Montana Woman Magazine, Issue 15, November/December 2021 by Montana Woman Magazine

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montana woman magazine

ISSUE NO 15, NOVEMBER/DECEMBER 2021: MALLORY OTTARIANO / WITHIN

table of contents VIGNETTES |

A CLEARING

Melissa Rees

THE CIRCLE

Sydney Munteanu

GROWTH

Morgan Marks

CANDLELIGHT

Caitlin Mallery

FOOD & SPIRITS |

GINGER MOL ASSES COOKIES

For cozy winter days

JUS TWON EMORE: PART VI

Tennessee Zinger

EDITOR'S DESK |

3, 7, 17, 100

SELECT WRITINGS

Letters & poems

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42 50 56 holly purdy: love party

yoga, celebration, & sobriety

jen perry: jelt

keeping community at its core

mallory ottariano: youer

threading the gap with community supported apparel

ART & DESIGN |

THE RABBIT & THE MOON

Step-by-step embroidery

LIFE |

A LOVE LETTER TO THE WILDS

My friend, the Wilds

AND A RIVER RUNS THROUGH IT

Dear Montana

VISITING THE MAGICAL FAIRY FOREST

Embracing the wonder of the moment

ON PAPER

An ode to letter-writing

RESCUED BY THE PRINTED PAGE

Finding our sanctuary

WELLNESS |

IN MINDFUL MOTION

Deep, conscious breathing

LEVITATION NATION

Self-love & body acceptance

WINTER'S CALL

Seeking the quiet

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montana woman

OWNER & EDITOR

megan crawford

Montana Woman is a platform. It’s a place to celebrate our achievements, a place to support each other, a place to acknowledge the resilience of the women of this state. It doesn’t necessarily matter where you’re from, you’re here now. In all of your loudness, your boldness, your fearlessness— you are here. We’re here, together. We publish a statewide magazine every other month that features women across Montana— the movers and shakers, the go-getters, the rule-breakers, the risk-takers. We all have a story to tell.

CREATIVE DIRECTOR

megan crawford

BUSINESS MANAGER

carrie crawford

Montana Woman Magazine as you know it began in October 2019. Right out of the gate with photographer Alexis Pike as the first cover feature— clad in fringe pants and a motorcycle helmet in a Bozeman alleyway— we’ve always been authentically ourselves. We believe in showing up as you are. You don’t need to change who you are to have a seat at the table. No matter your age, your identity, your hometown, you are welcome here. We believe in creating a publication that’s worth reading because we have stories worth telling.

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BACK COVER

megan crawford HOME

EDITING DEPARTMENT

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PUBLIC REL ATIONS

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ADVERTISING, DISTRIBUTION, & SUBMISSIONS

Contact the editor at info@montanawoman.com or (406)260-1299. Submissions are not accepted through the phone, postal service, or social media.

Montana Woman is a registered trademark and may not be used without permission. The information contained in this magazine is provided as is. Neither Montana Woman or the publisher make any representation or warranty with respect to this magazine or the contents thereof and do hereby disclaim all express and implied warranties to the fullest extent permitted by law. Montana Woman and the publisher do not endorse any

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LETTER from the

EDITOR

ind circled the canyon, slithering its way down from the stars. You could hear it running along the ridge like a train, slowly circling, brushing the Firs and Hemlocks. It skimmed the lake, eventually sweeping the sides of the tent, only to disappear back into the night. Wind continued this ritual, only interrupted by the whisper of rain. Every time, you could hear the beginnings: the dance on the ridge, which meant the trees would creak, which meant the tent would be greeted next. In the morning, the lake was glass and the trees were quiet, as if nothing happened. There were no puddles, no hoots and yodels from the Loon, no downed branches. Maybe the mountains are nocturnal, at home with the company of a crescent moon— I wouldn’t blame them. We rambled over mountains at 12,000' in elevation, took shade under Junipers in the high desert, breathed in every drop of the sweet Aspen forests. Got covered in gritty salt sweat. Craned our necks up to the Milky Way. Sat with the wonder of it all. I am now back at my desk, Moab mosquito scabs healed, campfire clothes washed, sleeping bag returned to hibernation. But with me are a stack of 16 polaroids, a new bowl from Santa Fe for my favorite rocks, piñon incense as a slow-burning love letter to the desert. But now I would like nothing more than to be in a windswept tent, tucked away in the belly of the Wind Rivers, cocooned in my old sleeping bag. That’s the gift of the Wilds— eternal longing, always waiting to return. Catching the wind and wondering what would happen if you followed on.

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contributors

KELSEY MERRITT

SYDNEY MUNTEANU

STEPHANIE MOSBRUCKER

LAUREN WILCOX

CHLOE NOSTRANT

NICOLE DUNN

SARAH HARDING

MORGAN MARKS

MEAGAN SCHMOLL

MINDY COCHRAN PHOTO BY KIRALEE JONES

BARBARA FRASER

AUTUMN TOENNIS

WORTHY STOKES

MORGAN HOLCOMB

MEGAN DAVIN

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behind the cover

COVER MUSE

mallory ottariano (with hanna sterlington, kinsey vetter, and dara mcdevitt) PHOTOGRAPHER

aleks was

LOCATION

missoula

read about mallory ottariano on page 56 mon tan awoman .com | no v e mbe r/dec emb er 2 02 1

SINCE OCTOBER 2019, MONTANA WOMAN HAS BEEN, AND ALWAYS WILL BE, AN OPEN PLATFORM. THIS IS A PUBLICATION FOR THE REAL, COME-AS-YOU-ARE MONTANA. THE UNDERCURRENTS, THE CHANGE-MAKERS, THE RISK-TAKERS, THE MOVERS & SHAKERS.

YOU DO NOT NEED TO CHANGE WHO YOU ARE TO HAVE A SEAT AT THE TABLE. NO MATTER YOUR AGE, YOUR RACE, YOUR HOMETOWN, YOUR IDENTITY— YOU ARE WELCOME HERE.

MONTANA IS FOR ALL OF US, FOR EVERYONE. WHETHER YOU WERE BORN & RAISED HERE, YOU MOVED HERE, YOU VISITED, OR YOU DREAM OF VISITING.

WE CREATE A PUBLICATION THAT’S WORTH READING BECAUSE WE ALL HAVE STORIES WORTH TELLING.

WELCOME TO THE TABLE.

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| FOOD & SPIRITS

ginger molasses cookies IMAGE BY ANNIE SPRATT

by Lauren Wilcox

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ginger molasses cookies TEMP: 350ºF

by lauren wilcox

BAKE: 10-12 MIN

ingredients 2¼ cup all-purpose flour ¾ cup packed brown sugar ¼ cup molasses ¾ cup butter (softened to room temperature) 1 egg (room temperature) 2 tsp baking soda 1 tsp vanilla extract

1 tsp ground ginger (I use 2 tsp, I like them spicy!) 1 tsp ground cinnamon ¼ tsp ground nutmeg ¼ tsp ground cloves ¼ tsp salt ¼ cup granulated sugar (for rolling)

method Preheat your oven to 350°F. Mix the flour, spices, salt, and baking soda in a bowl and set aside. In a large bowl, cream the butter until it is light and fluffy. Add the sugar and mix until well combined. Add the egg, vanilla, and molasses and mix until fully incorporated. Add half of the flour mixture to the wet mixture, mix, then add the other half. Once the dough comes together, and you can see no more flour, pack the dough down in the bowl. Cover the bowl & place in the refrigerator to chill for at least 30 minutes. Use a cookie scoop to portion dough, then form into balls and roll in granulated sugar. Bake for 10-12 minutes until the cookies are puffed up and the edges are golden brown. Let the cookies sit for a few minutes out of the oven to cool. Makes about 1 ½ dozen cookies. Enjoy!

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FOOD & SPIRITS |

JUS TWON EMORE: PART SIX the crack of change BY MEAGAN SCHMOLL

Twon was relaxing into the conversation of this new language and the agreeable topic of its spiritous nature. Jus’s face and Twon’s many faces kept exclaiming over the strange finding that their names were on the base of the bottle they were drinking! A creak and the sound of a droplet hitting the ground brought the discussion to a momentary pause. Then another drop of liquid followed by two more in quick succession took all of the many faces’ focus to the pipe that Twon had recently extracted itself from. The drops turned into a slow trickle, and a vapor drifted out of the pipe, hovering over the puddle. One eye could be made out, and what looked like a sizeable nose seemed to explore the liquid from many angles.

The eye swiveled and looked from a new vantage point at Jus and Twon. The nose-like shape then moved towards them, and a loud crack boomed off of the interior walls. All three looked sharply at where the nose vapor eye had come from, and the background seemed to shimmer as though looking at a heatwave in which many moons, suns, and stars were outlining a creature of sorts with four legs, arms, limbs? Many limbs. As the many-limbed creature noticed them, a sound came from the vapor nose eye. It was as if smoke was whispering through trees, forming a word that both Jus and Twon recognized intimately as they had just been discussing it… then whispered in the air, “mi Amore.”

TENNESSEE ZINGER INGREDIENTS

2 oz Uncle Nearest Tennessee Whiskey 1 oz fresh lemon juice .75 oz ginger syrup* 1 spoon of huckleberries 3 dashes Angostura bitters Muddle the huckleberries in your mixing glass, then add the remaining ingredients and ice. Shake it until the tins are nice and cold, about 10 slow seconds. Strain over fresh ice into a Rocks or Double Old Fashioned glass. Garnish with fresh huckleberries

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GINGER SYRUP

Juice the ginger and mix equal parts water to juice. Add equal parts sugar to the water ginger mix and stir until sugar is dissolved.

