Sunday, December 20, 2020

Home for Christmas

Although we moved out when I was 14, I think of the house at 268 E. Walnut Street in Oneida as the house I grew up in. It is the place that holds safe almost all of my good childhood memories, especially memories of my mother's Christmas magic. 

When I lived there with my family, the house was a duplex, and for most of the years we lived there, my cousins lived on the other side, just a wall away. I was told that the house began life as a mill of some sort on the banks of Oneida Creek, which is actually a small river that runs from the Town of Smithfield to the southeastern corner of Oneida Lake near South Bay. When the mill closed, someone had the building moved up from the creek to Walnut Street, where it stayed until it was demolished in the summer of 2018 as part of the FEMA buyout after the 2013 flood. I can't find any historical proof of the mill or the house move, but this is the legend I was given as a child. 

In my memory, the two front rooms of the house were big, wide spaces. The front door opened into what we called the playroom, facing the stairway, which was lined with a pretty wooden banister. The playroom connected to the living room with not so much a doorway as an opening the rooms' width, marked by floor to ceiling wooden columns. It was a right turn into the dining room from the living room; again, no doorway, just a wide opening. There were bookcases, shelves, and many other surfaces in those spaces that were just waiting for my mother's holiday touch. 

Gentle Reader, you are perhaps wondering why my mind went sliding down this memory hill today. The journey was prompted by the simple act of using scotch tape to hang the greeting cards we have received this season around the doorway between the living room and the kitchen/dining room. That was one of the more simple magics my mother did to turn our home into a winter wonderland. As a child, I loved the variety of texture, color, and shape, and I still do. Mom would save the cards from year to year and use them as Christmas craft fun for kids. 

Every year my mother filled those rooms with the kind of Christmas magic that fills every heart with joy, and especially the giant hearts that dwell in little children. Those wooden columns were wrapped to look like candy canes, and the banister on the stairs was covered with garland and other decorations. 
She would string gold garland throughout the rooms, and at night it would shimmer and sparkle as it caught the light from a dozen different sources. Every flat surface was filled with decorations; one of my favorites was the red velvet sleigh with velvet reindeer. There were angels and lanterns, tiny trees and winter-themed animals, and beautiful glassware pieces. 

Mom also loved musical decorations, and I remember the jingle bell-shaped wall hanging that played Jingle Bells when you pulled the string, which we were only allowed to do with her permission. She would also hang a series of winter and holiday windchimes, and the air coming from the forced air furnace was enough to set them in motion. When my own children were tiny, she gave me my favorite of the windchimes, a little elf sitting in a birdhouse. Long before the days of elf on a shelf, I believed this little guy flew to the North Pole to report to Santa every night. 

Balancing the prettiness of the store-bought decorations were the often homely art-class efforts of my mother's seven children. She would hang these on the walls or tape them to the cabinet doors. Santa masks, decorated trees, handprints meant to be one thing or another - most were hideous, and she loved every single one of them. 

She also filled our home with Christmas music, playing her albums and 8-track tapes from the playroom's console stereo. Elvis, Frank Sinatra, Burl Ives, the Andrews Sisters, Brenda Lee, and Andy Williams were my first-holiday music loves. I especially loved to listen to them at night, when mom would let me turn the lights off and crawl under the tree so I could stare up through the branches at the lights. 

Merry Christmas on the other side, Mom. In my heart, I am always home, with you, at this time of year. 










Tuesday, December 8, 2020

Here Comes the Sun - a Celebration of Science and Nature

This memory from December 2019 has been on my mind for the last few days. I know the extra challenges that isolation amidst the pandemic and other social issues are adding to my life this year. I can't help but wonder how many people are struggling to connect with something, anything, any piece of hope or happiness they can find. 

I originally shared this story to highlight how simple it can be to let someone else feel like they matter. A year later, when so many are walking a tight-rope, I am sharing it again for that same reason, and perhaps as a reminder that there is at least one seasonal option for a celebration that has nothing to do with faith or religion. 

December 2019

I stopped at a chain pharmacy store to pick up a few things tonight. I usually avoid new to me places, but I’ve driven by this one 13,000 times since we moved, there weren’t any cars in the parking lot, and I needed two specific items and some chocolate. Don’t judge.

I was browsing the holiday stuff aisle, amazed at how much crap we consume in the name of giving, when a voice said, “Can I help you find something?”

I looked up and almost walked out of the store when I saw the female clerk standing there. She was one of the far too many women who look like my Beth did towards the end of her life. Sometimes seeing those shades of my daughter is a total system shock, much like going into cold water for a swim.

I paused to catch my breath, then answered, "No, thank you, I’m just looking."

She said something about holiday shopping that I couldn't quite hear, and then she quickly walked away.

When I was ready to check out, that clerk was at the counter. I was determined not to even look at or chat with her, but you know I can't do that. I cannot treat people as if they are invisible. Once again, she said something about the holidays and then said, “Not everybody wants to celebrate them. Not everyone can.”

I responded with something like, you know it’s okay if you don’t. Somehow, that removed the wall between us, and while I was standing there at the checkout, she poured her heart out.

She isn’t a Christian and doesn’t believe in Christmas. Her daughter is 18 this year, and they won’t ever do Christmas again. It’s too hard, just too painful, and it costs too much, and, and, and.

And.

I just listened as she talked. She obviously needed to vent, and why not let her? Why not hold space for and share space with someone else’s daughter? The last thing she said in her recitation of pain and unhappiness was that she likes some of the pretty decorations, but there isn’t anything for her to celebrate.

I said, "Well, you know, the Sun is coming back. I think that’s worth celebrating."

“What do you mean?” she asked. 

I offered her a brief explanation of the Winter Solstice and Yule, that the days will be getting longer again, and that it’s just science and a love of sunshine and warmer days. No belief system is necessary.

She was silent while she finished ringing up my purchases. After I paid and she handed me the receipt, she smiled at me and said, “I think my daughter would like that idea. I’m going to see if she’ll help me look it up.”

Then she smiled an even bigger smile and wished me happy holidays.

Of course, she has no idea that I’ve seen that smile before. Of course, she has no idea that she brought a bit of unexpected brightness to my day, to replace the unexpected sadness.

I hope I brought the same to hers. 

Please choose kindness when you are able. Be the Sun.



