that fleeting time

It happens in slow motion

at high speed

if you look down at the dog

then turn back up to the sky

there is nothing but loud darkness whistling in your ears. 

joy

so simple, so accessible - everywhere. don't miss it!

Pesto and a Poem

Making pesto is easy and tastes worlds better than most pesto you can buy. Last weekend our basil garden started to flower so we spent an afternoon making pesto sans pine nuts. The freezer is now stocked and we are satisfied knowing this summer treat can be enjoyed on Aaron's birthday in January.

Below is a Wendell Berry poem from today's Writer's Almanac that Aaron read to me this morning over coffee. Its short but fruitful lines continue to pass through my mind. Enjoy. 

The monster basil harvest and a curious feline

Smiling with basil 

Picking the leaves

Washing

Swishing 

Chopping Asiago as the dog drools

Blending with salt, garlic, asiago, & olive oil. Yum

The Real Work

By Wendell Berry

It may be that when we no longer know what to do
we have come to our real work,

and that when we no longer know which way to go
we have come to our real journey.

The mind that is not baffled is not employed.

The impeded stream is the one that sings.

here one day, gone the next

a little oriole cheep cheep cheeping in the grass one evening

then the rains came
then the ants came.

small and precious life
no more or less
than my own.

bless you and your time on earth.

Happy Solstice

The summer solstice is upon us. A moment to stand still and take note of one's surroundings before the days once again start getting shorter. I watched a beautiful storm come across the prairie tonight - the flowers and grasses were electric against the dark sky. Isn't that what life is sometimes, a beautiful storm? 

grayhead prairie coneflower

hoary vervain 

snow-on-the-mountain

New England aster 

storm-a-commin' !

hi.

A nice walk this morning after a few days of rain. Ahhh, the smell of wet grass -- how intoxicating! 

Molly Sponge

I know it's been a while. I've been a Molly Sponge in the prairie, trying to soak it all in as flowers start to bloom and the colors shift, dramatically and slowly, from day to day.

In Maine, we hunker down in winter, we turn inward, do heavy work on the soul, and then summer surprises us, like a nostalgic and blissful childhood memory. The ocean calls and we jump head first into the icy waters and soak in the salt that heals all wounds. The air is sweet with pine and salt and moist with morning fog.

The country between me and Maine is vast today as I am slapped in the face with a hot wind and the ground underneath my feet is cracked open, gasping for moisture. The clouds spat a few raindrops on a few blades of grass for a few seconds, then nothing. How can my mom be putting cups of beer out to drown the slugs in her wet garden while ours is dusty and the once green petals of nasturtiums are yellow?

It's not all bad, though. I've been learning a great deal about prairie plants and enjoying the friendly folks with whom I work. Here are many pictures from the nature center this spring -- I'll try to get back on the horse and post more frequently now that the heat has rolled in and I have air conditioning blasting on my back while I do this blog post!  Much love.

this is me, here.

Vultures

Aaron and I sing a song when we see the black shadows of vultures riding waves of warm air overhead. They appear in silence and move with few to no wing beats as they scour the earth below.  The vultures meet in the sky, responding to an invitation of scent, one that you and I most likely will not notice.

Turkey Vulture Song

It's a turkey vulture meeting

go up in the sky

and fly around. 

It's a turkey vulture meeting

eating

carrion that's on the ground.  

I've also included an older poem by Mary Oliver about these creatures. It's pretty near to perfect, if a poem ever can be. Enjoy.  

VULTURES

By Mary Oliver

Like large dark

lazy

butterflies they sweep over

the glades looking

for death,

to eat it,

to make it vanish,

to make of it the miracle:

resurrection. No one

knows how many

they are who daily

minister so to the grassy

miles, no one

counts how many bodies

they discover

and descend to, demonstrating

each time the earth's

appetite, the unending

waterfalls of change.

No one,

moreover,

wants to ponder it,

how it will be

to feel the blood cool,

shapeliness dissolve.

Locked into

the blaze of our own bodies

we watch them

wheeling and drifting, we

honor them and we

loathe them,

however wise the doctrine,

however magnificent the cycles,

however ultimately sweet

the huddle of death to fuel

those powerful wings.

a little fire, a lot of life

I never thought of fire as life-giving. Some seeds sleep under the soil for years until a fire rips across the land and life inside the seed ignites. The daughter of a boatbuilder and an artist, agriculture was not in my genes, botany only a word I read from time to time. Now living out here in the plains, every person has all of this in their heritage. Just like the lobsterman who leaves at dawn and returns tired and smelling of baitfish, the plainspeople smell of earth, sweat, and smoke. This work makes me think of my sister's favorite poem, "To Be of Use" by Marge Piercy. Love it. 

I helped out with two prescribed burns last week at PPNC. As part of the nature center's mission, burns are done from time to time as prairie restoration and management. A fire done in spring kills off the exotic grasses that green up in cooler weather, wakes up sleeping native seeds, and makes room for the native tall grasses that thrive in the warmer weather. Here are a few shots from the burns. For my Nebraska friends reading this post, thanks for letting this Mainer in.