AI Could Never Sort Laundry:  well not properly anyway

December 13, 2025

I don’t imagine that AI will ever be tasked with sorting through the season’s change of clothes.  How could it decide which items are good enough to be worn again for another year? How could it make a decision between Goodwill or the scrap heap?  How could it decide that a certain sweater is the perfect weight for a cool evening and so should be kept handy in the front of the closet, with New England weather being what it is.

Departing with clothes that have a history is not always easy.  If we’ve worn a piece long enough, it begins to have a story to tell about all the experiences we have been through together.  It may no longer fit, and it may not have fit for several years, but one always remains hopeful about the magical thinking of someday.  And so, to the maybe pile it goes, the place where things go until we have the force of will to cast them to their destiny.

This task is especially challenging when it comes to the sorting of children’s clothes.  It would be an easy enough decision if it were not for the smell of childhood still upon them and the memories associated with puddles and snowbanks and piles of fall leaves.  Maybe a friend’s child or grandchild would like them …  worn spots and all.  And so, to the maybe pile they go. Maybe, someday I will have the heart to part with them, but it does not have to be today. 

AI would surely be more ruthless and calculating with these decisions.  AI would never ever have a maybe pile about clothes or anything, but just imagine what that would look like if it did.

Things That AI Cannot Do – Part Two

December 4, 2025

AI could never get sentimental about a swing set. 

Whenever I pass a swing set with children playing, I get this melancholy feeling that is hard to describe.  There is something about the familiar sound of the chains creaking that tugs at my heart.  It brings along a rush of childhood memories. The tingling of excitement in the pit of the stomach as the swing arches higher and higher. The ache of legs pumping wildly against the gravity that would hold us down.  The feet reaching for the treetops.  How much higher we could go with that helpful push from an older brother or sister or friend. My wish is that this feeling of joy could last forever for every child, but I know that it won’t.  I guess that is where the melancholy feeling comes from.

 AI could never replace the sounds of the swing in motion.  The one that we feel in our heart.  The one heard in the park by the sea, as a father pushes his daughter. Her voice sings through the air with that everlasting plea … Daddy…higher.  In a hospital in a far city, her mother and brother await the latest round of treatments. Childhood leukemia.  Those words hover silently, puncturing the idyllic scene.  My heart aches for this family.  And yet, the swing still creaks, metal upon metal, that sad but beautiful sound.  This observer on the park bench watches her little granddaughter carefully climb step by step up to the top of the highest slide. She silently counts her blessings knowing the uncertainty that life can bring.  

AI is noted to be able to count until infinity and even beyond if that is possible, but it will never be able to count its blessings.   Life is a gift to be appreciated, and that gift belongs to the human soul.

Things That AI Cannot Do – Part One

December 2, 2025

I am not a fan of AI, but it appears to be a fan of me.  It would really like to be my personal assistant, one that is ever ready with its offers of unsolicited advice.  I am really tired of its little icon popping up here or there when I’m on my phone or computer.  It seems to be taunting me to press it for help that I didn’t even know I needed.   I know that I could turn to AI to help me write a birthday greeting, create a daily schedule, generate pictures and artwork, as well as any number of other tasks. It can also offer feedback on my writing, but I think I would rather stumble along creating my own thoughts about life.  It is these little things that challenge our creativity and make us feel good when we are successful.  Why would we want to cede our own innate talents to a computer-generated algorithm? What happens to our brain when we have to consult the oracle before we make every decision?   Will it cease to function the way it is supposed to?

AI offers all of this help free of charge which I find kind of amazing, but I understand nothing in life is free.  Ultimately, we all will be paying for this “convenience” with the invasion of our privacy or in the effects on the electric grid or … who knows.  According to a recent Pew Research survey, most Americans are feeling wary about AI. I don’t think we need a survey to tell us what we are already feeling about the loss of control over our lives.   We are just beginning to understand some of it, but there is a well of uncertainty that lies ahead.  We want the ability to weigh the positives against the negatives.  For some things, there is no going back to what once was—the once that sustained us for generations upon generations.  We want to understand the impact that it will have on the planet that we all share before we plow ahead into the great unknown. Meanwhile, the technology continues to leap ahead. I fear we will never catch up.

All of this has got me thinking about the things that AI cannot do (and hopefully never will).  Recently, I had a medical test that required some fasting which meant forgoing morning coffee.  God, I do love my morning coffee! There is something about the comforting smell that permeates the house while it is brewing and those first warm sips with fingers wrapped around the familiar ceramic mug. On a chill autumn morning, the warmth on my hands feels healing as I sit by the window watching the light of the day take shape. The day’s duties await, but not in these first few sacred minutes.  Let me sip my coffee first.    A programmed robot could never sense all the feelings that the warmth and aroma of a morning cup of coffee stirs up in the human heart.  Feelings of love and loss and hope. Feelings of appreciation for a fall day with the sun glistening on frosty autumn leaves and the smell of woodsmoke in the air.  Feelings of thankfulness to be alive on this planet with our loved ones. Those feelings are personal ones that cannot be replicated by a machine, and I hope never will.

I will be sharing more ideas about what AI cannot do in some future posts. What are your thoughts?

How Americans View AI and Its Impact on Human Abilities, Society | Pew Research Center

On Writing about Childhood….

November 10, 2025

At my mother’s eulogy, I told the story of a childhood spent playing in the woods and brook by our home in Massachusetts.  Everywhere lay the possibility of adventure with days spent skating on the frozen twists and turns of the forest brook, catching polliwogs in the spring, building a backyard zoo, and evenings spent playing kickball with the neighborhood kids in the grassy field as the sun set.  A lot of my childhood memories center around the idea of being outside in nature.  Perhaps, I wanted to spend a frosty winter’s day outdoors or perhaps it was my mother’s idea of sanity when she needed an escape from a household of six children. It wasn’t a perfect childhood, but it was happy enough, and I thanked her for that. I remember my younger brother questioning after the funeral, “We had a happy childhood?”  Maybe he was joking, and maybe he was not. 

The idea of writing memoir seems to center around the idea that one has this fantastic sort of story to tell, one that the reader will be fascinated to hear.   But, does a person need a dramatic story with an amazing transformation in order to have a story worth telling?   Does it have to be a pager turner that leaves the reader marveling at a survivalist story? Or is it more about the author’s ability to show marvel at the mundane and to light up the intricacies of life that might otherwise go unnoticed.

I remember telling my students when we studied the writing of memoirs that if I knew my childhood was going to be the mine where I went to dig up interesting stories, then I would have had a more exciting childhood.  Still, would I change anything?  No!  I am alive and well and very happy in the life I have created, but I did tell them it still wasn’t too late for them to add some adventures.  Maybe it wasn’t the best advice a teacher could give to a bunch of impressionable young people.

We did not create our childhoods.  They were given to us by people and by forces beyond our control.  As memoirists, the best we can do is to try to make sense of the sometimes unexplainable.  And if that clarity cannot be found, then we must live with the resolution that we did the best that we knew at the time considering the tools we were left with.  Our grace now is to share in our long sought and heart felt words, the wisdom that came from those experiences.

The Elephant in The Room

October 21, 2025

The sound of the train whistles in the early morning light. It must be the 6:30 train by now, the one that signals it is time to rise out of bed and begin the day.  Just a few more moments here to linger in the comfort of warm blankets and dwell on the dream that visited in the night.  One that woke me into the darkness. In the dream, I find myself a stranger in a place I have never been before.  Some of the things seem familiar enough to be real, and yet my subconscious is saying this is absurd.  Sometimes I can wake myself out of a dream if I try enough.    I wonder what this dream was really about as I lie there in the quiet.  How does one make sense of the incomprehensible? Slowly the reality of the dream dissolves, and I am left wondering what it was that shook me so profoundly.  After all, it was just a dream.

My room is the same familiar one.  The checked curtains and the tall pine bureau with the handwoven basket on top and the little tokens here and there reassure me that I am where I am supposed to be.  All is well except for that one odd thing.  There is a shadow of an elephant in the room, and it has been lingering there for some time.  It is not something I ever welcomed and certainly not the kind of elephant that would form a protective circle as they are known to do. 

At first, I thought it would be a passing thing, but I am realizing that it will not be going away any time soon.  Its presence has taken over more and more of the living space in my head where it has no right to be.  This is a new visitor that I never thought I would have to let gain entrance to this precious abode called home.   Sadly, it is an unwelcome force  working day and night to make life uncomfortable and treacherous for so many others who dwell in this great country. I wish this was a dream I could wake up from, but I realize this is the new reality. I guess I will have to learn to live with it, though I do not know how.

photo credits: google stock

It’s in Our DNA

September 19, 2025

If we go back in time far enough, I feel sure that we could find some kindred spirits in our familial lines.  They may have lived in different countries and on different continents in years past.  There may be one who looked like us and another that shared our habits and our quirks, whether they be for the good or bad.   One soul long gone may have once felt our very own desires and dreams and lived to see them through in magnificent ways.  Another soul may have lost their hopeful heart and gave up on those dreams.   Somewhere along the line they met, and we might say joined forces… time and time again.   Our ancestor’s stories of hopes, dreams and aspirations are mixed in with the sadness, longing and desperation.  We didn’t ask for any of it, but it is nonetheless firmly implanted in our DNA.

The world these days seems determined to go to hell in a handbag.  I’m not sure where this saying even got started, but in my mind when I hear this, I can picture a handbag swinging its way to doom, and we are all in it.  Yes, it seems the earth is a crazy place lately, and it feels sometimes that it has become overwrought with hatred and greed.  But if we reflect a moment on history, we can understand that these elements have always occupied a pretty significant place on our earth.   Sometimes the dark looms larger than other times, but always present.  I can’t help but think back to the DNA that occupies every square inch of our very being.  The complexity of molecules that make humans so destructive also makes us compassionate and understanding.  These cells swirl about inside us in a sort of everlasting battle.  It is good vs evil on a microscopic level that ultimately comes to play out on the bigger battlefield.

Wars are fought by the evil, and the good are left to rebuild.  It is unfair that we have been doing this for eons with no near end in sight.  Our world has endured many cataclysmic events and unspeakable atrocities too numerous to describe. And yet, by a miracle of sorts, humans have managed to survive the centuries. We picked up the pieces and got back to the work of rebuilding.   In many cases we have thrived.  Most Americans today have not lived through the hardships our forebears faced.   We fear that we might, but we hope that we never will.    Our heads hurt and our hearts are heavy, and yes, our DNA may be a little tired these days from bearing the weight of such a pile of soul crushing garbage that is delivered to us every day. Still, I have to believe that the good forces outweigh the destructive ones or how else would humanity have survived for so long?

We have been gifted by our creator with a biological wonder that resides deep inside our cells.  It is a force that remembers the past even when we do not.  It wants the following generations to continue to live out our legacy in an honorable way, but it must be nurtured by our current generation in order to do so.  It wants us to plant a garden and feel the earth between our fingers and our toes so we will fall in love with creating the food that will sustain us.   It wants us to bask in the last rays of light as the sun goes down on the day and rejoice in the healing power it brings to our bodies and souls.  It wants us to remember how to cook with simple ingredients and share our food with loved ones.  It wants us to read words that energize the spirit and that nourish the mind.  It calls on us to put down the tech device and instead pick up a pen and paper, a needle and thread, hammer and nails, or some flour and yeast in order to create something tangible that can make our spirits feel more positive and hopeful.

Our DNA is asking us to be more in touch with the life that we have been gifted with. We have been bestowed with a wonderful capacity for love, compassion, and acceptance.   It wants us to spread that positive energy in the ways that we know best.  It is its best hope for survival … and ours.

The Shrines We Make

August 30, 2025

In her poem “Sometimes,” Mary Oliver gives three simple instructions on how to live life: “Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.”  In our world there is plenty to pay attention to.  That is the easy part.  The harder thing is to be astonished by what we see, and not become complacent or tone deaf to the unfolding of life.  Perhaps the hardest thing she asks is for us to express that astonishment about life.  It is not easy to take the commonplace, and in a few words, make it feel exceptional, but that is Oliver’s gift.  For the rest of us, we will just have to struggle with our meager words to find the glory in the everyday.

When reflecting on the spots of beauty that can be found here or there, I started to think of them as tiny shrines.  On my porch steps, a white washed stone bunny stands sentinel over a piece of weathered Redwood bark found when hiking along a California trail.  Next to it lie some seashells gathered along Horseneck Beach in Westport.  A few sprigs of lavender and sage from the garden also lend their homage to nature.  A sun weathered bronze fennel provides a backdrop.  This is just one spot of captured beauty, but there are so many more shrines, here, there and everywhere if we pay attention.

Shrines are generally built to honor some important religious figure, and nearly every culture on Earth uses these sacred spaces to pray and reflect on life. In the Azores, I found shrines of different sizes in every small town and village.  When approaching one, I might not feel the full sense of religious significance of some devotees, but I could not help but feel a sense of respect for the men and women who worked tirelessly over the years to create them.

There are one hundred white-washed steps to reach the Sanctuary of Our Lady of Peace on São Miguel Island.  Inside, the cool stones of the shrine offer protection from the blazing Azorean sun. On the altar, I found bouquets of fragrant white roses. Who climbed the hundred white-washed steps to place them there, I wondered?  It is remarkable that there are still so many people who work to keep these holy spaces clean and inviting.  They do it for the local people who dwell there as well as for the tourists who are just passing through.   Their wish is for the visitor to sit on the wooden bench long enough to sense the spirit that resides in this simple place.  There is also a chance that one might gain new insight about the people that passed before and those who seek to keep the best of traditions alive.  The endless chisel marks lay testament to this hope.  In each hammer stroke, a wish to transcend time… and to be remembered as a people and a culture. Stone has that ability.   It is amazing that this is something that is repeated in towns and cities across the world.

We don’t have to travel to places afar to visit shrines.  We can create our own private ones to provide a sense of peace when we want to get away from the world and its troubles.  You may not think that you have shrines in your life, but I am betting that you do. Shrines can be found anyplace around us.   There may even be one sitting on the windowsill by the kitchen sink.

On the bookcase in my writing room, there is a small shrine that gives me so much pleasure to look at.  There is a print of water glimmering on the shore as evening approaches the coast of Monhegan Island.  It is a beautiful artist’s capture of inky blues and golden waning light, but it is also a reminder of the adventure that I was lucky enough to share with my beloved sister who has since passed.  When I see that picture, I think of the walks we shared on the rocky coast and the glasses of wine sipped on the inn’s porch looking at the clouds float by.

Nearby, there is a gavel, handmade by some student whose name has been sadly forgotten.  That wooden gavel became engraved with so many names over the years by students reenacting the trial scene of Tom Robinson in To Kill a Mockingbird.  I can picture Spenser with his feet up on the desk, bubble gum cigar in mouth, pounding the judge’s gavel when the courtroom got too noisy.

 I didn’t realize at the time that a memory was being created.  The life of a teacher is filled with so many ups and downs. That small gavel brings back a rush of feelings about the good that I created in that classroom.  Things that might otherwise be forgotten.  That is the thing about astonishment.  It doesn’t always happen at the exact moment of occurrence.   Sometimes it takes a while for it to sink in. That simple gavel resting on its little wooden stand honors those young people who came into my life for a short time and then went on their way to the lives they have chosen.

We all have people who have come into our lives for a brief stay.  They left their mark on our psyche and in our hearts.   Their names may be forgotten, but their impact has not.  We are part of the past and part of the present.  We are our memories and influences intertwined to make us who we are today.  Our shrines are a testament to the lives we have created, or perhaps more accurately, the lives that were created for us.  Life is happening before us in amazing ways.  If we stop to pay attention, it can not help but astound us. A shrine is a way to keep those moments alive.

We Are Stardust

August, 2025

If you find yourself in Maine, take some time to wind your way through Fryeburg and Lovell and other lovely little backroad towns to The Maine Mineral and Gem Museum in Bethel.  In shiny glass cases on the fourth floor, the serious rocks are housed.  Here, various meteorites and other celestial objects from all parts of the globe and beyond are on display.  It is said that the gem museum is the only place on Earth where one can hold a piece of the Moon and Mars at the same time. Each time I visit, I hope to get a little closer to an understanding of how the universe was made.  And each time, I end up feeling a little further away from discovering the truth.

This year, one of the museum’s founders was on hand to lend a tour of the fourth floor to let my grandkids and me get a first-hand feel of many of the objects on display. I’ve held the Moon and Mars rocks many times over the years.  They are dark and heavy for their size and have a metallic feel about them like a giant rough magnet.  They seem unique sitting there on display, but I imagine if I was walking along a rocky beach, it would be easy to dismiss them as just another rock washed ashore.

Our tour director was sure to make it a point to tell our small group that we are all made from stardust, and he worked to prove this point at the grand finale of the tour when his assistant brought out a piece of a star.  It is mounted in a small box with a peephole where one can gently touch the smooth hard surface.  I was able to give the little star a good rub, like one might rub a Buddha in the hopes of gaining some good luck.  I imagine that I am still carrying a bit of that stardust with me.

The story of its origin and how it made its way to Earth is a complicated one.   I must admit, it does not get easier to understand the more times I hear it.  In fact, it is a story that makes my head spin with wonder and disbelief.  Somehow billions of years ago, give or take a few million, objects in space collided to create our sun.  The particles left over from the crash were sent swirling around in the galaxy for eons, until one small piece made its way to the surface of the Earth and then through a series of unexplained events, made its way up to the fourth floor.  According to experts, this piece of star contains all the amino acids to start life on any planet it happens to land on.  The human body has twenty or so amino acids.  This star piece has over ninety, so enough for water, plant life, animals and yes, humans.  Scientists seem sure of this or at least most of them agree that is how life started on earth.

The curator told us more than once that he is a mathematician and not a scientist.  He sees the world through the possibility of numbers and these numbers must also make sense to the scientists involved.  At the end of the tour, I managed to have a chat with the numbers guy.  I told him that I felt that all the research about the origin of the universe would, in the end, come back to God, the originator of it all.  He reminded me that he dealt in facts only and until there was proof of God, he would stick with the surety of numbers.   I wanted to ask why a God who created every possible thing in the heavens and on Earth couldn’t also be a mathematician and a scientist, but I left that particular question pondering in my mind. The answer I knew would be beyond my brain’s limit on a summer’s afternoon.

After five or six visits to the museum, I still want to go back for more.  I want to touch the ancient meteorites that hold the secret to the creation of life tucked tightly in their layers of amino acid molecules.  Did science make them or was it all part of God’s creation?  Are we just stardust strewn about the planet either by mathematical chance or by a greater design?  Was it just a seven-day thing or is God still very busy at perfecting this greatest of crafts?  The rocks remain silent … waiting for the scientist or mathematician or even the dreamer to make sense of it all.  

When I hear the word stardust, I can’t help but be reminded of the song Joni Mitchell wrote about traveling to Woodstock … “We are stardust … We are golden … and we’ve got to get ourselves back to the garden.”  As I write, the garden outside awaits some reckoning.   The whirr of hummingbird wings wafts through the open window.  Summer rains here up on Hiram Hill have created a jungle of weeds and wildflowers.  Wild daisies sprout up through the cracks of the rock walkway.  Tall grasses sway amidst the coneflowers and bee balm.  There are a few blueberries that the deer have overlooked that need to be picked.  The rocks, the weeds, the wildflowers.  The scent of thyme, the buzz of bees in the rosa rugosa, and the summer breeze rippling the poplar leaves. Blueberry pancakes, maple syrup and grandkids.  The amino acids have made it all possible.  Whether it be science or God’s creation

Wildfires and More

August, 2025

During these days of August, large swaths of Canada and parts of the US are battling wildfires.  Unfortunately for earth dwellers, this drought-stricken trend extends around much of the world. You just have to look out your window on a sunny but weirdly overcast day to know smokey skies are becoming our new reality.   We may have a reprieve, but it is only a matter of time before we are warned to stay indoors if we have respiratory problems.   It seems so unfair to be confined to our houses when we should be outside enjoying this last full month of summer.  When we heard the phrase “lazy hazy days of summer,” we certainly didn’t think of this.

I believe that the term “wildfire” is a kind of sad metaphor for the times that we are living in.  Every day brings on a new barrage of firestorm; and sadly, most of it is coming from the U.S.  Our world is facing so many issues like wars and famine.  We should be at the forefront of creating solutions and not creating more problems.  And yet, there are those who want to stoke the flames of uncertainty and chaos.  We could be such a powerful example of good, if we had leaders who could stand up to untruths and destruction and do something about it.  We have been blessed to have a democracy for so many years.  It wasn’t always perfect, but we always had the chance to make it a more perfect one if given the tools and the chance to use them.  The heart of Americans is good and I still have faith in its people, but I have to admit that sometimes it feels embarrassing to be an American.

One Step Up … Two Steps Back

August 4, 2025

Woke up this morning my house was cold
Checked out the furnace she wasn’t burnin’
Went out and hoped in my old Ford
Hit the engine but she ain’t turnin’

I was listening to this Bruce Springsteen song the other day, and I felt myself blinking back tears.  Certain songs have a way of doing that to us, don’t they.  It could be the musical instruments or the choice in words or a combination of the two that call on our emotions.  They bring on a kind of remembrance that is hard to define.  All I can know is that they can evoke feelings that have been hiding out somewhere in the brain cells just waiting to be called upon.  Feelings that remind us that we are never that far away from our history.

The song set me to thinking that I have more in common with the lyrics than I’d like to admit.   There were times in my life where I struggled to make ends meet, and it wasn’t easy to work my way out of this. My kids understand this because they lived through it too.   I think that life struggles are true for most of us, though the battles come in many different guises. We may have worked to overcome them, but they remain there in our history.  They helped form our character and parts of our personality . . . whether for the good or not.

What I’ve come to reflect on over the past few days, is that I am glad that I can identify with a Springsteen song.  Struggles make us more compassionate and humble humans. I would rather feel a kinship with the working man who honestly strove to get ahead than the one who makes his mark through deception.  I love the mechanic and farmer, the teacher and nurse, the barber and carpenter.  I admire hands that use the paintbrush to create art that encourages and inspires rather than for brush strokes of gold plate on a false god.

To be human is to have your ups and downs.  Your good days and bad.  Some years are better than others.  Some lives are too. 

We’re the same sad story that’s a fact
One step up and two steps back

One thing to remember folks, it doesn’t always have to be like this.  One step …

Writer’s Block … Speechless… and so much more

July 29, 2025

I’ve been spending a lot of time lately just poking about the gardens and surveying what is surviving the summer’s heat.  Echinacea, Russian sage, marigolds, and hollyhocks all seem to love it.  So do those Mediterranean herbs like rosemary, basil, sage and lavender.  A few daylilies have sprung back to bloom after that 100-degree blast earlier last month.  That extreme heat really took a toll on so many perennials.  The bronze coral bells in the front garden have positively dried up to a crisp.  I’m not sure they will recover and the astilbe does not look much better.  If this is not just a passing thing, then they might need to be transplanted in the fall to a shadier location. That’s the thing with summer heat.  We take the wins and the losses and make amends where we can.

Walks in the garden pondering about little plant crises are a wonderful distraction from the outside world.  Until recently, I would consider myself a news junkie.  Morning news show, afternoon listening on Sirius radio, 6:30 national news and then a bevy of night time anchors.  Throw in some Facebook and Substack posts to fill in the blanks.  Sounds kind of crazy to be addicted to the news, but I was always waiting for that bit of hopeful news to blossom into something positive. Something life changing for our sorry country.  Always waiting… and always disappointed. Yes, that is where I was until recently.

Lately, I have had to turn off the news more and more.  The news is just so …. depressing.  Floods and tornadoes here.  Bombs and war zones there.  I know that not watching or listening will not make bad news go away.  I know that not paying attention will likely make bad situations even worse, but there is a point where the human mind screams “Enough!”  It could have been all the sex trafficking news.  Why has this sickening saga gone on so long?  Or it could be all the migrant news.  People whose only crime is coming to America for a better life forced to lie in shackles like caged animals.  Or maybe it is the steady, circular round of high-powered crimes set to rewind and repeat.   It makes a common person feel helpless when elections might as well be light years away.  And yet, some are happy.  This is the way that they have always wanted it.  That seems hard to believe, but sadly true.