And oh - Sing this with feeling. 

https://youtu.be/KQetemT1sWc

Thursday, September 3, 2020

In Liminal Space

In the early morning darkness, I ease out of the world of dreams and into this here and now. Lately, I have slept deeply but without gaining rest. Sometimes I wake uncertain of where I am or whether I am actually awake. I wonder if the places to which I travel in my sleep are the real world. If so, then this assumed reality is not reality at all but is, instead, a dream.

My Gone Befores appear in my dreams more often than ever before. This world is in turmoil, and some of them seem unsettled by that. Some wish to comfort and give guidance. Others remember every version of the warriors they have been down through the long ages. Even now, they are ready for a fight.

I have spent many years walking between the worlds, and for the first time, I am no longer sure of the boundaries. Are they blurring everywhere and for everyone, or is extreme fatigue dulling my perceptions of space and time? Perhaps current events are so emotionally and relentlessly exhausting that I sleep hard like a sun-tired child. Maybe these in-between spaces exist only in my head.

These are my thoughts as I get dressed and then step out the back door. This is heady stuff for so early in the day.

The fog is hanging low and heavy, and the trees at the edge of the yard are nothing but shadow figures. The moment I acknowledge the shadow figures, a chill runs up my spine. I don't even give it time to run back down before I distract myself by thinking random thoughts about fog. There is weather lore that claims that there will be a snowfall in winter for each morning fog in August. In many an August past, I told myself I would keep track of fog days and snowfalls. This year, I have taken up the task. On the first morning in August, I wrote a heading on an index card: August Fog/Winter Snow, and taped it onto my desk. Every morning I made the tick marks; there are 22 in all. I am now prepared to see what winter brings.


I tend to the chickens, then walk to the south yard so I can trim back the gone-too-wild tomato plants. The fog clears for a moment, revealing the mountain ridge to the south. Low-lying clouds shroud its peaks. I am caught in a moment where another world beckons to the adventurer within me, and oh, how she longs to travel. I appease her with promises of a trip to the orchards to the south later in the fall.



The clear spot in the fog and the mountains beyond it vanish, and I am back in the mist enveloped world of the garden. After taking a deep breath, I turn to look at the tomato vines, reminiscent of scenes from the original Jumanji. Now that was very definitely a between-the-worlds space.

Moving to the far side of the raised bed, I settle into work on untangling the vines. Eyes and fingers follow the lengths of green vine until it becomes a meditative process. I pause to remove a bug or pick a ripe tomato, then move back into the meditation. Organizing, clearing out, and supporting are the dominant themes of the work. Breathe in. Breathe out. The garden is still wrapped in a light mist, with bits of morning color and birdsong all around.

The rumble of thunder sounds in the distant west. Should I head into the house to beat the rain? I start to gather the pruners, my knife, and the garden twine to put them back into my mom's dark brown basket. She purchased it years ago from one of those at-home parties and was so proud of it. She filled it with a spray of purple flowers and kept it next to a shelf filled with special treasures. I know it made her smile. Would she smile now to know that I use her basket every day? I close my eyes and call up her image, here among the tomatoes and marigolds.

How little effort it takes to move between those two worlds - hers and mine. The simple basket at my feet becomes a magical object because of the memories associated with it. I smile, remembering her smile and her love of her garden. I decide to stay and keep working, regardless of the rain.

Once again, I trace a green line back to its point of origin. Yes, this one can go. No, this one must stay. Snip. Snip. Drop the worm into the pan for the chickens. Trace another green line. Pause to talk to the sparrow and the wren, pause to seek out the form of Crow high in the tall white pine. He certainly has a great deal to say. Crow is another linking point between the worlds; I have been walking the Crow Road since before my Beth died. It seems I always will be, now that I am aware of its existence.

I had thought the road would end. That I would reach some destination after her death as I worked my way through the grief and trauma. But this is the road I am on now, even while I am living a vibrant life. Not one foot there and one here, but moving back and forth and between, sometimes in dreams, sometimes in memory, sometimes in reality. Crow has added layer upon layer of depth to my understanding of walking between the worlds and being in liminal space.

The rain begins. Coming first as a heavy, moving mist, but then the drops fall on me. I turn my face to the sky. The water washes over me. I close my eyes. I don't want to be aware of anything but the feeling of that water on my skin. I wonder if I will be in a different place when I open my eyes. Beth might be there with me, in the place where she is whole and healthy and always glad to see me. I hold my breath, and that moment of hope for a moment. I open my eyes. She is not. And I am not. I am in the Here and Now.

The rain keeps falling. I go back to the work that is simply work now. Good work. Healing work. The rain is warm and sweet, and its touch on my skin is gentle. I am content.

Friday, August 21, 2020

Daily Practices

I have been working on re-establishing some daily practices. I had overwhelmed myself by trying to establish new routines for my entire day, and since my brain just isn't wired that way anymore, that attempt was a colossal disaster. 

So I backed off. I forgave myself for my perceived failure. I regrouped and reconsidered, and decided to try a more gentle approach, going in toes first instead of diving headlong. 

I found something new that interested me - setting a trail camera on our property to keep an eye on wildlife activity. Then I set the alarm on my phone to remind myself to go and change out the SD card. The alarm has a distinctive sound, a clip from John Denver's song "Wild Montana Skies." https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8RRgIP-0pHk It is not a sound I can ignore, and I haven't been ignoring it for about two months now. Every night I change the card, regardless of the weather, or how tired I am or if I have a dozen other things to do. There are no excuses for not completing the task. The lure of a new thing, the alarm reminder, and determination helped me establish that new daily practice. 

At the beginning of August, I found another new thing that interested me. The first foggy morning reminded me of the lore that says that there will be a snowfall in winter for every foggy morning in August. Every year I am reminded of that lore, and every year I say I'm going to keep track, but I never do until this year. I have taped an index card right next to my keyboard on my desk, and it is divided into two columns: August Fog and Winter Snowfalls. Every morning I make a hash mark on the index card if there was fog. Today is August 21st, and so far, we have had 16 foggy mornings here at Bear Path Cottage. Another daily practice in place. 

Somewhere in the foggy morning check, I decided to add my daily walkabout and outside morning meditation back to my practices. Because I already have to get up and get outside to tend the chickens, this was a logical next step. 

There are other daily practices I have reintroduced or created anew. Meditation. Ritual. Writing. It was easier to build off the first one in place than to implement them all at once. A key to my success in maintaining these daily practices is to allow myself some flexibility with time. That flexibility keeps me from feeling like the day is ruined if I don't have Practice A done by a certain time. I have reclaimed my ability to roll with the flow. 

