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While I have switched from my monthly newsletter, to a general blog, I will continue to include updates about The Haven. I hope to let you see more of a behind the scene view.

The above scene was taken a few years ago. That’s me on the left with one of my many guests who enjoy a relaxing moment of storytelling,in my studio, a space which is in a continuaus flow of energies, allowing different settings as well as different artistic explorations.

Over the eight years I have been hosting, many people ask if I enjoy what I do. The answer is, of course,yes. I cannot imagine working at something one does not enjoy. Having said that, like any job, or profession there is a behind the scenes story, demands, and dedication ot work.

When I was a full time potter, people would say how wonderful it must be to make pots all day...

while those potters who might be reading this, know that wedging clay, mixing clay, mixing glazes, having one’s favorite pots explode in the kiln, is not exactly wonderful. Then there’s the ordering of the clay, in fifty pound boxes, which is no small task when unloading a half ton. And then, like any other business, there’s the bookkeeping, not only of your students work, but your work, classifying the kiln results, and tracking glaze results. There’s so much more, but you get the idea, if one did not completely love the process of creating in clay, there is no way, any of us would survive the back stage efforts. The behind the scene tasks and resposibilities become the foundation for the joy of hands in clay.

Running my airbnb, my Artist’s Haven, is precisely the same. After eight years of washing laundry, ironing sheets, cleaning rooms, time in correspondance,overseeing the monthly calendar, not to mention climbing stairs. Thankfully, I now have my washer/dryer on the main floor. This reduced the up and down to the basement. But, keep in mind, my house is small, so I forfeited a room to achieve this. These are not complaints, not in any way. We all wiggle about to create what we want. And if what we want gives us joy, then the wiggling is well worth the inconvenience.

I suppose you could say, I’m rather blessed at having the skill and inclination of making the best of a situation. It’s a survival skill I picked up along the bumpy road of life. But here I am, enjoying a graceful life of slow living. I never know how my life is going to change, none of us do.On a dime, circumstances change, people pass on, careers end... the only question is, where do I go from here? Usually the answer is a resounding, “I have no clue”

Have you ever felt like you had no idea of where you were going, and no idea of where you belonged? And even if you did have an incling of an idea, there was always the next question. How do I get there from here. There’s only one thing to do. Sit down,sit still. All that inner chatter, whether in the mind or the gut, will, indeed settle down like fall leaves surrendering to the winds.

As I have said many times to many people, I have been blessed with the most wonderful guests, each one a blessing in their own right. My house grows with their appreciations, their willingness to share their stories, as well as listening to mine. Many return several times over, and then there are those who keep in touch, sharing their new milestones.

I have learned a lot through my guests. One helped me with my instagram, another urged me to get certified as a grief coach, it’s never to late. She, herself had finished her degree in her late sixties. There have been times of encouragement and consolment as one might be recovering from a set back in a career, or and end to a relationship.

All this is to say, I consider myself blessed and grateful, to be able to keep my doors open for the weary traveler, the workshop attendee, the summer vacationer, the writer meeting a deadling, and of course all the women who need a safe and warm place to step back, and simply relax.

Since I am a highly visual processer, the phrase “connecting with people”, makes me think of the old fashioned pop-it beads. What good is connecting if we aren’t willing to open our doors, literally, or metaphorically, and share space with one another.

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how can I write a poem

when there are no words

at the bottom of my barrel,

I might share how depleted and dizzy I feel

but to what end

wait a minute, do I see a crack in my barrel

a wee one, smack in the middle

of the floor of all creativity

and do I see a few delightful bubbles

circling that crack, the one I forgot was there

the one without beginning and end

the one that glistens just enough to moisten my memories

reminding me I am never completely empty

only resting on the burner of humility and gratitude

I can barely move, silence, except

for the hum of electricity and His voice

reverberating in my almost empty body.

a.c.tomasulo

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I was pondering on the majesty of the dragonfly,

whose delicate bodies propel them from flower to flower,

skillfully extracting the necessary food for survival,

I was pondering how my great pines,

whose branches stretch out across my lawn,

creating artistic shadows for painters delight,

while offering shade and safety for my resident raccoon,

I was pondering leaves instinctively changing their colors,

without hesitation or remorse.

