Skip to main content
Exhaustion would be too mild an adjective to describe my gardening-weary body, but my beautiful raised beds are now filled with plants and seeds and promise. It was a perfect day, overcast, threatening rain but offering a gentle sprinkle instead. I didn't try to plant as much variety this year but instead added lots of zinnias, sunflowers, gladiolas and cosmos to the beds, which should provide a dashing counterpoint to my abundant veggies. Summer is rapping at my bedroom door...only two weeks remaining before school is out and an equal measure of days before my eldest departs for two months...the bittersweet taste of summer.I always medicate anticipated heartache with reading and in good form, I am piling books on every available surface, anticipating three warm months of gorge reading.
The list includes:
The Wonder of Boys by Michael Gurian
On Dialogue, by David Bohm
Seven Life Lessons of Chaos, by Briggs and Peat
Education and the Significance of Life, by Krishnamurti
A few little books by Maria Montessori
Loads of crafting books particularly those with simple sewing themes or art journaling ideas,
Soldier of a Great War by Mark Helprin
and a whole host of others!
Oh I do love summer reading, crafting, sewing, gardening, hiking, playing, biking and photographing. I do love it, I do!

Comments

Profound ~Odysseus~ Alchemy said…
Now lets tear up your lawn and really do a garden/green house with solar hating for the winter storms.!!

and here is a book to add

http://www.gnosticstore.org/index.asp?PageAction=VIEWPROD&ProdID=189&HS=1
June 1, 2009 at 10:56 AM
Profound ~Odysseus~ Alchemy said…
Solar heating not HATING! hahaha
June 1, 2009 at 10:57 AM
Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

tree digging

Yes, I know it doesn't look like much.  It was only about 5 inches in diameter and 8 feet tall.  The root ball was no more than 3 feet deep.  But it was a sweet red-bud tree that we planted the year Bodhi was born, his placenta was buried in it's roots and like many of the trees in our neighborhood, it died (see this post to understand why) . I can't say that I mourned its death in a tangible way, rather it produced in me a sort of unnameable melancholy.  I am a woman who loves the spring.  I nearly live for it.  When the first signs of life emerge like a haze of hope, I drink in green with the passion of a desert crawling woman sipping at an oasis.  I gorge.  This year has been hard.  Our neighborhood isn't leafing out in native splendor, instead the tired trees seem to begrudge the effort, only offering a tender shoot or bud occasionally.  The north side of many trees appear to have given up all together, too tired after a long winter...
2 comments
Read more

Coraggio

When everything looks bleak and the darkness cramps against the cold, it takes courage to simply look out from imagined isolation toward the wide horizon of beauty available in every moment.  It takes courage to lean into the sea of life and trust the tide. When weary limbs no longer support us, it takes courage to trust our inner buoyancy and float.  It takes courage, in the face of darkness, to remember the light and sit in all our apparent blindness and listen, silently, to the still, small whisper within.  It takes courage, in that dark hour, when nothing else remains.  Eyes closed.  Eyes opened.  A glimpse, a memory, a fleeting vision of a light so bright it blurs the borders of things seen and things perceived into a comprehensive wholeness of being.  It takes courage.
4 comments
Read more

grief

Grief is defined as a deep or intense sorrow. I have been thinking a lot about grief, about it's wide and sticky reach, about the watery quality of it's absorption and the agonizing effort of swimming to shore. Intense sorrow happens. It is a part of life. Yet we press against it. We try to eradicate it. How? We encapsulate our grief in a story, thus effectively removing us from the immediacy of the pain. The mind promises salvation and begins to tell a story, over and over and over. We listen to the inner ramblings, the constant diatribe, the neurotic attempt to avoid the experience. When someone is hurting we listen to their story, we talk about it, we recount our own story, but we certainly don't jump in the waters of sadness, instead we sit on the bank of our familiar longing. Once, when I was floundering in deep grief, my youngest brother knelt next to me and held me for over an hour. He didn't speak. He didn't commiserate. He just jumped in the ...
4 comments
Read more