For 39 seconds, I am careening completely out of control, laughing hysterically as sled and snow meet, bounce away and meet again.  When I stop-- by tipping over into a hard pack snow, more or less leaving a side profile of my face in it-- cheers erupt from the top of the hill.  My children are elated. Both because I sailed (in my mind, like an X-Games rock star) over The Jump they built, and also, because I bit it at the end.  What a perfect combination.

We've been at this, running up hill with hard punch-crunch steps through our white-washed field, a long time now.  I can tell because there is a steady river-- the kind with a fast moving current-- of clear snot running down Elizabeth's nose and Max's long blond hair has little snow dreds between his helmet and shoulders and Noah is smiling a Real and Genuine Smile.  He's almost 13 you know. And today was one of *those* days.

It didn't start out that way: the sullen, angry, back-and-forth barbs came after a morning of homework and work being done side by side, of talk of the new school (a homeschool co-op meeting four days a week for upper middle and high school) and what he missed while away.  Those moments were all man-I-love-you-big-kid sighs.  We'll skip the bickering source and resolution, because at 12, you get a free pass on Mom telling your life stories on the Internet.  Instead, let's cut to my favorite (funny) part of the arguement:

me: You know what, this is not up for debate. And if it were, you'd be losing, because your entire argument is flawed, faulty, unsound.

Noah: while that may be true in your opinion, politicians seem to be full of faulty arguments and they win elections. I mean, remember Palin?

Me: She didn't win.

Noah: Well, yeah, but I still see people with her name on their bumper all the time here.

Me: Don't remind me.

Noah: So technically, I'm probably better than a politician because I'm at least aware of the potential flaws in my arguement. Did you hear the schtick on What What Don't Tell Me about Mitt?

me: um, you are changing the subject.

Noah: No, actually, I'm backing up my point. Which would make your previous statement faulty. Therefore I think by default...

me: GO. OUTSIDE. NOW.

An aside: during all this loveliness, Max and Elizabeth had been reduced to WWF fighters.  Should they ever opt to pursue a career in wrestling, I believe Max would be The Pioneer of Fake Crying and Elizabeth would be the Screaching Scoundrel from Sassville, but that's beside the point.  Every move was producing a NO FAIR YOU TOUCHED MY SORE PINKIE TOE YOU BIG CHEATER I'M NEVER GONNA PLAY WITH YOU AGAIN YOU POOP! kind of conversation.  

So I had two choices. A) I could say exactly what I did to Noah (which was: Go. Outside. Now.)

or B) get a bottle of wine and lock myself in the bathroom, allowing the natives to go Lord of the Flies.

Obviously, since I love them, I opted for A.

People have written books about the importance of time outdoors for many years-- there's even one about getting out for 15 minutes a day everyday (which I read and went-- why didn't I write this?!?). I'm not saying anything new here. It's just, well, sometimes my family forgets just how much better we do-- we all do-- with an extra dose of fresh air and open space on days when "poop" and "teen angst" seem to be the buzz words.

Now I'm looking up the hill at these three people who came from me-- actually came from me!-- and they look so small. I smile.  I find myself hurrying toward them, and of course, as I do, they return to their not- in-the-distance sizes.  Two of the three were carried often down this very hill, tiny babes curled against my chest. I remember.  I remember Noah, at six, taking his first wobbling adventure down into the pumpkin patch on cross country skis. And more: golf cart rides with Uncle Pauly; mountain bike meltdowns so close to home; losing Elizabeth (for an eternity second, you know the kind) in the tall grasses; two boys' backs disappearing into the woods when I welcomed their request for unsupervised exploration for the first time.  All these moments live here, in the ground we've come to know so well. On ground so ordinary and yet, so sacred.  Someday, I'll step back here on a cold winter morning without the wild ruckus of small children to fill the air.  Someday, I'll sled down this very hill alone, to remember.  

Yes. Perspective changes when we walk out the back door. Indeed.

occasionally, i will share an "editor's corner" -- a note to my community found first in the pages of the Harbor Light Newspaper.  i'm a lucky girl, to be part of a team who believes deeply in the word "community" and it is a treat for me to include you all in this part of my world. if you'd like to read more of our weekly paper, please do! visit www.harborlightnews.com ~kate 

Truth: I wanted to move last week. Away from my community, my state, my Midwestern upbringing.  An unfamiliar urge to uproot and slide into the gypsy skin of my youth hit as I took in the deep blue soul of Lake Tahoe, the towering ponderosa trees, the switchback mountain passes.It’s been years since such a trip resulted in scouring real estate websites, imagining a cross country move perfect for our family (highly romanticised, but imagined none the less).

