Words seem weightless — wisps — unable to keep shape long enough to put pen to paper, type to keyboard, mind to imagination.
Life spreads along other realms.
painting with preschooler
a fellow concerned citizen
one of my batik panels
Hours keep tide with the ebb and flow of sowing, tending, harvesting, processing.
Garden, work, family.
In a sea of white,
one vivid purple blooms magnetic.
Morning Glory. Flower, myth, friend, lover. hallucination. muse.
There is beauty for ashes in this world, over and over, ephemeral, insubstantial — everything and nothing.
My heart drinks in.
Miles from Nowhere is singing to the plants, minutes and minutes go by before I notice my own voice.
Mind flies, hands keep home.
Tending, pruning, mulching.
Sons, marriage, garden, spirit.
Some days the ordinary seems wildly exotic.
Some days even the flowers seem to have opinions.
Black holes suck away speech: worldly sorrows, friends’ sorrows, my own…
…but I cannot forget: my body rests on peaceful ground at night.
How to be other than utterly grateful?
This summer, get aways are one foot in front of the other,
in town or in woods,
or rangy hills,
eyes peeled for raptors’ wings,
heart open to the wind.
‘I lift up mine eyes…’
Mountains as coping skill. within and without.
Letting in beauty. Letting in peace.
moments here and there.
“Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing.”
“The mountains are calling and I must go.”
~ John Muir
“Chasing angels or fleeing demons, go to the mountains.”
~ Jeffrey Rasley
“Writing is the clumsy attempt to find symbols for wordlessness.”
~ Earnest Hemingway