We may feel beaten down and disheartened.  We may be left without words to express our anxiety and our fear.  All has already been said in elegant op-eds and in nightly prayers.   My own prayer is there are many more honest and kind hearts than there are evil ones.  My hope is that we find each other and empower each other to be better humans.  My wish is that our grandchildren can live on a better planet than the one we have right now. Geesh, it’s going to take some work.  Where do we even start?  One small step …today.

The Power of Nature

July 8, 2025

It’s an early July morning in Hiram, Maine, and I am feeling blessed for the summer breeze wafting through the open windows of the sunroom where I write.  I wish for everyone a day like today.  The air smells like summer.  The birds are chirping from the safely of their perches high in the gently swaying poplars. Though it is only 9 o’clock, I can already feel the heat of the day rising.  Thunderstorms are promised later, and I am looking forward to the light show they will provide. When the sun goes down in the mountains and the lightning flashes crack the sky, the rumble of thunder seems to shake the very earth.  It is God’s powerful majesty, and man must drop all the tools of the day and simply witness.  If we are lucky, we will get some much-needed rain. 

Summer time weather patterns seem to have a kind of unpredictability.  Some will get a massive downpour, while in the next town others anxiously await a few needed drops.  The garden will be well-watered by morning or it will remain parched and dry. The dirt road will still send up clouds of dust as cars pass by or it will be rutted by the deluge.  It will be as it will.

In any case, we expect to survive another summer’s day whether it brings the rain or not. We’ve been through this for so many years now.   We’ve learned to adapt to the whims and wilds of nature.  That is what we thought until the recent floods that have plagued our nation on a seemingly regular basis.  And now, what happened along the Guadalupe has us all wondering if we will ever feel safe again.  We know that a freak and unexpected weather system can bring torrential rain or hurricane force winds to what was a seemingly calm summer’s day.  We witnessed this in Massachusetts on the evening of July 3^rd.  First, the winds wildly kicked up and then came the torrential rains and thunderstorms.  The storm passed quickly, leaving in its wake downed branches and trees and powerlines strewn across so many towns. I remember thinking that this was one heck of a “chance of a thunderstorm” predicted earlier on the news. 

All of this reminds us that Mother Nature is a powerful force that demands our respect and our awareness.  We depend so much on weather apps even though we know they are so often wrong. It could be because they are trying to predict the ever increasing unpredictable.  What appears to be a common passing storm could easily turn into a life-changing event, and whether it is the mighty Saco pouring down out of the White Mountains or the tiny Assonet River at the bottom of Slab Bridge Hill, we know that no one is immune from danger.

 A calm river setting can bring such peace and joy.  We lay on the warmed stones along the riverbank and bask in the summer’s light.  They are worn to a perfect smoothness that can cradle the body into a state of relaxation.  As our fingertips press against them, we feel reassured of their stability and permanence.  And yet, they have been worn smooth over the many uncountable years that came before us.  The force of water that can gentle even the craggiest of rocks can also prove powerful and destructive.  The rivers flood and the wildfires burn while the planet slowly but surely heats up.   It seems sometimes that nature has become as distressed as the humans that live upon it.  Its call can be heard in the clamoring of the rushing water and in the blistering flames.  It asks us to listen to its simple message with our hearts.  One word … Unless

Morning on the Planet

July 2, 2025

In the morning hush

before the human rush

stop a moment to listen…

the sounds of nature are awakening

rain drops dripping on the back door steps

welcome relief from days of sun scorching heat

and a crow in the distance calls

Nature’s life goes on in splendid and unassuming ways

even when no one is looking to witness

It is the only thing that gives more than it takes

Mankind could take a few lessons

We always have… until we got too busy…being what we have become

Why do the morning birds choose to sing?

I’m not talking about the scientific reasons.

I’m thinking about what is in their hearts

that make them want to do so.

The bees are starting their buzz about the hollyhocks.

They could find their hearts content anywhere

Crafty as they are,

but I can’t help but hear a note of appreciation

in praise of the time and effort

a small gift of a garden of delights

Planted for their pleasure

And mine too, I might add.

Little Green Man

June, 2025

I’ve been wanting to write about this little green man for some time now.  The green army man first showed up some years ago when I was digging in the front garden bed.  My trowel hit something unfamiliar and up came a little plastic army man with his feet fastened to a small base and arms outstretched ready for a weapon.  I placed it in a flower pot hanging over the garden where it resided in leafy camouflage until this week when I decided to take down the old pot. There was the little green guy still as ready for action as ever.  I don’t know when that army man first made it to the front garden, but certainly it was left there by some small son.   I can imagine him lying on the ground playing with his military men, locked in an imaginary world of battles between the good guys and the evil.

I wonder how many small army men are still circulating the globe right now?  How many are lying in dusty drawers or on collector’s shelves?  How many remain buried in garden beds?  Do the young still want to play army and soldier?  As they play, do they imagine the heroic deeds that they might accomplish themselves someday? I know that this is just a simple child’s toy, but it has me thinking about so much more.  A childhood should be a place where imagination is free to explore places where only the mind can go.  Our best hope for our world lies tucked away in the mind of a child. A society should do everything it can to see that we create a world where an imagination can be nurtured and allowed to grow in positive ways.  We need heroes that children can wish to emulate, but I wonder if there are enough in today’s world to go around?  

My wish is that we will always live in a country where our soldiers are considered our heroes. I have heard enough stories about wayward regimes using the power of the military to subdue its citizens to know that is not something I would ever want for our beloved country.  As we watch events unfold in the streets of our cities and towns in these June days, let us hope that our soldiers keep in mind that our children’s eyes are watching them and looking, as they always do, for a hero worthy of the imagination.

May 11, 2025

This Mother’s Day has me thinking about mothers and how important they are to life. I am feeling a little weepy about the whole idea of moms as this is the first time I will spend the day without mine. A mom is someone we all have, whether they are nearby or afar.   For many of us, sadly, our moms are that far off kind.  The feeling of love is there, but the touch is missing and that is the hardest part. When you lose a mom, the reality does not come all at once.  That is a blessing of sorts I guess because the sadness of loss might feel like too much all at once.  Rather, it comes in waves and in unexpected times and places like when shuffling through a clothing rack at a store and coming across a blouse that mom would like.  I blink back the tears at the idea of never again, and I fear there are a lot of nevers to come in the future. 

Feeling this sadness also makes me feel more appreciative of the people that I still do have in my life.  It is a time to reach out and send love to those around us.  Even if we are not mothers ourselves, everyone has the shared experience of a mother or a person who took us under their wing like a mother would.  I’ve been blessed to have friends who have mentored me in a way that my mother could not. Hopefully, you have someone in your life like that. 

There is a plant called hens and chicks.  The mother succulent sends out lots of little shoots that become baby plants.  Those baby plants eventually become mothers themselves and branch off.  They are separate plants and yet somehow connected…those mothers and babies. That’s how I like to think about motherhood.  We are all living our separate lives and yet somehow all connected.  When I think about my mom’s spirit, I imagine that she is keeping company with a lot of other mother spirits somewhere up there.  They are a very busy group keeping watch over everyone for as they say, once a mother…always a mother.  I imagine too, they are having quite a good laugh at the human shenanigans going on back on earth.  The sound of laughter… that is something I wish for all the mothers here and afar.  Blessings.

A Tale of Two Flowers

May 1, 2025

It is May Day, and the daffodils are having their day in the sun as well they should on this festival of spring. Over the years, I have accumulated many different varieties, and I’ve learned to plant both early and late bulbs so that the bloom time is extended. The planting usually happens on a late fall day when I realize that I need to get them into the ground before it freezes solid. So, I scatter bulbs here or there and then promptly forget where I did plant them until they pop up in the spring. I know I could use markers, but they are some of the first green shoots to lift out of the ground. Anyways, it is always exciting to have an unexpected discovery. One needs this in late February and early March when spring is still just a dream.

This year’s new blooms are a late variety with creamy white ruffled petals and a lovely scent thanks to a special order from Johnny’s Selected Seed in Maine. I used to think all daffodils are basically the same until I did a little research and found that there are over 26,000 cultivated varieties. They are all in the amaryllis family (Amaryllidaceae) which also includes alliums like onions and garlic. I guess there is zero chance of collecting them all.

Daffodils are poisonous to deer, and that is why they avoid them. I’ve read that if you plant daffodils around a deer delectable plant, they will keep away from it. It is important to note that they are also poisonous to humans. The leaves, bulb and stem contain the highly toxic chemical lycorine. I have never heard of a daffodil poisoning because who would think about eating one? We have this wise sense about us. It may be part of the sixth sense which tells us: Yes, it is lovely to look at and the smell is divine… but don’t even think of eating it. Ironically, this plant also contains an ingredient which is used in treating Alzheimer’s. Nature seems to have this thing with medicine disguised as a poisonous plant.

The term daffodil is interchangeable with the name Narcissus which brings me to the second part of my tale. Long ago back in grade school, we learned about the Greek god Narcissus. Well, at least some of us did. That was something we skipped right over at St. George School; and yet, somehow, we learned about it anyways. According to Kew Gardens, “The scientific name of the daffodil genus, Narcissus, is believed to come from the Greek myth of Narcissus who fell in love with his reflection in a pool of water. The nodding head of the daffodil is said to symbolize Narcissus gazing at his reflection.”

That’s just weird right. No one in real life would do something like that. But the myth is meant as a cautionary tale that warns us of the danger of thinking too much of oneself. I am realizing lately that there are a few too many narcissists hanging around in high places. I would recommend that they study the ending of Narcissus’ tale where he eventually dies from a heavy dose of self-infatuation. If one doesn’t want to look to the Greek gods for advice then perhaps one of the many thousands of daffodil types can help. There’s the Rip Van Winkle from the Victorian Era or the Original Poet’s variety. There is even a Trumpet daffodil if anyone is interested. There’s just one thing to remember… they are poisonous!

Sources:
Kew Gardens: https://www.kew.org/plants/daffodils

Wear the Dress

April 2025

Sometimes an inkling of a thought comes across the mind and begs to be put down into words. The ideas hang in the air just out of reach until they are transformed onto the page. That is the magic of writing. Sometimes those words look simply amazing, and the temptation for the writer is to save them for a later time when everything in life has somehow aligned for that someday … something. But what if that someday never comes? What a waste of a good idea that would be. Annie Dillard says in The Writing Life that we should spend those words as soon as we can. Her advice: “Do not hoard what seems good for a later place in the book, or for another book; give it, give it all, give it now.”

I understand what she means. It is not just in writing where this applies but everywhere else in life too. We all have things that we want to do, but sometimes it seems that an invisible force is clutching at the mind and telling the heart that it is not the right time. It could be money troubles or a heavy work schedule that is wearing on us. Maybe it is anxiety about change or worries about health issues. We think that as soon as the particular challenge passes, it will be the right time, but there will always be something holding us back as we move through the different phases of our life.

That first stroke of pen or brush on paper can feel daunting. It feels much like putting that first shovel in the ground to mark a new garden bed. Where do we even begin? Maybe the sunlight won’t be enough or maybe it will be too much for the tender new plants. Maybe my words will sound corny or maybe they will be misunderstood. Will I be wasting my money or my time? And so, the doubts take over the creative part of the brain and they linger there. The words stay as dormant as that unplanted plot of ground. The season passes and the challenge is deferred for another year.

Maybe we are fearful of taking that first intimidating baby step. Maybe we are waiting for that perfect set of shoes before we begin. The important thing is to take that first step and embrace the possibility of today rather than waiting for that special day that may never materialize. All of this reminds me of my granddaughter climbing up the playground slide. It was the tallest slide in the park. It was the one we thought she would tackle when she got much older, but there she was unsteady of foot climbing up the challenging rungs. She looked perfectly magnificent in her pink puffy dress. She wants to wear it every day, even to the playground. After so many sandy landings, the dress began to look rumpled and a little frayed. I began to have my doubts about my letting her wear her favorite, but wisdom spoke true. She is three. She will outgrow the dress before the blink of an eye; or worse, she might outgrow her love for wearing dresses, puffy or not.

Raising three daughters has taught me this about dresses and so much more. Life is fleeting as are its pleasures. So, don’t wait to wear that dress. Write the pages of uncertainty, plant the new garden and dream. Step out unfearfully into life with your new and yet unbroken shoes; or better yet, step out in bare foot, brave and ready for the unexpected.

photo credit: Zan Lazarevic on Unsplash

Feels Like Spring

April 22, 2025

On a spring day like today, I should be writing about the amazing progress that spring has been making as these April days unfold. The rains last night seem to have lit up the world in glorious shades of green. It is always amazing to see the brown stubbled and beaten down yard take on the heroic task of turning into a lawn again. The peach trees are adorned in perfect puffs of pink. There isn’t anything in nature much prettier than a peach tree in full bloom. Hopefully, this means a bounty of fruit in the fall. The wild cherry tree is leafing out and soon will provide the shade cover for the hellebores that rest under its canopy. Soon it will be covered in tiny white blossoms that will provide nectar for so many of the bees that have taken residence about. In a few short weeks, its wild cherries will provide food for the birds and other wild creatures. Like so much of the plant life around the yard, I didn’t plant those trees. The birds planted them, I like to say.

These are the things I should be writing about today. The page should be filled with garden wisdom and a reminder that “Hope Springs Eternal.” It is a time when the return of warmth and sunshine and the joy it brings should be celebrated, but there is a looming dark cloud hovering overhead. It seems to be persistent, and its message is foreboding in a sense we cannot understand. Life didn’t have to be this way, but alas it is our reality. So, we do what we can to survive. There is not a lot that we have control over when it comes to the state of the world, so we plant our gardens in the belief that they will make our lives better in ways much more than just filling our plates and our freezers with food. There isn’t a price to put on the measure of hope that a garden can bring.

The soil here in this part of Freetown is composed of sand and rocks, and so it took years of composting and soil amendments to get those raised beds thriving. Every gardener knows that once one battle has been conquered, it is time to start once again. The rhubarb is unfurling its tightly wound leaves as it reaches towards the sky. My mouth is tingling as I think of the wonderful pies and cobblers that await. The pea shoots are emerging from the earth even as I write. It is a little late this year, but Spring is on the march now or should I say Spring is on the April. Every year is different, but Nature knows its course. I wish I could say the same about the inhabitants of planet Earth. Still, we have weathered other storms before. We will persevere as those patriots of Lexington did so many years ago now. We look to them as a reminder that the seemingly insurmountable can be overcome. Remember that the sun always shines after a storm. The dark clouds will pass one day. We will thrive again. Our garden wisdom tells us so.

Speaking in Metaphors

April 16, 2025

“Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.” First Amendment to the Constitution

So much has happened in so few days, that I feel like I have been left speechless or at least … wordless. To be a writer in these days has begun to feel threatening. The fear is that the words we write (or even the words we say) can someday be held against us …and maybe not even in a court of law. We grew up believing that The Constitution guaranteed free speech. Now, I am not so certain. I guess this is where the use of metaphors might come in handy, in that it is a way of expressing an idea by comparing it to something else. You understand …

So many writers have used the art of metaphor to get their point across in turbulent times. I’m thinking of George Orwell’s Animal Farm today. I used to tell my students that yes, it is a fable about farm animals, but it also about so much more. In Orwell’s story, the animals take over the farm because it is being run by a greedy owner who only looks out for his own welfare. Their hope is that they can create a better place to live and thrive: a farm run by and for the animals and with their best interests in mind.

Unfortunately, the animal run farm soon becomes even more corrupt than the one it replaced. The pigs, which are considered the smartest animals, slowly begin to take control of the farm. The story tells of the destruction of the fervent ideals that the animals once believed in. It is a sad sort of fable, but it is meant as a lesson about the dangers of unchecked power and the effect it can have on a society. The book shows the reader the destructive forces of power and greed, but it also touches on the importance of education and the consequences of being ignorant and ill-informed. Though the animals try their hardest to learn to read and write, they are not able to understand complex ideas, and so they go along with what their leaders say. The pigs, which represent the greediest of human beings, use their supposed intellect to fool the other animals into believing that the harsh rules they created are for the animal’s own benefit. Of course, the pigs themselves do not have to follow these rules.

The Russian revolution of 1917 was the inspiration for Orwell’s cautionary tale, and I’m thinking it deserves a reread. The whole book is a type of extended metaphor. It was written in 1945 when Joseph Stalin was first coming into power. In it, Orwell tried to warn his readers about the dangers of totalitarianism. He chose the inhabitants of a fictional farm as a universal way to express ideas that everyone could understand. He wrote in a way that could go under the radar because, after all, what could be dangerous about a group of farm animals? And who cares about metaphors, anyway. I’m feeling like the lessons Orwell tried to teach to the readers of his time are still ones that we can learn from today.

Hobgoblins of the Mind

April 5, 2025

“A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds adored by little statesmen, and philosophers and divines. With consistency, a great soul has simply nothing to do.” Ralph Waldo Emerson, “Self-Reliance” 1841

As we grow older, we get set into our patterns of life. Consistency can help direct us through the variations of each day by keeping us focused on the everyday things that we must do. There is the coffee that needs to be made, animals that need tending, lunches that need to be packed, laundry to fold. We know the routine, and it can seem at times that we can do these things in remote control. That is not necessarily a bad thing, but consistency can also be a hobgoblin as Emerson once wrote.

It is important to note that the author here is referring to a foolish consistency, and that is what makes all the difference. When I taught Emerson to students, we often pondered over the idea of what a hobgoblin is. It seems that a hobgoblin is a kind of creature that exists only in the imagination. It can take on many different shapes and sizes. It can be either friendly or mischievious, depending on the particular branch of folklore you study. Emerson imagined it as a devious little creature that inhabits the mind and addles the brain, so not exactly the friendly type for humanity. If a person is unable to think clearly and thus becomes confused, then yes, that would be a statesman’s dream.

At the time, he was encouraging people to become more independent in their thinking and to not blindly follow the thinking of others. He thought that it was a good thing to change your mind when necessary because that is what makes a great soul. He encouraged his readers to “Speak what you think now in hard words, and tomorrow speak what tomorrow thinks in hard words again, though it contradicts everything you said today.” He wanted people to be willing to express their convictions and to be strong enough to change those opinions when different facts proved them no longer valid. It takes character to admit that one is wrong. Emerson called it the markings of a great soul. I call that growth.

His essay “Self-Reliance” provided so many lessons for the people of the 1840’s, and it remains one for today. That is what I find most valuable about great thinkers like Emerson and Thoreau and why I often go back to their writings for wisdom. It is said that there is nothing new under the sun and thus they faced many of the same issues that we face today. They had their hobgoblins then as have our ours today, though perhaps in different guises. Hobgoblins have infected the minds of so many here in our country, myself included. I am confused and addled. What a state to be in.

We know that our democracy is in danger, but we don’t know how to help it. We write letters, make phone calls, send donations, attend protests, and post about it. Our minds churn in circles as we wring our hands in disbelief at the rapid-fire fall of the very things that we cherish most about our country. Sadly, I think this it is all part of the plan to keep the people dazed and confused. We wake up to the news of the daily wreckage of our American society, and we watch the ripple effects around the world. This has become our new status quo. We cannot let the hobgoblins take up permanent residency in our minds. We must each do that one small thing to make a change. Together, we are stronger than we know.

Homage to Stones ~ March, 2025

Homage to Stones

Stones of rough granite dug from the earth
Stones worn smooth by the ocean waves.
Stones slippery to the touch in a bubbling riverbed
Stones clinking against the farmer’s spade
Stones in the rockpiles and walls about town

Stones, lying here, there and everywhere
Stones, enough for many lifetimes uncountable
Stones, a mineral micronutrient a million years in the making
Stones in monuments. Stones in walls. Stones in cairns. Stones in song.
Stones with ancient carved stories to tell …

Stones, the first tool of man,
and alas, probably the last.

~ Deb Coderre

Seed Planting Time ~ March 24, 2025

It is late March and the natural world here in Massachusetts is slowly awakening from dormancy. I say slowly because March is generally a two-step forward, one step back kind of month. We might say that today is two steps back from the warming sunshine of yesterday. The temperature is in the 30’s with heavy rain. The sky is grey, and it is a perfect day to sit by the woodstove and do some garden planning. It seems like it has been a cold and windy spring so far. I always think that I will keep better track of the temperatures so I will be armed with more data, but I somehow seem to forget after a few days. I guess there is an app for that, but it feels better to collect it on one’s own.

The kale seedlings are ready to go to the garden shed for hardening off as soon as the evening temps warm up a bit. It is the first year that I used a heating pad and grow lights to start seedlings. I have the planting table set up in the cellar where there is more room. The heating pad is only used until the first seedlings appear. Too much heat will cook them as kale likes cold temps. I found that they germinated in about 2-3 days which is much quicker than without heat.

In our area, mid-March is usually the best time to start seeds indoors. If you start too early, you risk that the seedlings will get too long and leggy before it is safe to put them out. From my experience, once the weather outside warms up, a seedling can double in size in a day or two. The UMass Amherst Center for Agriculture, Food, and the Environment has lots of good information on starting seeds. Their general advice for sowing seeds indoors is to count back the number of weeks from the outdoor planting date. They state that generally the last frost date in Massachusetts is around May 15th.

I feel that you have more control over your seedlings if you start them indoors, and there is still lots of time to get them started. If you have a sunny window location, you do not need grow lights or a heating pad. Don’t let the minor details get in the way of growing your own plants. Even one six pack of kale seedlings can supply you with enough kale for soups and salads for the season. When possible, buy from New England seed suppliers. I like Johnny’s Selected Seeds from Albion, Maine because the seeds are tested for cold weather growing conditions. Look for heirloom seeds so that you can save the seed and pass them on next year. Join a seed swap or local plant barter group. Let some weeds grow for the bees and other pollinators. My only dilemma today is which seeds to start next. I wish you well on your gardening venture.

https://ag.umass.edu/home-lawn-garden/fact-sheets/starting-seeds-indoors

March 18, 2025 The Flag of America

“Hope” is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all –
Emily Dickenson

For so many years of my life, I held my hand to my heart and pledged allegiance to the flag of the United States. When you are a teacher, the pledge is usually the first point of business in a school day. Someone in the office, usually a student, comes on the intercom and recites the pledge. I have a feeling that this happens at the beginning of every school day in classrooms all across America. Even if one does not wake up feeling particularly patriotic, that short moment when we all stand together awakens the spirit. One can feel a sense of pride that every one, whether young or old, has a part to play in our country.

When we studied symbolism as part of an English lesson, we often looked to the flag hanging on the classroom wall as an example of an object that can represent something much more abstract. We noted that the red stripes represent the blood shed to create a nation that could be united and free while the white stands for the purity of our good will and ideals. The blue is for liberty and equal justice for all. It was a simple lesson that everyone could relate to and understand.

I’m not sure what day it was exactly when the American flag no longer felt like a symbol for all Americans. Yes, it was the same flag of my country, with those same stripes and stars, but it felt different somehow. It felt like a symbol that divided neighbors and friends rather than unite them. To be a lover of the flag meant that one was expected to embrace beliefs that did not seem like the ideals of the founders of our country. Somehow, over the course of short time, the flag began to feel like it belonged to someone else. Well, at least that is how it felt to me for a while until I came to realize that the flag is too much of a beautiful idea to give up on. It needs to be celebrated by everyone for what it truly stands for. It is a reminder of the hope that we hold in our hearts even in the darkest of days.

I fly the American flag on my front porch because I believe that America is still a place where our hopes and dreams can come true even though our poor country seems a bit tarnished these days. Gone are the days when we were that beacon on the hill leading others through the darkness. It feels that sometimes that light has been put out, but we must not give up hope. Thomas Paine said it best when our country faced an existential crisis during the American Revolution. He wrote, “these are the times that try men’s souls.” Yes, it seems that we have been here before. Times were dark then as they are now. He reminded us “though the flame of liberty may sometimes cease to shine, the coal can never expire.” The coal that he spoke of is our hope. We must all work together to keep that spark alive.