TENNESSEE WHISKEY This style of whiskey is closely in tow with the rules of Bourbon, 51% or more corn is in the mash, and the whiskey must be aged in new charred American oak barrels for a minimum of two years. There are, however, two main differences in Tennessee Whiskey that set it apart: most are filtered through maple charcoal, known as the Lincoln County Process, and it must be made in Tennessee. The brand Uncle Nearest has recently made itself known on the market, and it is delicious. It’s named for Nathan “Nearest” Green, the man who taught young Jack Daniel the fine art of distilling and was instrumental in developing the Lincoln County Process (filtering whiskey through maple charcoal). As of 2016, he was the first African-American master distiller on record in the U.S. Nathan Nearest Green worked, as a free man, as master distiller for Jack Daniels after the Civil War.

Uncle Nearest Whiskey was co-founded by Fawn Weaver; she is the first African-American woman to head a major spirits brand and the first American spirit brand with an all-female executive team. In 2019, she became the first African-American to be featured on the cover of American Whiskey Magazine. Go pick yourself up a bottle— it will delight your tastebuds into historic and present reverie. MEAGAN SCHMOLL is the owner and creator of Raskol Drink, a Cocktail Creation and Spirits Education resource designed to expand your knowledge and bar around the curious thirst of history, lore, and spirited adventures that make up the ingredients in your drink. raskoldrink.com

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ART & DESIGN |

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the rabbit & the moon

AN EMBROIDERY PATTERN BY MEGAN CRAWFORD

sti tch guide For this issue, I wanted to create a simple pattern and actually stick with it— I have a knack for taking a small idea and building it up to a mountain (see: the last pattern, this magazine, my piles of art supplies). This pattern is beginnerfriendly, using only three different types of stitches. And, honestly, you could get away with only using a backstitch. The single black thread can be replaced with any color, or you could add in additional colors wherever you like. Heck, tea-stain your fabric if you want. Make an underpainting with watercolors. A simple base pattern lends itself to artistic interpretation, which is always the best part of making art. A skein of embroidery floss comes as six strands twisted together, but I used one single strand of thread for this pattern. Once you’ve cut your length of floss (I usually work with a forearm’s length), separate out one strand. Of course, you could ditch all of this and use however many you want (such is the joy of art).

supplies 310 (black) 6˝ Embroidery hoop 10˝×10˝ Cotton fabric (Kona, Calico— even cotton canvas will work) DMC embroidery floss Scissors Embroidery needle Water-soluble fabric pen or pencil Optional: felt for backing

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backstitch

USED AS A BASE FOR THE LINEWORK, PRIMARILY FEATURED IN THE LEAF DETAILS & WHISKERS

A backstitch is the foundation to essentially every type of stitch, and even if you’ve never picked up a needle and thread, you probably know the backstitch. Start by bringing the needle up through the underside of your fabric, and send the needle back down farther down the line. If you’re after a neat & tidy backstitch, try to keep your stitches a similar length. If you’re going to turn them into a whipped backstitch, though, variations in length are okay.

Whipped backstitch (this page has pattern info which is why it's hidden!) USED ON THE RABBIT AND THE OUTLINES OF THE PL ANTS AND MOON

A whipped backstitch is just a fancy backstitch, and it makes easy work of stems or any sort of linework. Start with a backstitch. At one end of the backstitch, send the needle & thread up through the fabric. Without going back through the fabric, pass the needle under the backstitch. Always pass the needle the same way (i.e., if you’re working from right to left, go right to left for every backstitch). Once you’ve gotten to the end of a line or if you’re running low on thread, just send the needle back down through the next backstitch.

Satin Stitch

USED AS A DARK FILL FOR THE MOON AND THE RABBIT’S NOSE

Satin stitches are simple, straight stitches that run parallel to each other. I usually start toward the middle of the section I’m stitching and work to the edges from there. If you pull the thread too tight, the fabric may pucker— too loose and your thread won’t lay flat. It’s also best to stitch a bit outside the line since the fabric will pull and stretch.

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the story of the rabbit & the moon Winter started this pattern. Something with greenery, but not something obvious like a sprig of Holly. A central animal, but one that I could draw figuratively and still have it be recognizable. The moon, because there’s an empty space. I sent a picture of the pattern to a friend, and she immediately responded, “the rabbit and the moon!” Growing up, her mom read a story about the Rabbit and the Moon, one that was obviously not in my nightly rotation of books as a kid.

A quick google search confirmed that yep, Rabbit and the Moon was a quintessential 90s children’s book, but the book itself takes the story from Néhiyaw (Cree) legends. There are also stories of the Moon Rabbit throughout history in China, Korea, India, Japan, Vietnam, Mexico, and among First Nations communities in Canada. The Néhiyaw legend tells the story of a Rabbit who wanted to go to the moon, but the only willing volunteer to take him was the Crane. The Rabbit held onto the legs of the Crane, stretching them out long and thin over the journey, and he held on so tight that his paws bled. Upon their arrival to the moon, the Rabbit touched the Crane’s forehead with its bloody paw, giving the Crane its distinguished red markings.

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find the pattern at montanawoman.com/shop/ embroidery-15

RABBIT: WHIPPED BACKSTITCH OUTLINE -WHISKERS: BACKSTITCH -NOSE: SATIN STITCH -EYE: WHIPPED BACKSTITCH MOON: WHIPPED BACKSTITCH OUTLINE, SATIN STITCH FILL GREENERY: WHIPPED BACKSTITCH OUTLINE, BACKSTITCH FOR SMALL DETAILS

DMC 310 (BL ACK), SINGLE THREAD, 6˝ HOOP

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woah! what's with all the empty space? since embroidery patterns have to be traced onto fabric, this side of the pattern is blank.

(it's weird, but ya gotta make it work, you know?)

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get stitchin' find these patterns & more at MONTANAWOMAN.COM/SHOP

see the art & make the art at the square a contemporary art museum

The Paris Gibson Square Museum of Art (The Square) in Great Falls, Montana has been exhibiting art, teaching art and supporting the development of contemporary art and artists since 1977. Housed in the historic Great Falls school built in 1896 by Paris Gibson, the founder of Great Falls. The Square is known for its exceptional rotating exhibitions showing local, regional and national contemporary artists, in addition to its outdoor sculpture garden and educational gallery programing. The museum offers outstanding onsite studio classes to the community in ceramics, printmaking, painting, drawing and more!

PARIS GIBSON SQUARE MUSEUM OF ART

1400 First Avenue North Great Falls, MT 59401 (406)727-8255 www.the-square.org www.facebook.com/PGSMOA/

HOURS OF OPERATION

Open Monday-Friday 10am to 5pm, including Tuesday Evenings 5-9pm, and Saturday Noon to 5pm. Closed Sundays and Select Holidays.

free admission!

Exhibitions presented by Paris Gibson Square Museum of Art are supported in part by the Montana Arts Council, a state agency funded by the State of Montana and the National Endowment for the Arts. Additional funding is provided by museum members and the citizens of Cascade County, and generous support from Montana Federal Credit Union and D.A. Davidson.

A CLEARING BY MELISSA REES

High above Where you can feel the air, crystallized, As it enters your mouth Quenching your thirst For something Grand. Beyond your sense of self. A quieting of the mind begins As you ascend Through frost tipped larch and Rock entombed in snow. There is no room here for all of those meddling thoughts As you are satiated by the splendor of sun dancing through ice crystals. A clearing. A winter wind dusting away the cobwebs As your body remembers what it is like to move Freely Without the weight you have been carrying all this Time. Here you pause, Taking in, remembering, what it means to Exist on the spine of the Rockies. To live in harmony And to remember We are just one small piece In the great expanse.

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LIFE |

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My dear friend, you’ve changed (as have I)— I remember when my favorite form of yours was the sea. Of course, I always loved the rising waves that would carry me up from the sand, but my favorite part of the sea was always the scent— salt, aloe, brine. That hasn’t changed; I still categorize a sense of place by a sense of smell. This is why I’ve come to love your forests the most (why would wet soil smell so nice, otherwise). The counter to the forest— the desert— is a more elusive fondness. There’s nothing like sun-soaked Sagebrush on a welcome breeze, and the same goes for the rogue Juniper tree. While I’m not necessarily built for the brutality of your deserts, I can appreciate your work (the rocks especially).

It’s nice to revisit the familiar spaces— Yellowstone has always been a talisman. Eight, eighteen, and again at twenty-six. I’ll be sure to go back for a twenty-year reunion; I wouldn’t miss your eggy sulfur air for the world. The Tetons were another almost twenty-year reunion, but I swear I don’t remember seeing them then (I apologize— it’s my memory, not your mountains. I don’t think I’d ever be allowed to forget seeing the Tetons for the first time). You were swathed in smoke— again, apologies— but still just as sublime. I’m glad Lauren and I had our first go at painting plein-air at the base of your mountains there. The Lodgepoles and Aspens of the Tetons are a welcome change from the rotten eggs of Yellowstone, but that’s nostalgic at this point, so you can get away with it. Your deserts— I think they’re why I keep rewriting this. I know how to talk about your forests and mountains because I’ve lived among them for a while now. Your deserts, though, are a riddle. The clear opposite of hallowed woods; arid, hot, shadeless, relentless. A floor of fissures— again, the opposite of the mountains, at least in direction. What I’ve yet to get out of my brain is the sheer technicolor of your deserts. I’m used to a blanket of grays, greens, and blues. There’s something magic about rust-earth clay. I am also accustomed to the stars of your northern skies.

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I know where to turn for Orion, for Ursa Major and Minor, but your deserts are so wildly pinpricked with stars that you can hardly tell them apart. They’re like spilled salt. I would have sat outside and watched them if it weren’t for your propensity for odd nocturnal creatures (I am very okay with living with grizzlies instead of scorpions, thank you). That, and I left my glasses in our tent, so maybe my nearsightedness aided your stars. But even with my shoddy eyesight, you were still beautiful. Which then brings me to your desert sunrises— once again, similar but different from your mountains. This is the one that trips me up the most. I have seen a plethora of sunrises in my days, and while my memory is practically a piece of Swiss cheese at this point, I can still remember a sunrise of yours in Bryce Canyon when I was seventeen. I know that the sunrise Lauren and I watched at Dead Horse Point will be the same. Sun spilling like honey, light like gauze between the hills, the Potash pools glowing in the dark canyon below. How quiet your deserts are. How loud their color is. How sweet sagebrush is under your light.

