Category Archives: our times

January 2026: Finding Orcs; Still looking for Ents

On December 31 I began transferring information (e.g., addresses, names, passwords, odd little numbers whose meaning I no longer recall) from my 2025 weekly planner to my 2026 weekly planner. I have been doing this ritualistically for over ten years. I think I use this task as an opportunity to reflect on the past year and the people and things I love. I also transfer some lyrics from Neil Young’s song “Helpless.” I usually copy the first stanza, but sometime in 2025, I added two more lines into my planner: “Big birds flying across the sky, throwing shadows on our eyes.” I don’t exactly understand the lines, but I love big birds flying across the sky. In November 2025, Tom, George, Valerie, and I drove from Toledo to Cleveland the fun way–skirting Lake Erie. I saw three bald eagles flying across the sky. Speaking of shadows on our eyes, I had cataract surgery last June. That was something, i did not love, but I do love how the literal shadows on my eyes are gone so I can see more birds (of all sizes) flying. Other shadows remain, though. Working on transferring the addresses from the old planner to the new, I realized that now that my sister-in-law Nancy has died– my brother Roger (her husband) died in 2011–I no longer needed to copy their address and phone number into my new book. For a moment, that realization threw a shadow over my eyes and my heart.

weekly planners

Trees I have been thinking about trees again (or still). About two weeks ago, I finished the book, The Twilight Forest: An Elegy for Ponderosa in a Changing West by Gary Ferguson. Throughout, the book expressed Ferguson’s love for the ponderosa pine trees (Pinus ponderosa). The book contained facts, figures, and anecdotes about this species that I also love.* Ferguson explains that ponderosa pines are under extreme duress because of historically misguided forest fire policies and climate change. I wanted to run off and hug a ponderosa, but they live a long way from Arlington, Virginia.

In July of 2025 I wrote about the forest fire on the North Rim of the Grand Canyon. The North Rim is on the Kaibab Plateau, which is part of the largest contiguous ponderosa pine forest in the United States. For Tom and me and many of our close friends, this is a place of special meaning and power. May the ponderosas–and all animals, plants, and humans that depend on them–survive their travails.

ponderosas on the Widforss Trail, North Rim May 23, 2024

Tolkien and Trees As I mentioned in September 2025, I set out to read The Lord Of the Rings one more time. I finished the trilogy some time around the end of October. As ever when reading LOTR, I found myself captivated by and immersed in the world of Middle Earth. This time, more than ever, I found Tolkien’s (almost constant) descriptions of nature to be vivid, realistic, and comforting. In fact, I found my latest reading of The Lord of the Rings so joyous and therapeutic that I hope I will stick around on my particular earth long enough to read it yet another time.

Since rereading the series, I have been thinking of the Hobbits and the Elves, the Orcs and the Ents, and the other peoples of Middle Earth. I have had cause to think about Orcs and their destruction of trees and other living things. On December 31, I read the Washington Post article: “New Images Offer Closer Look at Demolition for White House Ballroom, “ by Jonathan Edwards.** The article reported:

Sept. 18

A crew finishes razing a towering oak, a task that took six days and required ropes, a wood chipper and a hydraulic bucket truck. Workers systematically sheared off limbs before cutting the tree’s trunk into chunks, until only a stump remained.

Destroying for no good reason “towering” oak trees–beloved of squirrels, Druids, environmentalists, and me–sounds like the work of latter-day Orcs. I see the works of the Orcs around me. I am still searching for the Ents, guardians of the trees.

However, I am not overly downcast. The Solstice has passed and light is coming. Around here, 2025 was a mast year*** for the oaks, so there has been a wealth of acorns. The other day, I fancied I was seeing more activity among the neighborhood crows. I expect the mourning doves to start investigating our balcony for a nesting site in the next month or two. The plants on our balcony are restive; the parsley is growing. Bottom line: until we discover the Ents, we will keep on keeping on as best as we can. Happy New Year.

* I note that I have used “love” many times in this article. I am not trying to be syrupy. Still, for me (and others, I believe) it is a time of high emotion and I am saying what I mean. Plus, at 76 years old, I no longer have the luxury of mincing my words, waiting for the perfect time to say what I mean.

**If you don’t have a subscription to the Washington Post, you may not be able to access this article, but I thought it was worth trying to share it.