This morning as I sat for meditation, the sky opened up, and a soft rain started to fall. I stayed where I was, under the juniper boughs, undisturbed. I knew that when I went back inside, I would fix a cup of tea and carry it to my desk. I would sit down to mark the fog record, and then I would begin writing. The tea would warm the chill from the rain, and the daily practices would continue to bring comfort and stability in difficult times. They contribute to maintaining a sense of being grounded and centered in a tempestuous world. I am grateful for the circumstances that allowed me to recognize the need to rebuild my daily routines and the life experiences that have taught me how to do so.

Today's tea: Catskill Mountain Tea Company's Winter Cherry

Sunday, August 9, 2020

A Glimpse of the Magic at Bear Path Cottage

Time spent out of doors yesterday was a gift from the first mist-filled moment of the day. The slightly cooler temperature and the quality of light were a taste of early Autumn. My body and spirit welcomed the change and the promise of days to come. 

In the early afternoon, I took my flower basket and went to the front gardens to tend to the patch of orange and yellow calendula. I sat on the ground in the curve at the southern edge of the garden, deadheading blooms that had gotten past me, harvesting the good ones. The spicy-sweet scent of the blooms filled the air. My fingers became sticky from the resin in the green bracts of the calendula flowers. The sun was warm on my back and a pleasant breeze was blowing through. I was content. 

Then I heard my husband call my name. I was so immersed in my work I hadn't noticed him approach the nearby garden arch.

"Sheri," he said in the quiet voice that he uses for only the most amazing announcements.
"There is a bear in a field across the street." 

The tone of his voice pulled me to my feet. I looked towards the neighbors' house because it is the site of frequent bear activity. Rhodes saw the direction I was looking and said, "No, over here. In the empty lot, under the trees."

Together we walked to our North fence line, looking for movement or the shadow that is not a shadow. We have hunted bears together for years, but never before at the Cottage. I should have felt thrilled or excited, but instead, I felt as though I were moving towards a holy moment. I knew I was approaching a great mystery. 

Just as I reached the fence, the far upper branches of the apple tree in the empty lot began to shake, and I saw a not-so-tiny black shadow figure playing on the branches. Then I saw another shadow in the same tree, and a third moving in the space between the apple tree and the nearby crepe myrtle. I thought this must be the mother and two cubs who passed through our orchard not too long ago. I smiled, delighted to see them. 

Then she moved. She sat up out of the tall grass, eyes bright, mouth slightly open. I could see her snout moving as she sniffed the air.  I could see her teeth. She was huge; probably 300 pounds of dangerous muscle and beauty, and I couldn't take my eyes off her face. Her coat and the area around her eyes glistened black where the sunlight touched it, but her snout was a soft brownish-tan. Fascinating. Gloriously beautiful. Mesmerizing. 

Then she moved again, and the spell was momentarily broken. I realized I was looking at the momma bear with three cubs, and she was checking to see what they were up to. I had been so focused on her that I hadn't heard the ruckus the cubs were making as they played. They were climbing up and then tumbling out of the apple tree, calling back and forth to each other with voices that sounded like baby goats talking.  One of them would scamper off to murdalize* some saplings, then come bounding back to tackle a sibling. 

Round and round they went, while their momma rested beneath the apple tree, 30 yards away from me. We were separated by two fences, a road, tall grass and brush, and that distance, and I could still feel the power of her presence. 

I know she could smell and hear us, but she did not seem to think we were a threat to her babies or to her. Had she given any indication that our presence disturbed her, we would have moved away. That is the golden rule of wildlife encounters, and we do not break that rule. 

I lost track of time while watching her and the cubs. What an indescribably amazing gift, to be able to observe them so clearly. We used to spend days adventuring in places like Cades Cove, hoping to have such encounters. And here it was, happening right at home. Neither the cubs nor momma bear were ever still. She would recline, then sit back up, looking around and sniffing the air. 

At one point I moved just as Rhodes spoke to me, and she turned to look directly at us again. Our eyes met for an instant. Two momma bears, acknowledging each other from worlds apart. For this momma bear, the mystery was deepened. I don't believe the connection meant as much to her. 

Not long after that, she stood up and stretched. Her cubs had wandered off and were squawling, and she was ready to go and find them. I watched as she ambled away, seemingly in no hurry.

She was magnificent. 

I was blessed. 



*Acknowledgment to the good folks at Appalachian Bear Rescue for coining the word, "murdalize" to describe how cubs treat saplings. You can learn more about ABR's important work here: https://appalachianbearrescue.org/

Wednesday, August 5, 2020

The Great Re-Grouping

I wrote this in late March or early April. At that time I hoped the collective "we" would do all the right things. That we would manage to collectively be decent, and civil, and compassionate. I allowed myself to use the pandemic to erase 4 years of certain sectors of people in the United States becoming progressively, aggressively, anything but those things. I hoped we could all work together to make things better, especially when we moved from Pandemic to Pandemic + Civil Rights Movement. When I first wrote it, I wrote this line: "Choose who we are when this is over." I realize now, it won't ever be over. There isn''t going to be a continuation of life in the after. Things will have to change in significant ways, and not necessarily bad ones.

Look where we are now. Look, if you can bear to. I can't do it everyday, anymore. I realized it is self-harming behavior, and there's no need to keep traumatizing myself all day long. 

I see enough to still believe there are more good people who want good for all of us than there are horrible people who don't care about anyone. Or ignorant people who fall into any number of mind-numbing psychological pathologies about identifying with the school yard bully. 

However...I remember quite clearly the day my boss and I were in the office talking about the upcoming election and I said these words outloud: "This country will never allow that to happen." But it did. I have never since said something can't or won't happen. 

Realistic optimist? Hopeful pessimist? I don't know if there's a label that fits, or if I'd accept one if it did. I just keep working to prepare myself and my family for whatever might happen. I mourn those who are dying, and grieve for their families. I am outraged that children and teachers are being placed on the frontlines of this pandemic when every bit of evidence says we are putting their lives in danger. I am outraged that my government is not doing its job, and continues to allow a narcissistic, treasonous conman to keep breathing. I will continue to do the work I need to do, but I won't be caught off guard again. We are being swallowed whole. But I'll be damned if we aren't fighting fiercely. 

The Great Re-Grouping.

I have lived alone before
and wrapped the silence and the house sounds
around me for comfort and strength.
But that was different.

My life has often been measured 
in before and afters.
Boxed up, wrapped up, compartmentalized into
Now and Then. 