Even still, I am used to old mountains— sleeping giants, carved for time immemorial. Your younger mountains are wholly different, reckless, unpredictable. The Aspen groves of these younger mountains are a crown jewel of yours, even if we weren’t there for your Autumn. There’s something so sharply sweet about an Aspen— mint, citrus, soil? I haven’t pinned it down yet; in due time. We camped the most in your younger mountains, 9,100' at the highest, where the air begins to grow thin and crisp. Air above your treeline is like a punch to the lungs, but in a nice way, you know? Like you’re breathing, really breathing, for the first time. I did have a favorite set of mountains— I will always love Glacier and the Tetons, the southern Rockies around Ouray, but you’ve truly done it with the Wind Rivers. All of them, every inch. Lauren and I drove up to the Wind Rivers in the tail-end of a storm under a boiling sky. Everything was constantly shifting in color, form, light— every crest showed us something unexpected. Light hit everything so perfectly; it’s no wonder I loved them so swiftly. I will forgive you for sending out a rogue Loon onto Louis Lake, just at the start of twilight, when I’m at my most skittish. The echoing yowls kept me humble, so thank you for that. I half-excepted some sort of looming creature to 36

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snatch me out of my car before I could fill out our campsite form, but you instead gifted me a duck (your sense of humor can be questionable at times, Wilds). Your Wind Rivers lived up to their name with a windstorm that felt like we were in a snow globe. Waves of air, swooping down from the peaks like a hawk, only to find a glass lake in the morning. Again, I live where your lakes are almost as common as puddles, but this one was different. An unassuming lake, no aquamarine glacial silt, no painted stones, no towering peaks on its shore. Just a quiet body of water, nestled in the trees, existing.

I will say, though— none of this would have been the same if I’d traveled with anyone other than Lauren. For this, I will always be grateful for you, Wilds, as I’m sure you are what brought both of us out to Montana in the first place. You carried both of us for thousands of miles to the heart of your Rockies. Our first trip together was to Yellowstone: new, bright-eyed college students, excited that one of us had a car and the other had a park pass that wasn’t expired. You again carried us along this trip, bounding, welcoming us. Words are still indefinite, and I think it’s because you’ve gifted us something inexplicable. Every now and then, maybe only once in a lifetime, you’re gifted a friendship that reaches beyond what we can comprehend. But, Wilds, I know you understand (it’s your doing, anyway). Sometimes things are better left as they are, unexplained, in all their sweetness and wonder. MEGAN CRAWFORD is the owner, editor, & designer of Montana Woman Magazine and also the proud owner of a beloved pair of sweatpant overalls.

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| VIGNETTE

the circle BY SYDNEY MUNTEANU

When women Forever friends. Or brand, brand new Sit. And chatter. Whispering wishes And sharing secrets We can’t stop. It comes from the pit of our stomachs Out the top of our throats Dancing through our hands Into the circle. On a kitchen island Around the couch sunk into the pillows Or on the edge of the bathroom sink The circle Calls us together. You’ve seen it. One laugh... Breaks into another laugh.

IMAGE BY MARSHA RAYMERS

It’s not magic. It’s in our bones.

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| FEATURE

holly purdy

Love Party YOGA, CELEBRATION, & SOBRIETY

BY WORTHY STOKES IMAGES BY JILL JONES

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hen Shelby, Montana local Holly Purdy saw a space open up on Central Avenue in downtown Whitefish, she and her husband thought the same thing: that would make a great yoga studio. Together they worked out a plan and started, in October 2018, a build-out that took nearly a year and a half to complete. Three months after she’d just had a baby, Holly Purdy’s first day of teaching was in May of 2019. In her own words, she was “trusting the universe and family to help hold it all up.” Just like that, LOVE YOGA Whitefish was born, and Holly Purdy was in the business of brokering love.

direction— is decidedly palpable. Eyes crackling with wakeful aliveness, Purdy moves lithely about with spirited generosity, practiced strength, and a (surprisingly) grounded lens.

Nearly anyone you ask will likely say a version of the same thing, “Holly is the kind of person who leads with her heart.” In other words, the striking synthesis of her personal presence and professional mission as a studio owner has come to embody what renowned author Dr. Edith Eger has pointed out, again and again: “We cannot choose to vanish the dark, but we can choose to kindle the light.”

And a little bit of dancing.

She shifts easily in tandem with her inner ecosystem and its pulsating correspondence to the sometimes inhospitable terrain outside; her laugh is good and strong. No stranger to the crippling impact a Montana Winter can have on even the most resilient of souls, Purdy is now turning her third eye towards mental health, and she’s stepping up her game. Driven by a desire to face wild, local change head-on, she wrangles chaos and grief with the strongest force possible: a mighty kind of hope.

A huge fan of glow sticks and Shiva Rea’s yoga dance jams, these days Purdy is bringing in sexy mocktails from Spotted Bear Spirits and throwing a new kind of LOVE party to help others push back against whatever starts to feel too dark. Glow sticks and mocktails may not be for everyone, Purdy knows, but that might just be the point: it might be for someone. With a passion for yoga and And gosh, wouldn’t that be spiritual inquiry that evolved interesting to discover? extensively during the time she spent in Thailand, DR. EDITH EGER, The Choice LOV E S QUA D Purdy’s natural affinity for teaching (she holds a Masters in Education from In honor of World Kindness Day on November Montana State University, Bozeman) lends itself 13, wellness and self-love as a theme, Purdy is well to her dream of bringing people together. A hosting NYT Bestselling Author, TEDx Speaker, mother of two in pursuit of a pointedly ambitious and Hollywood Insider Anna David for a special vision, she believed guiding yoga classes would be a conversation about how self-care can shape a way for her to cultivate a sense of community that person’s life and completely transform a career. benefits others, inspires self-awareness, and expands While David is known as a nationally recognized physical wellness. Purdy turned out to be right. advocate for sobriety, she also happens to be a widely respected voice on a much bigger conversation about Her timing, it turns out, could not have been the role of mental health in one’s relationship with more prescient. success after (or in spite of ) debilitating tragedy. David’s enduring passion for flipping the script as As a woman born and raised in a small Western needed is precisely what inspired her to connect town like Shelby, Purdy is alit with critical, firsthand with Purdy when she heard (through the bi-coastal knowledge of rural communities, and her drive to author grapevine) that an owner of a yoga studio provide a truly safe space for everyone (the come in Montana had just announced the wildest dang heres, the from heres, and anyone who resides in thing ever: no more events with alcohol. the liminal space between) is unique. The spacious presence of her devotion— to connectivity, to staying The first to tell you she is not at all “anti-drinking,” curious, to being a lifelong learner with a sense of

“We can’t choose to vanish the dark, but we can choose to kindle the light.”

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Purdy said her announcement this Fall had nothing to do with making people feel weird and everything to do with helping anyone feel safe. In September, her statement on social media went live: LOVE YOGA will no longer host events that include booze. Comments from the community poured in; there was an overwhelming cheer from those exploring abstinence, individuals with friends who battle addiction, and trauma survivors who recall losing loved ones or family members to substance use. The holiday season can be especially hard.

she walked out of rehab, which inspired her book, Party Girl, and most recently landed her a movie deal. Eager to support Purdy’s efforts to widen her circle of love in the name of mental health, Anna David is flying in from Los Angeles to discuss her book, lead a writing workshop, and offer up her best advice on all the ways that each of us can choose, at any moment, to kindle the light.

“It is so refreshing to see a local stance on a sensitive subject while having empathy for others. Thank you for taking a lead in our community,” one person wrote. Another expressed gratitude for Purdy’s stance by saying, “As someone struggling with my relationship with alcohol, I wanted to express how much I appreciate you and feel seen...in your decision to create a space for safety and wellness.”

The two women come from vastly different environments, but in times like these, none of that seems to matter. Together they’ll be talking about what it takes (in a big city or a small town) to practice self-love, lead or live with abiding clarity, and revise the narrative of one’s life as often as necessary. David, who speaks easily about what it can feel like to struggle with mental health challenges in silence, and Purdy, who fosters connection in a state that prizes self-sufficiency, are a sparkly, righteous match.

People had taken notice. The shocking part? So had that peanut butter loving, NYT Bestselling Author, and TEDx Speaker who got her dream job, ironically enough, on the day

Total strangers, Purdy and David have met only once (on zoom).

