Butterfly Mind

Winter storm

February 11th, 2025

It’s dark through the window. The sun is still an hour from rising. As I sip my coffee and look out, in the barely there glow of pre-dawn light I see white powder piling on the stair rail. We’re expecting maybe 7 inches of snow before it turns to sleet then freezing rain tonight.

I’m excited for it. I’ve got my comfies on: sweatshirt, sweatpants, wool socks. Our cat Tubbles is purring against my chest as I type. On the kitchen counter, I’ve got chickpea flour soaking for a flatbread I’ll bake tonight in a cast iron skillet. The bread will accompany a toasted grain soup with mushrooms and kale that I’ve been wanting to try for a while.

I brought in extra wood and laid a fire in the fireplace last night so that all we have to do tonight is light it. We’re cozy and warm. We’ve got cats and blankets and the makings for warm, comforting food. We’re ready for snowfall.
Bria trumpet

February 2nd, 2025

Last Sunday night, my husband and I drove to nearby Roanoke for a jazz show. I didn’t look at who we were going to see — I figured I wouldn’t know who they were — I was just excited to go hear live music.

When we climbed the stairs inside The Jefferson Center, we expected to be directed into the 925-seat theater where we’d seen the Preservation Hall Jazz Band play a Christmas show. But instead, the usher guided us to continue down the hall to the end, where a bar was set up, and then to turn right through a corridor that snaked into a small room with maybe ten rows of folding chairs and a raised stage at the front. The ceiling was high — 20 or 30 feet above us — and long, black folds of fabric draped all of the walls. Two tables stretched along the back wall to offer up cheese plates, cake and cookies, and coffee. It felt cozy and intimate, like a little jazz club.

At 7 o’clock, the lights went down and the band came out. A tiny woman sat at the wooden grand piano to our left, two men took their places at the back of the stage on bass and drums, a silver-haired woman strapped on her saxophone, and a woman about my size entered last, trumpet in hand, and took center stage. Nobody spoke. She put the trumpet to her lips in the quiet. It sparkled in the spotlight. And when her music came out, I was blown away.

A woman trumpeter led the band. As I listened to this big sound come out of this small woman, walls fell down for me. Last night, I put on a Blue Note Edition jazz playlist on Spotify while my husband made dinner. I scanned the artists on the playlist, and as I scrolled, and scrolled, and scrolled, I saw maybe 3 women’s names. In 90 songs.

My heart soared as I watched her play. Every image I have of trumpeters is of men. I have no ambition to ever play the trumpet, but it’s hard to describe how meaningful it is to see someone who looks like you do something cool like this. I fell in love with her.

After a couple of songs, the bandleader introduced the band, and she introduced herself. “I’m Bria. Just google ‘Bria trumpet,’” she said with a smile. “It’s easier than trying to spell my name.” I did just that when I got home. Her name is Bria Skonberg, from Chilliwack in British Columbia.

She is fun, humble, and charming, and she is radiant on both trumpet and vocals. With each song, my heart grew bigger. She mentioned that she’d become a mom in the past five years, which made me love her even more. She sang an arrangement of John Lennon’s “Beautiful Boy,” which I used to sing to our son, and I had to get out my handkerchief to wipe my eyes.

At the end of the show, after we thought it was over and everyone was putting their coats on to leave, the lights went down again, and the band came back out with a special guest: a girl trumpeter from a local high school. Bria counted off, and gave the stage to the 17 year old. As the young trumpet player improvised and began to look a little nervous, I fell another layer deeper in love as Bria sensed her nerves, led her, and led the band to support her by calling out guidance, pulling the band together with eye contact and gestures and smiles, and near the end of the song, leading a call and response with their two trumpets. The audience rose from their seats and gave the student a standing ovation.

The sound in the space was clear as a bell, and the show was intimate, with maybe only 100 people in the room. It turns out the venue has a whole jazz series: Jazz Club at Jefferson Center. We’ve got tickets to a couple more upcoming shows. We had no idea we’d find a jazz scene in our little Appalachian mountain community. And Bria Skonberg is now in regular rotation on my Spotify.
Sun-warmed long johns

January 30th, 2025

I was optimistic yesterday. The high temperature was to be 53℉ (12℃). After weeks of arctic cold and the accompanying heavy clothes that go with it, I was excited to wear something besides pants. I swam, took a steaming shower, and decided to mix things up with my clothes for the day. I dressed not in jeans or corduroys or wide-legged cargo pants, but in a skirt and fleece-lined tights.

