At a Drum Circle to Honor the Ancestors
“Did you get any pictures?”asked one woman after the drum circle ended. No, I replied. I had been so moved by the event, that I did not want to step away from it. I will describe the event for you.
The farm holds a Drum Circle to Honor the Ancestors in our large barn on the first Saturday in November. The barn's hand-hewn . . .
On Sunday, a close friend arrived with another friend early afternoon. She had said she would drive to the farm after church, if she was able. This was the last really warm day: frost was predicted for Tuesday morning. Then the flowers would wilt with the frost and fade. These two women, both octogenarians, were blossoming in their . . .
The clouds are low and grey; rain is expected later today. We have just had 23 straight days without rain, with high temperatures in the high 80's—about 15 degrees warmer than usual for mid-October. Several friends and acquaintances have asked how the farm is doing. I usually say something like, “The farm is still going and so am . . .
This morning, a friend shared that as a young black girl in segregated Cincinnati, she finally got to go to the public library to check out books. Previously, she had been allowed to walk to the black school close to her home where she had read almost every book. She told the story in her authentic voice and conveyed such mixed emotions! I . . .
“The Earth, the air, the fire, the water, return, return, return, return,” this chant calls for us to focus on the elemental forces of nature. Few events are more elemental than gathering around a fire with the chill in the air on a fall evening. Little feeds us more easily or more deeply than such connection.
After a puppet show . . .
“Are figs your favorite fruit?” a young volunteer asked me as we walked toward the fig trees on the east side of my barn. He had just read my blog about figs and kisses. “No, not really.” I replied. His question led me to reflect: why had these figs touched me so deeply?
Fresh figs have come to me relatively late in my . . .
Figs are like kisses: they can be miserable; they can be just so-so, or they can send you places you never imagined. With figs, as with kisses, so much depends on timing and attentiveness. You must wait, anticipating that something wonderful is close. If the moment opens (and you never know for sure until it does), the meeting can transport . . .