Reflections
The time and work entailed in writing the reflections and planned seminars is a worthy vocation. If this work is of some value in your journey I am most gratified. Please consider if you are able to support this endeavor in any way; it would help keep the frost outside!
Make your check out to Stella Maris Hermitage and mail to P.O.Box 455, Lubec, ME 04652 .
Six wild turkeys have jumped the fence and are busy eating in the pasture. They have been absent all summer, and I am very happy to see they are back for the winter.
“Winter”, the smallest Nigerian goat, enjoys eating with the Turkeys. They all love the corn I put out for them.
The Canadian geese have flown over the Hermitage on their way south. They do not stop here. That is good since the Canadian geese may carry the bird flu.
A family of deer also have been roaming the pasture looking for food. They are safe from the hunters here and bring their babies from last Spring.
“Seaside and rough stemmed” Goldenrod are filling every inch of the pasture as well. Goldenrod belongs to the Aster family.
Turkeys, goats, geese, and deer are all God’s creatures along with me.
She was only a slip of a girl. All dressed in black and white, she was stunning to behold.
She waits on the deck to run beside folks, apparently looking for friendship after her mother abandoned her. Everyone screamed as she approached. Her defense is legendary.
The next morning I found her body in Zoey's horse stall. Zoey does not like small animals in her stall. So much so that she trampled the skunk under her hoof.
It hurt down to my soul to see the baby skunk meet such an end.
The stark reality of this tragedy breaks my heart.
I hope there is a skunk heaven. I hope I can visit.
With boughs heavy with fruit, the old crab apple tree stands in the middle of the pasture, solitary and bent over with age. But this gnarly ghost of a tree produces dependable apples every year. I believe the success of bounty is due to faithful feeding of fertilizer.
I am also ageing, walking with a walker most times, needing food as fertilizer. I stretch out my arms and lift my face to embrace the sunlight.
Beneath the trees, hidden under ground, the trees hold the key to longevity in a massive exchange of roots, its traveling tentacles are woven into a matrix of the apple tree's root system. Some of the trees have deep, well developed roots, and surprisingly others like the California Red Wood have shallow root systems and need a superior sense of balance to endure. As for me, this massive exchange of roots manifests itself in consciousness and in relationships.
The marshmallow 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.
Billowing mountains of fog hug the top of Weir Cove, filling the passageway to the ocean. Shooting up and out like an Alabama rocket, the seagulls and crows wax and wane in the haze illuminated by a monstrous sun intent on dispelling the gloom.
For three days, it has been raining heavily at night. Some tomorrow will bring the return of the sun.
The Hermitage ducks have never been so happy, splashing around in the flooded yard. They have taken to hiding their big white eggs in the tall wet grass. The deciduous trees bloom with white flowers, one for each future leaf. And that future is set for summer during this Spring.
Our future is then and now. The steady hand of the Divine intersects with our hopes and vision.
Behold I create a new heaven And a new earth”
“Meanwhile, since you wait for these things May you be found at Peace.”
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.
Calculating the date of Easter Sunday has been a cause of division between the Greek Eastern church and the Latin Roman church since as early as the second century A.D. Discussion, as well as disagreement over the best method of computing the date of Easter Sunday has been ongoing ever since and remains unresolved.
Sitting here in the woods, I realize that division over a date is just not as important as the reality of what happened that Easter years ago.
We all can get bogged down with perceived differences that can make us feel superior. However, we are all much more alike than different.
Easter should unite us under the hand of God.
A pot of yellow tulips sits in the window. Each tulip is on a tall stalk and Is not yet fully open.
Like so much of the beauty of life, these tulips hold a magnificent surprise hidden in their unopened center.
Today I am captivated, by the rich lemon color outside. Tomorrow perhaps, the inside will reveal itself.
It is beginning to feel like spring here. The lilac buds promise a dazzling display of abundant flowers, but that will not happen until May.
The anticipation of trees dressed in mint-colored leaves stirs the wonder of new life in my heart. Like the tulips, Easter celebrates new life in our midst.
The Hermitage chickens lay only four eggs a day this time of year. That is sufficient to give an egg to each of the Saints each day and two a day for me.
The ducks have stopped laying eggs for the winter and will start laying again as the days get longer and there is more light.
The smooth rhythm of the farm life is in contrast with the chaotic movement of city life.
Time seems to pass quickly both in the city and in the Hermitage.
However, I have observed that in the Hermitage the days are predictable, The birds follow expected paths, there is nothing that surpasses the vision of the setting sun, and there is no cacophony of noise.
The clock ticks off the same hours each day. Each hour is deliberate and does not just slip past.
Similar to the great expanse of snow in the film “Dr. Zhivago”, I gaze upon this mid-February scene is all glistening white with wonder.
Another month and those hibernating will slowly arise, hungry and sleepy. The deer and I roam the paths in the woods avoiding each other but aware of the other's presence.
The small mammals scurry on top of the frozen snow while keeping an eye on the approaching St. Bernards. They glance my way and burrow down into the tunnels.
We all live on the land, just below it or just above it. The land is our mother our matrix which points us to our father.
Grounded with five senses, I look out at the beauty and order of the material world and see the hand of God in each detail.
All creation is holy and even the humblest form enshrines divinity. In 250 A.D. the brilliant and controversial theologian Origen explained the created order of the universe as an expression of the direct purpose of the Creator Himself, whose goodness is manifest in its beauty.
I have an intense yellow orchid displayed in the kitchen window. The more I look at it, the more I am moved to celebrate the work of God’s hand. The dazzling wonder of this world stands in glaring contrast with the darker side. Good versus evil, beauty versus darkness, life versus death, I stand on the side of the yellow orchid.
Six inches of fresh snow fills the pasture with white swirling devils.
Up and up the powder rotates in the sunlight. Light and airy, crystal flakes sparkle like a shower of gems. It is a midwinter fantasy akin to circus magic, enthralling and dazzling.
The vast expanse of the frigid Atlantic and icebound coves will look desolate to some but is bristling with life. Some life is faint and some life is robust. All life constitutes hope for rebirth and new life in the spring.
Meanwhile, a wealth of percolating life prepares for the growing sunlight.
Shine, shine bright white, a pallet of uniformity, a sign of God’s hand.
It is eight degrees as I watch the scallop fishing boats on Cobscook Bay.
Fishing in that kind of temperature explains the twenty-six dollar a pound for Maine scallops. That is twice as expensive as lobster.
The interface of sea and land is a bold coast observation point.
Black crows screech as they fly across the snow-covered pasture. I assume they are talking to each other. Their glistening bodies zip past me as they search for the corn, I put out for them.
The sky is devoid of flying machines and the land is absent from trucks and sirens.
A frozen stillness embraces the winter slumber.
However, I hear the voice of the Lord in the breeze. It is a small voice, gentle, soft, reassuring.
In silence, I listen. The quieter I am the more I can hear.
