Have you heard about the plight of the bats here in the northeast? They’re suffering from something called white-nose fungus, a scourge that has killed more than a million bats since it was first noticed in upstate New York in 2006. The sugary looking smudges of fungus that accumulate on bats' noses and wings seems to thrive in cold, damp hibernation caves. It disturbs the bats’ hibernation sleep, waking them up and sending them out, confused and disoriented, into frigid temperatures. This dangerously depletes their stores of fat and they frequently die of starvation. The fast-spreading disease has already been detected in nine states, and biologists fear it could wipe out certain bat species entirely. Because bats can consume their own weight in insects in a single day, their decimation could have serious consequences. A rise in the number of agricultural pests could mean that farmers will react with more pesticides, which would find their way into the water table.
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Just managed to push the door open and pop outside to document this incredible snowfall. As you can see, huge branches have come down from the weight of the snow which has been accumulating since early this morning. It's already past my knees! I have never stepped into such deep snow. What a feeling of sinking—sort of scary but thrilling!

I think I have to go outside and properly clear the doorway so I don't get snowed in. I've already brought in a load of firewood in case the power goes out again. What a week for G to be away! I am butch-pilgrim-chick! Frontier woman! Too bad cooking for one is such a lonely enterprise because this is chicken-&-dumplings weather! Maybe I'll treat myself to some pasta...

On my way out to snowshoe this afternoon, I came across this poor mourning dove at the bottom of our drive. Her head was nowhere in sight. Yet another mystery of nature I cannot solve. As you can see, she had just dined on some of our delicious birdseed. I hope this isn't too gory for you. (If it is, you may not want to read on.) At 35 degrees, it seemed almost balmy outside today! Within minutes of commencing my 90-minute trek, I had to shed my hat and gloves and tie my jacket around my waist. Despite all my good intentions, this was my first exercise in a week. There were those 3 days in the city, and a few days where it was barely 13 degrees but, still, I'm a weak woman and one who needs to work off a large and indescribably delicious helping of soft-serve green tea ice cream from Mitsuwa. (Yes, we paid a visit to Edgewater, NJ, on our way back from the city and stocked up on all manner of wonderful Japanese ingredients, including fresh bamboo shoots, yam noodles, taro and chrysanthemum leaves.) So there I was, huffing and puffing along, thinking about how it had been months since I'd seen any evidence of the coyotes that used to "mark" the path when what should I come upon?
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I've always been attracted to the natural world. To my eye, nature's designs are the most poetic and intriguing. My home is full of things made from natural materials, especially wood, cork, rattan, slate, shell and clay. We also have a little cabinet of curios to house all our special finds: a wild turkey feather, a locust carcass, a tiny and perfect bird's nest, a piece of tortoise shell. So you can imagine how I go crazy when I'm in Ted Muehling's shop on Howard Street. The place is gorgeously curated in a very simple way. I love everything from the worn shearling on a chair to the "not for sale" found objects you would kill to have. Aside from his own jewelry, the porcelain pieces he has designed for Nymphemburg and his glass for Steuben, Ted showcases other designers' work. Among them is Gabriella Kiss, a sculptor who studied at Pratt and became Ted's apprentice. Her delicate, figurative jewelry is inspired by flora and fauna and often has a slightly scientific quality. I was thrilled to open a familiar little box on Christmas morning to discover this gorgeous bracelet in the shape of deer antlers. When I'm not wearing it, I'll just leave it out to enjoy it for the beautiful piece of sculpture it is.
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If only G were not out of town, this is how we would have looked today. Instead, I forged out into the wilderness on my own, snowshoes strapped onto my boots, hood up and ski gloves on. The sun was like a 40-watt bulb, its pale yellow light barely cutting through the grey haze. The path was silent, the new snow muting my Yeti-like footfalls, and just one delicate waxwing flitting along beside me. I rounded a bend and there were three deer, noses to the ground. Another step toward them and they bounded away, their upturned tails like ivory plumes vanishing into the woods. (With the clarity that comes to me when I'm fasting, I realized that I will always have this place. When I'm old, I will return to it—in mind if not in body—and it will still afford me this sense of peace.) Back home, I had a steaming cup of mint-lemon balm tea, brewed from herbs dried from the garden this summer.
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As in, cold enough to freeze the balls off 'em. Love that British expression. Somehow a bit classier than the old witch's teat reference, still hanging on from the days of the Salem trials. My point being: it was damn cold today. We were out snow-shoeing in 13 degrees. I have a deep dread of slipping on the ice, but those metal teeth really do grip into even the slickest surfaces. Realized that the large and interesting tracks we had seen the other day and were sure were from a bear turned out to be our own. How embarrassing. Now I'm finally convinced that the bears are hibernating and so I can stop imagining Werner Herzog-worthy scenarios where one chases me into a snowdrift and mauls G who has run to my defense. Tromping on crusted snow, I could almost see the North Wind puffing out his cheeks and blowing an icy blast our way. It sent the delicate top layer of powder gusting through the air, like a frigid version of the apocalyptic ash that's always drifting down in Cormack McCarthy's brilliant The Road. (Read the book; skip the movie. Sorry, Viggo.)
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For nearly half the year, there is no activity in the garden. Unless you count the relentless piling of discarded vegetable matter onto the compost heap. Given how intense things become once the springtime thaw arrives, this hiatus is actually something of a relief. As a novice gardener, I am always in terror of falling behind, forgetting to mulch or weed or water at the right time. I've given up planting new bulbs because somebody (squirrels? voles?) seems to get them before they can bloom, and the ones that do come up always seem disappointingly sparse. I'm sure this is somehow my fault but I prefer to focus on the where I've actually had luck (thus far mostly limited to peonies, cucumbers, rhubarb and irises). And while the whole undertaking lies dormant, I look forward to getting outside to enjoy other pursuits. Up here, starting about now, this tends to involve snow.
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photos by george billard

