Mother Nature

  • Sacred Sorrow

    I was on my knees, in the garden. If she was a person, we would have been forehead to forehead, and I would be whispering my sorry into her skin. But she was not a person. She was a plant.… Continue reading

  • Wildflowers

    I must remind myself: the wildflowers will wait. Continue reading

  • The Consciousness of Plants

    The garden is abundant with Calla Lillies. There is something about them that I know, something that speaks to me through the softness and sway of their leaves and sweeping, cupped petal. Theirs is an energy much like the soft… Continue reading

  • Withering

    A rose. Think of it. How like a rose we are. Beginning as seed, gently, a bud. How we open, slowly, never seeing our petals born; never guessing when, at last, the last will fall. And when we wither, wrinkle… Continue reading

  • The Orchard

    As I sit quietly, alone, with the birds as my friends, I watch the orchard sway with the breeze and I ask myself: Is it the orchard, alone, I see? Or has the orchard become the miraculous creation of the… Continue reading

  • The Rose

    Even the most darling rose is a work in progress. Be the rose. How beautiful that she will show you the way to freedom. Continue reading

  • The Wind

    The wind, I think, is peace. The breath of the earth. The song of the trees. And we will bathe in her softness, today, and every day. The wind, I think, rolls all days into one. May she catch us… Continue reading

  • Little Koala Arms

    Such adorable little roots. And no one is more surprised than I am that my plant journey has taken me this way. It was just the way of the wind and so I flew there, in a great big gust… Continue reading

  • Flowers

    The flowers opened with the rooster’s crow and closed as the sun went down. Everyone called them weeds, and that’s what they were if you were someone other than me. Whatever their name, they woke and fell asleep with the… Continue reading

  • This Way, Life

    If not this moment, when? If not under this orange-grey sky, beneath these sweeping willows, fair, where? How do we taste the rain and know it is good if we do not open our mouths? The warm salty promise of… Continue reading