Arugula et. al. thriving in the caterpillar a few days ago.

and the caterpillar yesterday during the first snowstorm of the season.

We’ll see tomorrow how the little greenhouse caterpillar has weathered the cold: the high is expected to be 27, the low tonight 7, our first single digit forecast of the season. Yesterday in stinging cold, I cut back all the arugula, grown big again, rinsed and drained it, packed it in the fridge, in the absence of olive oil. Today I’ll drive up the road and pick up olive oil from my almost-nextdoor neighbor, who will get fresh arugula in exchange. I won’t open the greenhouse today. A thin coating of ice and snow is melting in spartan sun; the winter garden’s first test with inclement weather.

Thursday, when it still felt like early September, I found a tiny scarlet gilia in bloom along the forest path. In the garden as well, spring bulbs had sprung foliage and lilacs begun to bud.

The morning-glories continue to delight in an unexpected way. The temperature dropped so precipitously yesterday as rain turned to show and drops froze dripping off of dead leaves.

The mountains kept disappearing and emerging from fog and snows with brilliant interplay of light and shadow.

I moved here, to this remote colorado plateau, this neighborly mesa, for one reason only: to cultivate peace of mind. I followed my instinct, I trusted my intuition, I moved here in order to cultivate peace of mind. I knew that here, I might find the space and time to follow one thought through to the end. And what thought is that? Who am I? Why am I here?

This is how much rain and snow we got in the first 24 hours of the storm: enough to make a heavy dog slide in mud. I walked in flipflops and a sweatshirt to the rim with them pretty early in the morning. By the time I harvested arugula in the afternoon my fingers hurt from cold before I finished snipping.

Junipers in first snow and morning light.

Meanwhile, inside in the sunroom, patio plants thrive: crown of thorns glows like a holy relic, while the agave stalk continues to play coy. Will it open this year, or is its blooming a biennial phenomenon? It grew like the magic beanstalk for a few weeks this summer, then just stopped. What is it doing inside itself?

Cherry pie by Mary made it feel like summer.