I like taking photos when I'm out of the country.

Photographing things in Mexico is effortless. I'll never understand the nuances of every festival or ritual, but I can enjoy the pageantry and the color and the incredible effort and artistry that goes in to creating so much beauty.

Then I come back up north and look at the mud. It's a big change.

The skies were overcast for the first five days after my return from Mexico. The temperatures were unseasonably low. There was some rain. There might even have been some snow, if you count the white, pelletlike things that dotted the sidewalk. Maybe it was sleet. Maybe it doesn't matter.

"What is this?" I asked an innocent passerby. He shook his head disapprovingly.

"I have no idea."

And I realized that I was terribly spoiled. Taking pictures in Mexico took no skill at all. I decided I needed to start taking pictures right here at home.

The first day was not a great success. The sun stayed stubbornly behind a cloud. The few blooms that were out had been nipped by the frost. I took a photo of some branches against the gray sky and a carved stone pillar covered in green lichen. The lichen was vivid green after sleeping all winter. The lichen seemed about as happy as lichen can be, and so I figured I could make more of an effort.

The next day I happened upon some crocuses forcing their way through the muddy soil. The crocus is not a showy flower, but their sheer numbers were amazing. I found a handful of daffodils blooming in a spot where they caught the occasional bit of sunshine.

The third day was colder than ever. I headed out the door for my walk and turned right around, went inside and put on warmer clothes. The sky was dark in the middle of the afternoon. I photographed a hydrangea, left over from the previous year, bleached and brittle, shaking in the chill wind.

I wanted to photograph one of the oldest houses in the neighborhood through the fence, but a row of garbage cans was in the way. I contorted into a strange position, and a woman walking by looked at me curiously.

"I'm trying to take pictures," I told her, "even on the gloomy days."

"Well, this is a good house to photograph when it's gloomy!" she replied. The house looked menacing under the heavy clouds.

On Sunday, I went to church. A new pastor had been hired while I was in Mexico, and he preached a good sermon. The choir was especially strong. And, sometime in the middle of the service, a little bit of sun crept out. I looked up and saw the stained glass.

"Oh, look," I thought. "Finally, some color."

After the service, I climbed the wooden stairs to the balcony, and I looked through the vibrant stained glass. It was all the color I had been missing since coming back from Mexico.

And I felt a lot better.

I'm not sure if the new minister would approve, but those windows did more for my soul than his sermon and the beautiful music put together. Those windows gave a sermon of their own. Those windows lifted my spirits and made me remember how much unseen beauty there is -- all the time.

They reminded me that it's not what I'm looking at that matters -- it's what I'm looking through. Looking through eyes trained to see beauty, I see beauty everywhere.

I left the church, thanking the windows on my way out.

Till next time,

Carrie

Photos and other news can be found at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

The TSA agent looked stern -- as they usually do.

"I'd like to look inside this bag, ma'am," he said.

"No problem!"

I always sound a little too eager when being questioned by an authority figure. I'm trying so hard to prove I have nothing to hide that I sound like I must have something to hide.

The agent proceeded to open my carry-on bag.

"It's a bowl!" I told him, with a little too much enthusiasm.

My husband, Peter, was supposed to have put the bowl in his checked luggage, but at the last minute he became concerned it might break. It was a large ceramic bowl we were bringing back from Mexico, and we've had ceramic stuff break in the past.

"Why don't you put it in your carry-on?" Peter asked, after I was already more or less packed.

"That big bowl in my carry-on?" I was dubious.

"I think it will be safer. I can take whatever you had planned to put in your carry-on."

So I took the bowl, already wrapped up in bubble wrap, and put it in my carry-on, and now the TSA agent wanted to take a look at it. Of course, it wasn't empty.

We had a lot of little things to bring back from Mexico after three months, and Peter had stuffed who-knows-what into the bowl before wrapping it in bubble wrap. So when the agent asked me what was in the bowl, I looked bewildered -- which was not the look I was going for when being inspected by this serious agent.

"Peter!" I hissed. "What's in the bowl?"

"Food!" Peter replied.

"Food?" the agent asked.

