I love the winter because it is here. The weather changes, like our moods. It’s just a fact of life. I always thought winter lasted so long here, but it seems to be zipping by.

Last spring I longed for the summer. It came, and it was wonderful. Then it was gone.

Ten night shifts in a row seems long, so I don’t think about it that way. I just try to live in the moment. Next thing I know, I have four nights off.

Seasons and work schedules pass quickly when you’re doing other things.

But these are the seasons of my life. Zipping by.

I have my favorite, but they all have their own beauty.

Maybe on my deathbed, I’ll wish for one more LOOOOOOOONG winter.

The ephemeral art of coffee. There’s something about knowing that I roasted these beans at 9 last night… with friends here… olfactory cells anticipating this morning as the chaff wafted up into my face… and brewed them when I woke up. It’s all for that moment when the molecules interface with the cells on your tongue. The taste message is sent to the brain. Yes. The taste is rich and delicious. But again, that knowing… it enhances cooking and makes it art.

For several years, I have been brewing my own espresso at home. I work the night shift, so I want my lattes at about 8 or 9 pm. This year, I am roasting my own coffee beans!

I’ve always loved coffee. I remember when I was little, my mom would have ladies from the church over from time to time, and when they left the table, I’d go around and drink the dribbles out of the bottom of all the cups.

Years ago, there was no espresso available in Grand Marais. I just wanted a cappuccino! So I bought a commercial espresso machine and opened a coffee shop/art gallery and housed it in my 1948 Great Northern Railway caboose.

My cafe is my own kitchen now.

I’m me again. Maybe more me than I ever was before.

I never thought I could be so connected to a place. But this is the one place my piece of the puzzle fits.

I actually ceased to be me when I left here (for a short visit to NC in the fall). I thought that move was permanent, and it terrified me. I kept telling my brother, “I want to be me again.”

People ask why I hated NC. At first, I gave long, convoluted answers, until I realized it was because NC is not Grand Marais.

I was traumatized. Still am, from the adventure. But there was a gift. It ripped me open, and since coming home I am oozing with creativity and joy.

As I told my friend today, “I am full of joy. The kind of joy that is always on the verge of tears. I feel very blessed (for lack of a better word). Humbled, grateful, content, fulfilled… HOME.”

I know I’ve been verbose over the past couple of months. I don’t apologize for that. However, I am feeling that it’s time to think about trading the pen for the paintbrush. For awhile.

Same thoughts and feelings. Different medium.