Some of the durings mattered, 
but they happened in real time, 
in the everyday, in the middle of
life as we knew it and 
they were swallowed whole. 

But this. 
This great Re-Grouping.
This cosmic time-out, go to your room, and
Stay there...

This is a During that will make or break
a person
a family
a community
a country
The World as we know it.
Life, as we knew it.

This is a during we better remember.
It might be our last, big chance to 
Choose who we are now and
Who we will be in the New Times.
If we let this swallow us whole
All will be lost. 
We will be lost. 

Sunday, July 5, 2020

Chamomile and Bears in the Night

I don't know how this came to be but most of my night time visits to the outside of the Cottage take place on the front porch or front steps. From there I can see the night sky, listen to the birds and frogs, watch bats and lightning bugs, and catch up with my husband at the end of the day. It is a peaceful place to be.

Tonight, however, I decided I wanted to be on the ground in the front garden to do a full Moon meditation and ritual. I needed to be solidly connected to the earth so while there was still some light I went and sat in front of the german chamomile plants nearest the northern edge of the garden. I love the sweet, delicate flowers and fragrance of chamomile. I find the aroma of its blooms to be comforting and soothing and I am pleased to have it as part of the Cottage's apothecary.

Darkness came, and I slipped into my meditation with an attitude of gratitude, then performed my ritual. When I was finished I stayed seated on the ground, enjoying being surrounded by my plants, watching the fireflies, and listening to the night sounds.

At one point I heard a scrabbling sound that anyone who lives in bear country or spends time watching bear videos would recognize; it was the sound of a black bear cub moving up or down a tree. I couldn't see anything, but I could tell the sound was coming from the north; from the loblolly pine that grows on the Cottage's northern fence line, or the trees in front of the house
that sits kitty-corner, or the tree in the empty lot across the other way. I continued to sit quietly and listen.

There are many bears in this area, and in this neighborhood we have seen a mother with three cubs of the year, an older and very large male, and several juveniles. We have had them in our gardens several times; they are always just passing through.

I waited another five minutes or so then moved over a few feet to harvest flowers from another chamomile plant. I had the blooms in hand when I heard a different sound and turned to see a little black rump scrambling over a piece of pallet fencing at the top of our orchard not 40 feet away from me. The pallet fences are only four feet wide and two feet tall; little bear could just as easily have walked around the fence as gone over it but bear cubs gotta do what bear cubs gotta do.

I could hear little noises from the momma bear as she moved through the north yard which is a travel path bears frequently use and for which Bear Path Cottage is named. When I was satisfied that she had gone far enough away I stood up to go into the house, but not before giving thanks for such a deeply affirming experience.

What a gift to live and share space with these beautiful and powerful creatures. What a gift to live amidst so much mystery and be given so many answers. What a gift to be a seeker.

Blessed be.



Monday, June 29, 2020

My Personal Almanac

There has been a feeling of detachment hovering around me lately, of disconnection and a low, abiding sorrow seemingly outside the scope of the world as seen through the lenses of the impact of the pandemic, isolation, and civil unrest. I haven't been able to pinpoint the source of these feelings,  and not for a lack of trying. I've just been missing something and I'm not quite sure what it is.

Two days ago I received a package from my favorite tea business, Catskill Mountain Tea Company, with seven different blends of tea. Rootbeer, Thorne Valley, Autumn Leaves, Golden Sunrise, Winter Cherry, Rip van Winkle, and Serenity Valley. The names themselves are delicious, and the scents overwhelmed me in a happy way as soon as I opened the shipping box. Sassafras, lemon, rose, ashwagandha, jasmine, just to name a few. I opened each bag and tin so I could take a good whiff of each tea and decide which I wanted to try first. As I did that I finally identified what I have been missing.

As much as I am a homebody, I also love to be on the go, adventuring with my love. I am used to noticing and marking the passing of the seasons by what I see blooming in gardens and fields as we drive along. The seasonal views and the bloom cycles of the native wildflowers of the Blue Ridge Parkway are part of my personal almanac, and I feel somewhat adrift for not seeing them.

I miss roadside produce stands and their hand-lettered signs that tell me what they have in stock, and thereby knowing what is in season. I even miss thinking things like, "It's too early for peaches here, those can't be local." I miss thinking nothing of driving down to South Carolina to find peaches, then driving home with the car filled with the intoxicatingly sweet scent of luscious, juicy goodness. I miss going on an unplanned day-trip around this area, seeking berries and corn and green beans and knowing that we could stop whenever we felt like it for a meal or a drink in a local diner. I miss seeing a large bloom of honeysuckle and parking nearby to breathe in that heady scent and harvest a few blooms to taste the nectar.

I miss wandering through farmers markets, taking in the vibrant colors and aromas, marking the seasons by what is available, what looks healthy, what smells fresh and good. I miss asking the growers and makers about their products. I miss coming home with a basket full of goodness.

I am surrounded by gardens here at the Cottage, but I am in the early stages of knowing the seasons here because they are quite different than they were in the shadows of Mount Pisgah. When I moved from upstate New York to the mountains of North Carolina it took time for my body and spirit to adjust to the differences in how and when the seasons presented, and I was able to do that by paying attention to the sensory clues that nature makes available.

Now that I know what I've been missing, I will work on finding a way to adapt.





Tuesday, June 9, 2020

Juneberry Pie of My Dreams

There are a great many things wrong with the City of Asheville, NC, but one of the things they managed to get right was establishing a Food Action Plan that supports access to healthy food in a limited sense of those words. There are multiple places in the city where fruit and nut trees provide harvest for anyone to enjoy, and there is an online map to help folks find those locations. (Link at the end of this post.)

Six years ago I learned about Asheville's Juneberries (a/k/a Serviceberries) through an on-line group, and decided I had to see what all the fuss was about. I located some of the trees, periodically checked to see if the fruit was ripe, and when it was I sampled that sweet juicy goodness. The berries are small, taste like a mixture of blueberry and cherry, and instantly became my favorite berry EVAH. 

I requested assistance from my favorite co-adventurer and together we picked a couple of berry buckets full in less than half an hour. The trees we were picking from then were probably five or six years old and produced an incredible crop; what we put in our buckets and our mouths was less than a third of the ripe berries on each tree. We took our treasure home, and with our combined harvest I made a Juneberry pie and canned some pie filling. Two jars of that filling went to friends who also had never had Juneberries, and I put two jars into the pantry with the mindful intention of using them to call up summer when the weight of winter became too heavy. One particularly cold winter day I opened those jars of pie filling and baked a pie and a cobbler that each held the bright, warm taste of Summer's promises. 

