True Calling

If. And. Then.

2012-01-31T12:26:00.000-05:00

Loyalty; Gideon waiting patiently in the snow outside the hoop house.

If:

Proverbs are short sentences drawn from long experiences. Cervantes

And:

The best substitute for brains is silence. Anon.

Then:

May my pictures not speak a thousand words but heal a million wounds.

Abstract Photography:

The clouds reaction.

What Alice found there....bread and butterfly.

Bike petal.

I have entered the Maine Photography Show for the last three years, limited to only 3 submissions in any category- I decided to submit some runner ups from the Abstract category...I had a very hard time choosing. Wish me well, it surely would be a feather in my cap to even place- the competition is extraordinary.

Thank you T.M, a photography blog it is...

Take care-

I will not let you go

2012-01-02T11:28:00.001-05:00

It is the sweetest things in life that float on by like feathers and we can only hold them for a moment, their softness reveals our heart to us. It is the sorrows of life that burrow deeper, cutting and shredding until their harshness instructs the soul.

Dear Sorrows of Life,

For the longest time, I could not figure out why I would hold on to your prickliness, your razor like hurt. Why your acid words would be allowed to echo in my heart, why such dark memories I'd let enter in to some new found light now. Such struggles I have allowed and wrestled with; there are still shadows presently in life that deserve no place within my bright circle- that sorely have fashioned a singular prison with no space for light and yet, I will leave my own sanctuary, entering that cell even if I have to stand upright against a cold wall balancing on a single toe like an awkward ballerina because Sorrow, you have something I need.

Chief Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks quoted a writing on suffering and tears welled up in my eyes as I listened to The Pursuit and Practice of Happiness..." per the On Being Blog (American Public Media). Profoundly understanding, I felt I should write to you Sorrow on these new fresh days of 2012. Another year of your lessons are welcomed, I sincerely hope you will allow my continuing correspondence and holding on because..I will not let you go until you bless me.

Take care-

Give This Man a Miracle

2011-12-19T10:24:00.000-05:00

Attention Please!

http://motherjones.com/politics/2011/12/deaf-prisoners-felix-garcia

By definition, a miracle is an amazing or wonderful occurrence- we can collectively give this man a miracle. It starts with this stone of a story, rippling out- to you, me and everyone.

The Governor of Florida's website and contact info:

http://www.flgov.com/contact-gov-scott/

Simple. Send an Email. Or contact your favorite news-channel, reporter or post story on your public web pages. Share-this-story. Once the Governor and the people are made aware of this man's full story, it is entirely possible he will not remain wrongfully imprisoned.

Kudos to Mother Jones correspondent James Ridgeway for bringing it to our attention. And to Pat Bliss who refuses to let go, thank you for caring enough for all of us.

O Brother Man, fold to thy heart thy brother:

Where pity dwells, the peace of God is there;

To worship rightly is to love each other,

Each smile a hymn, each kindly word a prayer.

Back To The Circle

2011-11-30T12:02:00.000-05:00

With growing interest in growing one's own food, I'll share a bit of my second year on New England soil. From the Midwest I came with little remnants left of my former farm. I felt shame in uprooting plants and didn't want seeds tainted with whatever might have been floating around the fields bordering my well missed old farm possibly tainting my new pristine environment here. And so, I pretty much started from scratch...again.

With that mindset, why not follow through then, in all ways in my it's-a-new-day life? Starting from scratch isn't truly the beginning of a beginning when you're just this side of 50, no- it's more like taking life as a huge compost pile and using the best of the steaming hot mess you're left with.

Kale and garlic scapes, lovely neighbors.

This year, the Big Fish and I started our whole garden from seed, with the exception of Kale seedlings from a local organic grower as the slugs and deer combined devoured my tiny starts again and again. And some local, though with deep regrets as the man brought these suspect seedlings home- canning cukes. If I don't give the man a little leeway in the garden, his pride and feelings seem to get a little sore, so of course- comprises were made. The Big Fish never thinks I plant enough cucumbers, (although I must have set out close to 40 plants) well, not enough to thoroughly wet his appetite for pickles. I wonder if I would have entered into this relationship so heavily if I had only known of his pickle obsession? Too late now, I'm in deep with canners, ball jars and a highly sought after prized recipe for Russian Bear pickles with a flavor such as I had never encountered before- sweet, spicy and fruity. If it were up to him, I suppose several thousand jars of these pickles would be as good as money in the bank, trouble is- he'd never let anyone else withdraw. He is by far one of the most giving guys I know, except when it comes to pickles...a chink in the armor, my prince has fallen from grace, he is seriously deeply pickled.
.

Winter rations

Oh there I go again, off the subject...I intended to write this post as a welcome to new and old lovers of food and gardening; of nostalgic stuff with a touch of sentimental craziness. When you start a new venture from scratch or leftovers- in the beginning, it is exciting! My seed shack in the hoopcoop started just this way- spruced up and everything in it's place. Labels- got it. Water source- got it. Organized set up with stereo to boot- got it. Photo albums full of used seed packs, with hand written linear notes included! Got it! It looked really swell and I sure enjoyed my late winter days out there with the seeds and smells of compost mixed with unhibernating dirt; a soily earth perfume wafted all around and kept me romantically in tune with my surroundings. (Including my chicken and guinea neighbors as they shared the next compartment over in a Florida like winter home- their music of soft clucks and scratching was as fine as any melody.)

March lingered a little longer than need be, April sure as heck didn't kick up her heels hardly at all, but May whispered first with Raven's call, when I hear and see more of those big birds- to me, they are the harbinger of Spring. ( A well written observation of a Raven's nature Ravens In Winter- I highly recommend.) I could go into a whole interesting to me tirade on my neighboring Ravens, but I won't...yet. Like the Ravens and every other bird, lizard and bug around this farm- I got down to the business of Spring. Earnestly and gleefully, composing the garden seed by seed and row by row. Every day, something else half haphazardly compiled in the seed-shack while little transplants exited out into the protected cool air of a hardening off room and then finally out into the great big world of wonder.

Disarray in the seed-shack.

Chaos consumed the formerly tidy seed-shack, and like life- there is now little order to be found in it. My winter gardening plans include a much needed clearing of that chaos, I plan to spend many a hard winter day occupying that room, trying to make some sense again of the clutter.

Gardening, growing your own food is a circle, not semi or partial- but full. It takes you through all seasons if you are truly sincere in your occupation of it. In my experience, it is best to not become dismayed by all the troubling chaos of any aspect of life. In the fullness of time it takes to tend to any endeavor- the moment will come and it will feel and be right, you will recognize it if you but learn to trust your self and your surroundings.

I always come back to the circle, not where it started or ended- that is invisible as it should be; I come to the center and try to see it all. It was a good year I can clearly see now; of trying new things, experimenting with new ideas and expanding old ones. That my friends, is what growing anything- is all about. It's a well thought out plan turned upside down by the experience of actually doing it. Sometimes you trust your self and other times you simply just have to trust the moment and work with it as best you can with your two good hands and brain muscle. Two quotes I am left with and may be worth pondering to others-

Weather plays havoc with organized plans, but loosely made ones stand to reason with a stormy day.

Leaps of faith are not reasonable or well planned after all- their opportunities often come unannounced. I don't think you can be too prepared, but it helps to be open and ready to rise to the occasion.

Little chick lifts off towards some high oats.

An essay of a post by golly, I need to write more often...see you then. Take care-

From Seed, To Field, To Harvest, To Plate

2011-11-15T13:16:00.000-05:00

I'll be getting back to the farming way of life in reporting here as so many are seeking new ways to live in a sustainable manner.
The Big Fish and I have created 13 new raised beds, made out of local hemlock. Last year's cold, wet growing season affected the yields negatively, so we decided if we can't control the weather perhaps we can at least try to somewhat control the growing environment.

My back, neck and shoulders cry out in pain from yesterday's shoveling of manure, and don't it feel good! My no till method does not appeal to my Big Fish, so these raised beds helped us reach a compromise there...less weeding, no need to till and hopefully greater bounties of garden produce will soon offset the price of lumber used to create the beds.

I am planting all my garlic in raised beds as a local homesteader wowed me with his crop and abundance of the biggest, healthiest cloves I have ever laid eyes on. Incidentally, he has provided me with 30 plus year old strain from Maine garlic bulbs. I hope I do him and the garlic proud. He is a younger grower with his partner, I had stumbled upon their place on one of my many meandering drives. One day I decided to invade his privacy by stopping by and picking his brain- mainly due to the interesting welded sculpture out front of his raised bed gardens. A farmer who creates art out of cast aways? I had to acknowledge my own history of rusty tree hanging Pterodactyls I had made out of auction finds, unable to believe there wasn't still some useful life in old farm tools! The BF and I pulled right in and were instantly welcomed.

Farmers, gardeners are like that; friendly, open and all about helping another learn something or two about their operations that might lend a hand to your own. I discovered this kindly cooperation a few years back when attending classes through U of I Farm Beginnings classes. Through an internship I found many experienced farmers who were more than happy to share their knowledge and experience if one would help out occasionally with onion planting and other muddy jobs that require physical labor. I learned along time ago from my Dad,

"if you want to gain something, you must give something in return."

Pretty simple logic, tried and true- and a way of life for many years in rural communities. I'm happy to see that many are returning to sustainability, golden rules and just plain common sense; you may not be able to see much of that in newspapers, financial institutions, Wall Street, television or what Hollywood puts out- but one can find it in Countryside, a magazine/journal written mostly by people living off the land life. I subscribe to this magazine as it hits close to home- living, working and sharing experience of one's own way. Also- talk to your food growers at the farmer's market you attend. You'll be amazed at the knowledge found there and much of it free for the asking- recipes, growing techniques, seed purity and story. If you can't ask your grower why, when, where and how, then you've missed an opportunity in learning something truly worth pondering. From seed, to field, to harvest, to plate- the food we eat has it's origins and your food provider can and should supply that knowledge. That's as about as honest and common sense as it gets, most difficult these days to find such opinions unless one looks to the earth and to those who coax life from it- giving back more than they take.
Take care-

Pay Dearly

2011-10-27T11:05:00.000-04:00

I forward this information freely,( thank goodness for the internet!) so that others might not as well be taken off guard at a vulnerable time and might know the true costs of what many may think is a free or nominal fee service. A warning dear friends, be prepared to pay dearly.

Every major newspaper, and minor ones* charge exorbitant and as far as I'm concerned, unethical charges for placing obituaries for our loved ones. The following is my response to the tune of a bill for $441.00 to place a fitting tribute to a public servant of the state of Illinois and a loyal citizen of these United States, my grandmother.
(*I am protecting the guilty, myself and the innocent so as not to get my ass sued off, freedom of speech comes at a cost...)

To the capital of Illinois' Newspaper*

I took the liberty of taking her life out- stats and money...got it. She lived, she worked, she procreated, she died. Thanks Springfield Illinois Capital Newspaper for whittling her down to "stats".

She took the paper for as long as I can remember, was a very big fan of the State of Illinois, was nominated for a Copley Citizen Award many years ago because so many school children and foreigners wrote in about Illinois's "great ambassador" Isabel Howard.(Abraham Lincoln she took to heart and made sure that everyone who visited the Old State Capital knew just who that man truly was. She was kind to all, and affected people thus so that they took the time to write letters when they returned to their home states and countries.) She worked for the war dept, loading live ammo into shells because she felt it her duty- loyal citizen of this great state and country that appallingly- runs on stats and money.

Not intended to be sharp with you *Zelda, you've been more than kind and professional- but the price of placing an obit for a lady who did so much for this state and much of it volunteer (none of that could go in the obit, she was by far one of the most humble people I ever had the privilege to know.) is an absolute dishonor. And I guess I'm glad she won't know about this, how her precious state and paper would only sum her up in stats and charge an exorbitant amount to say anything other than the absolute bare bones of a life.

Effingham daily, fifty dollars they charged. I'd encourage you to see that beautiful write up...a newspaper still with heart and honor.

Please forward this to the higher ups...not meant to tear at you, you've done your job, but just like my dear old grandma who stood up when necessary and said what was true and right so that others might not have to-

Shame on you *capital of Illinois Newspaper, it is appalling that you'd pick the bones of the dead for a few more bucks.

And what of the poor people? How can they possibly honor their loved ones with an obituary in their hometown's paper?

Please send me the new bill and I'll pay asap. And if ever someone needs help placing an ad, I'd be honored to help those monetarily who only want to remember and uphold their loved ones with a small piece of their life story in their hometown paper. Let's call it the extra lines fund...or do you * simply just turn those people away in shame and guilt because they could not afford the bill?!

There is no excuse as far as I'm concerned for making money off the vulnerable, so do not try to explain unethical behavior...please just send the new bill. Thank you.

Sincerely,

*truewonder

Here; an ethical example of honoring a loved one in the Effingham Daily News.

http://effinghamdailynews.com/deathnotices/x783642700/Isabel-Howard

love fiercely

2011-10-23T23:39:00.001-04:00

The colors are still brilliant. The stars overhead are bright, the sun shined today and left a pink reminder at day's end that everything will be alright. But...my sweet dear Grandma passed yesterday and even though her life was long and sometimes good, I don't quite know where to put my heart. She's been with me since the day I was born. She, the eagle in human form would die, of course- we all do. But it was her dying, her slow limbo like dance between here and there that really got me. I found myself praying that she'd just go, so she wouldn't suffer and yet- did she or do I? It's awful hard to let people go, and it's even harder to feel it. I think I'm fighting the feeling, I'm on here tonight with dinner dishes still stacked in the sink. Apple sauce waiting to be finished, laundry and travel arrangements, a scanner that won't scan the most beautiful pic I could find of her for the obituary because the printer is shy of one cartridge which I don't even need- I just want to scan. Dammit.

I will say that I miss her, will miss her even more- will miss that one voice of wisdom that I could count on. That one wobbly way of standing as she did. Her voice, her handwriting even...I pulled out an old card, looking for that elusive photo and her handwriting was on it. Precise. Upright and as plain as it gets and yet, the quality of the way she signed her name will never be again. I am lost without my grandma, I haven't held her hand in so many years and yet right now, if only she could take mine and steer a bit, well...my mind seems flooded with images. All the stories of all the moments ever in my life, included her. I wish for the world then, a grandma like that. One who never pretended to know all the answers, one who often encouraged me to simply forget and go on. One who never hardly ever cried but when she did, it broke your heart into a million little pieces that could not be put back together until she gathered herself up and went on. She knew that, could see that so she always held together...for us.
I'm an orphan. A forty nine year old orphan and I want my Mocko...she'd just cluck at me. Roll those brown piercing eyes and run that forget it line by me again. She'd probably offer me candy, a pink peppermint tablet or a chocolate star. She wouldn't have much to say, she always just was...I could count on her just was. And now she just was was...sounds like a pity party going on here. Dammit.

Tell me grown up orphans left to fend for yourself, do you feel this way- did you feel this way at a later age and thought you'd handle it better? For gosh sakes, she was ninety something- she couldn't live forever. A part of me, the innocent dot of me- very well thought she could. I guess I have to convince myself that tomorrow I'll rally and all will be well. That grandma flew to where grandma's fly and gather up all the lost loved ones left before...and I'll think of her smiling and maybe she stands again tall and straight, voluptuous and lovely, kicking up her heels in a hell bent for heaven polka. Oh I hope so, I hope she joined with a certain young man that I'll miss forever and said-

"She needs us now, sure hope she settles down enough that we might get through in some pink way..."

Maybe, oh maybe that was her smile in the sunset. And maybe I won't cry anymore and be so damn bitchy. Maybe I'll quit licking my wounds and go out and greet the world again. I've been avoiding it and it doesn't stop you know, not for me or you or Grandma Mocko's passing.
It should though, it really should. She was something and this world hardly knew her, that's the saddest part of all. Folks like her, plain and hardworking, soft spoken and private, never meddling yet always ready to steady you. She knew her mettle but she never boasted about the fact that she could kick any body's butt that needed it and she would if it would help them, otherwise- she didn't trouble. Humble and proud in an old lady way. Wore Mocha Red lipstick every day that I knew her...looked this side of seventy and still blushed.
Surrounded herself with things I thought, but those things I see now- were gifts bestowed on a good lady who never wanted for much and rarely purchased a thing for herself except the occasional cookie.
Off she goes then, out of sight. And I can only reach her now, backwards through thought and memories.

