The storm

Illumination in Paul's kitchen

The snow started Saturday afternoon. As I watched the sky turn silver and sharp, it occurred that I still had three heads of celery, a half dozen leeks, and plenty of kale in my garden. Ten minutes later, I was standing in the snow, pulling up leeks with my mittens on.

Who knew there would be a storm before Halloween?

"There's a reason why snow doesn't fall until after the leaves do."

Saturday night we spent curled up in the windows, watching the snow fall heavy and dense on our town. The magnolia tree in the front yard bent until its branches touched the ground. We shook it off as best we could, but still woke to see splintered wood.

It is strange to have no power, no cell phones, no internet.

Strange and lovely.

The beginning

On Sunday, Hungry Ghost Bread, a wood-fired bakery, was open. They make the most wholesome yet decadent bread I've ever head. Thick round loves dusted in flour, crackling with fresh steam. They seemed to be the only place in town where you could get hot food. People milled around outside in clusters of two dozen at a time waiting for the next batch to come out. A few built a snowman while they waited. Everyone chatted, laughed, waited patiently. A front yard full of gratitude for the bakers working without power to feed the town.

Paul's homemade english muffins

Emily brought the red wine

That evening, we convened at the house with a gas stove. We drank lemon ginger tea and dry red wine. My friend made homemade english muffins on the stovetop griddle. They were fluffy and crispy at once, golden brown on the outside, dripping with salted butter on their split halves. We had minestrone with the fall harvest potatoes and carrots, spinach, and beans. We wrapped ourselves up in blankets, pulled on two layers of wool socks, and then ate olives by candlelight. What else was there to do?

Even the dishes looked beautiful in candlelight

Later, we went for a walk after dark. The stars cut the sky like silver thread in a deep indigo cloth. We don't get skies like this here; too much light from surrounding towns and cities. It was such a joy to see the Milky Way spill across the sky. The air smelled like woodsmoke. Not a single light was on in the neighborhood. At best, we could see the faint warm glow of candlelight through the upper windows.

A lone candle in a glass jar

Yes, there is terrible damage. Trees shattered, powerlines hanging through the streets. It is unlikely power will be fully restored for several days. And yet... this day was beautiful. Going to bed by candlelight. The silence. Driving through downtown to see it alomst entirely dark, except the flicker of candlelight. The way neighbors help neighbors, the sharing of bread and soup. I feel blessed.

Kripalu

Anticipation:

A morning drive through snow-tipped Berkshires.

"It looks like Narnia!"

Friends bundled in the cold, ready for good coffee and the sunrise.

We were headed to the Kripalu Center for Yoga & Health for a day of ... relaxing? Recovering? Spending time together?

Eating?

My friends may have gone to deepen their yoga practice, but I apparently needed to deepen my passion for food. Within minutes of arriving on the campus, I developed a personal relationship with my steel cut oatmeal. Really, you would have, too. It was creamy and toothsome and hearty and wholesome and divine. Who knew oatmeal could be like that?

The oatmeal was forgotten by lunch, however, when I met chickpeas in tomato cream sauce, lemony lentil dal, and cilantro-mint chutney. I really thought we had a future together until dinner rolled around. Somewhere between the opening note of roasted olives and garlic and the concluding bite of buckwheat banana bread (oh yes, the recipe is here), I decided my meal and I were going to get married.

Sadly, it turns out it isn't legal to marry your food. So I did the next best thing; I trotted down to the gift shop and purchased Kripalu Seasonal Menus: Fall and Winter by Deb Morgan.

Yes, I went on a yoga retreat for the food.

Okay, I may have done one or two other things.

There was a morning soak in a whirlpool so steamy that drops gently rained down from the ceiling.

Also, there was a yoga class on being grounded. Since I am the kind of person who falls over in Mountain Pose (yes, that's the one where you just stand there) I really appreciated the lessons.

Two dear friends talked me into Kripalu YogaDance, held during prime lunchtime hours. Hmm, a great opportunity to embarrass myself in front of three dozen Lululemon-clad strangers? Why not? By the time we left an hour later, shaky and ravenous, even my belly button was smiling.

We walked in the woods. We did more yoga. We curled up in the sunroom with tea and good things to read. We relaxed, we recovered, we rejuvenated, and we laughed. An amazing day.

Photographs by Sasha Eisele and Danielle Hall, with thanks to Sasha's iPhone.

Perfect

This is how one recovers from an absolutely wonderful week in the woods with absolutely wonderful children. You curl up in bed with a very good book. Perhaps there's some mulled cider somewhere outside the frame, and perhaps some crispy, warm apple cider donuts. Maybe there's a cat or two, stretching on the windowsill as they wait for you to settle back down. Delicious and perfect.

