January 6: Letter from the Moon

I had trouble falling asleep last night, which was unexpected because I've been sleeping between 10-12 hours a night lately thanks to being sick. As I was wandering around the house at 1:00 a.m., wide-awake, I became aware that it was really bright outside. No wonder I couldn't sleep: the waxing gibbous moon was beginning its descent behind the bare limbs of the backyard. Moonlight flickered on the river's surface, and the whole yard looked silvery pale, almost eerie. I peered out the back window, hoping to see some animal activity, some sign of life moving in the night besides myself... nothing but light.

The interior of the house was fully illuminated, as well. A white square of light glowed atop a small table in the living room. Without my glasses, for a moment I perceived this as a solid, paper-like object--an envelope, perhaps--until I realized it was just a lunar illusion, a trick of moonlight.

If only I could
open the moon's bright letter
cast on the table.

January 5: Black duck

Still sick, still home, still spending a lot of my time just looking out the window, this morning I watched a single black duck make its way up the river against the current, edging around the newly developed fringes of ice on the banks, poking among the exposed stones and in the eddies. It hung out within view for a while, a dark silhouette in churning grey water framed by the sepia tones of the leaf-strewn banks and bare trees above. Then it was gone. Only the trees, dead leaves, and pale, expressionless sky remain. And me, here at the window.

Ice on the river.
Lone black duck skirts the edges,
too soon out of sight.

January 4: Honey

When one has a cold, fewer things are more soothing than a steaming hot mug of tea with honey. As I squeezed the Beech Hill honey, the viscous golden fluid swirling through the hot water, it felt like I was adding a dose of living gold, a bit of sweet, magic medicine drawn from the summer goldenrod, blueberries, and asters on the hill's lovely fields.

A dose of honey,
summer distilled, what I need
for a winter cold.

January 3: Dreams and synchronicity

This one's a bit arcane. Last night I dreamed I was editing a document for my director. He had a word in the document, "nouses," that I questioned him about. I thought he was trying to write the plural of the French word "nous" or "we." Remember, this is a dream, so the fact that that doesn't make sense is beside the point. We ended up agreeing that it should be "nouveaux," which also makes no sense. Shortly thereafter I woke up with these strange words echoing in my head.

After my morning ablutions, I checked my email. I'm signed up for wordsmith.org's A.Word.A.Day. Each week has a different theme, and in honor of the new year, this week's theme is words that begin with the "new" sound. Yesterday's word was "numinous," and today's was "noosphere," which means "the sum of human knowledge, thought, and culture." I realized as I read today's entry that although I hadn't taken much note of yesterday's word or the week's word theme, something had clearly registered in my subconscious. And thus I dream about nouses and nouveaux and awaken to noosphere, a delightful synchronicity of sounds to wrap my mind around.

Each dream, the mind's new--
blank slate for the noosphere
to noodle anew.

January 2: First birds

I like to keep track of the first birds I see each year, although I confess that at the start of this year, I haven't yet put in an effort to see any particular birds. With that disclaimer of my laziness, here's what I've got for the first two days of 2012:

1. Rock pigeon--flock seen swirling above the Smoke Stack Grill before the start of yesterday's road race
2. American crow--seen flying overhead while running the race
3. Herring gull--ditto
4. Mallard--heard quacking in the nearby Megunticook River during the last mile of the race

Today all I saw in the back yard were crows in the trees and gulls overhead. Nothing on the feeder. Nothing singing in the neighborhood. One of my resolutions is to bird more this year, and in that respect, I haven't set myself a very good example thus far. Thankfully, I'm not embarking on a Big Year--that's when you set out to see as many bird species as possible in a certain geographic region within a calendar year. A recent movie of this name, starring Owen Wilson, Steve Martin, and Jack Black, portrays well the zany obsessiveness of this quest. Anyone looking at my "year list" at this stage, however, would clearly understand that I'm not going for any records!

An everyday bird,
but I don't tire of watching
the crow, its antics.

January 1, 2012: Starting off on the right foot

My friend Ron has been running, and I've been slowly getting back into running form thanks to a patient physical therapist, so we decided to run the Set the Pace 5K together in Camden today. Getting up on the first morning of the year and running a road race seemed like a good way to literally set the pace for the year--facing a physical challenge in the company of friends.