I'll tell you finally then, this. It doesn't matter how old or young they are when they die, they're just as gone and they take a whole lot of you with them; it empties places in you that will remain so unless you fill them again with the stuff that shaped you. And that's the hardest part because those who love fiercely give it freely and over fill us. There's always more and you never even once had to ask for it- you see that clearly the unclearer they get. Best I can do is be like that to those I love, fill them up overflowing- like she did.
She wasn't a praying woman. She just accepted everything, pure faith.
Damn. I wished I would have asked her about that.

Recognition

2011-10-11T09:58:00.000-04:00

Good morning, and only one week between posts- Me? Somewhat organized? I'm really not...although I do trust my internal orneriness, stamina and damned stubbornness in getting done what needs to be done. Lists would be easier, I do keep those but they're pretty jumbled up too. I get hard to live with when I cross things off the list, and the Big Fish just hums as he is apt to do when he knows it's far better to hum than to cross my pluckiness. Imagine a broody hen with menopause... afraid of nothing! Bound and determined! Incorruptible! Emblazoned!...

... as the leaves dripping with color that tastes like wine to the eyes! Vivid is the ending of the day when the full moon shines her face upon the sun's last efforts- Does she long to share the sky with the sun, a romantic time for two to hold sway there in the last and full light adorned below by rapturous color? And I wonder more and said out loud on a rocky romantic road-trip with the fella,

"I understand the logic behind the science of leaves falling, season's changing, the temperature fluctuating and the sun and moon phases...but I do not understand, why such beauty that goes along with it? I mean, what would the point be? As long as those seasons change and unfold, change and unfold- what could possibly be the logic behind making it more?!

Why not garble it all up in a cement mixer, like man does when he lays a foundation- rocks and dust, water and motion, grey is the outcome and yet, there lies a strong foundation after it dries...
But I must question that logic further when I wonder- what if love was part of that man made mixture? Would the rocks not be then, the most beautiful to be found? Would the dust blend beautifully with but never totally saturating the rocks? And wouldn't that foundation touch more people as they strolled by it, I mean really touch them in such a way that would bring about a harmony of hearts, echoing each others joy at such a marvelous sight?!

And I can't help but wonder then, if each would recognize in the other a similar spark of adoration for what is created with love?...."

"Take the picture...." he hums.

And so I do.

Shuttering at all the Beauty

2011-10-04T23:10:00.001-04:00

Leaf Laden Path

All along the roadside, trees are covered in jewels. Again I find myself thinking about the old year, the droughts and rain, the sunny days too few- but all resurrects itself in the colors that greet me at every bend. Maine- Washington County to get specific, is one of the most wondrous places I've ever seen and I get to live here. I had to drive to Addison for a part time job testing,but even in the rain- how could I be testy? So what if I'm following an inconsistent moving log truck or a car with across-the-river-license-plates that speeds then pokes, speeds then pokes- these colors are to die slowly for. Even in the rain, an oil slick upon my windshield- how does any of the little miseries compare, how can any sorrow stay when what I'm seeing still cannot fully be absorbed- fall in all it's splendor, even right out my back door?

Dress rehearsal for the peak season...

I hope the sun shines as it will or won't on Thursday, I'll take my Canon and shoot; shuttering at all the beauty. My oh my, I wonder if I'll cry should I come upon a Moose? Only if he steps quicker than I can brake, otherwise- even a silhouette as big as a barn door is welcome. In fall, in Maine- is a glad time. Happy or sad, bumbling to boot- it won't matter, I haven't got a care when the moon is hanging and the pantry is almost full of my garden's goodness. You can frown at me, sigh long and hard, merrily I'll swap smiles with you and wonder out loud, do you see it too? The Autumn way, the roadside paved with the golden rush of all the fallen. Mother, please take them in- the leaves so full of rich blood red with deep bright veins of the last of the greens for the year. It is enough then, to simply see and be ever so grateful for valuable sunshine, worthless rain and the glow- the golden gracious glow!

Mama Moose beautifully drab next to the fallen

I aim to bring you plenty more color in the days to come...
Take care-

uncivilization

2011-09-28T14:38:00.001-04:00

Leaving Maine...Summer still

I headed out to Illinois for a very long trip, medical tests for a daughter I was greatly concerned for, all is well. Traveling through New Hampshire to check on the son who literally fell off the trail down a ridge, broke some toes, got back on and then fell again in the Wildcats; not to terribly far from ending his long hike. He'll have to wait until next year and tackle it again. All in all, my young man hiked hundreds of miles and I am quite proud of him. Hikers and I mean the majority of them, are truly decent and good people. They look out for one another, feed one another, keep each other dry in the rain and laughing in the storms. There's a bearded, hairy bunch of humanitarians out there and by gosh, I'm awful thankful my kid had the gumption to go out amongst them and live like that.

I drove through New Jersey and Conneticut on a GPS snafu- never again, no sir not even on a million dollar bet. How anyone can do that, day in, day out is beyond me- traffic and intolerance. Seemed like such disregard for one another and even themselves, passing blindly- I know that there are many individuals among them, good people. But I can tell you, I only met a few- one genuinely kind construction worker trying to get me around traffic through country directions. Another really funny yet serious guy at a gas station who saw my pick ax in my door as I was exiting the truck.
"Don't let them see you with that!"
"Who?!"
"The cameras."
I looked around, didn't see any of those...
"It's illegal to defend yourself in New Jersey."
"Get out of here!"
"I'm serious, don't get caught with that thing- they could arrest you."

I am back to uncivilization and thanking my lucky stars. Between being civilized and treating other people like they just don't matter,treating children like they are to be disrespected in the most sad and ugly ways, no thank you. I'd just as soon be uncivilized and take my chances with a Black Bear and her cub, four feet of snow and storms that raise the rain right up through the rafters. I'd rather be able to see the stars at night and not be considered weird because I mention "did anyone notice the harvest moon, isn't it lovely?" at a lonely old rest area in the middle of the night. People have just stared at me, like I'm from some other planet- all because I dare smile at them or say hello. It's a grave concern when folks look at you like your Jack The Ripper just because you wished them well, they're more open to rudeness and dishonesty- apparently, they do trust that kind of behavior.

Autumn invades Maine

So, yeah- I'm going to keep on writing this blog because I do have something to say and it's usually pretty decent. There's not enough decency among us, maybe somebody will catch a drift of their own thoughts built up in mine and go up from there.
Life is good. Sometimes maybe only in seconds, and sometimes those seconds aren't even consecutive- but the sun came up this morning and I waited on it. Lovely. It only lasted a few seconds, but man oh man it restored a goodness in me.
There's clouds out there right now waiting for me to notice them. There's fat yellow butterball hens cleaning up some of the remnants in the garden, I like to hear them talk. And they treat their little ones well I notice, so I'll make sure to keep their water up and their grain bin full so they'll keep that good business up.
And I'll keep here, a good word. For you. Hope it helps.
Take care-

word singing vale ringing

2011-08-16T12:27:00.000-04:00

It is August, wet and wilder than usual. I will not be able for a time to attend this blog as other matters prevail.
I bring a snippet of news of a wonderful journey taken by my youngest son who is hiking the Appalachian Trail. I had every intention of posting his just short of miraculous hike and the reasons behind it, but that will just have to hold for awhile. His name is Mathew and I could not be more proud of this young man who has hiked so many difficult mountains in his life and is now applying all that discord and turning it into the trip of his life. Maybe it will be he in time coming on here, to say just what it was that inspired him to let magic come into his life and what he has discovered, what keeps him going even though he has taken a tumble down a ridge, winding up with some broken toes that he vows- "will not keep him from finishing the trail." God or whoever you deem Him to be and all the magic and goodness of kind thoughts of whoever reads this, be with Mathew.

I'll leave you with this for a time as it speaks so well of a creed that holds faith, hope and communion with each other in the highest form of compassion by simply singing out to each and everyone.

A Good Creed

If any little word of ours

Can make one life the brighter,

If any little song of ours

Can make one heart the lighter,

God help us speak that little word

And take our bit of singing

And drop it in some lonely vale

To set the echoes ringing.

Take care-

Dear Citizen,

2011-08-11T06:06:00.001-04:00

(Prior post, worth pondering again...)
It is entirely up to you how you interpret this photo. The nature lover in me notes it as a message from Mother...

Dear Citizen,

You seem to have become preoccupied since my last message...are you paying attention?! You of all people, camera in hand, eyes like a near sighted hawk- I've left little notes for you everywhere. Remember the Garter Snake you stepped on just last week? A surprise to you I'm sure, but a note from me none the less. Take heed! The beauty all around is a gift from me to you and yours, but have you done enough to promote it's significance?

The fields are aplenty, but the soil/soul of nature has been neglected and abused. The tiniest of hosts have been starved...the plants, the roots that I have created are in dire need of compassion. The forests, if allowed- will heal themselves, the air and waters too. I have created an ecological model that sustains itself, will right itself in time. However- the good stewards of the land are most appreciated and are indeed needed for their necessary work in feeding their fellow man's heart,spirit and very existence. (The protests though at times seem a bit off the mark. Solutions are needed here...not more fighting.)

With a higher sense of purpose and above all praise- show the politician, the people, the masses through prose, poetry and pictures like the old masters did; a beauty they may not comprehend.

It is the heart of the poet that must convey the absolute essential worth of nature. The words must move one from an insincere security to a beautiful truth.

All one has to do when confronted with beauty is acknowledge with gratitude how restorative to one's soul a mighty oak, a sunset, a Monarch, a tiny frog, a Preying Mantis, a deep lake, a rushing river, a Grizzly Bear, a welcoming wind...truly is.

Enjoy this day. It is yours as it always has been, to freely do and make of it what you will. I do request with an earnest plea-

Deeply consider the beauty and begin again and again and again...to preserve it.

Thank you,

Mother

(T.L Starks 09/01/2008)

A little sunshine from a sass

2011-08-04T10:28:00.002-04:00

I look at all the faces on the shelf and smile. Such beautiful kind and loving faces, mostly- and oh the stories they tell! They all resemble one another a bit and some more than others...

Grandma Hope there, leaning on the door smiling and hugging herself a bit around the middle as she so often-ed tickled us with not so nice for young ears jokes. I loved her. She was my earliest account of a corker. She- even in her long and some may say lusty life- partied with Al Capone after picking his ducks free of feathers along side the Illinois River. It was a well known fact that prohibition prohibited little along the shores of that somewhat wild waterway.

Grandma and Grandpa, to supplement their sparse income- plucked ducks and geese, cleaned turtles and fish for out of towners. And speaking of fish, Hope liked to drink. Not in an alcoholic way- more of a spectator sport way. She was really good at it. I can recall in my lifetime and even in her very later years, 90ish...she could really sock them back. Not beer, no- that was for cheap thrills. She enjoyed her Wild Turkey and drank it every day. Followed by a shot of water. "My tonic", she'd say. She is the only woman I ever knew over 50 who said the "F" word, but only in jokes- still, I was quite taken back. She'd just slap her knee and laugh.

I tried to see her every so often, just to take her for drives or listen to one of her wonderful stories. I believe she must have been around 86, nearing her next birthday when I traveled to Browning for a visit. She decided she'd like to take a drive and so we did. Very seldom did Grandma wear pants, almost always a "house dress" covered by an apron that would be discarded by the door as she left the house. On this particular day, she looked quite fetching and felt so, she said. Oh Grandma! I thought ice cream should be in order and so she directed me to a little town, several other little towns away so that she might get the best root beer float going.

She had a wonderful way of winking and elbowing you, kind of like a gangster might do-

"Here's the deal chickee, see...we're going to hit the soda shop and show these folks what's up. Tangle their innards and get 'em laughing, they've all got cobs up their no sees and a little sunshine from a sass like me might do them all good!"

I smile now, but back then- she always made me a bit nervous. You never knew just what she might say or do...see what I mean by a corker?

I recall driving back home a different route, of course- she had stories for every mile and she was not one for repeating a tale, rescinding certain aspects maybe... She was never a bore.

As we traveled down the black top, I recall several cars passing and her telling me I better giddyup if I wanted to save face. So, feeling always a little ornerier in her presence, I pressed down on the accelerator.

"That's the way chickee, get them coppers wondering what they're up against!"

What a joy, she and I buzzing eight miles over the speed limit, feeling the wind in our hair and just a bit naughty...when, sirens then lights prevailed. Oh my! I looked back and sure enough- the dirty coppers were after us. I looked at my speedometer, I was doing 63 in a 55- shamelessly I might add. I pulled to the side of the road- hoping that my transgression did not add up to a speeding ticket but maybe just a warning, because those are so much cheaper and I could ill afford a fine.

The dirty copper was a straight laced state trooper and he did not care one iota for my little fairy-tale like story of taking my Grandmother out for a nice drive and ice cream for her birthday. No heart, just steel ice where it used to be...he asked for my pertinent info and proceeded to write up the ticket. I just stared ahead and seethed, not noticing yet what was going on in the passenger seat. My seething turned to shock and disbelief as I noticed out of the corner of my eye a bit more action than decently necessary next door-

"Hey sonny boy..." called Grandma as she proceeded to hitch her skirt up her leg and slowly jerk it a bit, kind of like a tease, exposing her very wrinkled knee.

"This is my granddaughter and she is so sweet to take an old lady out for a drive, don't you think?!" She would look at him and then direct her eyes down to her knee and then up again, real quick- to see if he might follow.

Horrified is not the word best used to describe- well, my absolute breathless shock! Oh dear, what to do, what to do...

He smiled at least, and shook his head. Thelma and Louise weren't getting out of a ticket and Louise there was really something to behold.

As he handed me my ticket he said have a nice day or something to that effect.

To Grandma, he leaned in and tipped his hat, giving a quick wink-

"Happy birthday lady, stay out of trouble..."

"You may kiss my ass sonny, don't know what you're missing..." as she winked back, and jerked her dress back down over her knee- no use wasting flesh on the inhibited.

Long drive home, and she never stopped talking- telling tales that would raise the hair on your toe nails. I never once thought to question her behavior with the knee exposing, for after all- she was my Grandma Hope, and when she couldn't live up to her name, she never tried to live it down either.

Happy Birthday Elizabeth Hope...I'll never forget you chickee.

the unlearning

2011-07-20T10:15:00.001-04:00

There is a scripture in the trees,

I have read it.

There is a heaven here, and there...

From what I've seen and haven't seen

From what I've learned and unlearned-

the unseen is too far

and

The unlearning is the hardest...

G-L-O-R-I-A: I've been on a film kick lately. Not just good fil...

2011-07-15T10:41:00.002-04:00

Take a look at an up and coming blogger...I know her well and just a little.

This is her Lilistic view of the world and I always did like it.

G-L-O-R-I-A...yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah!!!!

Wherever the sunlight dappled...

2011-06-21T08:57:00.000-04:00

Crab Spider

I just had to share this observation. I walk around with my camera in hand or in lap, whatever the transportation mode may be at the time of my "ah-hah!" moments or my "the light, the mist, the moisture that Iris blue sky- grab the camera!" distractions to whatever it is I may be doing at the moment. Yes, even driving...but only on back roads and only when I'm putting along, ready for that moose to step out or to catch that bear streaking away from a blackberry patch. Those moments of moving mammals aren't often caught with any great focus other than my absolute shift to awe and wonder, then and only then- does the camera become meaningless and I just mentally make note, or as I like to say- moments like that are carved somewhere within me and I draw upon them when I get to thinking that this old world is such an ugly place sometimes. (Although, that kind of thinking is pretty fleeting with me and not carved anywhere as I am able to shift away from those dark, dampening spirit thoughts and move directly towards the sunny spots that warm and revitalize. That's just how I roll people!)