I made it to mid-morning before I changed. Even with a blanket on my lap, and even working from my son’s desk upstairs instead of my cold basement office, I could not stay warm. I was chilled enough that I knew that changing from a skirt to pants alone wouldn’t do it; I needed two layers.

I went down to the laundry room, also in the cold basement, and rooted around in my basket of clean clothes for the thermal underwear I’d washed and dried over the weekend. I considered throwing the bottoms in the drier to warm them up but didn’t want to have to wait. When I brought them upstairs to change, though, they were icy in my hand. I shivered to think of pulling them on cold. I thought maybe I’d sit on them while I worked to warm them up before I put them on. Then I saw a bright patch of sunlight beaming down on our bedroom carpet.

The front of our house faces south, and sometimes during the work day, I’ll take a break to go stand in the sun that pours through the windows. I’ll put my hands up to warm them, and I’ll just stand there and enjoy the heat that radiates through the glass.

When I saw the patch of sunlight on the floor — the sunbeam the cats frequently lie in to warm themselves — I knew what to do with my long johns. I lay them in the rectangle of light framed by the window, then worked at my laptop in our son’s room to give them time to soak up the sun’s heat.

After about 10 minutes, I went back to check on them. Our cat Tubbles was curled up on them in the sunlight. Double heat! I pressed my palm against the kitty-free leg, and the waffly fabric was as toasty as if I’d just taken it out of the drier.

I shooed Tubbles away so I could change into my sun- (and cat-) warmed underlayer. As soon as I slipped my first foot in and felt the cozy heat of the thermal against my ankle, I knew I’d made a good choice. What a luxury to warm clothes up before putting them on!
Frozen waterfall

January 26th, 2025

Temperatures have stayed below freezing for multiple weeks. Most nights last week were in the single digits, with highs in the teens when the sun was up. My husband texted during the week, do you want to hike the Cascades Saturday morning? I want to see it after all this cold.

When we pulled up to the trailhead at 10 am, the thermometer still below freezing but at least in the 20s instead of the teens, the parking lot was full of cars. Everyone in town wants to see the frozen Cascades.

It snowed and sleeted here a couple of weeks ago, and plenty of people have hiked to the falls since. The trail was slippery and treacherous as a result. The snow was packed tight from all the footsteps, and we had to use hands, feet, and butts to make our way without breaking any bones or falling into the frigid stream. On several short descents, we got down to the ground and used the path like a slide. About a hundred times, I thought, I wish I had a hiking stick. That, and hand warmers.

But oh my God, was it worth it. I really struggle photographing snow, and I could barely manage my camera because my hands were ice cubes, so my photos don’t do it justice. And of course, pictures don’t capture the hollow percussive sound of the stream glooping against the crust of ice above it, or the glitter of sunlight on the snow when the trail broke out of the shadows. They don’t capture the sounds of the college kids’ laughter as they slid on sneakered feet and bowled icicles on the frozen pool at the base of the waterfall, or the smell of cold forest air along an icy mountain stream. But they do capture some of the pretty shapes created by shadows, water, ice, and snow.

Stream from above on a trail bridge

So smooth!

The first hint of sunlight

Stream under ice

I love this rock and its shadow

Cool blue

Ice palace

On the waterfall pool

For comparison, here is this same hike in a non-frozen January and in spring.
Birds!

January 25th, 2025

Our back deck is now a neighborhood hangout for birds. With winter here, and the bears sleeping, I set up a new feeding station on our back deck. Within 24 hours of hanging a fly-through feeder filled with black oil sunflower seeds, I sat on the other side of our sliding glass door and watched birds alight on the feeder, or the rail, or the wooden planks beneath.

First the cardinals came. A dusky brown female with a flame orange beak inspected the new feeder from the deck rail it’s attached to. She cocked her head left and right, then hopped onto the wire mesh and dipped her head to pull out a seed. Then another. And another.

Next came a black-capped chickadee, small and round as a smoke grey tennis ball, with a smart black cap and a tiny triangle beak. It watched the mama cardinal from the rail before it hopped onto the feeder as well.

Then a male cardinal arrived and strutted scarlet along the white rail. Then another arrived. A few more males and females lined up on the rail. Their crests pointed to the sky, the black patches on their faces like little masks. They watched from the limbs of the oak that are just a few feet away from our deck. They dipped down to the feeder then flitted back up to the safety of their branches, streaks of bright red, pops of flame orange.