Each night during our stay in California, I went to bed repeating “I love Michigan. I love Michigan.”  And every morning, I’d wake up a little shaken at how quickly that mantra faded, distant as the very rocks I turn in my hand each summer along Sturgeon Bay.

Yes, yes, I know. It’s called vacation for a reason.  There’s no question this was part of our (the whole family was struck with Mountain+Lake Fever, see below for proof)

sudden pride in “local” Tahoe knowledge: the whereabouts of the authentic Mexican joint tucked behind a 7-11, name recognition by a cashier at the food co-op, even a broad-stroke ability to recite the history of the ill-fated Donner Party’s journey (cannabilism is a surprisingly frequent conversation starter).  

The Donner Memorial shows how high-- 22 feet-- the snow was during the winter of their ill-fated attempt to cross the Sierras.  Needless to say, we did not have such fears during our time in Tahoe.

But the thing is, we were having dinner with an old friend and his family, listening to the passionate way they described life in the Tahoe region, and I was like “Sold! I’m in! Where do I sign the papers?”

Especially when my friend’s wife, whose family had a cottage on Ann Street growing up, sighed with the memory of Gurney’s sandwiches, Tom’s Mom’s Cookies, nights at Yummy’s....I sipped a dark red Tahoe microbrew and thought I too could remember those things fondly, while reaping the spoils of a place so different than Harbor Springs.

Driving back from that very dinner, it was my son Noah who looked out the window at the oh-so-close stars and sighed.

“I love it here. I could live here someday, but I’m not sure it would ever feel like home.  I mean, it would take a long time to really know this place.”

It was this phrase, this concept of knowing a place so well it becomes part of us, that carried me  the last few miles to our door.  So despite unpacking to do, groceries to replenish, phone calls to return, I walked inside my house and kept right on going, through the sliding glass door into my backyard.  There, the snow was marked with the tracks of our dogs.  A chickadee fluttered up three branches, its frantic wings a whispered reminder.  So much was familiar.  There was no need to walk in the woods at the moment, because I could do so in my mind.  Retrace the steps to the kids’ deadfall fort-- avoiding the tangled root, the place where trout lillies will emerge in a few short months, the towering birch tree to the right.

Yet, when I clicked my headlamp on the next night and hauled a sled toward my family, the shadows of our yard seemed new.  The way the light bounced off the path to the fields and woodlands behind us, showing black branches and pockets of reflection in the darkness, proved just how much of our own place we still have yet to know.

Reading Tom Bailey’s Q&A this week about the work of the Little Traverse Conservancy reinforced this fact.  There are countless preserves still to discover.  Thousands of acres of wild lands to get to know.  On an even smaller scale, thousands of ways we’ve yet to bear witness to the beauty in our backyard.  

Yesterday I drove into town. Got a cup of coffee. Stopped by the lake. Took M-119 for no reason other than to drive a bluff without hyperventilating. Called friends and talked about our children in the way one does when raising families together, dreamed ideas for empty storefronts in town, made plans for future (local) adventures.  

I don’t know when it happened exactly, when the feeling of home settled back into my bones.  I just know by the time I sat in front of our woodstove last night, there was no place else I wanted to be. No other community I wanted as my own.

I’m writing all this to say, in my long-winded way: I get it. I get why folks come here a few months a year and go elsewhere during the winter...and spring, and fall.  I get why the call of snow capped mountains or oceans or big cities may be more enticing than this small little no-stoplight town. And yet. I have a new understanding of what it means to grow roots in a town like Harbor Springs.  Perhaps my near evangelical zest for northern Michigan was deflated this trip, as I fell so headlong for northern California.  But in that empty space, something much more real and true emerged.  Something beyond the abundance of natural resources, the sense of place, or the resolve of settling down. I can’t put it more eloquently than a friend who understood well the untethered feeling of being away. Her words spoke to the essence of our community, whether you call it home for six weeks or 12 months a year. 

“Our homeland has roots - so when we venture away to other lands and are lured in by their beauty, we'll always know how to find our way back.”

We do, don’t we?  We find our way back.  It’s the kind of truth some folks search for and never find; to be able to say-- with conviction-- how lucky we are, to live where we do.

*A post script-- ANOTHER part of loving my community is, of course, the friends I have here.  They like to keep it real-- so I have to share what my pal Jenny had to say after reading the newspaper version of this blog post-- "you forgot the biggest reason you aren't moving:: Your mom and dad live ONE DOOR AWAY and she would TRACK YOU DOWN."  Truth: grandmothers who've had instant access to their grandchildren for, um, the entirety of said cute beings' lives? Yeah.  A cross country move would so. not. work. :)

I'm pretty sure this was facing north, but all I see when I look at this photo is "go west young man!"

