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Wherelings, whenlings
(daughters of if-but, offspring of hope-fear, sons of unless and children of almost),
never shall guess the dimensions of him
whose each foot likes the here of this earth
whose both eyes love this now of the sky.
endlings of isn’t shall never begin
to begin to imagine how
Him whose each foot likes the here of this earth
Him whose both eyes love this now of the sky.
(only are shall be were
Dawn dark rain snow rainbow
and a moon ‘ s whisper in sunset
Thrushes toward dusk among whippoorwills
or
tree field rock hollyhock forest brook
Chickadee
Mountain. Mountain)
Why-coloured worlds of because
Do not stand against yes
Which is built by forever and sunsmell.
(sometimes a wonder of wild roses sometimes)
with north
over
the barn.
e.e. cummings
20/50
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My electronic archives have been neglected this year as I took a turn back to the old ways, to relish the dying art of handwriting and its ancient tools, and to savor the privacy, tangibility, focus and flow that these tools afford.
For some reason, this seems like a good time to share a gratuitous picture of a turtle I met this year. Or maybe she’s not so gratuitous. Maybe she was a little spirit companion meant to remind me the value of slowing down, grounding, and seeking solitude.
But I didn’t come here today to share turtle pictures. I wanted to show you one of my most prized possessions — a garden journal my sister made for me.
She calls it a “junk journal,” though I don’t think that’s a fitting description. Every single page is embellished with awesomeness.
There are all sorts of nooks and folds in which to tuck notes, thoughts, dreams, and ideas. And she stocked it with seeds, charms, a vial of dandelion fluff upon which to make wishes, and all sorts of magic.
And these pictures do not even begin to do it justice.
With this journal I am a garden wizard! Next year, I should be able to grow a beanstalk to climb to find the goose who lays golden eggs.
It makes me happy.
The video below is her doing a complete flip-through of the journal in case you’re interested:
And if you want to see the other journals she’s created (e.g., Murder on the Orient Express), here’s a link to her channel:
Recycled by Skattur
“But I don’t want to go among mad people,” Alice remarked.
“Oh, you can’t help that,” said the Cat: “we’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.”
“How do you know I’m mad?” said Alice.
“You must be,” said the Cat, “or you wouldn’t have come here.”
― Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland
November was exceedingly strange. Here are a few pictures I’ve taken this month of things that happened.
There was this…
Moving on.
“I just can’t” said the bear in the Costco parking lot.
(I was waiting on a friend in the car when the bear showed up seemingly unaccompanied.)
“Rawr” said the dinosaur.
(The dino was my contribution to a SoKaN event for #901 Rocks – a delightfully fun community craft movement taking the city by storm. These are some of the other SoKaNers’ painted rocks…)
[And finally, coming home fr0m this mad, funny, heartbreaking, and beautiful world to retreat (not to be confused with retweet) and recharge.]
Mad Catter crashing my tea party
*Yogi Goaty Goodness*
I’m not making this up.
It’s something that exists in the world now.
Just….LOOK!!
Nosowitz, D. (August 29, 2016). Goat Yoga: It’s Yoga with Goats. Modern Farmer. Online
T
My pickle journey began on a crisp January day this year. I was flipping though Annie’s Heirloom Seed Catalogue, while fantasizing about warm weather and all the stuff I wanted to grow in the garden.
Me: “Hey! We could grow corn and make our own popcorn!!”
El-D Squidward: “No. The deer will eat it.”
Me: “Then we need to plant enough for the deer to eat too! What could be better than homegrown popcorn!?”
El-D Squidward: “Being dead…or anything else.” (ok, maybe he didn’t say that part exactly, but the sentiment was expressed in the look he gave me.)
I continued flipping pages in the catalogue and came to the page with cucumbers. Homemade pickles! I kept this thought to myself, lest I be told a plague of cucumber-eating locust were expected this year.
I pondered pickles for few months, then ordered the seeds for Boston Pickling Cucumbers. The date was March 24th.
I planted them on May 6th. Little fuzzy plants began pulling themselves out of the ground a few weeks later.
El-D saw them coming up and built them a fancy trellis. On May 11th it occurred to me that I really needed to be growing dill if I was going to make pickles, so I planted some.
