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 …
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Since last week, this phrase, almost like an excavated mantra, has been echoing in my head. Something with the sense of time running out, or the preciousness of days, with this turning 50 and daring to be realistic and not pretend I’m not likely more than halfway there, my life halfway gone.
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While most of Saturday was consumed by periodic searches for the missing car key—I’d driven myself and the car home on Thursday, it had to be here somewhere—I made time to whip up a batch of Moosewood’s Cream of Broccoli soup, updated by Mollie K.
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