19 October 2013
" I have always thought of poems as stepping stones in one's own sense of oneself. Every now and again you write a poem that gives you self-respect and steadies your going a little bit farther out in the stream. At the same time, you have to conjure the next stepping stone because the stream, we hope, keeps flowing. The challenge for the writer, book by book, is to conjure a stepping stone that carries you forward." - Seamus Heany, Irish poet, (1939-2013) in an interview with Jacki Lyden
18 October 2013
I'm no agricultural expert, but given the recent snowstorm on the Divide, probability is high that this is the last cutting of hay in the Bitterroot Valley.
But the weather won’t stop the flow of tasty tamales, cinnamon buns, ethanol-free gasoline, and more, right across the highway at Casey’s Store.
17 October 2013
“This dragonfly came up to me. He was hovering right in front of my face, and I was really examining him, thinking, How does he see me? I became enlightened.” - Ziggy Marley
Dragonfly tourists are usually long gone by now, but the fall sunshine cast a perfect shimmer on this late traveler’s wings. I was glad he was tired enough to linger as I edged closer.
16 October 2013
"A lot of people resist transition and therefore never allow themselves to enjoy who they are. Embrace the change, no matter what it is; once you do, you can learn about the new world you're in and take advantage of it.” - Nikki Giovanni
15 October 2013
Almost as delightful as finding such a miniature tableau is having your photo turn out exactly as you hoped it would, no cropping or enhancement needed. (Although I did very slightly edge up the contrast and saturation.) HappyHappyHappy Day!
14 October 2013
As an adult abhorrer of dusting, I am amazed when I consider the things I had to dust as a child. These glass grapes reminded me of a decor period in my childhood when we had some, ummmm, realish-looking grapes displayed in a bowl. I would be distracted from dusting by the pinchiness of each individual grape, which invariably earned me a motherly reminder to not play with the grapes but get back to dusting.
There is not enough therapy available to overcome such a deeply rooted aversion as I've accrued. One coping mechanism I’ve developed is to only buy things I adore enough to dust. Thankfully, my husband - whom I absolutely adore! - is an advanced self-cleaning model. I'm definitely keeping him.
In my tidy mother’s defense, she was a pretty good sport about this, as she was about many things. When evening lamplight revealed our finger-scribed messages in a late-week layer of dust on the low shelf of the dark wood coffee table, it usually only earned a comment akin to, “Interesting how people in this house will make the effort to write in the dust when, in the same amount of time, they could wipe it off… “. Humour, passive-agressive or otherwise, often wins the day.