Yoga-like position

So, onto the subject of the matter...Ron Howard's collaboration with his daughter and Canon in an open call to all photographers,( professional and dabblers- like me, to submit theme related photos that basically they're going to be building a movie around-Imagin8tion) really got my juices flowing. By golly- I was going to get their attention with some fantastic shots or wondrous event unfolding right before my lens...well, that didn't happen- I didn't get their full attention, but no matter! The thing that caught mine, and is now etched and carved into my wonder vault- was a tiny little creature potentially easily missed and so very well hidden in plain bright sunlight that I almost didn't see her. And taking the shot was extra difficult, even after adjusting to the bright light and bright pink of the rose she boldly perched herself on- this little Crab Spider, this clever huntress made me stop and really observe. She sat in sun spots on the rose petal as to camouflage herself...in sunlight!
I could have sat there all day, learning from that little lady- watching her make the most out of her brilliant abilities...she mesmerized me and to this day, I'm still caught up in the web-less wonder of it all.

Wherever the sunlight dappled, that's where she fixed herself.

Deception-"an illusory feat; considered magical by naive observers", that'd be me...

Take care-

oh the high hopes...!

2011-06-15T09:27:00.000-04:00

Those that till the soil and plant the seed, till the souls too of all who share in the bounty of the garden.

Oh my, I sure have had a full dose of humanity this week...and tomorrow, it only gets better.

Our first farmers market begins Thursday in Princeton Maine. Trouble is...not many crops to speak of. Sure, they're all mostly in the ground, but the ground is boggy, cold and the sun hasn't shined much since...geez, I can't even remember!

I do have a fine crop of fresh photo greeting cards though. Nothing like waiting until the last minute to get all those finished, but- I was feeling vulnerable. My heart and soul in those pics, deep and quirky as it may be- will others follow along, see the logic in a tiny frog sitting on a leek? Or the small spider on a fallen leaf floating down a spring fed brook, brown on brown and yet the light just hitting all the high marks- an arachnid sailor with eight legs and countless eyes; a tiny spectacular bug in all it's brilliance- will that compute?
Whether or not the thought that I put into it leaps off the surface I suppose isn't really important, but the story of why or how or when- that would be plenty to take in and then tell- although I do hope folks will be willing to share some of their Hallmark dollars with me too.

Ahhh, the wondering of it all consumes me- happily I might add. Well, maybe there is one exception- I have to deal with an insidious sort...all the patience I must bear. All the tolerance I can stand... To a point and then, well- that's another vulnerability popping up. A few people around here are under the impression that I don't get angry, or impatient or wobbling mad. I'm a champion wobbler, let me tell you! I get just as balled up as anyone I suppose, though I seldom strike out as it seems to serve no purpose other than my own...and what's the sense in that? Usually I gather up my camera- mad, glad happy or sad- off I go and find expression in all sorts of landscape and fauna. I get those pictures downloaded and see just why I took a certain shot. Only then do I fully understand my motivation- in the light and the dark, the shadows and the shine; always I see that life is composed of opposites. Pictures tell the story that I could not- in all my humanness, comprehend until the shot was fully exposed.

So there you have it, a telling of the days and weeks leading up to a tomorrow that so many are looking forward to. What started with a tiny dream comes to full fruit tomorrow as we give this community something that gathers all the opposites together in what seems to me, a sacred place of opportunity. Story telling, art, hand crafted Maine-made creations, food- (this our commonest bond) will somehow I hope, blend us all together for a time. When that first car comes rolling in the parking lot- oh the high hopes we'll all have!
I will have the camera, I will take the pictures, I will historically depict this great day for our little community. I know it's not Washington crossing the Potomac- but it is a moment in my life I don't want to forget because of it's tiny triumphant message.

"He who digs a well, constructs a stone fountain, plants a grove of trees by the roadside, plants an orchard, builds a durable house, reclaims a swamp, or so much as puts a stone seat by the wayside, makes the land so far lovely and desirable, makes a fortune which he cannot carry away with him, but which is useful to his country long afterwards."

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Another chicken analogy..

2011-06-06T08:05:00.000-04:00

Good morning. The weather seems to be aligning with farming today, I have half the gardens planted although the peppers and tomatoes are none too happy as the night time temperatures went back into the lower 40's, quite steadily... We started all of our transplants this year from seed, so I'm especially protective of these plants. (I have had need to replace Kale with seedlings from local organic farm as something found all my starts delectable. I think slugs...they got almost all of my broccoli and cabbage too. I sprinkled wood ash all around the perimeter of these rows and now, no more problems.)

We found out the hard way- chickens don't like their coop all lit up. When we moved the "snow birds" back to their winter home from their Florida-like Hoop/Coop, egg production dropped a bit and then we kept finding half eaten eggs in the nests. I've never had this problem before and couldn't figure out exactly who the culprit(s) were and why- (given that they are extremely well fed with yummy greens to boot), they would eat their eggs! When they entered their summer home, I thought it best to do some spring cleaning and open up all the doors and windows to the fresh sunshine and breeze! I took down window and door coverings, turned their laying boxes to face the doors and loaded the cubby holes with extra sweet smelling hay- nice, dry and sunshine! The stress from the move, their dark hay-bale shelter from the hoop coop was no more, and they proceeded to be like cannibals and eat their own eggs. (I have noticed as well that it is the chickens who are not laying, the ones with the bright yellow legs, as opposed to the hens with the bleached-out ones, who are the culprits a/k/a soon-to be-Sunday-dinner...)
So, quite by accident the Big Fish was inside the coop, turned the boxes to the wall so he could set a trap and catch the egg eaters one at a time with the only available laying box to the other gals.
Low and behold...a funny thing happened. When I went to check for eggs, which became a very frequent endeavor as I didn't want to leave free lunches laying around...I heard a fuss coming from the boxes. My head said don't stick your hand in there, weasel or snake or worse?????! Like a fool who smells the milk carton even though it expired a month ago- I wiggled my hand down in there anyway. Two hens were sitting on top of each other with six or so eggs underneath them!
There was only enough room to barely slip a fat hen through between the wall and the box, but by golly- my Houdini hens did it and we have had no more problems.

Egg production is up and consistent, egg eaters are blind in the dark and I have learned a most important lesson-

It is not always in sunshine that we do our best production. Sometimes it is the dark places we find ourselves in that bring about the restorative balance most needed for a fresh new start.

Another chicken analogy brought to you by a true wonder...and a happy ecstatic egg collector! Take care-

And we who see

2011-05-27T09:09:00.001-04:00

Unlearned Lesson

Memorial Day

Of every year

The little valiant

Flags appear

On every fallen

Soldier's grave--

Symbol of what

Each died to save.

And we who see

And still have breath--

Are we no wiser

For their death?

~Dorothy Brown Thompson~

The greatest casualty is being forgotten, learn more-

Wounded Warrior Project

What makes for a vital life?

2011-05-10T10:16:00.000-04:00

Well...
Rain. Wind. Satellite intact still so I'll write here something of what I've learned from April.
Physical pain lasting too long...such a wimp (I have found out). Not that pain is intolerable, but my actions to keep it from entering my every moment are. Yikes. Horrible way to live, not turning one way for fear of bringing about the jolt and then the spasms. Makes it hell on this farmer to plant these days. But still, I find I am happy. Of course I had to first learn to be that way again or rather- choose it.
I think that's how it works. Choices we have we don't often choose...to choose. We simply accept this is the way it's gonna be for a LONG time. Oh my, how depressing. Thankfully, I found a wonderful masseuse and pretty wise human being in Lubec Maine. She really worked me over. And told me her story. She chose and chose and chose all her life, never once settling from what I could concur...hers is a vital life. I feel sometimes I get stuck in whatever the opposite of vital is- perhaps unnecessary would be the best opposition (or worst) to being vital. So- leaving just a little bit of room now for the pain, I choose instead to notice that it is getting better. Diminishing, dissipating and not so near darned depressing.
I'm such a physical gal, always have been. It's been a difficult bumpy ride, trying not to hurt more than necessary. But I hung with it after visiting that hopeful therapist, because she in fact did give me that more than a rub- hope. Didn't even realized how much I needed it. Thank goodness for those sweet champions out there who dole it out thick when we forget just how it's done.

And speaking of champions...perhaps visiting the Veterans Hospital yesterday with the Big Fish really made the choosing hope, vitality over despair and depression much easier. First there was the fellow who hopped and slid , hopped and slid down the hallway into our waiting room. On crutches, wearing plaid, suspenders and a gigantic smile. See...that's the thing that gets me, inspires me- how the heck does he smile? We thought he just refused to use a wheelchair. Nope. "Still got one good leg, the other's fake. If I sit down, I always wonder if I'm going to get up...and I always do." Smile. I just sat there but everything in me wanted to bolt from my chair and hug him, thank him...for being so sunny when clearly, it rained often for him.

And then sitting again (one does alot of sitting in those clinics- but only because so many are being served, so it is an honor to just sit and wait with the best of them....) in the pharmacy waiting for the Big Fishes RX. Wheels, I heard them before I saw them- they whisked like push, slide- push ,slide as his hands did the work his legs used to. On the wheels was a man, gray headed and bearded, thin yet lovely in a graceful way. I know...odd description, but I was taken with his beauty. He shined. On me. Looked right at me for what seemed too long, I looked down- then up again and the smile just grew gentler.
Pleased to make your acquaintance.
Yours too.
Off he rolled, lovely as ever though never would he walk again. It only seemed to make him more beautiful and almost, I swear- almost out of doors, he talked so much with those hands and arms I wondered- could he fly? He saw me looking through the large plate glass window at him, almost as if he knew I was taking him and his every move into consideration. Again, that lovely smile towards me and then finally out, into the world.
What makes for a vital life? Do you know? Can you add anything to your own or others that might bring that vitality about?
I aim to get right on it after this post. My own life needs shined up a bit. So that others might see in me that same kind of beauty, vitality- like the man on the wheels who made me believe he just might fly some day.
Take care-

unfolding the green

2011-04-20T10:16:00.002-04:00

Earth, my dearest, I will. Oh believe me, no more

of your springtimes are needed to win me over--, one,

ah, a single one, is already too much for my blood! Rainier Maria Rilke

Cool blue morning-North Conway, NH

Are you still visiting this all too often quiet blog? It is a reflection of it's owner as I have been pretty quiet and consciously busy. Not in a rip roaring way but in a steady kind of pace, following the seedlings. I've had a post whiplash headache, every morning I wake up and hope it's gone. Still here, but getting softer, more tolerable. It's making me patient. I hate that. Who wants to be patient?! The new plants require it. The day to day weather of my Downeast home site teaches it most thoroughly...so, I can put up a fuss and be beside my self with worry or I can simply enjoy this pace as I know too well how quickly it will pick up.

Cute kid

A friend called upon me last week to visit another friend's farm with her, see the new faces there. Before I left, the Big Fish was adamant...and really pretty hasty with his command- "NO GOATS!"
Goats? Who said anything about goats dear man, I was only going to go and see, take pics and revel in the sunshine. Pee-shaw- goats, isn't he silly?! (I'm working on him, believe you me....)

Irving, do you hear that??
Maude, you're driving me insane- it's too early I tell you!

And, Moosehorn Wildlife Refuge requires my utmost attention these days...the eagles are patiently waiting, I often find both of them on the nest as of late. I neglect to bring my tripod, although the camera is always ready to take these fuzzy but telling shots.

First volunteer of Spring

There is still snow in our woods, I can see it from the deck- although that doesn't seem to stop the little volunteers from flowering, what a happy sight to see!

Pussy Willows~fuzzy jewels of Spring

I remember back in Illinois trying to get these things to grow in my woodlot. No such luck, ever. Here in Maine- pussy willows grow everywhere and in New Hampshire too as this is where I took this photo on a recent hike.

Seed Shack getting a bit crowded

I love my seed shack. I'm like a little kid, having to be called in to supper about nine times! The only reason there is a post today- ran out of transplanting pots...

Spring brook in banks of snow

And finally, something new my eyes have to adjust to, time and time again- more awe. Traveling the woods- walking, trudging sometimes through snow then mud, sometimes bogs that aren't quite at their boggy best yet...then to come upon a spring-fed brook, further into the season than it's banks. Even the trees are slowly, gently- all along it's borders, unfolding the green while the snow and ice retreat, little by little backing away until winter cries surrender and spring triumphantly takes the crown of the season.

Right now, as I type this...and it is a wonder that the satellite holds as it is spitting little frozen icy balls outside, I still feel Springs tightening grip around the throat of winter. Last week, it was foggy weeping for the old man, this week- the last tantrum? an icy mix..

"..blow north wind, ice come raining down- today, I'm breaking the waves...tomorrow maybe too."

Here's to spring and sunshine. Let the winter ways pass, I am ready for IT!

Take care~

that eternal bubbling

2011-04-04T07:25:00.002-04:00

A heavy crop of snow.
Once again the blog is the last thing on my mind, but I do want you to know that as I wander and work, my camera is always with me. I capture this and that with the good intention of turning it into a blog post. For instance, this pic is from my walk on Saturday morning- after Mother Nature thought it would be cute to dump 14 inches of snow on us as an April Fool's joke. This poor little guy wasn't laughing-

A mighty little force of nature.

He was on my trail, in a rut as deep as a railroad tie- how something so fragile, so tiny could survive a snow storm in Maine and remain intact is another great mystery I hope I never solve. I picked him up quite gingerly, my heart sank as I figured he was as good as dead- but apparently the warmth of my hand was all he needed to revive. I placed him inside my coat and turned around early from my walk- I needed to get this little fellow into my warm seed shack until Spring really came for him. Just as I rounded the bend on the lane, up and out he fluttered- to an old dead Birch tree near my mailbox- maybe the loosened bark on that tree would serve a cocoon like purpose. It still amazed me, the whole small experience of finding a butterfly in April in Maine in a foot of snow....

Raised beds in the hoop house- snow bank outside.

And those seeds started in the seed shack in March in Maine are now doing quite well. We have 31 flats started and are fixing to start about 20 more if I can make more room. The Asian greens are already to be put into a colder climate as well as some turnips I started- I know, I know but I can't help my self. I'm a Midwesterner by birth and now is the time to plant this stuff! Last year at a market I sell at, some folks thought I was a witch or something- bringing greens and radishes to fruit too early for mere mortals- nah, I just don't know any better. What's a little snow or frost- that's what they make plastic blankets and straw for.

I haven't had the best of luck recently- on a beautiful perfect day I wrecked my truck. Blueberry pie went flying, accelerator had a mind of it's own and frost heaves in the road set it all in motion. I hurt my pride and my shoulder but all else worked out. Although- take this to heart and heed it from someone who wished they had.-

If you get a recall on your vehicle- do as it says. I just received mine in the mail two days prior to the accident- it encouraged me to remove the floor mat- this encouragement I did not read until after the wreck. If only...

Well, that's just about it in a nutshell- seeds are started, more work to do there. Snow is covering this lovely land but surely will recede soon when the temps hit the 50 mark, as they are rumored to do come midweek.

Guineas do not like the white stuff.

I hope your Spring is bringing that eternal bubbling about in your veins, may you feel looser, may you be free to wander and wonder at the small things bursting through the earth just at your feet. Something in that tiny stem excavates a person's soul from the deep, cold trenches of winter- the thaw begins as light reaches in and all is made anew once more.

Take care-

The Little Starts

2011-03-21T07:12:00.002-04:00

Follow effective action with quiet reflection. From the quiet reflection will come even more effective action. --James Levin

~Garden Stakes~

The Big Fish and I have been busy...

We have recently collaborated in our slow-dance-two-step-honky-tonk-bluesy-sway way, and built a seed shack.
I am the frugal farmer and he- the techno toy boy; you don't have to spend money if you take the time to innovate and expand an idea with materials at hand versus install fans, run electricity and make sure it's all on the level.
So- we take the best of both worlds, lay it out and intertwine a design that is efficient, cheap, and maybe a little bit crazy though mostly- sustainable.

Hoop house, seed shack, new kitchen in the works...I don't ask for these things. He simply listens. I talk too much at times...(dreaming out loud) and he listens equally as much- somehow, we have become quite in tune with one another, I am spoiled now too. Not like a bad egg but like a good pile of compost- broke down in such a way that deep in the center there seems to be something remarkable and useful in keeping our union quite fertile. He finds me amazing at times, the feeling is mutual...is there any other joy that matches the art of a relationship that is both reciprocal and amazing?!

