One of my favorite new connections here involves a long walk from my car and a murmur about the last time a rapid test was taken; boots come off at the door and slippers are offered. Wine is served in ceramic mugs. There are radishes in soup with a garnish of cilantro, and belly laughs six feet apart in a cozy cabin, while dreams are shared about life and love and career and adventure after a pandemic. Slowly but surely, I’m finding my people.
There is a need inside of all of us, whether we admit it or not, to know and be known. We’ve all been saying it for years, online and off. I wish I could be more vulnerable. I value authenticity in others. I just want the real thing, whatever it is.
I agree and yes, this is a human condition conversation for the ages. But this, this is also how I feel about the weather.
I want to wear a sweater during actual sweater weather. I want to sweat in July. I want a holiday’s temperature to authentically (and aesthetically!) match its theme. I want my environment to be real with me. So if we’re gonna have winter, let’s have winter. Bring it.
I can’t put this book down; I want to send it to everyone I know. It specifically addresses cold weather, but in it I’ve found a compelling argument for a seasonal mindset year-round. There is something deeply moving, deeply empowering about letting Mother Earth take the lead and choosing to dance to the rhythms she sets for us. Our ancestors were right.
I truly, truly love it here. Alaska is now my home and I already feel connected to her, in my gut and in my bones. She is unapologetically herself. She gives me exactly the weather she’s got to give. I know where I stand with her; I am getting to know her and vice versa. I love that. Knee-deep in the snow with my daughters and dogs is exactly how I want to watch a January sunrise.
I open the screen door at first, but it’s not enough. I find myself coming back, again and again. Eventually, I stretch out across the open sliding door onto the balcony that extends from our bedroom.
Half in, half out. Sun on my toes; face in the shade. It is still not enough. I take off just enough clothing to get maximum-and-still-decent exposure. Ames knocks politely and then, oh my, when I call him in.
It’s just underwear and besides, nobody can see us up here. I had to get in the sun today.
He nods his head solemnly in understanding as he asks where we will go today...
Somewhere in the sun, I reply.
– written on a Sunday in May; today’s sunny Sunday works, too.
We welcome the New Year on an old loveseat we’ve dragged beneath the bedroom window.
Out of nowhere, Chris laughs aloud about the way I used to bang furiously on the walls of our old farmhouse, to get the mice to quiet down so we could get some sleep.
Now here I sit, feet tucked beneath me and blanket atop, pausing a book to stare at the glacier outside. A bald eagle lands on a nearby tree branch, eyes level with my own.
What a life it’s been with you, my husband says.
To be sure, winter solstice is one of our most celebrated days here in Alaska. I had butterflies and warm fuzzies all day, even as I trembled beneath my office’s conference table during a 6.0 earthquake this afternoon. On this, the shortest day of the year, the earth and sun work together to bring us back the light.
“Acknowledging the winter solstice is a decolonial act for Indigenous people. The winter solstice is an opportunity for Indigenous people to reconnect to the natural world, sharpen our senses, and access our most powerful selves.” – NDN Collective
To live in Alaska, to live in 2021, is to greet each day as she comes, with uncertainty and hope. August was good to us. September, too. Highlights included lots of hiking, adventures across the bay, prepping for winter on our property, yummy food and fun outfits, berry picking at a friend’s, settling into my new office, adjusting to remote schooling against our will, and a farewell to the farmer’s market. So long, sweet summer.
We put our beloved bulldog down this past spring. Rescued from the pound days after we married, miles from our sham of a honeymoon, one could argue Delilah rescued a marriage many thought was doomed from the start. That dog gave us thirteen years of love and loyalty, snuggles and slobber, redemption and responsibility.
After traveling thousands of miles across the country and enjoying a year of Alaskan life, Delilah gave us the gift of the slow goodbye. She gently slowed until she stopped, making the end easier on all of us. She died with the help of a vet in our living room, with candles lit and soft music playing. It was not unlike a birth. It was my kids’ first death ever. It was beautiful and it was sad.
I’ve been sad enough for a few lifetimes since 2018. When Delilah died, I did not want another dog. We still have Samson, who’s also nearing his end, and besides… I just wanted to be sad. Chris wanted to grieve by starting over and getting a puppy, but I just wanted to be sad. No puppy. No starting over.
But then my coworker’s dog had puppies. The end became a beginning and thus is life. We started over.
Welcome, Jolene Delilah Babe the Pig Kincaid… Jo for short.