That was the day I knew that if we were ever able to buy our own home we were going to plant Juneberry trees. And we did, and so we did. In about two weeks we will mark the one year anniversary of our move in date, and the day after that we will mark the one year anniversary of the Juneberry trees (Amelanchier x grandiflora, Autumn Brilliance) that were planted in our front yard the day after we officially moved in. Appalachian Creek Nursery helped get our dream of a critter and pollinator friendly yard off to a fine start. 

At that time I noted that when the Wheel of the Year began to turn back to summer again we should be harvesting berries from our own trees if we could manage to save any of them from the bears and the birds. I hoped there would be a pie or two made and maybe even a few jars set up.

It was a special sort of delight this year to watch as the leaves started to grow, and then the flowers came, and finally the first berries started to show. I've never had fruit trees before, and I thought I would have to race the birds once the berries were actually ripe. Wrong! One day I watched for an hour as a mockingbird came and went repeatedly, taking red, unripened berries from one of the trees. As with everything here at the Cottage, it was our intention to share the harvest with the critters, but I thought at that rate there would never be any harvest to share. I made the decision to net the trees to keep the birds away, and I will just say that is something I will never do again. The trees were miserable, the birds were confused, and I had to rescue several butterflies who became trapped inside the netting. 



Traumatic netting aside, the berries survived and within a week were ripe enough to start picking. The first taste of the first berries from the trees grown by Cottage land and Cottage energy was divine. I'm not saying that lightly, or tritely. I made a pact with this land, and this harvest was part of the reward for keeping my end of the bargain. Be mindful if ever you do something similar to do what you said you would do. The rewards can be grand in many different ways, but the opposite could be unthinkable.

I took my time picking those berries. I talked to the trees and thanked them, I looked at the branch structure, and the leaves, and even the saplings coming out of the ground. I also took notice of the cluster patterns of berries at the end of new growth, already beginning to get some idea on how each tree will need to be pruned back. And of course I was tasting berries as I was picking, standing in the sun in the front yard. I had waited a long time for this harvest and I wanted to enjoy every moment. 



This first harvest season for these trees I took about 8 cups of fruit, and the birds took that much as well. I believe that is pretty good for two year old trees, and look forward to the harvest increasing every year. I have been a bit surprised that the neighborhood bears haven't taken their share...yet.

Does it surprise you to know I baked a pie the night I picked those berries? I savored the taste of it at the very end of the day, and the flavor melted into my mouth and my spirit, a combination of the sweetest summer memories and the best summer promises ever made. These are the things that keep me grounded in the here and now, living every moment of every day. 




Wednesday, May 27, 2020

Going Green, Gone Solar

About 750 years ago I was a little kid living in a small town in upstate New York. It was actually the only city in a rural county, surrounded by dairy and farm land, and from my youthful perspective not the kind of place where progressive thinking was a common thing. Yet somebody was progressive enough to install a solar energy system on a little house near the high school, and before I knew anything about anything I was enchanted by the thought of the Sun keeping a home warm. Solar energy became part of my eventual dream for a little cottage. 

Fast forward centuries later, and Rhodes and I bought a little house last year that clearly had the potential for becoming our combined dream home, and the house that needed some work became Bear Path Cottage. 

As a couple we are committed to going green as much as we can. We aren't ever going to win any awards for being environmental heroes, but we do our best to reduce our negative impact on the environment, and to reduce our carbon footprint. The green changes we have made to the outside of the property are the most visually evident ones; adding gardens and planting trees and other things to attract and sustain pollinators as well as make our family a little more food independent is a big deal to us. If we don't beat the birds, raccoons, and bears to the berries every year, well, that's just part of the gardening game in the mountains and they are just some of the neighbors we can share our harvest with. 

Some additional changes we made were replacing the electric tank water heater with a gas tankless system, replacing old windows with more energy efficient ones, and when we decided to add a parking space for my father-in-law's entrance to the house we opted for a permeable parking system. That choice was inspired by (though it looks nothing like)  the amazing parking system that we saw when we visited The Wild Center in Tupper Lake, NY. (
https://www.wildcenter.org/thrive-together/sustainable-building/our-green-facility/) Those water penetrable paver lots made such an impression on us we carried the thought of them with us for four years. Thanks, Wild Center!

We had long discussed and agreed that we wanted to implement solar options if we bought a house where it was suitable. The long roof side of Bear Path Cottage is directly south facing and is basically a solar dream. After we closed on the house I attempted to research reputable local solar companies, but it is not easy to find information about that. The regional electric company was also no help, and there is actually a great deal of misinformation on the internet. We decided to put that project on the back burner until we could find more information. 

We had just started talking about it again when I saw that a former colleague is working as a sales rep for a solar company. I chatted with her a bit, did some research on the company, and then she came to meet with us to discuss the process. We were excited by the options presented to us, and couldn't wait to get started.

In February of this year a crew installed the solar panels on our roof. I admit it was a little disconcerting to listen to people drill holes in the less than a year old Cottage roof, but the work crew was professional, our rep was on top of everything, and in half a day's time we had the bones of the system in place. 

Duke Energy seemed to drag their feet on their end of things that had to happen to get the system running, and then the arrival of a pandemic and the related shut downs also slowed things down a bit. No worries - we are patient people. After more paperwork, and more emails, and the installation of the net meter, we were finally ready to power up. 

Four days ago Rhodes followed careful instructions from the solar company and flipped the switches that officially turned Bear Path Cottage into a generating facility, complete with a net meter and a solar photovoltaic generating system. But what do these $5 words even mean? 

For starters, it does not mean that we are off the electric grid, and it does not mean we can make money from the electricity generated by our solar panels. Duke Energy doesn't like either of those things, and does not allow them to happen. 

However, it does mean that we are now offsetting our electric bills with renewable energy produced through the solar panels/generating system installed at the Cottage. This is how our solar company explains our system: "After solar panels are installed on your home you begin producing power. Any excess power your home doesn’t use will be sent back to your utility company. Your electric meter will run backwards. You will feed excess energy to the utility company during the day and then receive it back during the nighttime, at no cost."

It also means that some time down the road when solar batteries became an affordable option we will be able to store any excess energy produced by our generating system and then potentially go off grid. Additionally, we will still pay Duke Energy for whatever usage we have over and above what the Cottage produces. 