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free life about five years ago, when she heard about #quitlit and a social trend called Sober Curious. A pop-culture fad (or so everyone thought) started by Bestselling Author and Journalist Ruby Warrington, Sober Curious is the title of a book that started a conversation about simply getting curious about being sober. What so many eye-rolling critics expected to be a one-hit-wonder from Warrington ended up becoming a full-blown wellness revolution and a new kind of self-loving squad. As alcohol-free bars popped up and a social scene without booze gained momentum, sobriety became a new way to be cool. These days an alcohol-free lifestyle is considered normal in urban hubs, where there are wellness bars designed exclusively with self-care (and substancefree living) in mind. At any given spot, one might find everything from vitamin IV drips and cryotherapy to infrared sauna sessions followed by complimentary bone broth or a freshly made juice; swanky mocktails in softly lit clubs are served with menus of mindfulness experiences, all of which are designed to calm your nerves. Self-care, in some places, is what people do on a Saturday night before heading home early to get good sleep. That’s not 46

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the case in Montana, where the suicide rate is high, the chance of getting a therapist is low, and Winters are long. Flathead Valley local and Co-Founder of the 406 Yoga Conference, Sharon O’ Neill, expressed appreciation for what LOVE Yoga (and Purdy in particular) has come to offer. As she reflected on Purdy’s leadership style, O’ Neill pointed back to the importance of feeling connected and the different ways that Purdy facilitates inclusivity. “You can go 4-5 months without seeing sunlight. We’re kind of isolated here, and Holly has created a real atmosphere of belonging. She has done such an amazing job of not pressuring others to be a certain way. She has a magical way of leading by example, and she’s very authentic...you know that she’s listening, that she is welcoming everyone. People feel respected.” LOV E M E D I C I N E At first, Purdy recalled, she just stopped drinking. She had started to seriously wonder if she was addicted to alcohol; after extensive reflection and

inquiry, she realized she was not addicted, but she did feel curious about living an alcohol free life. Once she became a mother, Purdy couldn’t help but see the Montana culture of drinking all the time, every day, and everywhere. She questioned what this meant for her as a community leader, a mom, a wife, or a friend. In essence, her genuine curiosity about the role of alcohol inspired her to invite others to be curious too, which led first to celebrating the now ubiquitous Sober October (an annual event focused on abstinence), then to planning a fireside chat with Anna David; who knows what might come next. Purdy would say she is simply starting a conversation about love. “I want people in recovery, or anyone exploring a sober lifestyle for health reasons, to know they are welcome in my yoga studio. All of us struggle with peer pressure, regardless of our age or professional scope of work. There aren’t many physical spaces in Montana for a sober culture, so I wanted to step up and play a bigger role in providing that kind of option. Really, I want to take a stand for the practice of self-love,” Purdy said. Maureen Cleary, a retired critical care nurse and current student in the yoga teacher training at LOVE Yoga Whitefish, describes the studio as a welcoming place for both residents and visitors alike, and she noted more than once that inclusivity is a real priority. In Cleary’s experience, it’s not all about the yoga.

“You think you’re about to do downward dog or some other pose and actually, on a subtle level, something else is going on; Holly emanates from the heart. She just does,” Cleary explained. According to Cleary, Purdy’s approachable nature is an enormous part of the culture at LOVE Yoga. “I’ve seen people transform. I’ve seen people walk in nervous, and within a short while...they walk in knowing it’s a safe space. This is what Holly does. She brings everyone in. She will say to the entire room, we will make room— so that’s what we do. We make room.” Fellow entrepreneur and Whitefish resident, Lauren Oscilowski, summarized what so many have expressed, “Holly offers a sense of community, and there is real warmth; everyone feels seen at LOVE.” That kind of presence, in and of itself, is alchemical. That kind of love is medicine. Buy tickets for LOVE Yoga events with Holly Purdy and Anna David at loveyogawhitefish.com

WORTHY STOKES is a bestselling author and meditation teacher; she is the founder of The HeartMind® Process and has taught on Insight Timer, the world’s largest mindfulness app, since 2018. A Flathead Valley local and NYC transplant, she lives with her husband in both places. Learn more at worthystokes.com.

loveyogawhitefish.com @loveyogawhitefish connection • community • love

IMAGES BY JILL JONES jilljonesphotography.com @jill.jones.photography

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“A smart, hilarious, and poignant page-turner that takes you past the velvet ropes and into the Hollywood party scene.” CINDY CHUPACK, WRITER AND EXECUTIVE PRODUCER OF SEX AND THE CITY

JEN PERRY

jelt keeping community at its core

BY JESSICA MINALGA

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| FEATURE

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hen Jen Perry launched Jelt in 2014, her goal was to create a functional, sustainable product that everyone needed, while building a brand that helped give back to her community, and in turn, give back to the world. “I truly believe that your brand is a direct reflection of your values, your standards, and your character,” said the entrepreneur and Bozemanbased philanthropist. “Because I’ve been a part of the nonprofit world for so long, I knew when I started my own business, a charitable element would have to be a big part of it.” With the mindset that any company, big or small, can help shift consumer attitudes towards more conscious, ecofriendly spending and lifestyle changes, the Jelt Belt was born. Almost eight years ago, Jelt began out of pure necessity, and the mission soon followed. Jen realized she had stopped wearing belts, but clearly needed to. She also noticed people she saw around town, the ski slopes, the hiking trails, and the airport needed a little help keeping their pants up. People seemed

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to have stopped wearing belts because of the limited market selling clunky and uncomfortable products. Jen fondly remembered the elastic rainbow belts she wore as a kid in the 70s and 80s and was inspired to bring back the comfortable stretchy elastic belts, but made from sustainable materials and backed with a social mission. The Jelt belt is a modern take on a retro, beloved accessory. It’s strong and stretchy with a flat, lowprofile buckle and a grippy inner gel that keeps the belt in place through all of your activities. Being a frequent traveler, Jen also made the Jelt metal-free, making it a go-to travel belt for airport security ease and travel comfort. But one of the more defining features is that the elastic is made from 100% recycled plastic bottles, helping eliminate over 500,000 bottles from our oceans and landfills to date. The Jelt brand is not only environmentally minded, but also maintains its mission to give back. Jelt partners with Warriors and Quiet Water Foundation, THRIVE, and 1% For the Planet in

support of their efforts to give back to our veterans, youth, and the environment. In addition, in 2016, the company moved its manufacturing from China to Montana to bring jobs back to their home state. The company employs skilled women sewers living on remote ranches and rural communities, as well as local women in Bozeman to sew and assemble their belts. By definition, a community brand is one that believes in supporting, enriching, reinvesting, and protecting the communities that it serves. Community-minded brands support their community in a multitude of meaningful ways, which results in long-term relationships with their customers and other partners. Jen believes this to be the most important element of a brand— one that can set you apart from competitors. Jelt directly donates a portion of its proceeds to the nonprofit

organizations mentioned above because more profits mean more opportunities to give back to worthy causes, and Jen strives to support these local nonprofits, especially during times when other funding sources are limited. Serving your own community has a wave effect, and the world will be stronger as a whole if we have cared for communities. Jelt is a company that continues to improve its business model and practices to help inform and educate consumers of the small changes they can make in their daily lives. In 2017, the company underwent a rigorous evaluation process to become an official certified B Corp. The certification ensured it met the highest standards of social and environmental performance, transparency, and accountability to function as a new kind of company — one that uses the business as a force for good to solve social and environmental problems. mon tan awoman .com | no v e mbe r/dec emb er 2 02 1

“Jelt was created to give back to our communities in a multitude of ways, and I will continue to work hard to make sure that each part of our company is making a positive impact,” says founder Jennifer Perry. When it comes down to it, it is up to companies to deliver a meaningful message to attract the conscious consumer, show them how their spending affects their world, and help them realize that being a thoughtful consumer doesn’t have to break the bank. It’s not about giving anything up, it’s about getting more. Together, we can solve today’s problems by operating our businesses ethically and supporting causedriven businesses with our everyday purchases. Since Jelt’s inception, the Bozeman-based belt company has learned that now more than ever is the time that brands should look within and focus efforts on their communities and the people they can influence the most. By approaching business from a more localized level, brands can then help spread the idea of “conscious consumerism” and harness their own spending power to shift the cultures around what we buy. Made for everyone, Jelt’s mission is to change our attitude about belts and the way we shop. With a product created for everyone’s needs (products range from adjustable heavy-duty belts to sized to fit low-profile options), manufactured in a way that provides opportunities for people in their communities and with a portion of all sales going to charitable organizations, we would say mission accomplished.

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ABOUT JEN PERRY Jen Perry is the founder of Jelt, a Certified B Corporation, making functional and socially impactful elastic belts from recycled plastic bottles that are manufactured in a way that empowers women. In 2014, Perry founded Jelt as a social enterprise, with the purpose of creating a product that everyone would need, while promoting and encouraging social change. Since its inception, Jelt has been active in 1% For The Planet and has donated thousands of dollars to charities all over the world. Jelt truly uses business as a force for good. Made for everyone, learn more or shop today at jeltbelt.com Follow on Facebook @JeltBelt or on Instagram @JeltBelt

ROSE PE TAL holiday open house

NOV. 6

NOV. 12

10-4pm

10-6pm

COLUMBIA FALLS

CUT BANK

live music, Christmas eats and holiday drinks, seasonal finds & gifts @ROSEPETALMT mon tan awoman .com | no v e mbe r/dec emb er 2 02 1

FEATURE |

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youer MALLORY OTTARIANO

THREADING THE GAP WITH COMMUNITY SUPPORTED APPAREL BY MEGAN DAVIN

IMAGE BY ALEKS WAS

IMAGES BY ALEKS WAS, ISAAC MILLER, & MALLORY OTTARIANO

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we are creating our own whimsical clothing factory outside Missoula in order to have more control over how, when, and where our products are made MALLORY OTTARIANO, FOUNDER OF YOUER

he box of unfinished garments on her doorstep wasn’t the first time that Mallory Ottariano found herself saddled with a production headache. In the nine years since she’d started her activewear apparel company, Ottariano had received damaged pallets, misprinted fabrics, and incorrectly cut and sewn products, and she’d been unexpectedly dropped by production facilities in favor of larger contracts and producers. On this occasion, Ottariano— founder and “chief everything officer” of Missoula-based Youer— had been counting on her factory partners to deliver hundreds of pieces of apparel, expertly sewn in the United States and ready to send out to customers around the country. Instead, she had a box of half-sewn and unfinished products that were unsellable in that condition. “I sometimes can’t believe all this stuff happens to us,” said Ottariano. To the dogged entrepreneur, the bad luck felt almost “on brand;” after so many mishaps, she’d grown used to such twists and turns. “Apparel manufacturing in the United States is a mess, and I realized that if my business was going to thrive, I needed to take control of every element of production.” Now, she’s embarking on the latest chapter of her business journey: She’s launching her own soup-to-nuts production factory in Missoula, Montana— the first of its kind in the state, and a potential model for how sustainable apparel manufacturing can thrive in the United States. To help fund this factory, Youer launched its “CSA”—

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MALLORY OTTARIANO | IMAGE BY ISAAC MILLER

short for “Community Supported Apparel”— fundraising campaign earlier this fall, raising more than $27,000 in just the first hours of the campaign. If 2020 taught the 31-year-old founder anything, it’s that the manufacturing and production systems are broken, and to maintain the quality and control she wants over her products, she has to take matters into her own hands through vertical integration. Her plans currently call for a 2,500-square foot

facility on an acre of land in Missoula, where she’ll eventually train and employ an estimated 10-15 employees. Ambitious? Yes. But for Ottariano, that’s perhaps the most “on brand” ethos of all. Ottariano is no stranger to apparel manufacturing. In 2012, at 22, she started an Etsy business— originally mon tan awoman .com | no v e mbe r/dec emb er 2 02 1

called Kind Apparel, before Youer’s eventual rebrand in 2020— with a $100 sewing machine and some extra space in her parents’ basement. Her first pieces of clothing were created from upcycled materials found at local thrift stores and then stitched together and given a new life and artistic style. That story quickly changed as she became deeply rooted in the outdoor industry and started making the clothes she wanted to buy but couldn’t find in the marketplace: bright-colored, well-fitting crossover athleticwear. She sourced sustainable fabrics, milled in the U.S. and made from recycled plastic bottles, and prioritized low waste dyes and printing to preserve water and eliminate harsh chemicals. And she reveled in bright, funky patterns; a self-taught artist and designer who refined the skills in design school, Ottariano designs each print in the Youer collection.

