"Drip drip the trees for all the country round,
And richness rare distills from every bough;

The wind alone it is makes every sound,
Shaking down crystals on the leaves below.

For shame the sun will never show himself,
Who could not with his beams e’er melt me so;

My dripping locks—they would become an elf,
Who in a beaded coat does gayly go."

The Summer Rain, Henry David Thoreau
Our first winter here in Michigan has been arctic. We live for the days when we can salute the sun, and it salutes back. Some brave days, we venture outdoors in our woolens and knits, layering, then layering some more and reinforcing our boots with plastic bags and extra socks. The wind bites and when the weather is above or near freezing we walk around the neighborhood scaling mountain peaks of snow along the streets, sidewalks and driveways that are resistant to melt or even shrink.

Nature is clever, providing some of the most beautiful sun ray filled fruit during the bleakest months of the year. To hold a plump buxom citrus in your palm is to hold a miniature sun. We call them sun eggs, thanks to a lovely little storybook by Elsa Beskow we received from Grammy at Christmas. These sun eggs burst with each cutting blade, and we squeeze out as much of the juice as we can, drop by drop. Then we find the leftover meaty parts clinging to the edges with our teeth, though with the more sour fruits we squeeze out another drop or two with our fingertips. My girls don't seem to mind the acrid sting of the lemons, biting into them as if they were the sweetest orange. Only after a few munches, they finally decide the summation of each bite has become too much sourness to handle. With our liquid sunshine, we have had lemonade, curd, custard, savory sauces for vegetables and meat, and ironically, ice cream.

As our powdered snow has turned to ice, we are experiencing yet another burst of freezing temperatures and winds. But during the few days leading up to it, the sun has filled our home more often and for longer stretches of time, minute by minute; birdsong was heard and praised on our brisk and hastened walks; winter projects are being finished; plans are being made for yet another trial at a summer garden; and we are full of anticipation for the changes we know are on their way. So we continue watching for spring to come, inch by inch.

It has been 120 days since my maternal Grandmother passed away. It was an experience I anticipated to endure someday, but I couldn't have known just how acutely it would affect me. In our phone calls the weeks before her passing she would mix up her facts, ask the same questions over again, and although I knew they were typical, even necessary marks, for her mortal end, it was difficult to see her once sharp witted mind become dull; and I could tell it frustrated and bothered her. Despite it, she always laughed that beautifully jovial laugh and ended our conversation with her sincere expressions of love. I knew she cared about me and my family, loving us entirely.

I guess it's typical, when someone loses a person they love, that their thoughts settle on memories, looking back at the legacy the person created through seemingly unimpressive daily patterns. Then those who live on look forward to their own legacy and the seedlings of what their own rhythms and habits are becoming. I am not only looking forward to the life I have yet to live, but how it will influence and affect my own children. I think about the person my grandmother was; the courage she had to live the life she wanted that brought her eternal happiness, and how her example of optimism, fierce loyalty to those she loved, and never forgetting to say I love you or laugh have changed me. She was an example of faith and steadfastness, not without flaws, but she was kind to everyone she met. Often her temper and pride got the better of her, and she always had a deep love for delicious food. Both, I inherited with the genes that skipped my mother's generation.

Time is cyclical. A fact not only apparent in the seasons and in the turning of the day, but in human lives. However, I believe there is another dimension. Not only does human lives repeat themselves in its basic round of existence, but if we properly turn to look at the lives lived before, and increase upon those lessons learned, we can turn that cycle into a spiral upward, always increasing in love and knowledge. A life lived unshared is wasted if not lived for others to benefit.

Life continues on after death, but not as we know it now. It does get better. Though I believe we don't have to wait until then to make it so.

Pears en Croute
inspired by this italian recipe

for the pâte brissée (barely changed from Martha Stewart)
1 1/2 cup white whole wheat flour
1 cup toasted white whole wheat flour
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon sugar
1 cup unsalted butter (or coconut oil) chilled and cut into small pieces
1/4 to 1/2 cup ice water

for the pears and filling
8 pears, peeled and hollowed out
1/4 to 1/2 cup dark brown sugar
1/4 cup honey
3/4 cup walnuts
1/4 teaspoon nutmeg

Prepare the pâte brisée 

Sift the flours, salt and sugar.

