mother wood

bird on the bare branch

On Mother’s Day, my spouse and I ventured into the woods, she with her camera, and I with a hat. Spring in Vermont fully here, bird song, rushing rivers, and myriad shades of green exploding from forest floor to tree top. Ours was a meditative stroll, moments barefoot, even a toe dipped into the icy mountain stream, feeling the great mother of us all.

woman walking over a wooden bridge

Seasons set us on a new direction. This Spring, the rebirth of a business, a routine of walking together, eating even greener, all to nurture ourselves inside and out. This stroll under the big blue sky with little direction, proffered a singular gift: to find our inner fire. We stepped in stride.

trillium in the woods

We find delight within the shade of the tall trees. These resilient plants that dare to poke out from under last year’s fallen foliage cause us to linger, crouch, and marvel at their delicate leaves and pastel shades. Trillium. We spy several varieties all a different hue. We count ourselves lucky. No, luckier. They survived. We survived. And today we rejoice together.standing by the waterfall

Water is part of my soul. I can’t get far from that element without despair creeping inside. Today we ventured to the source racing and rushing with enough force to round rocks and topple trees. This is not a power to mess with and we are halted in awe. Reverence. Those secrets running past call out, we remember to hear truths. Boisterous loud daring honesty in waves. We listen.

rushing river

We yearn for more of this reprieve from our fast-pace life. From the up and out and busy through the seconds that make up each day. For together years have fled by us. This day we allow the cold water to return us to the now, to the daring expectations that the very next minute might hold. I hop from rock to rock to get closer to that. And then sit steady. Believe. Right here.

woman sitting next to the river

Each hour of this day unfolding as it might, we meander into discovery. Might this not be our everyday? How might the beginner’s mind be swapped with our tired one? Let this sunlight falling on feet and face be felt with all wonder alone. This river strips away our debris, the old, to bone.  
fiddleheads in the woods

What is it about decisions and choices that lay ahead that make us doubt? There are days when all I want is to see a straight line in front of me, and other days when that is the very last course I wish to take. We walk on, taking the curves in stride, slowing at the challenge, peering behind before space fades, but moving as curious explorers must. Beyond is a new way, a path to take.

woods walk in Vermont

Flowers budding on every branch leaves leafing while the light shifts our view upward. There is laughter core deep that follows nature’s lead and bursts forth. We hold hands. Feel the soft breeze smell that honey sweet exquisite softening earth coming back after the winter freeze. Our banter turns to dreams and they all seem less daunting almost pastoral in their simplicity. This life our life turns from starry wonder to realized potential as we stroll on grassy path far from our beaten one.
spring flowering trees

I hope you too found a place all your own last Sunday. If not, get there soon, whatever, where ever out there means to you. A place to remember those lost treasures and ambitions, those very gems that make you. Remember to step off, capture all your astray passion, and tug it back inside.

And a special Cheer to all the mothers and those who nurture this planet and all the inhabitants!


Photo credit: my dear Miss Mj, who catches the best moments we share, and can do the same for you through ArtCity Marketing

May Days

May brings the days we live for in northern Vermont. Long afternoons to get outside, all of us, and even in the slanted sunlight we rejoice for this freedom. Winter, almost a distant memory as temps rise, and all around buds green and flowers red. Oh Lady Spring, thank you for all the gifts.

dog on a wooden bridge

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Pause in the Threshold

During this very first week of January, I hold off the temptation to look too far ahead, in order to pause in the threshold for a short moment and savor  the past year. Looking back though my weekly blog posts, I am reminded of the small moments that make up one’s grand life: the way we keep ourselves present, fluid, and in touch with the important stuff. I offer the following tidbits, photos, and links from 2017, as a reminder to you of all we have been through, and just how resilient we all are despite the difficulties. 2018 may present challenges, but with the strength inherent in our past, what can we not overcome?

In no particular order, here are 5 posts I am glad I revisited. Hope you will be too.