Oh, great, I thought. Now this agent is going to be thinking we're bringing in a ham or something. We know the rules of what can and cannot come into the country. But some things are a little vague. Meat is out. Cheese is OK. Some fruits and vegetables are out. It's confusing, and I was worried that whatever Peter had put in the bowl might cause issues.

"Yup!" Peter said, apparently unworried. Well, it was my luggage after all, I thought.

The TSA agent proceeded to unwrap the bowl, tearing off the packing tape and taking a lot of time with the whole procedure. We had a connecting flight, and I was getting nervous, so I smiled even more broadly. At this point I was as curious as the agent to discover what was inside the bowl I had been blithely smuggling into the country.

Inside the bowl were several suspicious-looking bags. Inside the bags were lentils, chickpeas, chia seeds and shelled pumpkin seeds. The TSA agent looked up at Peter.

"Bunny food," he said. I couldn't tell if he was mocking Peter or simply making an official identification.

He wrapped the whole thing back up in the bubble wrap, and we went on our way.

"Bunny food!" I said to Peter, as we finally headed away from security.

We got home late. It was cold and rainy and so different from the sunny Mexico we had just left behind. In the morning, we learned we had both gained almost 10 pounds. Everything seemed a little dreary.

I unwrapped the brightly colored bowl. It looked wonderful in our apartment. I put Peter's bags of seeds on the counter for his morning breakfast.

I was glad we brought these things back from Mexico. As we get used to gray skies and cool temperatures up north, we need the comfort of a little extra color. And we certainly need a little extra bunny food.

Till next time,

Carrie

Photos and other news can be found at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

I start noticing the planes overhead when it's nearing the time to go.

Planes don't fly low over this small Mexican city. San Miguel de Allende doesn't have its own airport, so the few planes flying overhead are high in the sky, headed off to somewhere else. I rarely notice them at all -- until it's time to leave.

Now I'm watching them leave a trail in the sky and wondering about the people inside. Are they happy to be going wherever they're going? Are they sad to be leaving wherever they were?

After almost three months here, in our little apartment in Mexico, everything we do in the last week takes on a new significance.

Will these flowers last until we leave? How many potatoes should I cook? Should we buy one more small jar of honey?

We wonder where we should go out to eat, and we keep using the expression "one last time," as if we will never return. We plan to return. We even have tickets. But life is uncertain and leaving, even for a few months, feels momentous.

At 6 o'clock this morning, we heard fireworks. "Pop! Pop! Pop!"

My husband, Peter, mumbled something in his sleep.

"Fireworks," I told him.

He went back to sleep. He doesn't mind. Peter is used to them now. Fireworks in the morning are not unusual. There are reasons for them, we are told, but they are complicated. They have to do with births and deaths and things we will never fully understand. This morning, I was wide awake at 6, listening to the fireworks and wondering how they ever could have bothered me in the past.

I'm having a hard time remembering our home in the U.S.

I try to remember what pots and pans I use, and I can't quite picture them. It seems odd that my other life has grown so fuzzy in such a short time. I have forgotten how many houseplants we left to be watered. (Very few, is the answer.) I try to remember what vase I put my flowers in and what coffee cup I use. It seems important that I remember these things. Otherwise, it feels as if I will be flying into a void.

I wonder if winter is finally over. (Not really, is what I am hearing from my family.) I wonder if the crocuses will be coming up when we get back. Unlike the kitchen and my coffee cup, I can picture the crocuses with vivid clarity, scattered across the lawns, growing oblivious to property lines, spreading brilliant purple blooms everywhere for just a couple of short weeks, then disappearing again for a full year. I look forward to the crocuses.

And I miss my parents and spending time with my family. I will enjoy my walk through the old neighborhood. It will be fun to see spring finally arrive and meet all my old dog friends who will be eager to smell whatever was hidden beneath all that snow.

When you read this, I'll be back. And I'm sure I'll feel happier about it than I feel today. Today, I think I'll miss the fireworks.

Psychological studies report that, if I want to keep enjoying something, I need a little time away. I need to do something different for a while to keep the appreciation fresh. I believe this is true. But right now, I don't feel like going away.

Right now, I feel like taking in the brilliant colors and the warm sun and even the fireworks for at least one more day.

Till next time,

Carrie

Photos and other news can be found at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION