I Taught Myself to Live Simply
November 30, 2012 § 5 Comments
I taught myself to live simply and wisely,
to look at the sky and pray to God,
and to wander long before evening
to tire my superfluous worries.
When the burdocks rustle in the ravine
and the yellow-red rowanberry cluster droops
I compose happy verses
about life’s decay, decay and beauty.
I come back. The fluffy cat
licks my palm, purrs so sweetly
and the fire flares bright
on the saw-mill turret by the lake.
Only the cry of a stork landing on the roof
occasionally breaks the silence.
If you knock on my door
I may not even hear.
-Anna Akhmatova
The month for the axe
November 14, 2012 § Leave a comment
November is, for many reasons, the month for the axe. It is warm enough to grind an axe without freezing, but cold enough to fell a tree in comfort. The leaves are off the hardwoods, so that one can see just how the branches intertwine, and what growth occurred last summer. Without this clear view of treetops, one cannot be sure which tree, if any, needs felling for the good of the land.
I have read many definitions of what is a conservationist, and written not a few myself, but I suspect that the best one is written not with a pen, but with an axe. It is a matter of what a man thinks about while chopping, or while deciding what to chop. A conservationist is one who is humbly aware that with each stroke he is writing his signature on the face of his land.
-Aldo Leopold, A Sand County Almanac
Snow
November 12, 2012 § 3 Comments
There is such contentment in watching the snow swirl around outside the window in the howling wind, when you are indoors next to the wood stove, cafe au lait in hand, books stacked up beside you, and the dog sleeping near your feet.
Season of mists
October 23, 2012 § Leave a comment
Overcast, wet weather most often makes me want to light a candle and cozy up inside with tea and a book. Other times it makes me want to confront it so that I can embrace it; to throw off the sheltering walls of the house and go where the mists can surround me, their tiny drops prickling like sparks on my face.
Today looked colder than it felt. As I pulled on boots on the front porch I decided to leave my coat behind. This time of year the leaves are layering the woodland floor with yellow, rusts, muted purples, and many browns. The collage of all these colors made me want to spin on it, and I did. Sometimes you’ve just got to put your arms out and spin. And look up, and around, and laugh.
Life is good.
The sky stayed gray-white-blue today in the cover of clouds, until night fell and hid them away. On our walks through the woods, the lines of the tree trunks draw my eyes upward, to where I can see the silhouettes of the trees’ crowns against whatever color the sky happens to be. Today I found myself centered beneath several trees whose fine, small, tip-of-their-fingers branches reached out and overlaid one another, multiple times, so that above me I saw a kind of cobweb, or lace, hung in that space, woven of wood. I wish I could describe it for you better, all those black lines crossing so delicately over one another, so clearly defined against the white of sky. You would understand why there are stories of dryads. You would understand why humans are compelled to create art, tulle-lush tutus, tapestries, linens with fine embroidery, filigree. We want to be of such things, to re-speak them, to be connected with them somehow.
Milkweed
October 21, 2012 § 2 Comments
The milkweed pods have opened. The seeds blow into the wind.
Have you ever pulled them out, felt how soft and almost weightless they are in your hands?
Throw them into the air. Watch as they ride and twirl through the sky.
Be glad for prairie. Wildflowers. Nature’s wondrous details.
Mid-autumn
October 17, 2012 § 4 Comments
This is the time when the most vibrant oranges and reds and yellows begin to deepen and fade; when the blaze has already peaked and now we must slide toward winter.
But there are yet colors to earn attention here. The rust-orange of leaves. Grasses and forbs within a few shades of my golden retriever’s coat. The slate and gray and cool blues of sky. That sky against the shape of trees and the slopes of wheat-colored hills.
No, I don’t mind this part of the season. It makes you take more time to notice. The subtle things often seem the deeper things, to me. As temperatures become more reliably chilly an extra sweater and a jacket are more appreciated.
There is a stillness here before the holiday rush surrounding autumn’s end and winter’s beginning.
Tassie and I, we will walk through it.
Festival
October 15, 2012 § Leave a comment
We had several cloudy, cold days on either side of October 7. But on the day of the festival the sun came out. And so did the people.
Want to learn more about the farm? Visit Hungry Turtle’s website.
Want to learn more about nature experience opportunities for kids? Visit Bluebird Hill Homestead.
Oh, cider, scarves, and pumpkins. Farms and fall. Food. Friends. October.
Ephemeral fall
October 3, 2012 § 1 Comment
All the colors are turning and I have yet to photograph them! How is this happening? I daresay they are already past their prime, actually, and with the dry-as-a-bone weather we’ve been having the trees are quick to drop their leaves. This is sad. But fall has been blissful. October is starting off almost too hot in the afternoons, though we’re headed toward a cold weekend for the festival. This means there will be a bonfire. And hot cider. Just saying.
Meanwhile, it is time for pumpkin carving, tying corn stalks into shocks, and locating ingredients. My plate is full this week. Photos to come, soon, my friends. At least one fall afternoon must be documented.
Kinds of Honey 