Late summer is defined by rampant growth. Everything is moving into the blousey, expansive, desperate mode of the approaching end of the growing season. The weeds seem to have grown several feet and put on seeds overnight. The tomatoes are sprawling out of their cages and leaving red fruits strewn everywhere. The cardinal vine is clutching everything within its reach and the dogs return from our walks covered in small burs. It’s a time when everyone wants to acquire all the resources available and ensure survival or at least the survival of its species.

I’m tired. There is so much produce to preserve by blanching and freezing, or canning, or drying; but I must still water, and keep on top of weeds, as well as plant fall and winter crops, solarize harvested areas and put in cover crops. My house is dirty and disorderly, there is no where to put the produce we store in a cold room yet: no dry cold room. And there are odd other jobs that need to be done. Even without covid virus we haven’t much time to go anywhere else. I was in pure survival mode for a few weeks, putting one foot ahead of another, not thinking, not choosing anything, just in the flow of taking care of all that needed care and losing nothing to negligence, falling into bed at night exhausted and starting again next morning.

I’m grateful for a morning pattern in the summer that consists of some quiet time before chores, then a little work in the cool of the day before breakfast and tea midmorning. Then our household reads prayers and poetry together and sometimes a Gospel of Thomas Logion. The household now consists of John and I, Ben who works for us and has his own commodities to market, and Cathy, a friend who needed a place to be for a few months. In summer we tend to work while there is evening light, which on DST means 9:30 or later, so some time in the morning is good. The intensity is only for a few weeks and then my work lightens up and moves into the slower quiet days of winter. I like the pattern over all. Just wish sometimes there were more hours in the day.

This evening we had our first afternoon farm yoga session. Ben is bartering cello lessons for yoga instruction and we met with his student Sheila on our mats in a flat place under the trees, somewhat away from highway noise. It was very nice. The routine was chosen for balancing muscles, calming down, and easing backs and hands particularly. I got into quite a nice place of looseness and presence just lying under the clouds that scudded across a blue sky fringed with waving treetops.

The garden was pretty satisfyingly productive. I grew literally hundreds of brassicas, more tomatoes than we can use or can, lots of big onions, garlic and shallots: nearly enough to take us through spring. I harvested lots of peppers, okra and eggplants thanks to the hoop house Ben raised and shared with us. We had the usual few weeks of melons before they got the fungus they get every year. We are still having many pickings of green beans and I have frozen enough that John is complaining I am taking up too much space in the freezer with them. We got good asparagus and strawberries earlier. The peas were a disappointment, a problem of the very long cold spring and late frost I think. Broccoli also bore late, many are just now putting out the first heads, also due to an oddly cold spring followed immediately by a heat wave.

It’s a good feeling to be nearly done with so much to show for my work. Fall is always a beautiful leave-taking (in more ways than one) but the work of summer makes it quite welcome, thank you. Welcome to some rest and dormancy.

What goes into your mouth does not defile you, but what comes out of your mouth, that is what defiles you.


This is a hard saying of Jesus in the face of contemporary turmoil.

I find myself needing to strategize to maintain spiritual equilibrium in these days of political and social conflict.  We have so much access to ‘news’ and so much of it is invariably distressing, that my spirit can grow hopeless and then hardened.  And having strategized, I need discipline to do what I know is good for my spirit and not get caught in literal or metaphorical click bait.  Sometimes it seems the reverse is true; that what I consume indeed defiles me.  What I meditate on becomes what I am and then all manner of unrighteousness comes out of me. But it is also true that the problem is not found outside but inside me.  This  selfish and suffering world is not the locus of my distress:  the locus is inside of me, in my anxiety, in my misguided expectations, and in my lack of trust that all is as it needs to be; that all will be well and I will see it.

I know what I need to do and frequently I can do it:  

-Maintain a practice of silence/meditation.  

-Focus most on the people and work in my real life, not the offerings of mass media.

-Avoid hooks to my pain body, that anxious and hurt place within me:  not by ignoring the external world of systems, but by choosing sources that are not anger laden already.

-Draw on my helpers/lovers regularly: singing, poetry, Nature and the pleasant company of friends;  gratitude and beauty and exercise and fresh air.

-Call for aid, in these words from the Psalms, “Oh God Come to my aid; Lord make haste to help me.”

It is serenity within that can touch and comfort a hurting world.

This is a prayer I have learned to love saying frequently that comes from J. Phillip Newell’s Celtic Benediction:

Oh Sun behind all suns;

Oh Soul within all souls,

grant me the grace of the dawn’s glory;

grant me the strength of the sun’s rays,

that I may be well in my own soul and part of the world’s healing this day.

That I may be well in my own soul and part of the world’s healing this day.