We will emerge from this latest assault on the tenets of our democracy. We will be strong and respected again. We have worked too hard at the idea of a more perfect union to give up now. We have to believe this for our children and grandchildren’s sake. We must keep working. We must keep hope alive. We must never stop – at all.

Hope is the thing with feathers – that perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words – And never stops – at all –
E.D.

photo: Javardh on unsplash

It feels like … Winter

March 4th, 2025

The chill in the air reminds us it is still winter, and it has been a cold winter all along. It can be seen in the piles of icy snow that line the edges of the yard, and it can be felt in the wind that shakes the house and tosses the tree tops from side to side. For so many years recently, we have bemoaned the fate of winter. Winters just aren’t what they used to be, we muse. We long for the excitement of skating across a vast expanse of pond. We remember the thrill of shrieking down a sledding hill. It seems this year that Old Man Winter was listening well. Let us be careful what we ask for.

This is the year that we came to understand the meaning of “feels like” temperatures. Meteorologists describe it as how hot or cold the air feels to the human body when factoring in wind, humidity and sunshine. For the rest of us, it simply means that when we step outside, it feels a lot colder than it looked from the safety of our window vantagepoint.

On windy days like today, the yardbirds flit from feeder to tree branches in the calm between gusts. When the wind blows, they grip tightly to the nearest branch and hunker down. The snow thaw has left a puddle under the shelter of the oak leaf hydrangea. It has become a favorite place for birds to dip and splash, safe from the watchful eyes of the hawk. The red of cardinal and the blue of jay add welcome color to the barren brown landscape. A few daffodils have sent up their green shoots just an inch or two. It seems like they sent up their tentacles to survey the growing conditions and halted mid track. Not safe for man or beast or daffodil on these early March days. We still walk in the forest, but I listen warily to the creaking of branches overhead. There is always the possibility of one falling down, hopefully not on my head.

One day very soon, the winter chill will lift. The ground will finally thaw releasing its earthy scent and birdsong will fill the air. The fruit trees will blossom and the rhubarb will unfurl its mighty leaves. The garden, so barren now, will spring to life with chickweed and wild sorrel. And hopefully, once again, our old chickens will feel a lift in their step and lay a glorious egg or two. Hope springs eternal.

A Fictional Cautionary Tale – February, 2025

Dear Interplanetary Partners:

It appears from our vantage point here on ravaged Planet HSE that our nearest neighboring planet, formerly known as Earth, should now be known as the Ice Queen. It appears to be a complete ice ball. Because we have had no communications from Earth for several years, our Intergalactic Committee has officially declared that the Queen is indeed dead. From our bunkers here deep below Planet HSE, we once had communication with the Earth. Over the years, we warned them, on a repeated basis, that their tactics toward combatting global warming were as fruitless as the trees now made extinct on their desolated planet.

In our warnings, we used our own experience as a dying planet to give them the knowledge we learned the hard way, but they continued to follow in their often willy nilly and destructive ways. You see, a few centuries ago, we too began to feel the effects of unchecked growth and pollution on our lovely planet which we once called Trefoil in honor of our three goals of peace, harmony and love of nature.

When we first began to discover the changes to our atmosphere, there were many intelligent discussions about what could be done. For many years, different theories were bounced back and forth between our various committees. For quite a time, the group POTT, also known as Planet of The Trees, held sway over our government. They enacted different lifesaving initiatives to help save our planet with a focus on saving our trees which supply so many necessary nutrients. Initially, POTT’s policies helped curb the decline of the essential compounds we all depend on, like oxygen, for example. Their favorite slogan was “Trees are something that everybody needs.” For a time that slogan was enormously popular with the people, and its signs could be seen everywhere. It was motivating and stirred up all kinds of altruistic notions. The wheels of betterment could be seen turning … until an order came from Dr. Suess to cease and desist using that statement. At the time it was frightening to think that a noble man who once lauded the great environmentalist, The Lorax, could be behind such an order. Unfortunately, the order had enough of a chilling effect to shut down the campaign to save trees. Later on, we found that the supposed cease and desist was one of our first encounters with “fake news.”

Soon after, some vexing anti-life support groups began to emerge on our once peaceful planet. One large group called Tree X aligned with Agents of Deforestation to begin widescale harvesting of trees for their valuable components. Once all the trees were farmed, the soil underneath was mined for valuable minerals. Their slogan was “Minerals are something for a few of us to achieve.” The Suess estate remained quiet on that one, and so the slogan stood as did the relentless deforestation and demineralization of our resources. Huge tunnels and underground caverns were created to achieve what was termed a “global mining adventure.”
All through this difficult time, it did seem curious to those who cared, that the minerals never seemed to go to the betterment of our planet. In fact, life conditions seemed to get worse. A few brave souls dared to protest this proliferation of extinctive measures. Dissenters to Tree X’s plan were given a pickax and bucket and sent down into the mines to dig and keep digging until they saw the light of day.

About a century ago, the owner of Tree X declared himself King X. He then proceeded to rename our planet Key X, in recognition of all the things he had successfully deleted. Once self-installed, he announced that all minerals would go to support the new colony he had founded in a distant galaxy. When our once lovely planet was just about totally destroyed and devoid of life, King X took off in a specially designed Space Rocket to parts unknown. Many of his followers jumped on their mini rockets and sped off in his direction. It has been nearly 50 years, and we have not heard a single peep from King X and his motley crew. May they rest in peace, somewhere… out there.

Sadly, our planet which once supported a bounty of treasures has been reduced to piles and peaks of discarded rubble. Like Earth, we once enjoyed skiing down snowcapped mountains with snowflakes glistening in the sunlight. An abundance of food and grains were grown and harvested in our prairies and valleys. Our tropical islands were a haven for wildlife, providing joy for both man and beast. There wasn’t a place on the planet where there wasn’t some wonderment to be discovered. Now, our air has been left too toxic to support life due to years of mining our resources.

Still, we carry on with what is left; there is no other plan. In honor of our efforts at renewal, we now refer to our planet as HSE which stands for Hope Springs Eternal. Luckily for us, a few crafty miners were able to gather heirloom seeds and DNA samples and carry them down through the tunnels and into the bunkers where they have been safely stored. It is in these tunnels and bunkers that we now live our lives.
It is a different kind of life down here, but we try to make the best of it. Lately, we have become more successful in harnessing the dim sunlight for heat and energy. Our seed growing experiments have flourished, and we now have a source of plant life to feed us. We have also been fortunate to discover an abundance of minerals in the heaps of debris that dot our planet. It seems that in King X’s rush to run off with his bunch of eXquisite minerals, he left behind those most necessary to sustain life. It is with these discards that we are rebuilding the world that we once knew, the world that lives so deeply in our memory cells.

One of our most important missions is to keep our intergalactic commission up to date with events in our small part of the universe and thus it is with great sadness that we bring this announcement about the former Earth. Let it be put in record that we did try our best. For decades, we sent various warnings to Earth through a thought penetration process known as conscience. You see, every now and then we would prick the conscience of those earthly controllers who had their hands on the levers of justice for humanity. We tried to get them to question the wisdom of destroying the very thing that brings them life, but it seemed that particular realm of consciousness was not able to be stimulated due to its lack of use over the years. We then tried working on the conscience of individuals, hoping that their will to live would somehow be stronger than their will to die. It didn’t work. Humans are so hard to understand. It could be that thick skull of theirs.

In any case, it is with a heaviness in our hearts that we send out this official intergalactic announcement: The Ice Queen, once formerly known as the majestic planet Earth, is now an ice ball.

Sincerely,
The Intergalactic Team at Planet HSE

What February Has to Say

February 19, 2025

The winds have been howling for days upon days it seems. We could say that it has been a tough month with the snow and ice and a chill that gets right down to the bones. Actually, February is just doing what it is supposed to do. It just can’t help acting like Winter. Let’s listen to what February has to say:

I never promised a rose garden or any damn thing
I never struck a vow that I could not bring
Ice, snow, sleet, frozen rain is in my DNA
Old Man Winter wouldn’t have it any other way

Don’t be surprised by my cold and callous tone
Or frightened by temps that chill you to the bone
Don’t hang your head in despair to avoid my grip
Or get discouraged by winds bearing a whip

I’m a slave to my own fancies and whim
Early morning: cloudy with sun light dim
Afternoon: sunshine with a temp of 10 degrees
Evening: frigid winds and an icy freeze

Don’t be alarmed. It is what winters must surely do
Just following the guidelines, nothing new
Poor feeble humans, I offer only one hopeful ray
This month of woes has only 28 days!
~OMW

The Good News ~ February 9, 2025

The cloud cover has lifted.
The storm has blown to sea.
We’ve got one egg this morning … finally.
Spring is on the calendar for next month.

The chickens in the coop are cackling softly. It’s dark in there so they must be wondering if the snow storm is over. It is only a small flock of four, and none of them is a spring chicken, and yet they try their best to produce. Finding that single egg this morning was like finding a golden egg, that’s how precious they are these days.

It’s approaching the crack of noon, and the sounds of nature are finally coming alive again after the snowstorm. It was a beautiful light snow, the kind that makes shoveling an easy task. It is so satisfying to stand in a cleared driveway with shovel in hand and observe one’s handiwork. The paths to the house and sheds are cleared. The storm has blown out to sea, and I can sense that the sun is struggling to make an appearance. All is quiet for that one moment, and then I hear a rooster’s crow in the distance. It is a common sound around here, but today I find its loud and clear call somehow reassuring. It fills me with hope that the birds are still alive, and that they can stay alive through this winter of flu for birds and man. It also fills me with wonder. Even though it is approaching midday, that sole rooster feels compelled to greet the return of daylight after the darkness of storm.

I’m thankful for the wild birds that still frequent the birdfeeder and for the red cardinal that makes a daily appearance in the Japonica bush by the living room window. It peers in quickly just to make sure I caught its flash of wild beauty. It seems to know that I need these small moments of reassurance on these dark days. Nature never disappoints. It is always there offering healing energy. It awaits patiently. If you are feeling despondent, step outside. Even in the city, small moments of wonder are waiting for discovery.

“The morning wind forever blows, the poem of creation is uninterrupted; but few are the ears that hear it.” Henry David Thoreau ~ Walden

Moral Compass ~ February 7, 2025

With all the crazy news that has been circulating on different media platforms lately, it is hard to keep one’s head on straight. With so many different views, ideas and beliefs, it can be challenging to wade through the quagmire to find one’s way to what is the truth. How can we be sure of anything, anymore? It would be easier to just throw up our hands and go with the flow, where ever that might take us, but we know that is not really an option. There is only one sure place where we can be sure of the truth, and that is within our own minds. As the weeks unfold before us, it is going to become more important than ever to seek direction from our own moral compass.

According to Merriam-Webster, a moral compass is “a set of beliefs or values that help guide ethical decisions, judgments and behavior: an internal sense of right and wrong.” We have all been gifted with one at birth. We use it from an early age to guide us towards the decisions we must make. Sometimes, we falter in our journey and veer off the path towards our own whims or outside influences, but that compass is always there, nudging us in the right direction.

A moral compass is not something tangible that we can touch. It resides somewhere in our inner being, though we do not know where. It is as illusive and untouchable to the outside world as it is to our own fingertips, unlike the compass that we hold in our hand. What we do know about a real compass is that its misuse can lead to a faulty reading. If we leave it outside to succumb to the elements, its tiny metal needle will rust causing the mechanism to jam up. If the user misuses it, then it can give a false reading. Even a few degrees can really throw someone off track. If you have ever used a compass to find your way in the woods and ended up in a place you did not expect, you will know what I mean.

Can our own compass get thrown off course? Can outside influences cause us to become misguided and confused? It seems that, like the real compass, the answer is yes. Our sense of morality needs to be taken care of to function properly. It can’t be left to absorb any element that gets thrown its way. We are the ones that can control our own minds. No form of media or government agency has that power. It is up to us to sift through the distractions and carefully choose what is valuable and what should be discarded.

The cardinal directions for North, South, East, West will always remain as long as the earth keeps generating its magnetic field. A compass is like magic because no matter which way it is turned, it always seeks its true north. So, we too must find what is true. We must repel the lies and myths that are damaging our society. We must try to fill our spirits with hope and with love for our fellow humans and the world about us. When so many seem to have lost their way, we need to be unwavering in our beliefs even as those about us try to discount reality.
We know the power of the human spirit to rise in times of crisis. It is what leads the common man to jump from a bridge to save a drowning person or enter a burning vehicle to rescue a stranger. That spirit is what drives us to help our fellow man. Even in times when it is hard to see or feel the truth, our True North is always present and ready to guide us through the chaos. The road is dark ahead and the times seem uncertain. Hold on to your compass, and don’t let anyone take it away from you.

Problem Solvers Needed ~January 24, 2025

Calling all parents, teachers, gardeners, writers, cooks, children, friends and all other lovers of humanity.

Come gather ‘round people
Wherever you roam
And admit that the waters
Around you have grown
And accept it that soon
You’ll be drenched to the bone
If your time to you is worth saving
And you better start swimming
Or you’ll sink like a stone
For the times they are a-changing

Dylan’s words are rattling around in my head these days after watching A Complete Unknown. Timothy Charlamet did his best to portray the singer’s often confusing duality, that mixture of lovability and angst. Dylan was 22 when he penned the words to that song shortly after participating in the 1963 March on Washington. He battled against the establishment to find the voice that he wanted to share, and the battle wasn’t always pretty. As we watched one of these scenes unfold, I told my granddaughter that Dylan could be a jerk at times. She replied “Yea, but I like that about him.” She is youth speaking about youth and its ideals, its wishes and its demands. It is easy for adults to forget about our youthful convictions. We didn’t mean to; it’s just that we all got so busy with life. Too busy…. but, sometimes there is no other way to get by.

There are so many times in our lives when we are called in to be problem solvers. And, we are pretty good at it. As a parent, we are called in to break up sibling fights or sooth troubled souls all while juggling household chores, managing the budget and putting decent meals on the table.

As teachers, and I don’t just mean the academic kind, we explore interesting topics and help guide others to learn and appreciate what is meaningful about life. We are all teachers in some way or another, even if all we can give is a lesson on hope and the importance of patience.

As gardeners, we tend our plots of land. Whether small or large, we observe what works and what does not, and we make the necessary adjustments even if they are not part of our original plan. We amend the soil with new nutrients, we seek to encourage what is beneficial, and decide which plants make good companions to others.

As kitchen chefs, we become adept at finding recipes that will please the family all while modifying them to meet the budget. We ply the supermarket aisles searching for the healthiest options in a myriad of confusing choices. We know how to stock the pantry in preparation for those days when a trip to the grocer is not possible.

Yes, there are so many times in our lives when we are called in to be problem solvers. A juggler of sorts, we are. We’ve learned that a community of friends can do nearly impossible things to support each other. And children, well they are our best hope for the future. Keep them close and guide them in the right ways of the earth.

But we are facing a problem that will require more than our individual skills. The question looming now is how to put our assets together in a way that will help preserve what is best about our country. America is still one of the greatest places to live on our earth, and yet some would disparage it. Why not spend that energy seeking ways to make it better?

I’m just a solitary writer. I don’t profess to have the answers to solve big crises. My only suggestion is to reach out and do something even if it can only be an extra act of kindness. Do it for a family member, a friend or even a stranger. It doesn’t have to be for a nationally sponsored organization to matter. Remember how it felt when someone held the door open for you when you did not expect it or when the person in line ahead of you paid for your coffee? These are just small things, but these are actions that can lead to positive changes and a place where the daily newsfeed can be filled with more stories of love, compassion, patience and understanding. We may feel like the last in line lately and that our voices are not being heard. It might feel that we are screaming into the winter wind where our voices shriek and then dissolve into nothingness. It doesn’t always have to be that way; but it’s going to take a lot of love to turn things around, my friends.
Remember …

The line it is drawn
The curse it is cast
The slow one now
Will later be fast
As the present now
Will later be past
The order is rapidly fading
And the first one now
Will later be last
For the times they are a-changing……

Don’t give up hope. Honors to Bob Dylan for the words and the inspiration

There Are No Words

January 20, 2025

There are no worthwhile words to describe this particular January 20th. Better to look outside at the beautiful snow that fell overnight. The harsh winter landscape of frozen mud and ice has been repurposed and now is cloaked in a lovely coverlet of white. The sunshine is warm and the rays dazzling as they slant through the branches of pine, burnishing them with so many silvery flakes. A red cardinal alights on the white mound that is a forsythia bush. A bright spot of color on a winter’s day. It has stopped by to lend a touch of hope, perhaps.

There’s a peach pie steaming in the oven, and its fragrance permeates the air. The peaches come in wild abundance during those last weeks of September when they hang heavy off the branches. If I can get to them before the deer, I pluck them and preserve them for a winter’s treat. I didn’t plant any of the five trees that dot the back yard here in Freetown. That was God’s plan. Well, that and the compost where some stray pits must have landed so many years ago. In the fullness of a late summer’s day, it is easy to take the abundance for granted. We know the fruitful times will pass, and that we must prepare for the harshness of winter to come. Reluctantly, we say goodbye to the days of warmth and the ease of life. But we knew then, as we know now, that all things must pass.

Winter is here my friends, and I’m afraid it will be around for a while. Still, it is comforting to know that spring always follows even the harshest of winters. Before too long, it will be time to roll up our sleeves and get to work making the world a better place again. We can plant seeds of kindness in the most unlikely of places. We can grow in strength and against the odds, like those peach trees. We will call on a wisdom that comes with the ages. We will struggle to seek an understanding that seems beyond our grasp. And like the garden, we will patiently wait for the beauty to grow again, but it is going to take a lot of love.

Wild Winter Winds Here and Everywhere

January 8, 2025

The winds have been crazy over the past few days… so many, I’ve lost count. There are a lot of different factors that contribute to wind, but I won’t pretend to be a scientist here. All I do know is that the wind feels like a wild horse kicking up its heels here in New England. It is hard to leave the house without umpteen layers of clothes for protection. Today for a walk in the forest, I had two cotton shirts, a wool sweater, a down jacket along with wool socks, mittens, scarf, hat and boots. It took almost as much time to dress as it did to take the walk.

Unfortunately, we are not the only place to be experiencing this wild and windy weather. We look to our fellow citizens on the West Coast and shake our heads in disbelief. The out-of-control fires caused by the Santa Ana winds are heart stopping to watch, and I feel glued to the updates though I know that I cannot do much about it at this point. The power of nature is tremendous, and the winds will continue to blow as they will despite our best efforts. Watching and thinking about all of this makes me realize that a wildfire can come to any town if given the right conditions. And those who have lived through extended periods of drought know how powerless we feel when the ground under our feet feels positively parched. We look to the sky day by day for relief and go to bed at night wishing for rain. Imagine how we would that feel if the drought continued for many months or even years? It makes me feel feeble to be even complaining about a windy day. All I can do is keep hope in my heart that a better day will dawn soon for those suffering.

January 5, 2025

On Her Passing

The words come heavy and dark these days. The loss of a parent, even one who has lived a long and fulfilling life to the age of 96, is not easy to process. There are not the tears that I expected. There are not howls of agony. My mind understands that death is something that is meant to be in the scheme of things called life. I can accept that, but still, there is a void, and I am not sure how long or how deep it will be. The wound is too fresh. The loss too recent. I know that I have been blessed more than most to have a mother to call mom through all these years. And yet, I wish, there could be just one more conversation. One where I could ask her all the questions that have been popping up in my mind lately. One where I could receive the answers that she was never able to tell in her life time.

I would ask her to tell me a story about growing up during the Great Depression and what it was like to witness the first signs of World War II. It came just as you were entering your teens. Were you fearful at night when you heard the radio broadcast the evening news? How did it feel to leave school at age 16 to work in the factories of Fall River? I know that was common in those days, but did you feel cheated when so many others got to graduate and go to on to college? Or was helping your family receive electricity for the first time worth all of that?

I’ve heard the story about how you lost your little brother Charlie to a gunshot wound, but I want to hear more. How did that gun come into the hands of your young neighbor? I want to know him in my heart as you once did. I want to know more about how you met dad and all those choices you had to make when you decided to marry. How did it feel to leave the small town of Dartmouth where you grew up for the great city of San Diego where dad was stationed? Tell me how you missed your own mother with a heartache so deep that you felt the need to return home. How were you able to raise six children with so little means? How were you able to produce the countless meals over the years with so little thanks from us kids? You didn’t leave a journal or a diary behind, and so I am left to wonder about the stories left untold. What were your secrets? What were your dreams? What did you leave undone? How can I honor your name in the way that you would wish? I search my heart for the answers you will place there … in time.

White Christmas ~ December 25, 2024

It seems that every year we obsess over whether we will get a white Christmas or not. Somehow, it doesn’t feel right unless we have at least a sprinkle of flakes on the ground. This year, though the snowflakes fell a few days ago, the cold has held them in place just the way they landed. The crystal clusters cling to the laurels and rhododendrons and frost the tops of the hydrangeas with little white caps. It is all so pretty, it kind of takes one’s breath away.

These quiet moments of beauty … It makes one feel happy to just be alive and be able to feel all it means to be human even as we mourn the loss of our loved ones who won’t be sharing this season with us. It is a kind of simple sadness that words cannot express. And yet it feels hopeful too because we know that they would want us to be enjoying this precious time on earth. We are blessed with our senses to behold the sparkle of sunlight on snow, the warmth of a blazing fire, the smell of fresh coffee, the laughter of friends, the strength of family, and the healing of tears.

Life is fleeting. It is always changing as we witness the younger generation become the old. Time will pass just as surely as the days swiftly fly by before our very eyes. We need not spend it in a never-ending search for more. Take time to stop and listen. The world is already in your heart.

Merry Christmas 2024

Solstice ~ December 22, 2024

For several days around this time, the sun’s appearance on the horizon at sunrise and sunset seems to occur at the same spot before it slowly starts drifting south over the course of winter. Solstice comes from sol, the Latin word for “sun.” The ancients added sol to -stit (a form of sistere, which means “to stand still”) and came up with solstitium. Middle English speakers shortened solstitium to solstice in the 14th century (from Merriam Webster).

Yes, the sun is at a standstill about this time in late December. The calendar tells us that the sun is setting just a bit later each day now, but makes up for it by rising a bit later in the morning until sometime in early January. So, in other words, it is basically a wash or in Middle English terms … standing still. And, that is about how I feel these days… at a stand-still as these first days of the season tick by.

In winter, things seem to slow down. The sun barely makes it appearance in the overhead sky before it decides it has had enough of the day. We beg for just a few more minutes of afternoon light, but it seems determined in its mission to put the day to rest. As it politely slinks down into the evening sky, it seems to be asking us to do the same. Put the day to sleep it tells us. It is okay now. You have done enough with all that human planning and thinking and running around. Eat something simple. Climb into that wonderful bed that you have worked so hard to create. Sleep a blessed sleep. Do as the animals and the plant life about you have already done. Take a message from that wonderful light source we call the sun and practice what it means to solstice for just this time.

Meteorological Winter Begins ~ December 1, 2024

This week marks the beginning of meteorological winter, and there’s no turning back now. The heavy layers of morning frost that coat the gardens tell us that the growing season is officially over. It’s hard to wake up and realize there are no garden chores to be done. The sage and marjoram are still hanging in there along with some winter kale, but most everything else has slunk down into a reluctant hibernation. These are the times I wish for a greenhouse or at least a cloche or two. Every year, I swear that I will be better next growing season in terms of preparing for winter growing, and I am swearing again this year. But all of this takes planning and that plan needs to happen in the heat of summer days when it sometimes feels like there isn’t enough energy to get through the day never mind laying the groundwork for winter greens. I guess I am showing my optimist streak when I mutter the words “maybe next year.”

