I’ve stopped thinking about our property solely as something to manage and maintain. I think less about how we might use the land and more about what would be useful for the land.
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As with learning most new things, the hardest part was at the start. It takes a while to learn the language of anything new.
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This is why the hawk is so beguiling. It is a wild in my domestic life. Amongst all the tidiness and comfort it reminds me that hunt and be hunted is part of who we are.
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Once, the sun was the switch that turned everything on. The sun would rise and light would come upon us. It would find its way to wherever we were…
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Some part of me longs to keep moving, keep busy, keep my mind fully and wholly engaged in the business of life. Another part of me longs for stillness. This part of me quietly insists I stay where I am, wherever I am, and listen.
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As it turns out, that stack of books is a pretty good representation of what I’ve been up to lately.
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Do you have the patience to wait
till your mud settles and the water is clear?
Can you remain unmoving
till the right action arises by itself?
—from Chapter 15, Tao Te Ching
I never expected to meet ruru this way, dead. The dark tail feathers were standing up, their fan shifting from side to side in the draught of the passing cars.
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Just as I felt faeries 30 years ago, I can feel this tree's life. I see what she protects, and how she anchors the garden…
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From above, roads are stark straight lines. Land undulates but the roads cut clear across, slicing open hills and paving across water. What the land does is irrelevant to the road.
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Every creative work holds up the turned-inside-out heart of its maker for all to see.
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When I stitch, I know what I am doing. I know where the lines are going. There is a map, and I’m following it.
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These are temporary lines I’m putting down. This map is a slow motion snapshot…
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It's possible that it's actually a failed attempt at a nest. It's hard to see how it could have held a single bird, let alone a clutch. Maybe it was a first attempt, a training ground. Maybe it was unfinished…
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This is not a nothing day.
The pines are whistling,
cypress trunks squeaking in the wind,
cicadas have started to sing…
She was silhouetted against the darkening sky. Her legs hung loosely below her; thick, puffed things that make me think of bloomers, with thin bony shins and feet. I could even glimpse her talons…
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