April Wine

sayingyes2After a long hard winter, this year’s turning toward springtime is something to crow about.  Have there ever been such vivid sunsets in the story of the world, such indigos, purples and golds, such broad brushy sweeps of clouds?  If these sunsets were potions, they would be heady and intoxicating concoctions – brews rich and sparkling, potent enough to convey wonder and enlightenment and vibrant immortality.  April sunsets are fine wine indeed.

This year, I am viewing April’s dusky wonders from a snowdrift and all the gloss will be ice, at least for the next week or two, but even that cannot dim the magnificence that wraps the world at the end of day. Humbled beyond words, I am happy just to be here and seeing it all, and I so wish I could throw my arms around the world.

Cate Kerr on April 3rd, 2014 | File Under Cate Kerr | 3 Comments -


RaindropsYou know how some days you just can’t make happen what you want no matter how hard or how many times you try.  That’s how it was with the raindrops on the porch railings.  They were beautiful against the backdrop of the trees and the mist surrounding them–a melancholic beauty, an aching beauty.  I shot from different angles with different exposures, practically stood on my head taking one shot and nearly fell down the steps taking another.  But I could not capture what I was feeling—the way they were just hanging there waiting to fall, huddling closer and closer to one another and eventually taking the plunge together.  It was a gathering-together that summed up all the sadness I was holding and needing to let go. I have lost so many people that I have loved.  And there will be more.  We are all one with the Earth’s tears.

Kathleen Martin on March 30th, 2014 | File Under Kathleen Martin | 4 Comments -

An Odd Sort of an Angel


For ten days Jimmy labored, a man astride his tractor and often on foot, wielding a chain saw and ropes to take out trees and give me more space to plant. He did what I asked him to do, despite the fact that it took him more days than he’d planned. Oh, he did complain about his back, his neck, the challenge of the work. He moved stiffly, a seventy-year-old man with aches and pains.

But I didn’t ask him to clear out the huge pile of tree trunks, root balls, and limbs, left three years ago by the guy who cleared my home site. From the moment, however, that Jimmy saw that pile, he made it his mission—without announcing it to me—to eradicate that raggedy, rotting beast from my life. On several occasions, as he stood in the midst of his work, he’d turn to that pile and say, “That thing is just a mess. It sure does bother me.”

During the days he was here, he chipped away at the pile. He applied the giant blades of his bush hog and ground some of it up. He used his chain saw to cut some of the logs. What he could not grind and chose not to cut, he caught with a rope and hauled off into the woods, where, he assured me, they would “de-pose”. I’d lean over the fence, and say, “Jimmy, it’s wonderful to have that pile disappearing, but I want be sure you’ll get those trees down,” and I’d point to the left, to the right, straight ahead.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, “I’ll take care of those.” And he did. This man, an odd sort of an angel, gave me a gift—doing much much more than I’d asked. And I am ashamed to say, I misjudged him—a man born and bred in the country, a man who did not know to say “decompose”, had within a touch of Picasso, a hint of Monet. He not only cleared that blight of a pile, but he artfully left some trees and cleared others to make me a beautiful playground for planting and planning and dreaming. Artists and angels appear in all forms.

Ellen Hamilton on March 26th, 2014 | File Under Ellen Hamilton | 3 Comments -