And go west we did.

To the beauty of northern California, a place that just may defy words for me. So I'm going to bombard you with pictures. Because I can't help myself. Seriously.

Be prepared for seven million tree shots. I could do a whole separate blog on my adoration of these trees.  

(Somewhere, I have this exact image-- except with two friends when we were 17 instead of my two children-- talk about a moment of teary reflection.  It was taken in this very location, in this very forest, 16 years ago). My boys were thinking the fresh redwood air was getting to me as I alternated between misty eyes and hysterical laughter while posing them for this.

blurry, but never has there been a more perfect shot of my middle born's dream home.  

I spent a lot of time thinking about two pregnant friends while with these trees, so full of wisdom and warmth and community.  They both had baby girls on Martin Luther King day.  This shot felt like women, gathered, giving strength. I sure hope they felt it as they lit the world with the beauty of birth.

--

And there was the city...

while my youngest two children were, quite literally, so excited about public transportation that we could have spent a week doing nothing but riding buses and subways and cable cars

...my first born was enthralled with Amoeba.  Because buying your first Bob Marley vinyl is a rite of passage, you know. (this picture is across the street-- it would have been SO EMBARRASSING for me to try and take one in a store full of cool people speaking foreign languages, rocking mohawks and skinny jeans).  Oh, teen years. You are knocking on our door.

This child, on the other hand, was totally down with a photo shoot of her bad self dancing to a dutch techno band. Or dj. Or whatever it is you call techno musicians from Holland (um, or America. I missed the techno beat all together during my baby-having phase of life, I think).

Cities are foreign to us, living where we do.  We tend to start out overwhelmed-- like, people on the street asking if we are okay or lost, kind of overwhelmed. So we bicker and tear up and swear we can't breathe and then suddenly we're navigating the public transportation system (kind of) and watching people urinate in Golden Gate park (oh, my), and soaking in every cool museum-ish kind of moment we can because hey! we don't have this stuff back home!

(well, to be fair, there are pink houses where we live too). 

love these reminders, and compost options at all the places we ate....I mean, hello, City of Smog that May Fall in the Ocean Someday, could you teach a few things to Town Blessed To Be Tucked In Nook of Still Relatively Clean Air and Water With No Crazy (knock on wood) History of Natural Disasters? Yeah. Thanks.

--

Did i mention the highways have a view?

Or that certain mothers may experience a full-fledged panic attack at the sight of her family just DANGLING THERE on the ocean overhang? Pretty picture though, to remember the moment.

I kept repeating "be here now."  And it helped, a little. 

enough to get all five of us to the end of the lookout. But not enough for me to want to show my face for a photo. (notice how the kids crowd around their father, the rock of security?) It's sweet.  And makes me feel better  slightly less annoyed at overhearing Justin laughing with Noah as they first set off from the car "Your mom is going to freak out!"

Well, he does know me.

--

Of course, no trip to the mountains would be complete without my snow-loving boys hitting the slopes a whole lot.

Their sister made sure she was never far behind. 

Part of what I love most about time away is the time together it creates for our family.  Especially when these two are having fun, together.

Added bonus: this guy and I actually got to sneak off for a drink one night, because Noah is now old enough to do the short-and-sweet-and-mom-and-dad-are-nearby kind of babysits.

I sorta love him. A lot.

--

Being so far from home let us see old friends (and meet new ones!). Hearing about life in the mountains of northern California, we walked away feeling filled up and, um, a bit jealous.

 Our all too short visit equaled a run-and-take-a-picture-as-we're-going-our-separate-ways! kind of photo.  Am now plotting to get these fun-loving girls to our lake in a summer of the future....

And spending almost four whole days with friends who live on the opposite side of the country? Super-de-Duper fun.

--

Of course, in the end, it all comes back to time. Time together.  Time to slow down and take in the blessing of shared experiences.

 this lake girl came home with a piece of mountain embedded deep in her heart.

This is my friend Molly.  She's great, and not just because she came up with the One Thing New Year's Resolution, either.

Just before we shut the door on 2011, I was hanging out on Molly's couch, vaguely watching (or at least listening) to five of our collective six children play. While normally sipping tea and chatting equates to afternoon of recharge and affirmations, the discussion topic of the day--  resolutions-- had me skittish. I focused more on the rocks surrounding the perimeter of Moll's fireplace than our conversation. The rocks are from Lake Michigan, smooth blacks and greens, storied with thousands upon thousands of years of freshwater tides. We helped pick them out one fall afternoon, scouring the wheat colored sand for the right sizes, shapes, colors.  It was a good adventure day, I thought to myself, and felt a little buoyed.

