster than B and me, maybe a block ahead of us the whole way. I used to walk 4 mph — and run — and now? I can keep up with K and E, but I don’t. I think in the experiences with the hip and all, needing to walk slowly (if I was going to walk at all) slowly changed me as a person. And Bear changed me. Or something. Anyway, it isn’t important, just interesting to me how my own life has been a teacher.

There’s a philosophy that our souls are immortal and inhabit earthly vessels for a period of time in order to learn things. If that’s true, then this little earthly vessel (which has always been a little fragile) is here to teach me the power of my own will and the stronger power of surrendering my will. It’s like when I’m walking along, paying attention to Bear, thinking my own thoughts, and suddenly I hear cranes warbling in the distance, the warble moving closer and I stop thinking, I stop moving, I search the sky and I wait. Somehow I think I have something to learn from these birds, a species that’s been on earth for at least 2.5 million years.

The other day I was about 30 feet away from three cranes. They knew I hadn’t seen them and began making a sound I hadn’t heard before. Their camouflage is good and it was a while before I made out their forms against the gray and beige of the dead grass. Bear and I stood quietly watching as they kept “talking.” A sandhill crane is 4 feet tall. I’m 5. They are big birds and they have perfected survival. “Well, there’s that little lady again. She’s no threat, but I think we should say something in case she was planning to come this way.”

I have no idea what I’ll learn from the cranes; nature is not that kind of school, anyway. They are fascinating and beautiful, so I’ll just keep hanging out where they are and watching them. Whatever else, I get sky, mountains, the company of friends and dogs and a little exercise.


Beans and Friendship

It’s pretty woodsy in my backyard at the moment. I went out yesterday with my trusty branch saw to reconnoiter and decided it was way too dangerous for me to approach. How do I know but what one little handsawable branch isn’t holding up the universe? I don’t. I said, “Teddy get out from under there,” and came back inside.

Today I’m taking the day off. Yesterday, I spent hours cleaning the remnants of the snowpocalypse from the garden part of my yard. I had a long chat with the beans, explaining that I was sorry a bunch of their leaves were hanging there near death from being weighted down by a wet and frozen bed sheet. I then told them the story of Faith, the Indomitable Aussie Pumpkin who came into the world this time last year and STILL grew to be almost 10 inches in diameter. “Buck up, Poets,” I said. “It was just a snowpocalypse. Not the end of the world.”

The tomatoes are just going, “Well THAT was different.”

Meanwhile, everything that’s not broken looks like nothing happened, like summer was never interrupted, and now it’s business as usual.

Today my Facebook memories brought a photo of me with a woman who was one of my dearest friends for thirty years. She was my boss at the first teaching job I had in San Diego, and our relationship evolved from a not especially great boss/employee relationship to real friendship. She was an extraordinarily talented painter, and some of her paints are in my “studio”. I don’t use them. I do use her palette knife and some of her brushes. In the paint box, in the colors she used, and even in the way the brushes are “worn,” I see Sally, her way of painting and, well, her. It’s very lovely. The featured photo is us together at her house, Thanksgiving 1997.



For the past week I’ve had more human contact than I’ve had since C-19 started. My neighbor and I spent a couple mornings together moving and placing flagstones — and talking, then we took a morning for a hike and conversation. Saturday Elizabeth came over with some produce from her garden and later on my friend Lois and her husband Michael met me in Del Norte where we ate pizza on the patio of 3 Barrel Brewery, social distanced and masked, but it was impossible not to hug. We usually see each other every couple of months, and the last time was early March at the Crane Festival. It was really, really wonderful to be together.

Then, last evening, I was walking Teddy, and as we turned toward home after sneaking onto the golf course for the last leg of our walk, I saw the kids by their fence waving frantically at me. In those moments I’d happily die because life really does not get better than two kids jumping up and down in joy because you’re coming to visit them. But, I didn’t die (thankfully) so we got to hang out.

