I didn’t get out to walk as much as I normally like to this winter. And for the first time in years, I didn’t even touch my skis, because by the time I got through postpartum recovery and felt up to getting on them again, the snow drifts were being measured in feet, not inches. Even you avid skiers know how daunting breaking a trail through that is!
This is all the fault, of course, of a certain cute snuggly little guy who likes to hang out with (onto) me a lot lately. Now don’t get me wrong. I don’t have hard feelings about it. If you’ve ever had the privilege of being graced by one of his ready smiles, or gotten to rest your cheek on his downy head, well, then you know what I’m talking about. He was worth it, and hey, running up and down the stairs to wash extra loads of baby laundry is exercise, too, right? But it did mean that I didn’t take as many nature pictures.
Winter photography isn’t easy. The days are shorter, the light dimmer and fleeting. With so many of the living, moving things in hibernation, hidden beneath the snow, finding interesting subjects requires extra effort. That being said, I truly enjoy the way winter photography challenges and stretches my creativity, and this year, I missed the way it always renews my appreciation for the quiet beauty of the season.
But circumstances are never an excuse for failing to find joy.
So when I was looking wistfully at my untouched ski boots, or watching the light fall across the fields in a photogenic way that I wouldn’t be running out to capture as I have in the past, instead of giving into impatience or frustration, I learned to intentionally shift my mindset in two ways.
The first was to gain a deeper appreciation for what I was restricted from doing, realizing how often I have taken freedoms, hobbies and privileges for granted. When you’re missing something, it’s not okay to complain and give in to discontentment, but it IS okay to remember it with pleasure, acknowledge it’s value, and be grateful for it in a way you probably haven’t been before.
And the second? To be fully appreciative of and present in the fleeting circumstances that created this restriction, because babies don’t keep. To relish the snuggles instead of wishing away the nighttime feedings. Winter will come again, but my son will never be this little again. The dimpled fists clinging to my shirt are going to stretch out into the strong lean hands of a man, the chubby round cheeks I love to kiss are going to turn to manly stubble, the coos are going to turn into sentences, the giggles to guffaws. The days of him squealing when I peek over the edge of his cradle in the morning, or his downy little head nodding to sleep on my shoulder are numbered.
And I learned to really savor few opportunities I did have to snap a photo. These were taken while…
Hauling the camera along to the chicken coop to get a shot of the beautifully frosted windows while collecting eggs.
Rolling down the car window on the way to town to grab a shot of frosted pine branches.
Pausing for a quick photograph of the icicles above my head while airing my tires at the gas station.
On a rare walk, spotting the tracks of the multiple coyotes who had yapped in the field the night before.
There are a lot of parallels here to the strange times we’re living in right now. A pandemic is weird, strange and scary, and we’re all feeling the effects of it one way or another. We’re chafing because we can’t go places when we want to. We’re missing people and faces and fellowship. We’re disappointed at cancellations and postponements. We miss the days when you didn’t feel like you were hazarding your life and everyone else’s every time you walk into the grocery store. We’d really like to have a normal conversation again that didn’t contain the words mask, CDC or quarantine.
But circumstances are never an excuse for failing to find joy.
I hope that, instead of giving way to impatience and frustration at the unusual out-of-our-control limitations put on us this year, we can look for the good when it all seems bad. That we can be more grateful for the freedom we had before, and not take it for granted when it returns. That we can be intentional about using all that extra time at home. That we can more creative, less apathetic. That we can appreciate the opportunity to build stronger relationships with immediate family members, and the blessed simplicity of being forced to slow down. That we can learn to value the right things, and put less value on the things that don’t really matter.
Normal life will return eventually, but while you’re waiting, don’t miss the unique gifts and blessings that God may have for you during this pandemic. When we look back on 2020 in years to come, let’s be grateful that we learned new good lessons and lived this strange and memorable year well, instead of regretful that we spent it chafing for it to end.
