And we say EPA is too costly

The fresh apple, still cold and crisp from the fridge, is not-me only until I eat it. When I eat, I eat the soil that nourished the apple. When I drink, the waters of the earth become me. With every breath, I take in I draw in not-me and make it me. With every breath out, I exhale me into not-me.

If the air and the waters and the soils are poisoned, I am poisoned. Only if I believe the fiction of the lines more that the truth of the lineless planet will I poison the earth, which is myself.

Donella H. Meadows 1941-2001

What is under the red bowl?

I always walk around the property when I have been gone for over 24 hours. Things change so dramatically. Buds unfurl, holes are dug, the labyrinth gets weedy. Nature is never still or silent, not really.

Recently I returned to find the big red bowl which usually sits on a limestone rock at the tea house entrance, turned over on a concrete paver. Odd, I thought, maybe the twins were playing or maybe Brad or Betty sat on it for some strange reason. There was a glass plate of cat food next to it. I imagined Betty sitting on it and petting Chester or Gold while he ate organic kibbles.

I reaching down to turn the bowl over, and something hissed loudly. " Snake," I thought. But I had a glimpse of grey fur, so I knew my first guess was wrong. Finding a copper pipe, I turned it over and there, coiled in a perfect circle, was the biggest opossum I have ever seen.

He was not happy, I had flipped his bowl. He snarled, hissed, and waddled into the forest. Chester and I looked at one another. I could tell his bb brain was confused also. Had the possum pulled the heavy bowl over on him? Had someone placed it over him? How long had he been covered? An enigma wrapped in a conundrum !

I Found A Thrill on Native Park Hill

Yes, I'm in this picture, but it is not in my jardin. Jake and Pam Ingram, Sally Robison and others are laboring to restore Native Plant Park. They have put in hours of labor to remove air potatoes and reintroduce native plants in a little neighborhood park that was dedicated to natives many, many years ago. After reading the book, Bowling Alone which describes my generation's retreat from the communal sphere, I am touched by folks who aren't secluded in their electronic cottages. Thanks, Jake,Pam, and Sally, you are restoring my faith in the possibility of averting the tragedy of the commons.

Love Brigade on the Lawn

They came again, the makeup artist, the hair designer, the videographer, the production manager, the bone thin models both male and female. Last year they came to shoot the view book on the river lawn, this year they came to do a video. They are infant entrepreneurs working hard to establish themselves, their line, their brand. Somehow my heart goes out to them. I remember my brief sojourn in NY. I remember sweating in winter wool for the December issue of the magazine. I remember the horrified shrieks of the hair folks when the hot lights made my curls sneak out from the shellacked 60's straightness that had been decreed by the fashion czars.I remember the sweet crooning of the photographer as he took the pictures and then handed his camera to the Asian assistant for instant reloading. There is no reloading now. There is only perpetuity.