I drive a short distance up into the western front of the crumpled, arid mountains that always feel like home. From the wide valley floor at seven thousand feet, the squat piñon and fragrant junipers slowly yield to tall ponderosa pines and shimmering aspens that crowd the higher elevations. There, overlooking the endless painted horizon of New
This week, gentle reader, a shortened reprise of an older post that I feel called to share once again. My dear beekeeping mentor on Maui, a keenly spiritual man with a generous and sensitive heart, once said, “There is nothing like being reunited with the beloved.” So true. In the long stretch of years of
A curious thing happened the other day. I will leave it for you to decide whether or not it was magic. Years ago, I read a lovely little book titled Growing Myself: A Spiritual Journey Through Gardening, by Judith Handelsman (1996, Dutton), in which the author offers stories of her lifelong connection with plants, the special
I need to go find the deer, eat some wild weeds, and walk beside a singing river. While tree blossoms burst open in profusion all around, scenting the air with honeyed sweetness, and the earth is overrun by lanky, bright flowers of yellow woodsorrel, I’ve been gradually constricting. Slowly, like a lengthening shadow, domesticity creeps up on me
Amid the trees, the dry, herbaceous aromas of the lower canyon trail transform. Here the air is not only cooler by several degrees but suddenly tinged with mossy notes and a scent of green-tea, catapulting me to other places and other wanderings.