Prompt 326. The Sunset Ritual

& an essay and prompt on sugaring season by Rebecca Harper

River and a streaking glimpse of Sunshine

Hi friend,

These last few months, I was about as physically active as a slug, which I’m blaming on both cold weather and chemo. But I’ve been feeling a little better, courtesy of a longer break between rounds, and the outdoors has been beckoning. So a few days ago, when my dogs started pawing at the door, I decided to take them on an evening excursion. I wanted to try and find a trail near my house that I heard about recently, one that opens onto a rolling expanse of state-preserved land. (My big dogs, that is—Lentil is about as interested in going on an evening walk in winter as the aforementioned slug.)

Though I doubted I had the stamina to go too far, River and Sunshine were so excited that I decided to push myself. It was only twenty minutes until sunset, and I thought, I can manage that. I found the trail through the woods onto the land and strolled around before turning back. The chill was biting, the trees and underbrush were bare and spindly, the grasses dry and tawny with deep winter, but it was all so beautiful. I felt so grounded and rejuvenated that the next day, we went again, this time a half-hour before sunset and with Jon in tow. Again, it was lovely and transportive, and the time just flew.

One of the challenging things about working from home and for myself is that there is no clear demarcation between my workdays and my evenings. It’s the same when I’m sick in bed all day—there’s never any clear signal to shift gears. But the late afternoon walk felt like a ritual that could help me make that shift. So I decided to go again the next evening, and by day three, I was feeling a little ambitious: I set out about an hour before sunset. I tried to manage my own expectations—to give myself the grace to cut the walk short if I needed to. But the dogs’ energy again was contagious, and I went farther than I had before.

Suddenly up ahead, I noticed a playground. It felt a little surreal, like I’d stepped through a portal to the past—into childhood—a feeling that only increased as I made my way toward a swing set and sat in one of the swings. I pushed off and began pumping my legs, flying higher and higher as the dogs ran back and forth in a bewildered frolic. I felt so happy, so connected to some dormant child part of myself, that when I got off the swing, I walked over to the monkey bars, where I attempted one or two rungs before laughing and determining my upper body strength was not up to par. Then, full of lightness, feeling so present and alive, we started for home.

As we made our way back, the sun was sinking on the horizon and the sky had turned brilliant with color, and I felt like I was in a Turner painting. Ice had melted into huge puddles that reflected the blazing sky—until River and Sunshine decided to roll around in them. Usually I’d be annoyed and preemptively exhausted at the thought of having to bathe them. But they were so gleeful, I couldn’t be mad. They too were tapping into their younger puppy selves.

By the time we got home, it was dark, and we were all out of breath. I had torn my coat on brambles and a trail of down feathers was floating behind me. Even that didn’t bother me. I thought, Great! Let the down return to nature. Let the birds use these fluffy wisps to feather their nests!

Tomorrow, I start another five days of chemo. Right now, I’m reminding myself both of how bad I felt after the last round and how great I felt this week—how I went from feeling so awful to feeling so alive. I want to remember that kind of alchemy is available and possible.

Now, I’d like to introduce today’s essay and prompt—“Sugaring Season” by Rebecca Harper, an actor, singer, and composer and longtime Isolation Journals community member. This essay has a special origin story. It began as a response to a prompt in last month’s gathering of the Hatch and evolved into a gorgeous essay—such is the powerful call and response of this community. May it remind you of the rituals that anchor your days and your years, that add sweetness and richness to your life.

Sending love,

Suleika

Some Items of Note—

• I’ve been planning an exciting book tour for The Book of Alchemy, and I’m thrilled to announce the details in the next week or so—stay tuned!

• Our monthly meeting of the Hatch, our virtual creative hour for paid subscribers, is happening today—that’s Sunday, February 23 from 1-2pm ET. Holly Huitt will be hosting this time, sharing some thoughts on karma and one of my favorite poetic forms—the list poem, which I love for its simplicity and its endless potential. Find everything you need to join us here!

Sakai Hōitsu, Maple trees on a six-paneled screen (c. 1820)

Prompt 326. Sugaring Season by Rebecca Harper

About five years ago, my husband Jim and I got a notice from the Cleveland Metroparks inviting us to tap a tree in Burton, a nearby town. It was an open invitation—all you had to do was call the number, and they would assign you an appointment. So we signed up, and we showed up one day and met a Metroparks employee near the old sugar house in the middle of town. He took us over to a maple tree and drilled a hole in it, then showed us how to hammer a tap into it so that the sap, which looks like water, flows into a bucket below. It was so easy and so much fun—I thought, Finally, a purpose for winter in the suburbs of Cleveland!