A few weeks ago M told me that when she grew up she was going to ride wild horses. C, her brother, is going to ride bulls. Most of the people in their family — including their mom — have rodeoed so it just makes sense. I said to M, “You’re afraid of Teddy! How are you going to ride a wild horse?” She thought about it and nodded.

Last evening, they ended up out in the alley briefly (they’re not supposed to be there) and M decided she was going to pet Teddy. I told her to reach UNDER his chin not over his head. I made him sit. She petted him and even scratched his ears. Then she said, “Now I can ride a wild horse.”

This morning my friend Perla, an artist from Argentina who’s lived in the US since the 80s, came to visit. First we made a tour of Monte Vista’s trees so she could collect a variety of leaves for her eco-printing projects. Afterward, we sat in the shade in my front yard and talked for a couple of hours about what we’re going to do when Trump wins the upcoming election. Yes, I said “when” because I think it’s distinctly likely. Whether our plans are real or just dreams to help us through this anxiety provoking moment, I don’t know, but Perla already escaped an authoritarian regime and her perspective on current events is different, less complacent, even than mine.

I like our escape plan, but I hope I don’t need it. I love my little niche in the world — still, at the same time, the escape plan would be an amazing adventure.

I’m tired from this extremely unusual amount of human contact, but I feel very warm inside from being loved and loving in return. One thing this whole thing has shown me — including my recent fear that perhaps Bear had a very bad bone cancer — was how much courage it takes to love something, someone, and allow oneself to become attached to it. I believe this is a lesson I’ve gotten from being here in a world where my love for it is returned and magnified. This valley spread itself in front of me, poor beat up legs and all, as if it were saying, “There is more here for you than you can now imagine. Give me time to show you everything.”

Walk with a Friend in the Big Empty

Yesterday afternoon my neighbor and I took off for the Big Empty with Bear. It was a glorious cool day with wind, but not the kind that knocks over trees. We had a good time. She’s a wonderful walking companion. And, she has a good eye. Soon after we started out she spotted a feather. It’s a tail feather from a Northern Harrier Hawk. I asked if she wanted it and she didn’t. But I did. I wanted it to keep my Sandhill Crane feather company. I didn’t want to carry it all the way — I know it’s a feather and all but I didn’t want to smash it or lose it along the way. I set it carefully in the grass hoping it was fixed well enough not to blow away.

Karen is curious about things and I really like that in people. We took Bear’s favorite little loop and Karen got to see Yellow Headed blackbirds for the first time. At the end of our hike one of them posed on a reed fewer than 5 feet away from us for a very long time. “They’re not very afraid, are they?” she said.

“That’s the whole point of a wildlife ‘refuge’.” I thought about a talk she and I had had a little earlier. I’d told her I got into going out there because it was open, empty, beautiful, quiet, a natural world I didn’t know much about, there’s no virus, no riots, nothing but itself.

On the way back talk turned to current events. Where I live, BLM means “Bureau of Land Management” and I’m pretty sure people in the West have to take a minute to translate BLM to Black Lives Matter.

“I don’t even know any black people,” said my neighbor.

“I don’t think there are many out here.” I thought then that a lot of America — in area — is like that. It’s not a matter of exclusion, either. There aren’t many PEOPLE out here. Then I thought of the so-called “fly-over” areas that make up a lot of 45’s base, and it hit me that it’s exactly things like THAT that alienate people out here from people in cities. While American cities are in turmoil people out here are worried that they aren’t going to have enough water to bring the crops to harvest. Our biggest problems in the past 24 hours have been a massive power outage that affected 2700 people and below freezing temperatures just when the first cutting of alfalfa hay is on the horizon.

Fly-over regions feel “ignored.” A rancher I know and respect very much said that 45 is the first president to care about farmers. This is categorically NOT true, but it takes a LOT of noise to penetrate the Big Empty — partly because of the wind, and partly because a guy on a tractor for 10 or 12 hours a day or out with his stock is NOT watching the news. Maybe that guy saw 45 yammer about “Our great farmers” twice and never saw Obama say anything. That doesn’t mean Obama didn’t say (or do) anything; he did. It just means the farmer didn’t hear it. If a tree falls etc.