The first year I ran this in 2009, it was 0 degrees at best and my legs felt like lead. This year couldn't have started off on a more beautiful note: blue skies, 40s, no wind, bright sun. Perfect running weather. My original goal was just to finish, but as we got underway, that shifted to finishing with Ron in sight, and then to finishing ahead of a young woman running in a pink skirt and knee socks (not that I had anything against her fashion sense, or her--she was just a very visible target). I did all those things, my body still feels intact, and I even won a prize in the post-race raffle. I have a good feeling about 2012...

Just body and breath,
road beneath my feet, blue sky.
I can still do this.

December 31: New Year's Eve

We rang out the old year today by taking down the Christmas tree, carefully removing each beloved ornament, packing it away for another year. The process is always a bittersweet one for me. I love seeing the soft glow of the tree's white lights (and one string of red cardinal lights) each evening. And I enjoy the balsam fragrance of the live tree here in our living room. But it's time. Christmas has passed, needles are everywhere, and I like to begin the new year with a fresh, clean house. So down it came, and then the house-cleaning happened, and little things like filling the bird feeder. We showered and shaved. My husband is now making a salad to take to our friends' house for dinner. I've even paid my current bills, so I can start the new year debt free.

A dear friend has a ritual that the first thing that passes her lips in the new year is smoked salmon. Other friends have posted things on Facebook about grapes and black-eyed peas. The peas are lucky in some way, and apparently you're supposed to stuff your mouth with 12 grapes and then spit out the seeds. For me, I guess my ritual is to start the year in good shape, with a clean house and a clean slate.

Hard rain washes clean
yard, house, cars... washes away
the last of the year.

December 30: Snow Globe

White sky all day, like a blank sheet of paper wrapped around the landscape. Then, as if someone shook the air, big dry snowflakes began to fall all around us. It was like walking through a snow globe, hushed and quiet. Until the crows began cawing upriver. It's always something with those crows. They only allow so much stillness.

The world's a snow globe,
self-contained, fragile. Careful
not to shake too hard.

December 29: Water flowing

Watching the river cascade over the spillway of the Seabright Dam this afternoon, a never-ending sheet of white water washing down the concrete, I began to wonder where it all comes from. We tend to think of lakes and ponds as relatively static bodies of water. But obviously Megunticook Lake and Norton's Pond, the sources of the river, replenish constantly or they'd have run dry by now from this constant outflow. Rainwater and melted snow aren't enough to keep the river brimming against the splashboards as it is now, as it always seems to be.

Where does it come from,
this river ever-flowing?
I think: hidden springs.

December 28: Dramatic skies

At one point today a co-worker exclaimed, "Oh my god!" in a tone of voice that made me ask what was wrong. "The sky!" she replied. I'd been so focused on my computer screen that I was startled when I turned my head to look out the window. A foreboding wall of dark clouds filled the sky above the river. I wondered aloud if we should seek shelter in the basement before a tornado formed. Yes, this is late December in Maine, but it was 50 degrees today. Anything could happen out there.

A minute later the mailman showed up. He too was casting anxious looks at the sky, and commented that he half expected to see storm chasers following his truck.

The clouds eventually broke up and sun shone with a strange brightness for a while, and then gray clouds gathered again. Fortunately I stood up from my desk in time to catch a pleasingly lurid sunset. These shifting sky patterns made for a dramatic finale to the day.

I hope I never
stop being amazed by sky's
ever-changing show.

December 27: Morning birdsong

After a mostly restful four-day holiday, this morning it was back to work. Even though I enjoy my job, it's still such a mental challenge for me to transition back into work mode after good time off. And today, already running late, I knew I'd have to shovel some snow and scrape the ice off my car before I could even get out of the driveway. So I wasn't in the highest of spirits as I trudged up the walk toward the car.

Until I heard an unexpected cacophony of bird song from my neighbors' feeders just up the street: chickadees were "dee-deeing," titmice were whistling, and goldfinches were chattering and tweeting. They sounded thrilled to be awake, alive, and (presumably) eating. How could I not be cheered? It felt like a tiny slice of spring had descended, just for a moment, onto our snow-lined street.

If you are a bird,
no matter weather, season,
morning is morning.