I'm pretty sure I also thought about eating a fifth chocolate chip cookie, because Molly's known for 'round these parts as a baked goods rockstar. She delivers cookies in used yogurt tubs, stealth style, to folks all around our small town, because she's kind (and happens to love cookie dough).  I've watched plenty of people (who shall remain nameless *cough, Justin, cough* ) lose their scruples, turn into thieves, and snatch unattended Stonyfield Organic Vanilla Yogurt containers.  

But I digress. Really good cookies are easier to think about than resolutions.  

Resolutions, in my experience, often produce skyscrapers of guilt and only anthills of positive change. However, we tend to pick new ones a whole lot, all year long.

"I am not going to go berserk on the kids once this month. Or at least this week. Or, um, at least today?"

"I am going to cook every night of every week. No more pizza, even if it is supporting our local, independently owned downtown, open all year restaurant..."

"I am going to organize every closet and bookshelf and cupboard in the house! Tonight! Before bedtime!"

You get the idea.

So it only made sense, on the second to last night of December, that we'd get serious about a 2012 wish list. Pencil and paper, pack-making kind of serious. We started rattling off all the things we'd like to change about routines, treatment of our families, ourselves. The list was getting long.  My bottom lip was risking permanent holes from my gnawing it.

But then Molly's daughter came up from downstairs, her long-loved bunny in hand. She curled onto her mama's lap.  Whenever one child comes into view, the clatter of blocks and swords and who-knows-what-else from the other four seems to get a little louder. I leaned back and listened. My dear friend and her sweet girl took a moment to just sit quiet, together.  The anxiety of "shoulds" and "not enoughs" -- those familiar feelings surrounding crazy expectations I set (knowing, likely, I may fail) faded.  It's clear looking back, how such pauses define real community, friendships, life.  Molly and I are fortunate enough to live in a place where the pace is purposefully slow. Where there the year round population is small enough to watch-- no, to really see and be part of and celebrate-- the growth of not only our own children, but our friends' children too.  One small, still second of gratitude for this gift of raising families together was all I needed to shift gears that afternoon.

But it was Molly, who moments later, came up with the master plan. The One Thing  Rule to guide all resolutions. One Thing. Those two words allowed us to start paring it down, getting to a feasible, doable, feel good-able list.  

:: Do one thing just for yourself. Pee alone, without answering a toddler's 100 suddenly urgent questions (or just shut the door, for starters). Take a walk or a cross country ski. Sip coffee and stare into space for five minutes.  Read a bad magazine in the grocery store check out isle. Or better, yet, read this, in print. Because it's quite nice. 

:: Give yourself one moment of grace, one million times every day, for when resolutions or to-do lists or conversations don't go as planned. Be gentle on yourself.  Because you are worth it. And it will help you "be here now." 

Welcome, 2012. I'm pretty sure you're going to be swell.

By the way, I think I should add, let great friends know their place in your life is a blessing.  Don't you agree?  

...which was still both busy and full.  I'm writing to tell you I survived (albeit with a few tearful moments) without pulling out my sewing machine, without saying "yes" to every invitation or request that came our way, without sending Christmas cards (but for those of you who sent them to me-- I love you! Getting real mail that isn't a bill is one of my favorite parts of the holiday season!).

We slowed down. We had meaningful time with family and friends. We lolled about in pajamas, we crafted just the right amount (look later this week for some easy tutorials here), and found a little peace and balance, just in time, I think.

Right now Elizabeth is sleeping beside me on the floor of the living room. Our dog, Dakota, is snuggled on the other side. Both boys are tucked in their beds, and Justin has escaped up the road to my parents house, to watch the University of Michigan play somebody in some bowl game (I know. I'm the world's greatest sports fan).  The woodstove is cranking. I'm watching steam rise from the cast iron kettle as wind slams against the windows, rattling screens we still haven't removed for the season. So I'm looking at pictures-- perhaps the best way to show what we've been up to these days. Simple shots, simple captions. Simply good memories.  

:: we waited and wanted and waited some more.  perfectly preserved answers to our wish... even better to wake up to than a peppermint mocha with extra whip cream. 

:: we're all looking for an internal star, I think. Something to guide us down the path.  I found myself staring at this one a whole lot.  How lucky are those whose stories include real stars-- on the outside-- to guide them. Seems a bit easier, don't you think?

:: a date with my girl-- our first nutcracker together, dinner at the only real Mexican food place in town, and not one, but two, desserts. It was perfect.

:: the best part of the tree is remembering people who I love and aren't here anymore. It's also the reminder I tried to hold dear this year: be present with those I love who still are here.

