Thursday, August 17, 2017

Perfect Day

Sitting out on the back porch this morning I was thinking about the weather man saying the toady was going to be a perfect day. The sun was rising clear and strong in the East and the high wispy clouds were all that kept the sky from being clear and blue. Middle eighties and low humidity, that's what the weather man meant by a perfect day.

I know that today will be filled with lessons. It will contain plenty of times when I make mistakes, and when what is going on around me will be replaced by worry, doubt, and fear. I will have lots of opportunities to catch myself living in my head so I can practice coming back to my senses, returning to pay attention to what is actually happening in my life. For me, that's a perfect day. Just like yesterday, and just like tomorrow, but there's nothing wrong with a little nice weather.

Wednesday, August 16, 2017

Alarm Calls

Walking out the Eastern door of the cabin this morning, the first thing I heard was an alarm call from Chipmunk. Chipmunk's alarm call is a single loud chirp. Louder than a smoke alarm, it rings out across the Forest. And it's not just for Chipmunk's relatives. Anyone who can hear it gets the message, even me. And it's not a warning that says, “Run!” or “Hide!” That's because running and hiding aren't always the best ways to respond. In fact there is no one right response to an alarm call. Chipmunks message simply means, “Pay attention.”

Today, I will be listening to Chipmunk's alarm call and paying attention. In response I will do what makes sense for me.

Nature Boy/If I Had a Hammer Mash Up

Tuesday, August 15, 2017

7 Billion Geniuses- 7BG Basics -Work II

Quiet Morning

The gentle rain fell quietly as I sat on the porch with Birchy, the dog. Hawk was quiet, and the most apparent noise was Cricket, still trying to chirp the morning Sun through the clouds. Suddenly, Birchy stood up and barked. At the same time, something crashed through the underbrush to the North of the cabin. Whoever it was moved quickly to the Northeast and into the deeper woods. All I saw was a brief flash through the thick branches.

This gets me thinking about how things can seem to be one way, then suddenly change because of something I didn't notice. Was whoever was there trying to teach me to pay better attention, or is it that I was teaching them to be more aware?

Today, I will be remembering that sometimes the lessons aren't for me, and that sometimes I am the teacher and I don't even know it.

Monday, August 14, 2017


This morning the quarter Moon hung in the Southeastern sky trekking towards new. Looking up at it, as it glowed in the bright blue morning sky, I noticed how it connected me to a larger ark. It reminded me that there is something bigger than me and this town and this state and this country and this Earth. Bigger than our solar system and our universe and our cosmos.

And I am part of it. I am at the same time insignificant and vital. There is a part I play that no one else can play that weaves into the fabric of eternity, and yet the role is one of an infinite number of roles that intersect and effect each other in myriad ways. It is humbling, overwhelming, and energizing to know that I am a part of something so extraordinary, and yet it is as ordinary as breathing.

Today, I will be remembering to pay attention to the Moon as it reminds me of my connection to the infinite.

Sunday, August 13, 2017


Cooper's Hawk is getting better. That's the word from the Center for Wildlife. They are somewhat surprised, since his injuries were so severe. But yesterday morning when they came in they found him standing up and trying to perch.

Sitting on the back porch last night I was telling a friend this news. As I did, one of Hawk's family members showed up in a tree about forty feet away. I wondered if my creature cousin was listening to the story. Then I wondered if Cooper's Hawk knew how concerned his family was. Then I wondered if he knew about our love and concern.

Then it occurred to me. The possibility that someone could be disconnected from the stream of Love was based on my cultural experience. My culture teaches me that love is something that is limited, that must be earned, and that can be revoked. The Earth teaches me that flow of Love at the center of all Life is something that is given freely and without condition. It is infinite, and is never withheld. This Love is a force that one must choose to disconnect from.

The default position if Love is ON. From that perspective, Hawk would have had to disconnect in order to be unaware of the outpouring of Love going on around the cabin.

This gets me thinking about how often I am missing out on the Love that is flowing around me because I am choosing not to participate, or I'm distracted by worries and fears. Then I get thinking about how the easiest way to reconnect with Love is to start to send it out.

Today, I will be paying attention to when I receive invitations that distract me from the Love that is all around us all the time. I will be doing my best to send out Love so that I might reconnect with the Flow.