In less than four whole days the system has produced 58 kilowatt hours of electricity, and yesterday produced nearly 25 kWh. According to Duke Energy, we used 773 kWh in the last billing cycle of 31 days, which averages out to slightly less than 25 kWh per day. Translation: overall we are breaking even with output and usage, so are successfully reducing our use of fossil fuels and our carbon emissions. That's a good feeling, and another part of the dream coming true.

Dear hometown person from the 1970's who installed a solar energy system: someone noticed, and it made a difference. Thank you. 

Note: No photos, because the electric system bits are boring, and the panels blend so well with our roof that they are difficult to distinguish from the angle from which I could take a photo. So, here's a photo of the view from the Eagle's Nest at The Wild Center. 



Friday, May 8, 2020

Time is on my side...

I wonder what I would tell this kid if I could go back to 1983 and actually sit down and talk with her. I wonder if she would listen to me, but even more than that I wonder if I would like who I might have become if she did. I do talk to her, and to many of the versions of my Self as they existed within this lifetime; doing so is part of the healing work with which I am engaged. As for going back - all I have to do is close my eyes.Time is nothing more than a human construct for measuring events that seem like they should matter. The more in tune I become with fully living each moment, experiencing each event, the less relevant the construct of time becomes and the more relevant the event. Eventually time will have no meaning to me, and hold no sway over my existence. When did I last see your face? Last hear your voice or your laughter? When did I last see the roses bloom or drift with the ocean? It was just now, this moment, In the room where memory is always present. There is no need to hurry through or Hurry on or hurry back. Doing so negates the value of being In this moment. Doing so negates the value of being.


Monday, April 27, 2020

For there is nothing lost...

I had a fairly well established daily routine before the COVID-19 pandemic initiated the Great Regrouping throughout the world. I am not a very social person and my anxiety disorder prevents me from straying too far or too often from home, so I didn't think social distancing would change my life very much. Wowser, was I wrong.

For the first time in my 53 years of living, I have had the opportunity to allow my body to find its own rhythm. I have a once a month writing deadline, and I am currently answering only to the demands of nature for working to get my gardens established. I might sleep three hours in a night, or I might sleep ten or twelve. I might be up before dawn or not go to bed until then.

My daily spiritual practice has evolved into happening while I am working in the gardens or outside for a walk about. It happens while I am sitting under the loblolly pine, watching the baby American Robins in their nest, or sitting under the night sky. Bear Path Cottage has become a rather substantial sized altar, and my connection with the Divine is ever deepening.

Inside the house, well, some days it looks like I am losing a game of Jumanji, but the world hasn't ended because of this lapse in housekeeping. This is just another part of life that is slowly settling after being shaken up. When my kids were little I embraced a "messy doesn't mean dirty" housekeeping style, and I am once again keeping home with that liberating philosphy.

I am shaking off a lifetime of constructs created by a world external to me, and that is exhausting work. I am grateful for the time to allow my entire being - body, mind, and spirit -  to rest from this work as it needs must. I am most grateful for the journey work that has led me to a place where I can recognize what is happening and embrace it without paying harsh judgment to myself.

I am also mindful that I am not living within a destination. I haven't arrived anywhere. I am still traveling, no matter how far I go or don't go. I am living wholly in this moment. I am alive.

“For whatsoever from one place doth fall,
Is with the tide unto an other brought:
For there is nothing lost, that may be found, if sought.”
― Edmund Spenser, The Faerie Queene




Sunday, April 19, 2020

Finding Grace

Today I wrote to a friend that I have been trying to find some grace in every day.

I am tired. Somedays I am exhausted, even beyond the normal fatigue I deal with because of some health issues, or the physical fatigue that comes from working outside as much as I am able, and I think that this is normal during this difficult time. The pandemic and the political climate in this country, on top of everything else going wrong in this world, can be overwhelming. So I make myself slow down, I make myself see, I make myself hear, I make myself feel, and by doing that, I find grace, which in turn gives me hope and some sense of peace in this Upside Down.

Yesterday morning I was busy moving wagon loads of plant debris from the raised bed in the front yard to the compost pile out back. Its a bit of a walk and on my second trip back I sat down on Blueberry Hill to rest. The sun was warm on my face and there was a light breeze blowing. I closed my eyes for a while and did a quiet meditation, then I opened my arms and let that wind move through me, carrying away all that was negative.

When I opened my eyes again the day seemed a little brighter. I heard the low cooing of a Mourning Dove in the loblolly pine branches above me, and I turned my eyes to see if I could find the bird. A pair of them had been nesting in another tree in our front garden, but had abandoned that nest after a wind storm. I was hoping to find their new home space, but they both moved in and out of the high-up branches and then flew away.

Movement on the ground caught my eye and I saw a female American Robin doing a funny little walk/run across the driveway, moving towards where I was sitting. She would stop and look at me, then run a little more. She eventually went up the hill past me and I watched until she caught a worm then flew up into the tree over my head. And lo, there it was. This year's nest in the loblolly pine. The minute she stepped close to it two little heads on two scrawny necks popped up out of the nest, and those little mouths were wide open, ready for their elevenses.

The Sun was lined up so perfectly behind that nest, behind that branch, that in that moment the babies were completely backlit. The light actually shone through their beaks, illuminating them and making them appear transluscent. It reminded me of last Autumn when the rising Sun shone through the sunflowers blooming in our front garden; the whole scene was so magical that I held my breath, not wanting it to end.

Then their mom moved to feed them, and in the next instant she was fluffing her wings and settling down over her babies in the nest. Take whatever message you want to take from that moment, from that image, but I was just so overwhelmed by love that I cried.

I sat there under the tree for a while longer, musing about that moment of grace and about the way the Wheel turns. Moments pass, days go by, the year moves on, but I am often gifted with reminders of how everything is connected. Sunflowers and baby birds kissed by the same Sun. Friends who share music that makes them dance, or laugh, or cry, or worship. Art that makes people smile or sigh. Garden talk and critter pictures; despair and hope; loss and love.

There is grace in every bit of it, and I am blessed.

Thursday, April 9, 2020

One Mississippi...Two Mississippi...


I am awake in the wee hours of the morning, summoned by the noise and power of the first real thunderstorm of the season rolling through the river valley in which I live. Without even thinking about it, I find myself counting the intervals between each flash of lightning and burst of thunder, and my mind is flooded with memories of comforting and empowering my children in the dark and stormy nights of their tender years. 

