Thinking about this holy, salty, life abundant desert. circa 2010.

amnhnyc:

Spending the weekend in the great outdoors? Here are some tips for identifying poison ivy:

POISON IVY (Toxicodendron radicans)

LEAF TYPE:

  • Compound leaves with three leaflets (leading to the saying “leaves of three, let it be”)
  • The stalk of the middle leaflet is much longer than the stalks of the two side leaflets
  • The edges can be smooth or coarsely toothed
  • Surface can be glossy or dull

GROWTH FORM:

  • Climbing or straggling vine (poison ivy)
  • Sprawling shrub (western poison ivy)

Anyone that thinks they might have touched poison ivy should wash thoroughly with soap and water. Any clothes that have been in direct contact with poison ivy should be carefully removed and laundered. The unpleasant itching of poison ivy can be relieved by applying calamine lotion or a paste made of baking soda.

Learn more about poison ivy

Off to the mountains this morning. Seeeee ya.

running in a northeast rainforest: fluorescent flies, mosquitoes, black and white dotted butterflies, jump over a snake, a many singing robin, bunny, wooly caterpillar, green forever. I take back being mad at the rain yesterday…! (at Middlesex Fells Reservation)

Cape Cod, Massachusetts.

Things I want, things I have: a big family of love, whom without I would be homeless and naked. Literally. A man who is genuine, patient, at once a rock and the silliest, friendliest. Friends as old as and as reliable as the hills. New friends that feel like old souls. A sunny apartment with wood floors. Today, sun. I’m going to try to make a habit of thankful lists.

Even the birds

Today I am thankful for: church bells chiming the hour, little birds in the tree, and that my little waif of a life stands on a rock. I imagine a massive, dark slab of granite stood against the sea, weathered only on the surface.

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.