I was pondering these things and more,

when I realized what a miracle they all are,

not requiring a prayer, nor plea to the heavens above.

it is us, the lowly humans, who struggle everyday

to make sense, to search for balance, to cry out for justice,

it is us who pray. pondering about the very essence of G-D..

When will we surrender as all of nature does so effortlessly,

and simply and softly become the prayer

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There’s an awful lot of talking, on the importance of slowing down,

being more mindful,

saying one’s prayers,

there’s an awful lot of talking on

things to do, and things not to do

there’s an awful lot of talking on toxic relationships,

and positive thinking, self care and community resposibility.

There’s just so much talking going on,

and that’s even before you get to the scrolling, the endless

addiction of scrolling, as we read about all the talking.

My question is... what if we just stopped, as in dead in our tracks,

as if an outer or maybe an inner force clicked the pause button.

You know what might happen first? Maybe a garland

of endless questions might spill forth from your mind,

beginning with, what am I suppose to do? where am I going?

What’s going on? And, am I doing this thing right?

The answers are nothing, nowhere, nothing and Yes,

most defiineity yes. The yes, is the beginning of our surrendering.

One surrenders to the unknown, to the Light and the Dark.

In one minute, less than that, one breath, which turns into an eternity.

in one more breath we disappear and become our true nature,

the being without,at the same time, the being with everything.

Be still in the silence, be so still, until, all the inner chatter

falls like rain, softening, while awakening the soul of the soul.

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I shiver in the late June wind,

Who knew I would be wearing my corduroy over shirt.

I was swimming only a week ago, but today is made for walking,

and walking it will be, along the rocky coast here in Maine,

the rocky coast that has comforted me

for the past thirty some odd years.

Ah how fortunate we are to have rocks,

especially to those of us who know how well they keep secrets, filing them away in precise rock alphabet order, just in case

one needs to visit them in a year or two

to reexamine a memory of the past.

What a pity that some folks think that rocks don’t move, don’t feel,

and worse, that rocks hold no wisdom. the ancients will tell you otherwise,

no matter where those ancients are from.

I carefully placed the tears of sorrow when I first arrived.

those were the tears for my mother, time passed

and tears for a brother, a husband and a nephew,

all of which poured out upon the seaweed covered rocks,

salt water anointing the placement, as each found her way through the crevices where stealthy seagulls also place their secrets.

Today, I will hear my rocks applaud me, simply for returning.

today, we will laugh together, because we know

that all things are blessed, and transformed

in God’s great oceans.

a.c.tomasulo

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To own nothing, to simplify,

to return to a dream full of love and freedom

I looked around me, at the yard I call mine, the trees I call mine,

the squirrels I call mine and even the pesky groundhog,

who demolished my new azaleas, I call mine.

I know this precious landscape, this house, I call mine,

are but gifts on loan, as is this body, this very flesh,

with all it’s molecules, and highways of nerves,

rivers of tears, and lakes of laughter, and even the blood clots,

calling me, deftly, to slow down more than I thought possible,

are gifts, such that the soul can understand humility.

To hold onto one single breath is impossible and absurd,

yet every time we resist in giving our all, we are, in fact,

trying to hold on. It is a fool’s folly in thinking this.

To understand the breath is to understand life

and death are masterly woven together,

gifts from the uncreated to the created.

The child asked, sincerely, “who created God”?

And the wise man said, Love creates Love.

God is not a he, but Love, a love so great, beyond

human understanding, it is that, without words,

And yet to allow for It’s Presence,

one can surrender into the Sacred Trinity,

experiencing It, and yet, having no words to describe It.

