Wer seines Lebens viele Widersinne
She who reconciles the ill-matched threads
of her life, and weaves them gratefully
into a single cloth—
it’s she who drives the loudmouths from the hall
and clears it for a different celebration
where the one guest is you.
In the softness of evening
it’s you she receives.
You are the partner of her loneliness,
the unspeaking center of her monologues.
With each disclosure you encompass more
and she stretches beyond what limits her,
to hold you.
Rilke’s Book of Hours Translated by Joanna Macy
Sometimes I just wander around in the garden and marvel. And sometimes we bring some of what is outside, inside. And wonder.
I’m thrilled to have a piece in the summer issue of Edible Grand Traverse just in time for this year’s garlic harvest!
Click Here to read the article online.
Not all, but a few
As I pulled the car over
onto the side of the road
and jumped out
my clippers in hand,
having watched this stretch of hillside for weeks,
for the pink wild roses
to bloom in their close-to-the-ground,
almost secret sprawl.
thorns and all
embedded in my finger tips,
a blood red effort I will remember
each time we drive past
Three years ago, the girls and I started nature journaling. What this looks like, for us, is gathering natural objects from our garden and walks; laying them all out over the table; and sketching and watercolor painting in our journals. We also write the names of plants and creatures and other items in French when we are inspired. Nature journaling is definitely about the process for us. We did it regularly for about two years and then got out of practice. Today we gathered around the table again, and I was so happy . . . even when Wallace started painting blue stripes all over his arms. I hope we will make space to nature journal all summer and into the fall. There’s nothing quite like the meditative space it inspires.
We woke up to rain and fog and went on a little adventure to Carolyn’s cut flower farm, to pick some of her spectacular peonies.
Late, full blooms. Marshmallow blossoms. Chubby toddler fists. Summer happiness.
My poppy muse has appeared,
her dwelling place.
Late to bloom,
long to stay
with petals open
into tomorrow together.