Welcome to my new monthly series of exploring our relationship with the land we call home by observing how it changes throughout the year. My intention with this project is to redefine the traditional calendar we use; instead of naming the months we can get to know the time passing as changes in color, light, migrations, and abundance from the land. I have started to keep a journal on what I see, smell, hear, experience; I invite any and all of you to join in any capacity.

We all call different lands home. For me home is a tiny Island in Southeast Alaska called Wrangell; nestled among ancient coastal rainforests, tall mountains, icy waters (salt and fresh), and meandering glaciers. This is where I will be making my observations from.

I chose the title still because this time of year elicits the urge to root down and wonder in me; the land stands still in my ways. Nestled down in the depths of winter and secret regeneration I do not see much stirring when I wander the beaches and forests. When a high pressure system pushes through the sky takes on a tone of blue that can only be achieved in winter; so bright and clear that I wonder if this is the truman show. The mountains are heavily covered in snow on the mainland, no difference between glacier and land for now.

The ocean is so clear this time of year, I see every pebble lining the bottom and when we dip our bodies into it each week it shakes my bones its so freezing. But on the cold days steam rises off of it, revealing its warmth compared to the air. On those days the harbor is frozen lightly, embracing boats and floathouses tightly. The rain takes on a harsh feeling when it hits your cheek, unforgiving. Some days there is snow on the ground and the next day it has returned to the source; indecisive weather is now the pattern in this warming world.

Most of the forest birds have taken the long trip south (smart of them) but I see my familiars at the feeder; chestnut backed chickadee, junco, stellar jay, raven, crow, and the pigeons. Their down around their necks fluffed up and always in motion. The ocean birds in forever movement; large floats of surf scoters sit at inflows just off shore. They hang with the barrows golden eye and harlequins. I here their chatter before I see them, don’t get too close or they will take off like a great scream.

The salmon berry bushes, forever a teller of time, are light brown and empty. They reveal what is beneath them for a few short months every year, quietly creeping and moving underground to expand their network. Dried stalks of cow parsnip litter my side yard, soaking in the rain, they will survive for a long time.

In the Muskegs (peat bogs) the cold days harden them allowing us a rare chance to explore without wet feet and we are not disappointed. Following frozen ponds and dead forests; frozen crystals of ice adorn grass and shore pines alike. It never lasts and it is special every time it occurs.

But not everything is still! The light is creeping back to us, the nighttime growing shorter and the sunsets later and for that we say thank you. My morning walks to and from the gym are still cloaked in darkness but sometimes on my way home I see the light starting to spread itself over the ocean. And I smile.

I am buying seeds now because I know the growing season starts early and inside here; we are eating potatoes and garlic from the garden still. Venison is a daily for us, our freezer is full so we know hunting season was not too long ago. I dream of flowers and I wonder if they dream in their long sleep. We draw out plans for the garden now, making lists on what the boat needs to be in the water by spring, spend more time together on the couch when nights feel too dark to pierce with our headlamps and rain jackets.

Would you like to join me in re-discovering how we see the world, how we SAW the world for many lifetimes? I will be sharing what I experience each month on here, feel free to join.

STILL

Tongass Understories