“For I have learned in whatever situation I am to be content. I know how to be brought low, and I know how to abound. In any and every circumstance, I have learned the secret of facing plenty and hunger, abundance and need. I can do all things through him who strengthens me.” (Philippians 4:11-13)
Farewell to watching the snow banks mount to the window sills and the thermometer drop out of sight,
Farewell to the 
Farewell to rainbow sun dogs,
Farewell to conjuring up baking projects just for the sake of making the kitchen cozy,
Farewell to the best and longest ski season in years,
Farewell to the long dark of winter evenings,
Farewell to winter.
Farewell to shadows of bluebells on white chicken coop walls…
Farewell to pleasant afternoons hanging laundry on the line in the company of friendly toads…
Farewell to grasshoppers, and white trumpet vines, and all other such elegant pairings…
Farewell to barefoot days at the edge of the lake……
Farewell to the haunting serenade of loons…
Farewell to daisy bouquets made by small hands, and smoky sunsets, gifts from forests burning far away…
Farewell to cumulonimbus, those splendid, tall ships sailing by in the sea of the sky…
Farewell to restless, flitting warblers in green, green meadows…
Farewell to lush gardens decked in the thousand diamonds of sudden morning showers…
Farewell to the brief, warm nights, sparkling with celestial beauty and fireflies, humming with mosquitoes…
Farewell to all the sun-ripened berries hiding under the leaves…
Farewell to picturesque encounters on whimsical summer evening drives…
Farewell to all the babies, now raised and grown…
Farewell to dancing swallowtails in ballrooms of flowers…
Farewell, sweet summer; welcome, glorious autumn!
Favorite Bucket List Score: A non-blurry close-up photo of a hummingbird has been on my list for a long time. If you know how fast these little beauties move, you know why I considered this opportunity a gift! This wasn’t the only shot I scored, either—and you can check out all of them in 
Favorite Associated Memory: Not surprisingly, my favorites are often so because of the stories and memories behind them. 
Favorite Travel Shot: I really had a hard time choosing, but oddly enough, I ended up settling on this one that never even made it into a blog post! (Thus, a bonus photo for you!) My reason is solely based on the humor of the situation. This is a wild turkey mama who apparently doesn’t believe in broadcasting photos of her family for the world to see. She paraded them daringly along the edge of the road, oblivious to traffic roaring by—but when I tried to discreetly poke a camera lens out the truck window, that was a different story. She has at least six chicks, who are down there in the grass by her feet hiding. I’m really not sure if that’s a twinkle of mischief in her eye there, or a glint of suspicion, or just a look of triumph for foiling my designs. She granted me this one cameo peekaboo shot, and that was it.
Favorite Action Shot: The story behind this one can be found 
Favorite Landscape: The more you get into photography, the more you obsess about light. The absence or presence of the right kind of light, outside of actual studio photography, is something you chase after, wait for, wish for, do your best to contrive for, but cannot ever completely control. When you catch it, its a glorious moment. I passed this roadside bed of fire weed many times this summer, but it wasn’t until just the right shaft of late-afternoon golden light hit it, spotlighting the blossoms against the dark backdrop of forest, that it actually became worth stepping on the brakes for.
Favorite Car Window Shot: Hands down. It makes me smile every time I look at it.
Favorite Floral: Obviously I wasn’t the only one who appreciated the cornflower blue of these bachelor buttons in my flower garden this year!
Favorite Challenge (as in the photos I worked the hardest for): That would definitely be any photo containing otters. Just don’t ask how many photos I actually took to secure those I deemed worthy to share with you (you can view a couple more in 
Favorite Nature Close-Up: I love the contrast of this perfect autumn leaf from my parent’s maple-rich yard posing on their picnic table.
Favorite Sky Capture: this alignment of the storm clouds and big round moon just after sunset was so stunning, and I enjoyed the extra fiddling with my camera required to expose those lunar craters just right! It rated high enough in my small world to become my desktop wallpaper. It must have appealed to you, too, because it also rated as the post with the most views for 2017!