I have been looking out into the frozen forest for an Epiphany. It may be just around the corner, perhaps just a glimpse, a different perspective.
Being open to the unexpected is a disposition based on positive Anticipation.
Under the dazzling snow drifts lay secrets of spring with buds forming, anxious for the future yet alive in the now.
I watch the squirrels tunneling under the snow to access the overflowing bird seeds sent flying by the Chick-a-dee.
A wealth of percolating life prepares for the growing sunlight.
I also see dimly a new tomorrow in the wonder of today.
Welcome to a snowy Christmas in Downeast Maine. I read your name in each snowflake, unique and precious in the sight of the Christmas Child.
May the blessings of Christmas surround you and your family.
It is raining “cats and dogs” with high winds. The western part of the state Is seeing all snow. Here at the eastern shore, there is no snow for now. I was able to buy three cords of firewood. And they stacked it. I hope it will last the winter. The bears and other animals have gone into hibernation. Cheaper than going to Florida for sure. The only ones here now are the squirrels and birds, mostly Chick-a-dees and crows. They are great company. The winter silence covers the ground. The stillness is a welcome pause in all the worldly affairs.
The ducks are about to move back into the barn for winter. They still enjoy their little pond; floating and swimming, bobbing and dunking. They also love the rainwater puddles in the garden and spend time looking for bugs. The ducks spent the summer trimming and weeding and ate all the zucchini and summer squash as they flowered. I am glad they enjoyed the feast. When the sun is out, they sleep together under the lilac bushes. Make room for me guys!
It was three A.M. and I awoke to see the pasture marked by dozens of fire flys turning on and off their flashes of bright abdominal lights every two to three seconds. Though they say their light emitted from the bugs was to attract a mate, their is also a zone of magic that surrounds the lightening bugs. You need to focus your eyes in order to see the wonder of life glowing at the forest edge.
I reflect the yellow and green light in my heart when I am at my best. We all have this magic light. We only need to let it shine.
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.
The pasture is green once more! The new grass is the first color of spring. The Icelandic horses can be seen munching the first growth. The goats are stretched out on the deck, basking in the sun, keeping a watchful eye on the horses. Goats and horses are soul mates. They are never far from each other as they walk along the path from the barn to the pasture together. Along the path, the “bluebells” ring the dew off their petals. Red “bleeding hearts” push up the cold clods of earth. I am very grateful for this idyll, this peaceful scene of rural pastoral life. It is a blessing from God, sitting in His hand.
An early spring storm, a true “nor’easter” has developed into a New England white-out.
The ground is too warm for the snow to last long.
These overlapping seasons, layer upon layer, present a kaleidoscope of textures, melting on the branches, blowing off the roof, dissolving on the garden paths, growing heavy on the sweeping fir trees that line the pasture. Perhaps this is the last big snowstorm until next November or even December.
Meanwhile, giant crows, the size of a turkey, appear at the end of the snowstorm, hunting in the pasture and searching along the shore of Weir Cove.
They say a crow has the same extensive memory as an elephant. The crows never forget the location of their last good meal.
Because crows talk to each other while flying, I want very much to understand their language. However, seeing how we can not truly understand each other, is it any wonder we are incapable of deciphering crow language?
Are we unwilling to listen to the crow and harder still to see that the crow’s God is our God? We are at least in some way brothers and sisters.
How beautiful to be at the end of March with not a bit of snow or ice to be seen.
This is a very early spring - if it lasts.
I hear the sound of a flock of geese flying over the barn, quacking all the way.
The sound assures me of the coming warm weather. It signals as they fly through the valley, a reverberating sound that shouts “We are home!” Home where it is safe, with plenty to eat and lakes full of fresh water, remote in the northern woods of Maine.
As dawn breaks, I sit at the kitchen window watching lilac buds grow bigger, stretching their sheaths a bit further each day.
There now are two robins grazing in the front garden. A cloak of red feathers dress the house finch in regal splendor as it joins the chick-a-dee as it clings to the perch of the feeder.
How beautiful to be at the end of March as the Lord delights in His creation.
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.
I send heart felt warmth and thanks to you and your family.
The ducks are in the barn along with the chickens, goats, and horses.
They are all female except for one horse. This assures me that there will be no wars or fights or even great consternation. They are given the best of care and bring great joy to my heart.
With the dawn of 2024 we continue to have the old men anxious to lead the young men into war.
Does nothing ever change?
To thrive does everyone need to live in a barn absent from all male influence?
With prayers, that our hearts will find change in the peace of Christ.
Christmas Blessings
Silent night - Holy night
Listen for the small voice
Gently it is calling us
Amidst all the T.V. and internet noise
To celebrate the birth of Christ.
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.
As the light of day yawns through the darkness, three ducks come out of their house and wait for the water to be changed in their pool. They love to float in the tub, bill to tail, around and around, content. All night they sleep but by 6:00 A.M. they are quacking loud and clear looking for breakfast. They are drawn to the pool, but they leave it after they dirty it. Clever ducks!
I give them watermelon when I have it. It is their favorite morning treat. Their big yellow beaks scoop up the red seedless melon and we all have a good quack. They have imprinted on each other and act as one consciousness and one spirit. We, on the other hand, are fiercely independent.
The path to a singular consciousness and spirit comes directly from our God.
The odd red and orange leaves are beginning to appear on the side of the dirt road; along the overgrown path; woven among the tall branches. The seaside Goldenrod, four feet tall, crowds the pasture.
Tiny yellow flowers brush the horses faces. I watch the spectacle unfold; the beginning of the autumn display. The world of early September color splashes the dusty leaves. The long road to hybernation has begun. Even the tall stalks of red kale have reached their limit of growth.
White Asters grow waist high with white rayless flowers. I run and jump in the Splenda of it all.
The power of our Lord orchestrates this dramatic idyl. The anticipation of what is in store, this final display of Autumn, reflects divinity.
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.
The afternoon light in August is a gentle covering of the sinking sunlight, all pink and purple. Black crows shine against the evaporating light. Except for the echo of their “caw”, there is profound silence.
A gentle yet persistent breeze agitates the summer leaves with the full expectation that one of the bushes might burst into flames. Moses watches attentively.
I squeeze onto the wooden palette and basque in the brilliant colors. Between the pink and purple there is a narrow space in which I fit.
The hand of God leads me among the sprouting Zinnia, each unique in color and form. One royal purple Zinnia sports ivory spikes bursting from the center. A single flower on one large stem: “Lo how it blooms.”
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 garden is filled with blooming summer squash. What a beautiful
carpet stretches out before me.
Yellow, yellow squash creeping around the plants; over the ridges;
beneath branches; peeking out from under giant green leaves.
Last April I started the squash seeds indoors. In the ground for two
weeks, already I am eating the fruits of my labor.
We all start as a seed or an egg. The Planter plans everything that
has life. We grow and are nurtured through God’s grace. We reject
some seeds as all plants do. We reason that it is not in my current
plans.