The “big city” of Alamosa had two marches in support of George Floyd. Compared to other spots in the San Luis Valley, Alamosa is pretty urban. It has a university and a community college (branch). The Walmart is there. There are 9000+ people there. It’s a good bet that the people in Alamosa are better educated than the average just because the professors are there. An urban life is definitely more techno centered than a rural life as far as news media is concerned, anyway. The demonstrations — judging from photos, I didn’t go — were, except for one bizarre event — small and peaceful. People walked down the Main Street with signs and other people stood on the curbs. I don’t know who was supporting the march and who was not, but if it had made the TV news it would have shown a very different world.

My friend asked me why I thought all this was happening now. I told her my belief that this is the moment that African Americans were fighting their OWN civil war, that I didn’t believe anyone could give another person freedom because that person could take it back. I told her I believed it was phase 3 of the liberation of the slaves, a “war” that had to take place but that I don’t like it. I told her it made me sad, that I thought about all the African American students I’d taught and how it was a wild spectrum of motivation, preparation and comprehension, that it wasn’t just about us white people understanding the Blacks, they had to understand us, too, because we’re all on the planet together. I told her I liked the birder in Central Park a LOT and I wished I could invite him out here to see the Cranes, but then, I said, “Maybe he’s been here already.”

“It must not be easy to be a black guy who loves birds,” she said, “I saw a black professor of ornithology and I thought that was very strange.” I nodded, thinking about how we are all inured to expecting African Americans to be in THIS place and not THAT place, to be good at basketball but never have tried Nordic skiing. I thought about how I KNOW there is an attitude among some African Americans that there are things white people do, but that black people don’t. It isn’t just white people stereotyping. Inclusion involves so much more than we think of at first.

We got near the place where I’d stashed my feather. We both walked slowly along the road where the feather should have been. It wasn’t there. My amazing friend crossed the road, thinking the wind could have picked up my feather, and found it caught in the grass on the other side of the road.

I think we’re both glad we live here.


Being There in the Alley

The other evening, with Bear on the golf course, I was ready for the imperatives of the time. I had headed out wearing a ski buff and was prepared to lift to cover my face although there are few people around. About 20 minutes out, I spied a man and his daughter coming our way.

I stopped, pulled Bear close and asked her to sit, my usual way of preparing Bear to meet new people. I’d mostly forgotten the “great imperative” of our moment. I lifted the ski buff. The man said, “It’s OK, it’s OK. We’re going to walk around you.” There was PLENTY of room, like the WHOLE golf course. He was very concerned that I was afraid.

I kind of woke up inside to something. “Thank you,” I said.

“She looks happy,” he said, looking at Bear who was disappointed at not meeting the people, but putting a good face on it.

“This is her happy place. Have a beautiful evening!”

“You too.”

I wanted to cry, touched by that man’s consideration of an older woman who appeared to be afraid. I wasn’t afraid. I’d mostly forgotten where we are right now and when I remembered I wasn’t sure what to do. It’s just weird.

Monday, when I got home from my ramble in the Big Empty, I was in a great mood in spite of the stupid woman who was letting her dog run where she shouldn’t. My neighbor hurried over with a flash drive on which the whole mailbox accident had been recorded. I asked her how she was and she said, “Meh.” I kind of teased her about feeling “Meh.” Later, I felt bad about teasing her. Godnose we humans have myriad reasons for feeling “meh” in normal times. I texted her apologizing. She said it was OK for me to tease her, but…

Yesterday we met in the alley (as per usual) and shared about this “Meh” thing. Tuesday I was “Meh.” We talked about the virus which turned out to be the source of our “Meh.” As she said, “Everyone has an opinion about what we should do.”

That’s true and moreso in her case because she has grown kids with families (and opinions). I explained my position which is the virus is nature. “I wish we’d had more snow last winter, but I’m not out demonstrating about it.”