*** You can read about mast years in this article from the Potomac Conservancy.

Puzzled, Edgy, and Seeking Comfort

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Puzzled For the last several months, I have been working assiduously on a variety of puzzles–even more than I had done previously (as a retired person with too much time on her hands). The New York Times informed me this morning that I have played 663 games of their online Spelling Bee. That’s my favorite game. For a year or so, I also worked on the Times’ Connections. Now, because the newspaper doesn’t allow each of us to work separately on this puzzle, it’s Tom’s year to play. I enjoyed playing Connections, but I only solved the puzzle about 68% of the time. I also play Strands, which is a simple wordfind puzzle. Simple though the puzzle may be, I often have to use several hints to complete it. About the same time I started working on Connections, I started playing Wordle on NYT. I was never very good at it and had little patience for it. I think I had little patience because I wasn’t very good at it. In addition, I didn’t bond with the format. All these puzzles have led me to think about the way my brain works (or doesn’t work). For over a decade, Tom and I have worked on crossword puzzles. We worked on them when we still subscribed to paper versions of The Washington Post and the The New York Times. When we were traveling and camping a great deal, we always had our trusty NYT crossword books with us. Now, I usually work on some Post crosswords and help Tom on some of the Times crosswords.

You may have seen those articles about how crosswords (and other puzzles) may (or may not) help old people retain high cognitive functioning. Who knows? So far, though, I am with my friend, Laura, who posits that people who work on puzzles become adept at doing those puzzles. I have recently taken up Sudoku again. More about that below.

Edgy An example of how edgy I have been lately: I was just writing this section of the article, but I felt the need to pause to reply to a political email from one of my score of anti-Trump friends. I try. I really try to avoid overdosing on the Trumpworld news of the corrupt and the deranged. This far into the regime, I am only so successful at tamping down my anxiety. I am trying to do my part, but I need to do more. I need to do more than make a few calls and write a few emails, go to a couple of marches, surreptitiously place immigrant rights cards in stores and restaurants, and give a little money to the ACLU. I am trying to work harder to help preserve our government, our land, and our people from the would-be autocrats and their orcs.

my tee shirt for the gym and protests, circa early 2017

Franklin Park, May 1, 2025, MWashington D.C

Franklin Park, May 1, 2025, Washington D.C.

caricature, Franklin Square protest, May 1, 2025

my sign of the times, May 1, 2025

Puzzled and Edgy I am going nuts on the puzzles because they calm me down. Concentrating on becoming a “genius” in Spelling Bee every morning keeps me from reading too many news articles. I took up Sudoku again because, before bed, if I am not working on a crossword, I can fill my mind with nine digits again and again until it is time to sleep. I am puzzled about how day after day, illogical, unconstitutional, unethical, and cruel things happen in this country I love. Most of my life (white and middle class though I am) I have been aware of the many persistent problems facing our nation (e.g., racism, sexism, homophobia, access to healthcare, extreme wealth inequality, environmental issues, climate change, education, and more). In my own small way, I have tried to help work on some of these problems. I saw good (not perfect) things happening in the United States. Now, I am puzzled about how our society has veered into this ugly corner. It seems like we are in a horrible mash-up of the bumper cars and the haunted house in a carnival run by stupid and evil clowns. You can see I am feeling on edge. Lately, I have to keep reminding myself to take deep meditative breaths.

I am Seeking Comfort and I am relieved that I am finding it in many ways.

I have been working harder on my high-intensity interval training (HIIT). My 75 year old version of this exercise may be laughable to the younger and more fit, but working out as hard and sweaty as I can, relieves my anxiety and, generally, makes me feel more optimistic for much of a day.
I take walks alone, with Tom, with our daughter, Sarah, and with my friend, Donna. I watch and hear the birds. I see the trees. Occasionally, I hug them. I feel more calm when I walk among the trees–whether they are in large forests (G. Richard Thompson Wildlife Management Area) or in one acre parks in densely urban settings (Hillside Park). I see flowers everywhere this time of year and that makes me happy. I also feel hopeful when I see more and more native plants growing in yards and parks.
Tom and I have filled our balcony with plants in tubs and pots. Our old iron birdbath is our current rock garden. We have put in a small bed of native plants at Sarah and Mike’s house. I spend some happy time there hacking back the English ivy and white mulberries.
Tom does most of the cooking and I do most of the cleaning up. Even though I am also a good cook, I like it that way. Cleaning our tiny kitchen gives me more small, repetitive tasks that make me feel efficient and help keep the zeitgeist at bay. I still find pleasure in making the occasional pie, soup, or loaf of bread.