Is this journey worth taking? guess what?

You’re on it, knowingly or not.

The child asked sincerely, “can I have one ice cream cone?”

The wise man said “yes”

The child then asked, “ may I have two ice cream cones?”

The wise man said “it is not wise”

But children do not know better, and proceeded

to enjoy one and then the other.

Soon after, the child became sick.

Approaching the wiseman, asked, “why am I so sick?

And for fear of being scolded , said “I only had one ice cream cone”

The wiseman said,”the more secrets we keep hidden,

become like weeds, choking the beauty from our gardens.”

Did you not know that we are all gardens? Weeds and all,

a well balanced banquet of blessings for the body mind and soul.

May we all become conduits of this grandeur, that has been given us freely.

What’s six months away from writing?

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artists always return to asking why they do what they do. usually we end up with a list of tried and proven answers, like to share, to inspire, to make money, (come on, be honest), to understand oneself, to entertain. The list goes on of course, and by the way, to entertain, I am discovering, is more worthy than once considered. It, contrary to other opinions, can lead to profound awareness, dare I say enlightenment. It all depends on the soil it was planted in as well as the quality of the seed…

My pen has hit paper only on rare occasions the past six months. I sat through the first mild frenzy of guilt, wondering about those authors who seem to publish one after another, even reaching New York Times bestseller list. Maybe that’s how I got on to pondering lists, and the importance or lack there of.

If you could accomplish one thing in your life, what would be at the top of your list?

What would give you great peace, if, in your last breath, you could say to yourself, I did my best, I did what I set out to do.

We see each other and experience each other in the contexts of our daily existence.

We identify with people as their professions, trades, positions with a family…utility do we really know who they are? And even more importantly, do we know who we are? Over four decades ago, I had a gentle intuitive, and a humble mystic, ask me if I knew who I was. He smiled as I ran off the list of the many titles by which I knew myself. After each one, he would patiently and softly wave his hand, as if pushing aside a gauzy veil of illusion. He was a wise man, and somehow, I knew he knew, it might take me years to find out. He planted the small seed of curiosity, which was planted in me, right next to the mustard seed I’ve held since childhood.

I’m pretty sure Mark Twain said “..find a job you like doing, and you’ll never work a day in your life”

Well, I don’t like working, I like contemplating, and at the top of that list is why must we divide work from play? Why not put it all in one well woven and rewoven basket of exploring.

I had a variety of jobs in my life, alongside my artistic endeavors. And though I never realized it at the time, all my jobs intermingled with my art, in bringing me a greater awareness to who I am and who created me. I have found the common thread in all my occupations, skills and endeavors. And throughout my years, which are coming now to plenty, I have come to celebrate each and every moment, the good, the bad and the ugly as they say.

So what have I been doing the past six months? Talking with God.

Don’t get me wrong, I have had conversations with Him all my life. Sometimes, I actually listened. But mostly, being younger and all, I did most of the talking, while He patiently listened, always steering me a little to the left, and then to the right, smoothing, at times, tumultuous waters, the one I insisted on venturing upon.

So for the last six months, He and I played with the many puzzle pieces of my life. When there was a piece missing, His hand would scoop it up from the bottom of depths of the ocean. And once in His hand, it would dry and sparkle in the new light of the day.

I was, for some fifty odd years, a professional potter. People of thought I was lucky, lucky to be able to sit at a wheel making vessels day after day. As you might have already guessed, “the grass is greener…” Sometimes I shared why it is I make pots. One reason, is while it may appear as though I’m making pots, in fact, I’m truthfully daydreaming. Now daydreaming is highly underrated, but that is the very soil of insight and wisdom. Oh, I’m not speaking of the intellectual wisdom that one uses in cocktail gatherings, nor the wisdom to impress anyone for gain. I’m speaking of the heart wisdom. Because it is in the heart that we know who we are. Daydreaming comes before contemplation, but nonetheless, a very beneficial prerequisite.