The dahlia tubers have been all dug and dried and put away in a cold spot of the cellar. My method this year is to dig them up in late October after the frost sends the leaves to a weeping mess. I cut off most of the stems and place them in a dry spot, preferably one that is sunny, for a few days to dry and harden them a bit. I then place them in paper bags which I place in a box in the coolest part of the cellar. I’m trying this method instead of the peat moss method I used last year. Peat moss is getting harder to come by for various environmental reasons so I have to switch up my methods. We shall see how this experiment works out in the spring.

The potted plants have all been brought inside. It is a sad day, that day of bringing in the cache of outdoor plants. It is amazing how the collection grows as the summer days unfold. For just a few brief weeks in our New England summer, our gardens can rival any tropical one. The morning glories wind their way up and around the garden shed as a frame for the assortment of plants that make their home on the porch there. Succulents, cannas, scented geraniums, impatiens, ferns, begonias and nasturtiums. To sit in the greenery surrounded by a myriad of scents is a moment to behold and treasure. We know that it won’t last, and that is what makes it all the more precious. So, the bringing in of the plants is a sad but inevitable day. Some will adjust to their new indoor environment and some will not. There just isn’t enough window space for all of them. The woodstove makes for a dry heat that most plants don’t love, but the succulents seem to be adjusting to their new environment.

Yes, it is time to put summer thoughts aside and embrace what is best about the winter season ahead. It is a mindset that is necessary to get through the coldest and darkest days to come. The deciduous trees have lost most of their leaves by now and stand as mere skeletons of their former selves. This allows the evergreens of the landscape to shine in their rightful light. For most of the year they plod along in their steady way, unappreciated and unnoticed. But now, they emerge from the background, tall and stately, to take their place on center stage. The blue spruce planted years ago on a whim, now towers in the front garden, a perfect specimen of a Christmas tree with twinkling lights that make the darkest December night feel cheery. It is just a couple of weeks until the sun begins to set later in the evening, but for now the march to the solstice is on.

Black Friday

November 29, 2024

“Recognizing abundance rather than scarcity undermines an economy that thrives by creating unmet desires.” Robin Wall Kimmerer

It seems ironic that our country’s greatest day of giving thanks for all of our blessings in life is followed by that dark hollow called Black Friday. On one day we are thankful for the abundance that we have, and on the very next day we are seeking more. It’s the American way, I guess.

In Braiding Sweetgrass, Robin Wall Kimmerer explains the significance of the Haudenosaunee Confederacy’s sense of gratitude that is expressed in their Thanksgiving Address. It is not a one-day prayer of thanks like our typical American one, but rather a recitation that is said by their people when they gather at the start of the day “beginning with where our feet first touch the earth.” It expresses a thankfulness for the gifts of nature that surround them, whether it be the sun and moon or the wind and rain. It honors the plant and animal life and all forms of nature within and beyond. There is no aspect of nature that goes unappreciated.

Here, Kimmerer wonders what life would be like if children were raised in a culture where gratitude is given first priority. She states, “In a consumer society, contentment is a radical proposition. Recognizing abundance rather than scarcity undermines an economy that thrives by creating unmet desires. Gratitude cultivates an ethic of fullness, but the economy needs emptiness. The Thanksgiving Address reminds you that you already have everything you need. Gratitude doesn’t send you out shopping to find satisfaction; it comes as a gift rather than a commodity, subverting the foundation of the whole economy. That is good medicine for land and people alike.”

Reading Kimmerer’s words on indigenous wisdom is like a medicine for a troubled soul. She reminds us that our place in the world is one where nature abounds and where its message can be heard above the strife of the worldly noise about us. It is a noise that wants to distract us from what is true and what is good. She reminds us that our roots are planted in the earth that we live upon as they always have been, and that we should strive always to be better stewards of the things we hold dear. She tells us that all living things upon the earth take from it and then give back in return. The Native American Address reminds us that duties and gifts are two sides of the same coin. For humans, our gifts from nature are many. The most sacred duty we can give back in return is to show gratitude for our many blessings, not only on our day of Thanksgiving but on every day that dawns.

My Country ~ It is You

November, 2024

My Country, ‘Tis of Thee

Sweet Land of Liberty

Of Thee I sing

Land where our fathers died

Land of the Pilgrims pride

From every countryside

Let freedom ring

~ 1831

We’ve sung that first stanza so many times, it seems we sing it without really thinking about its meaning. I have a feeling you are singing it in your head right now. Samuel Francis Smith wrote this song in the 1800’s as a homage to the country he loved.   For a time, it was even the National Anthem of that newly formed country called America. It was a growing country as immigrants from all parts of the world began stepping ashore, looking for a better life than the one they left behind.  They came striving for that shining beacon of light that they had heard about for so long.   They were searching for a life that was better than the one they left behind where poverty, disease and starvation were often facts of the day.

This great wave of immigrants included some of my very own.  They were the French Canadians and the Irish that left the surety of their homeland for the challenges of the unknown.  They came seeking work in the manufacturing factories of Fall River and Westport and so many other towns and cities.  They lived in the crowded tenements that lined the many streets of the city. They worked hard at learning a new craft so foreign to their fingers and their mind. They labored through the long hours at any number of tasks they were called to do, and they saved their money.  They strived for the possibility of a better life for their children and grandchildren, though it often took a generation or more for the benefits of this hard work to be felt.

As newcomers to America, they faced the wave of prejudice that all newcomers seem to encounter.  Their ways were considered different until the differences became the norm.  My mother told stories of feeling shunned as the child of an Irish mother.   She remembers the pointed looks and the whispers behind her back about “that Irish girl.”  And the words weren’t pretty.  Today, we would call that discrimination.  What she called it was shame.  But time passed and the old ways went by the wayside.  New prejudices formed and the Irish were left alone.  But my mother never forgot that feeling of not quite fitting in.  I believe it affected her into her adult life as it had her mother.  Compassion is what I learned from her story.

I don’t know what got me to thinking about this song “America.”   It could be because the idea of freedom is one that crosses my mind and tugs at my heart more often these days.  Our lives in our beloved country are perhaps more tenuous that we thought. It could also be because I’ve been thinking a lot about the hatred that has been placed upon immigrants lately.  They are searching for that same life our forebearers sought.  They are looking for that beacon of light spoken about for so long. They toil in the fields and work long hours at tough jobs for a menial pay. And like everyone, they hope for a better life for their children.

For those who have lived in the states for a long time, I think it is easy to forget that most of us trace our roots back to the immigrants who dared. It seems our Freedom has been with us for so long that it is easy to take it for granted.  We forget the sacrifices our ancestors made to come upon these shores we call home.  Hatred and negative words won’t solve the problems our country faces today.  Working towards solutions with compassion and understanding will, if we open our hearts to the possibility.

Wisdom of the Mountains

October 25, 2024

This autumn season has seen record numbers of leaf peepers flocking to the White Mountains and the towns in and beyond.  We can see the red tail lights snaking their way along the winding highways lighting up the evening’s dusk.  All seem bent on their search for that perfect destination spot.    So many hoards gather at the local restaurants and the favored tourist spots, it is hard to find a seat or even a place to stand.   Some are searching for respite from the chores of daily life and the work and school deadlines always to be met.  Some come to capture that picture perfect moment that will highlight their weekend in the Whites.  And so, they crowd the rocky ledges vying for the best eye-popping view of the mountains so wonderfully cloaked in their coat of many colors. 

I know this because I have been this person, and so I understand the magical draw that the mountains bring.  For a moment, when looking upon their ageless beauty, the one that poets and artists have tried to capture for eons, one begins to understand that wisdom does not always come in the form of words.  It cannot be captured in a human rendered way.  It will not be found in that curated photograph, no matter the careful pose.  The wisdom of the mountains speaks in a way that only the heart understands.  They have withstood the harshest of storms.  Winds have ripped away trees and floods have gullied their majestic mountainsides.  Snows have fallen so deep and lasted so long, it seemed the wildlife would never again see the light of day.  And yet, they have endured, battered but resilient.

Late October has come rolling in, and the trees are putting on their final act before retiring for the winter season.  It is the closing scene, and it is a showstopper.  One that brings us to our feet with applause.  There are not many certainties in today’s world, but this autumn ritual is one that we can always count on.  As the bounty of leaves fall tumbling around our feet, we can feel the edges of winter’s chill creeping up upon us.   We lay out our winter clothes and prepare our minds for the season that we know we must face.

The seasons come and the seasons go, and of that we can be sure.  But this season marks that other climate that awaits us, and it is one that is even more unpredictable than the weather.  We look to the mountains for the wisdom they bring to our hearts.  We stand in silent awe, and their message is that we too must endure.  Though we may feel battered by the elements around us, we are more resilient than we think.  We will carry on, and there will be a spring …. come what may.

Tug of War

October 21, 2024

Do you remember playing the game of tug of war when you were young?   It was just one of a wide array of games played in the backyards of the neighborhood where I grew up.  I can still feel the rope tearing through my tender young hands and the raw burning feeling left behind.  Both sides were giving it their all and each side was vying for victory, but we knew only one would win.  That’s how I feel lately about a lot of things happening on the one solitary earth we all share.

When growing up, I never knew the political affiliations of our neighbors. Someone here or there might hang a sign on the front lawn of a favorite candidate, but no one gave a thought of offending someone or of political retribution.  Now it seems like neighborhoods are deeply divided.  The signs by the side of the road tell us that story.  It’s a sad sort of tale that makes us wonder if things will ever return to the way things were … once upon a time.

November will come, and it will pass as surely as it has done for ages.  Some will feel the surge of victory and some will feel that sting of defeat.   What will remain is that everlasting struggle that has plagued man since biblical days and even before.  The one where the mind is asked to do what the soul feels is right.   And so, the question becomes what is the right thing?  It’s hard to discern sometimes because what feels right for one person might not be the best for another.  Perhaps the bigger question should be about what is best for our country and for the world we all share.  The pandemic was an awful thing to get through, but it did leave us with one important message … “We are all in this together.”  It was true then and even more so today.  Pray for our country.

_{Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com}

Storm Clouds Brewing

October 10, 2024

There was something remarkable about the clouds hovering in the skies yesterday. They were so varied in size and shapes that I couldn’t help remarking over and over “look at the clouds” to whoever would listen. The day was perfectly sunny and yet there were so many marvelous cloud formations in the distance.  It would have been a perfect day for cloud watching if I wasn’t so busy dodging traffic as I made my way around Boston.  The whole afternoon made me want to brush up on my cloud formation knowledge. Is that a cirrus or a cumulus?  And then a large grey cloud began to come into view.  It felt large and threatening as it hung over the highway of weary travelers, and I understood that the weather can change on a dime.  Sure enough, the raindrops began to fall in big plunks on the windshield, but the sunlight on the horizon promised that it would be just a passing shower.   It would be over soon and the sun would return and that got me to thinking about that other set of storm clouds approaching Florida.  The people there would be looking at the clouds in such a different light with feelings of anticipation and dread over yet another cycle of wind and rain and storm surge.

 Hurricane season is one to be feared.  We know that if we are spared the effects this year, we might not be so lucky next.  Our cold waters in New England help to protect us, but our history tells us it is just a matter of time.  So, we cross our fingers and we pray that we are able to weather the storms that come our way. 

All of this reminds me of a different kind of storm that is brewing.  It’s not one that will hit one particular area or another.  This is a storm that will affect all of us.  It will set upon us on November 5^th and my feeling is that it will not be just a passing shower.  Its effects will be long reaching.  It can make one feel powerless over the many divisions taking place when all we really want is a country that we can be proud to live in.  A place where love and compassion are the rules of the day.  A place where we help each other to become the best versions of ourselves.  My words today are this:  reach into your heart and make the decision that is best for you and perhaps most importantly, what is best for the children that will follow us for they will have to live on with the legacy that we leave for them. 

First days of October – another warm and balmy sunlit day

Though the backyard garden is a small one, I have to say the garden has been good this year.  The zinnias and dahlias are blooming in their full glory. There are still a few tomatoes ripening on the vine and the scarlet runners are still producing enough beans for a fall soup.  The freezer is loaded with peaches from the volunteer trees that are sprinkled around the property thanks to the mysterious workings of the compost pile. Though the nights have taken on that fall chill, the days have been remarkably warm, warm enough to bask out in bare feet on the deck and listen to the going-ons of nature.

Yes, there is so much to love about October.   It even has its own band of cheerleaders that began singing its praises way back in the heat and humidity of early summer.  Fall is pumpkin spice, cozy sweatshirts and Halloween rolled all into one.  It is the blazing oranges and reds of the maples, poplars and oaks.  As I sit listening to the steady plunk of acorns falling, and there are so many this year, I feel assured that the wildlife will also have its share of winter food.  

I do wish I could fully sing October’s praises, but I have mixed feelings about the whole autumn thing.  For the gardener, October signals the end of the growing season.  It is the month when we bid farewell to the last few days of summerlike weather and hello to the growing days of frosty chill.  We know that it is only a matter of time until the black frost hits.  And what a sad day that is to wake up to.  The scarlet runner vines will soon hang dark and drippy from their teepee structures eliminating any wishful thoughts of a late season crop, and the pumpkins on the back porch will begin their mushy slide into oblivion. The exuberant zinnias will wilt to exhaustion, feeling a bit humbled to have their place on the stage yanked so suddenly away from them.  They really did their best this year and after such a colorful show featuring their best shades of exquisite reds and yellows, it doesn’t seem right to be replaced by that trusty and rusty chrysanthemum.  But all good things must come to pass and so too will those fall flowers. 

Winter is on the rise.  The daylight hours grow shorter, and there are no more garden chores to be done after the supper hour.  The darkness comes so much earlier than expected, and it seems like the days are closing in on us. The hum in the air of bees and insects has been replaced with the sounds of migrating birds in flight.  They nestle in the shelter of the tall maples and poplars, and then in a rush, they are off to the places they must go. One day you might look out the window at the brilliant tapestry of colors, and the next their leaves are swirling across the lawn to gather at the garden’s edge.  After the birds have flown and the leaves have fallen, all is quiet for a moment.  The season’s rush is officially over.  October… in like a lamb and out like a lion.  Spring time and March, I’ll see you on the other side.

Yellow Buses

“Far

We’ve been traveling far

Without a home

But not without a star

Free

Only want to be free

We huddle close

Hang on to a dream…”

                Neil Diamond

There’s something about the sight of a yellow school bus making its way down the morning street that tugs at my heart.   On board is the curious mix of faces peering down from their high perch.  In that moment, you can’t help but recall that mix of hope and anxiety that marked the beginning of a school day.  And there is something about that September bus ride that is different from the one in June.  September is filled with high expectations and hopes. The squeak of new shoes.   The still starched white shirt. The unfrayed book bag loaded with promise.  A new pencil case filled with the scent of freshly shaved wood. Its row of sharpened pencils pointed towards the challenges and the unknowns of the year ahead.

In my memory, the bus is that familiar yellow, but its color really does not matter.  What does matter is the symbol as it winds down the road making its way from one end of town to the other.  It picks up kids from all walks of life. Some who wait at the ends of tree lined country lanes, some who wait in front of a stately gated house, and some in small crowded row houses in the center of town

I taught at a county high school for many years where students came from every corner of the county.  They arrived on different buses after a long and tedious ride.  They entered together into a building that welcomed all of them with their different ideas and beliefs and varied ways of expression.  They came to become a better version of themselves in a place where this expression is encouraged.  A school is where the teacher, a chemist of sorts, must carefully balance the ideas of the past along with the new.  The American school, a symbol of that great melting pot that writer de Crevecoeur once described so many centuries ago. The place where people of all countries come together to form that one ideal – the American.  It is an old idea that still rings true about a place where anything is possible, and for that we can thank the school bus.

When you see one of those school buses swaying down the road with its load of expectant faces shining down, give them a wave and a high five.  Though they may not realize it at the moment, they are doing the hard work of keeping the American Dream alive.

Welcome the Rain

Saturday, September 21, 2024

After nearly a month without rain, the heavens have finally opened.  It’s been a wonderful spell of warm and sunny late summer days, but for the gardener, those days always come with a bit of worry.  We fear far more than the growing patches of browned grass on the lawn.  We worry about the load of tomatoes drooping on the vine and the late crop of green beans looking positively parched. The branches of the peach tree hang heavy to the ground as if in search of a drop of water. The watering can and hose are helpful tools, but there is nothing like the rains that fall from the sky.  And yes, those rains have cancelled so many plans for this last day of summer.  I feel for the picnic planners, the wedding goers and the ferry runners. The day is a washout.  But this is God’s plan for us.  We need the rain to fall from the heavens with its perfectly created blend of nitrogen, phosphorus, potassium, calcium and magnesium.  The plants of the earth bear a silent praise, and so should we for those magical ingredients are what make life on this earth possible.  

A Street in the Azores

September, 2024

Does the world need another painting when so many have been done before.  Does the world need another poem?  When every human notion has already been captured in oil and ink, who needs another?  And yet, every person holds within them a certain set of ideas and beliefs about life not yet expressed.  No one yet has told this story of a drive down a winding side road in a small town in the Azores to see the whitewashed house of one’s grandparents now long gone and to see if there are any long-buried memories waiting to come to life. The hydrangeas still line the streets of town and the roses still send their sweet fragrance. The house of stone and concrete still stands in simplicity so much like it once did. The memorial plaque of Our Lady of Fatima with the kneeling children still rests above the door.   For a moment all is as it once was, though the decades have made their mark.  The souls that lived in that house have long passed on.  Some chose to travel to places lying far beyond the horizon, beyond the expansive blue Azorean Sea to live a different life and speak a strange language in a world unimagined from that rocky shore. Some chose to stay and live their life upon the humble earth until the heavens called, that place where life can only be imagined and where words are no longer needed.  Only a few still remain to tell the story of life as it once was.  This is the story of one woman’s life.  A poem untold until now.

The Streets of Varzea

Eight decades now I have wandered these streets of Varzea

I know every twist and turn as surely as I know the lines of my palm

Once I skipped on these cobbles with a sureness of foot

Now I wend my way with my walker in hand. 

My steps slow and measured as my legs are feeble

But my mind is strong and my intentions more so.

My only duty is to lift the spirits of those I meet

I have my stories of wisdom and my tales of the past

Remembrances of one who lived here in the house just by the church

And of another who lived there by that corner where the market stood

They have moved on now but their stories remain

As clear as the day they lived in that long ago life

My heart radiates at the pleasure of remembering

My hands are warmed by these thoughts

My hope is that you can feel as lovely as I do

The past is a miracle to be reckoned with

Especially when the mind chooses to remember only the best

My purpose today is to spread this love

My wish as I walk this street is to make someone smile

Until the mouth opens and the teeth shine

With the happiness that I brought to the day

Yesterday… you told your stories in a faraway land

Today… I am a million miles away it seems

 Yet, I still feel the warm gentle touch of your hand

And your strong fingertips bringing home the thing most important

That a smile from the heart can melt away all concerns of the mind.

Ode to Labor Day ~ September 2, 2024

Here on the front deck in Hiram overlooking the Burnt Meadow Mountains, there is a bottle of sparkling white wine on the table.   Its label tells that it originated in the small town of Sangalhos in the Bairrada wine growing region of Portugal.  I can imagine the farmers there nurturing the delicate fruit on the vines.  At the peak of fragrant ripeness, they gather the grapes and transport them to the cellars where the vintners set to fermenting those smooth globes of sweetness into sparkling wine.  After some time, the wine is transported to New Bedford and eventually to a small market in Westport where this bottle of Casal Mendes vinho verde was purchased for $5.99.  It was carried to Maine where it sits on its small throne.  

The laborers plying at their trade in the warm autumn Mediterranean sun couldn’t imagine just where their grapes would end up.  It didn’t matter if it was to a nearby village feast or to a small town a continent away.  What did matter is that their love’s labor would not be lost, and that wherever their harvest ended up, there would be an appreciation of what it took to make that bottle sparkle. 

Cheers to the farmers who feed us and sustain us and cheers to all the laborers in the fields, towns and cities who make life possible on this crazy spinning globe we call home.

Greek Goddesses and the Weeds

August, 2024

I was weeding the basil patch the other day when I came upon a lone St. John’s Wort seedling struggling to life in a tangle of grasses and weeds.  I reached to pluck it out, but then thought better about it.  It seemed that it didn’t belong in the neatly planted row of herbs, but then maybe it did.  A plant that had overcome so many obstacles surely deserved to live, so I weeded the grasses around it and let it be.  

Many years ago, when I was first starting the garden beds, I threw a packet of wildflowers onto the freshly turned soil.  They grew like wildflowers one can say, but I soon came to regret the tangle of Queen Anne’s Lace, goldenrod, mallow and others that competed in their efforts to choke each other out.  They were beautiful to behold in their wildness, but they belonged in a meadow and not a small backyard plot.  So, I pulled them out by the roots at the end of the season and planted daylilies instead. Still, to this day, the seeds of that wild garden linger on.  They pop up in nooks and crannies and other neglected spots of the garden where they are crafty enough to escape the weeder’s careful eye. Sometimes when discovered, they are spared simply because of the gardener’s whim at the moment when she is thinking about the beauty of the weed and doesn’t have the heart to destroy its little yellow winking flowers. Or maybe it is not a whim at all.  It is said that St. John’s Wort has been used as an antidepressant and for pain and inflammation over the years so maybe this wild one has more possibilities than the plants grown at will.

 I never was a fan of myths.  Even through all those years of English courses when I knew it was important to be up on the various Greek gods, I quietly shunned them.  It’s not good to say you don’t care about Zeus and Apollo and all of the rest when you are an English major.  I found that there were too many to even name never mind remember the details of their lives.  It all seemed a confusing mix of gods and humans and monsters residing in a fantastical land. And to top it all, they are figments of imagination.  Legends.   Fictional characters with tales that seem as different as the storytellers writing about them.   I’d rather stick to the wisdom of real mortals who actually lived upon the earth and helped us made sense of our human walk of life. Thank you, Henry David Thoreau.

Then I was gifted with the book Circe by Madeline Miller.  The gleam of a friend’s eye when she handed me the book told me there was something special.  So, I put aside my prejudices and opened my mind to the possibility of coming to an understanding of this love for the gods.  In Greek myth, Circe was a Titan goddess who was the daughter of Helios.  He’s the guy who rode across the sky in a golden chariot every day and also happened to create the day of sunlight while he was at it.   When Circe displeases her father, she is banished to a deserted island where she takes on the role of survivalist and witch.  Granted this island is not like any other island in that it produces all of her basic needs and then some, by magic of course, because this is a myth and she is a goddess.  But there is something about her craft that really intrigues.  Circe is attuned to nature and understand the qualities of the plant life around her. Tinctures, oils, balms and potions are her specialty.  She embraces that instinctual aspect of women who have always been the keeper of the medicine closet.  She calls upon her own resources and those around her, and because of this, she endures.  She is a fictional character, yes; but one created to remind us that we all have these resourceful characteristics within us.  And that is why the St. John’s Wort still stands in the herb patch.

White Squash and Heirloom Tomatoes … Bring on the Summer

August 18, 2024

It is mid-August and my sluggish garden is finally coming to life. Back in July, it seemed that everyone was picking loads of full-grown cucumbers while I was still patiently waiting for the small yellow blossoms to materialize into something.  Come on busy bees I pleaded.  I did get a late start this year with seed starting so no one is to blame but myself.  But now the garden is in full force, as if to say, it is now or never.  It’s not the first time that I get a late start.  I’m always worried about putting things into the garden before Memorial Day.  That’s what my father did, and that’s what I had always heard because there is always the chance of a rogue late frost.  Memorial Day -the sacred day of planting tender annuals.  But now with climate change, who really knows anymore. 