What about God’s plan ? It is a question that divides our nation.
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.
I wonder at the impressive growth of the ducks. Twice their size in two weeks, it takes a lot of food and water to support their rapid evolution. From yellow fuzz to the development of feathers, even their quack is more mature.
A more recent understanding of genetic studies guides their growth. Yet from time immemorial man has wondered at their transformation. I am transforming also. At eighty years old, my mind is in great shape. It is my body that is falling apart. I am bent over and wrinkled. Yet the ducks and I are alive in the now. We both have dreams; theirs are not so easy to discern; ours is the stuff of hope and possibilities. Their God is my God. They see God in this very existence, nature's gifts, and life's excitement. My God is more challenging to wrap my mind around. I am made in the image of God. The ducks are also made in the image of God. Look carefully, we are both children of God.
A lovely cacophony of peeps, fifteen little babies, twelve chicks, and three ducklings,
arrived by mail today. With fifteen orange beaks stretching to the sky, they are far
better than the marshmallow peeps in the Easter basket. They are all covered
in fluffy yellow fuzz, climbing all over each other, but sleep as tight as a Gordian knot.
The ducklings, yellow and brown, with huge beaks, spend considerable time lying on
the edge of the water troff. Scampering around as busy as a New York sidewalk at
8:00 A.M. , they are delighted by the sheer experience. Each time I take a peak, the
ducks stretch their surprisingly long necks looking for all the world like baby giraffes,
desperate to get a glimpse of life.
We all start life looking odd with our big heads, curious, and startled.
The Father created all of us, even the most humble; each with a spark of Divinity
reflected in our being.
Sheets of heavy rain sweep across the barren barnyard. It is truly a deluge. The hermitage sits at the top of a hill surrounded by giant granite slabs. There is no fear of flooding.
Day after day the storm continues. I am excited by the power of the wind as it forces its way through the tall pines causing them to sway violently. The trees have no leaves yet except for tiny new red buds that have the glue of youth holding on in terror. Winter is long past and the next season has arrived along with the spring rains. Yellow forsythia, blue hyacinths, and white petaled jonquils with golden centers that channel the sunlight are the first early blooms.
Meanwhile, King Charles lll is the fortieth monarch in succession in England. There have been forty-five U.S. Presidents. We carefully count our leaders, good and not-so-good. Still the generations of spring flowers, in all their perfection, appear with certitude each spring, their crown is the sun, and their orb has no diamonds surrounding its gold but reflects the wonder of God’s consistency. Visions of a monarch crowned in the spelendor of Westminister Abbey pale in comparison to the “red bleeding hearts”, standing like scepters over the gardens.
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.
“Lord, Send out your spirit, and renew the face of the earth”
Ps 104:30
The moon is the Easter moon called the pink moon.
May the blessings of Easter joy surround you and your family.
I will offer a Novena of Masses starting Easter Sunday for your needs and intentions.
Atmospheric river after river on the west coast then to the eastern shore of Lubec Maine frozen in ice; winter hangs on by a thread. I am ready for spring and all the flowers. I was able to drive to Lubec to get the mail this morning.
The snow rests under the trees at the edge of the forest. Only deer have walked through it, across the dirt road and a trail leading into the dark forest on the other side.
There is a feeling of mystery in the darkness. Perhaps I might fall into a rabbit hole and come out in “wonderland”. I feel drawn into the dark but I do not go. My “wonderland” is here at the Hermitage. We are surrounded on three sides by birch and fir forest and on the fourth by the North Atlantic for a mile and a half.
The trees will have leaves in about a month. Meanwhile, we have barren trees with snow beneath them. There is beauty in the simplicity of the forest this time of year. Here in Lent, we await the glory of Easter.
The two baby goats, “Noel and Winter”, are enthusiastic girls. Their latest discovery is crackers. Their tiny mouths crunch, crunch the dry, full-fiber, morsels. I guess, if you eat hay all day, the crackers taste good.
I am amazed how God designed these girls. They jump and levitate, try to climb walls in one bound, and jam their heads through holes in the fence, whether the holes are big enough or not. It is their joy to be alive that is so contagious.
I love to sit on a couple of cinder blocks in their enclosure and feed them crackers. The Saints sit outside the fence and look mournful hoping for a cracker also.
Goats are present throughout the bible. Yet you need to live with them day after day to appreciate their spontaneous humor and sincere courtesy for each other.
Goats are food for much of the world, but for me, they are a sign of God’s wonder.
Last Sunday, I made shrimp potstickers.
My mind can be sluggish in this cold winter. I sit and look at the recipe but feel overwhelmed at the thought of all the dirty dishes.
This malaise is unusual for me. I don’t like the experience and realize that I must get up and move, get started, and ignore the feeling.
I gave up coffee and miss it every day. It always got me started. So now it is herbal tea, red zinger, and blueberry zinger.
Sometimes one must override one's mind. It can get in the way of clear thinking. Oh, it has a place, but it can make one fearful of new experiences. My goal is to live bold, at the front of the line.
This being said, my potstickers came out beautifully.
The sun magnified by the newly fallen snow is brilliant. It makes the trees sparkle and the pasture look like a great ice rink embossed by large paw prints.
The finger of God writes in the ice, clear in its message, speaking to my heart.
The ice, those great white blocks, float with the tide into Weir cove from the cold north Atlantic. As the weak winter sun fades in the late afternoon, the ice turns a light shade of blue. The tide this far north, drains twenty-nine feet leaving the cove with a very narrow flow.
I sit by the wood stove watching the dynamic exchange, astonished by the power of the moon pushing all this water in and out.
The black crows hang in the surrounding trees. Their stong calls to each other is the only sound reverberating like a metronome keeping time with the rhythm of life.
Looking beyond the pasture, beyond the agitated water, looking at my fluttering heart, trying to fly beyond the horizon, settling in the hand of God.
I feel welcome as I dance with the ice. Future lilacs hold life in pulsing buds at the tip of the branches.
The season is God’s glory. I am absorbed in this wonder.
February first, and we are heading into a severe cold blast with temperatures well below zero.
Looking out on the frozen pasture stretching down to Weir cove with its ice packed shore, floating small ice bergs reflect the sun light in a dazzeling prism.
These are the famous “tunnel” months, so named because you tend to feel abandoned in a tunnel this time of year. Not so with me.
I am charmed by the courage of the chick-a-dee arriving at the feeder just as the sun comes up. The little birds are very hungry after a long cold night .
I sit next to the wood stove and look out the north facing window. The snow and ice cover the deck. Two great Saint Bernards are lying in the snow, content as only mountain dogs are in the bitter cold. I can not join them but must huddle next to the roaring stove.
We all live within a narrow temperature range. Northern Maine tests those limits.
A frozen white desert stretches out before me. Many of the mammals are hibernating till spring, other have mecanisms for staying warm.
