last light on the swan river

I tried my best to get out to ski last night but it wasn’t in the cards so I settled on a quick walk along the “Wild Mile” of the Swan River. It’d been a long, kind of tough day so my mind was spinning a thousand miles an hour, and I felt very restless- a feeling that usually dissipates when I’m outside. I wandered down the trail for awhile, feeling anxious and unfocused when I came around a bend and saw the setting sunlight beaming across the river. I climbed up on a snow bank to get a better look and marveled at the river’s midwinter strength and beauty. As the sun set I walked further down the trail, watching the trees sparkle and sway in the breeze and finally felt some calm. 

This Lenten season I am committing to practicing gentleness and forgiveness, with myself especially. To intentional daily movement, to finishing books I’ve started reading, to screen free mornings. 

I believe in adding to our lives during this season, joining Jesus in the wilderness by challenging ourselves to be better servants and more wholehearted justice seekers. What is lent calling you to this year? 
Be brave, spring is coming. 


The earth laughs in flowers. (Emerson) 

I am constantly humbled by the way this world wakes up each spring. From dead & brittle to impossibly green & bursting with blooms- what a resurrection we get to witness! I’ll never stop taking photos of these little miracles. 


This poem from Molly Jean Bennett has been haunting me since it was published on The Collapsar earlier this month- enjoy!


When I ask my septuagenarian friend if he has ever
been heartbroken, he says it is a young question

Have I ever cracked an egg and found a yolk inside?
Have I watched the sun drop over the river like

I could begin again? Did I throw onions in a buttered
pan and feel hunger pure enough to ruin me? I ask

him to go on but he gets quiet. I am full of young questions.

“All I can tell you is that there is a moment when you finally stop & refuse to pretend this life is not yours & suddenly being strong looks a lot like laughing & crying & dancing & listening deeply to the people you love & now & then you will look back at that old way & wonder how you ever believed that life was something to endure.” (storypeople) 

cottage living

IMG_8198-0I woke up to two inches of fresh snow and fog rising off the lake, blending with the mountains and reflecting the morning sun. This weekend was busy and tiring but entirely joy filled. Having a group of kids at camp always lifts my spirits, but this weekend I got to lead the retreat, rather than just be the person at meals. It felt so good to be leading games and songs, watching the kids laugh together and support each other. Spaces like camp are special, important and meaningful & I will never stop believing that.

Today is for rest, after 48 hours of shouting, singing, laughing, skiing and working. The light this morning was stunning and I thought I’d take advantage of it & take a few photos of my little house, and the pieces of it that make it my home.


This ivy was on the brink of death when I found it outside a cabin this fall. Inside, near my huge picture window, it’s doing much better.


Ginny bought me these two prints about two years ago, with no knowledge that I’d be moving to Montana in the future. The wood wall hanging is made from trees that grew and were harvested at Mar Lu Ridge, my forever home.


little comforts.


plants & mountains, always. (banner by ginny)


Maybe one day I will make my bed every morning, but that day has not yet come.

I am anxiously awaiting warmer days, when I can eat outside on the porch in the evening, and string my hammock up under the deck. Until then, it’s not a bad spot to watch the snow fall.

carolina low (the decemberists)

the new decemberists album finally dropped this week, to much, much anticipation and hope. It’s not their best, not by far, and in some ways it feels a little contrived, but Colin Meloy’s lyrics still grip my heart as they have for years. Here’s hoping they add a Montana date to their tour schedule this summer!

bits of truth

“I think we like to talk a lot about being brave because the actual doing of it is so freaking terrifying. And tiring. And ordinary.

It’s my belief that true fearlessness comes from living loved. When we find our worth and our value in Christ, then, as the Psalmist wrote, what can man do to us? I don’t think we can be a people-pleaser or an approval-addict AND be brave with our lives. Perhaps that’s why fearlessness or bravery starts with our identity first, it’s the deep well from which we draw living water, enough for today.

I believe that bravery is born in the quiet and ordinary moments long before it’s seen by anyone else. Sometimes it’s as simple and devastating as the moments no one else will ever see – the moments of daring to be honest with our own self, of laying down our excuses or justifications or disguises, of asking ourselves what we really want, of forgiveness, of honesty, of choosing the hard daily work of restoration, of staying resolutely alive when every one else is just numbing themselves against life. These are why our friends matter so deeply: they are witness to the sacred secrets. Not all secrets are terrifying things, some of them are beautiful and transformative.”

-sarah bessey


I had the immense blessing of writing poetry under the guidance of Claudia Emerson when I was in college. She was at Mary Wash for many years, but has since moved on. Her office was a place of beauty on an already beautiful campus- full of light and treasures and wisdom. I am thankful for all the time we spent talking about poetry, about books, about trees, about life (and how much of these things are the same).

Her poetry has inspired me for years and I consider it one of the great honors of my educational life to know her and to have had her input in my own writing. She is currently battling cancer, and today, underwent a brain probe. She is resilient and brave, but such a battle should not have to be fought by anyone. Keep her and her family in your thoughts!

(from Blackbird: a poem from her forthcoming collection)

A Partial Ledger: Dr. C.D. Bennett

The 11th of July 1914—
and a leper is made as clean as this:

in a log house on a tobacco farm in a storeless
churchless mostly roadless place they call

Flint Hill—a bed by the window for whatever
air moves from the field through it: this one

comes into the world scrawny and will be
small—worried over—then tall and thin—

that thick shock of black hair for now a glossy
patent crowning the day before him—

a first entry—live infant—the flesh
untouched and scarless—the body unfolding

as though for the first time in my hands—no part
that was not made to open
open: and the breath

in the mouth of the deaf mute something I am
not to doubt can be opened at just the words—

I am not to doubt what words can open: he cannot
hear them first to know what they mean: like placing

a hand to a closed door—the palm can sense
the fire or cold behind it: I can smell

the sugar on the breath: I wear my thermometer
in my watch pocket—encased in chased aluminum

on a chain—its glass having lain beneath
all their tongues—its mercury having measured

their fevers: no instruments for seeing in—
I watch with the naked eye to mark where the mercury

reaches—look at the white of the eye—the aperture
of the pupil—the back of the throat: and so I listen

to what courses along the capillary bore
of the stethoscope—a closeness I can feel

in the eardrum: the sound of the bowels, of the heart: pneumonia
I have come to hear as the old person’s friend—

the way the breathing goes away quiet
as in a drowning in a pond—an angel

from it I listen for in the lungs:
everyone has
owed me for this—for something—the years of bleeding

ceased—crooked bones made straight—and they have paid—
telling everyone—as I told them not to—

with buttermilk (quarts)—berries (pecks)—greens (messes)—
eggs and eggs—chickens—some alive—some

dressed for the oven—perishables—all
here—recorded: when they have little they name

their sons for me—when they have nothing—let me
name their daughters:
in the King James: a ginkgo

leaf tied and knotted surgical-neat with red thread
to a wild violet pressed deep into the text—

I have forgotten the why of some miracle
underlined—all the miracles underlined—

every one I thought to be instructive—
must have thought to memorize:
now I make

my own accounts—drawings—eye-drafts of maladies—
and I harvest what I can—gall stones—kidney stones—

a ganglion cyst—necrotic finger—
all bottled in formaldehyde—labeled

by date and name—lessons for someone else
I shelve behind the textbooks—behind all

the possibilities—my ended causes:
with the consumption—fever—the faithless blind—

the influenza: there is the time the lightning
strikes the plow and kills the mule and the one

behind the mule: the time it strikes a nail
at the back of the head of someone leaning against

a country store—out on the porch just to watch
the storm blow in—the body blown out of its chair—

its shoes: the time a boy is feeding sugarcane
into the press and he feeds his hand into it

too—and the mule keeps moving like the hour hand
on a clock face: they have to coax it to back up

as though to undo the hour that cannot be
undone: the hand I can save—a withered thing

for the handle of a hoe—but cannot reverse
any more than I can the wasting

despair that comes with the hoe blade—that one
dull tooth working the shell it will never

break through: and still I consider the text:
spitting on the ground—my spittle a wet-

shimmering pearl in the dust—and with the clay I make of it
I place it on the eyes and tell the man

to wash in a pond he has never seen, and ask him:
what do you see? as you ought?: and I will let that

be the first thing that he sees: his face
in a pool of clearest water—then—

trees walking across it—toward me.