Should you need a new book to enjoy the next time you need to recover, try this one - The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern. Delicious indeed.

The Last Morning

Soaked

Rain - soaking rain - and we were out in the woods.

I am not particularly enthusiastic about being cold and wet. I'd rather be inside reading. Did I mention I have flannel sheets and two new books next to my bed here? Their covers are shiny with enthusiasm.

Nonetheless, we all pulled on our sweaters and wool socks, slid into rainboots and raincoats, and bravely headed into the rain.

We did exactly what every eleven year old should do when it rains in the woods: we played.

We tromped through thick brown mud until our boots stuck and friends pulled us out.

We slipped in and out of a stream.

We threw rocks for the splash, and we jumped over rocks, and sometimes we even fell in with a splash.

We wove sticks into boats, and picked the brightest leaves for Andy Goldsworthy sculptures.

We scrabbled up hills, holding back whippy branches for each other.

We scrunched behind trees and lay belly down on the ground in a few good rounds of camouflage.

We stomped in puddles. We shrieked and ran.

We nibbled on tree branches after hearing they were edible. We promptly spit out the tree branches after tasting them. (There's a big difference between edible and delicious.)

We came home so wet we could wring the water out of our sleeves.

We had fun.

The trade-off

I am here, which is to say, not home. A cabin in the woods.

My job is transformed for a week.

Instead of our familiar routine, there are songs about bears and alligators, homemade bread, slugs and hawks, and muddy feet.

Everyone wants to cross the stream.

They know this is why they had to bring two pairs of boots.

There is beauty everywhere, from the tissue paper egg parachutes to the honey colored leaves falling from the sky.

There is a trade-off here. Some things we give up in exchange for this week in the dry, crunching leaves. For the life of me, I cannot remember what we are giving up, though, other than a little sleep.

Perspective

This is Tia. She is seven. She loves puppies, her grandparents, and riding her horse in the rodeo.

I visited Tia and her family this summer. Her father told me how hard she is working to win the local goat roping rodeo competitions. When we talked, she showed me the silver spurs on her cowboy boots. "They're for rattlesnakes," she said. "I'll stomp on 'em with my spurs if they try to bite me."

Tia clearly has what it takes to win the goat roping rodeo.

Although Tia lives at a Trading Post with plenty of livestock, she needed her own goat for rodeo practice.

This is Billy.

Tia's dad and I picked him out for her this summer. It's what I think of as a win-win. I am the proud owner of a goat despite the fact that I live 3,000 miles away in an apartment in Massachusetts. Tia has an obliging goat that doesn't mind being chased around by a second grader.

As you can see, Billy is perfect for his job.

Rodeo season starts soon. I'm looking forward to hearing how Tia and Billy do. I have faith in this girl & goat team. I hope they win.

in the studio right now...

Little squares of paper and antique keys feel like potential.

No. 2

Second Morning:

Skipping rocks before breakfast while watching fall tiptoe in.

a little like flying

There's home - my long and light apartment full of books - and then there's home.

Tree swing in the backyard, hand-built by my father.

A single lobsterboat puttering in the Cove.

Sunlight, pine, the smell of morning.

What is cold enough for mittens is also warm enough for bare feet.

My heart is singing.

Once; Now

When I was twenty, my mother, Martha Hall, sold her first artist's book (Tattoo, above) to the Special Collections Library at Wellesley College. We met for lunch minutes after she left the library. I remember how she seemed to float, how she was glowing with joy. Mom, you're a real artist now, I said. Just like that, we were both holding the truth. It was her first moment as an Artist.

My mother died from breast cancer in 2003.

I miss her every day.

But she left behind her legacy: powerful, moving artist's books that keep her spirit vivid and alive. Martha Hall's books are housed in public and private collections across the country, including Smith College, Harvard University, The University of New England, and the National Museum of Women in the Arts in Washington, D.C.

Today I received word that an essay I wrote about teaching on the Navajo Reservation was accepted for publication in a new book. I spent my ensuing hours leaping through my house, literally twirling with happiness.

I wish with all my heart that my mother was here to share this moment.

But... I know what she would say.

Honeycrisp

There are thirty pounds of apples in my kitchen. Some go to school as a snack before Read Aloud. Others are destined for crisps or cake. Most have a future as applesauce, preserved in glass jars through latke season. And a small few will sit prettily as patient models for art sessions to be.

Vermilion

Vermilion feels like:

Fresh bread for breakfast, hot from the brick ovens.

Kabocha squash and chioggia beets at the farmstand.

New and old friends coming together to celebrate baby boys to be.

The first nudge of cold in the damp, wind-tossed night.

It feels like quiet joy.