Thank You, Weymouth!

 I am so grateful I had a few days/nights at Weymouth Center For The Arts And Humanities as a writer-in-residence last week. It’s been an intense time here this spring and summer with family matters that have taken up so much space in our lives there was not much room for creative work. 

One of my trilogies is now a single hefty novel with a TV pilot episode to boot, and this is only possible because of a few days of retreat time in which I was able to work and enjoy the support of a long-time writing friend while doing so. 

And Weymouth got a new writer’s kitchen! It’s lovely. Every wall looks different but the stove and vent hood is super nice with the tile backsplash. 

So happy for the time and I am definitely feeling renewed with creative energy. 

Our Fig Tree

 

Our son planted this fig tree close to 20 years ago. It was a tiny tree that has taken root and thrived. The past few years it’s been growing huge numbers of very large figs that are feeding our family, offering joy to parents, son, and now my son’s own children. It’s been a true blessing this summer and now on into fall, as we continue to pick the fruit and enjoy the time together as we share this harvest. 

The fig tree symbolizes strength, resilience, power, protection, and longevity. 

All these things have special meaning in our family right now and I’m so grateful to this beautiful tree for providing them for us. 

As I look at the photo, behind and to the left, I see a sunny clearing. I didn’t notice it as I took the photo, but in this moment I realize it’s Keil Bay’s gravesite, with Salina buried just past him. 

Of course Keil Bay and Salina were both strong personalities, loving friends to my family, powerful, protective, and long-lived in body and eternally in spirit. 

We are surrounded by this energy here on November Hill and I feel it every single day. 

Wild Geese, reprised

 It’s time - these two poems capture so much for me, and every autumn I read them again. 

The Wild Geese

Wendell Berry, 1934-

Horseback on Sunday morning,

harvest over, we taste persimmon

and wild grape, sharp sweet

of summer’s end. In time’s maze

over fall fields, we name names

that went west from here, names

that rest on graves. We open

a persimmon seed to find the tree

that stands in promise,

pale, in the seed’s marrow.

Geese appear high over us,

pass, and the sky closes. Abandon,

as in love or sleep, holds

them to their way, clear,

in the ancient faith: what we need

is here. And we pray, not

for new earth or heaven, but to be

quiet in heart, and in eye

clear. What we need is here.

Wild Geese

Mary Oliver, 1935-

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting -

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.

November Hill farm journal, 221

 The natives have taken over and the birds and insects love it! I’m taming things a little where needed, but here at summer’s downhill slide, leaving the things that serve this little/big ecosystem I live in. 

Whenever I glance out the windows there are birds flying by, insects wafting and hovering, and so much activity as they forage the native plantings. It’s a rich and vibrant ecosystem and there will be all winter to tidy things up. 

November Hill farm journal, 220

 

On Sunday my grandchildren and I were watching with great delight this little spider wrapped around her two beautiful egg sacs outside the window. The dried leaf stem blew into the web that extended about 20 inches down from what you see in this photo. It was dangling by the stem down there, blowing in the mild breeze. 

When I woke up on Monday morning, she had brought the leaf stem up to her egg sacs and somehow turned it all the way around and positioned it so the curve of this leaf became a perfect shelter for her and the eggs. 

I don’t know how she did it but I take it as a metaphor for myself right now. It’s a little miracle that inspires. I can and I will provide safety, protection, and shelter for my children and my grandchildren. So much love.