love

bare feet

Witch-Wife

 

She is neither pink nor pale,

And she never will be all mine;

She learned her hands in a fairy-tale,

And her mouth on a valentine.

She has more hair than she needs;

In the sun ’tis a woe to me!

And her voice is a string of colored beads,

Or steps leading into the sea.

She loves me all that she can,

And her ways to my ways resign;

But she was not made for any man,

And she never will be all mine.

                                   Edna St. Vincent Millay ,1917



pilgrim sweet potatoes



using a camera that the doctor has lent me, i finally caught those eyes.



found

the week thankful and i moved into our house. she called it the beautiful house.

i am thankful. for potato bread and oil in my oil tank, for acorns and dried corn kernels in pockets.  for my pain the ass girl dog named pilgrim, for the color of oatmeal.  for the feeling of walking through the newly cut field and coming up on this home, smoke from the chimney and books filling the windows. all of them.  for my daughter. duh. for all of the great love in my life. for avett brothers on wednesday nights, and iced tea. for my  blue bathtub car. at any point, it all could be gone. i am grateful.

halloween

went around the sweet town again this year. amazing how much i love said town. warm windows, warm porches, community.  it still exists on halloween. once, i told someone about my quest for warmth, i think they got it, i think i felt shame for saying it out loud.  tonight instead of buildng a fire outside and watching the seven sisters, i built a strong fire in the stove, wiped the make up off my growing girl, tucked her in, and made a large batch of soap. hard for my weak arm, fufilling for the heart. im changing my life. tonight we will sleep by the stove, so i can train myself again, to wake up, to fill the stove so we arent cold. i hate it. i love the warmth, i love the smell, i love having to earn it. i just hate waking up.. i cant remember my dreams.

samhain

have a blessed new year.

october

what a weekend. walk, skipping stones, a evening bike ride, dinner with friends, flannel sheets, good dreams, big bacon breakfast with cocoa smiles and coffee laughs, pumpkin patch picking with handsome green pumpkins and fresh cider to put by for summer nights, apples eaten straight from the tree,chestnuts pricking fingers, a child finally feeling safe, ten pounds of pink kaolin clay, baby powder smellin soap, designed by my joy, dog chasing, and windows open. perfect. whoop with joy kind of perfect. lucky girl.

stolen moment

thankful sage farm school

one day, i am going to have a shop. my shop will have antiques from around the world. simple ones. useful ones. it will have honey from my hives. and soaps, made from said honey. candles dipped in pairs in a big cauldron on crisp autumn days, with cider, friends and woodsmoke. it will have walls full of flower pots and plates that i designed. antique silver utensils. piles of handwoven blankets. only the best cookbooks. handmade furniture from local artisans, and old ladderbacks and windsors in various states of decay. pretty chicken feeders next to ticking pillows, next to petticoats, for me and fellow gals taking back our tough lady roles.  heirloom seeds with my name in them, ones that i harvested from an old daisy or potato that just doesn't grow anymore, something i can save for my daughters daughter. i will have classes on the long table that runs down the center of the store, on pickling, on thoughtful gardening, on pies, and community suppers at the end of each season. creaky wood floor, or maybe a painted green mexican tile. orkney chairs and a dressmakers table for the check out area. a book rack with books that i have written, about how we used to live. there, its on paper. i have to do it now.

home

thankful*

pinkies

dirty toes, sign of a midsummers walk gone good.

pilgrim sweet potatoes

our strong, way too playful girl pup. about a year old.

magic

It's the end of the summer,
When you move to another place

And I feel like the neighbor's girl who will never be the same
She walked alone all spring,
She had a boyfriend when the summer came
And he gave her flowers in a lightning storm
They disappeared at night in green fields of silver corn
And sometime in July she just forgot that he was leaving
So when the fields were dying, she held on to his sleeves
She held on to his sleeves

-end of the summer, dar williams

brown paper packages

little old wooden tables with sticks for legs and faded paint

heavy cottons, nubby linens, faded red stripes, cool summer mornings



creamy butter colored floors, rag rugs, old house smell.. these are a few of my favorite things