On Thursday, November 20 th, 2008
Some kindly wondered what I believe… a statement of faith. Yes, here’s what I am purposing to live… what I’m about.
On Monday, November 10 th, 2008
The earth is cold under my finger nails, granular black bits of time sticking to skin. I know what I’m made of. Today, with me bent in this place, earth’s damp soaking through denim’s knees, chilling me through, I too am waiting to return. I dig holes with a wedge of steel, waiting to return to earth too, and soul to ascend. Around the fringes of the dome, clouds scud gre...
On Tuesday, October 21 st, 2008
Later I would learn that Uccello painted the Battle of San Romano with tempera on wood panel in 1435, a scene recounting the victory of the Florentines over the Sienese. But walking through the Louvre that day I didn’t know any of that. Frankly, the painting’s spirited clash of metal, charging horses, flapping banners appealed little to my pastoral, peace-loving sensibilit...
On Monday, October 20 th, 2008
The red sea of maples divides and we drive through on a part of dry gravel road, waves of color lapping in wind. A gust of autumn sprays brilliance. A splash of light carpets the way. We’re led through. “They say the colors are exceptionally vibrant this year.” He knows that’s what’s holding me rapt, silent. From the passenger seat, I look deep into Martin’s wood...
On Friday, October 17 th, 2008
…a thoughtful reader sent this hauntingly beautiful poem of Jane Kenyon’s, “Let Evening Come” “Let the light of late afternoon shine through chinks in the barn, moving up the bales as the sun moves down. Let the cricket take up chafing as a woman takes up her needles and her yarn. Let evening come…. Let the fox go back to its sandy den....
On Friday, October 10 th, 2008
It’s mid-morning and the cat’s taken refuge on an island of sunshine on the front porch swing. I watch her from the kitchen window. She closes eyes, curls around that warmth, her tail, now and then, waving from sunny shores. Under these undecided autumn skies, she’s found her place. It’s mid-morning and I’m struggling to find mine. Phone to confirm doctor appointmen...
On Thursday, October 09 th, 2008
We feed on stories. Like children, hungry, malnourished, we starve for words. But I wasn’t thinking any of that on Saturday, kneeled in a kitchen with a Grandma wrapping rosebud stems for a corsage and a bride fixing her veil while flowergirls swirl in sunlight. They, these old family friends, had asked if I might come to shoot some candids. Just while the bride dressed and...
On Tuesday, October 07 th, 2008
(Forgive me… so far behind in responding to your kind notes… and sinus cold and achy bones lingering here… I humbly thank you for your grace… His grace in you… You are each loved, appreciated. Thank you… All’s grace, Ann) The land, all this land criss-crossed by gravel roads, roars with combines rounding up pods of gold nuggets, tract...
On Friday, October 03 rd, 2008
In a soundbite world marked with woundsI sit quietedwith no words just Your Words for when I still and listen I knowAnd that is all there is to know. Lord, still us. So we can know. And rest.
On Monday, September 29 th, 2008
Over the orchard, the sky dome arcs a transparent azure, a clear window to the heavens. I only know because I laid out on the grass under the limbs of the russet tree on a late September afternoon and stared up , long at that. By the end of summer, isn’t light exquisitely refined? Draping down through the leaves, this pure gold pools on verdant carpet, drenching me in warmth,...
On Wednesday, September 17 th, 2008
May I thank you? Each of you, for your kind, wise, notes tucked in the inbox? I’m dismally behind in responding. It’s a function of too few hours–not of my appreciation for you. I pray for your grace. I gather each of your words up, a flower for the day’s bouquet. Please know how your fragrance fills my life… You bless. …a few notes to the i...
On Friday, September 12 th, 2008
(…because several asked to see the prayer bench…it’s pretty simple…like an Ann without an e)Light’s already bleeding through at the edges when I get there. I kneel, strike a small halo at bench’s edge, and watch lights, one slight and wavering, one full and rising, seep through blackness. And in a bit, in the glowing, fingers find leather bookmark, a...