I come from a place way back when, where dreams were kept stifled and still. Now I dance. In the seed shack. The Big quiet Fish smiles shyly and eventually gets up from his listening post- and we waltz, forgetful of the crooked, potholed roads we both have traveled, of world hunger and sadness- amnesia sets in and there we twirl in the center of the universe.

~Sweet Guy~

The seeds we plant may not make up for quakes, for seas sweeping in and taking more than is humanly bearable, but the little starts- the first true leaves of a new tiny creation here, seems a solid investment for a hopeful future.

I cannot control the climate in the universe- but I can somewhat right here, right now- control the garden given me to tend.

Pocket Knife Seeding Method

Seeds of life and seeds of dreams- at least, it is something more than a chance or twist or a quake- it is a choice made daily to grow flowers and fruit; to hold up my end and if need be, take up the slack where so many who suffer through no fault of their own- have lost their grip.

Take care-

Made To Shine

2011-03-09T11:13:00.001-05:00

In the heavens among clouds, stars are being born,

Nearby in a neighboring land, children are being lost.

Deep in the darkest corners of space, suns become bound together.

And in sad cities, childhood itself becomes lost.

They were arguing, the two young men blocking my path to the escalators. It was not apparent at first, that they were even friends.

"Excuse me...."

"OH, sorry lady, sorry..."

They immediately moved aside as I began my upward climb with a very heavy green case, a half empty water bottle fixing to fall out of a way too cumbersome bag filled with camera, books and a lighter than I started with, wallet. The escalator rose with me, the young men and several other nondescript travelers. It was late. I should have gotten into the Boston station from Chicago by 9:30 PM, instead- eleven. Great. I missed my connection and no more buses or trains would be leaving out towards Portland Maine until the early AM. This is where the young men and their argument came into play. They had a ticket they needed to sell, as Portland was not where they intended to go together. One guy was heading in the opposite direction of his buddy and due to circumstances- they decided it best for the broken hearted one- not to be left alone.

The ticket seller would not adjust the ticket, refund the money or listen whatsoever to the two young men. I had nothing more to go on, so I opted not to buy their ticket- matter of fact, it was time I estimated- to just sit and gather my self and the information at hand before I decided to buy any ticket anywhere.

The broken hearted guy was tearful. But he was very tough so it was exceptionally hard on him to cry or not cry- no emotional in bursts or outbursts no sirree- be tough. Be a man. Learn from your friend that you just met at the station- "Your sister won't be here to collect you, man.... I don't know how to tell you this...I'm so sorry. Your baby died."

That was the argument early on, in front of the escalators, remember? The heart breaker was giving a message that the heart broken could not, would not bear. Apparently he had just come out of rehab after several months. Seems he had a choice back then- jail or get your self dried up. He chose the latter, but before he left- he hugged his new infant son, made promises to him that his own father never kept in all of his life and went away to get better. He came home to Boston. To a new life. To a cold new beginning.

I learned that his mother was homeless, raised him mainly homeless, she was a heroine addict or whatever she could get and yet, he loved her and respected her.

She had no choice. The father early on made a waste out of her and the son just hung on as the Dad eventually took his own life after inflicting much pain and homelessness on his little follower family.

Yeah...this is a sad story. Trouble is, it's true. The heart broken guy, only 17. The heart breaker friend, a bit older and loyal as anyone I suppose, the heart broken guy had ever known.

"I don't care about the ticket, you need to go back to Portland."

"No man...I'm not leaving you now. My sister said she'll come tomorrow to help us. I'm staying..."

"Why? What's the point? I don't want to live. Why would I want to live now? I'd jump in that harbor but it's so fucking cold, and I've been cold all my fucking life and I just don't want to end cold..." And he sobbed then. He broke. And I was there. And all I could do was not break too.

"I'm so sorry, take my hand..."

"What the fuck lady, get away from me...leave me alone, God dammit!"

"Please, accept my hand, I don't know what to do for you...hold it. Take it, tell me..."

His friend intervened and that is how we sat with him, in between us- just like that.

So- that's the story of how I spent the last night of my journey home. In a Boston bus station. Holding a young guys hand. For several hours. That's all I could do and it was all the warmth I guess, he could take. But he let me. His friend sat on the other side of him, in silence- sometimes he'd look at me and I'd look at him and we knew between the two of us was heaven and hell battling it out in a young- too too young soul.

Did I mention this heart broken guy was beautiful as I had ever seen? Raw, yes. Broken, oh my God... Capable of moving past the instant sorrow on top of the life ladened with it? I tell you, I just don't know. I may never know. He held my hand and I held his and that's just about all any of us can do I suppose, in a bus station, in Boston where the marble floors are made to shine but people, homeless, hopeless people- shine just as much with a whole lot less care and attention.

I should have given that young man my number. I should have said- "Call me, let me know how your life is going...I want to know."

But instead, I left him with this-

"I don't know what to say, I'm sorry. You don't deserve it. Listen to your friend, he cares for you. Don't be alone..."

"What should I do? What do I do, tell me...."

"The next right thing," I said, " And then the next right thing after that."

As vague as that statement was, I could not say to him in all honesty- I don't know. He may have been hopeless for much and most and maybe all of his life...but, I am not. And someone I remembered, once said that to me...it didn't seem at the time a loving thing to hear, or even navigational for that matter- but in times of great despair, the truth is all that one can hear- even in simple terms as "the next right thing." Basic instinct tells us, for survival sake- what the next right thing is that keeps us alive and moving out of harm's way. That young man was not open to any blatant fairy tale or triumphant message from me or anyone- but he did hear that low down honest one. He did.

The next right thing then for me, was to write this story and tell his side. So maybe, just maybe some day- someone might read it and remember that being indifferent, blind to suffering while we rail against traffic lights and Charlie Sheen's behavior- is not the next right thing. It's not even close.

From where I sit, under my stable roof and blue sky above with a fire burning not eight feet away warming me almost too much to the point of being uncomfortable...well, I truly don't know what that is, uncomfortable. I know hope and beauty and see no reason beyond this moment to ever cry about anything, but instead be oh so grateful that I did not end up in that middle seat.

His name is Steven- he could use our prayers.

Thank you. Take care-

*I met Yosl/Joe Kurland on the train from Boston to Chicago...he sang for me in the great shiny hall of Union Station and taught me a bit of Yiddish and stories that perhaps made me more open to that young man in the Boston station.

He reminded me of a saying I had come upon years back-

“It is not your obligation to complete the work [of perfecting the world], but neither are you free to desist [from doing all you can do]…”.

Yosl Kurland

flustered here on the farm last night

2011-02-13T12:16:00.000-05:00

In a few days, I'll be railing across America. Well, half way...from Boston to Chicago and then on down to more central points in a state that is known for it's half dead politicians and dead voters who vote often enough...
I must admit, I am terrified of those large cities- I find little of myself in concrete places, just not my element. What I do find are stories and the people behind them, folks I would have never met had I not gone to the outer limits of my huge comfort/freedom zone. I would be deeply remiss if I did not admit that by traipsing off into what seems from the wild wilderness- dangerous territories, I often do find such goodness and kindness- frequently in every person I meet. I do. Truly. Not just friendly bumps and sharing spaces, often enough- we stay in touch, we email and aaaarrrggghhhhh... Facebook, apt name. Faces, yes- (surface dwelling) but at least, it is a somewhat common connection picture posting world. But it's a fast connect- a virtual flash. Not much for memory storage...which for this truewonder, is like eating pie and never knowing what the flavor of the filling is because it gets left out. A light snack for this voracious eater just leaves me hungrier...

On with the story then! Oh yes, that's what you come here for- the story. I've got one...it's wondrous. It has to do with Mystery Guests and artificial shelters. Intriguing, no?! How about screams in the darkness, fumbling for boots that should be burned, feathers flying and stars penetrating a fertile darkness? Weapons and shovels, ice and mittens? Do tell you say?! Well, since you insist...

I read the book, I loved the book, I read the critiques of those who read the book and loved the book but not so much the movie. I liked the movie. I loved the actress and the man she fell in love with, well- who wouldn't?
The author of said book is a real gem and I'll always follow her because she's brilliant. But the book and the movie and the love parts that left more to the imagination than seeing boobs and never.. well- you know whats...they don't show those near enough in my way of thinking. Goodness sake, there's enough of 'em hanging around- what's the harm if one should be exposed like the booby flashing? Same difference- body parts that get us flustered and blushing...well, I do get red in the cheeks and I look around sheepishly to see if anyone else is happily embarrassed by nudity. There I go again, off the subject...little trips I like to take you on, just to see if you're paying attention...

I was watching the movie- Eat, Pray, Love. Totally immersed, completely alone and still- no boobs, no one-eyed monsters and it didn't matter if I blushed or not and frankly, the imaginative way the romances went, well- I liked that opening into my own mind of what might have been going on behind those closed doors and pulled curtains. Made myself blush... and then, speaking of monsters- I heard screaming. The screen scene showed India so I just assumed for a moment it was a peacock in their garden, just off camera. But then I began to hear Guinea fowl squawking, my head questioned- "Guineas in India?" And my brain then reasoned, although it is seldom geographically correct-
"No, Guineas do not live there..."
I jumped up, turned the volume down and the Guineas and something else resumed screaming, ever louder- every second. I stepped out onto the deck. I hollered,(like before a few posts back)...
"Hey! What's going on?! Hey, heyyyyyyyy!!!!!"
It didn't stop the squawking commotion and I didn't like the eerie screams, the curdling kind- coming from the direction of the hoop-house, which is known in winter time as the HoopCoop.
Because I keep the chickens in there...didn't I never tell you that? Sorry. I do keep the poultry out there in a Florida-like room. Since the owl attacks of last week, I've gotten the Guineas to go in too, of an evening. At first it was like pulling teeth, but after two more of their members were beheaded- they all figured that the artificial clear cave might be better than being sitting ducks in a tall Spruce just next door.

The Big Fish was sleeping like a hibernating bear- chick flicks do that to him, I didn't want to rouse the bear...yet. So I fumbled blindly in the dark for those damn boots, and that sweet Carhart coat and green mittens but did not take the time- for time seemed to be of the essence...not for me so much, I tell you- I was a little afraid, wasn't sure what I might encounter out there, uh-hum...didn't take the time to grab a flashlight as the moon seemed ample to brighten up the yard. Down the stairs I ran, collecting Gideon and Etta as I went- had to pull their teeth too, it was cold- they were warm and saw no need, voluntarily deaf to boot- to go outdoors after dark.

As I rounded the corner out the back door, I spied a shovel sticking out of the snow pile and grabbed it up and carried it over my head like a villager ready to take on Frankenstein. Screaming, hollering- so just in case whatever was causing all the ruckus might be made just as scared as I was...helter-skelter I continued on. In opening the HoopCoop door, nervous soft cluck clucks and low, continuous whistles echoed amongst the Guineas- that is their way of saying to one another-
"The sky isn't falling yet so no worries, because I'll warn you and you'll warn me and we will scream loudly in unison when the time is right, agreed?!"

So to this talk I added,
"Babies, babies, chick, chick, chick, it's OK, it's OK...everybody here?"
Real low like- matching the quality of gentle cautious sounds...this always seems the best kind of communication when dealing with the Don Knotts of farm fowl, the every-ready-to-freak-out Guineas.

I looked up then to their roost and counted- they were all there. I looked around on the ground beneath them for any sign of a weasel or raccoon. Nothing. I checked out the chickens in their hay bale home- they were all but snoring. No nervousness there- the little black tenacious hen had every one calm and in order. I looked up one more time- I wondered if the Guineas must have just been able to see a shadow flying overhead- perhaps the owl from nights before was searching still, from great hunger- a midnight snack.

I could see the sky as if there were no thin veil of a plastic partition between me and the stars. All the condensation had melted during the bright sun day so there was nothing to frost or freeze causing an opaque screen usually, to look through. I was satisfied then with the shadow theory, sweetly I whistled my calm goodwill and goodnight to all and I went back inside to finish my movie and warm fire. Nary a nude scene left- still, I enjoyed the film to it's finish. Off to sleep went I, dreaming of far away places and islands with four hundred parrots.

My morning chores began earlier than ever, I had to affirm that all was well and that no unknown carnage came to be while I dreamed of carnal pleasures...which incidentally, amounted to chocolate rocks that you could pick up and nibble- I kid you not, that was my dream symbol from last night.

Eat+Pray+Love= Chocolate...makes sense to me.

Like the mysteries of nudity and love making scenes left to the imagination- I'll leave you with the same. And...some glorious frost imprints and really quite amazing hints to go on of just who or what had every one flustered here on the farm last night.

A Surprise Barrier to Hungry Claws and Beating Wings

Close encounters of the winged kind.

A few rips and tears to be mended.

Well then, that should do it. Happy Valentine's Day...I'll be back after my wandering ways have ended. I hope this long story keeps you well and again, please- I do request- check back on my last post. Do give a damn, it is as important as roots to a tree and seeds to a sunflower.
Take care-

Now is not the time

2011-02-09T12:34:00.004-05:00

I do not consider myself an activist but a participant. I do not align with any group or people or product based solely on approval or disapproval, financial situation or affiliation. I strive to bear my options and opinions by my own research, thoughts, observations, experiences and also due to greater scientists, writers, thinkers than I- past and present. I aim to ruffle a few feathers again...please listen.

There is no greater threat to mankind than a non viable seed supply.

I will always, until my dying day- speak out against that unimaginable end- a Silent Spring...

Freedom is at stake- when the fork you lift contains ingredients not of nature but of corporate greed large enough to bypass even the USDA and infiltrate invisibly both the fields of plenty in our great nation as well as the fields of freedom that our votes once allowed us- when deregualtion of an absolute uncertain modification is allowed to possibly infiltrate our food supply based on research done solely by the corporation itself and our government, from the bottom up says- "that's good enough for us", we certainly must question that government and remind them that this is not a dictatorship but a democracy.

President Obama is accepting letters, he may not actually read them- but surely the White House might consider the mountain of evidence from concerned citizens who refuse to accept one sided reports that concern everyone's livelihood, freedom of choice in the food we eat, in the seeds we plant. Perhaps if thousands would make just one statement-

"We need absolute proof from ALL SIDES before we ingest anymore of this substance -before we allow it's unknown repercussions to our precious land."

or simply offer up this question that must be answered fully and without deceit -

Are genetically modified seeds benign or malignant?

If that question cannot be answered without full disclosure from all studies- now is not the time to allow Roundup Ready Alfalfa to prosper.

Please visit the link below. I am not asking you to give a dime or a drop of blood. I am beseeching you to concern your self with what concerns each and every one of us. There is a direct link to President Obama's office. Thank you.

Four Things You Can Do To Defend Food and Environmental Safety Until the Question is Answered.

February 12, 2011:
The flood gates have opened, now this too-
Food Safety News-Union of Concerned Scientists

I hope that soon I will read that the people have spoken- that we care enough to dare say "answer our questions fully or we will continue to question everything"...trust is such a hard thing to earn, it's time our government tried to earn it again and not bypass the citizens that make up what has always been a land fought and won for freedom's sake, not for a corporation's way-over-the-line greed.

And one more thing, since you've come this far- do treat your self to President Roosevelt's speech that turned the tide for so many, I don't know if it's fear that most needs conquered these days...but I am certain it is greed, and we as a nation must take a stand against it.

A Rendezvous With Destiny

Mystery Guest(s)

2011-02-03T09:59:00.000-05:00

What makes a supposedly sane person or bird for that matter- go out into a storm just to see what hasn't been seen, ever before at the bird feeder? What strange force compels one to sit beneath a spruce tree with a recently replaced new digital camera that one could barely afford, and risk it's demise in a frigid wintry mix of moisture, snowfall and gale forces?! Frost-bit be damned to the trigger finger...by golly, let it fall off- I must, I must I tell you- capture this image...

Mystery Guest

Who is this mystery guest? I was all aflutter when I spied him and he spied me. I tell you true, he did a little dance for me in the snow, not three feet away. I believe he may have been as excited to see me as I him. (Or her...) It could be the reciprocating glee came from the fact that I was filling feeders in a blinding snow- still, let me have this one dream come true. Just this one for now...a mystery guest came to these bold Downeast woods, and I am richer for it!

