Frightening the foliage from its sleep, we travel along the Quinault Lake Loop in our big red truck.
Roofed by dank rainforest, we know we are not alone, though we see no bird, no beast.
You say, It’s beautiful, but do we really belong here where creatures hide? Then an elk herd stomps across
the dirt road, and you brake, shocked. The fattest turns to stare over his long beard. To know or warn us.
Yes, my love, we belong, but on soil-stained knees, asking for each wild thing’s consent to stand. ~Lauren Davis, Home Beneath the Church
I’ve been to the temperate rainforest on the Olympic Peninsula, only a short ferry ride and two hour drive away, where 300 year old trees tethered to one another with connecting crepe of dangling moss, hiding the creatures within, taking all down with them if they someday fall to the wind, lying still, nursing the growth of the next generation’s seeds from long rotting trunks.
We can only pass through this place, having been banished from the Garden.
We are not to dwell or cut or shoot or burn or slash, at risk of being ensnared by reaching fingers of moss seeking yet another woody heart to soften
Whispering grassfeet steal through us fir-fingers touch one another where the paths meet thick dripping resin glues us together summer-greedy woodpeckers hammer at hardy seed-hiding hearts ~Inger Christensen trans. Susanna Nied
AI image created for this post
One-Time
Monthly
Yearly
Make a one-time or recurring donation to support daily Barnstorming posts
The sacred rights of mankind are not to be rummaged for, among old parchments, or musty records. They are written, as with a sun beam, in the whole volume of human nature, by the hand of the divinity itself; and can never be erased or obscured by mortal power. ~Alexander Hamilton, from “The Farmer Refuted”
What sparkling flashes of God’s wit and brilliance— His coruscations— have caused your mind today to run back up the sunbeam to the sun and given you cause to give thanks and to worship the Lord? ~C.S. Lewisfrom Letters to Malcolm: Chiefly on Prayer
photo by Nate Gibson
God illuminates through His Word, not once but twice.
In the beginning, He created the sun and the moon to shine upon bodies, hearts, and souls.
Then, He came to light the world from below as well as from above so we could be saved from darkness.
By His descent to us, because He leaves heaven’s light to be in our arms and by our sides- He illuminates us so we reflect the light He brings: loved saved despite all our efforts to remain in the dark.
photo by Nate GibsonAI image created for this post
One-Time
Monthly
Yearly
Make a one-time or recurring donation to support daily Barnstorming posts
Green was the silence, wet was the light the month of June trembled like a butterfly ~Pablo Neruda from “Sonnet XL”
Why do we bother with the rest of the day, the swale of the afternoon, the sudden dip into evening, then night with his notorious perfumes, his many-pointed stars?
This is the best— throwing off the light covers, feet on the cold floor, and buzzing around the house on espresso— maybe a splash of water on the face, a palmful of vitamins—
but mostly buzzing around the house on espresso, dictionary and atlas open on the rug, the typewriter waiting for the key of the head, a cello on the radio, and, if necessary, the windows— trees fifty, a hundred years old out there, heavy clouds on the way and the lawn steaming like a horse in the early morning. ~Billy Collins “Morning”
We are now four days into summer but aside from the date on the calendar, it would be difficult to prove otherwise. After a dry stretch of warm late spring weather, it is now unseasonably cool, the skies stony gray, the rivers running full and fast, the ground peppered with puddles. Rain has fallen at night, hiding behind the cover of darkness as if ashamed of itself.
As it should be.
What all this moisture will yield is acres and acres of towering grass growth, more grass than imaginable, more grass than we can keep mowed, burying the horses up to their backs as they dive head long into the pasture. The Haflingers don’t need to lower their necks to graze, choosing instead to simply strip off the ripe tops of the grasses as they forge paths through five foot forage. It is like children at a birthday party swiping the frosting off cupcake after cupcake, licking their fingers as they go. Instead of icing, the horses’ muzzles are smeared with dandelion fluff, grass seed and buttercup petals.
In the northwest, June can tend to shroud its promise of longer days under clouds. Outdoor weddings brace for rain and wind with a supply of umbrellas, graduation potlucks are served in the garage and Fourth of July picnics stay safely under cover. There is a wary anticipation of solstice as it signals the slow inexorable return of darkness from which we have barely recovered.
So I tremble as I too splash through the squishiness of late June, quivering like a wet butterfly emerging from its cocoon ready to unfurl its wings to dry, but unsure how to fly and uncertain of the new world that awaits. In fact the dark empty cocoon can look mighty inviting on a rainy June night. If I could manage to squeeze myself back in, it might be worth a try.
After all, there is no place like home.
