Here we are again, in the arctic January days, and the landscape greys, and I'm just spending my days keeping warm by the woodstove.  About a foot of snow on the ground, now crusted into white rock, and only the last few days have broken the freezing point to do any kind of melting.  Sketching and journaling is the only thing that keeps me alive at this time of year, as I don't like being cold.  The daily mantra--hot tea, light a fire, journal, split wood, stock wood, eat, sleep.  It's also too cold to sketch outdoors, and so I must turn to the images in front of me where it is warm.

This is a sketch I did a month ago now, but the view hasn't changed.

My mind wanders to palm trees and beaches and discount airfares, and the fantasies of fleeing to the tropics occupy the rest of my day.  It's January--what can I say?


Whoops, it's time to go split wood and bring in another load...

Ironically enough, I am posting this on almost the same day, 2 years hence the last post.  Same winter blahs, same viewscape, and I guess I'm needing some inspiration.  The frigid arctic air has left the land frozen in time, and as intractable as a glacier.  I want to be outside doing plen aire work, but it's 9 degrees outside and my hands would freeze as well as any water medium I might use...sigh...and I'm bored with the views from my windows.  How many times can I sketch that same snow scene?  Time to turn to things with substance indoors, like my deep-snow Sorels that sit by the door, ready to slip into for any forays outside.

my deep-snow sorels

The winter blahs have taken hold. As I gaze out the window again today, my eyes seem to glaze over the landscape without really seeing. The winter tones are not very stimulating, but call forth a greater discipline for discernment and eye training. So many shades of brown--burnt sienna, burnt umber, raw umber, sepia; and tans, and ochres. Not to mention the hundred shades of grey...

Muted tones that don't delight the eye but do give a certain comfortable rest to the mind and sense of wonder--even a simple appreciation of how plants and trees adapt to Winter's frigidity. And I notice how the light falls on each tree trunk, fence post, or tawny weed stalk and brings out a certain dimensionality of an object with lights and darks. It's a little like training your eyes to see with ink wash mentality--to see the shape and curve of that delicate aspen branch, light against the dark wood siding of the house next door but dark against the snow-covered slopes of the mountain rising up behind it. And the split-rail fence with it's weathered upper surfaces glowing irridescent silver-grey over its rough-hewn sides of dark grey-brown, more of a sepia-steel color. Now the large flakes of snow are falling, pure white fluff falling confetti-like over the darker hues of the landscape. Against the chalky-light of the sky, the snow is not even visible, only becoming known by virtue of its contrast to the lower backdrop. I sat outside when the snow started, only it wasn't exactly snow then, more like tiny white pellets that melted upon skin contact, but hard enough to blast the soundscape with rat-tat-tats on the metal roof of the house and the tree trunks nearby. Now the flakes are fully flown, large white flat fluff drifting merrily to the ground. A small group of about 10 Juncos sits in a lower section of the aspen tree and seems to be watching the snow fall, without concern, almost as if they are enjoying the show as much as I. A winter-toned day, dreamy and cold, greying my brain and body into a sweet quietude.

40 degrees at 7:30 am, but temperature has dropped 4 degrees in 2 hours. Now a stiff 37 degrees and the sky is darkening. Today it is evident that Autumn has gasped its last breath, and Winter is arriving in the winds. Storm clouds and squalls in all directions, and small, white, icy balls are on the ground, like millet-sized hail. Snow is moving in from the east over the mountain, shrouding it in a mysterious white veil. Red-winged blackbirds trilling, ducks from a nearby pond quacking loudly, and the sound of rifle shots shatters the peace of the natural world. It's obviously still duck hunting season. All landscape is tinted with grey as the rain moves in.

A sweet little Dark-Eyed Junco comes now every day to the feeders. Seems to be a loner, and, according to the color key in the field guide, an Oregon Female. Very perky, industrious, easily alarmed. Flies away at the least flicker of movement. She often hunts on the ground for dropped seed. Clear and sunny, cold, 27 degrees this morning. Birds are feeding busily today.

Today is definitely bone-chilly, and I sense that there won't be any more balmy, jacket-less days ahead. Noticing the incredible array of browns in the landscape, just a short breath away from the color that has filled Nature's palette this Autumn. But, even the browns are beautiful--tawny grasses, mud-olive and coppery leaves, light tan weed stalks, reddish-umber stems of willow. I wonder how many browns I could document if I went out with my catalogue of watercolor shades.

Night descends early; I'm finding myself scurrying to batten the hatches and cozy up inside as soon as the sun goes down. The cold seems to spread faster when the light is gone.