I Meant to Post Here on Monday...

...We keep eating dinner late (I blame it on the time change) and then everything in my life gets pushed back, overlapping with my-getting-ready-for-bed time (which makes me sound about four). And then blogging gets put aside for tomorrow, because I am too tired.

I am tired now, but also upset that writing is getting neglected. So here I am.

We booked our tickets for our honeymoon and last night settled on a place to stay in Paris. Five nights at a mid-range hotel that is within walking distance of the many, many sites and things to do. It is hard to be here now, in this moment, and not be floating in Paris land, with a croissant and a cafe in my hand. We will get our city fix and then fly to the lazy island life of Kalymnos, Greece (right above Rhodes Bryna), where we will get our climbing on stalactites on and our tans. It hasn't quite hit me that I get to leave this country soon. But it has hit me repeatedly that I haven't escaped to another culture since beloved NZ. That trend has to end, because I never pictured myself being someone that didn't travel, that didn't experience the newness and freshness of being away from America.

Meanwhile, the snow continues to fly. And unlike most, I am not, surprisingly, minding the white stuff. The skiing is still amazing, and I feel like I get better each time I click into my skis. Olive loves it, and whatever gives her joy seems to give me joy double fold. When I am in my day to day life, brushing off the car & dodging the slush puddle, it is not as fun for sure. But it is what it is.

Jamie, Olive and I walked this evening to the border of the elk refuge, by Putt Putt trail. Olive, walkless until then, was running circles around us, her energy pouring out of her. The Tetons were pink, all the new snow blanketing the peaks. At the fence border we saw a coyote, who watched us for a while and then slowly made his way into the woods, pausing to look at us occasionally, especially Olive. Olive was transfixed for a while, as if she knew it was some long lost relative, and not her normally spastic, barky self when it comes to spotting wildlife.

The last few pages of my book beckons, Great House by Nicole Krauss, the author who wrote The History of Love. A beautiful writer who takes words and weaves them into phrases that should be cliches, but just are not. I love her writing.

Peace and much love.