Daydreaming is the act of mental ability to allow thought fragments to float in an ocean of love and wonder, with no judgement. And then, as if by magic, but I will call it God’s Grace, a few fragments are drawn to one another having a universal magnetic pull, where contemplation begins.

With that in mind, I have begun many drafts of memoir writings/essays, but they mostly served in my own inner healing. We are all being healed, day by day whether we are aware or not.Obviously, the more aware, the greater the impact.

Writing, like any creative process is an intimate act of inner dialog. Some ask, who is your audience? I don’t think that is necessary for the artist, or writer, to define. As artists, we have been given a gift, and the gift is merely to share. It is in the sharing, that we empty ourselves out, knowing all the while, we are simultaneously being refilled. We are vessels that are permeable and perpetual. Therein lies our oneness. We are meant to receive all of God’s graces, at the same time, not meant to attempt a tight grip on them. I’m not certain any of us attain this in our life time, except for moments here and there, whereby He reminds us that all things are, indeed, possible.

As I write this, I have blood clots in my leg. Of course, at first, I was most disappointed. After all, I work so hard to stay healthy. But that’s just an ego trip, and I know better than to go down that road. Now in day three of the diagnosis, I see them as messengers, and I speak to them, and wait patiently for them to share their wisdom.

Some folks think prayer is always somber, humble, and holy. It is that, but when you make prayer personal and authentic, it becomes real.

I say certain prayers every morning, and among them is the one in which I give thanks for every thing that will come my way in that day. I want to accept it all, without judgement, knowing I will be provided for and given all I need to keep on walking through my days. I would like to say that when I got the clot diagnosis, I simply sighed and accepted. That was not the case, My prayer was quickly,”are you serious?” I wept as I left the hospital, until I realized it was only my ego that had been, metaphorically, kicked of the dance floor, as I accepted that I would have to succumb to a pharmaceutical. Now maybe that doesn’t seem like much, but, believe me, it’s in the little details of life that we experience the profound truths of self. And some are not so pretty. Where would I be without humor? Now I look at these messengers causing a traffic jam in my being. Can I turn on the green light? I’m certain the flow will return again, but who knows when, and does it matter? not one bit. It’s just another process, another opportunity to discover the ground intricacies of this Divine Creation.

I began this piece talking about lists and titles. I’m certain most of you know that when a person gets the diagnosis of cancer, they struggle in the beginning to know who they are. And we know they are who they are, they are not their cancer. The struggle is remain balanced in that awareness.

Ecclesiastics is all about balance.

The divine revolving door is somewhat like a kaleidoscope, you turn it one way, and then another, each turn offering your pause for contemplations and wonder. And every minute we allow ourselves to question our perceptions, we unravel a bit more of That Which Is

.

I will be leaving the stage of Substack, following a different call.

Having said that, it has been a wonderful ride. I want to thank all those who’ve supported me, both in monies and moments.

Should you want to get in touch with me, please go to my website,

The Artists Haven at

https://www.theartistshaven.com

there you can drop me a line, read my blog, and check out my Airbnb accommodations

An Expanding Moment

just a thought

I was scrubbing the pan

I used to cook last night’s dinner

it required extra care, and extra soap

as my eyes aren’t what they use to be,

it required extra attention

in the foggy morning light.

feeling the warm water wash

away remnants of the stir-fry dinner

all while noticing my back yard crows,

having stopped by for their breakfast

gift of crumbs and peanuts

I had a thought,

maybe silly, maybe profound

who cares anyway.

thoughts are for investigating and play

what if, this very moment was the only moment I was experiencing in time,

not as a recurring deja vu,

nor as a stuck in time with no way out,

more like this single moment

was my reality and it was all I needed.

somewhat like having no time at all.

the warm water was a conduit for all my

necessary provisions as well as the wisdom for creating with a creator.

thought followed thought like an easy swing on a summer’s day

I don’t recall at what point the pan

was clean, the crows flew away

I do remember this.