A tufted titmouse arrived, smaller than the cardinals, but longer and leaner than the chickadee. It had a jaunty little grey crest and a secret blush of orange under its wings.

Next came the mourning doves, crash landing onto the floor of the deck, four times the size of the cardinals, and with as much grace as my favorite, goofy pelicans who land in dramatic splashes on the surface of the sea. Once landed, the doves tucked their sprawling wings, bobbed their heads like their pigeon kin, and pecked seeds scattered from the rail above.

I sat at the table for probably an hour watching these funny animals. I don’t know what it is about getting old and watching birds, but it has happened to me, and I will own it. They bring me great joy. I feel peace when I watch them. Calm. The birds are real. They are themselves. They are true and natural. They are striking in their coloring, their body sizes, their beak shapes, and the long history of survival that led to their specific adaptations. I love watching their behavior: how they interact with the feeder, how they position themselves to have cover from prey, how they defer (chickadees) or how they dominate (blue jays, crows), who’s adventurous and will go first (cardinals), who will follow when it seems safe (doves), who will show up when everyone else has left (finches).

Later in the day, after I’d left the table and was no longer thinking about the birds, I saw our cat’s tail swish on our son’s bed as I walked by his open door. I poked my head in to see what Tubbles was flicking her tail about. She crouched on his bed, her front paws on the window sill, riveted to the activity at new feeder, which she could see from his window. I lay down on my stomach next to her and we watched the birds together.
Stay festive

January 5th, 2025

Our Christmas decorations are put away for the year. The only reminder of the holidays are twinkling white lights on the front stair rail and my new Christmas mugs that I’m not yet ready to yield to storage. My fingers fit perfectly in the swoop of their scrolled handles. The mugs are larger than I usually like, but I love the way they feel when I cup my hands around them for warmth: they curve into the exact right shape, and the glazed porcelain is smooth against the skin of my palms. I find myself going for these mugs every time I make coffee or tea; they bring me delight in how cozy they make me feel. I’m not giving them up yet, even though they are painted with Night Before Christmas scenes, with Santa and reindeers, and it is now January 5.

I’ve got a fire laid in the fireplace. We’re expecting a winter storm tonight. Snow should start falling this afternoon, blustery and frigid, before it turns to sleet and ice. We had a load of firewood delivered in early December. I stacked half of it for my exercise the day it came, and Brian stacked the other half. I brought some in the other day to give it some time in the dry heated air of the house. It’s not as seasoned as our previous firewood. We have to start a fire with old wood, then add the new wood once it’s hot. I don’t know what I’ll do when we’re out of old wood; the new wood is hard to get going even when the fire is already hot. I guess we’ll have to use more kindling.

I’m happy about winter, even though the holidays are over. The holidays used to be the only redeeming quality of the season, and once Christmas was done, I was ready for spring. But I’ve come to love the invigorating air and the coziness of being indoors with books and blankets and steaming cups of coffee, of soups and root vegetables, of the quiet of a resting world.

Also, the bears should be hibernating now, and I can give a bird feeder a go again. I’ve been waiting for winter to arrive for this reason. In recent years, bears have discovered the bird feeder hung in our oak tree; the tree is on a slope, and the feeder hung low enough for me to reach it, which means bears could reach it, too. They’ve mauled three feeders, and I gave up last spring after the third.

Bear-mangled bird feeder

This has given me many months to think of a solution. I miss watching the birds. My first and simplest solution was to just wait until winter. Winter is my favorite season for watching birds anyway. There’s nothing else going on outside; all the plants in my garden, all the cute bunnies, chipmunks, and squirrels, all the buzzing bees and fluttering butterflies — they’re all tucked away, out of sight, resting. But the cardinals will come in their brilliant red coats, bright as berries against the bleak greys and whites of winter. Tufted titmice will come, and finches, and black and white woodpeckers with splashes of scarlet on their breasts and crests.

I think I’ve got a longer-term solution now, too, beyond just waiting for winter. I’ll try a bird feeder on the corner of our back porch, which is up a flight of stairs from ground level. I should be able to get a hanger that clamps to the rail. This will put the feeder high enough that bears can’t reach it when they come out of hibernation. And it will be even better than hanging from the tree because it will be closer to where I can see it, and it won’t be obscured by greenery when the oak leafs out in spring. The biggest unknown is this: will a bear climb the stairs to get to it? I guess we will find out.