The lilacs, pure white, deep purple, and Wedgewood blue, are blooming in the garden once again. The picture of lilacs I keep on my desk has carried me through the barren winter months with the hope of this day in May.

The nostalgic fragrance reminds me of a friend who always wore lilac perfume. You could always find her in a crowd.

The poet Proust said that smell is the key to unlocking memories. Every May we had a Marian shrine in the school hall. The students brought large bouquets of lilacs and put them in front of the shrine. I remember well saying the rosary and smelling the lilacs.

After eighty-two years the fragrance still carries me back to my youth and throughout my life to those times lilacs carried me back to that school hall surrounded by the smell of lilacs.

We are “all geared up” for the winter. I keep checking the garden for buds, but clearly it is too early here in mid-February. 

I bought some hyacinth bulbs and am forcing them. They are coming up strong, all dark blue and spreading out its unique smell. 

All the spring seeds are on the table, their future looks bright. 

It is 7 degrees this morning but it is 41 degrees in the barn. The ducks and chickens have heaters for their water and everyone is comfortable. 

Even with diminished light, I am getting duck and chickens eggs every day. Average about nine eggs each day. 

What to do with so many eggs? I make quiche every couple of days. Angel food cake is on the list with thirteen egg whites at the ready. 

The Saint Bernard's get an egg with each meal. As I am collecting eggs in the barn, Ruger steals an egg and eats shell and all. 

I see God’s blessings all around me. 

..Sitting atop the garden fence, the Chick-a-dee eyes the seeds in yonder bird feeder. Intently focused on each bird, I watch with anticipation to see the flight from fence to seeds. Like waves on the ocean, each bird’s flight cuts through the iced air. Their flight swells and wanes with each stroke of their wings. They bounce up and down. Landing on the lower peg of the feeder, they usually peck at only one seed at a time and then fly away. (A lot of effort for one seed!) Theirs is a measured life, efficient with every move.

 Our flight from fence to seed is also part of the plan of life. The path is a series of high flights and sudden dissents. Keeping our eye on the seed is the key.

All the broccoli and brussel sprouts were eaten to the ground this summer by hungry Chipmunks. I am glad his/her tummy is full. With several entrances and exits in the hillside, the chipmunks avoid the searching nose of the Saint Bernards.

The chipmunks can run much faster than the curious dogs.

The large woodpile outside is full of small mice. It is hard to keep them out of the Hermitage. They will spend the winter in the woodpile or in the barn. I hope!

The first frost was last night and the patch of red kale has white frost all along the top of its leaves. The kale is the last of the produce in the garden. It is ready to come out.

Quilt on the bed and fire wood stacked in the corner we are ready for winter. The rhythm of the garden is the rhythm of life here. We all depend on the kindness of the weather. We all depend on the kindness of our God.

Young squirrels have discovered the bird feeder outside the kitchen window.

They hang by their feet wrapped around the top of the feeder and reach down to the seeds.

The small Chick-a-dee avoid the feeder when thus occupied.

I sit at the window doing my prep for lunch all the time keeping a sharp eye on the coming and going of the small birds.

The Chick-a-dee only stay on the perch of the feeder long enough to eat a couple of seeds. The finch however remain on the perch eating till they are full.

Each animal that visits the feeder has their unique approach to reaching the food.

Each is endowed with the instinct to thrive.

We also have instinct from birth about how to reach food.

Natural understanding can easily be classified as instinct . Advanced understanding  can be defined as knowledge.

Both stem from God’s gift.

Short handled blueberry rakes glean the low bushes. Blueberry fields expand in every direction. 

Granny Smith apples weigh heavy on the branches, almost to the point of dragging on the ground. 

Abundance is the blessing of August. Tall poles lift the beans to the sky. “Jack and the bean stalk” have taken over a patch of the garden. Every other day I blanch beans and put them up for winter. 

Tomatoes hang on a myriad of vines, still green, still small, still growing to become red pasta gravy. 

Cucumbers weave themselves into the fence, soon to be pickles. Every growing season here is short and intense. 

The extraordinary resilience of nature is a sign of God’s careing. 