tulip poplar, Ft. C.F. Smith, May 2025

native plants on the balcony, May 26, 2025

rhubarb pie

Bedrock I am lucky to have family (human, avian, and canine) and friends whom I love and who love me. Since I was 17, John Lennon has been telling me, “All you need is love.” I am not sure that is accurate, but it is my mantra now during these difficult times. Please be well.

December 2024: Melancholy, Memories, and Marcescence

November 2024

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Preparations A few hours ago, I separated a pot of anthuriums and made two pots. Yesterday, I picked my remaining little red Thai peppers. I dehydrated them in the oven and now they are ready for spicy winter meals. I also separated my chives into three pots. It’s high time as they have been pot-bound for a year or two. I love chives because, while keeping a low profile and causing no problems, they produce healthy bits of green for salads and soups throughout the year. A week or so ago, I repotted my bay plant and brought it inside for the winter. I am not sure whether or not I will bring the rosemary in for the winter. Our weather forecast is for another warm winter. Besides, through the years, I haven’t noticed that my rosemary plants have enjoyed being inside. Thyme, Italian oregano, and mint are happy where they are, whatever weather comes.

anthurium

Yesterday, when Tom and I went to the grocery store, I stocked up a bit. A few more rolls of toilet paper and paper towels and an extra jar of peanut butter, nothing much. Later on at the drugstore, I picked up vitamins on the the “buy one, get another at 50% off” deal and, as is my habit, I snagged two bags of Starbucks French roast coffee on sale. I received our allotment of free Covid tests several weeks ago. I ordered a new pair of jogging shoes (I mostly walk) that should arrive tomorrow. I also have cleaned two drawers and my closet is next on the list.

I am preparing. I always enjoy preparing for the dark months of winter. I sometimes wonder if this strong need is in my DNA from my German and Scottish ancestors. This year is different, though, I think my preparations help keep me from worrying too much about next week’s election.

More preparations for the election:

I voted at the Ellen M. Bozman Government Center on September 23, 2024.
I recently paid my yearly dues for Common Cause and ACLU.
I sent five small donations to the Democratic Party.
With my friend Donna, I saw a timely production of Romeo and Juliet at the Folger Theatre.
With Tom and other volunteers, I planted native trees at the Allie S. Freed Park in Arlington, Virginia.
In the last few weeks, Tom and I have visited the National Gallery, the Hirshhorn Museum, the National Museum of the American Indian, and several Smithsonian gardens.
In October, I flew to Salt Lake City to talk with dear friends again (See Roads).
I keep reading, most recently Camino Ghosts by John Grisham and Nature’s Temples: A Natural History of Old-Growth Forests by Joan Maloof.
I walk in the beautiful fall.

Romeo and Juliet, Folger Theatre

asters, Red Butte Garden and Arboretum Salt Lake City, Utah

Camino Ghosts and Nature’s Temple

When I was walking in the neighborhood yesterday, instead of Yeats or Wordsworth or Shakespeare, in my head, I heard the words from Small Faces from “Itchycoo Park“: “It’s all too beautiful.” I am a child of my generation. What I really think, though, is that it is all so beautiful. Troubled and complicated as it is, I don’t want our American democracy to end at the hands of a racist, sexist, narcissistic fascist and his collaborators. November 5, 2024 is Election Day and also my 75th birthday. I have been pretty lucky in this life so far; I am hoping the luck of our country holds firm and strong on Tuesday.

Some photos that make me feel calmer and more hopeful before Election Day:

black walnut, Ft. C.F. Smith, Arlington, Virginia

upper path, Theodore Roosevelt Island

Widforss Trail, North Rim, Grand Canyon

Sleeping Bear National Lakeshore

Shenandoah National Park

pearl crescent on white snakeroot

Bear Lake State Park, Idaho

The Needles, Canyonlands National Park

Union Bay, Lake Superior

January 6, 2024

August 2022: Both Sides Now

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*Clouds at Point Imperial, North Rim of the Grand Canyon, September 2018*

Like some others, I have been thinking about Joni Mitchell this past week. Mitchell* performed at the Newport Folk Festival on July 24, 2022 after not performing an entire set for many years. Unlike some of my friends, I haven’t listened to her much this last week. Not sure why that is, but I think it might be because Joni Mitchell is already in my blood like holy wine.