Now, on the flip side of that coin- the morning found me screaming at the top of my lungs, running through three feet of fresh on top of compacted snow with the most horrendous, useless boots on. And wave my arms I did, and gestured hugely hollering and yelling towards the culprit who just moments earlier had knocked one guinea off it's roost by ripping it's head off from above pine branch and then zeroed in on another while this intended second victim tried to makes it safe way through showering snow and little light. I saw this mystery unwanted guest pounce, grab, shake, rip- I heard the guinea scream to no avail while all others scattered, screaming too. I rounded the pen and in the ten second time frame blind spot- I lost sight of the killer. By losing sight yet never hearing the exit- I realized...an owl had just visited the tranquil forest's edge and reduced my guinea fowl population by two...
The one left on the ground, head still intact but...well, I won't go into detail - there was just enough life left that I held her and stroked her, gave her thanksgiving and farewell. My only regret- that the owl would have at least consumed these birds, instead- it came like a cat- dismembering, disenchanting the rest and me and now the safety in numbers and homestead is innocence lost to the not yet year old brood of the most nervous birds on the farm. This same fellow or female came back at end of day to perch upon the tallest Spruce in the yard- viewing, waiting, ready to do the same as it had done in the early A.M. In admiration, in joy- I would have grabbed my camera again to take THE photo of a great owl. But at that time, I had no welcome in me- I only wanted this guest to leave and never come back. So from a safe distance on our second snow covered story deck- again, I waved and screamed.

"Go away!!! Get away you bastard...leave them alone."

And then, after it seemed I had no affect on this wild forager- I pleaded with him-
"Then just take one to feed on, but only one. I know you're hungry, I know you need to eat too...but such waste you left in your wake this morning. If you are such a great hunter, prove it. If you are so wise, be that too. Don't take more than you need, don't kill just to kill. Surely you are a better bird than that."
I know...but when you're left with the only weapon that truly can make a difference, if only to your self- appealing with reason, if only your own- at least it brings a bit of peace to the situation.
From that lofty perch, where the owl remained and swiveled that magnificent head then- towards me...silently, swiftly and oh so very elegantly- he left. Up, up on open wide wings towards the deeper woods from where he came. And I was thankful, again- for a time.
Later I put on those awful boots, adorning myself as well with scarf and mittens, Carharts and an umbrella and waited with the rest...the guineas in their secret other perch, me underneath. We heard the who-o-o-s and fretted almost silently, so as not to give off the new position. But I thought I heard nervous talk among the survivors- and finally came the call from the new leader-
To me this is what he said to the clan, "We are safe as long as we remain together, quietly- until one feels truly endangered. Then by all means, speak up so that the rest of us might know what we are up against. Otherwise, quiet yourselves- be still..."

I went in then, to my warm fire- leaving the way of the world and the wild to the forces greater than I.
This morning finds me and the guineas, the Redpolls and Chickadees safe and in sunshine.

The owl? I do not know...he did not take me up on my offer, his ways are not my ways and as we both acknowledge each others predicaments, I guess one might say we live in peace at this telling- each on our own terms.

Redpoll

as plaid to weather

2011-01-25T12:04:00.001-05:00

The true harvest of my daily life is somewhat as intangible and indescribable as the tints of morning or evening. It is a little star-dust caught, a segment of the rainbow which I have clutched. ~May Sarton

Good mid morning...it gets to be about this time before my brain kicks in although I'm up at dawn with thoughts only- of getting the fire going. It may be 6 degrees outside, with a stiff wind blowing- but I am in here- safe and warm- so I will write a bit apologetically- of January.
Flurries and bitter cold for today. In Maine they don't actually call it flurries, they call it showers and that is an apt description. The way the wind blows and the snows come- seems to me a plaid design...coming from all directions and often ugly when taken to the extreme. My mind works in mysterious ways- I can't say for sure why I'd attribute something as unnatural as plaid to weather related circumstances- but I do.
Do you, dear reader- often wonder why you think the way you do or how is it that you pick up something familiar and add some kind of twisted symbolism to it? Again, please forgive- it is January and what else is one to do but clear out the cobwebs in the old brain? Yes, there's that as well as Clean up the desk and organize the clutter.

That is my goal today.

I have gotten awfully good at not keeping anything worth throwing out so the clutter is actually of use...but not in it's current state. Piles here and there, a bulletin board over the desk displaying many good intentions with thumbtacks to emphasize and hold some direction I had intended to go in- in place.
I seem to be getting better all around, meaning- blood pressure, pretty good. Goals- at best like little candle flames at the end of the tunnel, still flickering. Seed orders, progressing. Writing, writingwriting...aaargh. It's hurts my heart and my head- to bring out the gook. This blog of many colors has taken a back seat to the writing I won't share until it is bound and delivered or simply gone through and bundled for kindling. Therapy for me in season- writing in the winter, farming in the summer. Both begin with seeds, some take root- some go to more seed, some take years and years to produce a crop...and many never germinate.

(I can't help but think that the John Wayne calendar just aside the bulletin board is inspiring me to be ever more qualified in writing about the lessons I've earned...my Em gave it to me as a gift and I do so love the Duke. I enjoy his movies but more importantly to me- Mr. Wayne has always had a special place in my heart. Maybe it was his walk, his talk but most probably- he wasn't a fearful man in a role or as a participant in life to my way of thinking and recalling.
I remember being the only girl in third grade who diligently tried and did walk like the Duke and was frequently made fun of because of my gritty, hitching stride- but I just figured some day, they'd get theirs...and I would keep walking as I please because that surely was the thing to do, per John Wayne's lessons to me.)

Well, that's the post today~

Rather wide and far reaching, deep and uneventful- January.

Take care-

Chicken Coop Manifesto

2011-01-14T14:50:00.001-05:00

So what teaching is it that you would need to explore in order to transform your distress into wisdom? Rob Brezsny

I would like nothing more than to bypass that question, head on out to the little Hoop-Dee-Doo House and hang out with the chickens. But, me being a true wonder and all...that is a great question worth pondering.

It is good to be as smart as a chicken and that may not sound like the ultimate goal for any sky-high thinker but! the Big Fish and I have contended that maybe a good part of the population isn't... so- we kind of look to the poultry for common sense...

Similarities I have observed between the two subjects-

People vs. Chickens

Pecking Order

Pretty much the same, but people pretend to be mannerly when deep inside they're seething-"Hey bud! I was here first..." - we should peck back sometimes.

Laying eggs

*kind of, sort of- you know- like how we really get puffed up and clucky when we hatch a new idea.

Making sure Basic Needs are met- water, feed, shelter, safety in numbers, etc.

(of course not all people score well here...just saying.)

Communication

Talk, talk, cluck, cluck- thing is, chickens are actually listening to one another better- I observe. Doesn't take long for the slowest among them to catch on to the wisest and act accordingly.

Comfy spot/shelter

Hard to say here, more observation needed. (As soon as I'm done with this all too-time-encompassing post, I'll research some more- from a comfy spot...)

Joyful pursuits (No great scientist will ever tell me that chickens don't know joy-a fly loose in coop to a chicken would be like me singing back up for Emmy Lou Harris, joy, joy, joy!!)

OK, keep trying to follow me here...sure, none of the above can be provided by a chicken- we as their keepers bring much of it about, but after the four walls and a roof, basic stuff is provided- the chickens do the rest, impeccably I might add...hope I didn't lose you with that one...there's more-

Should a shadow appear over their yard, in they go to safety- but only after one of the smarter pluckier ones squawks out an alarm.

If the feed/water dish should run dry, they don't stand around worrying- they get right to work on scratching and picking up every little thing they might have missed in the ever bustling scamper for anything yummy.

I have also observed that a chicken never feels sorry for itself, even if it loses it's place in the order. They simply take a licking and keep on keeping on...eventually, they learn to stand up for themselves and struggle mightily to proceed to the top of the order again.

But every now and then, one of those silly sometimes not as smart as your average chicken chickens- surprises me.

There is one little old gal out there who takes no crap off of anybody.(Including me!) She never ceases and desists, never takes her eye off the prize she seeks and yes I suppose it might be said that if worse came to worse she would die for the good eggs she loyally sits upon. And should a common enemy confront all of them- well, this little plucky soul would perish perhaps by fighting off the intruder, not just for her self or the eggs but the whole cockle doodling group. I know this because if one of the group's inhabitants gets her feathers ruffled by me throwing the door open too quickly, thereby surprising the flightiest one- the brave, seemingly independent one charges me.

The message given- Proceed with caution, or else!!!

The message taken-Geez, that chicken is doing something so unchicken-like it's freaking me out, she's so little and yet...so fearless!

Which leads me to wonder AND answer the question left hanging way up above there-

The teaching, the base line lesson that might transform my distress into wisdom?

Worry is just another way to not confront fear. It absolutely changes nothing as my health, my head, my heart and my hope suffer. It belittles all those aspects of me, it actually sickens my soul. Believe me, I have only recently figured this out. I have been ill.

Really ill...high blood pressure. Lethargy. Hopelessness. I can handle dreams being cancelled, thoughts being outgrown, love leaving and honest hostility but no hope AND bad health?! Well, I wouldn't be a true wonder anymore, I'd be compost, pushing up daisies and that sort of thing. Yikes. It took some physical ills to come around to acknowledging not only are we what we eat, we are what we think. We are what we feel. We are weak if we say we are. We are strong when we act accordingly. And we are at our lowest when we allow doubts to drown out all of who we are.

Luck has not been good as of late, challenges coming right, then left- over the wall and up through chimney...yet my stress response darn near nearly killed me. And even though my little black hen didn't say all of that to me...in a way, she showed me how to handle the ups and downs a little better.

Conduct Befitting a Good Egg

The Chicken Coop Manifesto

Be tenacious, even when the going gets ugly.

At worst, you'll lose a few feathers.

At best- you'll ruffle a few.*

Be who you are- exactly.

(Not sure who you exactly are? Turn off TV, radio, news,internet,people who vex your very soul,books,busy roads,etc...you will find out and grow more of who you were meant to be. Might be a poet, might be a hero, might just be you. A chicken is a chicken is a charming bird with character.)

Love everyone, even the assholes. *(see # 1)

**though consider the bottom line

Would you risk your life for just about any one?

Then, why not your grace too?!

Don't let the bastards get you down.

(And that may be your self in the telling...we are hardest on ourselves. My little black hen struts her tiny stuff and the so-called cock of the walk* backs down sometimes.)

Stand your ground.

(You may not be first in line, ever. But that doesn't mean you have to take any crap off the other chickens either. We are all a little chicken about some little big thing.)

Be Brilliant in your plumage.

(Dress to impress your self. Fluff your feathers when you damn well feel like it.)

Question everything.

(Including your self. What motivates your actions? My chickens put up a big fuss, like questioning...when the snow covers their hoop-house home, blocking the sun. )

Be kind when it is warranted and even, maybe...when it is not.

(A good broody hen will never leave the nest and will peck your eyes out given the opportunity- but a better chicken will step aside and let others lay eggs in her humble and warm nest...so that I might easily collect the eggs.) These are my rules and this is how I see it.

Take care of the children.

(And if the brood watching the children needs instruction, do it. Children, chicks are the only ones entitled to our little wise hen-ness direction. That doesn't mean telling someone how to do it, it means taking opportunities that arise to teach for the benefit of the little ones. )

Those that do, succeed.

Those that don't- won't. Nothing. Ever.

(Success doesn't always come from an end result, sometimes- it is a minute by minute reaching further, risk-taking-small-time-step ongoing adventure. Like a little chick sticking it's head through the chicken wire and grabbing up the fattest bugs.)

Do not take good health for granted.

(What a gift breath is. What a joy swallowing is. What a blessing upon blessings sight,taste,hearing,touch,feeling is. When a chicken is in moult, she seeks shelter more often than not and takes the time to let her health glow again.)

Life is a blast.

(Every time I open the hoop house door, there stands the little black hen- ready to take a gust of wind or a shower of snow.)

Seek shelter when shadows appear, but when they have gone- come out into the sun and

Crow about the light.

* Verne

**Bottom line

(Anyone and I don't give a spit who you are...if you neglect, harm, exploit a child- all bets are off. There should be no cover, no shelter for you- I do not care what brought you to your demise, do not harm children. Period.

I will never be so enlightened to see a lesson in the suffering of children.

I have never said this on my blog but I strongly feel that some crimes should be handed over to Mother Nature, and there should be sharks and grizzlies involved. And that goes for Military funeral protesters too. If you agree somewhat- write a damn letter. Post it to your social networks. Think freely and act accordingly. Oh...and please listen to Mumford and Sons. They are partially responsible for my lack of diplomacy. Awake My Soul- say that aloud and often enough and true wonder is what you get.)

nothing.all of it.me.grateful.

2011-01-01T08:59:00.000-05:00

"....and that is where you found me, at the water's edge.

I could see across the river then and I showed YOU

the other side-

But you, in your boat of reason

sailed smoothly across....

leaving me to swim."

T.L. Starks~Waves 2003

Here it is, the magical thinking day...a new New Year comes to pass.

Magically I will extract all the poison, I say- from the old days and put it on the compost pile. Hmmmm...maybe magic isn't the word, perhaps mightily is how I proceed this day.

Unforgettable moments to grow on:

And I, you...

True, true wonder...

Might I always leap when overwhelmed!

May I always, always notice such things...

And be humbled by the enormity of beauty, be still when it gets noisy; deeper still when it gets too quiet.

Walk a ways, every day.

Try on serenity- wear it, share it be aware of it.

What I will forget- nothing. What will aid me, all of it. What hurt me most- me. Lessons earned, lessons learned...and may all of it make me grateful.

most silently

2010-12-19T12:08:00.000-05:00

Good morning.

Sigh.

Another deep sigh...

The sun is shining, yes- I see it.
The bright-glow moon out last night- will I convey where it found me?
  No...

I hear the guineas
knee deep in cold-white,frozen fluffy powder- still calling, still alive. The one leader always taking the first treacherous risks/steps so that the others might follow. Ah, yes- I see that too.

In time, I get it.

I see where someone plowed our drive as we were a bit unable for awhile. All the hopeless moments I spent seething, wondering "where is the kindness, where are the friends, the others, the..." just like me, they take a bit to catch on maybe. And then- there they were...helping; silently sweetly anonymously- lending a hand.
And we worry about so much, his job. Our savings. But we wonder too, more than worry- we wonder.

About:
The folks back home who struggle too, who lose too- their sure footing because someone hurt them in word or deed, right when they most needed assurance, a gentle strong kindness to see them through....
And then we see this morning, in the form of green carnations and bowed heads came griefs shared, sorrows carried for a time so the family who lost more than any of them can ever say, at least, at least they know that many have risen so that they do not have to. For now- the hearts of mankind are thawed, open, beating one tick at a time together, as the black limo passes.

  A kind act in snow removal, or a tiny, green tinged petal of a flower that lands at one's window at least, at least! I can finally see what my eyes have painfully adjusted to- love bears all.

When others reveal to the one's who are suffering an out and out down-in-the-dirt-too raw empathy- that is compassion; the necessary ingredient in healing. Without it, scars form over wounds that will not heal.

And so it is at this time of year, the darkest days soon revealing more light- I pray for you and I pray for me, that we may find within ourselves deep wells of compassion.
And if you think it is not within you, I pray you think again- for even the most lowly among us have it there in that invisible dimension although no one ever knows this until it is shared.

That's how it works and many, many times- most silently. No words are necessary- green carnations, a bowed head, tears,sobs, a hand upon a shoulder, a nod of understanding, a squeeze of fingers...
A freshly plowed drive, by a black truck that no one seems to know who it's owner is....

Peace to you and yours. And snow bright joy...take care-

a little flame

2010-12-09T09:13:00.001-05:00

One week ago today, my son's house burnt down. Every thing lost. I had the option to fly out to Illinois immediately, to swoop in as I am apt to do- just for support, just to hug him and let him know I was there ready to take charge. My eldest daughter Emma reasoned that it would be better if I stayed the course here, come home on my scheduled trip later and use the money I would have spent on the ticket- to purchase some things that Mathew might need in the long and short run. I wired her the money and she replaced his cell phone, activated it, called me on it so I'd have the number. Hopefully now his friends can call him, and Mathew and I have certainly burnt up the wires a time or two since he can communicate again.

