we weave and crash

arriving at a’s place after a winding drive of watching spring trees bloom, ready for a promised nettle harvest and whatever else we might come across, i find her in the woods looking for the perfect tree to set up her newly built
wood duck nesting
box.

after finding the perfect tree (a standing dead elm just at the edge of the pond) we weave and crash our way through the phragmites to balance the wood duck box against the tree trunk to
screw it in place.

i am covered in wood shavings (that we put inside the box as a nest filler) and it becomes apparent that the screws we have are just a little too small to hold up the (wood duck size) box high up on the tree. it (only sort of) falls on my head as i let go of it, and so we stop our endeavors to wait for
more appropriate hardware.

following a’s instructions on holding the edge of the nettle leaf while cutting the stem, my fingers don’t get stung for the first time when nettle collecting. see! she says smiling with a told-you-so inflection in her voice if we’re gentle with the nettle she’ll be gentle with us.

on the way to my car, hands full of said nettles (and some raspberry leaf forages) (and a couple of horseradish leaves) i run into r in the driveway. you went shopping? i ask to his hands full of grocery bags. yeah, post farm day shopping. he is wearing end of the day dirty clothes.
sheepishly, he holds up a bag so i can have a better look. i had to buy kale he says and we both laugh acknowledging the criminality of that act. as far as i’m concerned, he says spring could last forever, but we just need summer so that we don’t have to buy kale.

related to plants, people, power, possibility

first post. same name. different look. new game.
it is a starting over, composting my last blog, and letting it be as it actually wants to right now,
right now, in the world, in the air, in the trembling of uncertainty, which feels like a new-old kind of hard time. an old kind of a new hard time.
testing our ears and our feet, checking up on if we’re listening.

are we listening?

so long since I wrote something on the internet that I feel some pressure building to correctly convey the kinds of things I want to say, fear that I won’t say them right.
but the truth is that I just want to be here, noticing the details.

‘peace requires everyone to be in the circle

isabel allende’s words that i saw written in large letters on a giant piece of paper hanging on the wall of the sixth grade classroom at work today.

this iteration of compost stories newly carves out a space for me to compose my thoughts (related to plants, people, power, possibility) in snapshots and segments and shards
that hopefully shed some of that golden light of the setting winter sun.