I got home from my four miles to/from the public library and, lo and behold, after writing about everyone else’s roses still in bloom, I found a drooping flower on the climber on the south side of the house, one of the sunset-colored and mightily fragrant roses that smell of rain or cinnamon or cut flowers or maybe even grass…
Actually, now that we are city folk, all we have to do is flick a switch and the gas fireplace with its ceramic log pile comes to life. Been there, done that re: the hauling of wood for the past nine years. It’s nice to have a touch of luxury,…
Finally today, the clouds over my psyche, my perception of what is now my life, lift for a host of reasons—hormones shifting, new allergy drugs working, sun returning even if only for fifteen minutes to light up this morning in my life. The weekend is an artist’s date of sorts—heading to Medford/Ashland with a friend and the matinee of Chekhov’s The Cherry Orchard at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival on Saturday. A break most welcome, a cultural outing sorely needed…
Photo by Helgi Halldórsson. That’s the sum total of my life here on this green, dry summer spot on the earth today. Silence so deep …
The wind—cooler wind, how great is that?—is up and the evening has barely begun. Wind chimes welcom me home and my cat lazing with a feather bungee toy on the kitchen braided rug. What a joy to return to the smells, the sights, the cooler air of western Oregon…
The wind up, the tenor Gregorian chant wind chime is making its music. The temperature The temperature drops but only slightly, and I hear the horn of inbound (particle board, paper bags, pallets) Willamette & Pacific train…
I will never cease to be amazed how memory, well my memory, works. Yesterday, getting ready for the dinner gathering we were hosting, I was cleaning this and that in the refrigerator. The glass pan of pasta that was our leftover dinner a few nights back was ready to find a new home…
Without opening your door, you can know the whole world, says the Tao te Ching. And I want to believe that, this Monday, 3rd anniversary of the horror-show we wrought in Iraq. I sit in quiet, in stillness; there isn’t even wind in the trees…
I was reminded of this, written last year, after walking at dusk today: My Four Seasons I. In spring, after it stops raining, the sun …
The snow that, this time of year should be rain, tumbles in vertical lines from the sky, pretty and enchanting, more than compatible with the …