Cut the butter into the flour mixture with a pastry cutter or fork (or pulse in food processor) until crumbly.

Slowly pour in a couple Tablespoons of the ice water and mix with a wooden spoon (or process) until the mixture comes together but isn't wet or sticky. If the dough is crumbly when you pinch at it, add another Tablespoon of water until you have the correct texture.

Divide dough in half, flatten into two discs, cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate.


Bake the pears

Preheat oven to 400 degrees Fahrenheit.

Hollow out pears by cutting a circle around the core on the bottom side of the pear, then spooning out the core. If your pears are ripe, it should remove easily.

Combine brown sugar, honey, walnuts and nutmeg in a bowl, set aside.

Fill each peeled and hollow pear with a few Tablespoons of the sugar nut mixture then carefully set, bottom side down, in greased or parchment lined baking dishes.* If some filling falls out, just tuck it back in.

Roll out pastry dough to 1/4 inch thick (you may need to bring it out a few minutes before to thaw).

Cut long strips, about 1/2 to 1 inch in width. Starting at the top of the pear, wrap the pear with the pastry, slowly turning and overlapping about a third of the strip, being sure (as the italian recipe translated) "not to let any part be discovered". You can blossom out the pastry by gently opening up the top parts of the pastry strips with your fingertips, but I decided against it to make it a little easier.

Bake for 18 - 20 minutes.


Serve warm with a dusting of powdered sugar or vanilla whipped cream with a pinch of nutmeg. Or maybe with a bit of vanilla ice cream.

*It is easiest if each pear has its own dish. You can set all the dishes on one baking sheet to make transferring in and out of the oven easier.

We brought a bouquet home with us from our venture to the mountains what seems ages ago, and amidst the chaos of packing decided to press some to take along with us. A small remembrance of our Utah life where we first started our little family. The sentimental in me can't help but connect the symbolism of our life there, now preserved as a memory. It is faded and not quite as vibrant as in the moment we were living it which was so full and rich of motion, energy and life. But small mementos, pictures, videos, and written accounts are a reminder of that fullness. Sometimes so vivd I can almost smell the summer mountain air again.

I recently read Hannah Coulter, a beautifully written novel that articulates this poetically.

"You think you will never forget.

You think you will never forget any of this, you will remember it always just the way it was. But you can't remember it the way it was. To know it, you have to be living in the presence of it right as it is happening. It can only return as a surprise. Speaking of these things tells you that there are no words for them that are equal to them or that can restore them to your mind.

And so you have a life that you are living only now, now and now and now, gone before you can speak of it, and you must be thankful for living day by day, moment by moment, in this presence." [.]

Intentional, attentive living. It is my lifelong ambition, to live with presence.
Before I became a mother, I was not childless. I was surrounded by children, and I loved them with my whole heart. I was a dance teacher, with handfuls of little dancers who I taught and danced alongside. After years of dancing for myself and learning how to teach the techniques I was using everyday, I found a greater love for seeing a young child move with pure innocence. Something magical happens when a young child moves, not because they are told to, or because they are mirroring another, but simply because they have something inside them that can't help but materialize. It is an abstract thing, but as perceptible as they are. They move in ways that are as distinct as they are. I became someone who gave these small souls, who are typically given some shape to stand on and arbitrary movement to mimic, a vocabulary to create their own sonnets and epics. The abstraction that needed a means whereby, was their natural ability for creation. It was so fulfilling, helping these beautiful dancers and innate architects nurture their love for creativity.

When we moved away from the creative dance program I learned to teach at, the one Jane began her dancing at, and with no comparable instruction nearby, I decided it was time to revisit my love for teaching young dancers, my young dancer, how to create. In January I will be starting my own creative dance classes here in Michigan. I'm not sure if there will be an interest, or what their future will be, but I do know that even if it ends up being a class of me teaching my own daughter, there will be nothing more wonderful than being the one to teach her the joys of pure movement.