At forty-five, Bill, is over 300 lb and his sister is close behind him. Bill is our only veterinarian within one hundred miles. He comes from a long line of English settlers, primarily farmers in the small idyllic town of Perry. He wears a smile that covers his broad face. Bill sells his Hay on Sundays from 9:00 A.M. to 10:00 A.M. Local folks line up early with their long trailers.

His hay is that good!

The sight of him throwing the fifty-pound bales out the barn window is extraordinary. You must catch them if you can. It is a trick at eighty years old.

He married another veterinarian. They have three children so far and live in a very big yellow farmhouse with many additions. His farm has many decrepit barns housing more than a thousand bales of hay.

After handling the hay for a while, your chest and arms smell of golden grass, sweet and clean. The process, ancient and fundamental, carries me to a manager of long ago. Our God created simple hay to remind us of His use of the simple to lead us to Him.

The ducks have moved out into the garden. I watch them from the kitchen window eating grass and playing in the water. 

They waddle from side to side as they scamper in and out of the duck house. With a quack quack here and a quack quack there, the sound precedes their Appearance. 

An inordinate amount of time is spent each day preening their feathers. They bend their heads down and use their great yellow bill to clean their breast. 

I wonder what is the consciousness of ducks. 

Like us, they are in a unique presence. We both have settled in our own world. I strive to enter into the duck's mind, but we each have our own perspective seeing Life as it presents itself. 

I am sure there are ducks in heaven. They compliment the angles. 

The chicken houses sit behind the hay storage down the lane in the forest. They have sat in disrepair for two years. Now I must pull them out into the sunlight and make repairs for the eleven new girls who are almost ready to move Outdoors.

I find myself reflecting on the life of these little chicks. They will grow up and lay one egg daily for a few years. Then they will retire here at the Hermitage. It will be the same for the ducks. However, danger lurks in the forest. Many animals love to eat chicken. It is the rhythm of life and death. The chickens do not know about death. They are free of fear. We, on the other hand, know how it all ends. Most people fear death. Birth and death are everywhere. We all live within this rhythm. We can enjoy the dance or hide in a corner. 

The little chicks dance all day and trust in the Lord. We need to find this dance in our hearts. 

The spring pussy-willows are back! They seem to hide in the bushes and are challenging to find. I try to find them where I found them last year. After all, the pussy-willow bush does not travel far. 

How marvelous to greet the pussy-willows at the tail end of winter. That is where the fussy nodes start to appear along the branches. The soft silver Tufts, as well as the plant itself, are named for their resemblance to tiny cats paws. They feel so much like fur that young children often wonder if they are animals instead of plants. The willows are actually flowers just before they fully bloom. The soft coating of hairs acts as insulation to protect these early bloomers from cold temperatures. 

How did nature even imagine such a plant? Truly the finger of God is very sensitiive. Their introduction to spring is a pleasant sight for those of us who are now tired of winter and are looking forward to spring and summer. 

Apparently, the big surprise in these snow filled winter months is the answer why I am living here. 

I walk in the forest with fir boughs drooping with snow full and elastic. 

I sit beneath the low boughs and look up at the amazing scene. 

The sun still low in the sky, shoots its piercing rays through the low hanging branches. The sun glitters on the snow in the brilliant shower of sun light. 

I am here to absorb the beauty of life, to learn to reflect the light from the trees.

I am embraced by the boughs and disappear within them. The wnd blows the powder up into a shower and rains down upon the branches. 

Dali’s clock hangs over the branches. I reach up to wind it and time ticks on. 

Swept away by days of rain and 50 degree temperatures, the snow has dissappeared is this January thaw. One day all the snow covers the tree branches. Next day it is gone. The spring buds of the lilac bush have formed at the end of the branches. Nature offers me a glimpse of hope for the next season. 

The warm air lingers over the sea and forms a covering of mist on the cold Atlantic. The mist rises like steam from a Chinese laundry. 

The effervescent black crows pierce the blue sky much like kites on a windy day. How wonderful to be alive. 

The eyes of the baby goats sparkle as all young children. I can fall and bask in their eyes. They greet me when the barn door opens, climbing on the cinder blocks that I put in their pen crying loud for attention The horses do not like to wait for their hay. I move quickly among them. 