IMAGES BY MALLORY OTTARIANO, ALEKS WAS, AND ISAAC MILLER

“My goal has always been to give people the tools to express their individuality through style,” said Ottariano.

mismanagement and errors nearly put Youer out of business more than once. “Tough is an understatement,” she said, recalling those setbacks, “We went 7 months without inventory in 2020, but our customers were rooting for us to succeed the whole way. When we announced that building our own factory was the solution to our problems, we were met with so much joy and support and overwhelming messages of ‘how can we help?’” For Ottariano, the future of this company is so much more than apparel. Youer is about celebrating everything that makes you different. Youer makes products that are kind to the planet, but the ethos of this company is to stand out from the crowd.

Life isn’t all about summits and traverses. It’s about all the things we do every day.

Along the way, she built an enthusiastic fan base of women customers around the country who flocked to Youer for comfortable, brightly patterned and colored clothes that are also made in the U.S. Her clothes routinely sell out swiftly, snatched up after dropping on her website. Her vision, business model, and acumen landed her accolades among women entrepreneurs in the outdoor industry, and she won the prestigious Title Nine Pitchfest in 2018.

But no amount of enthusiasm from her customers, or cheerleading from industry contacts, could erase the problems Ottariano was facing in production. She explains that when she was growing up, her dad always used to say, “you can’t help others until you can help yourself,” and for her, that rings more true now than ever. “Just two percent of the clothes we purchase in the United States are made in the U.S., and next to none of those are produced in Montana,” said Ottariano. She’s on a mission to change that, fueled by equal parts vision and necessity. After all, supplier

“It’s about showing the world your personality through bold colors and bright patterns, and it’s about celebrating all the different ways women get after it for everyday adventure,” said Ottariano. “Life isn’t all about summits and traverses. It’s about all the things we do every day— kicking butt at work, raising a family, trying a new recipe for dinner, fixing a flat, getting an extra hour of sleep, and living. Our clothes should support and celebrate all of those adventures.”

After all, adventure comes naturally for Youer’s leader, and she frequently chooses the path with a healthy dose of the unknown. Her tolerance for risk is often the determining factor in “success.” From her understanding, if a goal doesn’t scare the shit out of her, then the opportunity for growth isn’t significant. According to Ottariano, “There’s something very odd about entrepreneurs. We have this wild love for what we do. A commitment that seems totally unreasonable to many people. A passion that fuels us to work all night, flake out on plans, put our personal well-being to the side and make people in our lives feel less important than this powerful (often invisible) obsession.”

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Luckily, she says, her customers have joined her in that obsession: A supportive and enthusiastic community is at the heart of the brand. That enthusiasm inspired the CSA. While the factory’s building will ease growing pains for Youer, Ottariano also hopes it will inspire change across the clothing industry— and help consumers better understand where and how their clothes are made. “I’m a storyteller by nature,” she said, “and the factory I’m building is both a way to ethically produce clothing and a way to bring consumers into the process, showing them what apparel manufacturing can and should look like.” MEGAN DAVIN is motivated by her desire to deeply connect with and learn from nature. Her dedication to pursuing as much time outside as possible is fueled by a need to understand, appreciate, and protect the places we play. She aims to ride bikes, ski, garden, and run in the mountains for as long as she can. It’s about being out there, appreciating the stark contrast between human and environment, and understanding we are all connected and not so different after all.

third hand silversmith thoughtfully handmade jewelry thirdhandsilversmith.com @thirdhandsilversmith

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shopkindapparel.com @shopyouer PHOTOGRAPHERS ALEKS WAS fotografed.com @fotografed_ ISAAC MILLER isaacmillerphotography.com @isaacmphoto

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| LIFE

dear montana,

I was first introduced to you many years ago, on a silver screen in my childhood living room— a glittering, young Brad Pitt waist-deep in one of your rivers, a fish triumphantly in hand. With the golden light streaming and music swelling over the trees, I must admit, dear Montana, I was a bit infatuated, perhaps with both of you, and left with a strange desire to go fly fishing. Your next appearance was in an old photo album. My parents— newlywed and cold, smiled back at me from a snow-covered world of stone and mist in Glacier National Park. The black and white film miniaturizing your mountains until they fit in an Ansel Adams-like 4˝×6˝ and could be stuffed into a book of memories.

IMAGE BY MEGAN CRAWFORD

From then on, I let you wander into the back of my mind. You became a “one day” place, somewhere my friends joked about having land and chickens when we were grown. I thought about riding horses (yes, I was one of those) and sitting by a riverbank. We don’t have riverbanks in Southern California, hence the appeal, only small creeks and raging oceans. The water only invites you in if you can first clamber over or under waves and tread where your feet don't touch the ground.

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High school and college came and went. I traveled to other continents, saw an American rainforest, bought crystals in Salem, Massachusetts, drove through the flat middle of the country, but you, dear Montana, stayed far away, a dreamlike, golden haze of “one day.” A place only mentioned in the autumnal stories I habitually watched and read every September. You mingled with the North Carolina of Cold Mountain, the New Hampshire of Tuck Everlasting, and cameoed in Legends of the Fall. But then, a dear friend told me about a magazine that her dear friend (whom I will take liberty in assuming is now my friend as well?) was editing, and did I maybe want to buy a copy to support her? The magazine was called Montana Woman, and as I flipped open the soft cover, I realized that maybe Montana was calling me back again.

mirror the winter one he had taken with my mother 30 years before. She wished us well, and though we invited her to come, assured us that seeing the National parks once had been plenty for her.

For a year trapped at home, I ordered copies and poured over pages of poetry and pines, syrupy chai and societal change, and felt a glowing ache to see the treasure state in person.

Our hostel outside the park was really a ranch, with ravens and flat-eared mules that sensed the coming storm we didn’t. We hurriedly unpacked our bags into the cabin, got back in the car, and parked as soon as we saw the water. We scuttled down the slippery bank and jogged to the edge, peering at the impossibly candy-colored rocks beneath the surface. Immediately, my father began combing the shore for flat, circular pebbles— a habit he and I had picked up on a still morning at Walden pond. Some part of me wondered if he felt regret at waiting 25 years to teach his daughter the art of skipping rocks,

When it again seemed safe to venture out, I asked my father, my yearly companion for all trips historical and natural, if we could see Glacier National Park, and if he were so inclined to drive the 20 hours it would take to get there. And so, we planned a summer trip that happened to 66

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In our first real introduction, dear Montana, I noticed people pulled off the highway, glittering, waist-deep in one of your rivers. Every few miles, as if by compulsion, cars were stopped wherever the river met the road and adults played and splashed in the water like they’d been suddenly called by a childhood wish, whispered back to them.

but then again, we didn’t have “ponds” at home nor the flat pebbles required.

state, dear Montana, all the love I had for them, printed, saved, and a little rain-soaked, waiting.

Though cold, the water was delightful, softer and clearer somehow than any other I’d waded into. Your weather indulged us for a few moments, allowing us to meet you, warm and calm with something like a hug before you flung our hair behind us (mine more than his) and sent thunder and rain to wash the sun from our shoulders and chase us playfully back to our car.

At a grill that night, we tried bison burgers and huckleberry ale like true tourists while chatting with whoever sat down next to us (I am not the extrovert here, but it helps to travel with one.) Our immediate neighbors were from the East Coast, and those sitting across were locals. One woman with silvery hair and striking green-hazel eyes asked if I liked horses as she had a ranch a few minutes away. My inner 12-year-old squealed and bounced while my outer 27-year-old just smiled and said yes, like a normal person. She offered a tour if we wanted to visit before heading into the park the next day, even if it was very early. There are few people, dear Montana, that I wish to invite into my house before 8 am, even fewer strangers, and yet, here she was, welcoming us in at 6:45 am like old friends.

