July 4, 2021
I never think anything I plant will actually thrive so when something does, it’s always WAY overgrown before I do something about it. This is my insane fig tree. It’s sun got squeezed out by the neighbor’s overhanging fir and my clumping bamboo (which I also didn’t tend to) and the end result is this insane twist of leggy, fruit-heavy branches. I will probably cut it back after the season but for now, I love its longing.
Jul 5, 2021 On the rare occasion of having the house to myself and a neighborhood that’s unusually quiet, I offer this one minute meditation. The breeze reminds the still life of its life-ness.
July 6, 2021
Two of the four heads on my beautiful monster of a sunflower.
July 10, 2021
On this map, you are here. Pick a spot. A dot. A corner tucked into a corner tucked into a corner. The point is not to plan your way out. Or through. The point is to see the spot, the one you picked, and how it is made from all the unpicked spots around you.
July 25, 2021
July 20, 2021
A sigh of relief. Stellar Jay chatter in my ear along with cold river water. Banana cake in my belly. Summer officially in under the skin.
July 21, 2021 Can’t resist a car wash photo especially when the quality of the color show was far better than the actual wash.
July 24, 2021
Sometimes the flowers seem barely themselves. But, of course, it’s only me.
July 26, 2021
Only one of three new dahlias made their way up from the dirt, but what a bright new monster they are!
July 27, 2021
I grow desperate for light through leaves and grateful for Mimosa Trees.
July 28, 2021
Picking the fruit, I rip the leaf and the leaf leaks latex in defense. But does the fig branch know their whole unruly length is now lying on the ground, severed from the trunk? In thanks, I kiss the figs with my whole mouth and hum before each swallow.
July 30, 2021
Family reunion with stones and river, trees and sky.
August 1, 2021
August 3, 2021
I touch my fingertips to where sunset marks the cedar (and light fans water) and begin 10,000 years of turning soft (and waves wear glass).
August 5, 2021
Some are so well-suited to fancy dress. Born in bright and polka dots. Born ready to dance.
August 9, 2021
August 11, 2021
Please remember, this world blooms from dull brown seed and damp brown dirt.
August 13, 2021 I tell myself over again and always please remember gifts may arrive in disguise. Garbage bins becomes serving bowls. The no longer needed become a magic brew of feather, flower, and leaf.
August 16, 2021
The sky misted on the humans and the rocks and the bees. All of us. All morning. Thankyouthankyou.
August 20, 2021
Hope drags me away from the dying poppies and feeds me plans for next year’s might-be-beautiful. What a shame.
August 23, 2021
The grass gave up months ago
along with a portion of will,
a portion of kindness.
Still, forests of hollyhock.
An abundance of plums.
The body dropping its bruises.
August 26, 2021
Pollen drunk, sleepy or dead?
August 31, 2021
The birch trees told me to be still. Instead, I took their picture then walked back to our campsite, moving from from one gentle task to another. My dreams grew crowded with drama. In the morning I ran to stay warm.
Beautifullllll as always!
On Sun, Sep 26, 2021 at 4:26 PM Tracy Burkholder wrote:
> Tracy Burkholder posted: ” July 4, 2021 I never think anything I plant > will actually thrive so when something does, it’s always WAY overgrown > before I do something about it. This is my insane fig tree. It’s sun got > squeezed out by the neighbor’s overhanging fir and my clum” >