when I picked this arugula
I had no idea
there were acorns involved,
stacks of dishes
it was unclear if the yellow ones were ripe.
were they a new variety?
I usually forget to label the plants
when I put them in the ground
and I have to return to my notebook
filled with notes on seed starting
mixed with lists
of tomato varieties
and basil in the same tray –
a few poems between the lines,
and smudged ink from tears
knowing I was planting the seeds
of tomatoes he would
Little house light with Grandmommy.
Golf lesson with Grandfather.
Wallace was captivated.
Ellen always finds the flowers.
More antics with Uncle Chris.
And Julien, contemplating amidst all the cousin chaos.
What you don’t see is how completely overwhelmed I am feeling on this night.
Photography is good at hiding as well as revealing.
I have a tremendous amount to say about flowers in July – and most of it comes out in the form of poetry and photographs.
this day selling flowers at the art fair
thanks to Grandmommy
because my head was too full of house project lists to think about
but flowers –
what could be more important than flowers?
See the sunshine
captured within these glorious petals?
they will dry out
with all their goodness preserved —
and we will soak them in sweet oil, for weeks,
and squeeze out the golden essence
and combine it with beeswax
and pour it into a beautiful little jar
And you will carry it
in your pocket
all winter long,
dreaming of sunshine
as you smooth summer into your skin.
I’m saving them for you.
because they are my givingness:
and having all I need.
Remember the wild rosebush?
I’ve shared this poem before, haven’t I? Here it is, again.
How it stands out against the darkenings
of the rainy evening, young and pure,
its tendrils arched everywhere in givingness
yet absorbed in its own rose-being;
the shallow flowers, already open here and there,
each unasked for and untended:
thus, immeasurably exceeded by itself
and indescribably self-aroused,
it calls to the wander, who in his evening
meditating comes past along the road:
Oh look at me, see, over here, how safe I am
and unprotected and having all I need.
— Rainer Maria Rilke
Taking an afternoon off from cleaning to gather around the table together with dear family, and paint.
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
It is a glorious morning at the flower farm, and the girls are gathering first-day-of-summer blooms.
Wallace is content playing with the hose.
I am taking deep breaths, soaking in the beauty of Carolyn’s gardens overlooking the glorious lake.
This is what the “lawn” looks like after six weeks away.
And the garden is a jungle. But at least there is kale growing in the jungle. And lots of garlic. Oh, and volunteer plants I would have weeded out weeks ago. How I love the volunteers. And so they get to stay. Nasturtiums in the garlic beds. Cosmos in the onions. Calendula everywhere. Hundreds of borage plants for the bees.
The garden is wild. The children have not brushed their hair in days. The puppy is happy.
The chickens are settling back in.
And sometimes Amabel and I spend the morning collecting beautiful bits of plants and arranging them just so, creating this lovely, yet rather pointless assortment . . . instead of weeding, but . . . it’s lovely here, in the jungle, isn’t it?
Sometimes I think that the purpose of photography is to hide the pain behind beautiful moments captured in still.
Her bouquets are so delicate.
Delicate Gousty beauties.
Beauties from the field and forest and garden.
Gardening on the edges.