It's been two months since we closed the door on the Bowery loft and made the move up to our little 1935 cedar-shingle cottage in Sullivan County. I moved to New York City on June 6th, 1985, right after graduating from Harvard. I remember seeing Rubén Blades at the Village Gate that first night in town. It was quite a wild ride for nearly 25 years (with a 4-year hiatus in Los Angeles), but the time just felt right for something else. G and I had been spending increasingly more time upstate, and loving it. To date—and winter has not kicked in yet—I have no regrets. Living in nature is magical, inspiring, relaxing. I was working for Johnson & Johnson last year on the launch of a new product and came across some research that said just being in nature reduces stress. Your eye alights upon a wildflower or a monarch butterfly or a bald eagle—not on a homeless person or dog poop or a steaming manhole. Don't get me wrong, I love the city. It's just that this suits me fine right now. A couple of days ago, when our nature-loving friend Philip was visiting from the city, we went to check out the nearby Basha Kill. This beautiful wildlife preserve lies in the valley between the Shawagunks and the Catskills, once inhabited by Native Americans and then, in the 1700s, by European settlers.
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How jealous are you that we saw this amazing lynx while driving back from the city on the Palisades Parkway the other night?! (OK, maybe not this very one. It was dark and we were going 6o miles an hour, so stopping for a photo really wasn't on. But I swear, it looked just like this.) Suddenly, there it was—standing stock still at the edge of the road, illuminated by our headlights, a halo delineating the little tufts at the top of its ears. We were both gobsmacked for a moment and then turned to each other and said WTF was that?! As soon as we walked in the door, we googled it and it was immediately clear that we had seen a Canadian lynx. It is extremely rare to see them in this area but evidently there was some attempt to increase their population in these parts about 20 years ago. I can't really describe to you how beautiful it was: silvery, majestic, sleek. I will carry this vision with me forever.
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I suppose the more classic image is of children playing in the piles of leaves. But Titi took an altogether different approach, finding these heaps of crispy birch and maple and dogwood leaves to be ideal for an afternoon nap. As we raked and sweated in the glorious fall sunshine, she snoozed happily, her brindle coat the perfect compliment to the hues of russet and brown.I always imagined that I would have children, but life's mysterious ways took me down another path. I have this little fur bundle of joy to bring me a a different sort of love and, in the 10 years since she thrust her paw at me through the bars of her cage at the Santa Monica pound, together we have experienced sorrow and loss, transcendence and triumph. She loves her new life upstate, showing her true colors as an invaluable mouser and fireside companion.
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