i would still be on my feet

one last bee thought

The relationship between beekeeping and the herb garden is centuries old. Many herbs have a special attraction for bees and, since the insects pollinate the plants, the two work in unison. Lemon balm (its name is derived from the Greek word for “bee”) has long been a neighbor of the bee skep. Early beekeepers rubbed the insides of their skeps with it to attract bees, or mixed balm with honey to line the insides of skeps. Bee balm thyme and borage also attract honeybees.

friendship and spoons

tasha

lovely

french haitian bee skeps

time out

fire

 the goschenhoppen historians gave a lovely candle dipping demonstration this summer.

i am sorry

but i have no words right now.

summer thoughts

fire

Fire-lighting, however simple, is an operation requiring some skill; a fire is readily made by laying a few cinders at the bottom in open order; over this a few pieces of paper, and over that again eight or ten pieces of dry wood; over the wood, a course of moderate-sized pieces of coal, taking care to leave hollow spaces between for air at the centre; and taking care to lay the whole well back in the grate, so that the smoke may go up the chimney, and not into the room. This done, fire the paper with a match from below, and, if properly laid, it will soon burn up; the stream of flame from the wood and paper soon communicating to the coals and cinders, provided there is plenty of air at the centre.

Isabella Beeton, Book of Household Management, 1861

williamsburg

true warmth

no light is lost..

The quality of a candle depended on the fat that was used. The better the quality of the fat, the firmer and less offensive was the candle. New England settlers were fortunate to discover that the waxy berries from the bayberry bush made very pleasant candles. ...Peter Kalm wrote...in 1748...There is a plant here from which they make ...wax...Candles of this do not easily bend, nor melt in summer...nor do they cause any smoke, but yield rather an agreeable smell when they are extinguished."

J and D Volo, Daily Life on the Old Colonial Frontier, 2002

warmth

...

flora

heirloom

heart afire

practically magic

"Sometimes I feel like there’s a hole inside of me, an emptiness that at times seems to burn. I think if you lifted my heart to your ear, you could probably hear the ocean. The moon tonight, there’s a circle around it. Sign of trouble not far behind. I have this dream of being whole. Of not going to sleep each night, wanting. But still sometimes, when the wind is warm or the crickets sing… I dream of a love that even time will lie down and be still for. I just want someone to love me. I want to be seen. I don’t know. Maybe I had my happiness. I don’t want to believe it but, there is no man. Only that moon.”

love love love

    a poor man shames us all...do you like my song? i'll sing it for you.

courting

from the side of your eye

And I'll find strength in pain
And I will change my ways
I'll know my name as it's called again


Cause I have other things to fill my time
You take what is yours and I'll take mine
Now let me at the truth
Which will refresh my broken mind


the cave, mumford and sons

call and answer

1. last night i heard the owls.  one calls, and then from the west, another returns the same call.  this happened all around me. and i was comforted. all calls out are returned, if you just listen right.

my heart, my joy, my inspiration. five.

friend



today i had a lovely time with my heart friend. we sat,
we talked, we walked and we connected. all without wine.



boy thoughts

if i were a boy, i think i would look something like this. my cologne would be new mown grass, sawdust, old spice, and a touch of woodsmoke. i would know how to make bread, be amazingly kind, and i would be patient.  i would have dreams that smelled like patchouli, maple and spiced tea.  i would plant a patch of poppies and play music for the person in my heart.

berks co. bakeoven

dendron

autumn thoughts

tonight. my daughter takes my hand, and says come with me. she wipes my tear stained face and settles me into the black wicker chair where annie faces the window. she draws me hearts in the perfect shade of robins egg blue with machine that makes black eyed susans grow all year. she offers to start the woodstove, she says we havent used it in years. she takes my hand, unlocks the dining room door, pulls me to the porch and tells me to say goodnight to the moon. that should work. as she yells at the cloudy night sky, i look over. her hair is gold even in the dark. her hand is warm. and i realize that i need nothing more than this to feel right again.
we walk inside and decide that we might be boys for halloween.

texture

girl

pretty..

rest revisited

Rest is not idleness,

and to lie sometimes on the grass

under trees on a summer's day,

listening to the murmur of the water,

or watching the clouds float across the sky

...is by no means a waste of time.

----John Lubbuck

rest

tattered ironstone

dreaming of the next cycle of my life. too many dishes,
too many recipes to try, and pretty linen aprons. 
more time with my child, heavy blankets, feeling safe.

fraktur

a hessian fraktur, lancaster county historical society. love.

spinning

the price

    There is love of course. And then there's life, its enemy.
                                                              -Jean Anouilh

yard work

cant you see dozens of these?  filled with fresh lettuces in the winter and brimming over with heirloom melons that crack in your hands when perfectly ripe in the summer. fresh basil for your pesto in the late autumn, a sprig of lavender for your pillow so you can sleep in january. all painted the same green as the steps and soon the doors, so that it is an evergreen area in the coldest and loneliest part of winter. filled with soil that was processed with your own hands.  little green boxes of hope, life and renewal.

lionel and annie

lust

fireworks

fourth of july.

left work early. stolen time. brought a ricketty wood chair that i found in the dump in surry, virginia up to

the top of the yard, above the pear tree and the barn, past the blackberries and all of those soybeans. and i sat.

smelled like coffee. the fireflies- so many, millions it seems. dizzying. then booms, bouncing off the trees. fireworks from every town, presented themselves to me, five different displays at once. and me alone on my wooden chair with a chilled bottle bottle of muscato d' asti and a full heart.

moment captured

a moment captured, wed night. fireflies. lavender.and heavy mint in the breeze.

sitting on the rocking chair, facing the spring house. the night is just about here- not quite dark yet because i can still see the paper without the porch light. the woods and field are twinkling. if you just relax your eyes you wont get so dizzy watching the firflies. the rain breeze is blowing, it will thunder. i can smell it, metallic warmth. my girl is inside drawing- it is a picture of her and i dipping candles. billy joel is on the radio, barely louder than a whisper.
the rain wind is blowing the smell of the half burnt poplar from the fire pit. leaning on an old cookbook, has a recipe for apple frenchies, a version of french toast made with applesauce, cinnamon, nutmeg,and buttermilk. my mind drifts to next autumn. apple sauce, made with green apples,raw sugar, too much butter and white wine. so good.

small scissors

big girl.

glimmer bit

bits

"Baking Easter Bread" by William Kurelek, 1968.