I don’t have the best luck planting things from seed.  The volunteer white squash springing up in the corner of the garden is the same size as the one I carefully planted from seed.  The cucurbita family is like that.  They languish in the cool spring weather for weeks and then grow twice their size on a warm summer’s day. Still, there is something to be said about a winter’s afternoon spent leafing through seed catalogs.  There is so much hope presented on those glossy colorful pages especially when the sky is grey and the snowflakes swirl outside the window.  Next year will be the year we think.  If kept properly, that seed will keep for years. It seems like a good insurance policy as one can never be sure what the local greenhouses will carry from year to year, and the big box store varieties seem to grow ever less diverse.  I am experimenting with that white squash. I got it last year at a seed swap while visiting California. I imagined they were heirloom seeds because why would anyone save hybrid seeds?  Last year, the white squash was round and beautiful.  Don’t ask me how they tasted.  I didn’t have the heart to eat them because they looked so pretty.  I did save the seed, and this year the squash is crookneck and bumpy though still a beautiful creamy white. I’ll save some seed to experiment again next year, but my guess is it is a hybrid type. 

I want to grow more heirloom varieties so I can save the seed for the future.  I traded some perennials for heirloom tomatoes from a fellow gardener this spring.  They were all carefully labeled when they went into the garden, but now the markers lie buried amid the twisted and tangled vines. Except for the Brandywine, I’m not sure which is which.  Note to self, use something bigger than a popsicle stick next year. Sadly, after so many years of gardening, I am still a novice at this.  There is so much to learn about gardening.  I don’t think anyone can claim perfection in this field.  All we can do is take note and try to be better next year.

August 1, 2024

And just like that it is August. 

Ahhh… There is a full month of summer’s pleasures ahead of us.  We need this time to restore our faith so let us make a silent commitment to make the best of each day. Slow down and listen to the birdsong with your morning coffee.  Walk barefoot in the cool wet dew and stay awhile to watch it dry on the grass.  There’s still time to pick up that summer read that’s been calling to you. Sit in the cool shade and absorb the exquisite beauty of a summer afternoon.  Maybe if you are lucky, you can get a few pages read.  That is, if you don’t get too distracted from all those nibbling chores that need to be done.

This summer arrived on a cloud of heat, and the first weeks of July brought relentless searing sun, scorching record temps and a stewpot of humidity.  Then came the clouds and fog and rain. We are thankful that this is not a drought year like we had a couple of years ago or the relentless bouts of rain like last summer.  But still, the humidity saps the energy from the body and drains the soul. A towel laid to dry never seems to do so.  I love hanging laundry so that’s one reason why I won’t live in Florida. When I was young and growing up in a small house in Westport with my five siblings, we never had air conditioning.  Not even in the small attic bedrooms where a small window fan provided the only relief.  Now, it seems that air conditioning has become necessary for so many. I still adore summer, but I am beginning to understand the love affair so many have with Autumn’s chill. 

 In the vegetable garden, the peas were the first to give up in exhaustion. It could have been the long rainy spring where they kind of wallowed in the mud or maybe it was the humidity that did them in.  They never got enough of the cold sunny spring days they cherish and so produced a mere handful of snap peas. I’ll have to take note of the seed variety; but as to the weather, that’s out of my control.  Maybe I should experiment with two varieties next year.  It’s worth the garden space just to have the opportunity to crunch into a fresh pea on a spring morning.  The strawberries didn’t perform all that well either and perhaps for the same reason; but with the frequent sun and rain, the raspberries are prolific this year.  The peach trees are brimming with fruit too. 

The hydrangeas are having their heyday with more blossoms than leaves it seems. They are positively laden, and many that have been dormant for years have decided to give life a glorious whirl. There is a lace cap under the shade of a wild cherry that hasn’t bloomed in nearly ten years.  I had forgotten what its blooms even looked like, but it is dazzling in its full array of lacy blue blooms.

For whatever reason, it seems to be a prolific year for so many plants.  This might have something to do with the untimely frost last year when many fruit trees and bushes were wiped out.  Nipped in the bud one might say, but stronger now for the set back.  One year’s fallow brings another year’s gain.  Our resilient plant life reminds me of the Olympians taking stage in Paris where so many have been defeated in the past by other worthy opponents.  And these things that work against success can come in many different shapes and forms.  These twisty little demons put on many guises in order to wreak havoc in the body and the mind.  And yet they persevere.  The medal is merely a symbol of the glory of reaching a long sought after achievement. 

Resiliency seems to be the common key here for plants and humans alike.  We all face our own little heroic battles, most fought privately and not on a stage.  We have our lean times that make us ponder and consider and reconsider.  We learn from our downfalls and our defeats.  We get back up stronger, for we know we must.  That is the human spirit.  We arise to find a new day and find that we are more humbled and compassionate for the experience. 

Worry Dolls Needed

July 11, 2024 Hiram Hill, Maine

The day settles in with its heavy cloak of summer heat that will rival much of the heat that has taken residence across so many states. People used to flock to Maine to escape the swelter of the cities.  Railroads were built just to accommodate the influx of visitors seeking refuge here.   I’m sure it is cooler in these hills than the streets of New York, but still, it is hot.  Last night the television blared its tornado warning for parts of northern New England.  The weather forecasters were fixated on two converging wind patterns that together spelled trouble.  The front porch windows here on Hiram Hill open up to a panoramic view of the White Mountains and beyond.  As the summer’s night fell to darkness, I wondered what would happen if a tornado came ripping through the valley.  It’s not something we ever considered when we bought this property 20+ years ago.  It’s not tornado alley by any stretch of the imagination, but it is a topsy turvy world where what we once were sure of is no longer a surety.  

Perhaps the weather reflects the sense of unease around us.  It’s in our grocery carts where we pile the weekly food items, a pile that seems ever smaller while the dollar signs grow larger.  We know that corporate greed is surely playing a part, but it is also our dependence on so many goods that we have come to deem essential.   It is felt in the political climate swirling about our nation as we struggle with the choices we must make to ensure the kind of life that we want to pass on to our children. What is the best path forward?   And, sadly, our unease also stems from the wars and unrest affecting so many around the world. Who can rest easy when children in a sacred place like a hospital are bombed to an early death.  Meanwhile, millions of people are starving because of man-made machinations.  We wonder why…and how… And then there’s climate change.

These are troubling thoughts, and we do our best to put them to the back of our minds so we can carry on through our day.  The back of our mind seems to be a pretty cluttered place these days. There’s so much stuff tucked away back there that some may never find the light of day.  That might be a good thing as there’s only so much one person can do or even think about.  We are all so busy just trying to plow through the many consuming tasks of daily life.  If I still had one, my little bag of worry dolls would be working overtime days and nights.

 And yet, we have to remain aware of the world around us.  We are driven to distraction, but our spirit remains alert, always operating whether we are aware of it or not.  That is why our spiritual life needs to be nurtured.  We need time to be thoughtful so we can face the challenges ahead with a clear mind.  We can help our fellow man when we can.  We can help our Earth where we can.  We can take one small step today.  Imagine if we all left the earth one bit brighter at the end of each day.  What would our small blue planet look like after a year or even a lifetime…

Summer…Summer…Summer

July 1, 2024

As we turn the page of the calendar to July, we get a sense that we are entering the lazy hazy days of the real summer.  Sadly, in New England, we can call that about two months.  Today dawned cool and refreshing after last night’s thunderstorm. Ah …. Summer.  What a beautiful time to be alive in New England.  Crank out the umbrella and lay out on the lounge cushions. Bring out a cool drink and a good read.  Gaze out at the beauty of nature all around.  Listen to the bee buzz and bird song.   It is safe to bring the tropical houseplants outside so place some in your favorite viewpoints.  They will be safe as long as they aren’t subjected to the torrential downpours that seem to arrive most unexpectedly like the one last night.  “Was it supposed to rain today?   Don’t remember seeing that on the forecast” we mutter as we duck for cover.

 It was a welcome summer rain though, so cool and refreshing after the humidity and heat.  And, a bonus day off from watering for the gardener.   In the vegetable garden, the snap peas have just about given up, but the cucumber vines have grown a foot overnight it seems. In the flower beds, the echinacea volunteers are ready to burst into bloom.  The hydrangeas are blooming in spectacular ways, and even ones that have not blossomed in years are overladen with colors of blue and white.  The rain has finally washed away the pollen revealing the vibrant green and glossy leaves of shrubs and trees.  The lushness of spring lives on, and we seem a long way from the long hot days of summer.  But we know that just a few days of roasting sun can turn the ground to hard pan as we hopelessly watch the grass shrivel and dry to shades of brown.  We are off to a good start so maybe this year will be different.  Only time will tell.

Sticks and Stones

May 2024

They say that sticks and stone can break your bones, but sometimes they can break your heart too . . . in a good way.  When I see a small boy wielding a stick, I get a sense that some things about being a child never seem to change, even as the world goes spinning wildly by us.  Maybe they are dreaming of slaying dragons like in the spirit of St. George, maybe it is the perfect hiking stick, or maybe they are just keeping that stick handy in case there’s a mud puddle that needs poking.  All I do know is that once the perfect stick is found, it is hard for any parent to coax the child to part with it.

Recently on a trip to Yosemite, I was smitten by the sight of small boys and their sticks.  People from all over the world come to these rocky ledges to stop and view the beauty of sunlight on the massive granite stones. The sound of different languages converging at a place like Glacier Point is amazing to hear.  It makes one feel very small, and one can’t help but feel a sense that America is such a vast wonder land.  Everyone’s eyes are cast up to the heavens to watch the changing colors of the sunset play on the land below. Everyone except for the small boy who is scoping the ground below for that perfect specimen of a stick.  Generally, there is a wary parent nearby with one eye in the camera view and the other assessing the situation.  

One mother in her beautiful lilting Indian voice coaxes her son to put down the stick.  I don’t understand the language, but I understand this universal pleading. She is coaxing her son, but not totally.  Part of her is admiring the stick too.  Where did he find such a treasure?  And, how can any mother resist the face on this child?  Of all the wonders he has seen today, this is the souvenir he wants to take home.  It is taller than he is.  It is from the limb of some majestic pine that dropped many years ago.  It was left to wear and weather to this particular shape and size just right for a boy.  It is perfect!  But alas, like so many treasured things, after a day in the sun, it must go its way just as the family must go their own way too.  There will be new sticks for the boy, until that one day when they will lose their charm.  We can’t know what day this will happen, nor would we want to know.  It is better that the day passes by unannounced.  That is why a stick can break my heart.  I’ll save the stones for another day.

Anna Karenina … A Tale for the Times

April 2024

After a winter of reading, I am finally wrapping up the last few pages of my worn and torn copy of Anna Karenina.  Tolstoy had this uncanny ability to climb into the minds of his characters and so was able to reveal truths and ideas about life.  There are certain things about the human condition that are timeless, and that is why I so appreciate his writings.  

The story takes place in Russia in a time long past, and yet it is a story that resonates as much today as it did in the late 1800’s.  Anna is in a loveless marriage that was arranged for her at a young age.   She accepts this until one day, by chance, she meets a charming man.  They fall desperately in love with each other, but she must sacrifice everything including her child and her home to be with him. Because divorce was not a possibility at the time, she must live with the shame of being a compromised woman and a failure as a mother.  She is scorned by her acquaintances and her friends, if you want to call them that.  She feels constrained by her circumstances while her lover is able to continue living his life and doing his duties with society’s approval.  This doesn’t sit well with her, and that becomes a sticking point for the two of them.  She wants to rebel against this unfairness but does not have the means to do so.  Eventually, her societal struggle pales in comparison to her internal struggles and demons.

Yes, this was back in 19^th century Russia, when most women had very little rights no matter what country they lived in.  It’s hard to imagine that just a century ago women got the right to vote here in America.   For most of humanity and for most cultures upon the earth, women have had to accept their place as beings with less rights than men.  However, through so much hard work by so many, society began to evolve and learned to accept the idea that a woman’s strength can flourish outside the confines of home and hearth. 

We’ve come so far … or so it had seemed until recently.  Now, it seems that a woman’s ability to determine her own life is being chipped away bit by bit.  My little granddaughter turned two this month.  As I write this piece, she is intently watching my keystrokes (and occasionally adding a letter or two with her little fingers).  I wonder what the future will bring for her?  Will she have all the choices that her grandmother had?  Will there still be a world of possibilities at her fingertips?  Or, will she grow up in a world where her dreams are destined to be just that … dreams.

As the Crow Flies

April, 2024

During a recent on-line yoga class, the teacher asked us to lay silently on our mats and listen to our inner voices.  I find it hard to not be distracted at times like this.  My inner voice can be a very busy voice at times.  I’m not sure I want to hear it telling me that the laundry needs to be put in the dryer or that the electric bill is due or the front flower bed needs to be raked. For a few seconds, I can put all of this away; but then, it creeps back in. 

At times like this, I prefer to listen to the quiet sounds around me.  And this morning, the house was very silent except for the creaking of the heating pipes as the water moved through its system.  Like so many mornings lately, it has been cold, and so I feel thankful for that reassuring clinking sound that means heat is on its way.  Somewhere, I am sure there is an inner voice speaking truths, but it is hard to hear it through the layers of life and duty that surround it.

Outside, the rain is tapping with a steady drip, drip, drip that sounds almost like the tapping of a soft drum.  In the distance, the cawing of a crow signals as it sails on by.  There are a lot of negative associations with the crow family. Some people think of them as harbingers of death.  And who cannot think of that famous Raven memorialized by Poe…. Never more.  But on this rainy spring morning, as I was lying on my mat listening to the crows, I was thinking about the saying “As the Crow Flies.” It turns out that there are a lot of different theories about the origin of the phrase.  Over a century ago, Dickens used the term “straight as the crow flies” in his novel Oliver Twist so maybe his astute readers passed on the phrase.  Maybe…  Another theory is that back in the Viking days, a crow would be released from the crow’s nest in hopes that it would direct the sailors towards land. However, zoologist Luis Villazon points out that crows don’t necessarily fly in straight lines.  So, there’s that too.

Who knows where the term came from, and does it really matter?   All I do know is that I am thankful for the sound of crows outside my bedroom window.  It is Mother Nature’s way of letting us know that she is never very far away no matter where we are.  The wisdom of the crows tells us that we don’t always have to fly in the straight line that is expected.  We are free to make our own unique pattern upon the earth, if we will only listen.

For the Ya-Yas and Ya-Mas

Make New Friends, but Keep the Old ~ April, 2024

There is an old song I remember from my years as a Girl Scout that says:  Make new friends, but keep the old.  One is silver, and the other, gold.  Oddly, after so many years, I still remember the words and the tune. There is nothing like old friendships that endure the test of time and create a place where we feel cared for and understood.  That sense of belonging is intangible and yet so important. 

I feel blessed to belong to a group of daughters and mothers that we call the Yayas and Yamas.  The name originated from that book and movie about the Ya-Ya sisterhood and the importance of long-time friendships; but over the years, it has come to mean so much more. It is more than birthday celebrations, vacations in the mountains together or long lazy brunches.  It means that we’ve got each other’s back as we go through so many of life’s hurdles.  

How we met and why we remain friends is a story that needs to be put down for our own history books.  Briefly, many years ago, a group of women from many different parts of the state of Massachusetts met on the shores of the Westport River.  We landed there by chance circumstances or maybe perhaps by divine intervention. We formed a bond together around our love of food and gardening and children and not necessarily in that order. Those children are now all grown to adults.  And the babies that they went on to have …well some of them have grown up too.  Some of us have stayed close to the home turf while others have moved to different parts of the country.  We’ve lost a mother along the way, and that loss is irreplaceable, but we have also gained some new members too.

If you have a long-standing friendship, cherish that.  If you have lost touch with a kindred spirit that you once shared your soul with, rekindle that relationship if it feels right. Friendships are more than the happy times that bind us.  True friendships endure the illness and death that knocks on all of our doors.  We are not always perfect.  We have fought bitter battles together and cried bitter tears alone.  We can feel alienated at times, but we keep reaching out.  We may not always agree with each other, but at the core is a friendship which cannot be denied.  We were put together for a purpose, and that purpose my friends, is an on-going one.

In Like a Lion and Out Like One Too

 

March 29, 2024

There are still a couple of days in March to turn this around, but today’s forecast doesn’t look too promising. Wasn’t today supposed to be sunny? Ah well… The winds have been blowing for days, tossing broken branches here and there on the streets and along the wooded paths.  The story of these last remaining days of March has been rain, cold winds, rain, gray skies and more rain which translates into flooded streams and rivers, flooded streets and gardens…and cellars! 

Still, in the back yard, the rhubarb crowns are showing signs of new life.  Considering the bounty of juicy stalks it will deliver all summer, I imagine its silent prayer of thankfulness for this spring rain soaking the earth.   It will need these deep reserves for the season to come. Nature must always be prepared for the next spell of drought, and who knows when that will be.  

It’s time to shovel on the yearly dose of composted chicken manure.  As soon as the weather turns, the rhubarb will grow fast and furious. It will be at its perfect ripeness when the strawberries come along in June.  Ahh, June… your name sounds to me like a dream.

 

March Morning on Hiram Hill – the view from the porch

In the far distance, beyond the Burnt Meadow Mountains, the mighty White Mountains are showing off their splendid snowy peaks.  They are glistening and sparkling above the voluminous clouds of fog lying below.  They say that the fog eats snow, and that must be true for it seems the patches of snow on the ground are melting before our very eyes.  Soon, the morning fog will lift, leaving the panorama of mountains in full view.   Even if you are many miles away, the Whites still manage to dominate the distant horizon, and one’s eyes can’t get enough of them.  

Many people travel from across the world to climb their rocky slopes and take in their breathtaking beauty.  Over the years, many have lost their lives on these weathered rocks, and sadly this year is no exception.   It’s a hard piece of reality that a sunny March day can turn stormy and brutally cold in a flash.  An innocuous sprinkling of flakes on a light breeze can turn to wind whipped snow and bitter cold in a matter of minutes. It seems one can never be too prepared.   The fattening buds on the trees tell us that the sap of spring is on the rise, though here on Hiram Hill, we get the feeling that winter is not done with us yet.

Where Did the Winter Go?

March 19, 2024

It seems wherever you go, you might hear people saying the same thing.  “Where did the Winter go?”  We remember the snow and sleet and frosty mornings… sort of. My heating bill tells me that it really did happen, and it was as cold as any, I guess.  But, winter is in the rearview window now, and oddly I feel a kind of regret.

The snow shoes lie idly in the shed.  If they weren’t aluminum, they might be rusting away from lack of use.  The snow shovels are lolling about somewhere.  The snowblower has long been tucked away after its brief appearance for a light duty job.  The calendar says that spring is coming our way, but we can feel in the warmth of the sun that it is already here.  There may be another snow storm somewhere in our near future, but it will melt away as quickly as you can say April snow.

I’m not the biggest fan of winter, but there are some parts of it that I do cherish.  There’s nothing more comforting than sitting by the fireplace on a cold, windy night with a favorite book.  And there is something healing and energizing about walking in the forest on a brisk and sunny winter day.  It cleanses our lungs and our minds, and lets us know that we are awake and alive and thankful to be so.

There is a lot to be said about tropical breezes, and soon we will be welcoming them our way.  We will put the weary thoughts and the tools of winter to rest for a spell.  We will celebrate the warmth and renewal of the beautiful spring season, and we will rejoice in the summer’s heat.  And if any of this proves too much, we can take Mark Twain’s wise advice about New England: “If you don’t like the weather, just wait a few minutes.”  Yes, we are blessed to have all of these seasons, even the ones we call “Mud”!

March Winds

March is exhaling its last wintery gasp

Sending trees swaying and the leaves rustling

scattering across the barren ground seeking refuge

in the hedges and along the garden paths.

The sun is warm upon the face

and the buds on the trees look beyond promising,

but March is exhaling its last wintery gasp.

Taking advice from that wise man,

For it will not go gently into that dark night

Spring Is Here for a Day – February 27, 2024

The day dawned with the freshest hint of spring in the air and the birds singing in celebration. The daffodil shoots are popping up wherever the sun gives its greatest warmth.  A few seem to be thinking about the possibility of blooming in a burst of yellow hopefulness, though we know from our experience that winter is not done with us yet. They probably know this too.  Still, the longer hours of daylight can’t help but cheer the soul. 

And yet, there hangs a veil of melancholy over us.   Perhaps it is just weariness from the many cold days we have had lately. Winters are tough on so many people, especially here in New England where they are longer and colder than most. And this year, the leap year means an extra day of that.  The season starts when the cold winds of November set in, and the sky begins to display its favored shades of grey.  It continues through the waves of cold rain and even colder sleet and snow.  A few of us may be able to escape for warmer climes, but most have learned to grin and bear it.  And yes, even to embrace it for all that it is. A brisk walk in the winter forest is invigorating in a way that it can never be in the summer’s heat.  And, the way that the snow glistens when the sun comes out after a storm is, for a few moments, pure perfection on earth. But now, as winter nears its end, the snowbanks have turned to blackened slush and the sodden ground makes it hard to walk the forest paths we love.  The bird song says spring, but the trails say mud season, and that will be with us for some time.  Tomorrow will bring cold rains and temperatures that will dip below freezing.  Keep smiling, keep singing, keep writing, and keep praying for an extra dose of patience.  Spring is coming!

Life is a River

February 6, 2024

“Life is a River …. Only in the most literal sense are we born on the day we leave our mother’s womb.  In the larger, truer sense, we are born of the past – connected to its fluidity, both genetically and experientially.” Wally Lamb – I Know This Much Is True

We understand we are connected to our past, but how much does that past influence our everyday experiences?  I read the above quote on the same day that I found a list of my great-grandmother’s relatives on the FamilySearch website.  Why I was searching that day, I am not really sure except I was feeling curious about her history.  In our family legends, my mother’s grandmother Symphorose Cote was a force to be reckoned with.  She died before I got to know her, but her stories live on about how she helped raise my mom.  So, when I think of strong women in my family history, she always comes to mind.  She was born in 1881 in Fall River, Massachusetts and married my great-grandfather Joseph Beauchesne at age nineteen.  They went on to have at least fifteen children.   So many of those children went on to work in the factories along the Quequechan River. My grandfather Albert was the second born child, and so begins the family history that I am familiar with.  

When we speak of family heritage, most of us think of our grandparents and great-grandparents, but what about the scores of generations that came before them?  What hidden secrets and private turmoil lies buried beneath the layers of dust left by man?  What marvelous energy and creativity also lies buried deep within the cells of our bones?  Is our psyche something we can tap into like the oil that has been dormant for so many eons beneath our earth?  When we dig into our consciousness for insight, which voice from the past will answer?   When we pray for guidance, which distant relative will beseech on our behalf? 

I wish I had a magic lens to peer back into my past to the wilds of Canada or the Coast of France, to the isle of Ireland and so much beyond.   From what distant lands did those ancestors travel from in order to settle in those places?  Were they city dwellers or villagers? What did they look like?  Would I recognize myself in their eyes or in the lines of their faces?  So much of this, I will never know.  Much of it has been lost forever to the ravages of time.  And as we know, time waits for no one.  It marches on and leaves us all behind to gather the bits of the past as best we can.  We learn from stories told and paper remnants and yes, from the internet too.   The only thing I am sure of is that we will all one day become our future’s past.  What will we leave behind for those intrepid searchers of a history?  Will it be the jobs we worked at and the money we made or will it be something more? It is never too late to start working on that legacy. 

February 2, 2024

Groundhog Day Dawns Gray

It seems fitting that the term Groundhog Day has become synonymous with the idea of a series of unwelcome events happening over and over.  I guess we can thank Bill Murray for that. 

For the past ten days, the skies have been cloudy and gray with only a few brief glimmers of sun making their way down to earth.  With all this, it was a little surprising to learn that Punxsutawney Phil predicted that spring would come early this year.  What is not so surprising is that he did not see his shadow on this gray and gloomy day.   Add some chilly temperatures, and we have a recipe for a depressing spell of winter.  We are in the midst of what is called mid-winter, but it helps to believe that the worst is behind us.  We can appreciate those hopeful glimmers of daylight as we arise and those few more minutes of evening light on our drive home. The sun will be back shining in its glory any day now.  It never fails us, for as it has been told, “As sure as the sun rises . . .”  Although the clouds dominate the sky today and more drizzle is on the way, we know that springtime is growing closer.  “Hope springs eternal in the human breast,” Alexander Pope once wrote.   Yes, Hope is what gets us through a long New England winter.  Let’s celebrate the strength and will power that we have.  Let’s marvel at our ability to smile though the pain.  And let’s hope our dear groundhog of 2024 is right this year!

