Ten Years of Old Floors

Ten years of old pine floors and wavy windows
that let the outside in,
secrets held in unknown histories.
Walls that were, doorways gone.
Rooms and roof lines gained and lost, 
mysteries beyond unraveling.

The marsh is clothed in browns and tans,
as when we first arrived,
muted promise of discovery.
The years have changed it.
Populations of cattails, wild rice and jewelweed
jockey for position.
Like life itself, 
never static.

Ten years taller are the trees. 
Sycamores and yellow poplar scrape the sky,
long-fingered twigs stretching toward the clouds,
beech and holly growing together in community,
thin places where the Divine stoops low. 
Yet some are gone, 
remembered only by fallen remains, 
ghosts among the living, 
reminders of an earlier time.
I miss them.

For ten years we have been gifted.
Gifted with an old house with old pine floors, 
by trees and fields, woodlands and water;
Gifted by life itself, 
and ten years of memories,
of blessings and of growth.
Ten years of gratitude.

Autumn's Invitation

Wildly tossed in morning gales, 
encircled by autumn-tinted woodlands,
Indian grasses cavort in the meadow remnant,
backlit, as though touched by frost,
pearly seedheads, bowing and waving as I pass by.

Tinkling of chilly ground crickets
and hungry goldfinches seeking seed,
Cawing of crows, scolding jays,
Hidden white-throats rustling in the leaf layer,
Wind whispering through sleepy trees.

Autumn's invitation to pause, to breathe,
to ponder, to exult in this one moment I am given, 
in gratitude.

A Month From Now

Imagine stepping into one of your most favorite books and entering into the story that you had, up until that moment, only experienced in print. And, then, imagine that you have read that book so many times that some of its passages have become ingrained into your very being, and that reading it feels much like a homecoming. I have several such books, but most of them are of fiction, and their settings are inaccessible, but for the imagination. But, there is one book, one I have been reading for many years, that long ago sparked a deep longing for land to roam, creatures to observe, plants to recognize and greet in season, and a life lived in companionship with the wild. 

Back when I first started reading A Naturalist Buys and Old Farm, by Edwin Way Teale, I rightly assumed that I would never own a vast number of acres composed of woodlands, wetlands, fields and ponds. Initially, I balked against what I considered to be my lack of opportunity, but in time, I realized that I could steward the half-acre with which I had been entrusted for the benefit of wildlife, and for the joy of watching all who came in response. And that is what I did, and for several years the list of visiting birds and insects grew, and their presence and the beauty of the hundreds of species of flowers, trees and shrubs brought blessing each time I stepped out of my front or back door. 

Time passed and we moved, and moved, and moved yet again - three houses in 5 years, though, as it turned out, the first and third house were one in the same. In each new yard, I planted and got to know the creatures who came to live alongside my husband and I, but the longing for a place to belong, such as Edwin and his wife, Nellie had, still haunted me, now and again. Last February, I got to wondering about what had happened to Trail Wood, their home...was it still wild, did someone who loved it now own it, or had it been bulldozed and built upon, unrecognizable in all respects? An on-line search brought me to the Connecticut Audubon Society and to their ownership of Trail Wood, as Edwin and Nellie had bequeathed it to them, for the good of their land, and all who might want to come and experience it for themselves.

But, there was more...The CT Audubon, now offers an Artist-in-Residence program for four artists, two visual artists and two writers, each summer and each artist lives for a separate week at Trail Wood, working on their craft and living in the Teale's house and on their land. The instructions for applying were straightforward, and the application period was to close one week from the time I read of the opportunity. I surveyed some of my past writings, and some of my current musings and thought, "Well, why not?! I can keep applying year after year, and perhaps one year they might take me." And that was what I did. The writer's submissions could be up to 20 pages, and mine was that exactly. I filled out the myriad pages required, along with an artist's statement, and electronically sent the whole package off. 

To my great surprise, a few months later, I was accepted. I had just come home from a personal, silent retreat at a beautiful spot in eastern Virginia, overlooking a river that hosted nesting osprey and migrating loons and I was filled with the wonder of that weekend. As I began reading the email, I fully expected it to say that they thanked me for my submissions, but had chosen other artists. Instead, somewhere into the reading, I realized that they were thanking me for applying and would pleased to have me come, as one of the four. A few weeks later I was curious and wrote and asked why I had been chosen. I was humbled by the answer. "Your application, in my view, communicated much the same kind of spirit that the Teales possessed: an appreciation for the land and its inhabitants, an understanding of the fragility of nature and the need to work hard to protect and preserve it, and a strong, practiced belief in sustainable living...the Teale's door was open to one and all. I think they would have appreciated the talents and environmental ethic reflected in your application."

