In small pockets like Singing Meadow
, the twenty country acres where I live and write, the shadows of herons still pass over my head on their journeys from nearby Bobs Lake to their stick nests in a pond behind my home. At night I still can safely stand in the middle of my dead-end road, staring at the clear, deep sky full of stars, hearing no sound but a glee of coyotes, spilling over a distant hill. Now without my beloved husband Barry, I face the raw essence of solitude in all its aspects, bad, but also good.
In the past I focused my work on a celebration of nature, inviting readers to see nature as home. The country life I lead is rare, precious, and endangered.
And yet, my author inscription for my nature books remains “Rejoice in wildness.”
But now, as I begin revising this site to reflect the painful, yet often rewarding experiences of learning to live as a widow, I realize that other aspects of my life which have helped me heal and live more fully deserve a place too.
And so, in these difficult times, I want to write appreciatively, curiously, and only occasionally sorrowfully, about what the remaining gifts of my life mean to me. The things I see including are the difficult practice of simplicity, a delight in creativity and always and most importantly, the land.
I want to share my rich life here, greeting the first song sparrow of spring, watching (and hearing) the ice go out from the nearby lake, catching sight of the first flash of the returning kingfisher, reading eclectically, pausing to study a meadow hawk dragonfly, but also letting my favorite shuttle fly through my weaving, returning to my piano with arthritic fingers, or plunging my hands into the garden soil I’ve helped build.
I have discovered that some of the most joyful words I know are “Maybe I could.” My wish is that reading about my explorations and adventures, you will say your own “Maybe I could.”