January 12, 2024

The Emerald Path

Much of this January has been a tumultuous one with back-to-back storms of wind and snow followed by rain and floods.  And we are bracing for more.   The streams and rivers are bursting at the seams, and it looks doubtful that they can hold another drop.  The only consolation is that the temperatures have been warm for this time of year; but it is January after all. Who knows what Mother Nature has up her sleeve. So, when the sun makes a dramatic appearance during a brief intermission, we have to stand up and cheer. 

The forest path is calling.  It may not be the ornate and renowned path that Dorothy took to Emerald City, but rather a hidden gem in the Freetown Forest.  It feels invigorating to walk with the crunching leaves underfoot and the healing sun touching warmly on the face.  The evergreens tower over head in their green majesty and the hollies look more vibrant than ever.  The moss along the walking path shows off its glistening emerald green cloak.  It is spongy and velvety to the touch. It is earthy and alive on this winter day.  It is in love with this strange mix of weather known as Winter; and so, I guess, should we.   

January 7, 2024

How Do I Pray Anyways These Days?

How often do we hear the words “I’ll say a prayer for you.” Over the years, my mom has suffered numerous health setbacks, and I have often been the recipient of well-wishers who say they will pray for us.  I envy their eager convictions.  I wish that I could perform a prayer with the same ease – a johnny on the spot prayer.  When I do pray, I end up feeling it is a feeble attempt to send a message to God.  I am not sure if it is even enough to deserve recognition.  

When I was young and growing up in the Catholic Church, I never felt this way.  I knew how to pray correctly.  There was a building to pray in and a bench to kneel down on to perform the rite.  There was a prayer book and often a priest to lead the prayer.  When I was home at night, I knelt by my bed and recited my memorized prayers. There was very little individual thought that went into it, and yet when I was done praying, I felt assured that I had indeed prayed.  Now, as I am older and no longer attend a formal church, I have a harder time forming a prayer.  And yet, at this stage of life, I would like to become better at praying from my heart.  I want to be authentic in my words. I want to do more than send off a message to the universe.  How do I begin a more prayerful life? I want a more spiritual life, but not necessarily a more religious one.  Is there a difference?

What does it mean to be religious?  According to Merriam-Webster, to be religious is to it is show faithful devotion to an acknowledged ultimate reality or deity.  The Cambridge version says the word religious refers to a person “believing strongly in the existence of a god or gods” which seems a much clearer definition.  Neither says anything about the devotion to a particular dogma or belief.  A religious person can be anyone who believes in God.  According to a survey conducted in 2017 by the Pew Research Center, only about 10% of Americans don’t believe in any kind of higher power or spiritual force.  The good news is that most Americans believe in a higher power, and most choose to call that higher power God. 

I was wondering if my favorite poet, Mary Oliver, had anything to say about God.  Ironically, the very first poem in her book Devotions speaks of her curiosity:

“I Wake Close to Morning”

Why do people keep asking to see

                God’s identity papers

When the darkness opening into morning

                Is more than enough?

Certainly, any god might turn away in disgust.

Think of Sheba approaching

                The kingdom of Solomon.

Do you think she had to ask,

                “Is this the place?”

Oliver says that the evening’s darkness that gives way to the morning light should be proof enough that God is here with us.  Despite the many wrongs we do to the earth and to each other every day, the sun continues to rise and bestow its heat and energy and light on us.  It is a gift.  It is always there, whether we can see it through the clouds or not.   Like God’s presence. Thank you, Mary Oliver, once again.

December 30, 2023 

I’m Counting on January

I threw the Christmas lists out this morning.  There were still a few unchecked things to be done, but there’s no sense keeping track of what I meant to buy and what I meant to do and so I tossed the list with some regret.   I’m counting on January to help me find the soul that seems to have been buried with all the doings of the December Rush.   January days can be cold and dark, but they can also be a time of rebirth as the daylight slowly comes back into our lives.  The garden is at rest and so the chores are less.  The lawnmowers and leaf blowers have finally silenced themselves for this spell, and may they rest in peace. Soon there will be snowplows plying the roads when winter decides to really come calling, as it always does.  But for today, the neighborhood is quiet except for the call of winter birds and the rustle of wind through the tall pines.

Mary Oliver, my favorite poet, once wrote: “Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”   In her poem “A Summer’s Day,” she was reflecting on a single grasshopper but also about so much more.  Her poems have a way of asking the reader to think about life from a different perspective.  

That’s what I am hoping for as we approach the dark days of winter.  A chance to look at life from a different perspective, as one of hope and renewal instead of dread.  Maybe we can use this time to tackle the piles of stuff that are cluttering our lives.  Less stuff gives more room for energy, and there’s something therapeutic about a trip to Goodwill or Savers…as long as we leave with a much smaller bundle than we came in with. Then, there is our artistic side that is begging to be noticed.  We all are blessed with creative genes, and they can be expressed in so many different ways. Time to take out the craft box, be it filled with needles and yarn or cloth and thread.  Maybe it has pens and inks and paper to draw on or to write.  Take out the stack of cookbooks or garden books to plan ahead or to just dream. Dust off the musical instrument.  Tackle that challenging novel. Sing your favorite songs out loud and out of tune if you must.  Write a letter just because. Practice yoga. Say a prayer. January.  Thirty-one days. So much to do and so little time.

December 28, 2023

Last of December Rush

The Christmas rush is merry
Houses and trees adorned with lights
the holly and the berries
And other earthly delights

The Christmas rush is glitter
With heaps of gifts piled under the tree
And little footsteps that patter and pitter
And the joy at what they can see

For others it is so much different
A time of quiet sadness and burdening struggle
With heaps of bills to pay and then the rent
And so many other pressing things to juggle

But as the year winds down to days
It’s worth a minute to stop and be aware
Of the blessings shining down in glorious rays
If we only take the time to notice and to care

December 15, 2023

The Winter Garden

A spring bouquet of daffodils.  Can you picture it?   A glass vase filled with a lovely yellow bunch of daffodils paired with sprigs of golden forsythia is surely one of the first great spring pleasures.  Those early days of April are brimming with the promise of good things to come. Soon, the tulips, iris, and peonies will each have their day or their week in the sun.  They all pass much too quickly, but we know we can rely on the arrival of the summer heat lovers.  The coneflowers, foxgloves, bee balm and so many more wonders are the staples of the flower arrangements that will adorn our lives over the summer months. September brings on the dahlias in their most perfect and colorful glory. Then, as the frosty days of October set in, we reluctantly put the garden to bed and plan for the next growing season. 

But, what if the fall season brought in a whole new crop of plants for our enjoyment?  What if we could extend those arrangements over the course of the whole year? That is what I have been thinking about as I glean the yard for ingredients for a winter arrangement.  Hollies seem to thrive in the understory of the great Freetown pines providing a green backdrop to the landscape, but I wish I had planted more shrubs for winter enjoyment.  I do wonder at this, but I am happy for the few that I have.  I didn’t realize when I planted the blue spruce some years ago that I would be trimming them for greenery.  So too with the Azalea, Japonica, Leucothoe, and Japanese Yew.  I always wait till the first week in December to do the trimming as their cuttings make great additions to Christmas arrangements.

The shovels and garden tools have been put away as the ground is too frosty for digging, but these dark days of autumn’s end are the perfect time to plan garden. As I walk the landscape, I make a mental note about what I can plant to add to the winter interest.  I am thankful for the little foresight that I did have in planting some Winterberry bushes.  The problem is that they are very slow growing so I would not recommend planting them from twigs as I did a few years ago.  As I grow older, the seasons seem to come and go so much more quickly than they once did.  There is an old saying that the best time to plant a tree was twenty years ago, and the second-best time is today.   If we cannot dig, we can at least plan the gardens of our imagination.

December, 2023

Remember Covid 19?

Someday, when we have some time to settle down and think about things, maybe sometime after the whirlwind of 2024 passes through, we will stop to marvel at what we had to do to get through that thing called Covid19.  Not the Covid that we have today, but the scary one. The killer one. The one that, impossibly, has taken residence in the back of my mind as a vague and distant memory.  But then again, it has been almost four years since it came to town.  I often wonder how our country survived those long days of lockdown.  Think of what nurses and doctors and other health care professionals endured during those Covid spikes.  These heroes still have not received the recognition they deserve. Something like a Congressional Medal of Honor or a year of paid leave on a tropical island seems fitting.

 I was teaching during those dark days.  A teaching day during Covid was nothing compared to a trauma center, but it did have its moments. Imagine your first day of school on a September morning looking out at a sea of masked new faces.  How would I ever learn my students’ names or recognize their faces or their voices? Sadly, the answer is that I wouldn’t for quite some time.  Too long in fact.  I remember the endless wiping down of desks and pens and other surfaces that a human hand or a breath could touch.  Nothing was safe.  My computer screen is permanently marred by the sanitizing sprays I subjected it to during those days of masked teaching because we feared a covid germ could land anywhere within six feet or possibly beyond.  

But we got through that year and the next and the next as Covid continued to mutate into a myriad of variations too hard to name or keep up with.  Thankfully, the disease took the turn towards a less deadly form. It could have been much different. For most of us now, it is just a nuisance to be avoided or to get through like a cold or the flu.  We hope it continues in this trend.  I’m not sure we have the patience to go through that kind of devastation again, but I guess in March of 2020, we thought the same. When all is said, we did endure as best we could; and in the process, we learned that we are much more resilient than we give ourselves credit for. 

December 2, 2023

Paying Homage

The sunsets come much too early as we march on towards the Winter Solstice.  There is more darkness than daylight these days, and so we come to appreciate the precious hours of sun that we do have.  It seems that we are in a race against time as our outdoor activities are often cut short by the pending darkness that looms over the afternoon.  Still, as the day goes down to dusk, we can’t help but notice that there is something dramatic about the sunset this time of year.  There are scientific reasons for this, but all we need to know is that the evening clouds rolling in on the cold air provide the perfect backdrop for the sun’s descent. 

As we watch the last of the sun’s rays break through the clouds and cast its glow on the land below, we feel that we are in the presence of greatness.  There is something about a sunset that calls people from all walks of life to stop and pay a silent homage to this spectacle that God has provided for us.  One could be by the river side, the mountain side, or the road side; it does not matter. When the sun, on its regular schedule around this earth, decides that it has had enough of the day, we feel compelled to gather and to bear witness. There are no words needed and none that could describe the moment even if we tried. Silence is the preferred language. We too might feel that we have had enough of the day’s weariness, but still, we understand that we must give the day its due homage.

 When I think of sunsets, the memory of Taps come to mind.  I can still hear the gentle sound of the bugle wafting through the canvas tent at Camp Wind-in-the-Pines when I was a Girl Scout.  No day should come to an end without a note of recognition for the gifts that it has brought.  As the dusk and darkness descend upon the land, take this moment to reflect.  The day is done, gone the sun, from the hills, from the lake, from the skies. . . All is well, safely rest, God is nigh.

November, 2023

Welcoming Winter in Our Own Way

About this time of year, a collective groan can be heard across the northern lands.  It happens when the days turn from what can be called an invigorating Fall chill to what is commonly known as downright freezing.  The groan sounds something like…… brrrrr and is accompanied by something that sounds like I…hate…winter.  Hate is such a strong word, but there are lots of reasons to hate winters in New England.  Who likes the shortened hours of daylight when so many drive to work in the dark and return home to much of the same.  And who is ready to welcome the arrival of single digit temperatures that freeze the tips of fingers and toes and nose when scraping frost from the windshield. 

I want to be cheerful about the whole winter thing.  I really do.  I want to be more like those Nordic types who celebrate winter in their Hygge style. It has been said that the Scandinavians are some of the happiest people in the world, and the cold and dark days of winter only seem to make them happier.  What can we learn from this northern culture that has been dealing with the cold for so many centuries?  Hygge (pronounced hoo-guh) is an old Norwegian term derived from “hugga” which means to comfort.  Some things still translate so well. The ingredients they use to create this style are ones that are readily available like glowing candles, warm wool socks, soft flannel, and a good book.  

To my eye, it seems to be about developing an appreciation for the simple things in the life around us like a walk in the cold before sunset with layers of clothes that provide protection from winter’s blast. It means a return to the warmth of shelter for a hot beverage of choice followed by a home cooked meal made from simple ingredients.  This can be a solo event or one shared with family and friends by the hearthside or by candlelight.  It is not about accumulating more things to add to our happiness but rather developing an appreciation for the things that we do have.  It is about creating a life that allows the time for awareness.  If our dream homes are not within our grasp just yet, we can create small spaces of refuge from the busy world.  We can put a plant by a window where it can absorb the morning sunshine and add some greenery to the room. Add a spot to put the cup of coffee, and a comfy place to read and reflect.  We can create spaces where we can rest and meditate on the blessings in our lives and nurture a mindfulness so needed in today’s hectic world.  Take some time to give your life the nurturance and respect it deserves.

Hygge details gleaned from The New Yorker, ”The Year of Hygge, The Danish Obsession with Getting Cozy” by Anna Altman

November 17, 2023

Putting the Garden to Bed

The afternoon sun bends much too early toward dusk these days, and the nights have been dipping into the twenties leaving a thick coating of frost in its wake.  Mid-November seems too early for winter’s chill, but there is no doubt that it is knocking on our doorstep.  Not much we can do but let it in. As I walk around the garden, I see the last few marigolds have finally succumbed to the deep frosts.  Like their more tender fellows before them, they are now black skeletons of their former selves.  There is little hope that a warming spell will revive them.

The garden has officially gone dormant for the season, and I am sorry that I did not find time to plant some late greens for salads.  I make a mental note to start some kale seedlings in late summer next year, so I can tuck them into an empty bed.  Maybe a plastic covering will help extend the season. It would be nice to have a fresh garden salad in December.  Why didn’t I think of this sooner?  I’m feeling a little lazy and neglectful about this. The gardener’s life is filled with as much regret as hope.  But regrets will soon die while hope springs eternal for the garden next year.  As I walk through the bared down landscape, I see some bushes that need pruning and perennials that should be moved to a sunnier spot.  At this point, next year’s garden is only the garden of dreams, but it is a beautiful dream to be having on such a chill November day.  The landscape is like a palate of opportunities, and that is exciting.

For now, the business is about putting the garden to rest. The dahlias and cannas are ready for storage in the cool, dark basement, the flowerpots have been scrubbed and set aside to dry in the afternoon sun, and the garden tools have made their way back to the shed for safekeeping.   There is still time to plant a few more daffodils by the roadside and a few more tulips by the doorstep before the ground officially freezes. Hopefully, the deer’s prying eyes will not spot them by the brick back steps, but I doubt it.

November 9, 2023 Turning Off the Noise

There is so much hustle and bustle in the world today, and it is hard to turn it off sometimes.  It seems that one must make a deliberate commitment to tune off the radio and the television and the internet to gain some peace.  And so, I am making a commitment to read more books.  Whether they are fiction or non-fiction, it doesn’t matter as long as they make me pause and think about certain aspects of life that need thinking upon.  The authors have spent a lot of time distilling their thoughts down to meaningful prose for their readers.  Sometimes, it is just a line or two that makes us stop and think, and that is all that is needed.  Reading more means spending less time in front of the television which seems to have a magnetic draw upon me.  It has a draw that has been more profound since those events on a January day some years ago.  I was upstairs in my office room on a hybrid teaching day.  There was a break in studies so I made my way down the stairs to grab a bite to eat.  My husband had the television on, and that is when I witnessed the most unexplainable of events.  Could those really be people propelling themselves up the Capitol walls?  What is with the smoke and angry looking crowds?  Is this some sort of mob riot?  I was confused then, and I still am.  That is why I am glued to the news.  I keep hoping that I will awake to the news that the country has returned to some sort of normality, and that the news of the day will be about how peaceful the Earth is.  News that somehow overnight, the bombs have stopped dropping overseas, our kids are free to go to school without fears of gun shots, and the country has come together to live in understanding of our differences.  I’m hopeful for news of the celebrations of life and affirmations about the beauty of what it means to be blessed with the experience of being alive. That is why the television is shut off this morning. I haven’t watched the weather report, but the patter of raindrops falling from the gutter tell me it has been raining for a while and the grey skies tell me it will rain for a while more.  I haven’t watched the news, but my gut tells me it is much of the same. A rewind of yesterday’s news and the day before, and so I am writing. There is not much a body can do but pray. These words are my prayer today.

October 28, 2023

The Ginkgo

The Ginkgo is in its full glory this last weekend in October.  I planted it in our backyard about a decade ago, and it is finally starting to live up to its majestic reputation.  It was a gift from a friend on Nantucket who owned a garden design business.  When I saw the Ginkgo in her landscaping area, it brought back memories of a nature treasure hunt that I went on at a Girl Scout camp many years before.  One of the things we had to gather was a Ginkgo leaf.  I had never heard of such a tree, but I do remember the wonderment as I looked up upon this great and majestic tree and plucked off one of its leaves.  My generous friend must have sensed my awe and handed the potted plant over to me as a gift.  I carried the baby seedling home on the steamship tucked between my legs for safety as the ferry rocked perilously back and forth.  It survived that journey home with nary a scratch, a minor feat for such a plant that has been able to survive for so many millenniums. 

According to Kew Gardens, the tree can live over 3,000 years. They have one there that was planted at the garden’s inception in 1762, and it is still thriving.  Scientists who study the plant say that it was around before the dinosaurs. Somehow, it was able to survive the extinction that inflicted so many other species.  Considering this, it is worthwhile to study what gives this plant such longevity.  As the climate crisis unfolds, it might be helpful to research its survival qualities and how it has it been able to adapt to so many changes over the ages. Sadly, the Ginkgo has recently been listed as an endangered species by the Kew researchers and others.

 I’m not a scientist, but I am a gardener and a lover of plant life. The Ginkgo leaf is considered a symbol of hope, strength and resilience, traits so important for us today. The world we share is composed of a myriad of puzzle pieces that all fit together in inexplicable ways.  My little tree is just one small piece, but sometimes all a gardener can do to help our Earth is to tend our small plot of ground with the love and care it deserves.

A Fateful Day – Wednesday, October 25, 2023

Hiram, Maine  

The day dawned with a promise for the day.  The morning mist settled in and covered the valley below in what looked like a dreamy cloudlike lake.  In the distance, the peaks of the majestic Whites hovered above the morning fog. As the sun rose and the fog lifted, the day that God made looked to be a good one.  A sunny and warm fall day in Maine.  And it was.  Later, as the sun made it way down in the afternoon sky, the colors on the mountainside resembled a patchwork quilt of colors, with the yellows and golds of maple and poplar interspersed with green pines dotting the landscape.   God must have been kept very busy searching that celestial color palate, for that burnished gold tint on the leaves is a special touch reserved only for these last days of October. A special gift of beauty for mankind.

But in a town a few hills and valleys away, the plans that a man was making for that day were not so good. It involved a plot and a method that could only be cooked up in the most devious of minds. The basic ingredients were simple and ones commonly found.  A crowd of people gathering for a human event, and place large enough for the gathering, two things readily available in nearly every small town or big city in America, and in those places somewhere in between.  A place like Lewiston.  And the people there are common people, hard-working and good.  People who like to gather to celebrate what it means to be alive in today’s world. People enjoying a small reward after a day’s work done well.  Evening time. Time to close the school books and the computers.  Time to put down the various tools of the trade, whatever they may be, and head to town for a meal out with the family, a drink with a friend, a game of bowling with the league, or a corn-hole tournament.  American life at its finest.

Enter an angry man with a well-thought-out plan and a well-oiled gun bent on demolishing all that is good around him.   An ugly aspect of the American Dream, an ugly reminder of where we have gone wrong. We may never understand the workings of a disturbed mind or why the answer to tears of pain became bullets of destruction.  We are left here to wonder how we could have prevented this recurring nightmare, and how we can prevent the inevitable from happening again. For we know with too much surety that it will happen again.  Unless.

October 21, 2023  Autumn Reflection

Westport Writers Group ~ Friends Meeting House, Central Village, Westport, MA

Walking in the Freetown Forest yesterday, I was amazed at the magical combination of red, orange, yellow and green.  It was a cloudy day, as so many days this year have been, but that sometimes produces the best light to observe the nature around us. When the leaves turn to colors resembling a magical palate, we can say that Fall is officially here.  It has been a late Fall in coming, and for most of us that is a good thing because it gave us a chance to bask in the sun’s warming rays or work on our outdoor projects.  And who would argue with the chance to pick a fall bouquet of late bloomers.  The zinnias are now over 5 feet tall and still bursting with buds.  The dahlias that love a warmer clime are now blossoming at their loveliest.  Even the reluctant hydrangea in the shady corner by the chicken coop has given up a couple of bright blue blooms in its last-ditch effort at reproduction.

But Fall’s late arrival is also a source of concern, for the uncertain weather patterns seem to be a reflection of the topsy turvy world around us.  October 7^th dawned as the day of my birthday, but as the morning news unfolded, it would become known as the day that the tenuous peace in the world took a terrible turn for the worse.  We wonder when the fragile Earth that we all live upon can return to a state of relative calm, or if that is even possible.

There is so much chaos in our world today that it seems hard to find a sense of peace.  In yoga practice recently, I learned that if we want to bring peace to the outside world, we must first find peace within ourselves. It seemed so true at that quiet and reflective moment, but how do we find that inner peace as we move about in our often-confusing and busy world?  Is it possible that one sole person can help bring about a more peaceful world?  What can we do today to help effect that change?  Holocaust survivor and author Elie Wiesel once said “I write to understand as much as to be understood.”  How true are his words. I do know that writing can often help us make sense of the unexplainable.  It did for him and it can for us; and so, these are my words, meager but true.

October 14, 2023 ~ Freetown, MA

Thankful for This Place on Earth

I am feeling blessed on this October morning.  Those of us fortunate to live in New England know that the turning of the leaves from green to hues of gold and red is something glorious to behold.  The birds are busy chirping outside the room where I write in the early morning light. Maybe they are traveling birds telling their fellows that they want to stick around and enjoy this place tucked near the Atlantic coastline for just another fine day.  Maybe they are the local birds singing praises of this land they call home.

I am also feeling a little guilty this morning.  I didn’t wake up to the terrifying sound of bombs dropping on my hometown or on my home.  I didn’t hear the wailing sound of children crying for their parents either.  Like the birds, I am safely tucked in my nest far from the maddening destruction.  And yet, in today’s world of media reports, we all somehow feel close.  We try to sympathize in our most feeble of ways. We are thankful for our places of birth, a decision we had no choice over if we really think about it.   We were born to our place on earth and to our parents, whether it was by the hand of God or the twist of fate or perhaps some combination of both.  Nevertheless, we are so lucky to be living in this country called America.

For years, I taught my students about The Holocaust through Elie Wiesel’s memoir Night. Some might think the story is too graphic and too disturbing for teenagers to read.  And yet, I never had a student complain about the book.  I explained that if a young person like Elie could live through those horrors, then we should have the courage to read about the story he wrote for us. They understood that this was a story of a history that needed to be told and that needed to be heard.  Elie had the gift of looking back at his teenage self with honesty and self-reflection.  He lived through terrors that many of us cannot even fathom.  His is a tale of unspeakable loss, but it is also one of hope because despite his traumatic childhood, he journeyed on to become a father, educator, author, and Noble Peace Prize recipient.   

 It took Elie years to write his story because the brutality that he endured and the pain of losing so many loved ones was something he did not know if he could put into words.  And yet he found the courage, and his words have touched so many lives.   He wrote because he hoped that shining a light on the horrors he witnessed could somehow prevent them from happening again.  Sadly, the things he described are like many of the stories we are hearing on today’s news.  I taught my students that The Holocaust should always be spelled with capital letters because it was a one-time event.  There have been many holocausts over the years in many places, but none that measured up to that horrific one.  As things unfold in the Middle East, my hope is that this remains true.  Never again.

