“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 . . .
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 . . .
As I walked into a patch of buckwheat, I was calmed and energized by the intense buzzing of bees around me. On a perfectly clear September day, the bees worked tirelessly and harmoniously to harvest nectar and pollen before winter. Their sounds and activity soothed me after days of news: the flood in Texas, the fires in the west and the . . .
My baby brother has always wanted to be safe. A picture of our family shows him at age four, nestled deep in my father's lap, holding a stuffed animal close. Last week, at age 64, he was holed up on the eleventh floor of a condominium high-rise in Jacksonville, Florida. The St. Johns River roiled below him. He and his wife were lucky: they . . .