Deep peace of the quiet earth to you. 

Heartbreakingly noble.

January 4, 2017


This photo was taken years ago while on retreat in Sedona, AZ. I loved the desert for the same reason I love Maine--for the sheer bloody-minded impossibility and stubbornness of it all--landscape, people, flora, fauna. There is an inventiveness in these difficult places that so appeals to me. We do things because that's how they were done long before, by those who didn't live to see how their well-it-works-for-me system survived them, was added to, improved or simplified. 


I like being out of the way. I like spending as little time in front of screens/indoors as possible. I like stepping back, looking at a physical problem (how the hell *do* I get this cord of wood from the yard to the shed without a wheelbarrow??), staring at the space around me, the materials available, and coming up with a solution as if by magic. 


But it's not magic (well, it is)--everything we need for the job is here, oftentimes. And if it's not, we'll figure it out--sometimes by moving on to another project before getting back to the one that was such a pain to begin with, and often armed with new perspective. 


This is the work of time, of generations, and also of an endless series of questions and silence.


And waiting. There's a lot of waiting.

But we are inventors. We live while we wait. 












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This Quiet Earth