October 5, 2023

The Little Engine That Could

For most of my life, I thought that the hero of this story was a male engine. In all the times that I read this book to my children, and in all the times that this book was read to me by my children, I guess I glazed over the reference to the little blue engine as a she.  

 I do have to admit I am sometimes a distracted reader.  I guess this comes from a mother’s amazing ability to multi-task.  We could be reading a story book to our captive audience while simultaneously spinning details in our mind for our other role as event planner.  What will I make for supper tonight?  Are there enough clean clothes for tomorrow?  Did I put the milk back in the fridge?  All the while, that little blue engine is trying its best to pull its impossible load up that hill. 

It wasn’t until I was reading to my granddaughter that the weight of it all hit me.  I even texted my daughter “The Little Engine That Could is a girl!”  The story starts with a little red engine that breaks down while on an important mission.  Her destination is the other side of the mountain where the boys and girls are waiting for her cargo of wonderful things like stuffed animals and dolls and other good things like fresh milk and greens.  She even has some candy and lollipops for treats.  Important things for children anywhere and everywhere; and yet, the few trains that happen by on the tracks don’t seem to think so.  They are all run by male engines who are either too important or too tired to help. Just when things begin to seem impossible, the little blue Engine That Could comes chugging along and says that she thinks she can help Little Red.  

What message was Watty Piper trying to convey to the young girls of that generation, when women had only recently received the right to vote? A generation of young women were growing up in a new and remarkable time, when their voices and their actions could be lawfully recognized.  The book was written in 1930, but perhaps its message is as important today as it was then. It encourages “Ladies, even when things seem impossible, you got this!”  At the end, the Little Blue Engine’s chant changes from “I think I can” to “I thought I could.”  Climbing that mountain while helping others along the way is something she knew she could do all along.  She just needed the chance to prove it to herself.

Sept 25, 2023

Rain, Rain and More Rain

Day three of rain dawned under a bank of low hanging clouds.  Last week brought days of rain from tropical storm Lee followed by a few short-lived glorious days of sunshine. This week brings more grey skies from the remnants of Ophelia.  We are thankful to avoid a full-blown storm, but we still wonder how the drenched Southcoast soil can absorb one more drop of rain.  How can the garden thrive under this constant downpour of rain?  How can it muster the photosynthesis needed to survive these dreary sunless days?  I did manage to gather a bouquet of zinnias and dahlias amidst the raindrops.  The garden looked fabulous in its green and luscious state.  I think it is making a secret bargain with Mother Nature.  Yes, I will trade more of your tropical rain for the chance to stay alive and thrive in these last days of September.   I have found this summer that the garden loves the rain more than it does the drought.  I’ve dumped countless saucers of water from underneath the rosemary and lavender and basil pots. My Mediterranean beauties, don’t you love basking on a sandy sun filled slope?  My guess is that they can survive on clouds and rain for much longer than we might think possible.  They seem thankful for the chance to live for another day.  I guess they can sense, as we all can, that Fall is really here, and that October’s chill is just around the corner.  September’s garden … making the best of it.   A lesson for all of us. 

September 23, 2023  ~ Sacred Spaces

Joseph Campbell once wrote, “You must have a room, or a certain hour or so a day, where you don’t know what was in the newspapers that morning, you don’t know who your friends are, you don’t know what you owe anybody, you don’t know what anybody owes to you. This is a place where you can simply experience and bring forth what you are and what you might be. This is the place of creative incubation. At first you may find that nothing happens there. But if you have a sacred place and use it, something eventually will happen.” ~ The Power of Myth

What does it feel like to be totally immersed in one’s art, so much so that we forget where we are for a moment.  This is what Campbell describes so eloquently.  My wish is for everyone to have that experience of “moment.”  A time where one can be suspended in the space of just being. A place where the cell phone and our constant duties are not pinging at us at a mad rate.  A sense that the thoughts and feelings are yours to own without judgement.  A freedom to bring forth “what you are and what you might be.”  Now that the busyness of summer is passing and the whole of the Autumn season is before us, may there be many blessed hours in that sacred space that you call your own.

September 21, 2023

Two women

Two communities

Two different lives with one tragic commonality    

In my cabin home in Hiram, Maine, and in my hometown in Freetown, Massachusetts, two women’s lives were cut short this week by the unthinkable act of murder.  Two women severed from their busy lives as mothers, daughters, sisters and friends.  The mundane tasks of doing laundry and cooking abruptly put to a stop and along with it the joys of seeing the freshly washed laundry piled high and the pungent smell of fresh tomato sauce simmering in the pan.  We might not enjoy the prospect of a heap of dirty laundry piled on the cellar floor, but who would want to be deprived of the joys of delivering piles of clean clothes to our loved ones.  And we might not relish the idea of preparing yet another evening meal after a busy day of work, but who would want this duty, this human right, yanked away from us by the hand of an angry and unreasonable man.  A man perhaps jealous of his partner’s accomplishments.  A man angry perhaps with the lack of his own and bent on destructive revenge.  Why didn’t they leave, we wonder as we gaze at the beautiful picture of the deceased one.  So young and with so much life to live.  But stay they did and stay will many more.  I never lived through this severe type of abuse, but I did live with abuse and I did stay much longer than I should have.  I was 18 and so young back then. I buried the embarrassment deep inside for so long, I sometimes forget it ever happened.  Then a newspaper account like the one I read this week brings the haunting reality back to me of the beating, the bruises, and the lies to cover it up.  And I stayed because it was my fault for questioning circumstances that needed to be questioned.  But unfortunately, the manipulator is always much craftier than the victim.  It took a friend to wake me up and give me the courage to say ‘no more.’  I was able to walk away, but not everyone is so lucky.  I wonder if these women had also gotten the courage to say ‘no more.’  I wonder if those were the last words that they were able to speak.  I feel that I must speak for them now.    You were beautiful in your own special way.  You are still beautiful in your after life.  Your story mattered.  Your story still matters.  You will be remembered.  Rest in peace.

Rhubarb ~ September 9, 2023

Rhubarb means summer.  When I taste it, I am not focused on how tart it is or if it needs more sugar.  I want to taste its full tanginess – the kind that make the glands on the side of your tongue tingle.  It reminds me of childhood summers, picking a stalk and dunking it in sugar.  Imagine a mother giving her child a cup of sugar, but that was how much was needed to tame the tartness to a child’s liking.  It also kept us busy of a summer’s afternoon, finding just the right size stalk amongst the bees and the brambles, then peeling off strands of tough tendrils of fiber to get to the core, so crisp and yet tender. It seems with rhubarb that people either love it or they don’t.  I think it could have something to do with the stuff of memories and the feelings evoked. Rhubarb means long days of summer where we made up outdoor games to pass the time, making mazes out of long garden hoses and following the trail back “home.”  I know a thing or two about labyrinths like the one about Daedalus and his son Icarus or the ones I have followed, kindly laid out in various spots near and far for the passing traveler.  But the best perhaps was that garden hose variety which later in the day became a sprinkler to cool the sun weary.  We never wore sunscreen in those days, but we were wise enough to know that the heat of the noon hour was no time to have a ball game.  It was evenings, after the supper hour, that the neighborhood came together in the field at our house to play a game of kick the ball.  As the sun went down, dusk and the whine of mosquitos put an end to a summer’s day in Westport.  And now, after so many years, just the thought of rhubarb still sets my mouth tingling.

Fallow Fields ~ September 7, 2023

There is much to be said about a piece of land that has been left to nature and her mysterious workings. It can become a haven for insects and birds and other wildlife.  It can also become a place where weary man can rest his eyes and take in the beauty of a stretch of undisturbed landscape.  Henry David Thoreau wrote about this feeling best.  Before he built his cabin in Concord, he often imagined what it would like to homestead a piece of land.  As he surveyed the surrounding countryside on his travels about, one of his favorite activities was to imagine what it would be like to have an orchard, woodlot or pasture on a particular piece of land. He pondered how he could use it to his own advantage. He wrote in Walden that an afternoon of thought would suffice for this activity because he felt best to let it lie fallow.  Thus, he came up with one of his most famous lines, “for a man is rich in proportion to the number of things which he can afford to let alone.” chapter 2

He captured such an important feeling, and one that many can identify with when driving through the back roads of New England.  Some might look at open land and think of house lots and solar farms and the profits that can be made there.  Certainly, there is a need for both of those.  People need places to live and new energy sources for sure.  But this must be weighed against that other basic need which is letting nature thrive in its simplicity.  It too has needs and wants upon this earth, though it seems that is getting harder and harder for it to do.  When I see a field grown heavy with grasses, Queen’s Anne’s Lace and goldenrod, I have to stop and pause to give a prayer of thankfulness to the owners of such land.  They may not know of the many admiring passersby who pause to soak in the beauty, and they many never receive a letter of profuse appreciation, but they have done this earth and this passerby a favor beyond words.

September 4, 2023 Labor Day

This is in praise of Labor Day, or should we call it UnLabor Day?  It is a holiday that should be free from the demands of our working life, a day when one is free to explore the concept of free time.  I’ve been thinking about that term “free time” lately.  It seems that man is the only creature that requires free time. Is it even possible to have a moment of free time?  Even if we are sitting in our chair doing nothing and enjoying what appears to be free time, our minds are usually busy with the thoughts of the day. If we doze off, our bodies are busy regenerating cells while our dreams are working out details of life that we might not be aware of.

When we think about it, where on our earth do we find other creatures spending time that is free from all constraints. Every animal down to the tiniest insect is busy with its duty every single second.  Looking beyond earth, even the planets in our solar system don’t have a free moment as they are constantly keeping the alignment that make life possible here on earth.  

It seems that man is the only being that needs a day off from the regular work cycle.  Perhaps that is because of the separation of our work from our regular lives on the home front; and for many, the work life is more consuming of our intellect and our energy than our home duties.   This is something that became more apparent to me once I retired. Our jobs demand more and more of us until we reach the point of exhaustion. It is no wonder that we have a special day created by our work to give us a break from it. 

What can be done to remedy this?  Can our work spaces be made more enjoyable and more beautiful to the eye?  Could we design buildings that feature windows that let in natural sunlight and that open to circulate fresh air?  The importance of this became more understood during the pandemic when opening a window in a work place became more necessity than luxury. How about including different plantings that appeal to our senses and lift our spirits with their healing properties?  Every public space should include shaded areas to sit and converse while enjoying a coffee or informal lunch.  The use of natural materials should also be encouraged when possible.  If we source local materials and workers, we will be giving our communities a boost.  Could we employ local artistry such as paintings, photography, and other craftwork to add the creative touch that can make a stark building seem more homelike and welcoming? There is hope for our work/life balance if we create more welcoming work environments by taking the best ideas of the past and welcoming them into the future.

Saturday, September 2, 2023

Feeling Blessed

Feeling blessed to be alive on this splendid Saturday morning here in New England. I’m thankful that everyone who worked so hard all summer will get this glorious Labor Day weekend to relax and recoup.  After weeks of rain and mist and fog, the sun is dazzling its way up above the tall pines and casting some much-needed sunshine on the tomatoes, basil and eggplants.  I can sense their thankfulness too.  The dahlias, which were a favorite nibble of deer and other critters all summer, have risen up and are bursting with flower buds.  The dew is heavy on the lush green grass which has been saying thank you to the rains all summer. The day is promising to be a warm one.  Just perfect. A day like today can make the snows and cold winds of winter somehow seem all worthwhile. A Saturday September morning … Nothing compares…. Nothing compares…to you

Friday, September 1, 2023

Where Did the Summer Go?

The calendar says there are three more weeks of summer, but as Labor Day weekend approaches, we know that the lazy, hazy days of summer are just about over.  As I walked around the garden this morning, I had a feeling I should call it the Garden of Good Intentions.  There are still so many unfinished projects.  Perhaps that is also a fitting label for this passing of summer.  As the days grow shorter, there comes a certain realization that there are not enough hours in the day to live the life we wish.  Along with this comes a certain anxiety to get out and enjoy all things summer before the moments pass us.   One last barefoot walk on the beach as the dazzling sun goes down in hues of orange, one more time to dine outdoors under a canopy of summer foliage, one more lazy bask in the late afternoon sun. 

We look at the calendar days ahead and wonder when we can make some of this happen.  The clock ticks along to the beat of the insect hum.  Those busy insects are in full gear now singing a swan song in their raucous way. I swear I heard a cricket chirping under the kitchen cabinet while doing dishes last night.   Their songs signal that summer is coming to a close, and all of nature’s wildlife is responding in same.  The hummingbirds seem to be flying about at a record clip gathering those last bits of nectar, and the squirrels are prancing about on the tree branches waiting for the first acorns to fall. Early this morning, I was awoken by two roosters crowing in two-part harmony, one high and one low. They roost in different parts of the neighborhood, but they found each other in the dead of night.  Perhaps one was seeking confirmation from its fellow about the demise of summer.  Last night the temps dipped into the low fifties sending a chill through the open window.  Soon the windows will be shut, locking out the sounds of the night.  Those night noises can be annoying, for sure, but they are also an affirmation that nature and its sentinels are always standing guard.

August, 2023

Where Does Inspiration Come From?

Inspiration is something that we feel deep down inside of us. We cannot touch it, but we can feel its presence.  It is a miraculous combination of the body and mind with an agreement that the body will follow along with what the mind conceives.  The inspiration could be to create something be it a painting, a song, a garden plot, a writing piece or just about anything.   Sometimes inspiration springs upon us unexpectedly, and that is a blessing. We could be driving in the car and a certain sight or a song strikes a chord, giving a flash of inspiration.  We think, when we get the chance, we are going to do something with that.  But our lives are busy, and the inspiration once so clear becomes something more intangible as the moments move on.  That is the thing about inspiration. It is often fleeting, and so we must carve out pockets of time to let it grow.  It might just be a tiny seed of an idea, but who knows what marvels can be unleashed if we allow it to pull us along to unknown and uncharted places.

While pondering this one recent morning, I decided to poll a group of friends on their ideas about inspiration. While I was hoping for some clarification on the internal mechanics involved, I was surprised to see that many attributed their inspiration to sources outside of their own consciousness.   Many thought that inspiration comes from family members such as parents, spouses, and children while others credited their long-time friendships. 

There are many influencers in today’s society; but when it comes to true inspiration, it seems that the people in our own lives are the ones we want to follow most.  We know about their daily struggles and admire them for the strength and ability they have to rise above it all. As one person noted, our inspirers “come together for us in times of need and can help us rise when we feel we are sinking.”  This is something that reading an Instagram post cannot do.   As another noted, “an inspiring person can help create inspiration within oneself” especially if that person had hope in us.  That is why it is important to surround ourselves with people who believe in us.  People that we can show our vulnerabilities to and share our difficulties with. The community we create around us shares “our common bond of love and our history” and will make time for us despite their busy lives.  It is our own family and the family of friends that we create that can help “spread the seeds of growth and knowledge and help us in ways we are not aware of at the time.” 

Another area where people found inspiration is through tapping into the spiritual element of their lives whether it be through God or through nature. One person credited her mom’s faith in God and her generous spirit for inspiring her to be more like her, showing the incredible power of a good example. She also looked to passages in the Psalms that offer God’s strength in times of trouble. She found this helped to uplift her and help her overcome fears when things get tough.

Some noted that they found inspiration in witnessing nature and her cycles, whether it be the oceans, forests and swamps or in “animals and the way things grow and work together symbiotically.”    Others credited their gardens or the green oases they have created within their own homes.  Music and the arts were another source cited.   While talented artists and musicians can sometimes make us feel “like mere pebbles to the rocks that surround us,” we cannot give in to that internal negative drone that tells us we are not enough.  Rather, we should use others’ achievements to complement our own.  One friend found that photos and paintings of nature such as sun rises over water and certain colors of flowers can have “a profound visceral calming effect” on her, thus inspiring her to want to create something calming and beautiful for herself.

Sometimes, as one respondent said, “Inspiration comes from the most unexpected places:  from happiness and glee to the most intense pain.”   Living through difficult times like Covid, can bring us to a better appreciation of the joys of everyday life. One person found that she had become “more intentional about telling people I loved them.”  We all experience our down times.  When our will and our drive seem lacking, one suggested that a “change can bring inspiration, even a small shift in perspective.”  It could be as simple as “a change in scenery or using a different pen or paper.” The important thing to go outside your comfort zone.

So how can we channel that inspirational flow when the well spring is a mere trickle?  It is great if you have that sacred place where inspiration can flow easily, but that is not always possible.  An early morning fog settling on the land has a surrealness that calls to our imagination and begs to be captured with the camera lens or on paper. If it is not possible to jump into the car to track the perfect image around town, then perhaps the view outside our window might prove just as mystical if we open our minds to the possibility. It could be a walk around the neighborhood after a day’s work to see how others express their individuality and creativity.  Maybe it is the way a wind chime jingles in the evening breeze or a well-placed bird house that has become a haven for wildlife.   The important thing is to capture the moment and not let it pass. Do something creative for yourself, even if it is one small thing.  Don’t let perfection be the enemy of following through on inspiration, for this is where the seeds of procrastination lie.

August 24, 2023 A Summer’s Afternoon

It’s one of those glorious lay in the hammock and reflect kind of days. 

Henry James once said “Summer afternoon – summer afternoon; to me those have always been the two most beautiful words in the English language.”

Well, it’s a summer afternoon, and I may venture to say that it is pressing on to be a late summer afternoon as the August days creep by in a mysteriously slow but steady way.  The afternoons are still hot and the clothes still dry quickly on the line, but the early evening and its cooling effect come on sooner as the days begin to shorten.  Less daylight hours seem to coincide with less hours of production for the garden, and I might add for the writer too.  Less hours of twilight mean less hours of evening watering and walking and weeding and other luxurious acts that require some measure of daylight. 

I’m about the pull in the laundry off the line.  Four hours of August sunshine is all that is needed, but still, there is a certain scent in the air as the mid-afternoon creeps on.  It cannot be described except as the scent of ripening summer.  Like the wild cherries on the trees and the raspberries on the bushes, so too has summer ripened.  The burdening heat of the last few weeks of high summer has passed, and a few thundershowers have lit up the night skies.  There is nothing like an evening rain to perk up the grass and plants, and this year we have been blessed with so much of that.  Showers for the garden and showers to fill the soul with the beautiful essence of summer. 

Summer afternoon …. Summer afternoon – still beautiful words to behold…and smell.

August 22, 2023

Happy Birthday Dad- you would be 100 today!

Here you are reading a newspaper at the dining room table in your working clothes after a long day’s work at the Montaup Electric Plant in Somerset. It was a long ride back to Westport. Maybe, if you were lucky, that’s a glass of Miller High Life by your side. It was just one beer and a little relaxation time while the kids were busy doing something else. Hopefully, it was not too much mischief. I can spy just a bit of farmer’s tan and so this picture must be late summer. I love and miss you more each day. I think you would be proud of the gardener I’ve become.

AI and ei ei o ~ August, 2023

I’m getting kind of afraid of AI.  I don’t know a lot about artificial intelligence, but I fear it knows a lot about me.  There have been many references to it lately in various news sources, and from the sound of it, it seems like a pretty dangerous thing to be dabbling in.  But we are humans and dabble we will.

 It is said that AI can bring enormous benefits to mankind in the fields of science and medicine, and the argument can be made that the benefits might well outweigh any drawbacks.  I’m thinking that the same arguments were made about nuclear power at one time.  Enormous gains in clean energy marked by the occasional thing that can go wrong. We can ask the good people of Chernobyl to attest to that.  A half-life is a long time to abandon one’s hometown. A lifetime is even longer. That damn drawback gets us every time.

 I’m not an expert on the subject of nuclear power or AI, but I’m willing to bet that like most shiny objects, while we march forward enthralled with the glitter of a new and remarkable discovery, the beast will be preying on us from behind.  And that is perhaps my biggest worry.  That this form of created intelligence, crafted by the smartest of engineers, will soon surpass the wisest of mankind. We will seem fools at the behest of this creature that is neither man nor animal.

All of this makes me want to celebrate what is purely human even more.  The sound of birdcall in the morning hours still can set our hearts aflutter and a walk through a garden can set our minds at rest. We live in a world filled with the splendor of God’s creations, and human kind is perhaps the most remarkable. Our imperfections and limitations are what make us unique.  Our wildly varied hearts and hands and minds and the world we have created around us should be celebrated over the robotic manipulations of technology.  Our very lives as we know them depend on it.

In Praise of Weeds ~ August 18, 2023

Emerson once wrote: “What is a weed?  A plant whose virtues have not yet been discovered.”

All summer, I have been nursing along a weed.  It is tucked away in my backyard by the garden fence, a holdover from last year’s bountiful crop of amaranth.  Last year, I let it run riot in my vegetable garden.  It was a rainless year and a struggle year for the garden, but the amaranth grew tall and proud, and I loved it for its tenacity to overcome the drought.    I did not plant it, so it must have come tucked away in the hay mulch or maybe it blew in on a breeze.  In any case, it found favorable ground and grew in bounty.   This spring, however, there were thousands of seedlings, and so I reluctantly weeded away most of them or there would be no room for vegetables in the vegetable patch.

As weeds often do, one holdout took root in a not so ideal place near the rhubarb.  It came up in a sunny spot where I planned to plant some dahlias or a tall growing canna, but the amaranth looked so promising, I decided to let it stay. I am thankful for that weeding moment when I gave it a pass, for it has brought so much pleasure just watching it grow.

Amaranth has been around for a long time, since the days of the Incas and Mayans. Because it mostly grows as a weed, its genetic integrity has been largely maintained. How it got to my garden in Freetown is a mystery, but a welcome one especially for the chickens when I toss them the seedheads brimming with nutrients. In this age when so much has been premanufactured for us, it is inspiring to see plant life thriving without man’s intervention.  It lives on rainwater and soil nutrients, but it gives so much more than it takes. My garden wouldn’t be complete without at least one sprawling amaranth lording over the landscape.  And so I ask, What is your favorite weed?

Homage to a Friend – Five Years Have Passed

Goatskin Gloves and Lots of Love

Jodi once told me that she felt like she was going to live a long life.  She seemed so confident that she would live well into her 80’s that I accepted it as truth. She and her friend Emily and I were going to buy a big estate somewhere in the country with a wing for each of us.  We would garden and cook together, and when we tired of our togetherness, we could retreat to our private quarters. What would our families think of such a plan?  Well, the details never got that far.  What I did know is that we would have a long life together to dream our dreams and have our adventures.   I never expected anything different, but that is not what life had planned. 

Jodi was such a dreamer of big plans, and sometimes she was so eager in her imaginings, that one could not help but believe that they could somehow come true.  That was one of her amazing qualities, but she was so much more. She was a force of nature, and a rock to lean on.  She was strength and beauty and always willing to help someone in need.   I remember one particularly difficult day.  It was a day that I felt down and defeated and alone to raise my four kids.  I had to be strong somehow, but I did not feel that way when I arrived at the Greenwood house with my youngest in tow.  The girls had already gone to school, and I had a long day of landscaping work ahead of me on that late spring day.  I knew my youngest would be loved and cared by this embracing mom who had nurtured so many children in her home over the years.

As I sat kind of shell shocked on the kitchen stool by the formica island, Jodi set to work making me a cup of coffee.  She always seemed to have coffee brewing in the small aluminum pot with the glass top.  The sound and the smell of that is something I’ll never forget. Did I have a lunch she asked?  Well, no. I’ll have to grab something to eat later. How about working gloves she quizzed?  Not good ones, no.  Within minutes, a paper bag lunch was made and a pair of new goatskin gloves were pressed into my hand. The smell of the leather was new and fragrant.  They slid onto my hands with a layer of lanolin and protection.  I wondered how she could part with them so readily.  Surely she needed the gloves for her own garden work, but she could see I needed them more. You can give them back when you’re done, she assured me. I never did get to return them.  I wore them that summer of digging and weeding until they wore holes.  The gloves are long gone, but the memory remains a symbol of the love and generosity of a true friend.