It has been a difficult test for him, for me. Thankfully he was not home when an electrical short began to burn all that he had acquired in his almost twenty one years. And thankful too, for the outpouring of love and kindness sent his way by the local folks there in Williamsville. Mathew was the first to arrive at what use to be his home. He could do nothing more than save the dogs and watch it burn.

"It is what it is." His thoughts on watching it, knowing there was nothing he could do but stand there as it slowly unfolded, the fire and flames.

I have tried to put myself in his shoes, have tried to see with his eyes, feel with his heart. I cannot. I can only imagine what it might feel like to lose things one holds dear by no act of your own, but by a natural force. He's been through too much for such a young man, and yet- it is what it is. He shows signs of sadness of course...but also- such courage. Such stand-upedness, take it on the chin and keep standing. I hate with all my heart, these occurrences. I pray his spirit remains intact. I strongly disagree silently- the things that have been said to him, that he relays, that I have read...it breaks my heart and perhaps his too, when people think with their head too much in times like these. When they say-

"God opens a window when he closes a door...."
"God has a plan...."

I do not disagree with the sentiment, but if only one might stand there in his shoes, realize that right now- it just might feel more like a kick in the teeth or lower extremities. See, when you're standing in an elevated place, what purpose does it serve to look down from that safe distance and offer a head shot instead of a heart thought?!

This young man has been baptized by fire all his life- his character rich, his spirit iron clad. But that doesn't make him or anyone else in a position of great vulnerability any more able to perceive the unfolding lessons that may come from disaster. It'll take time for him to come around to faith again, little by little- he'll get there.
God may move in mysterious ways, but in times of great suffering- it truly makes little sense to interpret the signs for one who has been momentarily blindsided. And that's my lesson in all of this. I cannot know the inside workings of someone's heart, the low down demons praying on their last frazzled nerve. I have to learn to acknowledge first the burden before I can offer any kind of pardon.

In ending, Mathew is doing well with the circumstances. He has good friends, a loving family, a job and youth on his side. He's alive. He has still such wonders to discover, some that just may come from the ashes, maybe when the smoke clears his level of empathy, a boundless compassion may arise for others deeply, sincerely from the low down places he has found himself in. And found in himself, a complete and unwavering faith...I do not wish that for him. What a terrific burden, to look at the despair in someone else's sadness, to sink into the depths in order to raise someone back up. Everything within me says please, not that. Just let him be, let him grow- safe and in sunshine. But that's not how it works, is it? Life is so unfair and so fair. What doesn't kill us, kicks us. What doesn't heal us, hurts us. The only thing left standing, left smoldering- is a little flame. My hope for him, for all of us- no matter what life throws at us, it never diminishes our fire. Mathew Martin Earl Fowler amazes me...that little spark within him just keeps glowing and glowing. I don't see how, I don't know why- but it is so.

Mathew walking through the fog

we already are

2010-12-04T07:57:00.000-05:00

"It is what it is"

I have been keeping a running journal, farm news, poetry and pictorial life essay going for three years. There were times I'd just as soon every one would quit looking at me, through me or even to me and then there were times when I found through the keyboard- a clarity that I would have never stopped to reflect upon had I not tapped it out.
Two hundred and seventy four times I have come on here and laid bare a story. Does it matter to the universe that I do this, write a blog?
Yes, in a way I think it does. There have been times when my heart went out to you, when it reached out in order that someone might say- "there there now..." When it beat excitedly with news about leaves or sprouts, sunrises- moons, mice and men, children and dogs... Sometimes my heart was breaking, could you hear that too? True calling is nothing but a toll, a ringing...it has made a difference to me in that as I was changing, growing- hell, going to seed! I chimed in...that's all. This blog is the clear sound of my own music, the thing I was made to play. I'm a little off key at times, a little flat, sometimes shrill- still it is my song you are hearing, the chord I was meant to strike as only I could.
See...I think that we all have a note to play, a chord that can be struck or strummed by no one else but us. When we become that instrument, it is only then that we can truly sense the true rhythm of this world, of each other, of every thing.
But what do I know really? I'm just a hayseed, and truly- I'm quite happy simply being a part of it all. I'm glad I have my place here, though I would definitely share it if someone had the need to join the chorus...when you get right down to it, we all do have that need. To be a part of it. Thing is- we already are. But we all too often silence our own joy, our own belonging when we silence our stories, our songs, our parts...

Just my two cents, thanks for listening.

Take care-

(Two hundred and seventy four dollars will be distributed to my son, his father and a local charity in honor of the anniversary of True Calling.)

in Jenny's shoes

2010-11-28T09:42:00.000-05:00

When I was young, I lived in a big house on a busy street that never stopped moving, was always noisy in a harsh way and I would lie awake at night in my second story room facing that street and wish for more peaceful surroundings some day. There were two great pines out front and I could see the tips of them from the double windows along side my cold metal framed bed, I often would look beyond them and see what wasn't there but in my young heart- I would visualize a fantasy forest with as many trees as there were stars overhead. A place that had little air traffic from noisy planes, no tires squealing on a bustling road- no lost children yearning for any kind of attention- the kind of children that would lure animals out into the street just to see if they were agile enough to dodge traffic. It was an unkind place and I longed to live somewhere else.

Our neighbors next door were of Polish and German heritage. They had two sons- both born in America, one in the service during the Viet Nam war and one who was very troubled and acted out. Jenny was the mom and she spoke little English, she was a cold and unfriendly woman. I often heard her sweeping, a broom in her hands consistently. She reminds me now of the nurse in Young Frankenstein- I believe Cloris Leachman played the part. My brothers and I avoided Jenny as best we could, there seemed to be no love in her heart whatsoever and certainly we needed that- so from her, we hid. I recalled yesterday- while working in the wreath factory, Jenny. I think somewhere in the back of my mind- I was still hiding from her but in an atmosphere of feeling suspect to my co-workers, I conjured her back up- now a safe distance away. There was Jenny, sweeping, cooking, keeping clean in what must of seemed to her in America- a hostile place.

One day, she came to our back door with a letter in her hand. I remember she knocked and the boys ran while I was left to answer her call. I did not want to, but I'm pretty sure it must have been obvious that I was at the sink doing dishes, possibly she could see my silhouette or had seen it first from her driveway and then peered through the screen in the back door and knew where to find me. Running would have been dishonest, I may have been young- but I was a girl scout in the making and I knew better by then, to be true- even to my scary neighbor.

"You read" she said. Not a question- a command.

"The letter? You want me to read your letter?" I'm pretty sure I was barely whispering and gasping for a little bit of breath as I pantomimed as best I could- the act of reading.

"You read to me, you."

And that was that. I followed her back to her house to a kitchen I had never been invited to before. I remember how good it smelled, how clean it was- I felt kind of dirty just standing there, but also a bit important. Why me? Why now? I was only eleven but I think she must have seen me outside often with a book anywhere I might lay my lanky Olive Oyl frame- I loved to read anything I could get my hands on, reading transported me away from North Grand Avenue.

The letter came from Jimmy who may have been the only bright spot that Jenny knew. Even at eleven, I could sense this. I remember the airmail red white and blue ribbon like border on the envelope. For whatever reason, Jenny did not want to share this letter with her husband or other son. This was her secret treasure and she need an interpreter that she would have to trust. Me.

Since she could not understand a level of English greater than basic commands, I had to act out the letter. I needed some way to make her understand what Jimmy was writing about. It was a very strange ordeal that I found a bit uncomfortable but also I felt like I was performing some service that only I could. I remember looking around the room for props, picking something up that might resemble a feeling or word to Jenny. It was certainly slow going at first but eventually everything became clearer and I could make Jenny understand most of what the letter said.

And it was only yesterday, in what seemed like such a foreign and far off land- that I remembered all of this. I have struggled greatly with finding my footing here in my new home. I have been here for one year and home is not really the word I would give this place. The road leading to my door doesn't feel like "coming home". The grocery store, the gas station even the post office is so unfamiliar still that I wonder if I'll ever take hold. But these are just places, it's the post mistress that makes me feel a bit less foreign. It's the station attendant who remembers me and always says- "Have a good evening deah." And it's the gals there at the wreath place that smile at me, sometimes and barely it seems to my fearful heart- that help me lighten up a bit. I think that's why I thought of Jenny. It wasn't enough to know that Jimmy thought of her, it wasn't near enough to just carry those love letters around- she really had to trust another to communicate the contents.

I read more letters for Jenny, I can't recall how many- and it remained a secret then and up until now. Some time in that window back to then- she showed me a few of her things, once she even took me into her bedroom to share with me pictures of her family and a jewelry box. There was mostly silence between us besides the vocal reading of the letters- we communicated more with our eyes than anything, and in hers during the show and tell- I really saw her, how scared she was- how little she had in this world when it came to relationships, friendship. I wonder now if I was her only friend. She never really said so or even touched me ever- but I did feel special, even from a cold fish like her- because I knew in possibly all the world and certainly on that block- I was the one soul she could trust. I think when someone puts their trust in you, especially when they come from a most vulnerable, terrifying place- it is something of a blessing.

I heard her sweeping the driveway one day, nothing particularly special about that as she did it at least once a day-but it had become a sound of reassurance and I found myself looking forward to it. The next sounds I heard haunted me for quite some time- I heard her gasp, the sweeping stop and then I heard her body and broom drop. I could not go to her, I was only by then twelve- but as I looked out the window I could see her laying there, cold and alone. Her eyes were open, but not to me or anything any more. I called to the next door neighbor, an ambulance came and that is all I ever knew, ever more- about Jenny.

Now in my grown up head- I wished I could have gone out to her, sat with her- maybe hoped her soul up and away. She lived alone surrounded by family. She died in the same way- I am sorry now that I did not know better, could not reach out to her as I certainly would have if she had allowed it. But that's just the thing- it has taken me these many years to see clearly the story there, it's meaning to me now. Jenny graced me with her tiniest trust. It's all she had, all she could let go of in order to survive but I think when she did do that, maybe just maybe- it warmed her up a bit. Maybe she didn't die alone, I wonder if the little seed I planted in her made it's way with her to where she is now. I certainly hope so.

I'll walk in Jenny's shoes then, here. That's the seed she planted in me and it has only just begun slowly to grow.

Funny isn't it, how these things we keep inside shore up on our horizons eventually...tools we have forgotten that surface just when we really need them.

Take care-

work on our hands

2010-11-08T21:33:00.000-05:00

Pitch from the Pine

I am working seasonally now. At the end of the day, I look at my hands and I see the work still there- resin from the greenery that I've snipped all day long, slits tiny and puffy from the pruners that caught skin instead of pine tips. The work still lingers in my muscles- my neck, stiff and tired, my back tight and inflexible. Black under my fingernails and needles in my hair- and I smell, even after a good long soaking in Epsom salts and lavender steaming from the bathwater, I stink of evergreen. Physically exhausted by 8:00 PM, emotionally numb sooner and spiritually averted all the live long day until I sink into sweet dreams almost immediately upon retiring. By 5:00 AM, I am up and ready to do better, go longer- make more centerpieces. I breathe deep in and deep out, forty times if necessary to calm my nerves down by the time I pull into the parking lot where many more workers just like me come and work to do better, give better, fill their heating oil tanks up to get through the longest, harshest hardest winters here in Maine. And now I know my neighbors better. Now I listen more to what is unspoken and less to what is said. I see the hands, just like mine- busy and blackened by the thankful work of the season.

And I wonder, do they have an inkling too of the joy that attends these pieces that go all over the world, here from Maine? Do they wonder if the recipients take to heart the hands, the many many hands that build a bit of Christmas in each and every piece, do those recipients realize the gladness of doing something that puts money in pockets that go for far too long empty here in this Downeast county? When they pull the fragrant objects from the shipping bags out onto their dining table or mantle- do they realize the effort of so many that have so little, from the snippers at the tables to the cutters in the forests that tip the trees that barely notice the pruning that is but a little healthy take of overgrowth?
I didn't know all of this. Didn't realize a wreath I purchased through L.L. Bean served so many hands of hands and heated homes, and had it not been for this seasonal labor opportunity, so many would go without.
I see now that folks around here are not lazy, no- far from it. They are hard workers, the hardest I've seen- ever. But there is so little employment opportunity, so little educational opportunities, but not so little spirit in loving any and seemingly all positions of employment. Work is a blessing to these folks, they count it as such.
I recall my first visit to Maine- I hit the nail on the head when I reckoned that Mainers celebrate the slightest win. They do. And they laugh all along and anyway, and tell stories while standing for hours on end, cutting, snipping away the dread of little Christmas and heat- this year with this wreath comes Christmas, comes heat, comes relief to the spirit- a temporary improvement but improvement none the less.
I am not one of them, I am from away. But I do see now how much the same we are, when the going gets tough, the tough get snipping. We do not make ends meet so much for comfort- but to comfort all and who we love by this work on our hands.

Taking a breath

2010-10-26T13:14:00.001-04:00

I was terrified. I knew no one. The dark gray halls surrounding me matched my mood. There were bumps to my left side, then elbows to my right- every time I turned towards the taunters I was met with down turned eyes in concealment. I clutched my books tighter, hugging them into my belly, and kept on walking. There were many moving feet in front of me, perhaps as many behind- everyone scurrying like little mice through the maze of hallways before that next shrill bell sounded.. Back then, I didn't know how to assert myself, I was doomed as a relocated Freshman from an inner city big school to a small time hick farm school. The country kids hated me and I let them. That is until I met Mrs. Cardoni.

I was stuck in Spanish class, Spanish! As if I'd ever cross the border...this was back in the 70's and America was tops- in our speech, our dress and in our vacation destinations. If it wasn't bad enough being hated the moment you walked through entrance doors that were open but only in a very narrow way, it got even bleaker with involuntary enrollment in Spanish class. And then to be made to sit in the front row. Long legs, little desks, blushing easily- probably a little gassy too, nerves do that you know.

"Hola Senorita!" Cardoni was on it the minute I sat down.

I wanted to say to the teacher, "Please leave me alone, draw no attention to me- can't you see I'm a wounded animal here! Caged with no where to run and everyone ready to pounce, oh please senorita hola someone else!!!"

Of course I didn't say that, hell I couldn't speak Spanish and I sure as heck wasn't getting much out in English either...I was terrified. I did feel caged. And now this little statured, tussled haired teacher was taunting me too. I made eye contact, for just a split second- surely she could see the burn down in my soul.

"Hola Senorrri-ta!" she said again, rolling her rr's off of her tongue like a dart and delivering the poison with ta.

I tried to open my mouth to speak then, I would just mimic her like a parrot- I did not want to die on top of everything else, surely later I might slither out of there, maybe not intact but still alive enough to crawl on my belly- like a reptile.

But then an unacceptable error was made, someone took up where Mrs. Cardoni left off-

"Hola Senorita! What's wrong with you, you deaf?" said a rather stupid guy. Then the whole stupid class, well maybe not all of them- started to tease and taunt too. They proved themselves even more stupid when Cardoni turned and gave them all an evil sweet look, thinking she was on their side they took it up a peg, with laughing and howling mixed in.
Wham! A tiny hand from that smallish woman slammed down on my desk- I knew it had to hurt, but her face showed no suffering. She had a look of complete resolve while her hand lay flat and still. Not once did her voice raise but she managed to put emphasis on NEVER IN MY CLASS IDIOTS by spitting and slamming that hand down again.
I really thought I was in trouble then, I started all this...no slithering away for me, she must be ready to chop me up in a little pieces. She faced the class, still with her fingers lightly touching my desk- as if a connection had been made and this was her charging station, she lifted up her other hand and pointed.
Cardoni's pointing tactic was much like the Wicked Witch of the West's way....remember how she squinted her eyes, and she stated more quietly though with utmost certainty-
"Ill get you my pretty..."
The kind of finger pointing that draws you into target range instead of leading your eyes to the safe distance away.
She sneered, orbiting the room with that finger while not saying another word. She looked like a gypsy delivering quiet curses. The kids knew that a spell had been cast and all were doomed, surely they hated me even more. The bell went off but she was still pointing, leering and and no one knew whether to rise or fall. Finally, she dropped her arm and everyone got up to leave. Mrs. Cardoni was not through with me yet, she gently raised the same finger towards me and winked.
"Sit Senorita" she said.
After everyone had left the class, I sat there- silent and sick. Cardoni traveled up towards her desk, twisted herself around so she was half leaning against it, with her short feisty legs extend fully in front of her and her arms folded serenely across her chest.
"Hola Senorita." She said.
I thought I was going to cry if I opened my mouth, my lips must have trembled- although I was not going to allow myself to cry, I sincerely could not help it. I made no sound as a few silent tears trickled over and down my cheeks before I could swipe them off. My resolve must have showed too, Mrs. Cardoni caved and cared enough to give me a pep talk that turned the tide for me, the foreigner. She became my first real friend that day. It only took that secret wink from her to renew my spirit as I shuffled through my high school daze.
(Incidentally, she was my journalism teacher- the one subject I excelled at personally in school. She gave us all great freedom in that class, though it could be revoked immediately if you did not appreciate it and act accordingly.)

