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A Celebration of Simple Living, Nature, Gardening, Making by Hand and Reading

The country life I lead is rare, endangered, precious, worth appreciating. I am profoundly and constantly aware that the earth, our matrix, is damaged, apparently fatally.  For many, likely for most, the natural world is undeniably remote. And yet, my signature for my nature books, The View From Foley Mountain and A Wing in the Door  remains “Rejoice in wildness“.

In small pockets like Singing Meadow, the twenty country acres where I write, the shadows of great grey herons still pass over my head on their journeys from nearby Bobs Lake to their stick nests in a pond behind our home. At night I can safely stand in the middle of our dirt road, staring at the clear, deep sky full of stars, hearing no sound but a glee of coyotes, spilling over a distant hill.

In these difficult times, I want to write appreciatively, curiously, and only occasionally sorrowfully, about what the remaining gifts mean to me. So this will be my letter to all of you who are unable to be here, greeting the first song sparrow of spring, watching the ice go out from the lake, catching sight of the first flash of the returning kingfisher, reading eclectically, pausing to study a meadow hawk dragonfly, letting my favorite shuttle fly through my weaving, or plunging my hands into the garden soil I’ve helped build.

No doubt this blog will evolve in time, and I hope will include your suggestions and comments, which are always welcome, but things I see including are the difficult practice of simplicity, a delight in creativity and the land, always and most importantly, the land.

What I am asking is: What does it mean to live fully with the time that remains?

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