A light will shine on us this day.

May the light of Christ

Warm your heart

And lead you to peace and happiness.

May the blessings of Christmas surround you.

Standing at the edge of Christmas, I roll through the pine forest on my “Kioti” dodging the abundant wild growth of summer. Several old birch trees have fallen across the road. I will need my chainsaw back in the barn. 

I pause here in the woods to listen to the sound of nothing except the occasional bird flying past. 

Small mammals move beneath the fallen leaves. Mammals are my very distant’ cousins. We connect with only our eyes. 

The possible thoughts behind the mammals eyes are not available to me, yet I feel deeply that we are all connected by genetics. I am emotionally tied to these small mammals. My heart is woven together with them. 

The winter wind assaults the sweeping branches of the fir tree. The swaying branches give little sign of the composer of the wind. It blows the branches without being seen, only felt by the North Atlantic cold ! 

Who stirs up this wind ? Pressure differences in the air causes the wind to blow. Learned meteorologists say it is the difference in pressure in the air that causes the wind to blow. 

I prefer to believe that it is the hand of God that causes the wind to blow. 

In the waning light of a winter day, soft breezes cross my face. In the midst of a "Nor'easter" blizzard, the strong winds lift and contract the snow flakes. All weather depends on the nature of the wind. All wind is the result of the breath of God. 

The conclusion of the growing season is long past by the first few weeks of November. I walk along the path in the forest and can see the sunlight in the trees clear of leaves. 

All along it has been the energy of the sunlight that is the source of all life on the planet. No wonder our ancestors saw God in the sun. How obvious! Sometimes the obvious is in clear sight, but “there is none so blind as those who will not see”. 

Roots and trunks of trees carpet the paths. When I bend down and look at the roots I see the sunshine. At sunset, the forest is bathed in filtered light. The trees stand at attention like hundreds of sentinels all with heads high facing the sun. 

And Oh the moss! It covers the north-facing tree trunks in a soft green sponge. I love to touch it. When I sit down on the granite rock, my shoes dig up some moss. I take it home and put it on top of my plants. The moss keeps the plants moist. 

The wonder of it all moves my heart. 

Blowing in the autumn wind, the yellow leaves of the sycamore tree, just outside my window, hang on to the tree by a thread. The leaves flutter and spin, badgered by the “Montreal express”. This is the singular tree with leaves. All the others have been stripped of their red and gold, now standing naked, huddled together, braced for the coming winter. The exposed Trees provide a clear window to the north Atlantic lapping at the foot of the pasture. The chilled wind roars off the ocean and up the pasture to my window and the tree with the spinning yellow leaves. 

This yearly transformation of leafy trees to wooden sentinels of winter marks the passage from life to hibernation of all flora and fauna. And I sit by the window observing it all.

There is a certain melancholy that accompanies this yearly transition. A sober sadness hangs over this reality. I feel like the last leaf on the tree. 

My beloved three-year-old Saint Bernard “Ruger” went outside after his breakfast and ran directly into a very young porcupine who shot all of his quills into Ruger’s mouth. Then Ruger tried to paw the porcupine and got another large shot of quills in his front paw.

With a pair of tweezers, I took one quill at a time from his mouth and paw. His mouth was easy but his paw had quills between the toes and it took many tries to get all the quills out. Saint Bernards do not understand porupines. I move in on many things I do not understand as well. I think we all move in too fast. Slowing down takes a deliberate effort and insight into the circumstances. 

I am sad that my dog had to suffer quills. There is much suffering in the world. Most of it is unfair. But when has life been fair?

Like the baby porcupine, we use our quills as a last resort. 

Pray for the day when quills are not necessary anymore. 

Peaches and Plums, stone fruit, has a short season with outstanding health benefits. They become available in early summer. I sit and eat a peach and watch the blue lupine and yellow buttercups fill the pasture. 

A moment of bliss ! 

The abundance of summer is a slice of the cornucopia of life. 

I just planted the kale which I was growing in the indoor hydroponic garden. With their verigated brilliant green leaves, the plants are a foot apart, in every direction, precision rows stretch the length of the garden. 

