Sailing ahead down the tar-sealed road,
a shadow, wide-winged and languid.
Seagull and sun behind me
pull like a kite on invisible string.
Would you like a free copy of Lullaby for Mothers, for you or to give to a friend?
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To be spring again,
arriving in a world
wet, green and electric…
My son points out that my skin looks old,
that it’s made of tiny triangles.
It’s not criticism,
not compliment,
said with an air of almost-worry…
I found this beautiful video created by Dennis Hlynsky showing the flight patterns of birds and insects.
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This summer my daughter and I read The Borrowers…
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So it comes away in layers,
flakes and falls like bark.
Not the single slice you hoped for,
not that clean cut you wanted…
Such busyness. Such relentless directed effort in building a nest…
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There’s nothing like going from a valley to the shore to blow the sides out completely…
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Things are falling in the most beautiful way…
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Following swallows…
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Postcards from moments at home this summer…
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It was driven by this idea of garden perfection, by fantasies of a garden that matched those I saw in magazines. The whole thing was actually driving me mad.
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Unlike going for a walk, when walking the labyrinth there is no sense of trying to outpace the feelings, resolve them, shake them off or leave them behind.
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The bags went down, the hay went down, the potatoes went down and then got covered up. There may or may not be potatoes to harvest at the end of this.
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A beautiful video of a kereru doing a display dive.
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It’s not just the mental shift from gardening to guardianing (thanks to Mary Reynolds for that beautiful phrase), but a certain kind of loosening inside me.
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