With Lent coming up, I've been thinking about habits I rely on too much or ones that aren't useful to me anymore. What would it be like to give them up for forty days? People have used this time to try to make positive changes in their lives, do something that's hard for them, care more, give more, or pray more. I read a post on someone's Facebook page about turning problems into opportunities, and that resonated with me. I lean too much on the idea that I'm stuck in one situation or another, so during Lent, I want to rethink that idea. How am I not stuck? How could I get unstuck? How can I get excited about my life, not just for something that may happen in the future, but for something that's happening right now?

Frost on Tree II

More frost, crystals, fractals, and magical ice castles

Frost on Tree

On a freezing January morning, a thick frost covered the trees—tiny, sharp crystals; delicate white branches; fractals. This kind of frost is called "hoar frost," from an Old English adjective meaning "to show signs of age." Knobby, hunchbacked trees with white hair and beards. But frost also gives the impression of stopping time. Maybe that's what makes it seem magical, bringing to mind ice castles, white witches, and snow queens—places and people outside the rules of time, always beautiful but never changing.

Getty Museum

I exited the rear of the Getty, expecting to find a modest patio. Instead, I looked out over an impossibly tall, boot-shaped cactus garden and, beyond that, Los Angeles. I skirted the patio to find the museum's massive central gardens, where I followed a narrow, tree-lined path and crossed a stream that traversed, at turns, aquatic plants, massive chunks of stone, and manicured pebbles. Near the bottom of the path, bougainvillea arbors jutted out of the plaza, as delightfully over-dressed as ladies in waiting.

Olomana Trail

We reach a grove of Casuarina trees after a steep hike over slippery red dirt. Casuarina trees look like long-needled pines but are ironwoods, trees with a reputation for strength and durability. The low-hanging braches that graze the ground add to the feeling of protection and shelter. But windows through the thin, knobby leaves lend a sense of playfulness. After a few minutes under this natural cover, we continue on, and up.

Haena State Park

We hiked the strenuous path that would take us to a hidden beach. The steady uphill climb left our shoes and ankles muddy and our legs aching, a thick, green canopy overhead and tropical brush on either side of us. Partway there, we reached an overlook that peered over a popular beach: paper clip-sized people, sea green water, and an impossibly large reef. The shouts and laughter were lost in the space between us, replaced by the chirps and scuffles of the forest. Sometimes life appears most beautiful when you are looking at it from a distance.

Colorado River, Glenwood Springs

You walk across a bridge. Behind you is your hotel. In front of you is a park and the hot springs that make this a tourist town. You stop walking to admire the Colorado River, which, though you didn't know it at the time, begins in the Rocky Mountains, goes through the Grand Canyon, and ends in Mexico. The river is wide here. Taking it in is like taking a deep breath. The water is tree-bark green and, where it flows around rocks, frothy white. Then you continue walking, your moment of repose already gone.