The utter beauty of the forest is spell binding. All life is sacred and even the humblest forms enshrine divinity.
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.
New Year Blessings
“Noel” and “Winter” are the baby goats that just arrived at the Hermitage. “Noel” is brown and white. “Winter” is black and white.
With this newborn life among us, we celebrate the start of the new year 2023.
The prospect of health and blessings shine upon you and your family.
Each morning at mass I thank God for your support and prayers.
May you be surrounded with peace and optimism.
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 woodpeckers, all ruffled and gorgeous, craft an impressive hole in the large birch trees. Norton, from the “Honeymooners” insisted that he saw a “yellow-bellied sapsucker” in Central Park in N.Y. However they only reside in the New England states.
The birch forest adjacent to the Hermitage is a favorite hunting place for sap and insects. I hear the woodpeckers more often than I see them.
The echo of their chiseling sound resonates with the rythem. I am enchanted.
I find it difficult to distinguish the Downey woodpecker from the Hairy woodpecker.
Both live here at the Hermitage. The Downey is smaller than the Hairy, with a much shorter bill. Yet short or long bill, they both have a long drum. It is the sound of that long drumming and its echo through the forest that breaks the feeling of solitude and fills my experience with companionship.
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.
On the eve of October, most birds are packing up to leave town and travel South Chick-a-dees, the state bird, stays here in Maine all winter. I love their company. In winter, Lubec is a new nation, slow, friendly a place frozen in time. All the Summer people have returned to New York. Many, if not most local folks go to Florida. The rest of us put on our winter coats and face a bracing experience. Winter here is a time of isolation, a time for planning Spring gardens, a time of Reflection. The T.V. news seems almost foreign and a long way off. But Nature seems close in the snow.
When the firewood is stacked outside, riddled with ice and snow, it takes a crowbar to break it loose from the pile to fill a small wagon and move it in the house. Thoughts of winter coming home fill me with anticipation.
The tractor can drive right through the tent in order to stack the seven hundred and fifty-pound round bales of hay. Folks here in Maine need to put away enough hay to last until the first spring cutting in late June. The horses do not eat string beans or broccoli. They just eat hay; lots of hay! Amazing diet !!!!
Lilly, the Nigerian goat also mostly eats hay. When the weather is good they all spend the day in the pasture eating grass.
Tending to the animals is a marvelous vocation. I don’t see other folks except for grocer shopping day. Spending my days with the other animals on the farm creates a bond that I celebrate.
Consciousness of the past and hope for the future is a function solely found in humans. We learn from the past and plan for the future. Whereas animals live completely in the Now and trust in God.
We can surely outsmart ourselves with our unique abilities. We trust more in ourselves and can get lost on the way.
Trust in God !!
I have been waiting for the gladiola to bloom for the last month. They are up !!
Gladiola is translated literally as “little sword”. They stand erect some three feet tall. The color of the swords are brilliant; red, white, pale yellow, and mint green. They form a beautiful wall around the garden plot.
With gladiola, you must dig up their bulbs each fall, put the bulbs in a dark place for the winter and replant them in the Spring. A little work for a big reward.
The vet sold me ten big round bales of hay. Each bale weighs seven hundred and fifty pounds. I need the tractor to move them. They are now safe in the barn, away from the rain. Each bale will last one month for two Icelandic horses, and “lilly” the Nigerian dwarf goat. We are ready for winter, but Autumn comes first! Then there are the long walks in the forest that match the Gladiola in color.
There will be romance before the snow comes home.
How swiftly the summer months pass. It is Labor Day and the first leaves on the top of the birch trees are turning yellow. The big maple tree in the pasture is crowned in brilliant crimson leaves.
Autumn has arrived!
I have observed with the coming of fall there is an eerie silence that covers the land. This silence carries a feeling of sadness in the air. All the living plants are fading. Soon the leaves will turn colors and everything will die back in preparation for a long winter nap. At moments there is a brief chill in the air.
The prospect for a hungry winter for many is a result of the Russian war In Ukraine and the closure of grain exports.
How can this tragedy happen in 2022? A mad man sits in the president's chair in Russia. He dreams of a revival of the old Russian Empire from more than a hundred years ago. There seems to be no way to control Putin and his bizarre dreams. Russia has a nuclear bomb.
Meanwhile, it is autumn, the seasons come and go on time, and God has his hand on the pulse of life.
Black raspberry bushes are laden with bunches of berries, weighing down the branches to the ground. Picking blackberries is a challenge since the bushes are covered with thorns. The thorns tear my plastic gloves and scratch my arms. This is the price you pay for picking blackberries . Yet I love working my hands around the branches.
There is a painful cost in picking berries. The dogs just open their mouths and eat everything on the branch, thorns and all. I am sure that is how bears, deer, and all animals eat blackberries. For us, the pain of the bushes is true to form. Everything good is also painful. It is the nature of sentient beings.
My job for more than thirty years now has exposed me to all manner of suffering. From southern California to Nothern Maine, I have observed the pain in life’s fortune.
The temporary pain in picking berries is worth the end result.
Even in Maine, the temperature has been over 90 degrees these past few days. We live in an extraordinarily narrow range. This August is testing our limits. All this causes me to reflect on the fragileness of life.
I watch as animals and birds; in fact, all sentient beings have their time and then burrow back into the earth from which they came. It is the same cycle for all of us. The Zen masters teach that the one thing we can be sure of is change. Nothing stays the same for long.
I was kneeling in the zucchini patch in the garden this morning and saw some of the zucchini leaves rotted while the rest of the plant was blooming and producing vegetables. Some live a little longer and others go by the way. It all seems random. But random is a word you use when you don’t know what is happening.
I am struck by the glaring reality of life and death. We all have our place on the wheel of life and death. It is the process of sentient life.
Sometimes the condition of the world looks dire. Every country is dealing with war or the threat of war from Sri Lanka to Ukraine our collective stomach aches.
I will be eighty years old in November. It has been wars since the day I was born in 1942. Alas, there is no sign of this situation changing.
Power and greed clearly are the operating words, whether it is Putin and his vision of a new Soviet Empire to the dreadful African leaders living in great wealth while their people starve; Tension between Pakistan and India; Americans charging the senate trying to reverse the legal Presidential election, the base desire of so many trample the light of democracy.
I search for a reason to believe that peace is around the corner.
Tucked in this Hermitage in the north woods of Maine, I pray for the condition of the world, or shall I sat humanity
Early in the morning, the tall cylindrical bird feeder is filled with seeds.
Soon all six perches for standing are occupied by a hungry finch eating from the opening in the feeder.
By noon, half the seeds are gone and only from the middle perches do the birds reach the diminished seeds.
By six in the evening, the seeds are only available to those on the lowest two perches.
There is a problem of the availability of seeds to eat.
Discovering that only the bottom two perches are available, some males jump down on the lower perches and push the females off the feeder.