I tell that story because it has so many similarities in relocating from one's home state to one's new home in a state that is erroneously known for keeping outsiders outside. I believed all that, even though I reasoned beforehand that it would be OK after all, because I love my solitude. In time, I would make friends- I was not all that eager to do anything other than to just settle in, find some peace. I needed peace. I needed beauty. I needed Maine because it offered all of that in it's very own natural way. The Big Fish and I were already the best of friends and certainly acted upon it with our walks and drives, star gazing and lake cruising. But shopping at grocery stores and local restaurants- I began to go back to my Freshman days, expecting cruelty, unkindness and in part, I received it.
I was in that maze again of gray hallways, I didn't know my way and held close to my chest- everything. I reasoned that they'd never accept me, they're not friendly so I'd just stick close to me and mine, protecting my spirit once again by not asserting it.
I often struggle with being fearful. It has taken me a very long time to let my spirit take control- when allowed to soar, the spirit's potential goes beyond measure. Mrs. Cardoni taught me that, her's was a fierce and assertive spirit. She never left it at the door like so many other teachers had- I believe that woman was all spirit in the classroom. She was fully aware of where her source of power came from. The woman never lost her humanity, she connected by fingers on a desk, glares across the room- but always on the other side of those tactics was love. She never let up, never backed down because she also realized the potential in each of us and never let us forget it. It took me many years right on up to this point to realize her nature, to remember what she taught me. It is fine and well and good to come to those realizations, but 30 years to count a forgotten blessing? Life is short, this minute, this very second- the time is at hand to do better. Here. Now.
So....with all that said, I am not living up to my full potential here. In Maine, in blogging, in anything really. I am kind yes, I try to be the best possible human I can be, but at the cost of my spirit taking a back seat to where my head and heart want to drive. I am where I am because I needed to be here...I don't know why, I truly don't know how- but on that day several years back, when I was struck alive by these very words-

."...it is a true wonder I breathe at all."

I still have that remarkable wonder, or it has me. It is the way I want to live and/or be. My spirit is authentic, my head and heart- not so much. It is good to be alive, it is wondrous to take breath in, let it out. Living, leafs, rain, seasons changing- all profound.
It is not enough to write about it, anyone can do that, say that. To begin living it more fully with much work to do is on my plate and this blog will just have to take a back seat. Once a week it seems I feel more of an obligation in writing content than enjoying it as I use to. Which is absolutely no reflection what so ever on the friends I have made through it- I will continue to read you as I can. I learn and have learned so much from people I have never met yet who are openly and abundantly kind to all.

Life is school, learn your lessons and then- graduate.

Where I frequently find myself these days is out there- not in here. In being still, first I remember then I give it up or over to what I am sensing, living in that moment. And I can only assume that will bore the hell out of people...to say over and over "I am in awe". Every day- awe. At rest each night- thankful.

I will post from time to time, but according to no schedules. I am coming up on three years of blogging- the true calling I found led me up to this point, in so many words and pictures. I thank you for appreciating my take, I have invited guest writers here who have a deep yearning to share a bit of their lives and experiences. I hope for every one's sake- they take me up on it.

Take care-

sputtering away

2010-10-16T10:38:00.000-04:00

Apple butter is sputtering away on the stove, canner at the ready to take it all in and preserve it through a boiling water bath. The weather here in deep east Maine has been so beautiful, the roadsides washed in blazing colors- the likes I've never seen before. Wherever I go, in my lap rests my old rickety camera- as some misguided soul stole my new one on my last trip to Illinois. My zoom now is more like a sputter, my wide angle seems more like a key hole and there is no eye piece, which I really don't like. I have my heart set on a new Canon but am waiting for some matching funds to come through. I still take pictures and have even been trying my hand at videos. Luckily, the Big Fish and I have encountered three moose in the last week and have video taped with hilarious results. He grunts like a moose and I laugh...all caught on audio. I have shared one film with my friends and family, the others are damning...though when friends and family visit, maybe the shameful flicks will be just the ice breaker most needed to loosen things up a bit...hopefully, their curiosity getting them in gear to explore.

"See how foolish we are? And you can be too...C'mon, let's go for a drive!"

When my kids come to visit, even though what is going on outside is far more interesting than what's being played on the mind numb-er, they still spend too much time in front of the set and have made all the necessary adjustments to bring about the best programming and picture. I always have work for them to do on our communication devices- so, I can't complain too much.

"Can you change the ink in the printer?" "How do I upload this?" "Burn this CD for me...please?!"

We are nontechnical savvy folks...we can't for the life of us figure out our Wii, and how we might stream movies right to our television set. I truly don't like TV and mainly watch PBS and documentaries. Netflix has proven to be a great source of entertainment though the man and I do not see eye to eye on which films are best, so out of two choices- we have agreed to sit through each other's movies, out of love and respect I tell myself. (Though I usually read a book while he watches his History and SyFy stuff.) Is it just me or have times really gotten rotten when the life of a hokey haired exterminator is entertaining? OK, it's just me...and reason enough not to watch what passes as entertainment these days. Thank goodness for the library!

Times up...the canner calls. Have a great weekend, may these pictures of "the season of fullness" inspire you to get out and wander.
Take care-

Fall keeps within us

2010-10-08T10:08:00.001-04:00

Moosehorn National Wildlife Refuge

How lovely is this Autumn! I hope I don't ever take for granted these colors...never have I seen such enormity of beauty in the change of a season. At first I found myself a bit melancholy, I recall the Big Fish wondering what the heck was up with me-

"I don't know...maybe it's the change of seasons. I get like this...."

Good enough explanation for the man, although he avoided me in wide-walking-around circles for the rest of that day. Smart man.

My fella works in the local paper mill, an economic anchor here in this area. He's been employed by the mill for over thirty years. He just got through and over a two week 12 hour day, no time off run...I missed him a bit. This past week and still counting today- he has been on vacation. Wood splitting, stacking, yard clean up, installing a new wench so we don't wrench our backs so much, and he's suggesting I clear out the gardens for fall tilling...

"What?! It hasn't even frosted yet, I like to keep the sunflower stands for winter feeds for the birds and the marigolds and cosmos are still beautifully vibrant and ever blooming...."

"Yes deah, I understand that (his stock reply to my long winded explanations for why I do the things I do...), but we've got to clear the ground and get ready..."

"AAARRRGGHHH!!! Don't say it, please- I know what's coming, I do! But, but, but..."

So into the hoophouse upon a drying table the sunflower heads went, and all along the chicken wire walls the hydrangeas did go, drying perfectly mounded and the herbs are hanging here and there and all across the garage. Apples are piled high in a work area, I've only attended half of them, putting away enough apple sauce to feed a small army, still have the apple butter to work out. Pears have been pickled in a crock and fruit flies are gathering like a buzzing congregation around the blueberry liqueur vessel. This preservation time is a time of experimenting with new recipes, improving old modes of storing and restoring old ways I loved doing but over the last several years, had no time for. I am as busy as the bees I see still gathering pollen, I am as happy as the fat blue jays stealing and storing all the sunflower seeds that they can jam into their cheeks, I am as silent at times, in the splendid solitude I find out by the old camp- as the yellow gilled mushrooms appearing seemingly out of nowhere.

I marvel at the once shy trees along the roadways, never before have they had their say as they do now- standing as if in a cotillion, all decked out in their finest finery- keeping time just as well as their seasoned evergreen boastful neighbors.

And I am thankful once again, for the preservation of this time. Fall keeps within us- a chain of memories. We add to it, link by link- a charm from each successive year and the one at hand. Winter puts to sleep all growth, Spring is fine for newness, Summer keeps us on our toes, but it is Autumn truly, that reflects every deed done by the sun and rain, storm and ice- manifesting brilliance!

Yes- I know what is to come. But for now, the gathering continues, the momentum- almost at it's peak- slows like tires on a gravel road and I...well- I make haste in viewing the thickness of a time that soon will thin into the bare branched limbs of winter. My memory made rosary of Fall bears witness to yet another sustainable harvest.

Take care-

In our most vulnerable hours

2010-10-04T12:59:00.000-04:00

Taps

I read the paper yesterday, something I often do on Sundays while drinking tea, sitting in a big comfy recliner catching up on current events. There was an article on page 8 that upset me tremendously. The Washington Post's Robert Barnes reported on funeral picketers testing the limits of free speech. What caught my eye, as I preferred not to read the article yet, I just knew how I would react to it- was the photo that accompanied the report.
A solemn soldier, Retired Army Maj. Gen. Bill Branson standing at salute in front of a group of hate-filled-in-God's-name picketers. His steadfast stance in the face of adversity was very reassuring and encouraged me to digest the article as best I could. It was very difficult to read and still this morning, I am affected. How can it be, I am left to wonder- that in our most vulnerable hours, we can no longer expect peace at a funeral?

Mourning, grieving becomes as the experts say "complicated" when a life ends suddenly, when a young person dies before their time, their natural end. The ceremony then becomes more than just a rite of passage, it is a life line of support. The burden of learning that your child will never walk through your door again, will never sit at your table, will never come home from war, will never have children, will never...is too much to bear alone. It is then when you realize you need your community, your friends and family to help bear the weight of the burden for you, until one day- on borrowed strength, you can stand again on your own and go on with life.

I cannot imagine what the hundreds of families who have lost their soldier sons and daughters must have felt, when on top of all their grief and unbearable pain- they had to bear as well, cruelty from a group who are motivated by fear and hate, who felt safe and well within the law and their rights to freedom of speech to desecrate a soldier's ceremony of honor.

Freedom of speech goes too far when it is allowed to dishonor another's right to bury with honor- their dead.
When freedom of speech inflicts physical, mental, emotional and spiritual pain on the overtly vulnerable grievers- it is no longer a freedom; it is a weapon that should be lawfully taken away from the assailants.

. In peace, in war time, all throughout history- we honor our dead by our ceremonies, it is a human right that should be upheld by the highest court.

(I realize I probably made the same point over and over- I tried to write this just like I would say it, but...I couldn't. I wrote and re-wrote too many times... In my time of great need, when Taps was played and made me know there was a sanctity all among us and echoing from the past, at the very least I was allowed that somber solitude, the stillness of every tongue in the moment of silence before the guns went off and even after- I was allowed a ceremony to bury someone that wore a uniform for you, but was a son to me. It was a deeply respectful and moving honor to his service and his life. That article made me realize what a blessing the funeral was, I never thought I'd be thankful for it, but it does and did somewhat , give me and mine- peace, I pray we all speak up. I had to say something, it is simply not right to deny a family peace at the time of it's last ceremony with their loved one. )

renewed as the dew

2010-09-20T09:00:00.000-04:00

"I'm gonna sit right down and write myself a letter...."

Do you remember the night, a few days back- when you walked through the gardens and the sunflowers cast moon shadows behind them? Remember how it gave you pause, as if their down turned faces were shyly smiling still- through their yellow petaled bangs? And do you recall how it made you stop, steadfast and look back at your own shadow? And in that moment, did not all the world seem aglow with moonlight, which is more tender and forgiving...perhaps making all walking the street, lost out in the great world- feel a bit as though we are all so much alike in our shadows? The same color, softened edges- the moon light ardently shining on our heads, faces- forgiving us our days missteps? Is it not a blessing to be cast in that gentle light, as all and everything is, in September?

How you wondered out loud- where the summer went too? Autumn coming on the heels of a very dry spell, watering was worrisome as the well might be made to run dry, so the tomatoes in the hoop house had to learn to survive without constant watering and monitoring and still, they grew red and lovely, the recollection now saw concern back then when there was no real cause to worry. Things grow as they are apt to do. With or without intervention from a concerned gardener...you mustn't worry so. Every year, about this time- September, it is as though your perception becomes keener, you are more willing to let things be as they are.

It is cool enough at night that bugs no longer burden you, it is only the sliver of light over head that guides you into the following days of compressed wonder. The lighted hours shortening, the plants bursting with what energy they have left, in their final and full regard for life. Bees weighed down gleefully with pollen so thick on their legs that it is a wonder they can still fly on to more collection sites, yet they set off again and again-seemingly unburdened.

Ah, sweet September- the summer brought so much to handle, to work through, heating up the compost- but what has come of it?

All that my eyes see now, are prayers answered. I look to heaven in the web, in the golden rod and flower beds. I see the pearly gates in the glistening of dew on the trellises, heavy with morning glories. And there, an angel- praying before it's precise movement towards a meal of a tiny moth- unaware of the mantis warrior camouflaged as the very stem they both share. And in the evening, the cool blue heavy evenings- comes a mist now that blankets the shadows, the sunflowers, the soul's misgivings- a sweet forgiveness shrouds all and I will sleep renewed as the dew.

Dew Notice

That Which Perpetuates Good

2010-09-01T06:32:00.001-04:00

Sometimes I wonder why people do what they do in terms of a living. Some I suspect just do what they have to - to get by, feed their families, make the payments. I know this farming thing is a tough gig, but it's a workout all the same and keeps me plenty busy, meeting just about every need I have- spiritual, physical, emotional. I have worked many jobs in my lifetime, most of those meeting the first criteria of doing what I had to do just to get by, but I always grew something. I felt immense pride and joy in putting food on the table that I grew. The kids would always roll their eyes after every exclamation-"Came from the garden kids!" Or at the winter table-"These pickles were grown right here, by golly- last July, aren't they good?" More eye rolling, more sense of embarrassment when their friend happened to be eating with us. "Mom is such a hippy!" (I'm too young to be a hippy....) I think now though, the kids are happy with the jams that come their way, via the postal service these days. I dream that they sit at their tables, buttering their bread and smiling big as they glob on big spoons of homemade goodness from Mom's garden...kids are kind of reluctant to let you know when something as soft and gooey as jelly touches their heart. My aim is always there, past their stomach and through to their tickers.

I have always encouraged my children to vote, taking them to the booths with me, explaining the process ...it was a big deal, something when they were little they boasted about at school, displaying proudly the flag sticker that went along with vote casting. I know Emma is a registered voter, not sure on the other two- I recall hearing of Em's first vote, the memory recalled by her with pride. But I also hope I instilled something just as important as that vote- which, in all honesty does not carry the weight it once did. Nowadays- I vote with my bucks. I try to perpetuate the good being done by those who take from the land and give more back. Those who handmake clothing and use resources close to home which helps their local economy out. I try to buy from the guy that makes pillowcases and donates a dollar of every sale to a program that offers shoes to children who don't have any. I buy glasses upon glasses of lemonade from the local 4-H who are trying to get needed funds for camps and learning excursions. Imported stuff does not get my vote. If the catalog business imports everything, I recycle their rag and purchase nothing from them. I shop at Goodwill- apt name. I'm a shopaholic for good will. Buy USA gets my vote, if only more folks would vote-perpetuate with their bucks local shops and American made- the white washed big box stores might cease to send out all our "votes" to overseas corporations where the workers are treated inhumanely, I do not wish to perpetuate that. Now there are some who'll say-"but those workers need that job!" That may be so, but if the workers here are barely hanging on- my "vote" may just help them to get a better hold and gain solvency which perpetuates more jobs here....and so on and so on.

