Oh, there you are.

I don’t have half a mind to summarize or surmise the last long-while, but I suppose that bits and pieces will surface if I keep going. If you have half a mind to say hello and let me know your favorite part of today so far, I would smile to read it.

So here I am. And there you are. (I hope you are still with us, a lot has happened for everyone in the last not-so-lot of time.)

I dug more potatoes today. Elba, is their current name. I do wonder at the names of things before the names of things. I should wish I could hear them tell me how they like to be called. If someone we to call me by, say, Angela, I should not like that very much and may do my utmost to thwart whatever efforts they were making with me simply because they couldn’t care to get my name right.

So, Elba, I do apologize if you have an actual name. If you wanted to share it, I would gladly help you spread the word.

But alas, I think I can’t hear you. Not in the way you want. For my harvest is quite soundly thwarted compared to your cousins in neighboring soil. So I shan’t (y’all, let’s bring “shan’t” back, shall we?) be planting you again next year.

A few too many green skins, a much varied sizing. A tall yet flopping nature and I think not a flower to speak of.

Thank you, for your patience as I attempted to cultivate a relationship between you and I. It is, in fact, short-lived, just a season, as they say most relationships are meant to be.

Perhaps my loveliest love will hear your whispers. For while the time and space did not a bumper harvest make, we will still sop you in butter and appreciate your gifts.



An egg shell, cracked, and clean, below a nest up high. Beside the chair that holds the woman who holds her cat. Eighteen years gone by.

They’ll be here soon, to help him go, beneath the dancing leaves. The day is bright, crisp cool sun, a day I’d choose myself my day.

The blanket dries, freshly clean, dyed indigo in community. In celebration of a life, holding life, raw hope and love.

… I lost the words. I’ll miss you.

Failure to keep both gloves dry.

It’s been raining. All day. Yesterday. Days.

No one is at the gardens. In them.

I spray the lock.

I spray the handle.

I wonder: where will it wash to?

All the Lysol. All the alcohol.

The bleach and anti-

“Into the streams,” comes the answer.

From where? From whom?

From here.

A crown of onions, for which I was sent, unearthed.

A cascade of sky water rivulets with.each.thumb.press.

Adding fingers in their chill to the list of aches I feel from the world.

As I return home to the warmth awaiting, kindled long ago, preciously tended with moments stolen and savored as we exhale on.

Help the helpers.

I was a Mr. Rogers Neighborhood kid. Hopefully a lot of the good lessons sunk in although I don’t consciously remember many of them.

The one I do remember is that during times of fear or cruel realities, to look for the helpers.

Right now, across the world, those helpers are the medical workers, caretakers, and all of the team in support of our hospitals, elder care, and food access.

And they don’t have the help they need. They don’t have the masks, shields, and other Personal Protective Equipment (PPE) that they need to stay healthy themselves. The items that would prevent them from falling ill, infecting others, or having to stop helping.

We all know these people. We usually know many of them personally. It’s my nephew. It’s my Sister-in-law. It’s my friend’s husband and it’s my cousin’s husband. It’s more than that and for you, it might be even closer to home. Or personal.

Politics aside on how it got this bad, we need to put our feelings (fear, anger, blame, worry, all of it) toward love, hope, and helping.

This came to me today from my dad:


And maybe you do sew. Or maybe you don’t, but you have a weirdly large supply of elastic. Or some random wire to share.

Or a 3D printer.

So today, I’ll be dusting off (literally) my sewing machine. And dusting off my sewing skills (figuratively) to make what masks I have supplies to make.

The more we help one another, the more help there is.

Well that’s settled then.

The potatoes have returned from their freeze a month past.

And I’ve admitted that my current work is not healthy for me, aligned with me as a person, or necessary.

I don’t have much practice at quitting things. I hear that sticking up for yourself gets easier with practice. And practice takes starting.

Slowing between seasons.

And ready to.

We’ve been doing this every 3-5 days for weeks and weeks. The freezer is full, our friends are full, we’re full, everyone around us seems full of tomatoes.

And just like that, the heat comes, the season slows, and I start to scheme on the next season.


A little thumb “pushed the white circle” to capture this for us.

I’m drained today. In that mix of needing to take me time and not having the oompf to do it. Silly mix. Stutter step. Gotcha catch.