Greenwich Sunset

A hint of early morning came into my bedroom Sunday and I rejoiced, knowing I had the day to what I wanted.

It was a wide open day, no plans except to hit the Cambridge Farmer’s Market for produce. I’m fairly addicted to the strawberries and my guy from Long Days Farm told me this might be the last so I got three pints.

  I’ve been eating them for breakfast in the morning with plain yoghurt. What a treat.

  I also got some leaf lettuce and beets from Happenchance Farms and planned on roasting the beets along with some carrots and sautéing the beet greens with olive oil, garlic and cider vinegar.

  All happy thoughts as I walked to the market.

  I crossed the street and heard my name being called and my heart sank and my cone of silence enveloped me and I responded to the social greetings of “Hi. How are you”? With a mumbled “fine, thanks “ as I walked quickly away.

  How do you behave in these situations? I’ve been studiously avoiding a meeting such as this because I cannot bring myself to smile and put on a face that would meet the bare minimum for a social situation.

  Mostly I feel…well I don’t know. There is a whole closed box of emotions tied to this and opening the lid to try and sift through them feels like a game of pickup sticks only instead of wood, I’m grabbing sharp metal slivers that work their way under my skin.

  Sadness of course. Regret of course. But mostly I feel anger. At myself. Instead of standing up and returning the greeting in a clear strong voice, I portrayed myself like a beaten dog.

  When I was a kid, we had an Italian Greyhound named Mr. Jones who never got house trained. It was a losing battle with this dog. He pissed all over, but took great joy in peeing on my mother’s Oriental rugs.

   She used to beat the crap out of him with a rolled magazine.

  He would do it knowing he was serving himself up for another beating. He had speed on his side though. He became especially adept at leaving Mom behind in the dust. He would tuck himself behind the bolster on my bed.

  He knew that Mom hated to climb stairs and my bedroom was on the second floor.   So more often than not he was safe, and he knew to steer clear of her the rest of the day.

  I was on Mr. Jones’s side all the way.

  He came into my mind today, after my unfortunate encounter and I wished I had had the chutzpah to look the person in the eye and speak clearly and present a stronger persona.

  So lesson learned. Over and over until I get it right. Every day is another chance for me to do better.

  I’m going to think of my little dog who knew what was at stake but went about his business anyway.

  Oh and the beet greens were amazingly good. I could just taste the green life in them, becoming part of me, sustaining me.



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The Search for Solitude



   “It’s time to put the hurt away.” I woke up  with this on my brain this morning, I might have even mumbled it in the half awake state I’m in before I’m fully conscious. I laid in my bed for a bit and let my waking brain show me the dreams I had. Sometimes I can get a clue. Not this time though. But it came from somewhere.

  There was no good reason I was late to work today. It wasn’t the traffic; there is no rush hour on the country road I use to get to my job, unless you count the school buses or the odd cow standing in the middle of the road.

  If you ever want to feel really dumb, try honking your horn at a cow standing in your way. They just look at you with those big docile eyes and amble on over to the shoulder and start grazing. In their own time.

  I started out with every good intention of being on time, but as I was traveling up and down the hills of southern Vermont, I had to stop.

  The wind was blowing and the grasses in the fields were waving, undulating, singing their Siren song, a movement so reminiscent of the ocean I stopped the car, pulled over and watched.

  Put away the hurt. There it was. The reason I stopped.  I felt it come as I watched. I stared at the field and I knew I had to be there.

  I felt something happen, a shiver starting from my gut and emanating outward. Like a power surge, an energy. I stared at they field and I saw the similarity. The waves made by the wind in the grasses. The waves in the ocean caused by the wind and the tides caused by the sun and the moon.

  I have been doing a lot of work on myself. There are parts of myself that are being examined minutely in my therapy and it is not easy. Some days I leave my therapist’s office and I feel ok. Like I’m learning and making progress.

   Not today. I felt beaten, steamrolled, exhausted.  We started exploring an ugly part of myself that had been hidden for a long time probably most of my life.

  As I stood there watching the waves of grass move in an organic perfect rhythm, I thought again about my session today. There was a good kind of hurt that I recognized.

  Pulling off a scab is one thing, but now I’m soothing the ugly open wound and healing it. It will leave a scar, which is to be expected and I can feel it and know I crossed that minefield.

The detour today was my soul speaking to me, sending me a message.

Solitude is so important to me and so difficult to achieve.  It is not about being alone or the absence of people.

It is so easy to drown in the reams of data that bombard us daily, streams of words and facts from the outside world.

But it is the elusive solitude that the peace of my spirit is reborn and the true understanding of myself begins. I try to loosen the bonds that tie me to the outside world and release the stress and worry and tension that anchors me.

