Rich

I’m at the park, kneeling at my tripod and looking through the viewfinder at some flowers I don’t know the name of. What someone somewhere called them in the past doesn’t matter. They’re growing here today and I’m appreciating their unique beauty and attempting to capture a reasonable digital representation. Sometimes I catch glimmers of

Seasons

I wish it was hot, but it’s not. It will be before long, so I do my best to be patient. We go to an appointment, then to the garden and harvest handfuls of fragrant basil for pesto. At home, I work in the kitchen making dog food and that pesto. After many trips up

Abundance

It’s fruit season. I’m tucking raspberries and strawberries away in the freezer, making jam, and enjoying handfuls of the sweet berries throughout the day. Also on ice cream. Of course. I’ve been on a canning hiatus, and the familiar sound of pinging lids and the sight of jars liked up like red-jewelled soldiers on a towel

Summer

Spring goes out like a petulant teenager. It’s cold. I pull on a hoodie, long pants, and socks (socks!) to stay warm, and close the doors and windows. When I pass by the den on the way downstairs to the woman cave to write, I spy Maya curled up on a blanket on the sofa wearing

The Shack

In considering what to write about in this space today, I went back in time to June 2009 to see what was happening in my life and see what has changed since then (a lot!). In June 2009, I picked up a copy of Wm. Paul Young’s, The Shack on a dear friend’s recommendation. I

Scapes

It’s gray, damp, and cool this morning—a respite for those who don’t appreciate the heat. A gift of disappointment for me. I appreciate our desert-like summers, relishing time spent outdoors at this time of the year and mourning every day that isn’t hot. Summer is so fleeting. It’s not even summer yet and there are still

Still, Small

I think of quiet. The world’s cacophony assaults and I hunger for silence, I bathe in solitude at every opportunity. I make space for these. One morning when I am not thinking of quiet, I am distracted by a different stillness. I look up and listen. For surely I will hear a whisper in this