“That’s a good point,” she said.

“Lot’s of people are never in nature. They don’t really know what it is.” I might have said, I certainly think it. We talked about the farmers. We’re sure they might be wearing bandanas against the dust out there planting potatoes, but are they “social distancing”? Why would they be? My “Big Empty” is a postage stamp in this immensity. We talked about how lucky we are here. We haven’t faced a lot of the shortages people have faced in other places. We don’t have crowds of people living here. She shared how she likes some of the changes to her life, changes I understand. I made some of them by choice when I moved here.

Nothing earthshaking in the conversation, just camaraderie. JUST camaraderie…and empathy. I’m more convinced every day that the best thing we can do for each other right now — and maybe all the time — is just BE there.


“Oh yeah, I’ll Tell You Something”

Englewood, Colorado. I’m at the hugging-the-parents-around-the-legs stage of life. Dad and I are Christmas shopping. I can only hold two of his fingers, my hands are so tiny.

Lincoln, Nebraska, eighth grade science field trip, sitting in a planetarium watching the show with Rex Bennett whom I’ve known since fifth grade. My first romantic hand-holding. “I think he likes me!”

At the Roxy Theater in Bellevue, Nebraska, my brother and I are there for A Hard Day’s Night. The small-town theater is packed with teenagers. I’m 14. The kid next to me reaches for my hand during the movie and we hold hands all the way through. I don’t even know him. A little voice tells me it’s wrong to hold a strange boy’s hand, but I don’t let go.

My dad’s in a coma. I am doing homework (reading, English major, you know). I feel a movement, a slight squeeze on my hand. I look up at him to see he’s come out of the coma and is looking at me with all the love in the universe. We stay like that for a while, savoring the moment and the envelope of love. I notice his IV needle has come out. I call the nurse. ❤ ❤

My niece, two years old, a little girl I barely know. We’re playing in a park near my brother’s house. She tells me there is a bear in the pine trees at the end of the park. I ask “Where?” and while she points, I get on all fours and roar. She puts her hand on my back. I walk on four “legs” on the grass for a while, Andrea’s hand on my back much the way I place my hand on Bear’s when we walk. Ultimately I have to stand up. Andrea reaches for my hand and we walk home. I love her so much. ❤

Arches National Monument. Francesco and I run across the slick rock to a look out from which we can see the Delicate Arch. The road below is closed and this is the only way. It’s almost dark. We can’t stop. We have a mile to go. We hold hands to keep each other near, safe, and on the trail. ❤

I am walking to my car after a day teaching at San Diego State. As I cross the bridge that goes over the highway to the parking lot, I am approached by a dad and his tiny, red-haired girl. She looks up at me. I look down at her. She lets go of her dad and puts her hand in mine. Dad laughs. “I guess she wants to go home with you!” My hair is also red.

I hold my mom’s hand in the hospital about a month before she dies. It’s sweet even though she thinks I am someone else.

My Aunt Martha is in the nursing home. She’s telling me the story of her adult life, how she’d made her decisions and why. “I love you, Martha Ann.” “I love you too, Aunt Martha.” ❤

Sometimes the weird little eventualities of growing older are painful — not physically but psychologically. On our recent exploration of the town of Del Norte, my friend has one of those moments of embarrassment, confusion and regret. In her usual gentle way, she confides her feelings. I take her hand. She squeezes mine. I say, “It doesn’t matter.”

I’m watching a movie on my lap top, sitting on my sofa. My big white dog comes in from outside, jumps up onto the sofa, and puts her big paw on my leg. I put my hand on her paw. ❤

And now a stupid but appropriate song…


And I Just Keep Learning One Difficult Lesson after Another…

The Monte Vista Crane Festival has been going on all this weekend and I’ve had house guests — my friend Lois and her developmentally disabled (and awesome) son, Mark.

Yesterday morning we went out to look for the cranes. It was the first time I’ve experienced driving at the Wildlife Refuge with the tourists. It was interesting. Lots of immense rented SUVs. There were fewer cranes in the usual places, but it was a gorgeous day if you like warm air, clear skies and that sort of thing.

