It starts each night with the tui. Singing from the taller cypress, gingko, and macrocarpa, they circle the garden from tree to tree, playing the rim of a singing bowl…
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It’s not too late
to go to wild places,
alone,
and unafraid…
The labyrinth of my imagination was a dreamscape of nodding buttercups and feathery seedheads visited by chaffinch and damselfly. I imagined draping my hand through the long soft grass as I walked…
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There are places where thoughts cannot go,
places your mind will not take you.
Like a road that stops at the foot of a hill
or falls short in the deep of a valley…
I wasn't planning on doing this but I enjoyed it so much that I feel inspired to ask—would you like to order a book from me directly?
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There is more here than can be grasped in two hands,
a world too large to throw our arms around…
The experience of post-natal depression has made life now with my children more poignant, more alive, more layered. It has complicated our relationships, and humbled me.
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Lullaby for Mothers started with one quiet moment with my son, a few scrawled notes and a single poem.
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To see clouds, you have to look up.
You have to take your eyes off your feet
and stop, or risk falling.
If I must travel,
let me feel every footstep.
Let me know myself
as part of that through which I pass.
It is instinctively appealing. So much is possible with so little effort. It is also incredibly hopeful —the land really can regenerate itself. The land does the work, and time does the work.
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I read a question today—how much will you give to get what you want? Will you miss the beauty of the simple summer sky, the abundant perfume of roses clamouring for your attention, and the song of a nearby friend?
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Clearly I’m in love with The Bag. But, it’s actually everything that came before the bag that makes The Bag so awesome.
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The distinction between path and wall has become clearer, and yesterday my son suggested we walk the labyrinth with our eyes closed.
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In the valley a deer is roaring
too late in the morning to not be seen.
Without thinking
I press my finger to my lips…
“Do you feel all zen when you get to the middle?” my son asked, as we walked the labyrinth together this morning.
Let me clarify what it means when he and I walk the labyrinth together. Forget a meditative walk. This is a race.
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I’ve stopped thinking about our property solely as something to manage and maintain. I think less about how we might use the land and more about what would be useful for the land.
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As with learning most new things, the hardest part was at the start. It takes a while to learn the language of anything new.
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This is why the hawk is so beguiling. It is a wild in my domestic life. Amongst all the tidiness and comfort it reminds me that hunt and be hunted is part of who we are.
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