:: in the end, it was just enough.  Or almost enough. Or I gave myself the grace to let go. Whatever the truth is, it's over and I'm okay.

:: He knows I'm dreaming of a cupboard stocked with Michigan-made pottery. This was the perfect start.  My love. A thoughtful gift giver indeed.

:: we might have given ourselves a toxic fume bath (kidding! I opened all the doors and windows before baking. ahem.) but man, I do love the finished product.

:: they added pieces each week, to remember the hope and beauty of season. i just remembered how small their hands were when this creche was created years ago. And also, that the robes are made of old surfboard underwear.

:: Learning your mother hand embroidered the entire, beautifully detailed holiday tablecloth you are using?  Yeah, that pretty much makes Christmas.

:: No guilt or to-do lists. I want to be in that headspace more in 2012.

:: The moments we shared with friends were just right. Even when Elizabeth was having a crisis-of-sharing. Even when she insisted upon sledding into trees or over rock walls. In the end, it might be such stuff-- the realness-- that reminds me most the gift of old friends.

a few of these photos are from a project I'm working on...to be shared soon, I think.  And great news (for me anyway)!  We'll be connecting this blog with this paper, the fabulous community resource I work for starting even sooner...which means I get to be here much, much more often again. As part of my job! Hooray! 

hoping your holiday season had plenty of moments of peace, pockets of joy, and loads of personal grace.  

I'm not

:: getting a christmas card ready. because I'm not sending christmas cards out this year.

:: making granola by the truck load

:: staying up with half-designed patterns for some crazy concoction of a present for one of my children.

:: crying over aforementioned pattern.

:: holding on to unrealistic goals for the season. like the two page, single spaced list of handmade gifts I'd planned to create. ha.

:: working instead of playing cribbage with my firstborn.  there's no greater deadline right now, than the speed at which he's growing up.  

:: letting go of their favorite traditions, even if-- or especially if-- they don't match my own.

:: going to panic every time someone comes over and the house is a mess. three kids. working mom. homeschooling. holidays. they can deal with it. so can I.

:: pushing away the weepies. it is what it is-- the kids keep growing up, time passes. I'm going to be a hot mess by the time they are all teenagers.

:: throwing out my shortened list of handmade gifts, stealing minutes here and there to just make. lovely.

:: adding more activities to the schedule until the end of the year.

:: forgetting to sit with a gratitude too immense to describe, at least once a day, after pausing to take in this life we've carved for our family.

I have a really fun project coming up soon, but can't quite share details yet. in the meantime, some pictures:

Maybe it's because all too late last night-- and on facebook-- I announced I couldn't sleep, but it was okay, because a fire was burning and I had knitting on the needles. An old college friend responded something like "and there are poems to be written."

I laughed out loud.  Took a sip of wine.  Wrote back that I'd make him a scarf.

Or maybe it's because the wind tonight is lashing against summer screens still clinging to our windows. Our new wood stove has officially been kicking for 24 hours straight.  Sort of a poet's scene, don't you think?

Whatever the reason, I find myself here.

Writing a poem. About kayaking in the North Channel, when it was still September, still warm, still our favorite two weeks of the year.  

I'm rusty. Without revision, and with too much verbosity.  So be kind, world. It just felt like the knitting could wait.

When I go out alone

Between paddle 

strokes is silence.

Water ripples. Reminder:

I’ve come from somewhere,

have somewhere 

to return.

But for this moment,

there's nothing but lake,

brown with reflection of sun

against rock shelves as old

as ghosts of glaciers.  

Here’s where I wander.

I could be a crane

flush against green reeds,

long legs locked. The very breath 

of patience. Could be a darting

bass, or what it moves between

those long, hulaing weeds, reaching 

for light, tethered to their place

in this world.

Yes, I could be these things.

Or better yet, empty sky,

blue deception. Or wind, or

muck, or prints an animal left 

behind on the shore.

Isn’t it all too ordinary?

Me, the big philosopher,

small on an ancient

lake, as drops of water, centrifugal

force push out into

a vast there-ness

If you were with me

I think you’d say

“sometimes a boat

is just a boat.  A paddle

is just a paddle.”

My response 

something along the lines

of yes, and thank you,

and never, ever leave. 

No wonder then, 

when I hear a splash, find

myself pulling, a little 

too deep, toward home.

As the editor of my small town's newspaper, I'm blessed with the task of celebrating and connecting people to a sense of place.  It's an easy job, living where we do.  I just wrote this last week, and thought it still sums up right where we are, here and now.

Wishing you a week filled with the blessings of your place, too...