Field of Cranes in front of the San Juans

After that we went to the Craft and Nature Fair. Among the exhibits was a raptor rescue from Albuquerque. I was involved with an organization like that in San Diego and I was so happy to be so close to the birds again. I talked a long time with one of the women working there. It was an incredible, engaging conversation about teaching kids to love nature by exposing them to these amazing birds.

I love Mark so much, but it’s difficult sometimes to tolerate the reality that he cannot look forward to the consequences of his actions like “normal” people do. I love him for his own sake, but also for the sad fact that some of the things he does remind me how lucky I am to understand WHY you do this and not that.

Yesterday Mark set his shoe on the table. I yelled at him, “Get your shoe off the table! You don’t put shoes on the table!” In my mind’s eye, I saw where that shoe had been, walking around on dirt comprising ground cow dung, elk droppings, spit, urine from various ambulatory beings, godnose. You know, dirt.

He looked shocked — I’m not a person who yells at people, or dogs. Bear ran outside and didn’t want to come back in. Bear’s breed is just like that. Mark was chagrined. I felt weird. Lois and I had to cajole Bear back into the house, and Mark went back to listening to music.

I thought the rest of the night how our knowledge and understanding of how to live life builds incrementally in immeasurable particles. I thought of how important reasoning is in our ability to navigate life safely. It’s actually a pleasure to be able to think.

In the early evening we returned to the Refuge, this time to a more distant spot, a barley field that had been mowed to attract the cranes. There were three school buses of Crane Tourists, and thousands of cranes in the field. There was also the 360 degree spectacle which is sun set in the San Luis Valley.

Most photos were taken by my friend Lois. My photo is the cranes in the field.


You Say Hello…

In my life “Good-byes” fall into four main categories — those I can’t avoid, those I instigate, those that are instigated by others, and those that happen slowly over time, kind of an “evolving door” rather than an exit.

The first “good-bye” I couldn’t avoid was the death of my grandmother Beall which happened when I was 10. I didn’t understand any of what was going on at the time, honestly. There was the adult world of grieving daughters — my mom and her sisters — and the quiet world of confused cousins, my peers. It was just strange. But it was my first experience with death. The second was to be my cat, Henry, who came home one day with a broke back and while I was at school, my parents had him put to sleep. It was right and completely different from my grandma’s death, not so much because it was just a cat, but because there was a clear injury. I’d gone out to the garage to let Henry in and found him like that. He tried to jump up into my arms as usual.

The next was my father’ death which resembled Henry’s death far more than it resembled my grandmother’s. I had the chance to say “Good-bye” to my dad one afternoon and from that I learned that, if you can, control that moment so you can hold within your heart a perfect memory, a perfect image.

After that, over the years, there was what anyone in this temporal existence expects. One death after another. One permanent good-bye followed by another. Grandmother, mom, aunts, dogs, dogs, dogs, friends. You can’t always say good-bye but after a certain time, “Good-bye” is part of every “hello.”

I’ve had to break up with some boyfriends, divorce some husbands, and end a few friendships intentionally. Those are hard good-byes. They can involve packing up some future-ex’ crap and putting it in a wheel-barrow in the front yard. They can involve difficult phone calls, “No, Sweet-cheeks, I really mean it. I’m tired of you calling me and venting about your horrible boyfriend and not doing anything about it. I’m not your sob-sister. I’m your friend. That guy treats you horribly. If you hadn’t told me all these stories about him over the years, it would be different. I feel used because you don’t do anything about it. I don’t want to hear from you anymore.” Ending friendships can involve “ghosting,” leading to numerous “Why don’t you call me back?” messages which you answer in your mind, “because you kicked my dog, you excrescence.”

And, of course, there’s being dumped. In my life that’s probably been no weirder than in anyone else’s.

