Again and again
our footsteps lead us
Thanks to all our visitors, old and new, for walking with us.
the snow falling surely and steadily across our high desert home
the sun breaking through
the land transformed
and the unexpected rainbow right here where we stand.
Thank you snow, thank you sun, thank you, my little fashionista.
Thank you, friends, for sharing the journey.
Have a lovely, snowed in weekend!
We take the slow route up the ridge
through the sparse clumps of dried grass, over rocks rouged by twilight.
At the top, instead of continuing on, looping down and around
in constant motion as if this were the only way
to ensure the next moment’s arrival,
Stillness so seldom left to ripen on its branch
and fall of its own free will.
We sit on the bare spine of earth,
coyotes singing yip yi yi yi yiiii
as the horizon rises towards night.
We spent Thanksgiving with my folks at their house on the edge of the mountains. Watching my parents with their first grandchild, my daughter, made me hope with all the power in my body that my own grandchildren know a world as beautiful as the one we live in. And that they can look forward to sharing the ponderosas and magpies, the rivers and coyotes and the smell of sage with their descendants.
But all that fierce hope isn’t going to bring future about. Did you hear the news last week that climate change is “accelerating beyond expectation” while the percentage of Americans who believe global warming is happening has fallen from 80% to 72%? We can hope all we want that this situation gets turned around, but without personal action to feed that hope we can easily succumb to the dangerous side of hope: complacency.
Hoping that the UN or scientists or the president or environmentalists will do the right thing and steer humanity back into a sustainable balance, is, well, hopeless. We can’t just hope that a better day is coming. We’ve got to make sure that is does. It’s up to us to face the abyss (yep, it’s bleak out there), and then lift our hands to act anyways.
It’s up to us to reclaim our humanity, to do everything in our power and sometimes more to live in balance. We must choose, over and over and over, to be careful about what we buy and eat and throw away and even what we do, so that the least harm is inflicted on the planet. And then we can hope. Hope with our whole hearts that all that will make a difference.
If I’m lucky enough to meet my daughter’s children, or their children, I want to be able to tell them that I lived with them in mind. That I bled, sweat, and cried to change my unsustainable ways. I’ll tell them how my hope that all that work would pay off was what got me out of bed each day, looking for the simplest, most effective and heartfelt solution I could find to the daunting task at hand.
For suggestions on small and large things you might invest your hope in click here.
this week’s recipe brought to you by
warm, clear days and the color they contain
kindred spirits everywhere
Thanks for dropping by.
The recipe we’re cooking these days is simple: less waste, more joy. Will it help to create a new world? At our house, maybe.
We’re gearing up (down?) for a four month fast from buying plastic. It’s a symbolic action, a way for us to live more in line with our principles. A show of solidarity with an increasingly troubled planet, if you will.
I’ll be posting our discoveries of how to get by in a post-plastic world (well, almost – we get to keep the plastic we already have, and cherish those bottles and baggies like they deserve to be cherished). Eventually I’ll be taking hard looks at the facts of consumption and waste, and sharing some of our reasons for making what amounts to a pretty big lifestyle change.
But know that the roots of this journal are planted in the soil of simplicity, wonder, and love. It’s a fertile ground, that. Already I’ve found much to celebrate in the handmade, the natural world, the kitchen, and the goat barn. As we close the doors on old patterns, they open to the surprising abundance of a life lived more carefully.