Whitaker Road Sunset View, Missoula, Montana

I'm so thankful for the extra daylight shifted to the end of the workday.
The morning people are just going to have to tough it out for another month or so to recoup their wake-up daylight.
This view is from the corner of Whitaker and Dean Stone Roads, up above Missoula's South Hills neighborhood.  Click here to look at the map, then scroll down to where the road divides at the pasture, then zoom in for the - believe it or not - rotating street view.

River Meets Sky, Downtown Missoula, Montana

Mmmmm..... can you just feel the reflective peace seep into your soul? Not yet? Look longer, and breathe in, slowly; out, slowly. Repeat as needed.

Expanses of water and prairie always uplift my state of mind. The stretch of calm, stroked by rippling fingers of wind, provokes a feeling different from the craggy awe of mountains and roaring rivers.

Rapunzel, Rapunzel....Downtown, Missoula, Montana

If Rapunzel's father was a banker, she might still be up in the tower....

(Click here to take a short virtual stroll starting from this corner of Missoula's downtown.)

Dyno-mite, Downtown Missoula, Montana

A tradition of artistic expression holds forth in downtown Missoula’s Taco del Sol. You too can flex your sculptural muscles in the medium of leftover foil wrappers. But first you must eat; I heartily recommend their fish taco, a delectable deal at $2.85. If you make it to town for a visit, I’ll even treat.

Lone Leaf, Missoula, Montana

To a child, the four seasons seem so definitive. A winter scene needs only a few waxy sticks, even if you possess the coveted 64-colour box of crayons. Bare trees are black, twiggy silhouettes against a blue sky. A paper-white ground sets off a green pine next to a solid blue house with a red brick chimney.
Lately, I’ve noticed the seasons bleed one into the next, regardless of the solstice date on the calendar. Winter branches may retain clumps of faded leaves; a Chinook wind pumps temperatures to spring levels for a single day in the middle of a sub-zero week; blooming daffodils poke through a crust of sparkling snow - at least in Montana.
And isn’t it so with deeper issues of our lives? As a child, we like to believe there are obvious bad guys and good guys. But sometimes today’s good guys harbour a past that includes bad choices and far-reaching consequences. I think of this as I see my overdue reminder to write to an elderly friend who abruptly landed in prison, despite his 20-year record as a model parolee. Our daughter questioned, “But I thought he was a good guy?”
Grey technicalities and politics are tricky to explain to a teenager with a strong sense of justice. Our conversation reminded me how thankful I am of two things: that judgment is not in my hands, and that the daily demand for grace is always ready to be satisfied.

Charmed, I’m Sure, Downtown Missoula, Montana

In some shadowy ‘70’s corner of my childhood memory there lurks a regional charm bracelet craze. While jewelry has never been an obsession for me, I’ve forever been smitten with little things (yes, especially you, My Little Fur Child), and the minute, tinkling replicas were transport to a tiny imagined world. Memory being fuzzy around the edges, as pieces of childhood are wont to be, I’m not sure who in my family had one of these mobile collections. But I recall a sense of sitting close to someone older who allowed me to carefully, charm by charm, examine each miniature, sliding the bracelet along their wrist to bring the next small wonder into place for consideration.
I think charm bracelets will always revolve back into fashion, sometimes in alternate forms. Just last weekend a friend explained the significance of each detailed bead charm on her bracelet, recalling family milestones and relationships. Thankfully, the best kinds of nostalgia never go out of style.

Winter Waiting, Bozeman, Montana

Perhaps it’s merely an emotional Doppler effect from handling the first seed catalogue in yesterday’s mail, or maybe there really is so much angst-laden waiting projected from this wintry backyard scene.

Waiting for enough sun to eat al fresco dinners on the sheltered patio.
Waiting for new shoots on the bare little shrub that reminds me of the pirated forsythia branches waiting to root in my milk glass vase - the one my sister secretly covets that features vertically aligned white bumps.
Waiting for new, soft, pale tips to peek shyly from the ends of the pine branches.
Waiting for a fresh coat of fence stain to counteract monts of weathering winter.
Waiting for the snow to fully melt and not blow back in overnight.

Interestingly, my initial view of this night-time courtyard produced feelings of cozy peace. Timing is everything, so they say. I don’t care what paranoid thoughts the groundhog had about his shadow - it’s high time for some early signs of spring.

Dark Sky, Hamilton, Montana

'I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day'

By Gerard Manley Hopkins 1844–1889

I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day.

What hours, O what black hours we have spent

This night! what sights you, heart, saw; ways you went!

And more must, in yet longer light's delay.

With witness I speak this. But where I say

Hours I mean years, mean life. And my lament

Is cries countless, cries like dead letters sent

To dearest him that lives alas! away.

I am gall, I am heartburn. God's most deep decree

Bitter would have me taste: my taste was me;

Bones built in me, flesh filled, blood brimmed the curse.

Selfyeast of spirit a dull dough sours. I see

The lost are like this, and their scourge to be

As I am mine, their sweating selves; but worse.

 

 

Every new-to-me read of any Gerard Manley Hopkins poetry underscores why my eldest niece so loves his writing. Thanks, A., for the introduction.