Like Meercats all standing tall and facing the sun, the two hundred gladiolas I planted, almost all have broken through the soil and are erect at one foot facing the sun. From small bulbs to giant flowers, their colors are intense. 

Green zucchini and yellow summer squash sit on their respective mounds of soil. Their vines creep down the mounds and travel. Each brilliant flower indicates a future squash. 

Faith in the future is indeed faith in God. 

I found a package of flower and fruit seeds in the back of my desk drawer. I have no idea what kind of flower will come up. Their future lies in the tiny germinated seeds soon to reveal their content ,reveal their true personality, to reveal the beauty in their heart. I have hundreds of various seeds in a bowl. They are each loaded with their secret unknown flowers. 

Up they come ! It is Spring ! 

The water in the marsh at the edge of Hermitage property bubbles along, an indefinite journey, Every tiny seed has D.N.A with a ladder leading to the development of the flower. Every tiny seed, almost too tiny to pick up, and almost too tiny to see. 

The seeds' entire journey is about becoming flowers and all they need is a safe place to mature. Don’t we all mirror the map within us? Perhaps the map is foggy and our view is not clear and sharp any more . Perhaps we need a safe place to mature. Look at the journey of the seeds. 

We all can travel on Nature’s wings. 

With the Easter Sunday riot in Jerusalem and the genocide in Mariupol, I find it difficult to absorb the horror and still keep the format of “ the Good word “. I return to the garden to find stability and beauty during this Easter week. 

In spite of the circumstances of the news, like Emily Dickenson, I look close to home to find the amazing good that guides us to the certitude of the power of good over evil, the power of light over darkness. 

The north atlantic is deep blue and snuggles up next to the Bold Coast of Maine. The red “bleeding heart” plants are up several inches and the new white “bleeding hearts” have peaked above the soil. 

The robin is hopping around the pasture. His presence is most welcome. Year after year I watch for the robin to announce the arrival of spring. 

Sitting on the edge of the salt marsh that borders the Hermitage property, the frogs croak and Monarch butterflies spring between tufts of brown grass.  

The tide is coming in. The mollusks slide up the air shafts and make bubbles. So it has been for hundreds, even thousands of years. The frogs and clams and someone on the edge of the salt marsh looking out on the natural idyl. The life of the marsh feels like home. The rhythm of the tide restoring and perpetual is the essence of life on earth. We are tubes of blood as clams are tubes of salt water. But we are conscious of our being. Could it be that clams and frogs have a form of consciousness also? Are we alone in our ability to reflect? 

The water of the Bay of Maine is bluer than the sky. Cold and clear it now is free of ice 

The tail of the winter with its bitter March winds has tucked itself away. There are hints of early green stems peeking out from the warm soil. 

Roots streaming from the bottom; 

Buds teasing at the top; Birds resting on the sturdy branches; 

In the corner, beneath the birch tree, the final pile of snow clings to the earth. 

Has spring bloomed early this year? 

Everything’s coming up with the thrill of fresh green sprouts. 

Abundant visions of elderberry fruit, still white, not yet plump, gathered together in small bouquets, the darlings of the pasture. 

Blueberries, cranberries, rosehips, a red, white and blue bolt of color, 

Omega 3 for all the animals. 

Looking out the kitchen window I can see small green leaves on the lilac bush. 

The forsythia is on the verge of a remarkable display of intense yellow. 

Two Saint Bernards walk across the long deck nose to tail. In their shadow walk three generations of Saints. 

I feel connected to the shadow walkers, so much love has come and gone and back again all with young life. 

Spreading corn out over the pasture is an effort to further my relationship with these very friendly birds. They do take time to bond with people and are by nature cautious. Once trust is established the crows respond and especially remember faces. 

Lilly, our Nigerian goat, lives in the stall with the horses. An enduring example of peaceful co-existence and dare I say even friendship, they eat together. Lily sleeps with Lokkur, our Stunning Icelandic horse. Perhaps the fact that they are both herbivores bonds them together. Lilly eats corn with the wild turkeys and crows across from the barnyard. 