And then, dear Montana, I met the people who call you home. By a stroke of luck (or lightning in this case), the editor of this fine magazine lived seven minutes away and we had mentioned trying to say “hi” while I was in town. Through a thunderstorm the likes of which I had never seen, we drove while the clouds shook the car. Finally, we pulled into the drive. Absolutely soaked through and laughing, Megan and I stood in the rain and hugged with copies of previous issues exchanged and salutations to each other’s cats promised. A friend all the way up here (I’ve decided, we are officially friends), and words I’d written hidden in pages states away. Before driving off, I flipped to page 82, which featured a poem I’d penned about childhood memories. I watched my father read, take a few blinks, and pat my knee. Here it was, already in your

We were greeted with beautiful, black shiplap and two giant, regal wolfhounds who were instantly enamoured with my 6'4" father and his ability to provide very big pets. They followed us around (mostly him) as our new tour guide introduced us to her horses. We stared in awe at the morning mist that curled beneath the mountains and slid through the trees behind the property. The wildflowers that peeked through the path glittered with dew, the yearling’s muzzle— a soft velvet beneath my hand. mon tan awoman .com | no v e mbe r/dec emb er 2 02 1

The land seemed to hold a little magic. The golden, fictional glow that I had cast your state in seemed undiluted by reality. At the end of our tour, our guide produced a drawer full of hand-painted bowls made as gifts for visitors to the ranch. She asked which I liked, and between the illustrated bears and paired woodland animals, I reached for a dish with a little orange fox running across the surface. Safely stowed in bubble wrap, the bowl hid in my backpack while we chatted and left with recommendations for lakes and views in the park. Dear Montana, you outdid yourself with Glacier. Not five minutes into the Going to the Sun Road, we had pulled over to take in the beauty of Lake McDonald in the morning. A mirror of silver and 68

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mist spanned the horizon in a gorgeous liminal calm. I watched as a rock arched gracefully over the still surface, bouncing, once, Twice, Three, Four times, leaving perfect and undisturbed ripples in its wake. I marveled at the hot pink fireweed that grew between the dead trunks of burned trees, the ruby and emerald colored rocks that shimmered in rivers as blue as the tropics, the wild raspberries that lined the trails, the little black dot across the water that signified a bear on the hunt for a drink. If I had been infatuated with you before, dear Montana, I now had a hopeless crush. I was shocked by the accessibility of your beauty and

the way people wandered through tiny paths and paddled on the water. Everyone passed with a smile and “hello.” We all seemed gently enchanted and comfortably insignificant beneath the ancient gaze of the mountains that surrounded us. As we drove towards Logan Pass, we stopped at a vista point, waiting for a cloud to roll by, and suddenly, there it was: the river that ran through it. Through the haze, it glinted and snaked through a black-brown world, the only light seeming to come from its winding form. A Norman MacLean quote bubbled up instantly:

Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it The next day we drove from our cabin, which sat on the land of a Blackfoot art gallery. In the blue light of the ridiculously early morning, cows ambled by, unmoved by our hurry to get back into the park before the world woke up. We crawled along a construction road and got the idea that maybe you, dear Montana, wanted us to slow down and just exist for a while. The park would still be there even when the sun came up. While inching down the gravel path, I peered out to see a little orange fox sitting by the road, looking straight at me. I fumbled with my camera and squeaked for the car to stop while there the fox sat, calmly waiting for me to get myself together. Like a perfect model, he looked down the lens long enough for me to take the picture and then loped off, almost as if he had a particular, hand-painted bowl to run back to. When we informed our new acquaintance of the fox we

had seen on our way to her recommended lake, she seemed unsurprised, “the fox was a certainty the minute you chose the bowl.” Just as you suggested, dear Montana, we wandered through our second day, taking time to sit with you, hiking a little too far to see a waterfall (which my father promptly climbed, giving me a heart attack), and watching a chipmunk eat huckleberries for breakfast. We stopped to talk to a young family and their little boy who “took pictures too!” He and I talked about photography as he knew it from a 6 or 7-year-old’s eyes while he ran to catch up to me. At the end of the trail, he jumped in front of my spot on the bank and held out his hand, “for you!” he exclaimed. The little red rock thumped into my palm and we smiled at each other while his mother and I giggled. He produced the little green one that was his to complete the set. By chance, we happened upon a beautiful teal and pink waterfall where some adventurous hikers had decided to go swimming. There was a clear, shockingly peacock-blue pool where families waded and jumped from a ledge just above. We hopped into bathing suits and climbed over the rocks to join in. Butterflies flitted around us, alighting on shoulders and toes. In a surprising splash of spontaneity, I slipped into the freezing water, grateful that my feet could touch the bottom while my arms shivered and chest heaved from the unexpected and all-encompassing cold. We sat there for a long time, my father and I, with our feet in the icy water, watching brave divers leap from the small cliff, enjoying the butterflies and the pristine view of the mountains. I looked through my phone for a moment, laughing at a picture of me, glittering, waist-deep in one of your rivers, and I thought of how you, dear Montana, make such wonderful stories.

with so much love, a visitor

MORGAN HOLCOMB heads Marketing and PR for a non-profit youth arts conservatory in Orange County, California (@artsandlearning). Sometimes, on very special days, she also moonlights as a writer and voice actress (@morganholcombvo).

m o nt a n a w o ma n ma g a zi ne | is s ue 15

IMAGE BY MEGAN CRAWFORD

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visIting thE magicAl faIry foreSt embracing the wonder of the moment

By Stephanie Mosbrucker

m o nt a n a w o ma n ma g a zi ne | is s ue 15

| LIFE

IMAGE BY CHRISTOFER MAXIMILLIAN

ithin, a sacred space. Going Within is such an amazing journey. Reaching within the heart space and connecting to that inner child is an adventure— a privilege that we tend to press away. It seems to be that our imagination, our creativity, our playfulness, is shunned. It is put in a box and labeled “childish” and stashed away in the attic or the crawl space of our lives. It doesn’t seem “practical” as adults to allow our imagination to have the “front seat” in our days. Anxiety, the fear of missing out, our list of accomplishments and tasks to be done, status quo, seriousness… that seems to be what is in our “front seat.” Why? Why is our greatest tool the one we shy away from? Looking within, feeling within, that should be in the front seat. The knowing, our intuition, and our feelings— that should be our focus. Not our to-do lists and worries. Our imaginations, our true selves— the one that gets us through the dark times, the trying times— that should be our focus. That is what should be in the front seat with us…

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ow, use your imagination and picture a 38-degree Montana morning in October. There is frost on the grass, the trees are golden, the smell of wood smoke is in the air. You can see your breath as you walk from your car. The Bluejays are outrageously playful and the Chickadees are busy being mischievous. The sky is a striking, vivid blue. You are scheduled to teach a yoga class, and all you can think of is being outside and playing in the meadow, like a child full of wonder. Imagine giving yourself permission to use that greatest tool, your imagination, to become an eccentric Fairy Yoga Instructor teaching alongside Mother Nature. The Bluejays and the Chickadees are on board. The wind whispers her response of “Yes,” and the Cottonwood leaves applaud with their approval. Imagine the feeling of joy creeping into a bright smile, like the sunshine above, across your face… Imagine 15 ladies from various states of the union meeting in front of a warm fire in a fancy lodge in Whitefish, Montana, to practice yoga with strangers and a fairy-like yoga instructor. Imagine the look of surprise on their faces when the Yoga instructor announces that, “Class will be held in the Magical Fairy Forest! You may need some layers!”

Imagine those 15 ladies practicing yoga as their nine-year-old selves in the misty, Montana autumn air, bluebird sky above, hooting, hollering, and hopping over bear scat in the frozen grass. Imagine those 15 ladies howling like wolves and laughing at the echo in the forest beyond. Imagine the gentle whisper of encouragement from the wind. Imagine the applause of the Cottonwood leaves as they gently fall to the frosted grass. Imagine the delight of the m o nt a n a w o ma n ma g a zi ne | is s ue 15

Now imagine inviting your own nine-year-old self to come out of hiding, giving yourself permission to go within. Imagine opening that forgotten box of “childlike wonder” and remembering the feeling imagination can bring when the to-do lists and accomplishments have no value. Now, imagine being completely comfortable doing it. Imagine the freedom of letting your inner child delight in nature. Imagine connecting with strangers and knowing exactly how you are feeling in that moment. Imagine what it would feel like to go Within, that sacred space. Imagine, and then just frigging do it! Howl, dance, sing, cry, and make eye contact with strangers. Be who you are meant to be and feel the glorious joy and freedom that goes along with it. I promise that the laughter and joy felt will trickle into those around you.

Be who yOu arE meant To be And feEl the gloRious jOy and frEedom ThAt goeS along WiTh It.

Imagine those 15 ladies bundling up in thrifted clothing on this 38 degree October morning that their eccentric yoga instructor just happens to have in her car…

Bluejays and the Chickadees as they join in the on playful laughter witnessing every one of those ladies giving themselves permission to go within. Imagine their release. Imagine their joy.

The time is now. It is always now.

S T E P H A N I E MOSBRUCKER is a lover

of nature, ceremony, movement and adventure. She is the mother of four magical spirits, Writer, Ceremony Officiant, Yoga Instructor at Yoga Hive, and Retreat Leader. She was born in Montana with the spirit of a fairy, the mouth of a sailor and the heart of a hippie. She learned early in childhood that Mother Nature and expression with movement and words were three vital ingredients to a beautiful life. The ability to release tensions, aggressions, anxiety and fear while in nature is a tonic. She would like to share with all who walk into her path how to open their senses to all the magic that surrounds us in this beautiful state and to extend it into their life. Body, mind and spirit.

If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, give in to it, don’t hesitate. Give into it. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid of its plenty. Joy is not made to be a crumb. Mary Oliver

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the gift that gives all year. 6 ISSUES | 1 YEAR

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| VIGNETTE

growth

there will be no looking behind, she said no looking back for there are times for that but now is the time for what’s ahead just there, within reach now is the time of rooting since you did all that growing through concrete

IMAGE BY ERIKS CISTOVS

morgan marks

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IMAGE BY LINDSEY GARDNER

a ceremony as unique as your love.

