warmth

prizer perfect. if only the one in the barn was in such good repair.

inspiration

1915-2008. tasha tudor. self sufficient.  plain and vibrant.  a mother. never met her, but in my head she built plans for impossible gardens, handed me recipes.  showed me that woodsmoke is home. beeswax is bliss, weaving is productive and petty, maple syrup goes on your eggs, and fire is life.  she built the spoon and fork christmas tree in my head, let me respect the moon phases.  a perfect mix between Hannah Glasse and Jane Austen.  

loud crickets

summer. she could only get cool by sleeping on the steps.  flowerpots, moss, bees on purple flowers. lambsear spreading into the yard, grass growing too high, and just being way too warm...summer thoughts on a cold day.

birches by bill morrissey

mothering

Now I see the secret of the making of the best persons. It is to grow in the open air and to eat and sleep with the earth.


Walt Whitman, Song of the Open Road

heartsong

home.  a little place with twigs that will calm my heart and set my belly on fire.  inspiring me to no end. tattered books and acorns. brown transferware and silverplate. red wool blankets.  heavy lilac in the spring through the windows. stars and fabric swatches. salvage and flannel. dusting dirt off the soles of your feet before crawling into bed. recipes from cookbooks that belonged to your grandmother that promise to warm and painted floors. turquiose. very distant neighbors. dried herbs from the holidays and the smell of woodsmoke. dutch doors and the luxury of enough. this is my home.
 all of this.

maiden voyage

love.