There’s nothing like camping to remind you what’s important in life.
What you really need to survive,
and all the things you don’t need at all.
And how little it takes to make you happy.
Sky.
Stars.
Fire.
Water.
Morning tea.
Love.
Words.
Maybe a bit of chocolate.
A big, open heart.
And okay, an air mattress doesn’t hurt either.
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Wishing you an open-hearted Wednesday.
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It’s been a year of changes, small changes mostly, adding up to a slight shift in balance.
Mornings have been foggy lately, literally and metaphorically, which is why we have tea, and sunshine. There hasn’t been a lot of sleeping going on, so burning off the fog takes time.
I sleep, I don’t sleep, I discard, reorganize, tame the garden, again. I write, I read, I write.
Tiny changes becoming habits, shedding pounds and detritus, aging my way into a place less frantic. Some days it feels possible, others, not so much.
Either way, here I am. The view shifts with the seasons, the trees grow taller, the row of pines that died has been replaced by a melange of trees and shrubbery planted by birds. They did the work for me, made all the decisions, filled in all the holes.
I let them take back what was already theirs, and they know the truth of that.
We sing together, on mornings like these, and the mockingbird records us. He is the record-keeper, always claiming the tallest tree.
I walk through the fog and listen to the whispers of days gone by, roots and memory twining up my ankles.
The sun is my keeper and night is my forest.
I forage, store, search for more.
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Yesterday was my mom’s (and her twin sister) 72nd birthday.
It was an absolutely gorgeous summer day, the day after solstice,
filled with sunshine and food and family and laughter.
My garden is gorgeous, the weather is perfect, and I just want
to wrap my arms around life in a big embrace.
Even the parts that aren’t so easy are easier to take in summer,
when my soul is soothed by being outdoors,
inhaling the perfume of flowers,
cut grass, night fires.
Green is the song of my heart.
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for these are the magic months
fireflies and fallen moons
starlight on bare skin
toes soaking up night’s tears of dew
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the dance of summer
wears a dress made from fresh
and there are no corners
to turn
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swirl
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