The Hermitage is a brilliant idyll, a sanctuary for birds and animals, an inspiration with periods of nature’s fury and long periods of calm and peace. 

The St. Bernards leap up and land buried up to their chin in the snow. Startling, how lovely is the white blanket in the trees. A variety of small bird tracks form circles under the seed feeder. 

The temperature is 14 degrees and I sit at the window enchanted by a world clean and smooth, unspoiled, with deer and fox tracks running down the middle of the snow covered road. 

An ice storm is predicted in a few days. Ice storms are the rule in February and they bring all travel here to a complete stop. Yet the small birds continue to swoop from the branches to the seed feeder with grace and ease. The ice does not stop them. 

I crawl on my knees across the frozen barnyard, slowly working my way to the barn door and the horses and goats. At least on my knees, I will not fall.

“The world stands out on either side no wider than the heart is wide. Above the earth is stretched the sky, no higher than the soul is high.” (Edna St. Vincent Millay) 

The middle of January, the hidden road that leads to the berch is covered with snow. Leaning perfectly still against a tree I am watching the small animals scamper across the path. I am comfortable in their presence.

The squirrels chatter like a woman from the Bronx on the phone. Straight ahead a chipmunk with a tonsure and brown habit zips across the forest floor and then is gone. 

The driving snow invades the space my broken zipper exposes to the cold. I tug my “North Face” parka closed but it will not hold. 

The crows have landed on the corn feeder. With wings outstretched they collide with the feeder and shower the corn, making a circle in the snow, light and airy. Happy and dancing, the birds touchdown on the snow, springing up and back down, black and shiny. With a cacophony of “caws” the crows ring out, in oh so familiar voice, the lonesome sound of mid-January 

Dribbling like frosting over a cake, the long icicles hang from the roof, sparkling in front of the window, growing longer each day. The winter sun, low in the sky with soft and gentle rays stretches out to embrace the icicles. No sword of Damocles, these ice swords portend sheer whimsy and delight. 

The bitter cold wind cutting ridges in my hands and face, rages through the trees, bending the long branches of the fir trees, stressing the more fragile white birch. The breath of God blows strong and reminds me again of the power of His hand in orchestrating our experience of climate. 

A light snow is falling but most is caught up in the wind and becomes a blinding hazard. The Chick-a-dee seems oblivious to the weather. They adapt to all seasons and never complain. 

I wish I had the heart of a Chick-a-dee. 

Sunday morning, frost has melted from the pasture, the sun is shining, the wild turkey are sauntering along in single file. There is a profound silence covering the canopy, it is a bleak void without the shouting crows. They are the voice of the forest, seldom seen, always loud, scratchy like an old Victor phonograph record. 

Surprisingly a huge formation of geese glided past. Their honking alerted me that they were passing over. It seems way late for them to still be here, perhaps they are ones that stay all winter. What a wonder against the gray sky! In a giant “V” they cut the cool winter air with their bright calls. 

A baby squirrel sits atop the feeder, master of the seeds. The Chick-a-dee fly in to peck a share then flee in haste from their covert deeds. 

I am a voyeur and recorder, a weaver of the dreams I see on this Sunday morning in early winter. 

Sparkling crystal pastures - early morning frost - advent of a new season 

Wet nose held high in the crisp autumn air - White clouds that dissipate like cotton candy in hot water. The winter weather creeps across the map, filling in the valleys, topping the mountains, Freezing the river. 

Things move slower this time of year, the branches crackling with ice, swaying, bending, not quite broken by the wind, dramatic in their dance. 

The dependable stream that runs across the land, hides bubbling pods beneath the layer of clear ice. 

Pulling up Gladiolus bulbs for winter - they will reside on the upper floor of the barn, in the dark, silent till spring. Planting white bleeding heart bushes next to the already established pink bleeding hearts completes the circle around the young green granny Smith apple tree, all prepared for next spring 

In a rush of honking, they stream out of the north in acute formation. The geese seem to be early. Will winter be early also ? 

The rosehips are still green, the elderberries are red moving toward purple, and the wild apples have just a kiss of rouge. 

Nostalgia drips from the trees. It is the cusp of autumn in Maine. 