That eternity surrounded me in every single drop of water, each with

an indescribable rainbow within.

I will continue to read and follow those writers on Substack who have added beauty, thoughtfulness and inspiration to my days

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Forgiveness is not an empty word nor a single act.

It is a life choice.

the choice requires a desire for freedom,

not for one, but for all.

it requires hands, willing to dig in deep,

hands willing to grow old with unceasing efforts

to explore the many lines in the sand you have created

it requires the humility, yes, humility to pursue

one’s interior, sweeping away every dark morsel

of regret, shame and bloodied past events

it requires the awareness that arrogance and pride

are the elements preventing self forgiveness

it requires the gentle heart to soothe oneself

when listening to one’s own confessions

neither sweeping it away nor glossing over it.

it requires the stillness of the mind and soul

staying extremely steady as if on a tightrope

while knowing that should you fall, you will be captured

for there is always a tomorrow

it requires hope in the many tomorrows

while knowing time should never be wasted.

it requires the awareness that to forgive is to forget

deep forgiveness takes time, sometimes a lifetime time

or more…

the only thing essential is a pure an honest heart.

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Attacked During The Night

Into the night

my body, mind and soul rest,

trusting that my vulnerability

is hidden, protected beneath

the down comforter and soft pillows

but like the blue flames that once taunted me

scorching my body so many years ago,

the flames of anxiety burn through my beliefs

my trust wavers, my faith floats

like an oil spill on water

I use to recoil in fear, wondering,

waiting for the light of the day

but things have changed.

sacred weapons now imbedded within

wait for this and every moment

they might be required.

for this world, with all of it’s glory

has it’s dark side, whose underbelly

tugs insidiously at even the most saintly.

it is wise to be prepared.

my sharpened sword of rage and certainty

wields a mighty blow to that which is not holy

with Saint Michael by my side

joining me in the battle

both ninja and t’ai chi tactics

outwit the forces of disturbance as

anxiety retreats, slithering from my home

and I return to a restful sleep

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what would happen if you didn’t plan a day,

what would happen if you allowed the day to unfold,

making no attempts to strive for anything in particular

what if you became a small car in a bumper car game

yet you had no steering wheel, you just surrendered

with deep trust, anticipation, and joyful expectation?

you might have some chamomile tea later in the day

adding two lumps of sugar using a small silver spoon,

stirring gently as to not make a clink against the delicate insides

of your grandmother’s fine china

and all you remembered of the day

was it’s colorful smiles, sweet tasting berries,

lullabies echoing in the trees,

sung by the humble birds of divine genius

all this laced together with a hug or two…

wouldn’t that be enough?

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In a flash she barked at me like a rabid dog

what had I said to bring about this sudden transformation

sure, I know about trigger points that lay dormant

like unseen mine fields waiting for the moment of contact

but how is someone suppose to know, no flashing billboards

no instant pop-ups nor drop-downs for that matter

even when I think before I speak, still,

my words can be met with other forces,

before they reach their intended destination.

without warning, the two of us

were watching a hot mushroom, exploding, as each of us

desperately grasped at the open confusion

it’s as if we were being dragged behind

a fast moving train whose tracks had succeeded in derailing us.

time for one or two giant steps backward

letting go of the train along with whatever tricksters were on it.

it isn’t enough to think before you speak

especially when you know you speak different languages,

though both are english and therein lies the folly

and all that’s left is an apology -

~ I’m sorry, I forgot to pray for the space between my mouth and your ears ~

thankfully we have a love capable of mending all the unintended moments

where chaos can erupt in the landscape of of a lazy summer afternoon

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When Windows Get Small

When windows get small and the days become shorter

My interior quivers

When windows get small and I watch the butterflies perform their late August flutter

When windows get small

And the air speaks of autumn

And the leaves begin to tinge ever so slightly to those searching for new windows

When windows get small I stretch my arms wide

as if by some super human power

I can pause the closing of one season into another.