SARAH HARDING humanist celebrant

celebrantsarah.com part of the elopemontana.com collaboration

| LIFE

on paper

an ode to letter-writing by Autumn Toennis

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When

I was 23, I went abroad to travel for three months alone. Among the usual preparations (how to live out of a single bag, finding a pair of shoes that can double for hiking mountain passes but also the ballet, booking places to stay), I found that I had what most would consider an odd request of one of my Airbnb hosts in Edinburgh. Would you mind, I typed out, if I shared your address with a few close friends? Some wish to write me while I am away, and your place is the only one I plan to be in for a longer period at the end of my trip. Her response: That is an odd request, but I can’t really think of any reason to refuse. Feel free to do so! When I arrived at her home in the rain, two months into my journey, I found a neat stack of letters and parcels waiting on the mantel in my room. I did nothing that evening but sit in the window seat as the rain drizzled and devour the handwriting of people I love, as though it were a hundred years ago and I had not heard from them in months. It is not a stretch to say that I am in love with paper. I cannot throw away notes, I hoard ticket stubs, my mother’s grocery lists, bookmarks— years of my journals line the highest bookshelf near me. Born into this inevitably, I suppose, is my love of letter writing. I am the keeper of the mail key in my home, and every day that I trip down five flights of stairs, I feel butterflies shift around in my stomach at what could sit behind that little steel door. “You always get the fun mail,” Nik told me once, as I was sitting in the middle of the floor surrounded by letters and packages on a day that was neither a birthday nor a holiday. “That,” I said, “is because I send out fun mail, too.” My first pen pal was in second grade— she moved out of our classroom to another one in Texas and we spent a few months scrawling out letters in clunky hands that our parents would address and stamp in neater ones for us. As many things do at that age, it dropped off quickly, but the act stayed with me. Pen pal seems an inadequate word for the people in my life who I have been writing to, some for over a decade. Isn’t there a better way to say this? I recently asked one of my newest connections, a correspondence partner? A letter friend? As I asked her this, it struck me that it never used to need naming— that once, if you couldn’t speak in person, you spoke through a letter. A few of the longest correspondences in my life: A friend in Australia whom I met through an online writing group seven years ago: her missives come to me with blue Par Avion stickers and thin black handwriting scrawled on the backs of old paper bags, include touches like a bill of currency with

the words “a note crumpled by my grandmother’s hand” tucked in between the pages. We have never met. A sister who is not a sister: her postcards and beautifully stamped long envelopes exist tied together by bits of ribbon in a box in my room. They contain the year I studied abroad and the year she studied abroad. To this day, the letter she wrote me on my 22nd birthday is ferried between journals as I finish one and start another. Every time I read it, I feel as if she is just in the other room. A poet and dear friend from college: as we left the tea house on my final day in Bozeman, we exchanged addresses on a whim. To my left on the corner of my desk sits a faded berry basket— it contains postcard after postcard, the first dated back to that same week we had that final tea. A few years ago, she sent me an article about two writers whose postcards to each other over forty years had been gathered together and re-ordered in time. Maybe, she writes, someone will do this with ours, one day. The list goes on. My “Scottish mum” in Inverness. My eighty-year-old kindred spirit in Germany. A painter in a cabin in the mountains. A certain brilliant magazine editor and writer. There is something so magical, so personal, about correspondence that happens through an envelope— a feeling that doesn’t exist in emails for me. Letters say, “I’m real. No one else wrote this to you. I thought of you, and walked with that thought to the mailbox.” It is a form of existence that is touchable. One of the greatest privileges of my life is being able to read someone’s voice in their handwriting, and to watch it change through the years along with their lives. To feel the type of paper they

chose, to read the stamp that charts where it has traveled from. Some of the deepest parts within me exist on paper that I will never see again. Paper that may be lost, thrown away, or wrapped up in a box decades later by the recipient’s children and given to a vintage shop. I hope that in the future, even as we careen further into the digital age, there will exist people like this— who cannot help but stop at every postcard bin and read through the used backs. Who still revere their greatgrandparents’ letters, even if they are in a language they cannot read. I’ll go further. I hope that those used postcard bins will still exist. I hope that we will be the greatgrandparents whose letters our descendants will read. Ask someone you love, who is far away, if they would like to write with you. I hope that they say yes. I hope it brings you joy every time you walk to your mailbox. I hope you find something else among all of the bills and ads. Something just for you.

AUTUMN TOENNIS is a writer and artist from Miles City, Montana. She graduated in 2014 with a degree in English Writing from Montana State University Bozeman, and has spent her time since then following words around the country and the world. Last year, she moved to New York City to pursue a career in publishing, and continues to work remotely for Open Country Press, a small, independently-run Montana press. She currently lives in Brooklyn with her husband and a small windowsill orchard. You can follow her on Instagram @autumn_ toennis, or find her at her Etsy shop, AutumnMarieArt.

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m o nt a n a w o ma n ma g a zi ne | is s ue 15

There is something so magical, so personal, about correspondence that happens through an envelope— a feeling that doesn’t exist in emails for me. Letters say, “I’m real. No one else wrote this to you. I thought of you, and walked with that thought to the mailbox.” It is a form of existence that is touchable.

rescued by the printed page. IMAGE BY ANNIE SPRATT

BY BARBARA FRASER

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| LIFE

I started collecting things when I was young. Many were eventually kept in a tea or tobacco tin; I don’t remember which it was. I suppose my mom gave me the tin because she was tired of finding little rocks and leaves and twigs and coins and pieces of paper all over my room and in my pants pockets. I still had the metal box by the time I reached high school. We had moved to the country by then, and in a short walk, I had something new to tuck away. I also liked things like the tiny school photos that you gave away to friends and soda pop lids because I loved the bright colors and the crinkly edges. I learned to press wildflowers between book pages and place them in a tiny envelope where they would eventually fall apart. The items I had the greatest obsession with then are the items I will still pick up today: pebbles. They seemed to be their own pocket-sized universe to me. I don’t recall what else was in the tin, but I wish I still had it and could rediscover the treasures that were once so important to a younger me. There was another interest that started about the same time. My brother was three years younger than I was, and while I had grown out of naptimes, they were still as much a necessity for him as they were for my mother. While he napped away upstairs, she would send me into her sewing room, where a large white sofa sat against the wall. She would give me a new book each week and hope it would connect with my vivid imagination. This would not be an easy win. I would spend equal time staring out the window, watching the clouds float by, gazing at the evening gowns in the closet with their rhinestones and extravagant fabrics, and eventually plod through another set of pages. Then one day, it all changed.

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I had doggedly pressed through each chapter and was almost at the end, when all of a sudden I understood that books were a ticket to adventure. In the next decade, I would get into all kinds of trouble for reading instead of doing my chores, finishing my homework, feeding my horse, setting the table, cleaning my room, making lunches, and weeding the garden, to name a few. The book was The Lion’s Paw by Robb White, and I’m grateful to still own it. The magic of the book continued with my youngest son as well, decades later. Once the love of reading was embraced, I couldn’t get enough. My father eventually made me a long bookcase out of mahogany because books were beginning to exist in stacks all over my room. I would walk to town after school and buy a book or two with my babysitting money. I have had times in my life where I have had to walk away from all I owned to start over; I regret losing that bookcase.

I knew I needed advice, so I called a fellow book collector who said that my books had been the collection of a teen, a young woman, a mom and wife. My life was different now as an older woman and a widow, and I would collect and read different books. It was good advice, and she was right. I needed different sources to fill my soul, to inspire where my life was headed, and even new voices to calm me when things became too overwhelming. I have slowly found books that are once again filling new bookshelves, and when I run out of room, it will be time to buy another shelf. I love that I have come to understand that books are truly a part of who I am. They are companions when no one is around, and I delight in finding a book that surprises me when I least expect it to.

I think finding our sanctuary, our quiet place within us, is essential. For my cousin, it is out in the wilderness— the wilder the better. The place that feeds me in every way would be a bookstore.

Shortly after my husband passed away, I decided I was supposed to write a book about grief. In my mind, that required a room to write it in. My library seemed like a natural victim for demolition because the dialogue in my head assured me that I would no longer have time to read if I was writing books. Oh, the decisions we make in the middle of grief. My library had bookcases on every wall filled with books, some of them collected since childhood. There were two antique overstuffed chairs with stained glass lamps by their side and treasures snuggled against the books on the shelves.

In one month it was gone, and in its place was freshly painted walls, a new desk with a new lamp, the most comfortable chair I could afford, and all with a minimalistic vibe— a blank page. What had not entered into the equation was the fact that books were too much a part of who I was. The cut had been too deep, and as much as I loved my office, not being surrounded by my books created two very different things I was now mourning. 86

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I think finding our sanctuary, our quiet place within us, is essential. For my cousin, it is out in the wilderness— the wilder the better. The place that feeds me in every way would be a bookstore. Old ones that accost you as you walk in the door with that musty page smell and a cat in the corner curled up on a chair. It could be a new bookstore with deep leather chairs and new books everywhere and people walking across the carpet with coffee drinks from the corner café. Every time I travel, I bring home at least one book. Often it is discovered at the airport book store and tucked into the smallest vacancy of my purse. On one trip to Portland, I had spent my last free hours at Powell’s Bookstore— a world-famous shop that occupies an entire city block and has over 3,500 sections. Choosing only what fits in your carry-on can seem almost impossible. When I get home, I love to find the proper bookshelf for each book I have chosen; then, sometimes, they just sit on the coffee table where I can see them and have easy access to each one. I think learning about what nurtures us is not a simple process, but it is a very worthwhile journey.

| VIGNETTE

Candlelight

IMAGE BY VALENTINA IVANOVA

BY CAITLIN MALLERY

I love the way that it softens Tired lines around the eyes, Filtering the blemishes Into gentle blushing faces. I love the way it hushes Voices clamoring for attention, Mellowing strident arguments To storied conversation. I love the relief of messes hidden in darkened nooks, Shrinking the whole world To one circle of focus. I love the dripping wax, the sputtering flame, The empty glasses and crumbs of cake Remnants of an evening’s joy. I love the curling wisps, The blackened wick, An empty mug and journal scribbles Moments of a morning’s peace.

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THIS COULD BE YOU!

backcountry weddings for the WILDLY in love

For soon-to-be-married couples who feel constrained by the trappings of a traditional wedding, an adventure elopement is the next best thing you never knew existed. From sunrise mountain top summits and helicopter rides on glaciers to casual strolls through the woods and chill days on the lake, we’ll work together to craft a wedding day that truly speaks to your soul and incorporates what you love most — the outdoors and each other.