This was the most magnificent sunset I have seen in my life, and the pictures (yes, they’re both from the same evening) hardly do it justice. It was also the one redeeming feature of the most severe summer storm I’ve had to drive through in my life. That was the road trip in which we missed half-dollar sized hail by a mere couple miles and because it was raining so hard could see nothing but the taillights ahead of us for what seemed like eternity (probably more like fifteen minutes). It was unforgettable all around.
It was a long, happy weekend of giving thanks. During family dinner as the silverware clinked on fine china, then again later as wedges of pie were passed, between friends, during joyful church services and into microphones, I heard people express gratefulness for so many beautiful things.
The dim, dreary skies lit unexpectedly up with all this splendor that kept going and going and going and wouldn’t stop. I paused to notice the first flush of pink, and then stopped to watch in awe as it spread and rippled and flamed across the entire canopy of the heavens curving over my world. Then the coyotes started to yap far off in the forest, and I thought about the fact that there’s more than one way to make your voice heard.
Whether the calendar says so or not, the last day of August always seems like the last day of summer to me—and seeing that always makes me kind of sad. Nothing against fall or even the coming winter, mind you. I truly love the changing seasons. It’s just that summer in Minnesota is somehow just a little briefer than the other seasons, and I never quite manage to get in all the swimming and fresh peaches on ice cream that I want to before it’s time to pull out the sweaters and hot cocoa again.
Red is for ripe wild strawberries discovered along fence rows, sweet and warm with sunshine…
Orange is for a monarch butterfly, minutes old, clinging trustingly to my wide-eyed daughter’s finger…
Yellow is for the elegant beards of irises…
Green is for sun-dappled woodland ferns…
Blue is for swan families floating on riffles of water…
Purple is for brilliant masses of fireweed…
We chose a destination on the map, a place with a name hard to wrap our tongues around, that neither of us had ever been to before. We took an entire day and took our sweet, winding, whimsical time and way to get there. We found places we’d spotted on maps and in brochures. We found things that no map or brochure can point you to, small and not-so-small details that delighted and surprised us. It was the perfect juxtaposition of the expected and the unexpected, a true adventure. And so, as the grand finale to this little series of vacation photographs, come have a little glimpse of the beautiful Keweenaw Peninsula with us.
We took the roads labeled “scenic” and “shoreline” as much as possible, for obvious reasons. It’s 
We peeked hopefully beneath the leaves of these thimbleberry bushes, and were mocked with loads of not-quite-ripe berries. So we bought thimbleberry jam instead at…
…a fairy-tale bakery that smelled of gingerbread, surrounded by magnificent fragrant rose bushes. I never thought I’d meet a bakery that smelled as good outside as it did inside, but I was wrong. The fact that the delicious muffins we also secured here were baked by kind bearded monks in long black robes only added to its charm.
We climbed a red wrought iron staircase, which wound tightly to the top of…
…a perfectly picturesque lighthouse with a shiny red tin roof.
We picked wildflowers, ate the most delicious fresh lake trout right in view of the great lake it was caught in. and explored 
And then, as a fitting finale to the day, we drove right to the top of Brockway Mountain to see for miles in every direction, and join other happy people who were also taking time out of their busy schedules to watch the sun as it slipped like a giant copper penny into the lake spread out below us. 
And then that magnificent sunset chased us all the way down the long road home. The tired little people nodded off to sleep in the back seat, cheeks rosy with sunshine and sticky from after-dinner mints, and the great dark dusk engulfed the rugged shape of the peninsula as it rose to meet the twilight sky behind us, as the music played, softly and fittingly:
There are two things that cause writer’s block for me: having nothing to say, and having altogether too much to say.
Sometimes, nearly always, there’s no end to the cold and snow in February.
And we found them—puddles, liquid blue and silver, beneath cotton candy clouds in February.
Rejoicing Hills 