Old Gousty days in August were filled with family and friends and collections of treasures from our walks in the wild woods.
I’m cleaning out a
cupboard of watercolors
and art supplies
and nature journals
and clay, and I am cleaning
but this is what I end up doing
laying out the bits and pieces
of a homeschool year
as a sort of still life
on the kitchen table,
and admiring all the little
reminders of a creative life
in the this home
filled with birdsong
Self portrait with baby boy.
I’ve seen so many beautiful self portraits of women photographers on Flickr and Instagram over the past couple of weeks, and I’ve felt very inspired by the vulnerability and expression shared through these little windows.
Thank you to couragous women, near and far, who inspire with your dedication to your families, your work, and your creative lives.
In early July, after explaining to the girls about how to “properly” seed carrots, I planted the seeds in my own rows way too close together. And now there are more carrots growing in this bed than could ever possibly thrive. I already thinned them once, and this morning I thinned them again. I asked Amabel to come take a photo of me as I was working because I was having deep thoughts in the garden about how I need to practice thinning in more areas of my life — not just in the carrot patch.
Wallace entered in the scene and the resulting photo was much better than the serious one I had in mind.
She took me down the big pine hill to the edge of the woods where she’d found an old gnarled apple tree. The apples were beautiful, delicious, and surprisingly blemish free. We gathered them together and I told her that my favorite apples come from trees that are wild.
This bounty kept us busy all day long!
I’m feeling nostolgic about how I used to communicate with far-away friends.
Also, I’m dreaming about writing a book based on correspondence. Letters. But would people actually be interested in reading letters written back and forth from two homeschooling mothers twenty years apart in age . . . ?
I’m making soup: chopping onions, garlic, carrots, parsley. He is right next to me on a chair, up at the counter, putting baby potatoes into a bowl, transferring them into another bowl — back and forth — and stirring them with a wooden spoon. He adds sprigs of parsley, saying “chop, chop, chop” in his deep, confident voice. This little kitchen work keeps him occupied for many minutes. I finish putting everything into the soup pot and am surprised to see that he is still happily busy with his potatoes and parsley.