Foxglove Moments

Foxglove Moments

Foxglove is the name of my property, five acres overlooking the Lewis River Valley that was covered with the wildflower when I first moved here in 1996. 

 

 

Years ago, a friend who'd emigrated from the Midwest to be with his girlfriend
would complain about the Northwest's "pissy little winters."

Of all the seasons, he missed most the full-strength winters of his native Minnesota,
and days of bright sun on bright snow. He never could adjust to the glum drabness
of the Pacific Northwest at this time of year.

And yet, if one looks, there are striking dashes of color on this gray seasonal palette.

 

 

 

[First posted: December 18, 2014]

 

 

 

 

 

Absorbing the warmth and light,
fluffed up and radiant,
a little sun ball of feathers.

 

 

 

 

 

(Speaking about warmth and light: Following last week's windstorm,
I was without power from 5:00 pm Thursday to 6:00 pm Saturday.
I've grown quite fond of the smell of oil lamps.)

 

 

 

 [First posted: December 15, 2014]

 

 

 

 

That time of year:
All fluffed up,
showing off one's stylish winter coat,
looking around to see who notices,
checking out the competition.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[First posted: November 24, 2014]

 

Dashing out the door yesterday morning, I was stopped in astonishment.

Up in the branches sat a magnificent owl, staring at me with an almost ethereal calm.

"Oh, wow," I whispered to him, "Don't move." I dropped my briefcase, unslung the camera from my shoulder and hurriedly removed it from its case.

This was a sign, I was sure, a sign for the day beginning. The owl was a symbol of wisdom to the ancient Greeks, a sacred bird from the other world, all seeing, all knowing...He was also a symbol of death's approach to the native Northwest coast peoples, but, if given the choice, I was feeling partial to the Greeks at the moment.

He sat up there, calmly observing me as I fumbled with the camera and kept begging him, "Don't fly away. Please don't fly away."

And he didn't. It was as if he knew that I meant him no harm, that we were brothers in spirit and that I honored his presence, that he and I were fellow creatures, both of us belonging to this hillside, equal in our right to be here, although I was the one stuck with paying the property taxes.

Or, maybe he was thinking, "This klutz can't be a threat to me. He can't fly. He can barely operate that camera--Oh, look, he's trying to take my picture with the lens cap on. How pathetic."

Anyway, I got his picture, determined he was a symbol of wisdom, and tootled off to work for the day.

 

 

 

[First posted: November 19, 2014]

 

 

Let both your living
and your dying
be beautiful,
be memorable

...and don't forget to compost.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[First posted: November 21, 2014]

 

 

This photo was a mistake (I love it when that happens.)

Standing in the bright sunlight, focusing on the rhododendron, I didn't notice the Buddha back in the shadows‐‐the shadows were much darker than this picture now cropped suggests.

But when I saw the photo, I was surprised--and delighted!--giving me metaphysical shivers.

The same surprise occasionally happens with my writing‐‐some plot twist I didn't see coming, or a deeper meaning to a story suddenly revealed‐‐and I think, "Wow, I would never have thought of that!"

And a voice from some deeper part of me whispers, You didn't.

 

 

 

[First posted: July 2, 2014]
 

 

 

 

Slightly used.

 

 

 

 

 

[First posted: July 7, 2014]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I watch the hummingbirds fight over the feeder, flaring their feathers at each other. Such territorial little fellows!

"There's more than enough for all of you," I want to tell them. "Have you considered sharing maybe?"

From what I see, they never really attack each other. Just a lot of hovering and zipping about with feather-flaring, trying to show who's the alpha hummingbird of the hillside. Almost human.

Pathetic.

 

 

 

 

 

 

[First posted: July 9, 2014]

 

 

 


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They zip, swoosh, and buzz-thrum about my head as I refill their feeders.

Cheeky little fellows!

I tell them, "Really, you want to be nice to me."

 

 

 

 

 

[First posted: July 15, 2014]

 

 


This time of year
I see foxgloves every day
as I go to work,
as I come home from work,
as I walk around this hillside.

But sometimes--
maybe it's a certain slant of light,
or a certain slant of mood--
I see through the lens
of the miraculous,
and it's heart stopping
(or starting.)

 

 

[First posted: July 17, 2014]