Apparently greed and covetous compel the males to fight for space.
Not very different from humans at all.
Not very different from Russia pushing and killing Ucranians off their land.
Darwin was correct. Survival of the fittest is the operating principle of all creation.
It is a bitter reality that I find difficult to embrace.
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.
Green apples and white lilacs, so simple and so precious. This is the month of llacs and then they are gone for another year.
The prospect of lilacs keeps my imagination productive all winter. As I travel to the grocery store every two weeks, I observe dozens of green apple trees in a spectacular array. It seems that every farm in Maine planted lilac bushes during the last hundred years or more.
Green apples and white lilacs are dead common here. They are well suited to the environment, and for me the lilacs elicit a grand emotional response. I think of my childhood surrounded by green apples and white lilacs. I loved them then and I love them now. The certitude of flowering apple trees and buds in mid May on the lilac bushes is a great comfort that does not disappoint.
After long winters of snow and ice, the land gets warmer and life returns along the sides of roads. All memories of farm houses and barns have disappeared, only the abundant apple trees and lilac bushes, like old friends from the long ago past, now stand alone in overgrown fields.
It is my assurance that life is on God’s schedule and not ours.
A small bird keeps knocking at the window with its beak. It does not realize that it is the glass which is the barrier to getting in. I hear the bird’s tap tap tap at the window but I do not know how to tell him what the problem is.
I have been like that small bird at the window. I have also not recognized the glass as a barrier. I also wondered what the problem was.
Like the bird, my problem is perspective.
Am I also caught behind an invisible barrier?
Solidarity with the bird makes me realize our common struggle.
Unfortunately, the bird's brain is not equipped to recognize the problem.
My brain seems to hit the same wall.
Can I learn from the futility of the bird?
A shear pink veil covers both head and rump and is far more glamorous than a burka. The Pine Grosbeak is more stable than other visitors to the feeder. It occupies a perch and eats seeds till it is full. The chickadee takes a seed and fly away in a nervous gesture.
By 7 A.M. I am working in the garden trying to beat the heat of the climbing sun.
The early morning spring haze is pierced by the presence of the American Goldfinch.
The male in summer is a brilliant “Nascar” yellow. It has a canary-like song, rising and falling with a pleasing cadence.
The finches blend with the chickadee in working the feeder. They are abundant and each is precious in my eyes.
Watching them at the kitchen window is one of the true joys of my day.
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.
With the Easter Sunday riot in Jerusalem and the genocide in Mariupole, 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.
Ukrainian Easter 2022
Holy Thursday, Good Friday, Easter Sunday, there are a lot of rituals for four days . But I must confess that I can see value in the process and value in observing the commemorative moments. Is the commemoration the same as the reality? Everything can happen only in the present moment. Our Easter is the real Easter of our lives in 2022.
In a frightening demonstration of our reptilian brain, we celebrate spring while in the midst of war in Ukraine.
Ukraine is known as the breadbasket of Africa. And no wheat can be planted while war continues. Planting season is now. But there will be no wheat this coming fall or winter. The coming famine is about to show its head again! Nothing good comes from war. We all know it, but seem to have amnesia.
Meanwhile life on the Hermitage farm develops from seeds to evolve into flowering plants. May Easter blessings reach out to the good people of Ukraine and each of us.
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.
Teetering on the end of February. It snows a little most days, enough to keep the pasture white. My spiked shoes help maintain balance on the ice and my long staff guides the way forward. Falling on the ice is not an option at my age. Dogs and horses can fall and they have four legs. People seem to be more fragile. Perhaps we are a little like the Mars rover. We are somewhat fragile and yet endure.
We dissolve into the very fiber of the world in which we dwell. We are everywhere and nowhere. Limited in this body, our consciousness frees us to visit other platforms. Those platforms offer A variety of perspectives, a new and unique vision.
Standing under the umbrella of Queen Anne’s lace, encircled by the Monarch butterfly, keeping One eye out for the perambulating squirrel, I am caught by the wonder of life on this farm. What joy to know I am part of it all.
Safe and calm behind the gate at the end of the road, I pray you also are safe and calm.
Looking like a large white cotton sheet, it is thrown over the entire pasture. By mid morning the largest fir tree casts its pointed black shadow over the snow field. The morning sun sits low on the horizon. These February shadows are short lived, moving with the sun, peeking from behind the forest trees. The vision is dramatic whether there is anyone there to see it.
How does the world go past without me? Am I but a very brief shadow across an untrampled Snow field? Do I exist if no one sees me?
This Hermitage is remote and looks over hay fields and pastures between tall pine trees, a dense border around my mirage, a gift from God, an example of the purity appreciated by me and all men who pause to look and see what is real passing before us.
The shore of Cobscook bay is lined with ice flows. The ice is creeping out, slowly covering the deep blue waters. It will cover the entire bay by late February.
I hope to be blessed to see it.
With two feet of snow on the ground and an inch of ice on top of it, I have been in lock-down for more than two weeks.
Considering the news of the world of late, with the everlasting diplomacy between Putin in Russia and the European Union, it is still a reality in 2022 that unjust war is on the horizon. For more than two thousand years the phantasies and greed based on evil have inspired men and kept the world off balance.
The central plea of Jesus was for love and peace. It looks like He needs to make another visit. I wonder if a second visit would turn out any better!
The baby squirrel sits on top of the cylindrical seed feeder welcoming the Chick-a-dee to join in the banquet. The animals set a precedent for humans. They are motivated by need whereas we are motivated by greed.
I have observed that no war is ever pending at the Hermitage. The surrounding forest is in balance. Would that we could learn from them
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
It is 10 degrees below zero this morning. January sure has arrived ! My trailer is overloaded with hay and has a flat tire. It is parked in a gas station and it is too cold out to fix the tire.
Looking out the window, the road has a layer of ice under a few inches of snow. A treacherous condition for driving indeed.
The goats and the horses are safe in the barn which is insulated and warm.
Snow resting on the long branches of the fir trees reminds me of the little fake trees with fake snow on them in the giant Christmas train display in Boston The fantasy is well and alive here in Maine. Out every window in the Hermitage is a vision of angels hanging in the trees. At sunset, the sun light stretches across the tops of the trees and the forest lights up in splendor .
No fishing boats in Cobscook Bay, replaced by small icebergs bobbing up and down. What splendor each season brings here up North !
Social distancing is absolute here. Except for the two week trip to the grocery store, I see no one by day. The silence is golden and leaves room for small animal adventures.
Arise, Shine
“Your Light has come” Isaiah 60:1a
May your light shine on all you meet.
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
Thirty Canadian geese, iridescent green in the sun, are floating along on top of the water of Weir cove. Signs of colored leaves line the trees along the water's edge. Winter is coming home. The geese are flying south.
Not so for the giant black crows who will keep an eye on the cove throughout the winter. Their calls to each other echoes through the forest and gives comfort to me as I sit on the shore enveloped in the Spirit of the moment.