Some of you have heard this story before (and some of you lived it with me), but I want to write about it again. I am writing this article sitting in my chair. No music now, but there are clouds off to the right through the balcony window.

*my chair below the Joni Mitchell drawing***

I think I first listened to Joni Mitchell’s music in the fall of 1968 when I was not quite 19 years old. It is possible that I heard Judy Collin’s version of “Both Sides Now” before I heard Mitchell’s own version. I liked both versions–then and now. Soon after, I heard Mitchell’s albums, probably on one of my college roommate’s record player. Then and now, when I hear those words and that voice–or just think of them as I am doing now–I am transported to another place. There is pain in that place, but the words and the voice I hear sing a strong and healing magic.

For several years when I was young, I would sing Joni Mitchell, Judy Collins, and Joan Baez songs. This was quite a feat because I can’t–and never could–sing well, so I sang when I was alone. I sang Mitchell’s “Michael from Mountains,” “Tin Angel,” and “Blue” thinking of Tom. Sometimes I would sing as I walked at Lone Rock beach at Lake Powell near where I taught or while I drove the back roads of the Intermountain West, where I often didn’t have radio reception.

In 1973, I received a teaching fellowship for a Master’s degree in English at the University of Utah in Salt Lake City. That was great (except for the stipend, of course, which was a meager $2,000 per year). Many of my Grand Canyon friends were in Salt Lake at the time and I met another lifelong friend there, my fellow teacher, Laura. I was still bewitched by the songs of Joni Mitchell and, because I wanted to study the English words that meant a great deal to me, I decided to write a thesis on the lyrics in Mitchell’s songs.

Many things happened: I taught freshman composition classes including reviewing hundreds of essays, I got married and shortly Tom and I were expecting a child. My plan on the thesis was to finish it before our first child was to be born in May of 1975. With one thing and another, I finally finished the thesis not long before our second child was born in May of 1977. Our friends from back in the day may remember me listening, writing, rewriting, stalling, obsessing, and worrying about the paper. I had elements of the thesis in various states of readiness for months, but the final version came together when I was able to spend a week working alone at our friend Sally’s apartment. My thesis was accepted and I remember the kind words of Professor Phil Sullivan–an aging hippie among the more standard issue faculty I had at Utah. Phil agreed with me that music lyrics could indeed be poetry. Rest in peace, Phil.

Note: You can tell how long ago all of this was because my thesis only covers Mitchell through Hissing of Summer Lawns (1975). It was also so long ago that I needed to hire a typist to type/format my paper into a form that the university would accept. That cost some money. What I remember most, though is how much it cost to copy the thesis. I wanted to make a copy of the thesis to send to Joni Mitchell. Each page back then would cost about one dollar to make a good copy. At a little over 100 pages, I didn’t feel I could afford to copy the thesis to send. I didn’t really know where I might send it anyhow. A Grecian Isle, a red dirt road in Spain, or California? Years passed. Mitchell kept writing, composing, and painting. I kept parenting, gardening, working (mostly in education), and listening to music.

Mitchell sang “Both Sides Now” at the Newport Folk Festival on July 24. I did listen to it and I loved the rendition. Both Joni Mitchell and I are old now, so we have had ample opportunity to look at both sides of our lives with all those illusions and that winning and losing. I don’t really know life at all, but I am okay with that. I remember and still believe what Mitchell said in “Woodstock”: “I don’t know who I am but life is for learning.”

With all the years of loving, winning, losing, and learning in my life, I was happy this morning to see that I still agree with the final sentence of my thesis: “Joni Mitchell, for her part, writes song poetry the way Dylan Thomas would have it, as ‘the rhythmic, inevitably narrative movement from overclothed blindness to a naked vision.'”

*When I started writing this piece, I automatically started writing “Joni” instead of “Joni Mitchell” or “Mitchell.” I don’t write “Will” for William Butler Yeats and I realize I want to equally acknowledge Mitchell’s gravitas, so I have written about her here formally.

