On the trail flowers and ferns testify to the delicate balance of nature throughout the seasons. A wild flower may appear along the path by itself, or you might find it flourishing in bunches. The lone flower may not return the next year, allowing only one chance to appreciate it in the moment.
In the photo you will see a New England Aster. Its deep purple color stands out against the reds and browns of the October landscape.
Deep within this forest sits a white mushroom. Twelve feet in diameter, in the shape of a beautiful salad bowl, created solely by the forces of nature told me: “something is right with the world.”
TIME WAS SLIPPING AWAY
It was daylights savings time, and I was up at 6. Jumped into my clothes, and grabbed a cup of coffee. I walked outside. The light was still dim. Water in the birdbath was frozen. Out in the meadow, across the way, goldenrod, and Queen Anne’s Lace, were all covered with frost. I lost myself, in the simple beauty of the colors, textures, hues, and nuances, of shriveling up, dried plants, refusing to die. I saw the complexity of the scene, and realized that time was slipping away.
Dogwood flower, on a cold rainy day in the spring.
I mentioned earlier that I met a young woman named April, and in writing, also referred to a woman I met named Willow. I saw Willow today. I see her on occasion because she works in the community. When I first noticed her name-tag, oh say, three years ago, I thought, “how unique!” I notice names, and inevitably pry into why a person got his or her name, but didn’t ask Willow the first time I met her, nor the second, nor the third. The name took time to settle into my psyche, and finally, today, when I saw her, I wanted to know the story behind her name, so I asked, “Why is your name ‘Willow?’
This is what she said: “My parents were hippie types who lived in the Woodstock Valley. Tree huggers that lived off of the land, a custom my dad still practices today, in the same place. They did everything the natural way, when I was growing up; kept a large garden, split their own wood, and canned all the vegetables.” Willow continued; “When I was born my parents deferred to my grandmother for help in naming me. Grandma was an Algonquin Indian born on a reservation, not full blooded herself, but married a full-blooded. (Willow has blond hair and blue eyes so the story of the Native American background was a bit surprising.) When I was born grandmother said, ‘you shall name her “Willow” after the beautiful willow trees whose branches reach for water in the stream, and so “Willow” I was named. Along came my other sisters, and they were also named with respect for Mother Nature. One is “Rainy,” and other “Dawn.””
And so the story goes. It’s almost a fairy tale. I loved the story. I hope you did too.
The End
By Tiffany Creek
And the Spring arose on the garden fair,
Like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere;
And each flower and herb on Earth’s dark breast
Rose from the dreams of its wintry rest.
Shelly
Transitions of time, at 7:05 a.m.
Red breasted robins hobbled on the grass, and bobbed for worms,
on the muddy bare spots on the ground.
Smaller black and white birds leapt from branch to branch.
The invisible dove cooed, as day broke,
And the train rumbled on its tracks.
The viburnum was dying to bloom.
The snow was blue.
I heard the muffled sound of sirens, blaring in the distance,
And saw my first red cardinal, taking cover, under an olive branch.
Spring was here!*
*Crops for the garden may be planned.
Watch for the waning, and waxing of the moon.
By Tiffany Creek
Be favorable to bold beginnings.
Virgil
Being away from home can be disconcerting at times. Especially when it is frequent. I love to travel, but I also like to be home. I guess I’m kind of a homebody at heart. When the opportunity presents itself, however, to go somewhere else, I generally seize the moment. I always think, ‘nothing ventured, nothing gained,’ and no matter what, after going away, I more and more realize that if I don’t do something when I can, I would undoubtedly regret and wonder what I had missed out on. I don’t want to miss out on anything!
With all that said, it’s always good to come back, to sleep in my own bed and to be in familiar surroundings. After 35+ years in New England I would say I have become somewhat of a Yankee, though you can’t take the Midwestern soul out of my core.
A visit to this Raspberry Farm put my mind in motion about how good it is to explore the places in my own back yard. I stopped in on the way back from errands. I’ve passed it frequently and always wanted to pay a visit. That I did!
I went into the shop with the big ‘Welcome’ sign up. Generally, this is a place where you can pick your own, but on account of the rains the night before, the patch was closed, so instead, I bought a small box of raspberries and some vegetables, tomatoes, raspberry jam made on the place, and some local honey. I even grabbed a few recipes they had hanging on the door.
On my way out I thought to ask the saleslady if I could take some pictures of the farm. It is impressively well run, and obvious the owners put their everything into keeping it nice for the public. The pictures show how well run it is. Curiously the varieties are given French names, as you can see in the photos. Prelude is the only raspberry bush still producing. It gives two crops of fruit, one in the early summer, and again in August/September. I presume in October, they die out.
I couldn’t have asked for a more beautiful blue sky and white fluffy clouds to bring out the late summer cheer of the the day. Bittersweetly the Autumn’s tune was playing in the air. Must enjoy the days, as short as they may be getting to be, and take in the transitions of a new season to come. They all have some beauty to share.
The gray, white, fluffy clouds
hang low in the baby blue sky.
The constant moon glows, and shines,
high overhead.
The trees bursting with buds
incline this way and that,
like a pregnant woman ready to give birth.
The bunny rabbit scurries
under the dark olive bush
wagging its white cotton tail.
The street light ignites
suddenly above,
And the sun sets in the West,
on a horizon of many reds.
The clouds
linger in the darkened sky
and the day light goes to bed.
By TiffanyCreek
On Tiffany Creek 