Retreat Part Deux

I’m slipping back into retreat this morning as my mind shifts back to writer mode. But the green beans I spied in the garden yesterday—when I watered for the first time after a soggy week—nag me. I’m pretty good at filtering out distractions in favour of writing time. But those beans. Dang.

Gathering Rosebuds

Summer’s back. I printed out the fourth draft of Presences of Absences, bought new colourful highlighters, flags, and post-it notes, and am heading into a different season of writing and editing away from the computer. Perfect timing. Because it’s time to sit on the deck and watch the finches, and on the grass in front of

In the Moment of Now

Overnight, the growth seems exponential. I stand with the the long-handled nozzle on my hose putting water near the base of turnips and beans and kohlrabi and other plants that are, today, more than they were yesterday. Sometimes, change happens when we don’t expect it. We’re surprised when we find ourselves somewhere we haven’t been

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

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

Chamomile

With my thumb and forefinger, I pluck tiny white and yellow chamomile flowers. They are a perpetual gift: the more I pick the more return in their place. I toss them on a plate on my windowsill to dry and lift my fingers to enjoy the sweet aroma. Later I go back to the raised bed

Rich

I write in the morning, weaving threads and creating tapestry, lost in the process. In the afternoon, I settle into my favourite spot on the deck with a book, and a highlighter, and a Yorkie on my lap. I read slowly—rereading when I realize I’m skimming—setting my book down now and then, when a hummingbird buzzes