Trust in a New Year's Hike

I have been itching to go on a New Year's hike, but sicknesses and schedules put us behind.  Finally, on Monday, we managed (barely) to get out of the house and venture to Boulder Valley Ranch.

As we looped, the temperature dropped.  We kept up our momentum with the lure of heat and pizza.  Still, I have come to trust our hikes.

I trust that they broaden my mind, and give me a sense of freedom and of faith.  I trust that they bring expected pleasures, like finding mica or unearthing the perfect stick/sword/bow.  I trust that they bring unexpected pleasures, like the games that the kids make up or curiosities that arise from the landscape. And finally, even with the frequent absence of perfect harmony, I do trust in these hikes to pull us towards each together.

January Inside Simple

As an anecdote to the kids' simple play in the snow, I want to honor a couple of mind-numbingly simple activities that have been going on inside our house.

My all-time favorite is called "Wrinkle up paper and then draw on the wrinkles."  Not much elaboration needed there, except that these sheets of paper take on some sort of magical mapping powers once completed.  A close second is copying and re-copying and re-copying the Periodic Table.

January Snow Simple

January always feels like a blank slate.  After December's ambition, the calm is welcome, even if it's disconcerting for the first day or two.  Aside from the never-ending busyness of life, my honest ambition for January is to see how simple we can get, preferably outside.

I started to say "how unambitious we can get," but "simple" is not "unambitious."  In fact, sometimes making the kids' lives more simple requires a lot more energy from me, almost trying to hide how much work it is keep our lives running smoothly.

But, it snowed today, and I am reminded that the kids can do simple, on their own.  The slow, quiet flakes inspire it.  My favorite snow scenes to date this season have involved:

Writing in the snow,

Playing "find the stick" in the snow,

Measuring snow,

Digging to Boulder Creek in the snow,

Shoveling snow,

Making sit-spots in the snow,

Sitting in a wagon (moving or not) in the snow,

Making angels in the snow (these days, always June),

And the trusty fallback, eating snow!  (In almost every snow picture I have of Clara, her hand is in her mouth.)

The Day After - A Hike

The day after Christmas, we ventured on another hike.  Setting our feet firmly on the ground after traveling West to East, we rustled through leaves, grabbed acorns and admired the ferns and moss foreign to our Boulder surroundings.  

I love the thrill of a new landscape.  And I love the simplicity of a winter hike:  The browns and grays make the single cardinal jump out.  The absence of leaves on the trees amplify their height.  The abundance of leaves on the ground make it a thrill to find the acorns hidden underneath.  The stillness of it all lets me focus on my own children running.  And the quiet of it all lets me hear the sound of the single stream.

We returned with new momentos - berries, acorns, sweetgum balls, a fungus-y stick.  They may make it back to Boulder.  Or they may not.  But, I'll certainly bring home the memory.

The Day Before - A Hike

On Christmas Eve, we hiked.  We have done so every Christmas Eve that I can remember.  In fact, if it were my choice, every special day would be preceded by a hike.   Even days that are special because of a hike.

This year, it just so happened that Will and Clara wore coordinated elf colors.  I watched them carelessly plow through the snow, as I pushed June in an overworked stroller.  John opted for his Dad's arms.

But, this is where I experience the holiday lift:  breathing the cold air, watching my energetic and healthy kids, finding hope in the mountains and strength from the sun through the trees, feeling love for my family and gratitude for the beauty of the earth.

I will cherish our Christmas Eve dinner.  I will relish our preparations, anticipating joy and wonder the next morning.  I will even love watching my cinnamon rolls rise after midnight, admonishing my late start.

But outside, during our Christmas Eve hike, any weight of responsibility subsides.  In this tradition, I get to be a child in the woods, too.

Finding Light

In these long, dark nights, it is amazing how we are drawn to the light.  We are finding our way in a backyard snow maze, on a mountain star, and at home gazing at the tree.