Sam and I headed to the coast after our time in the redwoods, looking to camp, but never finding a suitable spot. We rented a room at an old, retro motel instead, with poor amenities and a sliding door opening right to the beach—it was perfect. We ate seafood on the pier that night, listening to the sea lions howl, and I actually watched the sun slip below the horizon, folding under its surface. I would have drawn that sunset out a few more hours, if I was able, and that stay to a few weeks.

We had coffee in the morning and a chilly walk on the beach before we left, when most of these photos were taken.

Time in the redwoods, from the human perspective, can move so slowly that it seems to spread out until it has the quality of a vista. Placed against the backdrop of redwood time, a human lifetime shrinks into a compressed flicker, and the past, present, and future seem to run together and vanish.
-Richard Preston, The Wild Trees

We vanished for two afternoons and one black night, human time. Although the two photos didn't turn out particularly well, I couldn't help but post the diptych to give you an idea of human-forest scale—do you see us, just specks of people?

Grainy film, leaky light, and a hike that took us an entire day—but left my muscles sore for much longer—leaving in the morning and getting back in the dark. I wrote a little before about our trip to visit Molly and Steve (cousins of Sam's mom) in California, but just yesterday had my film developed.

We hiked a couple hours up a wooded path to get to the clearing and the lake seen in the third photo. I don't know if I actually stretched my arms out at its presence or if that only happened in my head. I couldn't believe there was something so flat after going up, up, up for such a time. It felt like a dream, sitting there, eating a packed lunch next to that still, elevated lake. I was elated—and we were only halfway.

I used to think of myself as a patient person; I was a patient person. I'm not so much anymore. My personality has changed a lot in the past couple of years, hardened, really, in many of my own ways. I'm usually very prompt now, fairly tight with my finances, and serious about my work. But these changes are welcome, and no one has ever ever accused me of being uptight. (Friends! Imagine? Sam scolded me just the other day for trying to sneak my glass of wine out on an evening walk. "Jessica only follows laws she agrees with." Exactly.)

I share all of this because it brings me to last night. Last night, after multiple failures at finding last year's stockings, I decided I needed to make a new pair—and I needed to make a new pair right then, because that's how I feel these days. Patience is lost, and creative impulse takes hold—and I'm not really talking stockings anymore. There's a certain intensity here, in me, that I've never owned before, something that scares me a little but makes me feel very capable.

Back to the photos: I used some ticking stripe linen I had lying around (seen here and here) and decided the fabric would be better suited to pouches than a sock shape. For a drawstring, then, I sewed in a length of canvas ribbon (from one of these). Also, it should be noted that this is only the second sewing project I've ever finished, and all of my skills—or lack thereof, at this point—come from YouTube tutorials. But, with a little problem solving, I spent no money and received the satisfaction of creating.

I was struck by a bowl of pomanders when I toured a historic home last week, by their smell and severe looks. So, with eagerness to participate in any sort of merry making, I came home lugging a bag of oranges.

A toothpick or skewer can be used to poke through the peel of the orange (in an effort to avoid sore thumbs) and then cloves placed in each wound, making whatever pattern you choose, and smelling the house of citrus and spice. The whole process is quite enjoyable.

I like the idea of these journey posts. So, here—the journey of my first live Christmas tree, everyone.

P.S. Yes, that's a vehicle. And, yes, that's ours. After over six years without one, Sam's parents—thank you, thank you, thank you—passed this truck down to us. I still bike or take public transit daily, but once a week or so this old guy gives us a lot of freedom.

I've been enjoying green juice in the morning, pouring myself a glass and taking the rest to work. I get a mix of reactions, from That's disgusting to That smells great! And, what a pretty color.

GREEN JUICE
1 green apple
1-inch ginger
5 celery stalks
1 cucumber
parsley to taste

I've always used leafy greens (mostly kale and spinach) in the past, but they wilt so quickly in my refrigerator. This recipe is quicker and cleaner.

I took the bus to St. Louis last week, only to meet and hitch a ride from Ashlee on her drive back to Missouri from Louisville. We spent the night in a high-rise hotel, ordered room service (!!) early the next morning, and made it out of the parking garage just as the streets were being closed for the Thanksgiving Day Parade.

This is everything to me.

Long before the first of my visual memories, there was the sound of Patsy Cline.

I'll be seeing Parker tomorrow, filling our bellies and playing outside. I've got the eccentric aunt role covered.

Glimpses at a few small projects I've finished for friends and family lately—business cards for Ashlee's OT conference, send-offs for Molly's farewell party, and invites for Danielle's baby shower.

I'm having homemade granola and chai this morning, on the floor, where I've been spending more time lately. I'm settled down with the paper for a couple hours and then we're going to walk a few neighborhoods over for the last performance of a play. Maybe I'll roast a chicken tonight, if I can find a good source. Maybe I'll just eat leftover lentils. Maybe I'll continue with my Willa Cather kick. Or, maybe I'll listen to Radiolab instead.

The Chicago wind is the only thing moving quickly today.

And I urge you to please notice when you are happy, 
and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, 
"If this isn't nice, I don't know what is."

- Kurt Vonnegut

We spent a night camping in the redwoods, cooking meals on the fire and propane stove, drinking pumpkin cider and California beer. I pulled some beets from Molly and Steve's garden before we left, which we roasted with sweet potatoes, brussels sprouts, and a big hunk of butter. We wrapped it all up in foil and threw it right on the coals, a little nervous about the technique, but so pleased with the outcome.

It quickly became dark and I had to put on extra layer, digging into my clothing reserve, which was running low. We ate s'mores next to the fire, surrounded by all of that black, all of that silence and one owl. I got too cold, as I do, and retired to the tent to read a little by the lantern. Sam watched the fire die down, and we both fell asleep to falling redwood needles on the tarp—just like those on the table above. It sounded just like rain.

The next morning, Sam fried up eggs and bacon in the cast iron—which he's so good at—while I walked around the park drinking my coffee. We ate breakfast sandwiches, packed up, hiked a six mile trail, and then headed toward the coast.

Tea dying linen, with the sun shining and windows open. Looks as if these are going to be the last of the warm days. The feeling of the changing air already has me excited for the first of spring, but my mind tends to skip ahead like that.

I love to see how other people live. It pulls me back, reflecting on my day-to-day, making me conscious. What makes me happy? What do I find rewarding? Challenging? Important?

After a week in California, I return feeling inspired (to the extent of avoiding sleep, currently), drawing from new sources. And, if this trip was a story—which it was, really—the moral would be one on the importance of conscious living. Every minute deserves the weight of being labeled "a choice."

I am my day. I am the decisions I make. I am how I spend my time.

[A digital shot from Sam until my film's developed.]

I've been turning to my 2012 goals lately, reflecting on the past nine months and getting to work on a few things I've yet to tackle—one of which, until a couple of weeks ago, was to create more of a morning routine. No rush. No set plans. Just a bit of structure that I weave my mornings around.

It's sometimes a tight knit and other times a loose web, but always with similar elements—a hot drink, a bit of exercise, a few pages of a book, breakfast, some tidying. I allow myself the fascination of changing light; I sit there and get goosebumps watching it, thinking about it. I can't believe this happens! Every morning I think: I can't believe this happens.

P.S. Mary Oliver on the morning.

(I used this recipe, above. Next time I'll split the flour, since I found the sole use of whole wheat, in this instance, a little too pungent for my liking.)