**Artist and friend Howard Brough drew this portrait as a wedding gift for Tom and me in 1974. Howard also drew illustrations for Mitchell songs and two more portraits, which were included in the thesis. Thank you, Howard.

Almost Summer 2022

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I have so many people and things to be grateful for and so many things to be worried and sad about that I find my thoughts and feelings ricocheting around in my aging brain. Because I feel lousy today (two negative Covid tests so far, but, who knows) I am trying to settle down and write. Note: It is now two days later and I am still feeling a little weary, but now I have bored myself so thoroughly, that I am writing again.

Grateful I know I have written this litany before, but here it is again: Family, friends, nature.

Worry and sadness Some part of me has felt worried and sad since the 2016 election. I take that back: I was worried and sad before, after Sandy Hook in 2012. Surely, I thought, we will change our laws and our society now. I had similar thoughts after Abu Ghraib. Heck, I thought things would change after Mai Lai. I must have told you this before as well: I thought we good-hearted and idealistic people would put an end to war (and ethnocentrism, inequality, etc. ) back in the 1960s. I am, of course, reeling over the pandemic, Ukraine, Uvalde and all the rest.

I also worry and sometimes feel sad about those on the my “grateful” list. I worry about my family near and far, friends here and there, and nature everywhere.

My assignment In high school, I was noted among my friends as a “stable” person. Not sure what that actually meant. Most of the time through the years, I have continued to be a glass half-full sort of person. I lean toward the hopeful side. I think I lean that way because my loved ones modeled that stance for me and it has helped me throughout my life. So, now, that I have used this post to clarify my thoughts and feelings, I need to drink from that half-full glass again. My soul drinks in words, photos, and music.

Words

I have been thinking about William Wordsworth lately. That’s partly because my friends Donna and David will be walking in the Lake District this June, but also because my brother Dan loved Wordsworth. Plus, I think Wordsworth has some words for us:

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers,
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.—Great God! I’d rather be
A pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn. (circa 1802)

sign seen at Van Aken Market Hall, Shaker Heights, Ohio

Photos

native spiderwort, Hillside Park, Arlington, Virginia

redbuds, Sky Meadows State Park

tulip poplar flower

pawpaw flower, Sky Meadows State Park

pitch pine, New Jersey Pine Barrens

planting common milkweed along the W & OD Trail, Arlington, Virginia

Cook Forest State Park, Pennsylvania

swallowtail–first of the season

Photo and music

oak trees Westbound Van Aken Boulevard, Shaker Heights, Ohio

“Because,” John Lennon and Paul McCartney, 1969

Spring 2022

Happy New Year, 2022

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When I first considered writing this article, I briefly thought about calling it just “New Year, 2022.” This would be my snarky comment about the state of the continuing pandemic, our national politics, climate disasters, and just about everything else. My terse title would say: nope, not expecting happy things this year either. Almost immediately, though, I remembered that snarky and cynical don’t look well on me. More importantly, I see that all jumbled up with my weariness and anxiety are bits of happiness (or contentment or, at least, acceptance).*

January 31 As it is, I have put off finishing this post until the last day of the month. Luckily, Lunar New Year is beginning, so I am coming in just under the wire. Here is a list of things that make me feel better about going into a new year. I need this list to remind myself of all the good parts of my life.

The people abide. I walk by playgrounds and I see children playing as they always do. Parents are keeping an eye on the kids as parents do. Every time we go to the National Mall, Tom and I see people enjoying the museums, gardens, the ice rink, and food trucks. Despite the continual dose of disturbing news–let alone the wars and rumors of wars–I see helpers and kind people around me every day. I see the workers at my condo and my local grocery store, and those who seek out and help all the lost and lonely ones.

My county still has heart. Tom and I first moved to Arlington County, Virginia in June 1978 and have lived here on an off since. Our children went to school here. In the 1980s we lived a couple blocks from Arlington CentraI Library where I worked part-time. Later I taught immigrants and refugees in Arlington. We were here on September 11, 2001 and saw the Pentagon burning. Again, three decades later, we live a couple blocks from Central Library. Now, in Covid times, Central Library has free WiFi for all in the parking lot, a food pantry, a vegetable patch, and is surrounded by a native plant garden. Most importantly, perhaps, is the library’s strong stand as a safe place for everyone in the community.

