Sunday Selections


The time has come
To stop allowing the clutter
To clutter my mind
Like dirty snow,
Shove it off and find
Clear time, clear water.

Time for a change,
Let silence in like a cat
Who has sat at my door
Neither wild nor strange
Hoping for food from my store
And shivering on the mat.

Let silence in.
She will rarely speak or mew,
She will sleep on my bed
And all I have ever been
Either false or true
Will live again in my head.

For it is now or not
As old age silts the stream,
To shove away the clutter,
To untie every knot,
To take the time to dream,
To come back to still water.

– May Sarton, “New Year Resolve”

Sunday Selections


For years, every morning, I drank
from Blackwater Pond.
It was flavored with oak leaves and also, no doubt,
the feet of ducks.

And always it assuaged me
from the dry bowl of the very far past.

What I want to say is
that the past is the past,
and the present is what your life is,
and you are capable
of choosing what will be, darling citizen.

So come to the pond,
or the river of your imagination,
or the harbor of your longing,

and put your lips to the world.
And live
your life.

-Mary Oliver, “Mornings at Blackwater”

Links and Other Thinks


Awesome native American dwellings: free paper printables.

Braised white beans.

I’m giving spiral notebooks a try.

Make this: no-bake coconut cookies, slow cooker carnitas, cacao e pepe

Strong words about creativity from Jennifer Louden.

The boys and I are watching The National Parks by Ken Burns. So. So. Good.

Listen to this deep and soulful conversation about practice and projects with Jamie Ridler and Andrea Schroeder. They also address online competition and jealousy in an honest and practical way.

Herbal (dry) shampoo

Start where you are with what you have.

Loving Liz Lamoreux.

Sunday Selections


Let me be where I am.
Let this bread, this morning, be their own ceremony.
Let me pass the gilt mirrors without looking.

When the lead mouth of fear clamps onto mine
and blasts her wind of rope and iron filings into me,
let my breath be forgiveness returned for her black sadness.

Let poems be cups of praying
made for holding silence.

– Nura Yingling, “Step Six and Step Seven”