Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Fluid Summer
Digital Images by Ann Johnson
+of+Copy+of+Onions,+Homer+Lake,+Meadowbrook+002.jpg)
Go Slowly
Some would say
I should hurry,
move quickly,
time’s a-wasting
The conscious decision
to attend
requires
Not-Quite-Slow-Motion,
entering time differently.
The summer opens up
new knowings:
a soft flutter of bee’s wings kissing my hand,
a conversation with a preening crayfish
following a rainstorm,
bird voices tuning a morning meadow,
stained-glass chambers of light
in a sunflower leaf.
If hurrying, I would have missed
twin fawns playing
before my interview in the park.
If distracted in thought,
I would have missed the
waving pinchers of a roan stag beetle.
If too engaged elsewhere,
I would have missed
raindrops on strands of grass,
the iridescence of the beetle
sipping from wet globes.
Join me at this pace
in silence,
in unity,
in witness.
+of+Copy+of+Onions,+Homer+Lake,+Meadowbrook+002.jpg)
Go Slowly
Some would say
I should hurry,
move quickly,
time’s a-wasting
The conscious decision
to attend
requires
Not-Quite-Slow-Motion,
entering time differently.
The summer opens up
new knowings:
a soft flutter of bee’s wings kissing my hand,
a conversation with a preening crayfish
following a rainstorm,
bird voices tuning a morning meadow,
stained-glass chambers of light
in a sunflower leaf.
If hurrying, I would have missed
twin fawns playing
before my interview in the park.
If distracted in thought,
I would have missed the
waving pinchers of a roan stag beetle.
If too engaged elsewhere,
I would have missed
raindrops on strands of grass,
the iridescence of the beetle
sipping from wet globes.
Join me at this pace
in silence,
in unity,
in witness.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Robin's Entry
June 15, 2009
Five days until the summer solstice. These days leading to summer are what I live for the rest of the year, sad to say. Here on the island, the lengthening days, the cool evening shadows, the birds that wake me at 4:30 a.m., the doors and open windows, the cats and the dog in and out at their leisure – yes, this is a bit of paradise.
Today I sit at my computer rummaging through books to find citations for a paper on the mythopoetic adolescent – Homer, Melville, Morrison, epics and poetry. On the stereo a bit of world music, a bit of a French ballad, and every now and then Mary Chapin Carpenter’s pop country play as accompaniment. The maple tree just outside the window here at my desk is fully leafed out, gloriously green in her raiment. An island story says that about 50 years ago, I think, a local woman went around the south end of the island planting maple trees. I like to believe that this beauty that keeps my close company was one of hers. I know the time of year by watching the maple tree.
Beginning in March, I am always impatient to begin potting up plants and putting new perennials in the garden. Our last frost date is April 15, however. To plant any earlier is a bit of a waste of time. The plants simply sit quiet, not unfurling their leaves or putting out any hint of a blossom until it is warmer. May is a good time to plant. This year I have potted up nasturtiums which I love as do the rabbits and the aphids. I have some trailing violet-like flowers, variegated ivy, dianthus in hot and pale pinks – the rabbits love them all. I actually still have pansies from last fall still blooming, despite our snowstorms and freezing rains this winter. In the garden I have added some lady’s mantle because its leaves make such beautiful saucers for rain, hollyhock that I hope shoots up to the stars, more golden oregano, more thyme, and every year I have more columbine finding a bit of ground to claim. I can’t have too much columbine. It’s even growing in the old cedar tree trunk in the middle of the garden.
Through the long days of winter, I fret, whine, and drag myself through the days. They are difficult. I try to appreciate each day, not take myself out of the present moment by wishing for it to pass. But winters on Whidbey for me are very hard. I can get through them knowing that summer comes – inevitably, always. I am grateful and then pray that the earth will spin a bit slower so that I can soak these days into my skin, into my cells, so I carry light into the darkness when it comes again.
Welcome Summer. Well come.
Five days until the summer solstice. These days leading to summer are what I live for the rest of the year, sad to say. Here on the island, the lengthening days, the cool evening shadows, the birds that wake me at 4:30 a.m., the doors and open windows, the cats and the dog in and out at their leisure – yes, this is a bit of paradise.
Today I sit at my computer rummaging through books to find citations for a paper on the mythopoetic adolescent – Homer, Melville, Morrison, epics and poetry. On the stereo a bit of world music, a bit of a French ballad, and every now and then Mary Chapin Carpenter’s pop country play as accompaniment. The maple tree just outside the window here at my desk is fully leafed out, gloriously green in her raiment. An island story says that about 50 years ago, I think, a local woman went around the south end of the island planting maple trees. I like to believe that this beauty that keeps my close company was one of hers. I know the time of year by watching the maple tree.
Beginning in March, I am always impatient to begin potting up plants and putting new perennials in the garden. Our last frost date is April 15, however. To plant any earlier is a bit of a waste of time. The plants simply sit quiet, not unfurling their leaves or putting out any hint of a blossom until it is warmer. May is a good time to plant. This year I have potted up nasturtiums which I love as do the rabbits and the aphids. I have some trailing violet-like flowers, variegated ivy, dianthus in hot and pale pinks – the rabbits love them all. I actually still have pansies from last fall still blooming, despite our snowstorms and freezing rains this winter. In the garden I have added some lady’s mantle because its leaves make such beautiful saucers for rain, hollyhock that I hope shoots up to the stars, more golden oregano, more thyme, and every year I have more columbine finding a bit of ground to claim. I can’t have too much columbine. It’s even growing in the old cedar tree trunk in the middle of the garden.
Through the long days of winter, I fret, whine, and drag myself through the days. They are difficult. I try to appreciate each day, not take myself out of the present moment by wishing for it to pass. But winters on Whidbey for me are very hard. I can get through them knowing that summer comes – inevitably, always. I am grateful and then pray that the earth will spin a bit slower so that I can soak these days into my skin, into my cells, so I carry light into the darkness when it comes again.
Welcome Summer. Well come.
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