*Arlington Central Library, Arlington, Virginia*

Nature comforts me. I find both wonder and solace in the plants, animals, rocks, and sky that I encounter.

Dawn comes. Every day we see the morning light. We follow that light through the day until it is evening. All the light warms us.

We have family, friends, music, and food. I remember the many good parts of my life. I also remember those who have gone. I have listened to Tom play Mozart sonatas almost every day of the pandemic and I feel lucky. It’s the time of year when I remember “Auld Lang Syne.” I shiver or cry or both when I hear the song. I want and need that cup.

For old acquaintance be forgot
And never brought to mind
Should old acquaintance be forgot
In the days of auld lang syne?

For auld lang syne, my dear
For auld lang syne
We’ll drink a cup of kindness yet
For the sake of auld lang syne

Hope is still around here somewhere. So many words from the wise ones exhort people to live for the day, be in the present, etc. I am on board with that-not that I can do it all that much. I still spend plenty of emotional time in the past and the future, and I am not sure that is all bad. Just a couple of weeks ago, I made camping reservations for early June in Arizona and Utah. Tom and I don’t know how we will feel or how things will be shaping up with the pandemic. We don’t know much of anything. However, we remember the places and people we love from the old days. Maybe we can get to the North Rim another time. Maybe we can visit Capitol Reef and camp on the Aquarius Plateau. Maybe we can go back to Fishlake National Forest and be near Pando (a clonal colony of quaking aspen considered by some to be the largest single living organism on earth) one more time. Maybe we will drink a cup of kindness again with the friends of our youth (now of our age). I am hoping.

I recently bought a new head lamp. I am hoping it will lead me through dark nights to bright dawns.

*If I were grading this essay, I would comment on the need for more specific language than “happiness” or “contentment.” I hope the examples and the photos add some heft to the words. Happy New Year! (Added 1/31/2022: Chúc mừng năm mới).

Summer 2021, Part 2: Photos

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This summer–like all the other summers I’ve known–seems beautiful.* Even with the loss, the sickness, the uncertainty, the worry, the fires, the floods, the wars, and all the rest of it, I am trying (fitfully, I admit) to see some good in this world. I do see it in my stalwart family and friends and in the sky, plants, and animals. I don’t have much to say, at least much that is new, but I hope you enjoy the photos.

*Bartholdi Fountain, Bartholdi Park, Washington, D.C.*

*milkweed longhorn beetle (genus Tetraopes) Mt. Cuba Center, Hockessin, Delaware*

*garden–inside and outside of our condo*

*Regional Garden, U.S. Botanic Gardens, Washington, D.C.*

*bee on pickerel weed, Regional Garden, U.S. Botanic Gardens, Washington, D.C.*

*New York ironweed (Vernonia noveboracensis), Hillside Park, Arlington, Virginia*

*bishop’s hat (Epimedium brachyrrhizum), Mary Livingston Ripley Garden*

*tawny (?) skipper on unidentified flower*

*wingstem (Verbesina alternifolia), Hillside Park*, *Arlington, Virginia*

*Sometimes I find it difficult to be hopeful without sounding like some superannuated, prissy Pollyanna. I really don’t think I am a Pollyanna; I think I am more of an inveterate idealist. Whatever I might be, I still find myself sad and angry quite often. For example, yesterday I discovered that someone had ripped out the two pink fuzzybean plants off a trellis in Hillside Park. I had transplanted these plants from Arlington’s native plant nursery last fall. I watched the plants as they came up in late spring and cheered them on as they grew up the trellis and spread wider and wider flinging out their green leaves to the wider world. Did someone think they were getting rid of noxious weeds? Was some person or persons just wreaking a little casual cruelty on the park? I don’t know, of course, but I was sad and angry. It was a petty little anger amid the current sorrows of the world and of humankind. However, the hopeful part of me is wondering now whether the plants will grow back from their roots in another season. I wish them well.

Close to the Ground: Living Inductively

Lynda Terrill

Category Archives: our times

January 2026: Finding Orcs; Still looking for Ents

Sept. 18

Puzzled, Edgy, and Seeking Comfort

December 2024: Melancholy, Memories, and Marcescence

November 2024

January 6, 2024

August 2022: Both Sides Now

Almost Summer 2022

Spring 2022

Happy New Year, 2022

Summer 2021, Part 2: Photos