Then, you know, people move away. People’s interests change. People’s lives evolve. A lot happens in our lives, and the silent “good-byes” often have no bad feelings. Maybe there are going to be thousands of miles between you or that our lives that — once similar and synchronous — are now wildly different.

I have a few friends with whom I’ve been connected for more than fifty years. The friendships have survived because someone has held on — loosely. Our lives have gone in their own ways over the decades, but the connection remained alive. Some of these friends are old boyfriends (now literally, senior citizens) which is actually kind of cool. Whatever the connection was back in the dim recesses of time, something more important than the feelings of being “in love” was born and endured. My best woman friend from the 70s is still my friend today. We never agreed on everything — in fact, we disagree on a lot of things — but we value the other deeply for certain ineffable qualities of being that we never discovered elsewhere.

“Good-bye” is inevitable and while I’m not sure that every good-by opens the door to someone new, it’s useful to believe it does.


That Was the Year That Was

Recap of 2019 — I bought Nordic skis in January and skied (Langlaufed) maybe 10 times before the snow melted. 

One of the happiest days I can remember is the first day I took them out and found I could still ski, even after 20 years. I got to take Lois out in February and we had a blast. We had SO MUCH SNOW it was a dream come true for me and Polar Bear Yeti T. Dog. Winter also brought Bear and me a small herd of mule deer to watch and kind of hang out with daily — from a distance.

The Tracks of my Deers

In the winter I did some watercolors (of which I’m very proud) of the world in which I now wander and an oil that is, I think, my best so far. All of these are of the Rio Grande and the San Juan Mountains which I watched changing every day I took Bear out for a long ramble. Winter 2019 was a spectacular winter for me.

Storm on Windy Peak

In late June, I lost my Dusty T. Dog after 14 years. I. had adopted a mini-Aussie pup, Teddy Bear T. Dog a few weeks before losing Dusty. 

Because of all the snow we got, the snow melt was record-setting, and I got to see “my” river in flood for the first time. Really, really amazing

Rio Grande in flood at Shriver/Wright

The year brought a few visits to Colorado Springs to see friends, to get my new hip checked, and a pilgrimage to Denver with Lois and lunch with one of my oldest friends, Ron, and his wonderful wife, Joni, in my old hood which had not completely changed. (I was happy). From that came a deep understanding of my life, the changes, the distance I’ve traveled — heart, mind, soul and feet — and the consistencies of which I was unaware, leaving me grateful for old friends, new old friends and my own courage. ❤

At the Narrow Gauge Book Co-op

I had the incredible experience of writing As a Baby Duck Listens to Thunder (and another book, Fledging, with its very tiny audience of three people including me, but a beloved project nonetheless). Reading Baby Duck at the Narrow Gauge Book Co-op was a little scary, but it turned into a very sweet event, supported by my incredible friends. The reading, the newspaper articles, and all that experience ended up entailing was great — including being on the Radio. (Video will NOT kill this radio star, believe me.) 

In November/December I had the opportunity to participate in a group art show at the Rio Grande County Museum with other San Luis Valley artists. I exhibited and sold books (I sold four) and read from Baby Duck again, this time to a different audience. It was wonderful, inspiring to me as a writer. Along with the show, I got to know the women who run that museum and I like them very much.

Some health weirdness, but who, at 67, does not have to deal with some of that? The weirdest was the horse-fly bite in June. 

Adventures with friends — some lunches in various and sundry places .In early spring we went to Creede and wandered around that lovely town. We tried the new restaurant in Del Norte, and went to studio tours in South Fork and Crestone. December brought Christmas lunches, tea parties and dinner with precious friends.

Health Food lunch in Crestone

The year brought only a few good walks with the dogs, not as many as I wish because of an injury I sustained in late September that has taken almost 3 months to heal. But now it’s healed just in time to Langlauf which I’ve done twice already this winter. Karen and I were finally able to ski together after talking about it for 3 years!

There’s much more, but this is long enough already. Thank you again fates for conspiring to bring me here, to Heaven, where I am and have been so incredibly happy. ❤