One-Time
Monthly
Yearly
Make a one-time or recurring donation to support daily Barnstorming posts
Our shadows bring them from the shadows: a yolk-yellow one with a navy pattern like a Japanese woodblock print of fish scales. A fat 18-karat one splashed with gaudy purple and a patch of gray. One with a gold head, a body skim-milk-white, trailing ventral fins like half-folded fans of lace. A poppy-red, faintly disheveled one, and one, compact, all indigo in faint green water. They wear comical whiskers and gather beneath us as we lean on the cement railing in indecisive late-December light, and because we do not feed them, they pass, then they loop and circle back. Loop and circle. Loop. “Look,” you say, “beneath them.” Beneath them, like a subplot or a motive, is a school of uniformly dark ones, smaller, unadorned, perhaps another species, living in the shadow of the gold, purple, yellow, indigo, and white, seeking the mired roots and dusky grasses, unliveried, the quieter beneath the quiet. ~Susan Kolodny “Koi Pond, Oakland Museum”
The boardwalk, a treachery of feathers ready to receive another broken bone, looms just above the surface. Step deliberately when approaching. With few exceptions, ice has claimed this part of the pond.
This is where you see her, moving through what free water remains: a sluggish ghost in the shadows, slow, conserving the fragile heat she still has in this late winter. A canopy of juniper dressed with light snow overhangs, watching.
Last year, a quorum of her kind was lost, turned to stone, to frigid silence. She doesn’t know that story, but some instinct guides her to keep what warmth she can, to cruise in stubborn torpor.
In her drift, she remembers the summer, her long, languid vowels, the accompanying texts of her companions. How they interwove manuscripts, narrations of sky, tree, sun, and moon. Warm days are a memory now, and thoughts rest lightly in her body.
She has held the same posture for an hour. Her bones have reached a conclusion— an idea about hope itself— there, near the indifferent bridge, inches from the force that will take her ~Carolyn Adams, “Koi Pond” from Going Out to Gather
The water going dark only makes the orange seem brighter, as you race, and kiss, and spar for food, pretending not to notice me. For this gift of your indifference, I am grateful. I will sit until the pond goes black, the last orange spark extinguished. ~Robert Peake from “Koi Pond”
Koi and goldfish thrived in our pond after we covered it with netting, finally thwarting the herons arriving at dawn for breakfast.
Thus protected, our fish grew huge, celebrating each feeding with a flurry of tail flips and gaping mouths as I tossed pellets to them each evening.
When the pond cooled in the fall and sometimes ice-covered in winter, the fish settled at the bottom, barely moving silhouettes of color in the darkness. Spring would warm them to action again. As the water temperature rose, so did they, eager and hungry to flash their color and fins again.
Two winters ago, the chill winds and low temperatures lasted longer than usual. As the pond ice began to melt, the fish at the bottom remained still as stones. Netting them for burial felt like burying the sun and the moon and the stars, relegating their rainbows of light and color deep into the earth.
No longer would their colorful glory shine, an illumination now extinguished.
I haven’t had the heart to try again. I need a pond heater, a new filter system, and a total clean out of the pond if I am going to restock.
But then I remember the joy of feeding those flashes of fins and fish mouths, so I just might try again.
Rainbows promise to return, even from buried stone.
AI image created for this post
Lyrics From the love of my own comfort From the fear of having nothing From a life of worldly passions Deliver me O God From the need to be understood From the need to be accepted From the fear of being lonely Deliver me O God And I shall not want I shall not want When I taste Your goodness I shall not want From the fear of serving others From the fear of death or trial From the fear of humility Deliver me O God
One-Time
Monthly
Yearly
Make a one-time or recurring donation to support daily Barnstorming posts
A day is nothing if not a disappearing act held fast by ropes of sunlight and breeze until rain comes or a tree coughs to shake night along;
then there are the shadows that feel like yesterday’s distance but become only apparitions when we haul them into light or move beyond their pull—
I wish for mornings, still, days full of violets— and the beautiful clouds, where in their always- disappearing, their solemn ache, I find poems. ~Sarah Etlinger “Evanescence (with Clouds)” from The Weather Gods
I look for poems everywhere, even in colorless misty mornings, chill and stormy winds, humid breathless afternoons.
It is as if a Poet is saying to me: I feel this ache today. You too?
One-Time
Monthly
Yearly
Make a one-time or recurring donation to support daily Barnstorming posts
Not our garage cat, our upper barn cat, our lower barn cat or those that come and go on the farm because we’re a hospitable place where food is always on the table.
He was the king of the farm cats. No one questioned him (usually) and no one occupied his front porch bench/throne without his express permission. His Majesty showed mercy to any who showed proper submission, and every once in awhile, that included the dogs.
He trained every pup here over the years.
