Look around. Let Nature nurture your Soul. I record images I sense and share them here.
NURTURE your NATURE
Nature can nurture our writing, can nurture our soul. What is the language of Nature? And how do we learn it?
We look at the natural wonders around us and do not see them, hear, taste nor smell them. They do not touch us anymore than we dare touch them. And then we wonder why we feel so dead. To breathe in and live like a child again opens the Land of Wonderment. It's still there after all these years.
|Looking for shooting stars
1. A shower of fallen shooting stars nestled amid the biscuit root.
2. Vesper bell. And abovethepine and powerlines, the waxing moon.
3. Service berries blow their fragrance towards the hemlock; the river races westward.
4. Ripples adorn the backwash under the bridge tickling round stones, as if to roll them along.
5. Golden medallioned soldiers stiffen in the breeze; arrow-leaf balsamroot at attention.
6. Maple flowers and the ping of rain on my hat and jacket.
from my walk along the Clark Fork this evening.
|To be rebarned
All glory fades,
then's sold: old rags,
old logs, spare thoughts,
and now is not.
Like stout barns built
for an age long past
or ages to come:
for cows, for hay,
for modern art.
Each with a story,
unique and yet ...
so much the same,
abandoned to rot,
perchance with luck
to be rebarned.
** Image ID #2214946 Unavailable **
Note: my friend Arild refurbished an old barn in Pennsylvania and had a project called "Rebarn" to protect more. He died young from an anorism.
|To market and back again
It's a day of cleaning and planning my next trip but it's also Saturday and market time.
The tents provide shade to the workers hawking pastries like Irina or coffee like Kat. The cookie lady is adorned with a floral hat.
It's cool in the mornings but it quickly gets hot.
Last evening we had a storm: wind and rain and lightning. Even after it had moved out the lightning streaked an orange sunset.
August can be hot, thirsty, and tinder waiting for a spark. It will not reach 90º today. Some years it heats up to 100º. Feels like it won't get there this year.
My winter squash is growing; buds are forming. If no one decides to weed them before autumn it's possible that they will survive.
The yellow flowers are blooming in poor disturbed soil, probably yarrow. The daylilies are still blooming but the landscape has gone to seed. The bluebirds leave in August. Have they left yet?
The south channel of the river is glass and the rapids are quieting. The tubers will be out later and maybe the paddle boats as well.
But enough breathing in and out. There is cleaning to be done and my indoor plants are very very thirsty.
Bobturn writes about an encounter with a youth collecting trash in "Invalid Entry" .
"Absolutely beautiful to read this! Not just the lovely flow of words but the meaning conveyed by showing it.
I travel so I see the "past" and "future" and what's possible. The trash in the Balkans was unavoidable. The lack of trash in Tokyo was stunning. The younger generation in Costa Rica is far more conscientious than mine. It's visible. I hope to one day visit Rwanda where they have outlawed plastic. I want to experience how that has been accomplished.
I've been able to connect with young people around the world. It counters any cynicism that we can't connect.
Sitting in front of my window
I also thought about 🌘 Darleen 🌒 's comment on Char's blog entry.
"I have no significant places other than those that make me feel "safe". Ex-agoraphobic, 20 years of fighting anxiety, my home and more so my room is my safe place and the only place of significance for me, unless you count a really dark night with a sky full of stars and the moon."
So, thinking of Darleen, what is my experience today sitting in front of this window?
I don't see people unless they are on the white roof of Gild, the distillery I gaze down on. I don't hear people unless they are three floors below in the weed filled back entry to the clothes store, Betty's Divine. I hear the incessant passing of traffic, albeit muted. There are few birds here. No tree out my window. No bushes or flowers. No balcony. No crow or goose on the gable of the gentrified condos of The Babs today.
It's a sterile inner-city landscape best described by humans and human activity. Yet, there are puffs of white in a blue sky and although the grass on the mountains has seeded there's still some green. It's been a wet year. I can also see the summer green of the maples and elms I walk past each day.
Were I to get out of this worn-out swivel chair, disconnect from this screen and the cord plugged into the wall, and leave my coffee behind, I could walk across the hall and sit before a huge window and look across the river. I'd see people gathering for Wednesday's Out-to-Lunch. I might see kayakers or surfers by Brennan's Wave. The leaves of the poplar would wave at me and the tower of the Old Milwaukee Road depot would be flying the flag.
Inside my plants are complaining that they need watering. And spoons, forks and knives are waiting to be properly soaped up, bathed, rinsed and dried.
Living alone can make one hear one's own voice. The quiet suffocates like a pillow.
And except for the moon, there are few lights in the city's night sky.
|The Goddess of Lightning speaks
Missoula, July 8th, 2019
The Goddess of Lightning graces us with her gusts from the south,
forces herself through the screen mesh
wets a 2 dollar coin I was given in Prizren.
With four fingers I twirl it's scalloped edges minted in Hong Kong.