As the cucumber blossoms started turning into fruit, I realized that this pickle thing might acutally happen. The search for recipes began in earnest. I watched the Good Eats episode on pickle making as part of my research because Alton Brown is THE MAN.
After painstaking research, I finally decided on Curbstone Valley Farm’s Classic Dill Pickle recipe. Four stores later, I had managed to acquire almost all the ingredients. (Where the heck does one find juniper berries??).
Today, pickle preparation began. Today alone was a 5 hour labor of love.
I have the scalded skin to show for it. Seven months after the pickle idea popped into my head, I have this…
<cue angels singing here>
Sing it with me y’all!
…and now I only have three weeks to wait. This batch will be ready August 2. *sigh*
When not summoning sea creatures, El-D has been in Artist mode, busily creating music this week. When not in the garden, the Linguist Yogi has been busily badgering the Artist with relentless questions about his compositions:
What are you trying to communicate?
Is it a worthwhile message? Is it good? and/or is it true?
Are you expressing your message fully and clearly?
Is it being understood by your listener in the spirit you intended?
Will you take feedback into account to modify your message?
There have been intense philosophical debates about whether such questions are relevant to the creation of art. The Artist proclaims that art is what it is; what flows through is what flows through. Listeners will interpret as they will, so the message itself is of little importance.
The Linguist Yogi maintains that authenticity take a lot of time and work. One must consider the noise and distortions that get in the way and lead to confusion. Clarity in the head and heart of the Artist is the fine-tuning of the instrument. What flows through the fine-tuned instrument is refined, pure, and more potent.
~~*~~*~~*~~
Two versions of the same song are here for your consideration in this debate.
First is Emeli Sande’s “Where I Sleep” as it was originally sung by the song-writer.
And here is a very different interpretation remade by Voces8:
Where I Sleep
There’s nowhere that I wouldn’t follow
There’s nothing that I won’t do for your kiss
I love you like there’s no tomorrow
Cause nothing ever felt like this
There’s nothing that I won’t do for your kiss
I love you like there’s no tomorrow
Cause nothing ever felt like this
There’s nothing I won’t steal or borrow
I’ll travel on a boat or aeroplane
I’ll explore a world of sorrow
Cause when I find you I know, I know I’ma be OK
See the times are changing
And I’m sure of nothing that I know
Except this is us, and this is love, and this is where I’m home
In a world that’s breaking, where nothing is for keeps
Oh this is us, this is love and this is where I sleep
This is us, this is love and this is where I sleep
I’m from a generation undecided
I’m restless and I can’t help changing lanes
But in all the noise and the excitement,
you’re love is all that will remain
I’ve said all of my goodbyes to ego
I gambled all I got, there’s no plan B
It’s the first time that I’ve learnt to let go
It’s the only place I feel, only place I feel like me
See the times are changing
I’m sure of nothing that I know
Except this is us and this is love, and this is where I’m home
In a world that’s breaking, where nothing is for keeps
Oh this is us, this is love and this is where I sleep
This is us, this is love and this is where I sleep
This is us, this is love, this is where I’m home.
We’ve been on staycation for the last week. It’s all my fault. How can anyone be expected to vacate when the moonflower is unfurling all her Love across the fence? I mean really!
the moonflower leaves sweet Valentines
I can’t possibly tear myself away from this. Someone must remain present to witness it all.
Time tending the garden must be subtracted from time in transit, from time absorbed by electronic screens, and from time preparing agendas and itineraries.
Planning a vacation sounds like work in comparison when there is a Magic Queendom just outside the doorstep…
a squash blossom forest
…amusing sights abound at every turn.
this from a tiny seed dropped in the dirt!
Ants parade around accompanied by birdsong bands. A lizard mama skitters away-quiet as a whispered secret-when the hiding place for her glowing eggs is suddenly revealed to a startled human female, who quickly restores their cover.
Over the course of the week, we did venture a short distance from home. Just around the corner is an enchanted land where fairies frolic and gnomes make homes.
And just a little further out, though still remaining firmly rooted in the City of Kings, there was another garden to visit.
El-D commands the sea creatures
And that is what I did on my summer staycation.