Thoughts of hibernation invade the mammal’s schedule. The pine cones are exhausted from the squirrels picking out seeds. 

The collapse of summer growth before my eyes inevitably leads to Autumn splendor. 

Tall spikes of lemon cream gladiolas; erect and clean; mirroring the sunlight; proud and dignified; sit hidden on bulbs. 

The wonder of intense color, I bite my lip, a reality check; colors keep appearing in the gladiola patch, an experiment in light, a gift of resolve. 

Meanwhile the Canadian geese fly south. 

They are called “providers” because fresh young string beans flow from the plant in great abundance. It seems like a miracle the profusion of beans that develop. It is the third week of August, the turning of the weather here in northern Maine with thoughts of putting food in jars as winter’s nest egg. 

Pine cones dipped in wax will start the cold morning fire quickly. 

The apple trees laden with green fruit stand ready to provide both man and horse. 

Berries, blue and black and red, grow wild in the undergrowth providing antioxidant health. From sassafras roots to dandelion greens, lambs quarters to weighted branches bearing elderberry fruit,  Passamaquoddy  tribes show the way to self-sufficiency. 

The rain, the sun, and the force of life, bless this forest and those who live in it. They are all called “providers”. 

The pasture is growing tall with golden rod. Higher than the horse's eyes; rods bending in the breeze; a sea of yellow waves running down to the edge of the cove. Intricate tattered flowers cap each rod with pyramid clusters.

The yellow blanket surges in the wind; then lays low across the pasture revealing ancient Islandic ponies digging for what is green.

Soon the giant heads of St. Bernard's are seen between the yellow folds of waves. In a smelling frenzy, the dogs check each rod stem for unseen knowledge. They are gifted with alternative senses a world away.

I am compelled to lean over the fence post listening to hyper-active squerells running the branches of the lilac bush while chattering. Their conversation though intense is entierly unintelligible but not unimaginable.

The pasture grows tall with golden rod.

Saint Bernards investigate the matrix of the forest floor. Stands of straight pines define the grid. Ripping open the canopy, the sun’s rays streak down on waiting green moss. 

A floor of soft pine cones ripple under foot. The blueberries are ripe and grow on low bushes wherever there is a clearing in the forest. Such clearings, full of sunlight, are home to floating butterflies, angelic in their light landings; touching and bouncing off long raspberry stems; flickering in phases of wobbling light. 

Sur-real sightings; clocks hangover branches; is this the real thing that lifts my imagination to the lip of understanding? 

Perhaps understanding is not the way in. Perhaps the grid is the bliss that lights the way. Could it be that leading paths reside naturally along borders and hedges. 

Aggressive carpets of red bunch berries resolve any mystery by their organic presence. 

The marsh mallow and musk mallow plants have stunning flowers and grow abundantly here at the Hermitage. “Marsh Mallow Fluff” was a staple in my childhood. Today, it is artificial with no natural Marsh Mallow used in it’s preparation. How did the Indians make it? More to the point, how did they think of it? 

With ragged, torn petals, the virgin white satin flowers of the musk mallow plant are true to their enduring musk fragrance. How did these delicate blossoms come to smell like the sexual excitement of the rut of certain mammals? Once more the question is why! 

Such humble mallows pop-up in summer and remind us of the great value of the common, the shared experience of all. It is the common plants that fill the forest and gardens. Like an old friend, they return to visit each year in the appointed summer months. Without pruning, or weeding, without staking or sunscreen, their anticipated arrival is a staple in Maine. 

In a world rushing towards specialization, the common is special. 

All the trees are dressed in dark green leaves, the beach grass is three feet tall, and the gladiolas are up over a foot. It is summer! 

We are past the summer solstice and the days are already getting shorter. 

Rolling with the change of seasons can be daunting. However, less resistance to change and “going with the flow” resolves issues of time running out. 

Yet, it is all perception. Every minute of every day is the exact same length. Our ever busy mind perceives time as flying past. 

My dog lives in the now. Why can’t I? 

Perhaps my dog rides the carousel of time as it presents itself. While I ride keeping in mind the past and looking to the future. 

Hurrah for the present! It IS real as it unfolds. 