He was the official front porch farm greeter, rising from his throne cushion to investigate any newcomer walking up the sidewalk, mewing a cheerful little “chirp” of a meow in welcome. Then he turned around and returned to his perch.
José was a performance cat, having been trained in his younger years to ride on a bareback pad on our Haflingers, at walk, trot and over jumps (sorry, no pictures). This once again proved his ability to get any creature, large or small, to submit to his will.
The only love of his life was our daughter, Lea. As José arrived to our farm at an indeterminate age, we didn’t really know how many years he would be with us. Before Lea headed off to college, and when home on breaks, they had many happy snuggles together for nearly 15 years.
During our harsh winter storms, José would move to a warm farm building with all the necessary provisions until the storm was done, then reclaim his favorite spot on the front porch when he deemed it cozy enough to be worthy of him.
After one particularly nasty storm, when the cold northeast wind went away, José didn’t return from his hiding place.
I looked, I called, I left goodies out. But no José. No chirpy meow, no yellow-eyed gaze, no black velvet fur to stroke, no rumbly purr to vibrate in my lap. I think this tough cat chose a bad winter to leave for warmer quarters far far away.
I suspect – as I still keep an eye out for it — there must be a velvety black coat he abandoned somewhere here on the farm.
He simply didn’t need it any more and unafraid, he left it behind.
On our last visit, when Lucy was fifteen And getting creaky herself, One of the nurses said to me, “Why don’t you take the cat to Mrs. Harris’ room — poor thing lost her leg to diabetes last fall — she’s ninety, and blind, and no one comes to see her.”
The door was open. I asked the tiny woman in the bed if she would like me to bring Lucy in, and she turned her head toward us. “Oh, yes, I want to touch her.”
“I had a cat called Lily — she was so pretty, all white. She was with me for twenty years, after my husband died too. She slept with me every night — I loved her very much. It’s hard, in here, since I can’t get around.”
Lucy was settling in on the bed. “You won’t believe it, but I used to love to dance. I was a fool for it! I even won contests. I wish I had danced more. It’s funny, what you miss when everything…..is gone.”
This last was a murmur. She’d fallen asleep. I lifted the cat from the bed, tiptoed out, and drove home. I tried to do some desk work but couldn’t focus.
I went downstairs, pulled the shades, put on Tina Turner and cranked it up loud and I danced.
I danced. ~Alice N. Persons“Meadowbrook Nursing Home“From Don’t Be A Stranger (Sheltering Pines Press, 2007)
photo by Lea
AI image created for this post
One-Time
Monthly
Yearly
Make a one-time or recurring donation to support daily Barnstorming posts
I’m still discovering, right up to this moment, that it is only by living completely in this world that one learns to have faith. I mean living unreservedly in life’s duties, problems, successes and failures, experiences and perplexities.
In so doing, we throw ourselves completely into the arms of God. ~Dietrich Bonhoeffer from The Cost of Discipleship
In the real world of pain, how could one worship a God who was immune to it? ~John Stott from “Cross”
With all that is happening daily in this disordered and confused world, we fall back on what we are told, each and every day, in 365 different verses in God’s Word itself:
Fear not.
Do not be overwhelmed with evil but overcome evil with good.
And so – we must overcome — despite the evil happening within our own country, despite our fear of one another and what might happen next.
As demonstrated by the anointing of Jesus’ feet by Mary of Bethany on Wednesday of Holy Week, we do what we can to sacrifice for the good of others, to live in such a way that death can never erase the meaning and significance of a life.
We are called to give up our own self-aggrandizing agendas to consider the dignity and well-being of others.
It is crystal clear from Christ’s example as we follow His journey to the cross this week: we are to cherish life – all lives – born and unborn, the stranger and the refugee. If Christ Himself forgave those who hated and murdered Him, He will forgive us for not understanding the damage we cause by our actions and inactions.
Our only defense against the evil we witness is God’s victory through His Love. Only God who knows pain can lead us to Tolkien’s “where everything sad will come untrue”, where we shall live in peace, walk hand in hand, no longer alone, no longer afraid, no longer shedding tears of grief and sorrow, but tears of relief and joy.
No longer overcome by evil but overcome with the goodness of a God who makes all things right.
All to God’s glory.
This year’s Lenten theme:
…where you go I will go… Ruth 1:16
One-Time
Monthly
Yearly
Make a one-time or recurring donation to support daily Barnstorming posts
… Maybe they have no place to return or are lost, having gone too far from the nest.