I know I should be able to do this,

after all, I have watered my mustard seed of faith over the years

and it’s not like I’m trying to move a mountain,

and it’s not like I don’t appreciate all the seasons here in Maine

it’s just that I’m a fish, not a bear

and I’m not done swimming.

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On Waiting

I wait for her to wash and dress

One time she put her pants on inside out,

We made a joke about it.

Why shouldn’t we wait patiently?

Doesn’t God?

Plenty of you speak of being mindful,

giving praises to the importance of staying in the present moment.

Breathe, one, two, three, yes, you’ve got it

And then in a flash, you lose it again

as thoughts of tonight’s dinner unravels

The long list of minutia

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Sometimes I Struggle

For decades my hands wore clay

as if they were noble gloves searching for truth and peace,

writing was my back seat passenger, as I stumbled through

the chaotic canals of my insides. not knowing which way to turn,

letting go of one art for another, was never easy and still

calls me to consider the non accomplishments of accomplishing.

don’t even get me started on distractions, I just signed up for a fiber course.

sitting in my studio, I recognized an inner distrust in myself

or was it. Maybe it was a critical voice from long ago,

chastising me for neglecting something I was “suppose” to be doing. What could be more important than doing what I’m doing? Therein I find the lessons needed.

Looking out at the butterflies,

I wonder if they ever stop for a moment, asking,

“Maybe I’m suppose to be on the butterfly bush and not the echinacea ?”

Nope, they simply move about from one to another,

enjoying, ever so playfully this thing called life.

Does having a mind, really make me mindful…

I kinda think that taking the time to watch the butterflies

in a mindful, ever present manner will re- center me

in the same way my clay once did.

If all of the above sounds like a flitting butterfly,

then I think I have succeeded, at least for now.

Who knows what happens next,

but sucking in life’s nectar is on the top of my list.

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~ to have your heart stretched wide open till all of nature and you are one. You take in this extreme, wondrous beauty with deep gratitude, and humility, because in the next second you will be called to let it go. No worries, we exhale, and in the next inhalation, we see it all again, only from a different perspective ~

For those of you who have not had the extreme pleasure of reading Blueberries For Sal by Robert McClosky, it’s a story about the idyllic life in Maine.

It was sixty three years ago, when I first read this dreamy and adventurous book to my younger cousins. At the time, I was only twelve years old. I was so enthralled, so mesmerized so envious of this girl named Sal, that when I finished the reading,I announced,”One day, I’m going to live there.” Some folks think dreams are forgotten. But they’re not, they simply are put to sleep in a safe place for precisely the right time to be awakened.

Why Blueberries For Sal? That’s easy. In our innocence we have hope, we believe in miracles and dreams coming true. We believe in love, loving and being loved. And I believe this is true even through traumatic life experiences. I more than believe it, I know it to be true. There is a condition, you must be willing and capable of clinging to that single grain of salted sand or that profound vision of having the faith of a mustard seed. And trust me, it’s never too late. No matter how far one wanders from one’s childhood desires, those passionate flames will ignite, when daily fanning of dream like embers are honored.

And so it was, that I had many cherished childhood memories, though they were well hidden beneath rocky roads of trauma. And yet, sometimes we are graced by gentle awakening winds. One day while reading Blueberries For Sal, to my five year old son, born to me, late in life, just months before my forty sixth birthday, those winds would open my heart.

I had long forgotten my first reading, at the age of twelve. Back then, I was living in Manhattan, and would spend any time I could on the roof tops, creating what I thought was the perfect distance between me and all the other people, rushing about and going nowhere.

