You and I are begging bowls waiting to be filled –our needs so much simpler than we believe them to be. The bell of our tongues knows nothing of the shrunken belly’s hunger for infinity…...
Wild is anything that’s not at home in something else’s place… –Wendell Berry, from A Timbered Choir Today, this wind my home Today, this lucid sky Today, I own nothing– am owed nothing. Today only throatsong, eyesong, brimming wind,...
Yesterday, I walked the tide line on the beach below my house. In the wet sand, tiny black pebbles embedded in the echo of receding waves… The activity of tide made visible. That’s what our lives are– the activity of the Sacred made visible–...
When I die, I want to be this log– a nursery for green and growing things. Small trees spring from my body– shy, exuberant, leaping towards sunshine. This must be how the Earth feels about people, grasses, whales– all us green and growing things...
When you come to the end of the path it isn’t obvious. There are openings under the trees where small streams have carved what looks like a way forward. The forest floor is golden with fallen fir needles and at first you think Ah yes! Here’s a trail or at...
Last night the full moon shone a slanting light across my winter garden where two deer lay sleeping under the leafless apple tree whose arthritic arms beamed wands of light through the twitching caverns of their dreams while I, too restless to dream climbed the...