The Hermitage barn also holds the Spirit of amazing life. Levitating Lilly jumps through the air. An extra small Nigerian goat, she was born with a number of deformities and leaps in the air as her form of transportation. Always a long piece of hay hanging out of her mouth, she is a joy to have in our life. Lilly finds joy in simplicity, working with her limitations, she spends the day eating her way through a bale of hay. Her simplicity and contentment like the Canadian geese and black crows, follow the path in the barn of the Spirit
Prancing towards the front door; all 160lbs of Saint Bernard; floating across the stone floor; determined to speed up the process, His paws do not touch the ground; his broad smile suspended in air; Gigantic flopping jowls galore; sparkling eyes; upholstered nose; and always the agitated tail.
Companions in the day and the night;
Guava jam on wheat toast !
I see the dryness enveloping the trees; green is fading to bright colors; From the yellow to orange to red; all to brown then white, everything white. Hummingbirds swarm the gladiolas; delighted in the spectrum of colors. The tall flowers sway on the movement of the birds, a delicate dance, a showstopper in the bright sunlight; prancing in the afternoon garden.
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.
Tapping rain on the metal roof plays concerts overhead in the night. Last winter’s snow knew no such sound as it heaped up in silence.
Now summer shouts the rhythm of the water and comforts the soul lying in bed. One hundred thousand taps at once vitalize surrounded by a cacophony of voices. I listen in a paralysis of thought; frozen mind; in touch with restored feelings;
Mined from distant consciousness.
Memory fuels the tinder. Stoking brings it up alive.
Slowly drifting, drifting, through white starched curtains hanging in the breeze. Encountering the tapping of the rain; cadence as steady as boots on parade.
“Caw caw, caw” echoes across the lush marsh. Crows glide in all directions; black as bats across the sky. A steady companion, shouting their message which echoes across Weir cove;
Tapping rain on the metal roof.
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.
The ride to Calais takes an hour. It was my first long drive in months. Calais hospital makes impressions of your feet and makes diabetic shoes that fit, What a relief for my neuropathy plagued feet. Now I can take long walks in the forest again.
At the entrance to the forest are big blackberry bushes full of fruit. The red ground flowers, called bunchberry flowers, grow in nests of dark green leaves. The entire floor of the forest is carpeted with these small red flowers. I expect Dorothy and Toto to peak from behind the tall straight Pine trees. The trees are arranged in a close grid. It is so silent, you can hear the flutter of the birds and see the squirrels scrambling at the base of the green moss covered trees.
I have found a place to hear God’s voice whisper - to be calm and listen, listen, and hear.
I shiver and the hair on my neck stands up.
Is this reality or am I standing in an alternative universe?
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.
Forsythia are blooming in the barnyard. Their massive yellow makes even a cloudy day feel sunny. There is hardly a house in Maine that does not have this celebration of early spring planted in their yard.
It may be common here but common can be outstanding yet still overlooked.
Dandelions are common also. Their yellow flowers crowd every green patch and signal plenty of salad greens. Common and good, yet passed by or rooted out of municipal lawns.
The forest holds hundreds of spectacular blooms this spring. Common, abundant, and colorful flowers fill the forest. The wonder seems to extend from my head. I look and shiver at the splendor before me.
And what do I do with such intense feelings? First I hold them in my memory and then reimagine them in times of need.
We all have the gift of reimagination. It is the path to capturing intense feelings and making them profoundly present.
Softly, with warm breath, Lilly’s head is on my lap, this small mirage, a hologram living in the barn, a one eyed goat. With that one good eye she turns her head one hundred and eighty degrees. From the corner of her one good eye she sees her world. I get on my knees and look her in the eye and smile. We encounter each other in our place, where we are, it is what we see, what we know, what is familiar. What is familiar is often comfortable and gives a feeling of safety and security.
Lilly roams the deck, the barn yard and all the barn. She is in the horse stalls, eating the horse hay, nose to nose with her great equine friends.
Lilly is content and her very presence shines light on the day... I am encouraged by Lilly’s determination to live life fully despite her impediment. The power to live is strong.
A clue from a little half blind goat shows the way forward. We can learn from Lilly’s courage and joy.
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.
Walking along the tidal shore, hundreds of pencil size holes appear at the low tide mark. Each is a breathing hole for a mollusk. How much life lives under the shore? On land we have the largest population in the world, the insects. Here, billions of sentient beings are responsible for life as we know it. For so many, interaction with insects is a mandate to kill. Are they not alive like us? Does not each of the humble forms reflect divinity? Biology drives all life. Yet I think about them living under the ground and in the summer literally everywhere in swarms. Pests? Fellow travelers? Walking along the tidal shore I feel their presence, and their life cycle. The earth is getting warm and I await their return. No matter where you live, insects are living around you. We need only to acknowledge them. Most often we only focus on our goals, our needs, our life. I read that William Shatner suffers from loneliness. But, in fact, we are not alone. We only need to greet each other with joy. All God’s creatures.
This is the day the Lord has made
Let us rejoice and be glad in it. (Egyptian Hallel)
The promise of Easter offers:
Renewal of the earth from the ravages of winter
Relief from the horror of natural disaster
Restoration of new life with the coming of spring
Rejoicing in Christ’s enduring love.
March 25, 2021
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.
March 18, 2021
Out of the warm south wind, a great flock of Canadian geese flew over the Hermitage. They were “full of honking” conversation as they flew north. I felt compelled to reach up and wave to them. The precision of their flight lands them here every year around March 15th. Ever so softly, the morning sunlight hangs suspended over the marsh at the water’s edge. Unique to Canadian geese at take off, they run across the top of the water. Every year the geese fly overhead in October on their way south and return in March. This pandemic is not their concern. They have their own “bird flu” that kills ducks and geese. We all are subject to the variants of biology. It is the basic framework of life. As small organic clocks, all life is ticking down. The results are all around us and in us. Meanwhile our spiritual clocks are ticking up. We all are traveling the spectrum, and are blessed to pause and admire all sentient beings in our midst.
March 11, 2021
Shimmering in the morning light, the sheer white cotton curtains are stretched on wooden frames to dry in the sun. The sight of spring cleaning includes windows flung wide; lilac buds hesitant to bloom; forsythia holding back its considerable flowers a few more weeks. Sitting on the precipice, legs dangling in the air; the tide rushing in free of ice, very cold blue, fills Weir cove. White sheets frozen in sunshine, an expanse of stiff cotton unrelenting in the Arctic wind. Sails full of energy, blowing in the midst…..blowing…..blowing…..a horse’s voice calling in the wind. Thirty husky elephants, all out of work, valued in the past, now useless in the face of PETA. Thirty husky elephants, their presence awkward, yet welcome. The elephants disappear against the snow, absolved in the mist, and lacking meaning. Spirits roam the pasture, I see them in the wind, they push the beach grass down, forming circles in the snow. All life enshrines divinity.