With my son curled up beside me, on our over stuffed comfy couch, I began reading the story. It was a cool spring day, windows open and the cool Maine breeze carried the scent of pine trees as I read to him. It wasn’t until I was half way through the book, that I remembered what I had said, so many decades ago. I was so elated, so surprised, so tickled with crazy joy, that I had to tell him my story before finishing Blueberries, which lead into a talk of how important it is to wish and hope for things, even when they don’t make sense.

Here I am, living in Maine, where I can say confidently, I live in heaven. My mother lived in the mountains on a farm, my father came from a fishing village. I eat blueberries most every morning as I give thanks for little girl dreams. And, yes, I still make wishes on dandelions.

It was driving by the blue/red blueberry fields that sealed the deal on moving to Maine. It was as if I was coming home. I love the smell of salt air, perfumed roses, lobster boats, pulling in with fresh catch for summer folks longing for a taste of happiness… sometimes I am convinced I lived here in another lifetime. But maybe it’s just an over active mind of a child whom believed herself to be Sal.

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Smoke Screens

Saint Jude, saint of hopeless cases

which is, I suppose each of us,

at one time or another,

the throwing up of our hands,

the slumping into the overstuffed armchair

endless tears flowing with no regard to the dainty handkerchief

and no desire to address the cobwebs, why bother,

they don’t mind a bit, they’re kind of hopeless as well

so the question is, who prays for Saint Jude?

Or, as a saint, is he capable of taking on our burdens

as he lifts us up and redirects us? does he shake off

the cobwebs of our tired souls allowing the salt of the ocean

to baptize each of us , exfoliating the old and rejuvenating

the very essence of our being.

I watched the smoke tendrils of my Saint Jude incense

twisting, undulating, stretching through the window screen,

as I fingered one more prayer bead for peace.

some of those smoke tentacles returned through the upper screen

thus is the way with prayer…

it floats to those who need it, and returns to the one who sent it.

what goes around comes around…

bless others and you will be blessed

things don’t always have to be so complex.

often it’s as simple as following a stream of scented smoke

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the centering of a prayer

flows through the centering of the potter at the wheel

as she engages in the intimate relationship

between heaven and earth.

G-D’s Grace calls her name,

as a thousand tears of grief

pour onto the spinning lump of life in the making,

the potter is aware that save for centering

indeed all things would hurl without direction.

hands on clay, first too tightly

surrendering, breathing, trusting

she followed her guide

until the two breathed as ONE

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I cannot really call myself a gardener

because I do know the gardeners of the world.

they are dedicated beyond my capacity,

weeding, transplanting, watering,

they offer plants for free as their gardens overflow,

they offer advice willingly to those like me

who came to the garden world late in life

I would call myself a protector of the garden,

following the sage wisdom of dear friends

After a decade or so, my gardens are rather pretty,

perennials are my thing, revisiting me each year

so that I, too can share the clippings.

My dear baptisia grew so large I divided it in two

and the very next year she doubled herself again.

Some plants are like that, they have loud voices when filled with joy

Then there’s my hibiscus , yes, it, too is perennial and grows to almost seven feet tall.

she boast her deep crimson blossoms late in August when all else has gone quiet.

Some plants are like that, like people desperately needing to be center stage.

But the real garden treasures, are the gifts planted silently and anonymously

by our feathered brothers and sisters, who graciously and generously

drop a seed here and there, like messengers of G-D, introducing me

to the American Black Currant. Who knew ?

How profound is it that a creature of flight offers a living gift, asking nothing in return, save that we pause to give thanks and appreciate the very act of giving and receiving.

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I said too much

yet not enough~

succinct is not my nature

it’s my path..cobblestoned and mossy

mud puddles and magic

exfoliating sandy sides

through curtains of moistened vines

leaning into the sun

as it glimmers

and guides me home, home to the beginning

a place so recognizable

now seen as if brand new-

a place of untainted familiarity

and my only response is to weep

in humility and gratitude.

I stand speechless,

in awe and wonder

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