At the end of a lovely late June day the permanent and current residents of Restoration Farm gather as scheduled to raise the blueberry net, an annual project. It has been quite dry and we know that soon the moisture in those green berries will start to become very attractive to the robins and starlings. We have become efficient at putting the net up, the area is freshly mowed and our work takes about half an hour once begun. Getting starting is slow as people chat about the work of the day and other things. We only meet outside during the covid pandemic, but occupation with family visits, the schedules of residents who are back to jobs, and farm work mean we are happy to have occasions to gather and catch up.

We are pretty well settled now and are initiating new activities according to our dreams and the needs of the land. We got our second set of pigs a few days ago. Everyone appreciated last years’s pork despite having to wait long for a processing date (resulting in lots of lard). This year we will process it ourselves, as the covid virus has ensured that there are no open opportunities for meat processing right now. So we have another activity and opportunity to learn and friends to guide us.

Dan and Suzanne got their fiber sheep as scheduled upon their retirement. There are six Cheviots: two ewes, two yearling females and two lambs. Their adjustment was not without incident, including one escape, and one tackling and haltering for a vet visit. The sheep, as well as Dan and Suzanne, have settled into familiar routine at this point. The piglets on the other hand are not yet comfortable, never before having seen the light of day or open spaces. They have finally begun eating now after huddling together under the brush in their small corral.

A few days ago a new queen bee arrived for my hive that survived the mild winter. Though the hive looked good coming into spring, I eventually realized that no new brood was being laid and I would soon be without bees. So I got a virgin queen and a frame of brood. They are all together now and I have let the queen out after a few days of waiting for the workers to do it. In time I will see if she is alive and laying.
Ben, the Weavers, and the Hertzler-Scarsellas got 200 broiler chicks, beginning our annual broiler venture. We will get some twenty more later in the summer. The Weavers also have silky pullets that are nearly full size. Sadly most appear to be roosters so they added some less exotic pullets out of which they hope to have a decent new laying flock. The others of us have luckily had broody hens for restocking and Dan and Suzanne stuck a duck egg under their hen and have five chicks and one gangly duck. The hybrid duck is not a good sitter. She and the drake parade around the farm, scattering new-laid eggs and clutches and occasionally checking in on a clutch and sitting for a few hours before abandoning it again. The puppies are awed when they sometimes come across her sitting on a handful of eggs, blowing herself up and making strange noises and motions with her bill at them. They know to leave her alone but are fascinated with her odd mannerisms.
John and Ben are working at making cattle dogs of the two border collie puppies. They are only puppies by behavior now having surpassed Abby and Sheila in size. They still tumble and tussle together and play with Ben. Abby and Sheila sometimes try to entice them to play but it always seems a bit awkward. Ah! what age does to us.
After the lovely, lovely days of mid- May through June we are moving into 10 days of heat and humidity when the word is maintenance: keeping flora and fauna alive and helping them to thrive. These are dog days, the time in summer when the dogs show us the way to live. Get your activity in early (puppies) and then find or dig out a cool place to be from midmorning until late afternoon, not even emerging to announce the comings and goings of people and squirrels and moles. I have to struggle to keep plantings intact and holes from appearing everywhere. Early exercise is key and early coaxing to cool places that suit me as well. Then they lay around trying to mitigate the effects of an abundance of fur preferably for them, under a porch, preferably for me, the large curving north oriented front porch where they won’t disturb my flowers.
Evenings we feast on the seasonal parade of scents: from peonies and cherry blossoms to wild roses and honeysuckle, then locust blossoms, garden roses and a bush I can’t yet identify, and now milkweed (a heavenly scent) and elderberries; and now the nicotiana is opening. I planted a mock orange which won’t bloom this year but will reward us with fragrance in years to come. The huge old maples on the west side of the house provide cool shade in these hot days; we have a good well to keep man and beast hydrated, and strategies for keeping the house reasonable and plenty of ceiling fans. The pandemic and ensuing disruption of the system of business as usual has made us even more grateful for the kind of security self sufficiency can provide. Grateful as well to Mother Nature, including the whole panoply of creatures and living things, seasons and the movements of wind and water, the synergies and interactions of the vibrant living earth.

Poetry Month in Quarantine

For the third consecutive April I have participated in poetry month by writing a poem a day. My nephew Ben invited me to write with his friend Becca and him the year I was recovering from hearing loss. It was a great gift that year and the next. This year, there were four of us writing and reading each other’s work; we invited another nephew/cousin to write with us as well. Ben and Becca have been writing seriously for several years since college. I think they might say writing is their main work, though not their means of financial income, and they have both had poems published. Christopher teaches English, including creative writing, at the University of Belize. So I am outclassed. But never mind. Ben’s first invitation surprised me but I was in a place where little daunted me, so I gladly and mostly unselfconsciously participated, even when I figured out that they were really good: thoughtful and skilled, and my poetry writing had, up to that point, been pretty casual.

I find it a daunting task to write a poem every day. The rules are simple. Write something; and expect your output to be pretty uneven. Mine certainly was. April is a busy time for me, especially at its end when preparing and planting the garden suddenly becomes urgent, and I wrote a lot of Haiku to keep up.

