-
March 14 2026 Work Party
Famous by Naomi Shihab Nye The river is famous to the fish. The loud voice is famous to silence, which knew it would inherit the earth before anybody said so. The cat sleeping on the fence is famous to the birds watching him from the birdhouse. The tear is famous, briefly, to the cheek. The idea you carry close to your bosom is famous to your bosom. The boot is famous to the earth, more famous than the dress shoe, which is famous only to floors. The bent photograph is famous to the one who carries it and not at all famous to the one who is pictured. I want to be famous to shuffling men who smile…
-
December 29 2024 Walk
Restful solitude, nourishing until the days wear into claustrophobic sameness. Glass door. Rain. Tea. Chair. Keyboard. Caretaking. Glass door. Rain. Thoughts pile up, crowd worn tracks, dress themselves up for disturbing nighttime scenes. I sleep for a day, stumble into an anatomy of melancholy, wonder if the tech billionaires have found a way into my busy brain. Still rain. Still genocide, still oligarchy, still authoritarianism rising, still greed and profit and planetary destruction, still not enough affordable housing, still a sixth mass extinction, still all the suffering I cannot control. I don’t want to move, but I do. I go outside, walk through the seasonal stream, across the swampy field.…
You May Also Like
August 20 2022 Work Party
September 28 2024 Work Party
February 24 2024 Work Party
-
November 16 2024 Work Party
Steady rain. Muddy earth. Thank you.
-
August 24 2024 Work Party
Light rain. Bird nest. Conversation and companionship.
-
March 23 2024 Work Party
Light rain. Root balls, knotweed, holly, mulch. Little lime green frog. Bushtits nest in an adolescent fir tree, chickadees make copious announcements. We dig and haul and break for strawberry knotweed pie. Fireworks of green everywhere around us.
-
March 9 2024 Work Party
Cool, tentative rain. A line of sentinel blackberry canes, dug. Root balls, gnarled and long. Goat neighbors munch tender shoots of reed canary grass. Entwined Western red cedars and ferns in their new homes. Beautiful child dancing through the planting, hiding from the wind, noticing everything.
-
January 27 2024 Work Party
We whisper our worry about displacing neighbors who have found shelter behind blackberry brambles not many blocks from where anger shouted away the possibility of permanent homes for them. Rain. We do everything we can. We clip, dig, call, write, lay down cardboard, haul mulch, bare hearts, show up, plant trees, hold on to hope. It is what we can do and it is not enough this time. Everything comes tumbling down, grey clouds settle in. Rest. The world will be reordered and then we will start again.
-
April 8 2023 Work Party
We rake dead canes, push into the sea of brambles, unearth gnarled root balls dense with energy from 93 million miles away. The goats show up, eat the apples, eat the cedar leaves, eat the reed canary grass, eat the blackberry leaves, too. Three black-tailed deer wander through, slender necks curved curiously toward us, their gaze reverently returned. Two Canada geese noisily converse as they flap by. The piercing cry of a hawk turns heads to the sky. What a gift to know you on this earth, you who drew twelve orcas last week, you who are fuzzy on your company motto but certain that you all hold the best…
-
March 19 2022 Work Party
The rain is steady and there is war. Bombs fall. Red banners announce the latest of the emergency we have spilled from within. The red stays tucked in my heart as I travel where birds nest, frogs sing, and water finds its way from mountain to sound. I dig root balls while you clip canes. The rain lightens, I hang my coat in the crook of a cottonwood tree. Ossoberry blooms, elderberry not far behind. Gartner snakes sleep, yellow striped millipedes unfurl everywhere. Decomposing wood on its way to new life. Bombs still rain half a world away, red banners surely still where I left them. For the moment, I…
