Snow and cherries!

by June
The third blizzard of the year is whooshing around our windows. And we are eating cherry pie for breakfast. Eating cherry pie has many pleasures, not least the crunch of the sugared glaze and the tartness of the cherry zinging out of the sweet sauce. My favorite pleasure this morning, though, is remembering the July day we picked the cherries at our favorite farm.


I can't cut you a slice—as much as I wish I could. But I can share these memories of blue skies and glowing fruit and grass so green it throbbed.

Summer itself seems baked into a crackling crust on this day when everything is white—the sky, the ground, the wind itself. To remember the colors of summer is as sweet as the pie itself.

Stillness: Red, green and sparkle

by June
One of the reasons we ended up in Maine was winter. The snow fell, and it fell deeply, and a body had no choice but to huddle inside by the fire between bracing forays to haul in firewood or to ski through the fragrant woods.

 For me, winter was time to quiet down and think. It was time to read, time to create.

It's not that it doesn't snow anymore. It does. But for the past few years, winter hasn't tiptoed in around Thanksgiving with a deep, hushed snowfall that transforms the landscape for a whole season. The snows do eventually come—but often with sleet or ice or rain. Then it all melts. Going out for firewood, even in February, we track mud into the house.

As long as the ground remains bare, the gardener in me feels compelled to keep tending our ambitions for our place. But I'm worn out. At Thanksgiving dinner, I heard myself going on and on and on about how all I wanted to do over the long weekend was read. Julia Glass's new novel, The Widower's Tale, was practically glowing on my nightstand, and all I could think about was curling up with it.


But it never happened. 

Instead, I laid out the new orchard and hauled compost to prepare the ground for the new trees. I added more mulch to the blueberry plants. I cleared some brush. It's all good work. Yet I long for the good work that comes of growing still and listening to the thoughts that whisper around the sound of the crackling fire.

That book is still waiting for me. And even as we hurtle into the season of merrymaking (emphasis on making), I am promising myself a gift of stillness—whether the snows come or not.

What are you promising yourself this season?

Shall we shimmy?

by June

This morning, we woke to an April shower. It was a S.N.O.W. shower. We did the only sensible thing; we stayed in bed with our books and trusted that even snow showers will bring May flowers. Early signs already abound...Full-bloom spring is shimmying this way.

new grass

bare-tree shadows

eager peas

kale that made it through the winter

a star magnolia

a bee finding the first blossoms

our favorite spring snow: the weeping cherry

Just in case you're in need of a good book to keep you cozy and happy during April showers, we recommend the ones that kept us happy this morning. I'm reading Major Pettigrew's Last Stand. Oh, how delicious it is! Fern is gobbling up The Seven Wonders of Sassafras Springs. Blossom is savoring every moment of Cheaper By the Dozen (even though her sister blurted out some of the highlights when she read it first).

Birch? you ask. What was he reading? He got up and made the coffee and ginger scones. Somebody had to!

Stillness: September

by June

September is change: the lengthening of the shadows across the bright grass, the daily deepening chill in the air, the melancholy scritch-scritching of the crickets. This month will bring frost and flaming-red trees. The screen door will disappear. The windows will go down at night and not come so far back up during the day.

And, too, September ushers in such a rush of responsibility. All around us friends head back into their routines of work and school. We struggle against deadlines and obligations. We harvest what we can from the garden and work to save some of the abundance for colder days. I make and re-make a mental list of chores: Which plants need to come in the house? Which need to be blanketed with pine boughs? When will we find the time to put the shutters up on the screen house? Is there enough wood split and stacked? When will we move the almost-pullets into their new coop?

Yet, against the urgency of winter-coming, there is something in each day that whispers: Be still. Listen. Feel the sunshine.

It is a treasure in my life that my daughters are home with me on these days tilting hard toward autumn. It is a treasure that they too can be still. They seem unafraid of quiet, of listening to nothing but the thoughts flowing through their minds. What a comfort it will be to them all their lives to know how to hush themselves and let a moment seep into their memory. Young as they are, they have been struck already by that deeply human recognition: This cannot last. Gather it while you may.

One day has distilled this September for me. We chanced onto solitude at our favorite beach. We read. We floated. We watched the sandpipers and the seagulls and the ducks and the loons. We felt the sun on our skin and knew it wouldn't last but also knew that our memories of these hours would keep through winter. We were still and took it all in, gathered every precious sensation to hoard against the cold.