Female bees will also burrow deep inside the shade of a squash flower: the closer to the source of nectar, the warmer and more quilt-like the air. In the cool hours of morning, look closely for the slight but tell-tale trembling in each flower cup: there, a body dropped mid-flight, mid-thought. How we all retreat behind some folded screen as work or the world presses in too soon, too close, too much. ~Luisa Igloria from “Ode to Tired Bumblebees Who Fall Asleep Inside Flowers With Pollen on Their Butts”
How can I love this spring when it’s pulling me through my life faster than any time before it? When five separate dooms are promised this decade and here I am, just trying to watch a bumblebee cling to its first purple flower. I cannot save this world. But look how it’s trying, once again, to save me. ~James Pearson “This Spring”
It isn’t unusual to find a bumblebee clinging to a spring blossom, all covered in morning dew, having overstayed its welcome as the evening chill hit the night before.
The bumble is too cold to fly, or think, or navigate. Instead it just clings through the night until the sun rises and the air once again warms its wings.
Maybe it got lost. Maybe it is simply weary from flying with such tiny wings. Maybe it has no home to retreat to in the darkness. Maybe it only wants to cling tight to beauty in a dangerous world.
I’ve known what this feels like, dear plump fluffy bumble. I think I know how you feel, patiently waiting for the descent of Love to revive my spirit and warm my wings…
This year’s Lenten theme:
…where you go I will go… Ruth 1:16
AI image created for this post
One-Time
Monthly
Yearly
Make a one-time or recurring donation to support daily Barnstorming posts
Overcome us that, so overcome, we may be ourselves: we desire the beginning of your reign as we desire dawn and dew, wetness at the birth of light. ~C.S. Lewis from The Great Divorce
When all nature is at rest, not a leaf moving, then at evening the dew comes down — no eye to see the pearly drops descending, no ear to hear them falling on the verdant grass — so does the Spirit come to you who believe. When the heart is at rest in Jesus — unseen, unheard by the world — the Spirit comes, and softly fills the believing soul, quickening all, renewing all within. ~Robert Murray McCheynefrom The Love of Christ
The seed will grow well, the vine will yield its fruit, the ground will produce its crops, and the heavens will drop their dew. I will give all these things as an inheritance to the remnant of this people. Zechariah 8:12
I have had opportunity to fly over a vast ocean to three different continents in my life. Each time, I adjusted my internal clock due to disorientation about what day and time it was.
But my reassurance came from the consistency of the sun rising and setting, washing the world with a refreshing dew the next morning.
Overcome that I could witness dawn wherever I awoke, I felt the familiarity of home, even in far off lands.
I am reminded the Son rises over a vast Kingdom without borders, without corruption, without alienation, without end.
No matter where I sleep, I am covered by His cleansing dew.
Do not be overwhelmed with evil but overcome evil with good. Romans 12:21
This year’s Lenten theme:
…where you go I will go… Ruth 1:16
AI image created for this post
Drop down dew, ye heavens, from above, and let the clouds rain the Just One.
Latin lyrics: Rorate caeli desuper, et nubes pluant iustum.
One-Time
Monthly
Yearly
Make a one-time or recurring donation to support daily Barnstorming posts
Our heart wanders lost in the dark woods. Our dream wrestles in the castle of doubt. But there’s music in us. Hope is pushed down but the angel flies up again taking us with her. It is no surprise that danger and suffering surround us. What astonishes is the singing. We know the horses are there in the dark meadow because we can smell them, can hear them breathing. Our spirit persists like a man struggling through the frozen valley who suddenly smells flowers and realizes the snow is melting out of sight on top of the mountain, knows that spring has begun. ~Jack Gilbert from “Horses at Midnight Without a Moon”
In trees still dripping night some nameless birds Woke, shook out their arrowy wings, and sang, Slowly, like finches sifting through a dream. The pink sun fell, like glass, into the fields. Two chestnuts, and a dapple gray, Their shoulders wet with light, their dark hair streaming, Climbed the hill. The last mist fell away.
And under the trees, beyond time’s brittle drift, I stood like Adam in his lonely garden On that first morning, shaken out of sleep, Rubbing his eyes, listening, parting the leaves, Like tissue on some vast, incredible gift. ~Mary Oliver “Morning In a New Land”from New and Selected Poems
As if — we are walking through the darkest woods, still stuck in the throes of winter, and catch a whiff of a floral scent, or a hint of green grass, or hear the early jingle bells song of peeper frogs in the wetlands, or feel the warm breath of horses puffing steam at night.
As if — there is hope on the other side, refreshment and renewal and rejoicing just around the corner.
As if — things won’t always be frozen or muddy or barren, that something is coming behind the snowdrops and crocus.
The snow is melting, imperceptibly, but melting nonetheless. And that vast incredible gift thaws what is frozen in me…
photo by Emily Dieleman
This year’s Lenten theme:
…where you go I will go… Ruth 1:16
One-Time
Monthly
Yearly
Make a one-time and recurring donation to support daily Barnstorming posts
Barnstorming 