The Last of July

Before I woke up this morning, while I was in a semi-dreamlike state, I briefly thought it was June.  It was such a surreal happy moment, until I really awoke and realized it was not only July but the last day of it yet.  How did we get here so fast?  

The corn in my Three Sisters Garden that was knee high on the Fourth of July now towers overhead.  New England summers are so brief, we want to plan and pack in as much summer experience as we can between our daily work load and responsibilities.  Still, we also need to stop and be aware of the beauty that is all around us. 

Here in Freetown, the birds are calling in the Mimosa tree, thankful for the summer’s rain that refreshed the landscape this weekend. The insects are in high hum and the clothes on the line seem to dry in mere minutes.  Far in the distance, the ocean waves are calling their sweet song begging us to come and dance in the waves that splash upon the shore.  I can hear them singing from this distance even as I can imagine the cool foggy mist upon my skin.  

Summer, summer, summer.  It is still in full swing, but tomorrow begins the month of August, and that raises all kinds of signal bells.  That tolling sound is a reminder to take the time to give August its due for it will soon pass like the June and July before it.  Find some time to sit alone in the garden listening to the sounds of nature and the sound of your own soul.  Remember to inhale and exhale this very moment you are in.   Stop and be aware of the beauty that is all around. Walk the neighborhood if you are not able to walk the beach. Make that cobbler with fresh fruit flowing from the produce aisle if you can’t make it to a farm stand.  Buy some pizza dough to grill and top with fresh tomatoes and basil.  Savor these salient summer moments.  And finally, bless the earth for giving us so many wonderful gifts.

July 24, 2023 Smoke Signals

The air hangs heavy on this July day, and it seems the sun is begging to come out from behind the shadowy clouds.  It is probably just an overcast day and not a cause for alarm, but the wildfires in Canada and the smokey skies in much of the country has us all on alert.  The weirdly colored sunrises and sunsets have us strangely awed and yet troubled at the same time.

Sadly, it seems that it is not just the Americas that are being affected by fires.  This week we learned the Isle of Rhodes is on fire too.  Years ago, I had the privilege of visiting that island while chaperoning a school trip.  It is hard to describe the beauty of Greece, but it is something to witness if one is so lucky.  With ancient gnarled olive trees and toppled stones everywhere you step, it is steeped in a history that remains alive in so many ways. That is what thousands of visitors were trying to witness when the fires swept across the island sending them fleeing for their lives. 

I wrote last week about the floods in Vermont and New York.  This week the torrential rains hit Nova Scotia where several people lost their lives.  It is hard to follow the news about our changing climate as we struggle to imagine the damage that floods and fires are bringing to so many communities around the world.  Here, in most of New England, we feel very blessed that the rains did not flood as much as expected.  The corn that was knee high on the fourth of July is towering overhead and the blueberries are more bountiful than ever. Nature’s coat of greenery is particularly lush this year, and hopefully it will give us some protection from possible wildfires.  But who knows what August will bring. 

July 15, 2023 Flood Watch in Effect – again

Last year during the month of July, we were bemoaning the severe drought that wreaked havoc on much of New England.  I worried at times if the plants and the planet could continue to survive such scorching heat.  I often looked to the sky for any chance of a cloud that could produce a refreshing drop of moisture.  More than once I contemplated the idea of a rain dance.  During a time of drought, one begins to understand why Native Americans performed such a ceremony to bring on the rain.  They were no strangers to the power of Mother Nature.

 This year could not be more different.  The forecast is for rain, rain and more rain. When I look to the skies, it is with the wish that the morning rain clouds will pass by without much ado and that the afternoon rain showers never materialize as predicted.  The water holes in the Freetown Forest are filled to capacity and the streams are flowing like it is spring. We have had monumental amounts of rain here in New England stretching even up to the hills of Vermont where houses and bridges have been swept away and whole towns have been decimated. And so it has been for much of the East Coast. Unprecedented is a word we keep hearing along with the term thousand-year storm.  The idea of climate change is becoming more real for everyone whether it be in the form of floods, tornados, drought or warming ocean waters.  We humans are really powerless when it comes to the forces of nature.  Or are we?  I wonder what folks a hundred years from now will think of us? 

March Holds All the Fullness

I love early March because it holds all the promise of the spring ahead.  It is usually cold enough to remind one that it is still winter, but warmed enough by the sun’s rays to energize the spirit about the days ahead.  As the sunlight lengthens the days, the long dark days of winter recede into memory, stored in a kind of dormancy.  When we step outside and a warm breeze greets the cheeks instead of a frigid blast, we know spring is on the move.  Beneath the top layer of icy crust lies the soil waiting for just the right amount of heat and light to allow it to burst forth in new life. Soon the garden beds will be covered with chickweed, bursting with the vitamins and energy my poor tired chickens are craving.  I’ll be sure leave some flowers to seed next year’s crop. I did not originally plant the chickweed, but somehow it knew that I needed it.  That is the thing about gardening.  It sometimes gives us things we did not even know we needed.   No matter the mood or the trials my poor body and spirit have endured, when I open the garden gate, I feel welcomed like I am home.  Even after twenty years of toil on this patch of ground, I still feel that I have more work to do to contribute to the earth I walk on.  Being in the garden makes me feel connected somehow to the energy of the planet.  It’s a busy place for wildlife with birds nesting in the boxes placed on the fence posts, and hummingbirds hovering amidst the Scarlet Runner beans.  It’s a welcoming place for the bees to bumble about in the lavender and monarda for it is their home perhaps more than it is mine.

 I’ve had many other gardens in my life.  One of the first was in the backyard of a trailer outside of Houston, Texas.  With two little girls in tow, I set out to dig my first patch of garden.  I was expecting the earthy soil of the New England that I was so familiar with.  What I got was a load of clay so heavy, I could hardly lift a shovelful.  It seemed more of a potter’s clay than a gardener’s loam, so much so that my experiment in forming a small bowl and baking it in the outdoor firepit was more successful that I hoped for.  Between the toddlers and the tornado that dropped snowballs, and the many life struggles, that garden never got off the ground.  I don’t remember harvesting anything of value from that small plot of Texas clay except maybe for a greater appreciation for the marvels of nature that brought together all the necessary ingredients for the remarkable clime that is purely New England and this land that is a gift to man.

February 4, 2023 Distracted by Snowflakes

Kid are Kids. They always have been and they always will be.  But it seems that it is harder to be a kid these days.  When children are young, we want to shield them from the traumas of the world as much as we are able.  But now, with the proliferation of social media and with the world seemingly falling apart at our feet, it is harder and harder to safeguard the innocence that should be every child’s right.  We’ve heard stories of first graders with restraining orders, and now we have witnessed what happened when a 6 year old brought a gun to school.   All of this leaves us to wonder where we have failed as a society.  I don’t know about every child in America, I only know about the many children I have encountered over the many years of teaching.  From what I have seen, most kids have witnessed a lot by the time they grace the halls of high school.

It can be easy for a kid to wander down the wrong path, and our current obsession with social media has not helped any.  The internet has produced a world at their fingertips. There is so much knowledge to be gained, and we know that some of it can be a good thing.  In a discussion about women’s rights, we wondered how many women had the privilege of attending college in the 1950’s.  A couple of taps on the google search engine, and a student reveals it was 1.2%.  I didn’t ask for the search, but we have our answer.   Now we can ponder how it must have felt to be a woman who wanted to go to college, but didn’t have the opportunities we have today.  Let’s talk about that.  Yes, we can learn so much from that google search engine, but the strange world of the internet can also bring so much turmoil.  Recently, a student talked about how she had to go off Instagram because she was stressing too much when she lost some of her followers.  Kids are so much more knowledgeable about worldly things than their parents ever were, and there are now so many more distractions vying for their attention.  A teacher may be waving the best lesson ever in the front of the classroom, but is it ever as good as the latest media post with all of its hype and glitter and drama? 

And yet, when the snowflakes begin to fall, all eyes still turn in wonder towards the window to watch the fat fluffy flakes flutter to the ground.  Maybe there will be an early dismissal or maybe a late night call cancelling school the next day.  Or maybe it is just the pure magic that a falling snowflake can bring.  We are all distracted for a moment by snowflakes. Some things are still the same, and I thank God for that.

January 25, 2023 – Breath Work Is Not as Easy as It Sounds

I took my first on-line breath-work class tonight.  I felt that I needed something rewarding after starting a 10-week stint as a long-term sub.  It’s only mid-week, and I’m already exhausted so the idea of a relaxing class where the only focus is on your breathing sounded enticing.   Practicing breath work can be harder than it might seem.  First, one must find a comfortable seating position.  Cross legged on the yoga mat seemed like a good idea and so began the practice of concentrating on my breathing which sounded easy, but sounds are deceiving.   The first practice calls for four long breaths in and seven out.  The trick is to take in enough air in the four inhales so you won’t find yourself gasping for breath by the seventh exhale. 

After a few false starts, I was moving in a perfect rhythm until my leg started cramping. Good thing we got to move on to nostril breathing.  The trick here is to place two fingers on your brow just above your nose.  I’m right and left challenged when it comes to verbal directions, and come to find out I’m second and third finger challenged also.  It would all be so easy if I could first remember where my second and third fingers are.  I’m not sure if I count from the pinkie or thumb and there’s no internet searching allowed.  A quick look at the instructor gives me my fingers in place, but then comes the hard part … breathing.  With fingers on the temple and right nostril blocked with thumb, the practice is one breath out and in through the left and then block the left and exhale through the right and inhale. Rinse and repeat this cycle of focused relaxing breathing.  

All of this would be so much easier if I didn’t start using this peaceful time to start planning for the next day.  The mind is a curious place when one tries to keep it still.  It is a stubborn creature really.  A few seconds of perfect rhythm and then in pops a seemingly random thought that was lurking unbeknownst in the cracks and crevices of the brain.  The thought could be about laundry or kids or coffee or just about anything.  The trick is to acknowledge it and then politely ask it to go away.  This usually works about a second or two, for thoughts and plans are what we are all about it seems.  Our minds are continually grasping at new things to think about.  Some are welcome and some not.  I did a few times try to recall my happy place when I had thoughts of the dirty laundry piling up. What would I wear tomorrow?  Isn’t it supposed to snow again?  Breath in and out. Meditation. Om.  Kids, classroom, dishes.  Om, beach walk, happy place.  Maybe I should get a dog. Phone, text, e-mail, bills.  Om…cluttered thoughts please go away.  Just let me breath in and out.  Left breath in and left out or is it right in and out?  Om…

January 15, 2023

On a high ridge in the industrial park in Freetown sits the Amazon Fulfillment Center.  The view from here is expansive on a winter’s day when you can see through the trees down past Mother’s Brook to the Taunton River.  The center is located near the Native American territory of the Wampanoags.  Once they roamed these forests and fished in these streams and river. I wonder what they would think of this industrial area where they once hunted for their few basic needs at the very source of life.  Now we have a fulfillment center that gathers our materials from far and wide.  

The building is expansive beyond words, and one can only imagine the products that reside in the huge structure.  What is it about material goods that we seem to need so many in this first part of the twenty first century?   And every year, that need seems to grow as it is fed by our own greed. Perhaps it is to fulfill the empty parts of our soul that have been crushed by the crass materialism that permeate society.  Standing on this hill, one of the highest points in Freetown, the wind blows through the few trees that remain to pay homage to their past. The road through the park is littered with man’s careless trash.    Funny that we should refer to this industrial complex as a park as the only things that seem parked here are the buildings.  Still, if you time it just right, you can capture the spectacular sun setting beyond the buildings and trees. For a moment, things are like they have always been. Listen carefully through the whistling of the winds that rise up from the lowlands and you might hear the mournful sigh of the ones who came before us.

December 23  Bomb Cyclone

“Who Has Seen the Wind” by Christina Rosetti

Who has seen the wind?
Neither you nor I
But when the trees bow down their heads,
The wind is passing by.

The winds are blowing gale force this morning, and the ancient Freetown pines in the back yard are bending and swaying.  They will not be broken for they have survived these winds many times before.  In a heavy gust, they bend to nearly touch the ground.  It seems like they may crack under the pressure, but they have great resiliency and so must we.  This storm, known by the unfortunate term bomb cyclone, started on the West coast, traveled through the middle country, and now is bearing down on New England with heavy rains and high winds. We have been spared the heavy snows that hit the Midwest, but we will get our share of ice tonight when the temperatures drop into the low digits.  The march to The Solstice is over, and now winter is upon us.

In the ancient Sanskrit, the word for breath or life force is called Prana, and it seems that today nature itself is taking a deep breath.  Perhaps it is exhaling some of the negative forces that have dominated our country this year. 

December 16, 2022  Material Goods

In his chapter titled “Economy”, Thoreau writes about what man has given up in his quest for more material things:

“But lo! Men have become the tools of their tools. The man who independently plucked the fruits when he was hungry is now become farmer: and he who stood under a tree for shelter, a housekeeper. We now no longer camp as for a night, but have settled down on earth and forgotten heaven. . . We have built for this world a family mansion, and for the next a family tomb.”

Thoreau lived before the days of computers and the technology that has permeated every aspect of our lives. We can all agree that they have had many positive impacts on our lives.  The information that we now have at our fingertips is just amazing to behold, and no one would deny the huge medical advances that technology has provided.   In one sense they make our lives easier, and yet in another, they add complexities beyond our imaginations. Who knows what will become of man as we cede more and more of our humanity to the calculations of machinery.  As we creep forward into this twenty-first century, there is no denying that Thoreau’s words have more value than ever for we truly have become the tool of the tool. Hopefully, Thoreau’s other warning about our mansions becoming our tomb does not ring also true.

December 15, 2022 ~ Marching Towards the Solstice

This is the day that the evening sun begins to set later bringing with it more minutes of much needed afternoon light.  The sunset has been at a standstill at 4:14 since December 9^th, but today we are making progress towards the solstice. It is hard to believe because by the calendar, we are still technically in the Fall season, but nature doesn’t follow man made rules. It seems ironic that the hours of daylight will continue to diminish until the 21^st but this is only because the sun will continue to rise later until early January.  Somehow all this evens out on the solstice.  What is important is that our precious evening light is expanding and that feels good.

December 13, 2022 ~ Restoration

Today, the day is cold but sun-filled, and that might account for the feeling of uplifting energy in the air.  The sun seems to hold enormous powers to do so many things including lifting the human spirit.  In Walden, Thoreau often pondered the amazing ability of the sun’s energy.  He noted, “the same sun which ripens my beans illumines at once a system of earth like ours.”  It is still amazing to comprehend how the sun’s light travels millions of miles to provide life sustaining light and energy to all inhabitants of the earth as well as the solar system beyond. 

Yes, the sun is a very busy multitasker indeed. Even during this darkest of seasons, it is capable of shining through our windows at that marvelous winter slant.  It touches on things that only get highlighted by winter’s light.  It warms our floorboards to the touch and sets photosynthesis into motion for the houseplants lined up by the window sill.

December 10, 2022   Darkest Days of Fall

Snowflakes have been falling on and off for the past couple of days, and for all their work we have our first dusting of white covering the ground.  The darkest days of the year are upon us as we approach the Winter Solstice.  It is worthy to note that by week’s end, the sun will begin setting a bit later so we will start to gain a minute or so of light at the end of the day.  However, the sun will continue to rise later until sometime in early January.  We look forward to the Solstice when the hours of daylight begin to overpower the darkness.  But for now, we dwell in this time of darkness when the sun peaks at its brightest sometime before noon, and we begin to feel the chill of evening as the three o’clock hour approaches.

November 2022

Thanksgiving Weekend ~ The Yin and Yang of Life

In eastern thought, these two complementary forces make up all aspects and phenomena of life.

Yin is the black part of the symbol and is conceived of as earth. It represents femaleness, darkness, passivity, and absorption. It is present in even numbers, in valleys and streams.  Yin can be described as a time of receptiveness as in winter.  Yin is the feeling of relaxation and the accepting what is – the being

Yang is the white part of the symbol and is conceived of as heaven.  It represents maleness, light, activity and penetration. It is present in odd numbers and in the mountains.  Yang is a time of activeness as in summer.  Yang is the tension and the feeling of what needs to be done – the doing.

Why is it that in American culture, there is so much more importance placed on the doing and the getting rather than acceptance of what is and enjoyment of just being present in the moment.

This weekend has me thinking about all this as Americans immerse themselves in the shopping experience of Black Friday, small business Saturday and cyber Monday.  It is all about consuming more and more at the expense of our poor planet’s resources.  New storage facilities will have to be erected in every small town and city to contain the hoard of unnecessary goods bought this Christmas season.  What a world we live in.  Most of the items were bought to make people happy.  Who doesn’t want to see a happy face on Christmas morning?  But it is often a temporary kind of happiness.  One that can not make up for the unhappiness that lies within the soul and the heart.  It will take more than a brightly wrapped package to fix that.  It is hard to come to terms with the idea that thoughtfulness might entail giving less and being more.

November Night ~ There’s a Hoot Owl Calling

I’m lying in bed after having turned off the reading light.  All is dark outside my bedroom window save for a few twinkling stars. The stillness of the night is broken by the loud hooting sound that must be a Great Horned Owl.   I wonder about this lonely owl.  Is its hoot a mating call or just a shout out into the night seeking some fellow companionship?  I think about all the people in the neighborhood who have also put out their lights for the night.  The neighborhood is dark and quiet, except for this soulful sound which echoes through the forest of stately pines and permeates through the walls of this house and every house in hooting distance.  Its sound seemingly vibrates one’s bones.  With all of the entrapments of modern life that stuff our brains with nonessentials, this instinctual sound reminds us that nature carries on despite man’s best laid plans.

November 18, 2022 Late morning sunshine

Just a few short months ago, we were reveling in the beauty and warmth of summer.  And it was a good summer here in New England.  Yes, there were many hot days, but not any that can be described as brutal.  We had a few heat waves that reached into the 90’s but never to 100.  And there were some days that were too muggy for comfort as well as those drought worries during the latter part of summer.  Despite it all, the human soul is very forgiving, and summer’s memory looms now like a sweet dream.  When it is all told, the gardens and other plant life were able to survive it all.  It seems that many crops do like hot and dry weather as can be attested by the heaping piles of pumpkins adorning the local farmstands.  Now the cold has settled in around us, and the days have grown remarkable shorter. The snowstorms have started in many parts of the west, and we know it is only a matter of time before serious snow falls around us here.  The late morning sunshine seems to be the strongest of the day, and that is the time to enjoy the best of the sun’s rays for when two o’clock comes around, the shadows of the day begin casting as the sun starts on its quick descent towards sunset.  These days call on us humans to appreciate every sun filled hour for at any moment, the grays of November are only a whim away.

September 30 – Farmstands

I love farmstands especially in the Fall.  Just viewing the brightly colored squashes and pumpkins with all their different shapes and sizes really gives my spirits a lift.   Watching a family pick out just the right pumpkin is such an age-old tradition and a simple one that I hope never goes away.  I wonder what a `visitor from another planet dropped down in Massachusetts on an early Fall day would think about all of those round orange objects on people’s doorsteps.  I’m not sure how the tradition got started, but it is a lovely one.   I was going to buy a pumpkin for the doorstep at the farmstand today, but I didn’t because I thought it was such a waste of a lovely pumpkin.  As the nights get colder, the pumpkin on the stoop starts to get mushy, and so I left the farmstand empty handed.  However,  after all this thinking about pumpkins, I have decided I am going to give in and get a pumpkin or two – for the aliens.  I just have to be better about bringing them in before the nights get too frosty.  I think I might even grow some next year for the doorstep.   If they don’t make it into pies, maybe the chickens will like them.  At least it wouldn’t be such a waste, and if all else fails, they do make some great compost.

September 28, 2022   We Are an Integral Part of the Universe

At the end of the yoga class  today, the instructor read a passage from the author Katagari about our place in the universe.  The idea is that we should try to fit our small world into the huge universe rather than the other way around.  My takeaway is that even when we are feeling down about ourselves and our abilities, we should remember that each one of us is important because we were created to be a part of the greater universe.  God willed this to happen.   We have been gifted with life and the ability to interact with something larger.  Each of God’s creations whether small or large is equally important for we are all interdependent.  Even the seemingly stoic stones and rocks have an important part in sustaining life for they contain the minerals that we are all so dependent on for life.  As humans, we can use our part to do good for the earth and humanity or we can create darkness and chaos.  Unlike so many other creations, we have been given the gift of intellect and the ability to choose. 

I have often puzzled over these words with my students when we studied Transcendentalism and especially his concepts about the “transparent eyeball.”   It was my favorite subject to teach, though I profess to know very little about the subject except what is in my heart.   That is where we all can understand that we are indeed all “part or particle of God.”  Who knows in what microscopic and undetectable particle of our bodies lies the God of all creations.  I do think Emerson was on to something in his explanation about the God force that circulates through all of us, if we take the time to notice.  Like Emerson, we may need to take a walk in nature to find more awareness.  For others, it might be a spiritual reading, religious study or other venue. All we need is a quiet place of reflection and the willingness to try to come to some understanding of the mystery of God and the universe.   This idea of the “Universal Being” is larger than our ability to comprehend, and yet we continue to try.  We can see this in the widely varied creation myths that every culture over the eons has grappled with.   There has always been that quest to understand man’s place in the great scheme of things, how we matter as a mankind, and perhaps more importantly, how we matter as individuals.

June 2022 Freetown

The long-awaited rain came in droves last night giving the earth here the good soaking it needed after weeks of scant rainfall.   June so far has been in a moderate drought.  Over the past weeks, the ground became so dry, I drove up small dusty clouds just walking the paths.  I couldn’t help but wonder how farmers were able to survive these dry spells over the years.  Morning after morning, I looked to the sky for some sign of rain. And at every nightfall I felt as defeated as the newly planted squash which seemed to be drooping in exhaustion.  But after today’s rain, they have positively perked up as has everything else in the garden.  Plants have learned to thrive in nature’s cycle of wait and growth.  In dry times, they turn away from the hot and drying sun and their leaves fold together in what seems a small prayer.  They seem to understand that this semi-dormancy is only temporary and that the rains will come and with them so will new periods of growth. Drought is something that we are so powerless over, but nature has learned to cope.  So too is it with man, for life too has its various cycles to appreciate and understand. Though it may not make the tough spells any easier to get through, we know that beauty and bounty will surely follow the harsh spells. Much more could be written about this, but for today, I am just thankful for the generosity of rain.

May 2022  Hiram Hill

Waiting on the Rain

So much depends on a raindrop. It is what makes our earth so green, so abundant, so livable.  It is easy to take rain fall for granted, until one day it doesn’t.  Then we turn to the sky and wonder if it ever will rain again. Long stretches of drought may even get us thinking about the need for a rain dance to remind mother nature of her duties in case she has somehow forgotten how to shower down on her earth below. 

This morning, the sky over the distant mountains is forming massive thunderheads, but the weather man says the rain will fall too far north or south to count for much here up on Hiram Hill.   And if it does rain, it will surely be just a passing shower like so many over the past few weeks.  Inevitably, the spring winds will kick up once again, and the clouds will follow leaving behind a few meager drops that fall far short of what the parched earth needs.

The road to the cabin is bone dry and clouds of dust kick up every time a car passes by. The flowers and trees seem bowed down and their leaves clapped together in a kind of hopeful prayer. It is amazing that they can do with so little, but survival of adversity seems to be in their DNA.  It is with a kind of patient awareness that they live through another dry day.    They seem to know that the rain will come in its own time.  It always does in Maine.  Some years in wild and profuse abundance and others in profound scarcity.

The insects and bees are humming about busily plying through the wild strawberries that have taken over the lawn.  Like them, I could find some diversion to keep busy, but I find myself sitting here on the hill just looking at the clouds forming over the mountains and wishing for the rain.