The Maine wild green apple tree is full of blooms. It’s mate is on the other side of the pasture. 

The bees are busy. The dog sleeps. I keep watch in awe. 

Lacquered buttercups, full of yellow, gathered together in the high June solstice, collecting the sun in tiny cups surrounded by massive purple spikes of Lupine; in clusters loose along the circumference of the garden fence acting like a puppet show, bobbing and swaying. 

Solitary, on erect stem, white rays around a yellow disc, the white field daisy joins the scene. Our time together, in a clearing in the woods, with full south facing sun, a collection of flowers each having started as different, are now the same, a blended bouquet of unique individuals. Tolerance, an elusive virtue at best, is the arch that connects us. Side by side, in freedom oft sadly undervalued, we form a bouquet of wildflowers. 

Lilacs in the dooryard bloom, a resolution unfolds after a year waiting. The fragrance casts its spell. The very large lilac bushes spotted along the highway, the decrepit old house and barn long rotted away stand as an affront to man, vibrant in the midst of decay, proud sentinels at the portal of forgetfulness. The bushes anchor the past to present reality, lying under the flowers, a moment of endurance, a template for the future, let it be. 

Lilacs in the dooryard bloom, steady rhythms of the growing seasons, they never disappoint. Sugar coated flowers, a favorite of the pastry chef; purple and white, blue or pink; the confectioner’s imagination sweeps wide. 

Lilacs in the dooryard bloom, swing gently in the southern breeze. Transported by a Proustian fragrance, memories return and are made again.

Confirmation comes with green leaves replacing buds on the lilac and forsythia. This next season arrives in an unapologetic explosion of color.

 The great red breasted robin hops his way across the silent rows of dried garden refuge from the abundance of last summer. Multiple worms surprise his pallet as he grows fatter each day. 

A cornucopia of plenty feeds the rabbits grazing along the fence with fresh green grass. Young yellow dandelion flowers, first blooms, shout anticipation and wonder.

This is a time of promises kept, of assurance of a new world, of new hearts. 

Gratification can breach our very being in this season of planting, a cue for us to participate in the joy of rebirth amongst us. Look and see what surrounds you.

The dust of life, carbon, we share with all creatures. All life shares in divinity.

All the night long, in dark  silence, the unexpected snow fills the void. It is a surprise April snow. I awake in amazement at three inches of accumulation. It will all melt by late afternoon in the Spring sun.             Oh that Spring sun!                                                                                                Winter pallor melts into blushes and pink cheeks. Seasons can shift in less than a day and back with only hints of what splendor is to come.        The earth heaves up young buds of unknown origin. Their future colors hidden within. Fickle Spring, a tease and a big joker, shows us the laugh in it all., the whimsey and playfulness, showers of mint pollen, woven bridal veil displayed against the cobalt sky.                                           Ponder the wonder of life set against T.V. news produced with blinders set on narrow sensationalism. Images of hundreds marching on the city streets, in combat with police, tear gas, bear spray, “an embarrassment”.  Meanwhile, all the night long, in dark silence, the unexpected snow fills the void.

Riding the 35 acres of dark pine forest; floor still covered with snow; tight buds protruding from the bushes and plants; cool crisp air and no bugs, no bugs at all. Pre-spring is a short, unique time of year.                 Flashing across my field of vision, red-tailed squirrels and occasional chipmunks attentively gather seeds.                                                              For myself, I order organic seeds from a small company owned by two brothers from Rhode Island. Sprinkled on salad or yogurt, they deliver the crunch of dreams. Nuts and seeds make up 25 percent of my diet. Within the seeds is stored the energy for new life.                                       As I ride the 35 acres, branches with seeds hit my face. The pine trees deliver their seeds from their cones. The dogs running beside me are collecting seeds on their coats. We are literally all distributors of the seeds. They travel on us and we deliver seeds of hope and confidence to new areas for germination.                                                                              We are called to be bearers of resurrection. 