".. a man's life consisteth not in the abundance of the things which he possesseth." Luke 12:15

The decision of my husband returning to school has been a calculated one. One I had to weigh against the comforts of life. I never thought myself a materialistic person, but there I was wondering if I could happily live on much less than ever before. I reprimanded myself soon enough, we live nowhere near the sting of actual poverty, neither will we ever become acquainted. We are rich with the necessities of life, and more. My children will grow simply, but fully.

I am grateful for everyday moments that remind me what my life is worth. Moments that are ordinary, common, often weary with tedium. Somehow when life is at its weariest, usually when I am still and normal life continues on around me, I have a subtle realization of how full my life is with its evidence in the moment I am witnessing.

I am grateful for a husband who has weaknesses and strengths, and who loves and respects mine. I am grateful that he plays with our girls, reads parenting books with me, and will be my date to a modern dance concert if need be. I am grateful that he can gently take off my blinders of pride and open my eyes to those life moments I need to savor, and that his approach is through humor. I am grateful for the noise our children fill our little house with. I am grateful to have a little house to fill to bursting with noise, love, worry, faith, warmth, rhythm, and life. I am grateful for little expressions of love that are given at the perfect time, and never with insistence. I am especially grateful for the forgiveness I receive after apologizing to my daughter for moments of weakness. She teaches me every day how to love fully and unconditionally. I am grateful for my girls' love for each other, that their favorite thing to do is hold each others hand and walk through the house side by side. Their friendship is something I hope will only grow stronger. I am grateful for their insatiable imaginations and curiosity, even when it may result in water all over the bathroom, or dirt/mud/leaves/rocks tracked through my house, worms in my face, hour long walks around the block, extra laundry, dirty nails, messy hair, and an occasional mouth of dirt (theirs, not always mine). I am grateful that I can sing to them, especially when we sing together. I am grateful I can read to them, even when they ask a million questions mid-sentence (is that a universal kid-thing?). I am grateful I can answer their questions even if it's with "I don't know", I should figure out the answers to those. I am grateful that I have someone hanging on my legs begging to be held, I should hold her more. I am grateful for parents who taught me through daily monotony and daily acts of love how to love my own children with an overwhelming imperfect love, I should thank them more.

"Moments are the molecules that make up eternity" [..] I am grateful for the moments that I can recognize and appreciate, and especially for the moments I don't appreciate because they make me regret my lack of vision and clarity of love, causing me to be better. God's grace is evident in our every day. That we have each day to look for that grace is a blessing in itself. We can find joy in life, and usually they are in the details of love.

At night, after dance parties and imaginations have submitted to the weariness of the day, we close our day. Mostly accomplishing ordinary tasks, taking care of little bodies and teeth, reading stories we could otherwise recite from so much repetition, including the physical books for ceremony, then filling our souls with God's love and the small joys of kneeling together in a full sided square, at least until a little one breaks the shape mid devotion. The last ritual commences in the dark, with little whispers pleading for greater powers to ward off evils and the unknown, and among the last whispered imaginings of the day, my voice, imperfect, but all my children know of lullabies, humming songs my own Mother sang to me.

I don't know the exact songs she sang as I drifted off to sleep during my young childhood, somehow I cannot recall those memories as pure fact. But if she did, as I assume, I was likely clinging to her voice in the darkness as I know my Jane clings to mine. I was always afraid of the dark, and when I sing certain songs, I hear my mother's voice in my own. Like an anchor, an audible refuge, my voice assures my little one that she is safe, and that when your mind is full of wonderful things there is no room for the bad. I associate specific songs with my mother because they are her favorites. I wonder if she remembers evenings like ours, humming lullabies between interludes of telling children to stop talking and go to sleep. Then I wonder if I will be the one to remind my own daughters of those days, or if the faint memories of them will return as they sing songs with my voice and memory in them to their own children who cling in the dark.

Somewhere over the rainbow, blue birds fly
Birds fly over the rainbow
Why then, oh why can't I?
If happy little bluebirds fly beyond the rainbow
Why, oh why can't I?

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