March 4, 2021
I checked a folder with birth records and was surprised to find the horses and goats were three years older than I thought. I was sick for a long time last year and lost touch with their age. We are all getting older but the future looks bright and I am full of enthusiasm. When you are fortunate enough to reach it, old age is a true blessing as part of the experience of life. I realize too well that time can be hard on our bodies. Aches and pain invade our daily experience. Life has always been filled with pain. My doctor says: “Life is pain.” I guess she is correct. I am learning to block the pain and give the joy of life a big space. And what a marvelous joy it is. Living with so many sentient beings gives me pause to realize the Holy Spirit lives in each of them. How precious life is even for the humblest forms. They all share in Divinity.
February 25, 2021
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.
February 19, 2021
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.
February 11, 2021
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.
February 4, 2021
It is February, and the water pipes in the barn have frozen. I had the water dripping but it was too slow to prevent the freeze. Now I carry water from the kitchen through the snow and ice into the barn. Like so many things, you never miss water till it’s gone or unavailable. This annual water crisis in the barn makes me wonder how old time Mainers prevented the freeze up. Perhaps they will reveal their handling of the cold to me someday. The horses will not break even a thin layer of ice on their water bucket even if they are thirsty. Sometimes any action to help themselves alludes them. However, in most cases people are clever enough to know how to care for themselves. But not always! Meanwhile, I carry water. We all have burdens we don’t enjoy carrying. It is surprising how common this problem presents itself. A state of mind, a state optimism, a state of faith makes the work lighter.
January 28, 2021
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.
January 14, 2021
The sunset at 4:24 P.M. today. A month ago it was at 3:24 P.M. This additional hour of sunlight is a signal to the farm animals of the coming spring. Big red hearts filled with candy for Valentine’s Day are in the grocery store. Familiar memories rush in of the hearts capped with large vulgar roses which up the ante of a small boy’s budget. It was my first encounter with financial inequality. Dozens of small mammals scamper on the snow to collect the bird seeds spilling from the overflowed feeders. The ever faithful chickadee buzz the feeder itself for welcome treats. Narcissus forced bulbs, bloom in the big window. Yellow, yellow against the ultra white snow outside, makes me gasp at the Zen image as I catch my breath. Such recurring January visions are a comfort. May you be blessed with your own visions of January.
January 7, 2021
The Narcissus are up in the window. The entire room is filled with their presence. Whiter than a new cotton sheet, they are long and straight, a winter clock. The view is an emotional moment not felt since the Brussel sprouts bloomed in July. The holy water is frozen in the font. The St. Bernard's are asleep in front of the wood stove. Winter naps quickly dissolve time. Low in the sky, the sun is suspended while the ticking of the cuckoo clock measures each moment with assurance. Chick-a-Dees each trying to dominate in the shadow of the seeds falling from the feeder. They make the squirrels dizzy. Narcissus are up in the window.
New Year, 2021
Awake ! The New Year Dawns ! 2021 is the year of the vaccine. There is hope the lockdown will be lifted. The Lilac bushes display small but certain buds. Awake ! The New Year Dawns ! Our Epiphany , perhaps a glaring light, disturbs the last nine months of Muddled identity and anticipates the golden stairway to renewed life. Awake ! The New Year Dawns ! Let us walk hand in hand aware of our vulnerability as well as our strength. Awake The New Year Dawns! High stepping, we walk across the pasture with sun in our eyes. Awake ! The New Year Dawns !
Christmas, 2020
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.
December 10, 2020
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.
Thanksgiving, 2020
After nine months of darkness, we at last can see the light at the end of the tunnel. This marks a new day of hope and relief from a battered nation. With the coming of advent the season turns to waiting, waiting for the birth of Christ, waiting in hope for a vaccine. With churches closed and gatherings prohibited, we must depend on our personal prayer and reflection. In Spirit we can hold hands as a community of Christians who encounter Christ in each other. St. Peter and Paul encountered Christ while in solitude in prison. They are a model of lockdown. Their united spirit built the foundation of our Church. Thanksgiving this year may be virtual or at best very limited. Cranberries will be sauced and the turkey roasted.
November 19, 2020
All the animals have on their winter coats. A perfect fit by nature, their new winter coats make them look twice as big as usual. I love to revel in their warmth and softness. I was recently gifted by a book about how to read and feel the communications of trees. It would be a true accomplishment with the vast majority of living beings surrounding the Hermitage being trees. Listening with my heart with humility is the first and most difficult step. Even with my understanding of human language, I often do not listen well enough to hear clearly the communications of others. The goats and horses and dogs all speak their own language. I stand silent and dumb before them. Apparently, body language is the best form of communication. And touch is paramount.
November 12, 2020
The battery on the Hermitage tractor has died. My frustration initially overwhelmed me. There is no one to blame but myself since I left the tractor lights on. The battery is located under the air filter and I can not get to it. The tractor dealer is only in the next town, but this is Maine, and it may take weeks for them to send someone down to install a new battery. The experience of being overwhelmed can only destroy my peace of mind if I empower it. I have been overwhelmed by good things also. With my heart in my hand I marvel at life and am pushed to the edge of possibility. Coping skills are essential to avoid being overwhelmed. These tools, like all skills, take patience and focus and time to develop. The middle way hedges in the experience of being overwhelmed and smooths out the direction of our emotions. I suspect the middle road is the only way to stay calm. It is the path of the success of the prophets. The middle way is the biblical way to God. With God’s help we will evolve.
November 5, 2020
Surrounded by dark forest, the green wings on the fir trees take flight in the early winter winds. Forest snow, fine flakes, rushing down , thrown from a cosmic bucket the pasture fills. The silent snow, fresh fallen, grips the frozen land. Twenty bulbous turkeys, march through decaying gardens, across the barnyard, pecking in unison, welcome home!, goliath fowls, chicks under foot, a family picnic. An isolated day, will the ferier get up the hill? Eight hooves picked, cleaned, trimmed, and dry. Well done ! Tomorrow it will be 44 degrees and all will be changed again. I embrace the kaleidoscope and enjoy the ride. With the consternation of the presidential election going on, all is hollow in the barn. With only sounds of munching going on, the smell of hay, I sit on the goat hoof trimming stand, blow my nose and smile.
October 29, 2020
October light, unique to this month, casts a painter’s shadow across the horizon. The glow emanates from the inner branches of the trees. Lingering golden leaves hang suspended from thinning limbs, in scattered arrays, a hint of crocheted lace in intricate patterns.
A most unusual haze haunts the land.
Then totally unexpected, it all dissolves. And the clear sky is open for the sun. Another autumn moment displayed in bated breath, observed along Weir cove, lurking in the forest.
A splendid gaggle of young turkeys inspect an open landing. They search for and eat the population in the grass in an autumn banquet.
I sit on the shore and admire the revelry.