Eight paw prints and two footprints mark our passage in an otherwise pristine snow scene. White on white, a subtle topographical design tracks us. The squirrels and the chipmunks are conspicuously absent. Not even the black crows have been here. The cold is bitter and the sun is brilliant. The dogs and I, our movement embossed in the snow, work our way to the barn door. In the barn, the Icelandic ponies and the goats await our arrival. The prospect of hay keeps their attention. The last six feet of the barn yard is solid ice. Even the dogs slip and slide. Time stands still in the great northern fir forest filled with snow. Suddenly, one of the Saint Bernards looks over her right shoulder and watches me for direction and assurance. Looking for direction in life is a task common to all of us. We often feel the road ahead is slippery and perhaps dangerous. To be reassured is a great comfort and gives us strength to move forward. Where we discover direction and assurance is often in another. This support for each other is fundamental to us as social beings. Hand in hand with our Lord we move forward to the barn door and hay. 

Lokkur, the Hermitage Icelandic pony, has taken into his head to kiss me whenever my face is near him. It is my fault. I gave him candy whenever he kissed me, and now he is a kissing fool. Lokkur pushes me over when I am cleaning his stall. His weight, 900 pounds, and near perfect balance on four hoofs, makes him a formidable force. Yet he is so gentle.             In a cascade of brown his mane hangs over the right of his head, well beyond his shoulder. His one pronounced big left eye scans each scene. My equine buddy, a silent friend, speaks full shout by his presence. Perhaps we are all speaking out by our presence.                                          It is a hallowed place, this little patch of straight poles that reach up to touch the sky.                                                                                                          I confront this mysterious patch of pine forest that grows in a definitive standing, in straight lines, a perfect grid. This patch of trees moves my heart closer to the spirit of life. 

Another six inches of snow and I awoke to the wonderful world of winter fantasy. The Hermitage utility vehicle is stuck on the shore of Weir cove, washed by the tide, waiting to be rescued.                                                      A pair of local outfitters, long in beards, hunting clothes all camouflage, trekked on foot pulling a sleigh with equipment as they hiked down to the cove and the stuck utility vehicle at the water line.                             Five hours later they returned to say that the vehicle had been towed above the high water line onto the Hermitage property.                              How did they do it? The taciturn Mainers said little about how they accomplished this task and instead emphasized their success in their efforts.                                                                                                              Good things happen without our fully understanding the process. My faith in the Maine outfitters produced success.                                            How much more will be produced by faith in God’s hand even if we do not see the mechanics.

Ten shades of gray, from white to black, makeup the spectrum of a January day in Maine. The entire expanse of the Hermitage property is nuanced in sober waiting.                                                                               The oyster sea birds, silvery salt marsh, and heather pasture, each display variants of gray. The magic of the winter season is manifest in these ten shades.                                                                                     Bursting forth in color is reserved for the spring except for the tangerine tulips and virgin narcissus in the sun choked bay window. The tulips stand proud against a snowy background.                                                       A cone of tolerance encompasses this reflection with room for ten shades. Discerning the layers from white to black, each layer subtle yet intense, each layer smokey slate yet somber. Sometimes the sun peaks through for a moment which assures us there is a silver lining. All but the fir trees are naked. Clusters of birch trees reach up and out with spider branch fingers. The entire landscape is pewter. 

Our first step into 2021 is filled with anticipation. A vaccine will be available for all by the summer solstice.                                                         Now the winter solstice has passed. Out of the darkness a bright light shines for each of us. The hand of the Lord reaches down and lays on our hearts to save us, and heal us, and console us.                                      We thank God for our health, and for YOUR support of the Hermitage Ministry. Our prayers follow you into 2021. 

The experience that life is running out of control is understandable in these times of political chaos and social unrest. Control is the issue ! The idea that a president can control the Covid virus is ludicrous. We can build a wall around the virus but it will not hold. The comfort that all life and nature are under our control is a delusion. Control is a slippery reality, sometimes appearing as stable, often unraveling before us, always a temporary situation.                                                                         We have no choice but to let the river flow naturally. Water always has its way. If we can never put our foot in the same river twice, a dam is not the answer.                                                                                                       Perhaps the great movement of the tide points to the answer. As it ebbs and flows, its freedom of movement has a cleansing action. Freedom, lack of control, is the steady state of nature and humanity.                            I sit at the shore and watch the action of the tide in awe.