My submitted artist statement sums up why I write and what I would like any works that I create to achieve: The natural world has been where I have felt most at home for all of my adult life. As I have lived in many different places, for different reasons, the outdoors that has been my comfort and encouragement and has long been a significant part of my identity. I write, primarily, essays about the natural world and the life found there, and my aims are three-fold. I write to present the natural world as an accessible place, full of wonders and mysteries, for those who are not yet acquainted with it, in hopes that they will begin to see it with new eyes, and learn to care for it. I write, for all who will listen, about our human responsibility to care for the land and its creatures, and present easily implemented steps that people may take to do so in their own home landscapes. And lastly, I write for people of faith who need the reminder that we are called to be stewards in caring for the Creation, and that doing so is an integral part of life with God. As such, my writings are not the technical terminology of scientists, but more lyrical, poetic glimpses into the life of the various ecosystems I encounter on a regular basis. My hope is that, as a result, people will be intrigued and drawn into the practice of noticing, and thereby enter the more sacred practice of caring and protecting. I have been reading Edwin Way Teale for the last 25 years, never knowing that he and Nellie had left their beloved home to the Connecticut Audubon Society. As I worked to prepare this application, I have realized just how deeply his writings and care for the land have shaped and influenced my own.

And so, less than a month from now, I will travel to Connecticut, past the small town of Hampton, through the rural landscape that has endured, over the small bridge and up the long drive of Trail Wood. Whatever I find there, some 42 years after Edwin wrote of his daily exploratory excursions, I will be stepping into the story I have known almost by heart for the last couple of decades. For some unimaginable reason, I will be privileged to walk Edwin's and Nellie's trails, to listen to descendants of the insects they listened to, to dip my feet into their pond, to watch the night sky from their hilltop and to revel in the mid-summer fragrances and peace that they so loved. I am exceedingly grateful.

Holding On and Letting Go

I've been wrestling with a perennial dilemma, one that occurs at this time of year, every year. Fall is a time of pervasive restlessness, contrasted with a time of nestling into where I am...of wanting to fly off with the waterfowl on adventures to new places but,at the same time, wanting to pour my energy into the home place, planting new plants in support of next year's birds and pollinators. I am not the first to say, but do agree, that autumn is a bittersweet, melancholy kind of time, a savory, glorious bursting of brief unparalleled beauty preceding the starkness and silence of winter. It is a time of letting go, and I intentionally hold on to the promise that autumn's developing tree buds will be next years leaves and flowers.

This year, I am wrestling more deeply than usual.  We left my much-loved old home in PA and moved to southern MD three and a half years ago and have lived on the farm where I work, for two.  The farm is a beautiful old property, set high on a hill overlooking the Potomac River, a patchwork of fields, woodlands and marshes. Today the woodlands are ablaze with color, and the marshes are filling with ducks and migrating sparrows who will stay through the winter. Today I feel at home here....and thus my deeper wrestling.

It is dangerous to fall in love with a place you do not own and know that some day you will be leaving.  Granted, the argument can be made that it is also dangerous to fall in love with a place you do own, because you have no assurance about how long you will be able to stay. I know that I won't be working and growing old on this lovely old comfortable farm, however, and, even amid the joy and gratitude of living here, I feel the early stirrings of grief for when we will have to leave. All the more so in autumn.


In Pennsylvania I had an acquaintance who knew as much about native plants and ecosystems as anyone I have ever known. He was an electrician and lived in a city apartment, yet started thousands of plants for restoration projects under lights in his living room.  I once asked whether he had a garden and he simply answered, "The world is my garden." I marveled at his detachment from and his investment in so many places to which he had contributed his love for the land.  He has become something of a model for when I feel the attachment to one place too keenly and fear having that attachment broken...but I am not there yet, and secretly doubt  that I ever will be.

The tensions of holding on and letting go characterize love, no matter who or what our hearts embrace and the more deeply we love, the more deeply we grieve when faced with loss.  Autumn is a time for remembering the graces and gifts I have been given through the year, for recognizing the abundance the earth supplies and even for gratitude that, as the trees prepare to sleep, I are blessed with the visual feast all around me, brief though it may be. And so I accept that the beauty of autumn, in my heart anyway, is tinged with the coming sadness for when it will be over, and that I will also find beauty in the bare sculpture of the trees and the crispness of snow as winter approaches. I am reminded that my life is a continual, loving experience of holding on and letting go and that it always will be. And I determine, once again, to try my best to live with gratitude, in the moment.

Challenges to Mindfullness

I used to assume the qualities of quiet reflection and watchful mindfulness went hand in hand but, at times they seemed to be at odds. Sometimes, in fact, being mindful is just plain hard...Like this morning as I walked along the Potomac, thinking deeply about the past, the future and the present, and almost missing the strident calling of what turned out to be two flittering, agitated golden-crowned kinglets. Padding along the dirt road,my thoughts were turned inward, focused on some needed internal discussions and prayer time, and at the same time, reaching for the solace of the autumn glory of the woodlands that surrounded me.


Once the high-pitched voices overhead finally caught my attention, my focus shifted altogether to alertly waiting and watching, and the only matter on my mind was to identify the singers. Familiar as I am with golden-crowneds, what I was hearing did not register and so, after a short time of intense concentration, I was rewarded with the sight of two irritated kinglets obviously disgruntled with each other. I wondered from whence they had come and to where they were bound on their migration, and I wondered what was troubling them so on such a bountiful morning.

The most unexpected benefit of birding is that it calls for and returns me to mindfulness. When I pull the binoculars to my eyes, all other thoughts fade into the background and I am left fully with and in the moment. Sometimes I think that the more unsettled I am, the more refreshing are these short breaks in my ponderings. The natural world calls to me and as I answer, God speaks to and comforts me through what He has created. For a time, t

he moment is enough.