Glimpse Heaven

After a blue sky day, when the sun drops behind the ridge and our mini-fire-pit reaches a heated pitch, we glimpse heaven on earth as snowy yard goes from blue to pink to purple. We stand witness and declare, weekends are the best! Afternoons outdoors, chatting about nothing, sitting silent for a few fleeting moments. Living beyond the work week is all we’re really after, right? Fire and sky, feet on the earth, with time on our side, now that’s a Saturday worth remembering.

outdoor fire at sunset in Vermont

Epiphany for a New Year

4. Guiding Star

Find yours. Whatever it is. Your yoga practice or your rabbi’s words, your divining rod or your guardian angel, regardless, set a course toward your best self, and use your own spiritual beliefs to glimpse what that just might look like. Solo or with your congregation, catch a glimmer of those hopeful and healing and healthy and divine rays with regularity.

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Being Here in the Now

Do you remember when you first discovered Ram Dass’s 1970’s iconic Be Here Now? When you cracked open that journey? I do…  only a teen unsteady on which way was up but I dove in all the same.

Be Here Now

Those years revolved round myself. Being here now meant more time with an emphasis on present enjoyment. Chasing the next high until reality drifted out of view. Being present was pure frenzy. What may have started as new-age spirituality for others morphed onto immediacy for me and my crew, and even though there was the notion that we, this new generation, care beyond ourselves, to include all the souls inhabiting this one earth, the real focus was on one’s small private world, frequently spinning out of control, fast, then faster. From my vantage, Ram Dass ignited a wave of self-professed hedonists, of which I was yet another faithful fan, who heralded in reckless totality. By the time I reached my early twenties, the party had consumed too many around me; I was lucky to crawl out of the glitter alive. Continue reading

With Gratitude

Today I give thanks for all the wonders of this earth, and my good fortune to be traipsing around among such gifts with my sweetheart. I invite you all to pause, and journey with us into the snowy woods, to hear the stream and continue on to a spectacular waterfall.

walk into the snowy woods

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Perhaps it is the sea of fake news we find ourselves drowning in, or perhaps the spew of lies that click so easily off Trump’s digits, whatever the reason, I am drawn more and more to reading the “confessional poets” of yesteryear. Those original ones, who cared little for the moniker but much for “focusing on extreme moments of individual experience, the psyche, and personal trauma, including previously and occasionally still taboo matters” (Confessional poetry). Plath, Lowell, Sexton. They broke repression and oppression. Wove the atrocities of the Nazis into autobiographical poetry. Created verse from what we denied, with the stuff left under the rug. As their ashtrays overflowed and they pounded typewriter keys, their truth loosened onto the page and heralded a revolution of honesty.

We need those crazy fragile ones back on the center shelf. Enough with fiction for a while. Enough with thinking it isn’t the obscene power of the AR-15 that is slaughtering us. Enough with thinking that Trump isn’t motivated solely to further fatten his paunch. Enough with thinking these moral right-wingers have morals, or at least the same ones that you and I share. You know, like caring that babies are murdered at school or church or anywhere a deranged angry white man with an assault weapon cuts them down. If you still read Facebook “news” with conviction or scroll down your Twitter feed believing those 140 or now 280 characters, then wake up, you are being made the fool.

Hate breeds hate, right? Remember that one from kindergarten? We have been lead into a labyrinth of falsehoods from the naked emperor to those scurry to do his bidding. Time to taste the bitter pill. Face the hard facts. We have violated our selves. Our women. Our poor. Our neighbors. Our small towns and big cities. Our planet. Continue reading

shit show

It really isn’t because I’m reading Claire Dederer’s latest memoir, Love and Trouble, but I must admit, she’s gotten me thinking. About how I wished I wrote with her daring pen. About all those crazy-ass years when I was running straight into the black, and these slightly more stable years, when some of that crazy is boomeranging back. But it isn’t totally that either, it’s my job and the demands that are clear insanity but you can’t actually admit to it because it’s your job after all and you need to keep it a few more years; it’s the guy in the White House who I can’t bring myself to call president or give his title a capital letter but still, you know he’s there and the whole world is acting like he didn’t in fact steal the election but somehow might be qualified even though he’s the very definition of shit show; it’s about summer’s abrupt end and my love of drinking a tad too much rosé, okay my addiction that hasn’t stopped even though I know better and one should stop drinking Summer’s Water; but ultimately it’s about racing and racing every day ahead of just about every deadline so that I can feel like I have it together but know I don’t. Yeah, today, it’s all of that.

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