With virus spreading and presidential elections looming, the certitude of rotating seasons gives assurance of normal.
It is all well planned by God and under His hand.
October 22, 2020
The process of moving machines and garden supplies indoors for winter is a real project for this time in October. Taking apart the tomato cages took a whole day. At the same time green beans and tomato plants are ready to flower in the indoor hydroponic gardens. The transition from fall to winter demands planning and some work. The changes are invigorating. This seems to be the way with change. It is sometimes difficult, often filled with anxiety, and always full of discovery. Acceptance of change is key to stability! You can kick about change or accept the reality of a new platform. Transformation guides one to change as the new normal. I see it in the trees. They persist in their form and are still trees but without leaves; trees but from a new perspective. Wrapping our minds around change, though often uncomfortable, is the way forward. Holding back change is not an option. The tide of change deposits us on new shores where we will excel.
October 15, 2020
At thirty-six degrees, this Autumn day is crisp and clear. The ring of Aspen trees that surround Weir cove have turned golden. They look like a circle of fire at the perimeter of the blue choppy ocean. This time of year the scenery changes day by day. On the edge of the large window sits a Cinderella sized pumpkin, a mammoth chrysanthemum, a.k.a. Mum plant, garden tomatoes ripening in the sun, and a bunch of colored leaves gathered on the long dirt road. A sign of the times, the ledge has full sunlight the better part of the morning. Lilly and Rosie are two very happy goats to be able to eat the decaying leaves in the garden. They especially love Kale. The goats traverse the yellow fabric of the barnyard and wait with the bluebirds beneath the large corn feeder. With much screaming, the iridescent black crows sit on the feeder eating. The spillage falls down to anxious goats and hungry bluebirds. At night the turkeys come to clean up what corn remains. All the “Provider” green bean seeds that were put between wet paper towels have sprouted and are in their own pots now. Their growth shows the power of new life all around me. All activity seems to revolve around eating and procreation. These are the keystones of life at the Hermitage.
October 8, 2020
Harvesting the kale today before the coming freeze. I wrap my arms around the bushy green leaves and prepare them to be kale chips. Like a swarm of starlings, the golden birch leaves cluster and sway in the air over the barnyard. The rhythm of the spectacle lifts my heart with wonder and joy. The breeze turns into wind and lifts the green leaves in the garden into the air. It looks like Dorothy and Toto could pass bye swirling up in the air. I realize that what is floating in the air came from the ground and will return. In returning to the ground a pattern becomes clear. A cross stitched yellow fabric gently lay there on the ground. This is the autumn experience at it’s best ! Buried under leaves we spring forth alive, walking, dancing, breathing, smiling.
October 1, 2020
The autumn mist comes rolling through the dark fir forest and surrounds the white “Rhino” shelter behind the barn. Something like a small airplane hanger, it can hold a pick-up truck or a tractor. It’s made of opaque plastic. Black shadows scrap along the interior arch, making mysterious sounds. Sitting empty all summer, weeds have taken over the interior. Going in there is a Halloween experience ! Looking like a white ghost at the edge of the forest, it reminds me of fears of old that still scare. I shall go into the shelter and face my fears and smile at the power I grant them. Confronting fears over the virus, money, children, or even concerning our selves is disturbing, disruptive, and demeaning. Freedom from fear is freedom for new life. “Fear not, I am with you always.” ( Isaiah 41: 18.)
September 24, 2020
Leaves of pumpkin orange peek out from dusty green branches hanging over the dirt road leading to the Hermitage. Autumn has dawned ! What appears as decay are plants storing strength for a spring dazzle. There will be no buses full of seniors expecting autumn color this fall. The roads are unnervingly quiet; the farm stands are devoid of patrons; and “Becky's Seafood” closed early, up for sale ! Meanwhile the Saints and I trace overgrown roads deep in the forest. Out of sight, I can hear them smashing branches in the raspberry thicket, searching inquisitive scents hanging in the air. Unequipped to smell like them, curiosity compels my attention to what I can not know. A world of scent surrounds me and I must learn from watching the Saints. A baby squirrel sits in the lilac bush chattering very loud. I do not know what he is saying. Squirrel chatter is beyond my comprehension. I wonder just what the squirrel is expressing. Are they just talking to themselves ? Maybe it is like a cat purring. Maybe it is a sign of contentment. Again I do not know. Thomas Merton said that “not knowing” is a space for faith. We all live without adequate answers to some of our questions. Be at peace and let it be.
September 17, 2020
At the bottom of pencil sized breathing tubes, the clams wait for the next tide. The pencil holes are unique, single use, designed for extreme social distancing. Sprinkled across the low tide mark, they support the aquatic community of ancient mollusks. The life cycle among the sea shore residents gives me pause as to what is truly essential in our lives. The fundamental functions seem the same for the most part. But do they think? Not like us but in some limited way, it is possible. Do they feel and do they experience sadness? I suspect not but am not sure. The Hermitage property sits on a half mile of sandy shore front where the clams live. We rake up the clams while standing in the shallow water, bending over, ignoring the back pain, pulling the rake with all available strength. As I wander across the marsh, among hundreds of self-quarantined mollusks, I realize that not one clam comes out before its time. They have strong instincts and do not spend time thinking.
September 11, 2020
The Hermitage annual veterinary farm visit is this week. The vet is a huge man, the son of a long line of Maine farmers. He earned his degree from the college on Prince Edward Island in Canada. He is the only veterinarian in these parts and comes to examine the horses and the goats. He can throw two huge bales of hay, one in each hand, across the barnyard without losing his breath. He is a cross between Rambo and St. Francis. Such people inhabit the wilds of Maine. Down the road a piece, in a cottage surrounded by flowers and chickens, lives the only local Primary care physician. Her focus is sure and steady and I can almost smell her thinking. Her Practice is a cross between “Green Acres” and tele-medicine. Across the road from her is the Whiting store. It is a Gulf gas station, pizzeria, liquor store and deli. Two hefty women run the operation. The Whiting store is on a very remote section of route one, the main road from Canada to Florida. Everyone passes the Whiting store when they go out. You meet all the neighbors there. It is the center of nowhere. Out of nowhere comes enlightenment!
August 27 - September 8, 2020
Ruger, the Hermitage Saint Bernard, swallowed an entire washcloth which bound him up, stopping fluids and food from passing. He disappeared for three days which is most unlike him. Looking day and night, he was discovered curling up in the deep undergrowth at the water’s edge. Unresponsive and hungry, I got him home. I took him to the veterinarian but the ex-ray showed nothing. The next day he discharged a very big washcloth. The experience of having someone go missing can seem worse than death. It is the not knowing that can make you crazy. Sometimes loved one’s go missing emotionally or mentally, unresponsive to our pleas. What can you do? How do you cope? These are the dark hours of a brutal night of horror. It is in these times in life that our only recourse is in our faith and trust in the Lord.