We have quite different lives: Becca and Ben live in the city; Christopher and I both homestead in more rural areas: I’m in the midwest, he’s in Central America. They are millennials aged 25-35. I just became eligible for medicare. So the gamut of life experiences jibes and diverges in interesting ways.

This year because of the pandemic, my sisters, Chris and Ben’s mothers plus one more, decided to do their own poetry group; (maybe me writing with their sons was additional incentive? ) We sisters exchanged poems and Chris’s wife also wrote with the women’s group. Soon Chris’s son, 10, and daughter, 6, were writing poems too.

Omar, 10, writing

All in all it was a good exercise for everyone involved. Even when I am dissatisfied with my own poems, the act of writing helps me to read others’ work more attentively. Seeing comments and suggestions from others does that as well. And the best thing is to see the lives and thoughts of other people through the special vector of poetry which, at the least, slows us down and helps us to pay attention in particular ways. I saw decided growth in the ability to describe and communicate, in the skill of turning meaning into experiencing and experience into meaning. I heard from a wide range of voices even within our small, mostly family circle. For the most part the writers had more non-earning time available and poems were a positive outlet during this long sheltering in place. It diverted us from the unsettling news of the day which tended to become obsessive for some, and grounded us in realities we take for granted but pay little attention to. I would guess, to a person, this exercise made our home quarantine desirable rather than a mere confinement.

While my own writing was more difficult this year, there were a few poems I would gladly share. After a few days of frustrated attempts and discards, I wrote something for April 30 that pleased at least one reader and was balm to my own soul.

To descending trill of thrush
in the hastening night;
to the last white blooms that shine
in the failing light;
to the whoosh of feathered wings
in nocturnal flight,
let our yearning turn.

To brisk autumnal air
as the light amends;
to brightly colored leaves that
after frost descend;
to abundant harvest given
and brought in again,
let our yearning turn.

To twirling winter flakes
that dampen sound;
to streak of cardinal red
across whitened ground;
to the snow clumped arms of trees
and their lacy crowns,
let our yearning turn.

To earliest shoots of green
that the eye drinks in;
to the softening line of trees
at the woodland’s rim;
to the rising of the grass
after warming rain,
let our yearning turn.

How Can I Keep From Singing

We had a musical meditation Sunday morning by a sister-brother acoustic threesome.  The music was quite nice and was a bit of a landmark experience for me because I could hear decently, though not all the lyrics, and I heard the high notes as not in tune or not audible.  The surgery I had two years ago to remove an acoustic neuroma and that resulted in significant loss of hearing left me with quite a lot of phantom noise in the operated ear that causes audio distortion, a roaring that was at first quite unpleasant and exhausting.  The first time I heard congregational singing and our very excellent pianist play, I was appalled.  Hearing the trio this Sunday was a marker of sorts of how far I had come.  My hearing has not changed; rather, my brain has been busily working to make sense of what I hear and to filter what is not useful, and getting better and better at it with no intentional help from me other than to keep exposing it to sounds that I can’t understand.  And it has learned how to help me hear precisely through exposure to what is unpleasant and confusing. My tendency at first was to back away from external sounds, away from communication; but through the din and uncertainty a thread of meaning has slowly emerged.

My life flows on in endless song above earths lamentation. I catch that sweet though far off hymn.

The response song Sunday to the musical meditation overwhelmed me.  It is such a familiar song, and yet I apparently had not sung nor listened to the words in two years: 

Through all the tumult and the strife I hear that music ringing. It finds an echo in my soul.  

The underlying noise could not obscure the music I heard that Sunday.  The good work of my brain met my memory of song, and of music generally, and restored a semblance of what I used to hear.

No storm can shake my inmost calm while to that Rock I’m clinging.

There was another side to this significant loss: at my lowest point, immediately after surgery (and I suppose mediated by the drugs involved), I was graced with a palpable and profound awareness of a loving presence with me in my drugged misery.  It was not a presence that lifted me out and away from that misery, but which occupied the same space; the set of misery (to use a math metaphor) completely enclosed by the set of Love.

What though my joys and comforts die? What though the darkness gather ‘round?

In the following two years, as an almost mystical experience of love has given way to the realities of life which must also be lived on a mundane level, I am learning what I can do to inhabit that other consciousness, even as I recall it was/is a gift: the veil of normalcy is parted briefly at times, but it also necessarily closes.  Our part is to be alert, to watch for it.

The peace of Christ makes fresh my heart, a fountain ever springing.

Take joy where you find it, as Mary Oliver advises in one of her prose poems.  Yield fully to beauty and to love when they come to turn your carefully guarded soul inside out for a time. And in between times, when you come down from the heights of experience and feeling to live your love in more mundane or difficult  ways, remember well what has been, and hope to welcome it again at the appointed time in new guise.

Since Love is Lord of heaven and earth, how can I keep from singing?