I seek the solitude that is so precious to me and a peace that fills me and allows the clarity I need to understand the deepest parts of me.

I imagine solitude can be found anywhere, there is no protocol. For me the quiet of nature and the absence of people are two requirements. But a quiet room at twilight or my porch at dawn watching the world wake up also works.

I seek the beauty of my inner self free of anger, worry and regret and dishonesty. Once I find it I cherish it and I carry the memory of it until I can return to it.

I cannot escape the world, nor do I want to. I do not seek solitude to ignore the world.

I feel the search for solitude is a entry into my soul. A place where the cares of the world wash away and I can find the divine spark that for me is the reason to be.

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First Flower




She bloomed!

When I bought my house in Cambridge last July, I wasn’t paying attention to the gardens or landscaping.

I liked the trees. Big old oak trees that shaded my house and kept it cool in the summer. So already i was ahead of the game. I love trees.

But the garden was pretty much non existent. No bushes, no shrubbery. Nothing. This can be easily remedied and starting this week, Ray, my  go to fix it guy, is going to come by and dig out the front and put in a bed that I’ll get to plant.

However, yesterday I saw what I think is a peony bush on the side of the house and further inspection yielded a whole row of peony bushes just getting ready to bloom.

A message to me, a belated welcome perhaps or just a simple reminder to keep my eyes open  and see the beauty that’s all around me and right in my own backyard.

I sang a song of welcome right back to the peony and I think she liked it.



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Orange flower (Name unknown)

  Bill is a solitary man. He has never sought or felt comfortable around his fellow humans.

  Bill’s preference is animals and plants. He walks for miles in the forest surrounding his home and knows the trees and bushes and turns in the trail intimately like a Manhattanite knows his or her way around that busy city.

  Bill’s intersections are natural formations of trees and boulders deposited in the earth by the moving glaciers so many thousands of years ago.

  He never gets lost in the woods, he has blazed his own trails with signs only he can read.

  Bill works as a horticulturist in a small nursery in his little village in upstate New York and his boss knows by now that Bill will get his work done in his own time and pace.

  There is no hurry in Bill’s pace; he is slow and measured and serene like the plants he loves so much.

  He has no interest in current events. He is apolitical, but do not mistake that for apathetic.

  Bill’s interest lies in the quality of his life. He makes enough money to live and any surplus he has is fed back into the land he loves so much.

  His belief is that it is worth the work he does to make his corner of the world a slightly better place.

  His philosophy is that society will grow great when an old man plants a tree the shade of which he knows he will never sit in.

  Good people doing good things for others.

Happiness is the thing. It doesn’t matter if it’s yours.


NOTE: This post was inspired by a show called the Afterlife, written by Ricky Gervais.

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Memorial Day in a Small Town




The Parade

Yesterday, I was puttering around the house, moving things, finding things that I had put  down somewhere, losing things again and then coming upon them and putting them in a place that I KNOW I will be able to find them again…you get the general idea.

I spend alot of time looking for stuff and wondering why I walked into a certain room.

In my aimless wandering around the house I looked out the window and saw a bunch of  folks walking purposely towards Main Street and I remembered.

Memorial Day Parade! I quickly left my house and joined the throng and waited. I talked to my neighbor Kathy and the neighbors on the other side. I saw Alex and met her husband.

And I marveled that there was no shoving, no pushing. No fighting over prime vantage points.  That was my former experience with parades.

I just stood there in the bright sunshine and waited for the parade to pass on by.

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Stars on Earth





Stars on Earth

I forget myself as I look on the star filled night sky. I lose myself in wonder. I cast myself in the infinite realm of the universe and it becomes too big to think about, too much to wonder about, too unreal to contemplate.

I bring myself back to me, my spirit contained once more within the physical self and I walk on.

I think about relatable things, simple pleasures that are all around me. The love of a friend, a cool drink of water, my dog’s sweet face.

And I tell myself that there are stars right here beside me, I can touch them and see them and love them.

I walk further and thank whatever powers that act upon me and lift my spirit and open my eyes to the world that is tangibly real.




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A yellow flower. (Sorry, don’t know the name)



  What do two photographers do on a beautiful Saturday afternoon in the spring in the midst of a blooming garden?

  Why take photos of course. My friend and I spent a couple of hours walking around her lovely yard.

  I lost myself in the flowers. I could have spent all day there.

  The best part of two people who are obsessive and hungry for knowledge is the talk about our craft.

  We got lost in the conversation and time just sped by. Just simple things like how we manipulate the settings on the camera to achieve the same results on a photo.

  Experiences shared and knowledge exchanged freely.

This kind of talk is invaluable to me and revelatory.



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