I hear myself saying- I don't know what I'm doing. And there's a freedom in that. I say it, often in the most inappropriate places, only to discover that I'm talking to myself. This phrase soothes me, puts me back on the ground, drags up my . . .
Everything is lush; the lane is coming into the best part of the year. I am besotted with green, tiny buds coming into flower, light as it illuminates petals and unfurling leaves. I wonder sometimes how nature can survive our bleak winters and the onslaught of chemicals and factory . . .
Happy St. Patrick's Day! . . .
If Ireland is green then Greece is blue. All kinds of blue, even kinds I wasn't expecting........... It starts when you turn south from Corinth. The legs of the layered peninsulas each stretch out into the Mediterranean exactly like the feet of our little bear of . . .
Spring comes early here. Delicate and lemony leaves fill the hedgerows. By the time we return, foxgloves will be flowering again on the lane. Truth be told, it's hard to leave. The privilege I feel turning into my sixth decade is overwhelming. Early losses meant that I may . . .
Ireland is going green. First of all it's the National Holiday, Saint Patrick's Day. But even more importantly it is also Spring. At last, at last, at last. After the grey, stormy winter, here in the fields, every small twitch of change registers. Buds, shoots, . . .
And just when it seemed like the relentless greyness would never return to light, under the dark compost, luscious rhubarb was being reborn. It distracted me from the gloom....... Green shoots, seeking light, embracing shade and living in glorious . . .
In Midsummer now brightest green and lush lasting only moments counting every one through one half shut eye land bathed in light still promising so many balmy days ahead . . .
We listen for the sound of the soft turf giving way with each footstep. We watch every little rustle in the leafy undergrowth. . . .