Monthly Archives: July 2016

being still



It was “that” night, that summer night I think about when it is not summer. The moon rose and it was full, a Full Buck Moon, the time when tiny antlers emerge from the new bucks, and the locust were there under the one street light near my house and the chimney swifts were diving for mosquitos while the tree frogs sang their glorious song – it was there, all of summer condensed into one perfect night – I had a front row seat to all of this unexpected bliss. I do the night no justice with these mere words but I had to at least make note of it.


rose of Sharon and ginger

My chronological age is wonderful, it has helped me to see again. Some of the busyness is over, busyness that comes with jobs and raising children and although those were choice moments and accomplishments and certainly the importance of my life, these days of less “participation” are brilliantly colored by my greater ability to see. Of course, this intensity to see the beautiful details of life also works on the flip side, I see and feel the hurt also, seemingly more now than then. But this post is not about that, it is about the beauty from our starship – this is about the Full Buck Moon in a clear July sky and an early morning text from Elizabeth telling me she watched it hoover over the Cape with a light pink and blue sky as its backdrop on her early morning walk to work…so proud that she noticed. This is about these summer days that will keep warm thoughts in your winter head as you remember the cicadas that had made their ascent from the dark earth only to mate and then to die and the sounds of the night as much busyness takes place amongst the nocturnal animals, animals that have been pushed from their habitats as cities and towns sprawl but I still hear many of them here. I sometime catch the racket of the raccoons following the bayous looking for food and mischief and while I fear for my hens, I love the reassurance that they still have space to run.

Again, sudden darkness where the sun sets and the moonlight takes command as I wish I knew more about constellations.  I wait for the illusive falling star and always wonder exactly how the moon moved to my kitchen window the next morning when I left it hanging over the woods. It seems so distant and different outside of the kitchen window as the day takes from it its glory. And there is the sun beneath it, another day, no matter what is happening here, there it sits doing what it must. It dries the dew on each blade of grass, it opens the blossoms on the summer flowers and stimulates the honey bees. It is unlike the moon, it is powerful in a physical way, it is basic and it is forceful. The moon lets you gaze at it and dream on it. It is not as (visibly) constant as the sun, sometimes it doesn’t show up and the night sky is not as peaceful but then, it appears as a sliver amongst the stars on a clear night and I stop to admire it as my thoughts soften and all the world seems mystical and beautiful as the night blankets all that is wrong.

bee fb

Ironically, I write this ode to the moon, to the night, in daytime. The day is brilliant here with light and color and although the bloom of summer has peaked, much is left to enjoy especially in the early morning. My bees are busiest then, preparing for their excursions to find what is left of the summer nectar , fanning the hive before the heat of the day makes a bit of coolness impossible and tidying up the supers where, hopefully, more honey can be extracted in early fall. Busy busy, as I try not to be.  bu ps


thinking small


Jane Schnetlage’s fireflies

I hang on to the small rituals of the day, I hang on because they are the things I can be certain of. I am happy to be in this somewhat bucolic space, this is the place I am used to, the place I know so well. I know that the mockingbirds live in the white oak near the garden shed and I watch helplessly as they raid my biggest fig tree each July morning; I am forced to share. I know that there is a green lizard that lives behind the wooden shutter of my kitchen window and he comes out into the sun while I am making coffee each morning in summer. I know that the tree frogs sing with the moon rising and that my honey bees are collecting at the opening of the hive, feverishly fanning to keep things bearable inside for the queen and her brood. I know that I picked the last magnolia and that this midsummer heat is for my zinnias and lantana, the gentle bloom of summer has passed and the heat is not kind.

 I don’t know what will be on the news next; I have come to assume it will not be good, it will be another horror situation. I am ready to unplug. I say this not out of apathy, quite the contrary, I say this because I fear I will become deadened from the barrage. Before I can somewhat absorb one thing there is another. I know it is no one’s “fault”, it is just what has become. We move on so quickly; we move on without completing the process. Our fast food concept has seeped into the whole of our lives and I question that and it seems, I am fighting that. I want to absorb and understand and feel the events that are happening, I want to have the complete package so that I can better understand the world around me and make my own choices and believe what I have deducted not what someone on social media is pushing on me. I want time to use my mind and emotion to decide, to mourn, to fear, to be happy, to feel, and ultimately, to contribute.

Like everyone else, I just recognize the “problem” and can offer no “solution”. It is the world we have created, we “know” everything the instant it happens, news is pushed through our hand held devices and what we may have missed we will see on our computer screens the second we flip open the top. I know there is some good in all of this, I recognize this as progress but I also know that we do not have time to absorb and it is becoming more and more difficult to think our own thoughts – propaganda is excessive because there are so many ways now to penetrate.

As I reread this piece, I recognize there is no real “solution” – this is our world, our time. When I am overcome with blurbs of media I can come here and write in this progressive “journal”, I can lay out my state of mind and feel a bit better for sending it into this high tech world I speak of and perhaps that will be the balance –  that is the “give” for this “take”.

My thoughts continue to drift and I think of Pooh Corner…and “count all the bees in the hive”. IMG_0689

b u

p s

we are all connected

DSC_0384I spent a bit of monotonous, but needed, time today cleaning out my nearly 10,000 emails. At the end of the trash heap, May 2008, I found this very old email I had chosen to keep. And, while it is timeless, I think “This Time” is a good time to revive…hope you take from it its intention.

The Mouse Story with a Moral

A mouse looked through the crack in the wall to see the farmer and his wife open a package. What food might this contain?” The mouse wondered – – – he was devastated to discover it was a mousetrap.

Retreating to the farmyard, the mouse proclaimed the warning : There is a mousetrap in the house! There is a mousetrap in the house!” The chicken clucked and scratched, raised her head and said, “Mr. Mouse, I can tell this is a grave concern to you, but it is of no consequence to me. I cannot be bothered by it.”

The mouse turned to the pig and told him, “There is a mousetrap in the house! There is a mousetrap in the house!” The pig sympathized, but said, I am so very sorry, Mr. Mouse, but there is nothing I can do about it but pray. Be assured you are in my prayers.”

The mouse turned to the cow and said “There is a mousetrap in the house! There is a mousetrap in the house!” The cow said, “Wow, Mr. Mouse. I’m sorry for you, but it’s no skin off my nose.”

So, the mouse returned to the house, head down and dejected, to face the farmer’s mousetrap . . . alone. That very night a sound was heard throughout the house — like the sound of a mousetrap catching its prey. The farmer’s wife rushed to see what was caught.   In the darkness, she did not see it was a venomous snake whose tail the trap had caught. The snake bit the farmer’s wife.  The farmer rushed her to the hospital, and she returned home with a fever.

Everyone knows you treat a fever with fresh chicken soup, so the farmer took his hatchet to the farmyard for the soup’s main ingredient. But his wife’s sickness continued, so friends and neighbors came to sit with her around the clock.

To feed them, the farmer butchered the pig. The farmer’s wife did not get well; she died. So many people came for her funeral, the farmer had the cow slaughtered to provide enough meat for all of them.

The mouse looked upon it all from his crack in the wall with great sadness.

So, the next time you hear someone is facing a problem and think it doesn’t concern you, remember —- when one of us is threatened, we are all at risk. We are all involved in this journey called life. We must keep an eye out for one another and make an extra effort to encourage one another.

b u

p s