We immediately went home and looked for maple trees in our yard. It turns out it’s not easy to do in winter; you look and you look and you hope to see a leaf still attached. Eventually we managed to find three maple trees big enough to tap. From them we gathered a few gallons of sap and made a small bottle of syrup. Our daughter Madison, who loves the syrup, said, “Just think—this has been here the whole time.” We’ve lived in this house for twenty-eight years.

Here in Northeast Ohio, sugaring season lasts about six weeks. The sweet spot for collecting sap is when the nights are below freezing but the days warm to above. Once it gets above freezing at night for about two weeks in a row, the sap stops flowing and instead stays up in the branches to nourish the growing buds of green. (Any sap you might collect at that point doesn’t taste good—it’s quite bitter.) The season usually starts around President’s Day, though we’re seeing the impact of climate change on it—in 2024, we tapped in January. The season is also getting shorter. Last year, it was only about a month before it got too warm.

My husband Jim does most of the work on this operation, which has grown to include trees in our yard and three of our neighbors’—they let us tap theirs in exchange for syrup. Altogether, it’s about twenty red, silver, and sugar maples. Last year, we collected 350 gallons of sap over those four weeks.

Early in our syrup-making, we processed the sap in our kitchen, using all six burners on our stove to boil it down into a thick, tasty delight. But it takes forty gallons of sap to make one gallon of syrup, and that’s a lot of heat and energy. So Jim, who is a chemist, decided to use reverse osmosis, employing a pump to push the sap through a membrane to remove about half the water. After that, he boils it outside on the grill for a while. Only towards the very end does he bring it in and put it on the stove, where we have more control and can watch it more closely to ensure it doesn’t burn. A bonus is that it makes the house (and yard) smell amazing.

This syrup tastes so good, we’ll never buy Mrs. Butterworth’s or Log Cabin again. Like fine wine, it’s affected by the region and the soil, the type of maple, and even when the sap is harvested. We don’t add anything to it—all we do is take off the water—but there are aromatic compounds in the sap that produce different flavors. The earlier batches have a vanilla aftertaste; the later batches give off a secondary flavor of cinnamon or caramel. We love giving it as a gift—something you made yourself and such a lovely present. We also barter with neighbors, trading syrup with one for eggs and another for blueberries.

By this time of year, I long for the sun’s heat and a lovely breeze that stirs the leaves. I long to watch the trees across the ravine move in the wind like anemones underwater. I look forward to this simple ritual because it offers me the promise of spring. Of warmer days and the greening of the landscape. Of various outside activities, like walking the dog and visiting neighbors. Of sitting on the terrace with friends and grilling our dinner. This ritual also reminds me that nature gives us everything. We forget that, because most of us go to the store to buy our eggs and blueberries and maple syrup. But if we look around, we remember that the Earth gives us everything we need. At least for now.

Your prompt for the week:

Write about a beloved seasonal ritual. Something that occupies a short window of the year, like making maple syrup, arranging wildflowers, or apple-picking. Something that reminds you of the gifts of nature. Something that reminds you of the variety and richness of life’s cycles.

If you’d like, you can post your response to today’s prompt in the comments section, in our Facebook group, or on Instagram by tagging @theisolationjournals. As a reminder, we love seeing your work inspired by the Isolation Journals, but to preserve this as a community space, we request no promotion of outside projects.

Today’s Contributor—

Rebecca Harper is a SAG-AFTRA actor, composer, writer, musical recording and voiceover artist. She has performed internationally at major musical venues and recorded in Cleveland, Nashville, Dallas, New York and Los Angeles. She credits her published articles and columns with her strong background in the advertising industry. Her bachelor of music degree in composition comes from Kent State University. Most days you’ll find her directing music at Divine Word Catholic Church in Kirtland, Ohio, or composing and recording in her studio. And thanks, Mom, for those piano lessons.

For more paid subscriber benefits, see—

• Love in the Time of Cancer (Part1), an installment of my advice column Dear Susu, where my mom, Anne Francey, helped me answer a reader's question on mothering and caregiving—and we delved into selfishness, surrender, and how we endure

• On Writing Yourself Home and Whole, a video replay of my Studio Visit with the memoirist Nadia Owusu, where we talked about journaling as creative source material, writing your way through trauma, and how memoir can be a radical act of reclaiming the self

• Catch It by the Tail, a replay of December’s meeting of the Hatch, where we reflected on the many ways creative inspiration can appear and how to harness it when it does

Pre-order The Book of Alchemy—

My new book, The Book of Alchemy, comes out on April 22, 2025. I’d be so grateful if you would preorder a copy for yourself or a friend. Preorders are so important for authors, and it would mean everything to me!

And for anyone who pre-orders, there’s an extra special workshop I’ll be hosting on April 21, 2025, at 7pm ET. To reserve a spot, pre-order your copy then register at the link below!