MORNING STROLL

As early as I can each morning, I like to stroll around the perimeters of my yard (an acre), letting the blue spruce, ponderosa and lodgepole touch my shoulders, perhaps annointing me with a bit of rain or dew. The dogs and I take in the scents, our ears reaching for unfamiliar sounds. This morning it was the call of Canadian Geese, so high up that they resembled coyote's calls at night. Searching the cloudy skies I spotted V after V after V of geese in their restless flight to the Northeast. Why? Where were they heading? One wonders. They were small like birds handrawn by a child, each one an out stretched "m" and moving. They exchanged positions, held back to form a new V's, about 200 of them calling, calling. They thrilled me. Our local geese have stopped flying over us twice a day because we are newly in the local airport flight pattern, so we see them less often. I drove up and down the valley for my work later in the day, holding those geese in my mind's eye, loving that we share the skies together, that their raucous song is flying around my mind. They are like cousins whom I haven't seen for awhile, and wish the best for. Cousins now traveling on to parts unknown, leaving behind memories sprinkled around the back yard. Life felt rich and fluid, thanks to them.

MATRIX

The startling fact my husband and I discovered well into our marriage, was that each of us had moved every two years our whole lives. But by the time this dawned on us, we had already moved three times, all within the same small city. I think this is the "greener on the other side" syndrome, and when I added up the number of years I had accumulated, tacking a month on either side of every move, it turned out six of my precious years on earth had been spent moving.

We bought a house. We've been here eight years, in a community of about 20,000, in a valley of 50,000 that nestles up to the Bitterroot Mountains in Montana. The beauty is spectacular. This morning, for example, the fresh snow stands out starkly against the blue/green/black of the pine covered 6,000 ft. shoulders. There's a bank of cumulus clouds rising over the mountains, the early exchange of thermals, and shortly we'll feel a chill as the night air moves through the valley.

We are nestled, as surely as flotsam and jetsam lands in the brush along the Bitterroot River in the spring. And we're rooted (which is how more brush grows in a dry year). Honestly, we might have sprung loose and headed north to Nelson, B.C., discouraged with our country's national choices. But our kids returned, one from Arizona and the other from Alabama, and that's all it took.

But it's more than family that feeds us here. And more than the natural beauty and proximity of hiking trails and hot springs. It's also being known, being witnessed by friends, neighbors, clerks, bank tellers, even the guy that changes my oil. It's eating eggs from the chickens I see from the highway, and watching my vegetables grow on the CSA farm we subscribe too. And knowing there's a bunch of folks who've been here over a generation growing organic products I can trade with.

When I first came to Montana in 1973 I sought out a place called Crystal Park. It's on another stunning highway east of here. I dug quartz crystals: amythest, smokey and clear. I studied how they were usually nestrd into each other, clustered, growing ever so slowly beside and simultaneously away from each other. That's how I feel on our one acre surrounded by fir, spruce and pine, only a mile away from Main Street, with our address in the phonebook, and our burial plans filed at the local mortuary.

What does it mean to be witness for one another? I recall my Nana, Gertrude, who had lived in her village in upperstate New York for over 50 years. A freak accident took place in front of her house, and the young daughter of dear friends was killed instantly. Gert said she stayed home for over two weeks. But when she did go into the village to do her errands, she experienced the strength and incredible love of every person she met without stopping for conversation. She said that morning healed her more than anything else. Her neighbors felt her pain, and offered her silent support beyond sympathy cards and phone calls.

The exchange taking place on a daily level between ourselves and our neighbors can't be minimized. A woman who attends my yoga class (at a Community Center across the street) made a laughing comment a few weeks ago: "I walk by your place to get here and I just love your yard, Star." Now let me tell you, my yard is an ever changing mosaic of new projects, cars, wood piles and gardens. Her comment led me to feel my aching back and endless task lists aren't just for me. Neither is the journey through the grocery store, nor the trip to the library. We are growing from each other, feeding each other, and in that invisable network, we are building our community and our planet.

I'm hoping your matrix serves you well. The sun is warming my frosty bushes, and my heart feels full to be here and now. Star