
Lacy Canyon
The snow adds something delicate, even shy, to stone—like it's wearing a new dress. Lately, I have felt shy in that new-dress kind of way. This week, though, I've felt vulnerable in another way: deep in my gut, scared. I'm worried for the safety of my loved ones; I'm worried for the unimaginable millions aching with fear after inaugeration. We need to expand, listen, try to hold pain even if it's terribly hot. Find the ways to do this in your life: Stop a moment. Breathe. Now, think: what vision do you have for the world? It's ok, go big. It's not about arriving there; it's about direction. What's something you can do to move in that direction?


These are from about a year ago when I decided to go walk in the canyon in the morning before the night's snowfall had a change to melt.

As I was walking up to the trailhead, juncos were bleating and flying off away. There are many color varieties of junco: orangey juncos like this one, grey juncos, red-patched juncos; I think the most distinguishing feature is the two white tail stripes you see when they fly away (what I usually see).

Walking back out of the canyon...the distant mountains looked so strange, so blue. Why? I'm not sure.