I have just discovered what is so attractive about moss, and it is more than meets the eye...Did you know that it is the first plant to cover the Earth? This ancient part of the plant kingdom appears fragile, but is hardy, will grow undisturbed by a lack of sun in a most verdant green, creating an elegant carpet that serves as a cushion and sanctuary for the small animal kingdom, adding unique texture and color on bark, on rocks, ground and other surfaces. The people of the Columbia River Gorge area, where I captured these images, and from many other humid landscapes, have mixed reviews as they try to keep up with the spread of moss on rooftops, and other places where it is not welcome. This makes moss one of the most untolerated plants along with weeds....So I will "root" for the "undermoss" here and celebrate it's beauty with reverence!
Friday, December 30, 2011
For Love of Moss
Visiting the Columbia River Gorge area this Christmas, I became enchanted by the moss growing on trees, the vibrant green velvet look of it.
Monday, December 12, 2011
Friday, October 28, 2011
A RURAL PARADISE IN PUGET SOUND
Vashon Island is a rural paradise brimming with the beauty of not only Puget Sound, but the farmlands depicted by Betty Macdonald in her famous book, THE EGG AND I. My son gave the paperback to me for Christmas 2006. He somehow knew about my longing for a place where people grew vegetables, raised chickens, and grew amazing flowers. Little did I dream that one day I would be writing this and settling into a very special place, so close to the stimulating urban Seattle area, a place without any bridges, where unique, creative and friendly people live and travel by Ferry. People who would invite you to come over to pick apples and take them home before the frost arrived...talented people whose little Island is so dear to them, and their patches of land, sacred spaces, already dear to me....
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Passion For Vashon
Stored it all away in Arizona
all eight years of saguaro sonnets
weathering a climate that turned my veins
into a personal thermometer of beige and dry memories
glorious sturdy cactus blooms that opened after sunset
YES! Those postcard sunsets!
There were gila monsters who lived behind the rubble against the side alley
the chatty coyotes, two of which sounded like a dozen
the geckos who practiced physical fitness doing their daily pushups on the patio floor
the inca doves cooing and posing for my camera
the late afternoon quail, one following the other in elegant headdress.
And when the moon was new, the galaxy unfolded above like a canopy of magic
thrilled that the sky would come with me and the desert remain in my heart,
I dreamed about this sweet Island where sunflowers smile against the air clean and moist
filled with sounds of cantankerous crows, the sandpipers and seagulls near the ferry docks
the fertile earth pushing up it's works of art for the farmers to share
For the love of contrast, I could use a Vashon Island now
though I have been warned of Winter ahead.
They say the rain will come relentlessly, but that does not scare me away,
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Petite, Charming and Beautiful...The Avadavat
I had a dream in which two bright red birds with white specs flew in my kitchen. Tonight I came across the Red Avadavat, a bird of Hawaii. I have never seen this type of bird before... so beautiful!
Friday, July 29, 2011
Monday, July 4, 2011
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Miracles
By Walt Whitman
1819-1892Why, who makes much of a miracle?
As to me I know of nothing else but miracles,
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,
Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of the water,
Or stand under trees in the woods,
Or talk by day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night
with any one I love,
Or sit at table at dinner with the rest,
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer forenoon,
Or animals feeding in the fields,
Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,
Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so quiet
and bright,
Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring;
These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,
The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.
To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same,
Every foot of the interior swarms with the same.
To me the sea is a continual miracle,
The fishes that swim--the rocks--the motion of the waves--the
ships with men in them,
What stranger miracles are there?
Friday, June 10, 2011
I Consider Myself Lucky
When I remember that our lives are borrowed
that there is little difference
between dreaming and waking
that the sea is the sky's reflection
like eyes looking into another's eyes
and that the water is heavy with fish of all colors
spectacular and buoyant in it's depth
and on the shore, the crab walks sideways
dancing the two-step, the salsa
under celestine night, magic below,
above and around
flourescent moon kissing me
When I remember that our lives are borrowed
I consider myself lucky
to have the alchemical secret
the control and surrender
the balance, the embrace
into arms that gently hold me
in the moment, in the rhythm
breathing and the miracle of the heartbeat
coming together cosmically
we exchange ourselves for eachother
transparent I walk through you
and you through me
blending together in freedom
we fly eagle-back
over the hills,caves and oceans
moving between worlds
exsisting with every creature
in a most harmonious way
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