The first photographers who labored to put image to paper almost 200 years ago couldn’t have known that someday, a small camera within the budget of average Americans would be able to capture the crescent moon. My little camera sees this New Year’s moon in more detail than the first photographers ever could. And in another 200 years, we will probably live on the moon if we live at all.
Credit: Dcibillus, Wikimedia Commons, 2009
But using an electronic eye to see into the heavens doesn’t resonate like using imagination to daydream the moon and stars. Cultures around the world saw the sliver of waxing or waning moon and turned it into concept or goddesses or some symbol of the mysterious.
It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.
Antoine de Saint-Exupery
Using that electronic eye catches scenes quickly, gives a nice visual to tell a story with, lets us race by and get to the next part of our lives. But slowing down, seeing that symbol hanging in the dark sky far above and imagining its meaning and power, stays more with us.
I spent the holidays puttering, cleaning, slowing down, simplifying not making resolutions to do more and better, but just stopping to think and to reach back to the things that make me happy. The things that should inspire gratitude.
In a busy life, it’s easy to forget to be grateful. It’s been unusually cold here, and the cold stretches on. The ground is hard and the water tanks freeze nightly. I carry water for half an hour every morning. It’s bone-chilling damp and frigid when I get off the train in Seattle. But electronics give me pause and perspective: The jet stream that is chilling us with arctic flow is pressing a massive incoming pineapple express into northern California, which will experience major flooding, avalanches, and landslides. That storm would have been barreling down on my area – if it hadn’t been so cold, that is. 
Mt. Baker, with a little steam rising to remind us it’s an active volcano.
And we’re not dry cold: we’re having a phenomenal winter season, a good ski/snowshoe year, so there’s still time to get out to the mountains and enjoy and get back in shape for backpacking season.
My remaining horse, and all the animals I’ve cared for here are also a reason for gratitude. I bought this house, located in such a perilous place, for my horses. Here I am now, down from four horses, two dogs, and two cats that came with the house. I one horse left, and he’s ageing and looking sore on one leg, and we can’t figure out what it is. I’m feeling the loss of my other horse, and this animal’s aching.
This stage can seem like the twilight of a flawed day that started with a brilliant, hopeful dawn. You become worn being the angel of death ushering beloved animal companions one after the other into eternal night. You wonder what would have been had you done something different.
Well, here’s the deal. My dogs and horses forced me outside to get fresh air and exercise even when I didn’t want to go. They grounded me and gave me a badly needed sense of responsibility. They gave me reason to locate in a quiet sanctuary that protected me in some major life changes and difficult situations.
This sanctuary is where I learned to heal the land and make a home for wildlife. Teaching other people what I learned over a decade of habitat restoration has made me a better communicator. Volunteering to give workshops lets me give something back to the world. My habitat project has helped my really see and understand wildlife. Animals have driven my art, my interests, my travel. The drive to restore even more every year keeps me moving, digging the earth, creating hedgerows and gardens and wild, tangled refuges.
And my home is modest, but at least for now, I have a home. My own home. Many, many people do not due to poverty, natural disaster, and war. Or they share dangerously cramped space with too many people.
By the end of holiday break, I could see my house as far more than an object and investment again. I slowed down, puttered around, rearranged my space, reconnected enough to see it as more than a snapshot. Not racing by, on a schedule to get things done, as a place of chores and responsibilities and somewhere to rest between work days.
I once again see home as a living place filled with stories and memories, souvenirs and mementos, many good times and some tough ones; the silent, non-judgemental keeper of my dreams and decisions. My land is a driver for my best aspirations and successes. My horse is a welcome anchor, a creature who needs me as a familiar herd member, not a burden.
Sure, I wander around with my camera some, taking pictures of wildlife, the New Year’s Day sunrise and the crescent moon. But I also stop, listen, imagine the moon and the hooting owls and trumpeting swans as symbols of something unearthly, daydream a novel of a mystical place where they are all gods- and well, you know. Become human again.
It’s cold. A thick layer of sparkly white frosting coats the tent like a muffin. I’d say the temperature is somewhere in the 20’s. It’s fall, so I expected this. I’m swaddled in synthetic puffy fabric and fleece, with rain jacket and pants to keep the slightest breeze from stealing heat. I brush most of the frost off the tent and then make coffee and read maps.
It won’t be easy, mostly because of people, past as well as present. I pass signs on the road protesting the Reserve. Ranchers worry about their way of life, though farm radio news indicates the economy and ranch debt is more threatening than conservation. People have introduced diseases like sylvatic plague that kills prairie dogs and black-footed ferrets alike. And we all know what weeds are like: psychotically clingy stalkers that reappear at every turn no matter how you try to ditch them.
Finally, after setting up my temporary abode, I could stretch my legs walking out to the prairie dog town across the creek. I could watch the prairie sunset and moonrise and curl up well-insulated in my sleeping bag, ready to start exploring the next day.
This region’s legendary traffic is my excuse for not indulging in urban cultural events and going to dinner with friends. My friends live three dozen miles away, south on a perpetually crowded freeway, or a thousand miles away. My family, like many, is spread across the country. But travel isn’t really the barrier, because I do that a lot. I just like wandering around by my lonesome, in the moment, in as natural an environment as I can find. 
The animal company I keep does need people, though. They need us to plant more trees and shrubs, build more rock piles and slash piles, hoist up more nests until there is enough nature to build their own. They need cleaner, cooler water and skies without flight hazards and light pollution. At my little sanctuary, they reward my efforts by mulitplying and bringing their offspring back each year. My visitors are a study in simplicity, with simple wants: food, family, turf, home. This, I understand.
Silver Snag Studio 