The helper is a simple meditation and sleep ritual that I never realized was either one of those things until now. The children would call to me or come to me in the dark, frightened by the storm, and we would wind up snuggled together, sometimes just one of them and me, sometimes all of us snuggled together on the couch. In the lull after a boomer I would ask "Are you ready? Let's watch now," and they would very nearly hold their breath, waiting for the night sky to light up. When it did, we would count outloud together: One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi. 

BOOM! The thunder would come, and they would jump, but their eager minds were already busy watching for the next flash to cross the sky. As they grew older those lulls between flash and boom were often filled with questions about different kinds of lightning, how storms move, or what animals do during storms. They each went through a phase when they just had to spell out the word, Mississippi, in the sing-song rhyming chants so many of us know from childhood, and I remember a night one of the girls dissolved into giggles because she was missing her top front teeth and couldn't say the word. 

I would gently encourage them to hush, to watch, to listen, to quiet their breathing so they could hear. They learned that they could tell when the storm was drawing closer and when it was moving away. The lull between boom and flash would lengthen, their fear would settle, their breathing would slow, and eventually they would not so much fall back to sleep as to be carried there by the peace of the lull and the sound of the rain. 

Sometimes when it storms now, I wonder if they remember. 

The boomers have passed through now, and the sound of the rain is hypnotic and sweet. My gardens are being watered, and I am going to wrap myself in gratitude and allow the rain to lullaby me back to sleep. 

Wednesday, April 1, 2020

Yarrow for the Heartache

Walter has insisted that I work at my desk this morning, so here I am. I'm catching up on messages and emails, writing a review, and staring at my journals and my pile of unused journals like maybe I recognize them, but I'm just not sure. You know, like when you see that person in the store or on the train or at the show, and you are wondering if you went to school with them or maybe met them at a business meeting or they might have sat at the table next to you at that restaurant you went to two months ago when we still believed it was safe to dine out.
I have been woefully neglectful of my daily writing practice, and I realized yesterday that it is because I am avoiding writing about COVID-19 and what it is doing to the world. I don't know. Maybe it is triggering the Anne Frank nightmares of my childhood or something. Maybe it is just one too many traumas; one more level down the abyss that this country's current political environment dragged us into. One more monster in the Upside Down.
I am saturating my social media content with garden stuff because that's where the hope grows for me. That is where the distraction lies as well. I'm soaking up all the art and music and nature that other people are sharing because my spirit needs those balms. Who knew that Penguins touring zoos and aquariums could actually warm the human heart?
There are times that I am overwhelmed by everything that is happening, and it usually hits me from out of the blue. I will be sitting on the couch or out in the garden or talking with Rhodes, and all of a sudden I find myself crying. All of a sudden I am aware of the fear and concern I have for the people I love, for my friends, and for my community, both local and world-wide.
My daughter works in a health care practice that is essential. Their office cannot close, and they are affiliated with the local hospital. My mind does not allow me to acknowledge this in every minute of every day but I am all too aware of the number of health care workers who have died from COVID-19 and I am terrified for my child. I keep that fear locked away in a box inside my head because if I didn't I wouldn't be able to function.
I am worried about other people in my family, some as much for the psychological strain caused by unemployment and uncertainty as for the disease itself. My 82 year old father in law lives with us and we have just now managed to convince him to stop going to the grocery store. We have everything we need in this house right now; there is no point in risking his life or our lives for things we might want.
I worry that I can't do enough to help other people at a time when I *should* be helping as much as possible. And then I remind myself, or my husband reminds me, that we are doing the best we can to help those we can help, in all the ways that we can help, and that is all anyone can do.
So, I am silencing my muse because I am afraid of what she has to say. She rebels in my head, gets wild and loud and crazy, and sometimes bursts through the seams so that I hear little bits of what she has to say. But while I am silencing her, I am tuned in with perfection to the Divine all around me, and I have a sneaking suspicion they are passing notes.
A few weeks ago before things went completely topsy turvy, I acquired some plants for the altar we keep for our Beth. I've never grown yarrow, but I've seen it and admired it, and I saw some at the nursery and I just had a sudden knowing. "Get the yarrow," the quiet voice said. "See how beautiful it is? Beth would love this." Then an even quieter voice said "Yarrow for the Heartache. You could write about that."
I got the yarrow, and later that night when I sat down to do some research, I'm fairly certain I heard the quieter voice giggle when I found a dozen articles about the uses of yarrow to comfort the heart.
I'm still musing about how to write about the Yarrow, but here's some free verse that's flowing through my head like water over the rocks in a small creek, catching here, stopping there, turning, skipping along.
Peace out, peeps.
When this is all said and done Will you remember when a stranger bumping into you In the market was an annoyance and not a death threat?

Will you remember the privileged horror
Of the finally undeniable truth that children in your
Neighborhoods go hungry every day?

Will you remember that Margie next door

Baked homemade cornbread for the neighbor girl
Who brought buttermilk home for her?

Or that Kim shared beagle pictures to make us smile

And Star shared recipes and let her cats work the stove
And Karen's cat learned to use the Ipad to watch videos?

Edie who kept her grandbaby and crossed generations to care for those she loves.
Chris who has to love her mother from a distance, and
Others who cannot touch or hug or see their children and grandchildren or friends.

Will you remember those who shared wisdom and

Those who shared words intended to comfort and
Those who reached through the screen to send love?

Those who stood up against injustice and

Those who muddied the waters and
Those who fought for all of us and meant it?

Yo Yo Ma is giving us Songs of Comfort and
So are Garth and Tricia, Paul Simon, Jimmy Fallon,
Gail Gidot, and people who can't carry a tune in a bucket
And my ears are drinking it up.

Sidewalk chalk art is as inspiring and beautiful as the
Free tours of the Met and the Getty and the Tate and
Dear Goddess, please let me keep believing that I will
Tour them for real in the Great Regathering someday.

I am crying for strangers and grieving for families and whole nations
And thinking of the exquisite bouquets my friend Wrex creates
And the love and hope that she effortlessly and magically imbues them with

And I suddenly feel hopeful again, thinking wry thoughts
About how to show love in this Time of Chaos,
And offering Yarrow for the Heartache we are all feeling. 




Thursday, March 5, 2020

The False Narrative: The Need for Forgiveness in Order to Heal


The False Narrative: The Need for Forgiveness in Order to Heal

The path to healing from trauma and grief is deeply personal and can be fraught with contradictions and confusion.