Perpetuates gets a bad image these days. It does not necessarrily mean a negative. It has only been reported as such- when a story needs the loudest vibe, news people abuse the term- "Hitler perpetuates...", "KKK perpetuates....", etc. And I can definitely see why it was used, it is a looking through a smoky, scary lens until all the awe and mayhem can come into complete cloudy focus. But there is another view, a deeper, hopeful and clearer lens- that which perpetuates good, positive and powerful change. Seeing like that begins with our vote, our buck, our relationship with money that might truly turn the tide, little by little.
I ask you to deeply consider your wallet, the votes in it- what does that next purchase perpetuate?

Take care-

Kindle No Fires

2010-08-24T11:39:00.000-04:00

The season of plenty is upon us.

Oh my, it's getting a bit dusty here ...Maine has grabbed ahold of me again, making me see all of the wildflowers and an earlier than what I'm use to- autumn. We certainly lack the rain these days, but the colors and coolness and fruit ripening too soon on the vine...well, whew!!! I have been busy taking it all in. (That'd be the views and the fruit.) And just to add a bit of a pickle to the large volume of going's on lately, myself and a small core group of history, farming, spiritual lovers are trying to restart and revamp a pre-civil war Grange hall.

....lest it rains.

Which, may I say- is very much to my liking, one of those labors of love I've gotten involved in. The old building caused me to fall in love with it at first sight two years ago upon my first visit to Maine. And now I've attended a few meetings, have actually been inside and felt the years embrace me. The old place has no bathrooms except, except oh my yes, heaven to be found in a little two-holer out back. His and Hers. The building is exactly as it should be except it is not on the historical register...yet. So for my winter work, I will be historian, interviewer, photographer AND part time traveler...oh, and one more hike in late September to Cutler Maine, once again. I must see the views there, take the long way around- this time with a hiker friend. All in all, I'd say I've got some experiencing to do, and you dear reader will be filled in on all the details coming soon.
(The bright yellow chairs over there...............................................>>>>>>>
caught my eye on a recent trip around the Bay of Fundy- marvelous yellow, bright seats sitting atop a rocky ridge and they said to me-"To sit one must first strive a bit...)

Enjoy these threshold days, these deeper hued, richer yellowed fragrant last blossoms on the vine, sunny eyed sunflower times. We know what waits to blanket us, all too soon to come...take care-

Busy bees can't decide between the intoxicating buckwheat or the deep red sunflowers.

the black with the blue

2010-08-16T10:18:00.000-04:00

The world is busy with itself, creating more than destroying, loving more- I say, than hating...oil in places that keep the whole circle going, but there is a lube job going on- the oil spill that needed not ever be that should have been backed up with every viable back up system in place, with people at the ready to hold accountable every back up with more of a back up system. I do hold accountable the BPs and the EPA and the governing authorities for not having those safeguards, from A to Z- protecting our oceans and seashores and human life and all of nature. There is no reason in it- my Granny always said- to allow such things to happen.

Ah, but the blackberries need picking...

And they are free...

For all...

To take...

While there is still time...

And nature is in it's place...

Safe and wild...

The Blackberry is on the vine, plump and full...

Thorny and oh so ready...

To be picked.

So with a sigh and a surrender, I will take up this bucket- this very homemade bucket and do all I can do today to be grateful for this wild freedom I know here in Maine, that I lay claim to. And when I put my head down tonight, I will be thankful for the blackberry. And I'll ask for only- more faith so that I may take the black with the blue, that I might not be so ladened with trouble that I cannot see the good here still, in this world. I'll remember how it was to walk down that sunny road, dusty and desperate to fill a bucket full of goodness, freedom and all this and all that...free for the taking.

In the winter time, my sunny days remembered when others may forget- I will share the jars of jam. And you might say-"Is it seedless?" and of course I will remark, "No, never...there is always a seed, no matter the process." And in a way- you'll know what I mean and you won't mind anyway- the jam being free and good.

And oil spills, being a thing of the past if all the cover ups convey all the lies in the truth...the powers that be will have us believe we were in a bind but the bigiwigs got us out of it by buying more bigwig bonanza, and people will quickly forget about BP and Blackberries and freedom...until those seeds sprout again.

Take care-

12 states to get here

2010-08-13T12:15:00.001-04:00

Watching the shooting stars last night gliding easily, invisibly edging out the dark...oh how I wondered. And thought. And recalled...

To infinity and beyond....

The last week of visiting and traveling with three young ladies to the beaches and mountains and fields aplenty of Maine. That's three young ladies with Facebook pages mind you...meaning- little time for me to post to the blog.

There was bed swapping and cooking, cuddling, adventures!!! Oh the week went too fast, the time spent- something of an eternal quality in all of it. These girls, little girls I call them, have always called them...but oh how fast they have grown and evolved into "Amelia" of Earhart fame, "Bess" my own sweet, now redheaded child and "HK" the truly luminous imp who came to know me and I her through her mama, but now completely- I see her as her own, what a joy- this trio. "HK" had never been to the ocean. "Bess" became smitten with a pen-pal, holding hands and being beautiful in a way I had never seen before... and- "Amelia" the bold, brazen yet calmest of the three appeared also serene. Each brought here their stories yet I suspect- each left here with an inkling of a life changing adventure into the heart of Maine while hand in hand into the heart core of young adults. Wide eyed adventurers with texting ability, yikes! I was so sure, so very mama-adult-assured-you'll-miss-so-much-while-keeping-tabs-on-the-memoryless-cell phones. When I'm wrong, I back down. When I'm right, I stand firmly on sure footed ground...these gals moved me, not so much back but very certainly over a bit. While texting, talking, giggling, arguing,smiling- they truly saw it all and I, well- I looked too at what they saw. And yes, I believed it all possible too, the anything goes of youth. My little girls have wowed me, left me with more and less of concern for their paths. They may not know completely where they're going (they took on 12 states to get here...my oh my, now that's another story altogether!) but I think they'll get there in the grandest style of their own choosing, my little girls so completely their own.

I miss that door creaking open and shut so much...they- often out on the deck, talking in their circles while under the great circle of sky and stars and wonder...did they take it all in, I wonder... Did they believe so much in all they encountered or am I hopelessly, romantically dreaming they did and am affected thus so- hmmmmm, hard to say.

I miss that bathroom brigade, make up artist and blow drying nonsense since the ocean's winds would discourage all that...

I miss the lumpy bumps on the Futon and in the Queen sized bed while the Big Fish and I hunkered down wherever a bed was free...sometimes caving in the old decrepit mattresses in the guest rooms, his old bones and mine- while the youthful ladies spent dreamlike hours upon the comfiest beds.

I miss gathering from the gardens all the fresh herbs and vittles fit for little Queens and paupers such as us too.

I miss most, now hear this- mostly I miss the laughter, the lightness of it all that floated here and there and all around for one week.

Rainbow end to end

My Illinois girls, Hk, Bess and Amelia- ahhhh, your wings so strong yet pliable like soft fresh feathers not yet fully formed.

Illinois Girls

Take care!

in a pickle

2010-08-03T06:02:00.002-04:00

Wanda Wood's Secret Elixir

Good morning, it is August already...but for this Illinois girl in Maine- it feels as though it is September... and September is the finest month ever made.
My garden is plum full of beautiful and wonderful and nourishing things...let me take you on a bit of a pictorial journey with me through a bounty day, and what to do, what to do- with it.

One should get a basket, preferably a homemade, recycled or dump picking treasure. Place it in between the rows, get a feel for what should be included in it's innards. Hmmmm....the beans are surely do for some dill and new potatoes but I can't pick too many of them just yet, Calais Farmer's Market Food Club members come first in the harvest there.

Then on to the heirlooms, the Italian Romanos or maybe perhaps the lovely Ruby Red Chard, alas- there are lovers out there of the single most reddest leafed vitamin K packed vegetable, no- I won't pick too much this day as there is one lady in line who is quite fond of all that I can grow for her. With joy, I do. Maybe I'll just pick a few leaves, for the vibrant colored veins running through it, to dress up some old drab Fordhook Giant type chard, although in it's crinkly, wrinkly way- it shares it's own fortifying beauty.

Oh the cukes...slicers and canners and European long, elegant eaters to boot. Why yes, I believe it may be the pickers day for cucumbers. The coolness of them, the shyness too...cucumbers are such bashful veggies in single digits, but let them spread out their vines and their community becomes a chorus of pickles ready for the canner! And it seems the good time has come finally for the dill, the loveliest of herbs to my eyes- to get what's coming to it- big fat pickles adorned with the crowns of mammoth dill heads.

From my far off land of veggie ville, I heard a tinkling...again, and again- what could it be?! A bee buzzed, Etta was barking at a snake and I came back to reality- the phone was ringing.

"Hello!?"

"Terry, this is Foster- your blueberries are ready."

"Oh my..."
"You said you'd take two boxes...are you ready for them?"

Blueberries, thought I, new berries to me. I have never had the honor of dealing with fresh blue orbs of pure Maine...so of course I went to pick them up. And it was only then, after using a wading pool to sort and wash and pick them all (approx. 40 lbs after all was said and done), that I realized that for three, no...make that four days, on the best of measures- I would not sleep.
I found myself in a pickle.
When it rains it pours, and cucumbers and berries don't mix usually- but for the next several days...well, they just better learn to get along. I commenced to some serious canning people...two hands, four vegetables, one fruit and farmer's market to boot- I had better just get the old canner out and get to it.

And one must also prep well in advance with the utmost respect for sanitation and stuck caps on the bottom of the seriously hot pot that you cannot pry off, even with the best of hovering preservation angels around...no one can get the cap off the bottom, well- never in good time enough.
(Although canning frustrates me at times, I do not cuss...it is a sacred endeavor and I simply love doing it...labors of love must be handled kindly). With somewhat neutrally gentle words such as:
"Are you freaking kidding me- shewah!"
"I-I-I-I-eeeeeeee......" that is me howling after waiting over thirty minutes for the jam to jell as it splattered on my, um....bosom. It hurt like a fruitcake bomb. (For lack of cussing...)

My highlight of the day, as it is always a highlight when I make

Wanda Woods top secret cross your heart, stick a needle in your eye, holy-holy zucchini relish recipe.

The picture well above is her hand writing, I treasure this recipe as I used to grow, only for Wanda- soft yellow crookneck early summer squash (which truly aren't zukes) and help her can them. For many years, she shared the relish with me...but never the recipe. One year, she had to humble herself- which incidentally, she did with more grace and faith than anyone I have ever known or met since- and asked me to help her little independent soul, because she feared she no longer could get the rings on tight enough for proper sanitary canning. I actually didn't receive the recipe until after she passed...and even then, I had to be a sleuth- first class mind you...and buy her cookbooks from her estate auction. And inside, in her own hand- were these immortal and everlasting words-

"Real good & good keeper when opened...."

(in her little swirly way she initialed it-W.W)

So, in honor of the redeeming words of Wanda Wood, my blue eyed, blue souled neighbor- I vow to stay open.
(Even to future mass quantities of blackberries and sweet corn, which will probably happen in unison right about the time I should be saying, "AHHHHHHHHH....")

Take care-

(And as a PS~Grandma Hope's Stuffed Mango Peppers were also created, but that goes with me to my deathbed....if you're a Champaign quality kind of person, you might get some as the dearest gift I can give....)

perennial as the grass

2010-07-29T07:46:00.000-04:00

Desiderata

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons,
they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.

Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.

Max Ehrmann

So much for my retreat...you all are so kind with your concern, right neighborly I'd say. I haven't come up with the sign, but...the one thing that has changed, the lesson here if one were to look deeply enough:

My neighbors that I don't really know, who I did not think cared much for me have been nothing but kind, all their eyes and shoulders, hands and feet- walking, talking and looking for that sign. They have touched me in a well worn space with their kindness.

Signs can be replaced, people can't.

For this, for the outpouring of love and concern, I am thankful.

I did take a hike on the 26th...trying to match the level of my intense emotions with the landscape...and may I say, the place of awe above did bring me joy- I wept as I came upon what found me speechless, stronger and intact.

Take care-

2010-07-26T06:55:00.000-04:00

"Therefore be at peace...

a few more degrees

2010-07-25T14:33:00.001-04:00

Ahhhh, thank goodness, August will come. Kind of felt like I was on some rocky ride there through a dynamite hole with boulders and slivers of stone slicing through the air and all around, some straight through.

I declare, July is Hell on me...no matter what or where I am, it takes hold and I have yet to shake it. So, I guess if life is to be harsher than normal, well....that'd be the month for it. Kettle is already boiling, what's a few more degrees?!

Well, I gotta tell you...that's a load of crap, a few more degrees. I go into the ugly cave that July has come to represent with my head held high, my light up above like a lantern and I take a few more steps in there than I did the year before. I guess I am a glutton for punishment, but please, please know- I am not one who can take all the kicks the world has to offer. When I am down, Hell, whenever anyone is down...why is it the cowards and buzzards seem to gather around you and get their toes into your belly too?!

I do not like to fight, wisdom is the best weapon...I'd like to think I'm too high minded now to ever lift a finger against another fellow, even in self defense (though a shotgun says "that's enough" to trespassers best). Physical confrontations are a bit old school and well, there's always a better way, right?! Except I'm wondering...
How it might feel to land a punch in to the nose of the cold hearted bastards who stole my farm sign. On a significantly horrendous day...they could not know that, still-it didn't mean a damn thing to them anyway, they just saw it all for the taking, no honor or courage about them...they slipped in under the dark sky and stole a piece of my heart. I am not made of stone, am not the cream of the crop, I cry too, I weep at things that no one else notices, I believe in sharing tears instead of words sometimes because it's honestly the only thing we do all understand, regardless of our cultural differences. Tears say it all... the nothing equivalent that utter-less sorrow conveys.

And I'm crying mad. That's what I'm trying to convey here, crying mad. Because they know not what they do...and the local paper I wrote a kind enough letter to-in-hopes-someone-might-know-of-the-whereabouts-of-said-rather-LARGE -bright-fluorescent-green-and-white-Beauregards Farm-sign, neglected to list my phone number and the police that were called who-made-me-sift-through-all-my-pictures-for-the -best-pic-of-said-sign- never came by to get it and the-sign-posted-on-the-community-board-offering-a-reward-for-said-sign- was taken down the day after it was posted so no one might now never know that I'm looking for it, weeping for it and ....

What's the point?! Soon enough, as always with me- a true bleeding heart. I will say-

If. You. Can. Live. With. Taking. It....

I guess, I think, in time...

I can live with losing it.

Now some of you good people explain to me please, why oh why- my chin still protrudes, my teeth stay intact, I don't go on a sign redeeming rampage and kick somebody's ass, why I don't just put another sign down at the end of my lane that says Shame on you...

Don't answer. I know why. Because good people are so few and far between now, they're almost invisible. And in spite of that knowledge, that irreversible reality... DAMMIT!!!!!. It doesn't change the fact that the few and far between are still out there, and here. And if I give up just a teensy little bit of ground in hope, in goodness, in wonder...then the bastards do win.

I fight every day, with myself. I say, "Get up." "Shut Up." "Get going". "Be kind." "Forgive." "Forget." "Believe." "Have faith." "Lend faith." "Reflect." "Navigate." "Respect." "Honor." "Be still." "Remember...."

And I still believe...but if I could- I would take the whole of July and give it away to all of you who can appreciate the beauty of it. Then, through your words and pictures, I might see it too. I was able to take July in that sign, a kind friend that I truly did not know so well, but their character spoke through the generous act of making me that glorious sign- said, as he handed it to me- "Life goes on." And I believed him, he covered July with that sign. And they took it.

Don't let the bastards get you down.

Great quote, hard to live sometimes. That's the truth.

Five Days

2010-07-20T05:46:00.011-04:00

Good morning all. I'm not up to much writing these days, so I've included some back-links to some earlier written stuff that in particular, seem important. Chainsaw was the first ever written...as they say here Downeast, it's a pissah! Grain is not to be read by the insincere among us. From Towards and To is a hayseed's explanation. And so on and on...

From, Towards and To

grain

Chainsaw Reaction

The Blind Man's Bliss

Semper Fi and a Heavenly Marine

(I prefer no comments during this retreat. To you and yours, beautiful days! May you be thankful, be grateful, and always, always remember the gifts.)Take care-

No doubt

2010-07-16T11:12:00.000-04:00

"....No doubt the universe is unfolding as it should..."

from Max Ehrrman~Desirderata