As the world spins the rains swirl around us.
It's been a wet year.
Everything's green except early grasses gone to seed.
If we ever have heat gardens will do well.
It's odd to breathe in this moisture.
The old hotel hallways bear layers of dust. My room is always dry. My skin usually itches.
We are born thirsty here.
But this evening it darkens early and the rumble of thunder precedes the cool downdraft that enters our perception.
The Goddess of Lightning must be listened to.
bawls out anyone who prefers silence.
For Silence is drought.
And Drought brings death.
The Goddess pours down upon us her life-affirming moisture.
Humans are part of nature too. After dragging my butt to the market I came back by way of the local ice cream store. No seats inside. Always a line.
It was dark outside, so late.
Shorts, long loose dresses, sandals.
Standing solo, coupled, in family groups.
Using their phones.
All in line for something frosty on this warm evening. 10 p.m.
A gentle breeze rustles leaves; the line moves slowly.
A young blond shakes his hips. The joy of youth abounds.
(Never snuff out another's flame, I remind myself. The world is dark enough.)
Flavors of the day: orange cardamom sorbet, chocolate whiskey, cookie dough, blueberry and cream.
|Sitting by the river on the 4th of July in 2019.
Watching the primrose open...
it opens for all those who stop to admire
...yellow-green in the cooling calm.
unnoticed, unappreciated, it still blooms
Sand-flies dance above a tree.
they live in the moment... do we?
Down by the river: rocks, stones, bricks, one beer can.
the trash of our passing will live long after we have left
Dimple of fish grabbing something on the surface.
even the denizens of the deep must leave safety to eat
Circular ripples, the ephemeral whirl of eddies.
the vortexes that form, dissolve, reform, a metaphor of mourning
Channel's gentle flow, the after sunset glow...
how life moves in a direction, renewing itself every day
...silhouetting the bridge-swallows.
late-evening dining on the wing
Roar of the river through the rapids.
we also fuss at the obstacles we must overcome
The hum of traffic descending from above.
civilization impinges on my reverie
The realization that once I leave, only my words will remain...
and those to be forgoten
...like this passing tandem bicycle. Coming, going, gone.
|June's lamented tune...
Before I forget these notes from late June:
Cool breeze, 19º. Leavings of green-gold sepals under the locust. It's June 23rd. Dappled shade when the sun peaks out.
Myriad crafts: ceramics, glass, clothes, paper, leather... under white canopied tents aflutter. It's Made Fair in Caras Park.
The slow slither of chatting hoards thins out. The vendors pack their wares. I leave with a fragrant sachet, a gift from Lavender Lori, to soothe my nerves.
The next day, the 24th, I watch a sparrow on a slender stem, making it bend. Cool-in-the-shade breeze. Weeds struggling in the cracks between bricks of the patio at Bernice's Bakery.
Yellow daisies contrast with purple petunias as four women chat as cotton puffs of the poplar float by. Hopping sparrows search for crumbs. Spring has left with the breeze dancing in the weeping limbs of the white birch tree.
A muzzled dog saunters by. A plaintive chirp. I have nothing to offer. I say goodbye to the fragrance of white flowers, the pale pink of bindweed, the velvet touch of lamb's ears.
I spoke to my mother around noon; I spoke to my aunt last week.
Neither are black ants.
I walked to the local liquor store today. Officially they are a grocery store, but they have more beer and wine for sale than most anywhere in town.
I try to buy what's on sale. I've been going for years. I just have to be patient. Today, it was cottage cheese. So I bought two.
On the way back I decided to slow down and take notes:
Ants in the sidewalk cracks. A man was cutting the grass edges, disturbing the soil. Throwing clumps of sod on the sidewalk. Were the ants disturbed or merely going about their business? I didn't stop to ask.
Peaceful after two days of thundering rain. Pale blue skies beguiling us before the storms return tomorrow.
I saw weeds eking out a living along a fence line. They are about to flower. The two-legged residents don't seem to be troubled. One can almost hear their lament "look away, look away".
Daylilies brighten up a corner where the shade isn't too deep. Sugar maples don't share the sun. They are greedy.
The deep grooves of the maple bark harbor nothing.
On the way through the alley, a short cut past a tree with bright red cherries. Not quite ripe but I eat two.
Grey-headed and black-bibbed the sparrow chirps in the clover. Is it as lonely as I am?
The late evening sun brightens the north sides of buildings. The days will be shortening soon.
There were always ants among the peonies where I once lived. I always checked the buds, and petals. But even bugs are careful here by the river where swallows and robins seek them out. And what creeps and crawls had better know how to hide and survive the coming drought. Even the birds of Spring leave with their fledglings. Sitting here on the bench, I notice how Spring red and yellow greens slowly have turned to the darker green of Summer. Where I came from the peonies always welcomed Summer. I cup pink and red ones in my hand, bring them to my face and inhale their fragrance.