takemetomountains:

"There is so much deep contradiction in my soul. Such deep longing for God - so deep that it is painful - a suffering continual - and yet not wanted by God - repulsed - empty - no faith - no love - no zeal. Souls hold no attraction - Heaven means nothing - to me it looks like an empty place - the…

dulces de la mañana (at Somerville, MA)

“Somerville came to science by way of the arts, the era’s traditional domain for young girls. When her art teacher made a passing reference to Euclid and his theories of geometry to explain perspective in painting, noting that they also illuminated the foundations of astronomy and physics, young Mary found herself mesmerized by the promise of a science so expansive and dimensional.”

Woodlands how you delight! Soul is full. Miraculously had a two hour run yesterday over blue icey toppling snow. Wet socks, twisted ankle, a little lost, silence and peace abounding. 1530 Monday and didn’t see a human for an hour. At Middlesex Fells Reservation outside Boston.

the full saint valentine moon over vacant falmouth, massachusetts.

“There are two spiritual dangers in not owning a farm. One is the danger of supposing that breakfast comes from the grocery, and the other that heat comes from the furnace.”
— Aldo Leopold, A Sand County Almanac (via awelltraveledwoman)

(via awelltraveledwoman)

in winter

The snow falls glittering, blustering, but gently and soft. It’s color, reflects the lampposts some, but mostly drapes over all things like a velvet blanket on a lounge chair. It is light, gracefully adorning the tops of leaves and edges of windowsills, forming pattens everywhere of arcs and full circles, perfect gradients, and leaving but just a flirting ray of color from the evergreen. The trucks come beeping and blaring, lights of the underworld to scrape the freshly fallen. All night, incessant. At daybreak some are itchy for change. The scraping insues, the freshly fallen are muddled and sticky, trodden and growing stiff. Purity is taken with the crushing shovel, the man who cannot wait for the freshly fallen to have its due course, to melt in natural arcs and full circles, to retreat in perfect gradients. He scrapes and tramples. It is his turn for glory, he says.

whenever I meet a friendly woman a flower comes to mind:
gladiola for the large and pure of heart,

jasmine for wide and starry-eyed,
hyacinth for the lusty, daisies for the childlike.

But when I see you braiding your hair
in silent intimacy, each turn and counterturn

resembles the journey of your questing spirit,
and I see you as one woman bearing many, not mythical

and larger than life, but various and real.
You are the prairie full of wild prairie roses,

the trail-side filled with purple amarantus,
lattice and hedgerow, the vines of morning glory.

 Since the Day That I Read Dante by Jeff Burt

My dad is the greatest. He wrote this poem about my mother.

As I’m unemployed and recently finished some higher ed… this is interesting. I’m on the hunt for a job I love, but I just can’t expect that. I have had, and most people are in jobs they don’t love but that serve society, feed themselves and their babies. That’s nothing to be ashamed of. Maybe no matter the job we have the opportunity to do GOOD work, to be proud of HOW we work. To love WHO we are.

This is wild! Nature you striking devil you… it looks like wallpaper, no? (A Baculite… an extinct cephalopod from the Late Cretaceous with florid suture lines. Fossil Invertebrates, Taylor and Lewis 2005).

CITY NOTES

Little babes tottering along. What’s on my shoe? What’s on my glove? Singing songs. Children come along. Come, come! Children know not the cold, only the curiosities on the tip of their nose.

moving coasts. voila, we live in the northeast.

MAN’S BEST FRIEND

This morning on the subway at six. Eyelids in heavy use throughout the car. Seats full, bunchy coats puffed into each other. A woman and her dog boarded with a suitcase, so they stood, right there whining at each other with nervous happiness and every eyelid folded revealing early morning stars of innocent contentment. Man’s best friend.

TTFN brits! twas so hard to leave but so wonderful to be going h o m e.

Once upon a time I lived in England, playing fancy on the bridges of the Cam beneath the 10 pm light, and sitting like a hoodrat on the floor of the train.