I have carried a great deal of anger surrounding the circumstances of my youngest daughter’s life challenges and death. Her mental illnesses and addiction issues took her into terrible circumstances and into contact with some horrible people. Over the years she shared details of some soul shattering experiences with me, and after she died I received confirmation about the worst betrayal of them all.

It has been my experience that many people do not have any idea how truly bad life can be right here in America. I don’t want to share those horrible stories here or anywhere else, but I will say that the cringe-worthy, frightening, nauseating kind of things you see in movies or read in novels or social media posts really do happen to people you know and to people who live in your community. Making that statement isn’t a quest for drama, nor is it an exaggeration. There are monsters in this world, and most of them are human.

There are many victims of those events and those monsters; the individuals who experience them, their families and friends, the communities that absorb the impact, the EMTs, the police officers, the social workers, the emergency room personnel, the detectives who work countless hours to build a case. The list goes on and on, moving out in endless ripples that create small waves for some and tsunamis for others.

In the midst of all that overwhelming motion, victims are often told that they should forgive the person who caused the harm. They are told that forgiveness is the only path to peace, that in order to heal, to move on, to become whole, they must forgive the offender. And if the offender has found religion, found Jesus or Odin or the Divine in any form, the victim especially must forgive them and welcome their presence in community.

I had been hearing that call for forgiveness for 50 years, and after Beth’s death I wanted to believe it because I wanted to finally move away from the pain her years of suffering had caused. I was willing to grab hold of whatever seemed like a viable means to do that. Three years after her death, three years of feeling and processing and thinking, I have come to a point where I call bullshit on the topic of forgiveness as a means to healing.

There are times when forgiving someone may be a healthy thing to do, as when persons in a healthy, balanced relationship have a serious conflict or disagreement and then come to a resolution of the matter. There are times when an individual’s faith allows forgiveness to bring peace. But there are times when forgiveness is a toxic tool, the use of which is driven by misperception, laziness, selfishness, and power imbalances present in outdated patriarchal religious, legal, and community systems.

Who benefits from forgiveness, overall? What falsehoods are behind that mask? Sometimes victims are urged to forgive an offender because it makes it easier for everyone else to move on with their lives, and because the existence of their pain and trauma is an inconvenience to others. Harm caused creates an imbalance that is felt as an energetic negative. Individuals and communities, consciously or subconsciously, perceive that imbalance as a debt that must be paid to restore wholeness to the individual and to the collective. The presence of that debt is, consciously or subconsciously, discomforting and disturbing, and so the whole presses for balance to be restored to itself above the needs of the individual victim. Salving the conscience of the people who cause harm or those who are made uncomfortable by anger and grief should never be made the burden of the person who has been wronged or injured.

The act of forgiveness implies that a debt has been settled or released, and the suggestion that the victim must release the offender from that debt creates an unnecessary burden on the one who has been wronged. It creates a false narrative that forces the victim to give yet another thing to someone who has already stolen things of immeasurable value, and creates a disturbing cosmic sense of the balance of debts owed and paid. Furthermore, there are circumstances in which any debt owed by an offender is owed at a level beyond human constructs; when the injury caused is so grievous a matter that the debt created is held by the Divine, and so the matter of forgiveness becomes a matter between the offender and their own Divine.

Contained within the grief of losing someone are multiple boxes. One box holds anger and all the other negative feelings directed towards the external factors that influenced a loved one’s death. Another box holds all the questions that can never be answered, all the regrets and unspoken or unaccepted apologies, and all the misunderstandings and miscommunications that were never quite sorted out. But there is also a box that holds the love, the happy memories, and the hopeful dream of one more sunset, one more conversation, one more smile somewhere on the other side.

Comes a time, and it is different for each person, when one realizes that the weight of what is held within that negative box is overwhelming, that its presence causes weariness, that one cannot rise against its pull. With that realization comes the choice to be made: which box makes life better? Which one is worth carrying? Which one is it time to put down?

It is possible to experience compassion without forgiveness. It is possible to have an understanding of circumstances without forgiveness. It is possible and healthy to focus on healing one’s self without carrying the responsibility of healing others, and forgiveness is not a necessary step on that path.



Sunday, February 9, 2020

Peaceful, Easy Feeling

This weekend didn't go quite as I'd planned, but I'm not complaining. Rhodes and I have been running hard for the past few weeks, and without setting an intention to do so, we spent this weekend in a state of semi-hibernation. We caught up on some much needed sleep, ate good, healthy, home cooked food, and stayed up ridiculously late at night talking, reading, and watching some thought provoking television. We also spent a few morning hours lazing in bed together, watching the birds through the big bedroom window that I still love so much.

The feathered extravaganza in the backyard never ceases to amaze me: our avian neighbors include Blue Jays, Cardinals, a pair of Eastern Towhees, Carolina Chickadees, Titmice, Song Sparrows, Carolina Wrens, Downy Woodpecker, Hairy Woodpecker, Red-bellied Woodpecker, White-Breasted Nuthatch, Mourning Doves (I am sure they are the same babies that I watched mature in our front yard last spring), Cowbirds, Phoebes, Brown Nuthatch, Robins, Red Winged Blackbirds, and Black-Capped Chickadees. They move in and out of the yard in a casually choreographed way, their flight patterns as they come and go weaving a spell into the fabric of the Cottage's being.

The weather and temperature were so perfect today that we were lured outside to do some projects. We finished construction on the raised bed garden for the North Wing, and I can't wait to see how it will look later when it is full of beautiful, vibrant plants. Here are some before, during, and after shots of the project:


We also marked out the space for planting blueberry bushes along the north fence line, and sat on that hill (yes, it will become known as Blueberry Hill!) for a while, soaking up the sun and talking. Plans were made for hammock, witch hazel, and hazel nut tree placement, and plans were finalized for placing the habitat fence along the existing fenceline. Although we've had a compost pile since last spring, today we built the first of three compost bins, using pallets we've acquired with rock and materials deliveries; another of the ways in which we are slowly sorting out how we fit into this beautiful space we now call home.

North yard sitting and then wandering as we talked turned up some gifts from the bird neighbors: a scattered collection of Blue Jay feathers. I hope I can find a way to save them that will preserve the colors.


And now the kitchen is calling, and I must go. I'm going to carry this peaceful, easy feeling with me for as long as I am able. "I've got a peaceful, easy feeling, and I know you won't let me down, cuz I'm already standing on the ground."

https://youtu.be/n-0lRkuNyj0