YOU LIKE TO THINK OUTSIDE OF THE BOX … WHY SHOULD YOUR WEDDING DAY BE ANY DIFFERENT?

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deep, conscious breathing BY NICOLE DUNN

I have been a meditation practitioner for almost 20 years, and I can honestly say that I am still routinely amazed by the transformative potential that deep, conscious breathing can offer. Five weeks ago, I broke my ankle. When I relayed the whole story to a close friend of mine— the fall I took; the nine-hour long ER visit that followed; my then-upcoming surgery to install hardware to fix the breaks (of which I had three)— she said, “Um, I think when you tell people you broke your ankle, you should tell them that you really broke it.” So this is me telling you I really broke it. I went all in on this one. When I went to the ER following my fall (which happened in mid-August), I was in an incredible amount of pain. Not only had my ankle broken in three different places, but it was also dislocated. The ER waiting room was packed when my husband and I arrived, and I had to wait over two hours before I could even be seen. I wasn’t even able to lie down. I was scrunched up in a hospital wheelchair, with my injured foot propped up on a waiting room chair, doubled over in pain (which I rated at a 9 on a scale of 1-10 when asked by the admitting nurse, which is saying something, as in my husband’s words: I’m no slouch when it comes to pain). Physical pain wise, it was the most difficult two hours I have ever experienced. 90

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For those two hours, all I had for pain management support was my practice of deep, conscious breathing. I leaned into my breathing to help carry me through. While the pain was still very much on board and present, of course, every time I was able to enter fully into my in-breath and out-breath, I created a different relationship with my body and my experience in those moments that helped me to hold and slightly ease my hyper-stimulated state. When the body is under duress, whether from injury or stress or emotional overwhelm, our breath becomes short, shallow, and restricted. For many of us, this way of breathing becomes our standard mode, which actively works against our mind/body system in terms of operating optimally. There are many researched benefits of practicing deep, conscious breathing. It improves blood flow, sleep patterns, mental clarity & focus, emotional regulation, digestion, and immune function. For me, this stuff is interesting to know, but when it comes down to it, all I am really concerned about is whether or not it actually works— whether I can actually feel like it’s helping me out when I do it. And I can feel it. And it does help me out, sometimes substantially. When I use the phrase “deep, conscious breathing,” I am not referring to simply knowing on an intellectual level that we’re breathing. Deep

| WELLNESS

breathing comes from our diaphragm; it involves our stomach first and then our chest, rising when we inhale and falling when we exhale. When we add the word ‘conscious’ into the mix, it means we are making an active choice to put our full attention and concentration on the act and felt sensations of our breathing. When we are practicing deep, conscious breathing, we aren’t trailing off into the future or rehashing the past. We are fully present with the experience of our in-breath and out-breath.

following seven hours I was there, a number of nurses, doctors, and staff commended me on my use of breathwork. I was told a few times that I had great resolve and a beyond average capacity to stay calm. I was told that most people in my position exhibit a much higher intolerance of the pain I was undergoing. So apparently, the impacts of my breathing practice were even seen by busy, overworked ER staff (inset big shout out to hospital workers & healthcare staff here, truly).

Breathing in, I know and can feel that I am breathing in. Breathing out, I know and can feel that I am breathing out.

I know this is an extreme example. But I’d invite you to try it out and see what happens. Try it out while waiting at a stoplight, standing in line at the grocery store, right when waking up in the morning or right before going to bed at night.

This is simple but not easy. It takes practice. And in my experience, it has been and still is super worth it. And gosh did it come in handy in the ER five weeks ago. My practice of deep, conscious breathing was my anchor of support in a time of intense difficulty. When I would start to panic from the amount of pain I felt, and my breath once again became short and shallow, I would remind myself to come back to my deep, conscious breathing. And I did this over and over and over again. After the two-hour wait in the ER, when I was finally able to see a doctor and start the process of getting pain medication and treatment, in the

It may sound like the most ineffectual thing. It may even sound boring or trite. You may wonder how deep, conscious breathing could possibly make a difference. And you might be surprised. Like me, you may discover that it has the potential to change everything. NICOLE DUNN is a Missoula-based writer, community organizer, poet, ordained member of Thich Nhat Hanh’s Order of Interbeing, and program director of Be Here Now, a weekly mindfulness & meditation group she founded in 2002. For more info: InMindfulMotion.com mon tan awoman .com | no v e mbe r/dec emb er 2 02 1

self-love & body acceptance BY MINDY COCHRAN | LEVITATION NATION

m o nt a n a w o ma n ma g a zi ne | is s ue 15

| WELLNESS

a fitness coach and personal trainer, I never assume a client’s goal is weight loss, but quite a few women bring up the topic themselves. So, it should come as no surprise, when asked to write about finding love within, my thoughts jump straight to one particular form of self-love: body acceptance. As I set pen to paper to write this month’s column, I thought to myself, “this is a great opportunity to clarify that my goal as a fitness coach is to help women enhance health and overall fitness, not to obtain one particular type of body.” Sure, sculpted muscles are often a by-product of our workouts, but I also want to help women let go of whatever preconceived notions they have of what a body “should” look like. That’s why I love pairing my work as a personal trainer with teaching pole dancing classes. I believe pole dance classes help liberate women from body image issues altogether by turning the focus away from appearance and onto doing something extraordinary with their bodies, no matter their shape or size. After submerging myself for nearly a decade in pole dance culture, I can say for certain that sexy is absolutely not a body size— it’s an attitude, an air of confidence. Women are absolutely empowered when they learn what their body is capable of, and it shows.

I am certain no one can better relate to these cyclical seasons than every mother who has ever walked the earth. Forget the understandable norm for workouts to take a backseat to childcare. What about the myriad of changes bodies go through to grow little humans in the belly! Let the fact that we can carry life inside of us serve as a reminder that we have genuine miracles in our body, and that should be celebrated! Whatever season of life you are in, my recommendation as a personal trainer is to just do the best you can. There is no need to be hard on yourself if you can’t currently fit into your favorite jeans from high school. Give yourself a break and nestle into a comfy pair of leggings instead— they are in fashion because we, as a society, have wised up and know that skinny isn’t always healthy, but self-love is always part of wellness.

Women are absolutely empowered when they learn what their body is capable of, and it shows.

I love that pole dance is reframing the wellness dialogue from aesthetics to function. It is so important to expand our definition of health in this way because fitness has a tendency to ebb and flow over a lifetime. I gained a lot of weight in my early 20s when I was taking 18 college credits and working two part-time jobs. I was working on other life goals at the time, and I came back to working on fitness as soon as I could, but there was literally not enough time for me to fit it all in during that crazy time of my life. Different seasons of life bring different seasons of fitness. Doesn’t that make perfect sense that it would?

Besides, accepting your body doesn’t mean that it might stay this way or that way forever. You aren’t throwing the towel in on fitness altogether. You are simply accepting yourself as a multi-faceted being striving for the delicate balance to uphold all of your needs and goals, yes?

So, love your body for what it is. Appreciate it for what it can do. Honor it by listening to what it needs. And let it take up space, because you, my friend, belong here.

MINDY COCHRAN is the founder of Kalispell’s Levitation Nation Aerial Studio, where the catchphrase “fitness is fun” is embodied alongside a culture of movement & women empowerment. Mindy believes that “The Real Levitation Experience” lies within elevating your health & wellness. Mindy loves to share the expertise she has acquired through her certifications as a personal trainer and life coach. For more about Mindy or Levitation Nation, please visit levitationnation.org.

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winter's call BY LAURA SEIDENBERG

hush now...

Lay aside your striving Let these naked branches hold you Howling winds strip your concerns And cold wetness cleanse… Swaddle your fire Slip into my still, dark womb Cave in deep rest and belonging Evergreens will stand guard And critter snores calm You are safe here Let go, steep In mystery

hush... winter

m o nt a n a w o ma n ma g a zi ne | is s ue 15

| WELLNESS

By Thanksgiving, harvest halts, holidays begin, and a long-deserved sigh begs for release. Hours of light decrease, cattle descend from mountains, birds flee cold, bears hibernate, trees sleep, fish slow to torpor, insects hide or die— nature contracts and settles. Winter’s blessing is on the way. Holiday hustle and bustle claw against winter’s dark and quiet nature that is an invitation to subtlety and nuance. Yet modern society balks. Traffic, crowds, urgencies, screen chatter, faux cheer, constant movement, social overload, alienation— our well-being competes with vibrational overwhelm that is considered ‘normal.’ Any deviance from ‘normal’ is considered a failing. Dis-ease creeps in. Our medicine arrives in nature. Seasons, moon phases, days, and nights deliver reliable patterns that persevere no matter extreme weather, societal conditions, mundane concerns, or constant change. With animals and landscapes, we share this undeniable community. Here we can align with our essential nature. Winter holds us close— in darkness where light shines the brightest, in silence where sound is born, in stillness where movement arises. Winter’s primal guidance beckons a slowing— not a waiting, but an abiding. What was shrouded by culture’s cacophony might appear as a hungry bird or the heart’s longing, the puzzle of tree bark or a faint memory, a cloud’s message or a quiet revelation.

IMAGE BY ADAM LUKAC

Sequester your striving. Steep and breathe in winter’s offerings, deep and often. Gift yourself the depths of your humanity, your belonging, a quiet presence that knits you intimately to all that is here and now.

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m o nt a n a w o ma n ma g a zi ne | is s ue 15

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m o nt a n a w o ma n ma g a zi ne | is s ue 15

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Montana Woman Magazine, Issue 15, November/December 2021

Articles inside

A Love Letter to the Wilds

Mallory Ottariano: Youer

Jen Perry: Jelt

Holly Purdy: Love Party

Letter from the Editor