Saturday, August 12, 2017

Butterfly Bush

Butterfly Bush was dead, at least that what I thought. I learned later that the entirety of the plant dries up every year and regrows in the Spring and Summer. Butterfly Bush is now seven feet tall and flowering.

This gets me thinking about how limited my vision can get. How could a huge Bush possibly grow back each year? I could see it will small plants like Lilly and Black Eyed Susan, but Butterfly Bush? And evens still, there is Butterfly Bush, towering over me, unaffected by my shortsightedness.

Today, I will be paying attention to the effects of my ideas about what is possible and allowing what is actually happening around me to widen my frame of view.

Friday, August 11, 2017


On the Eastern side of the cabin the land rises up to the stonewall that marks the Southeastern edge of the property. It is there that the Acorns land when Squirrel and Oak Tree send them to the ground. This morning a young Squirrel crept up the slope stopping near the top. Passing up Acorn, Squirrel settled down and munched on Mushroom.

There are some that say that watching what our wild cousins eat is a good way to know what is safe and what is not. There are others that say they have found our wild cousins dead from eating the wrong thing. Still others say that taking the chance on the often poisonous Mushroom doesn't make sense. They say the food value is to low to take the chance.

All this gets me thinking about young Squirrel, making choices and living life. I don't know why Squirrel chose to eat Mushroom in stead of Acorn. When I got a closer look, I found out that only the top of Mushroom was gone. Was the stem where the poison lived? I realize it is impossible to know why Squirrel does what Squirrel does. The best I can do is take it in, making my own choices living my own life.

Today, I will be noticing when I let my ideas about why other people do what they do get in the way of me making my own choices and living my own life.

Thursday, August 10, 2017

Oak Tree

This morning I walked out the Easterner door of the cabin and heard an Acorn fall. “Squirrel,” I thought. Then I realized that this thought had shut down the possibility of other explanations. So I sat and looked up into Oak Tree. There was no movement. No Squirrel. Then I realized. Oak Tree lets go of Acorns on her own as well. All the Acorns aren't pulled down.

This got me thinking about how knowledge can sometimes shut me down to further possibilities. Sometimes thinking I know what's going on keeps me from staying open to what is happening in front of me.

Today, I will be paying attention to time when what I think is going on gets in the way of seeing what is actually unfolding in front of me.

Wednesday, August 9, 2017


Our Bird cousins start singing at around 4:30 am. I start singing around 6. I love to sing. It is one of my favorite things to do, but for me singing it is a practice. Practice is about learning. I learn by doing something over an over, tweaking and modifying things along the way toward what I can do which become what I will do next.

We get good at what we practice. Today, I will be paying attention to what I am practicing.

Tuesday, August 8, 2017

Learning to Fly

This morning the two remaining young Hawks were darting and diving through the trees just North of the cabin. With every move, each was teaching and learning, pushing the other to fly faster and better, pushing each other to improve. Better flying means better hunting and better skills of escape from their larger Raptor cousins.

This got me thinking about my Human cousins and the “In order to achieve what?”question. How do we as Humans ask each other to improve and in what direction? What does it mean to be a better Human and how do the actions of the Humans around me form the direction in which I go?

I believe that there is an essential unfoldment for each of us that leads us to living in our own unique genius. Today, I will be paying attention to the lessons I learn from my Human cousins and how they contribute to or distract me from my path.

Monday, August 7, 2017


Up in the canopy of Oak Tree, Squirrel pulls Acorns and lets them drop to the ground. I have seen Chipmunk waiting on the ground. Chipmunk grabs an Acorn when it lands and disappears, returning later to grab another. Later still, Squirrel climbs down from Oak Tree and spends time burying some of the Acorns.

This gets me thinking about the mythologies I was raised on. Some are about what Squirrel does with Acorns. The story goes that Squirrel takes them all and hides them in a tree trunk. I learned that later, in the Winter, Squirrel would return to the stock pile and pick away at it through the cold months.

What I have seen is this. Squirrel buries some, eats some, loses some to Chipmunk, and spends a lot of time living life up in the trees doing other things. The idea that Squirrel diligently harvests Acorns to create a stockpile to live out the Winter seems more like a description of what Humans are encouraged to do. Prepare, prepare, prepare. We leave out the part about sharing and eating and planting and living.

Today, I will be paying attention to the possibility that some of the stories that tell me how I am supposed to live are based on thin descriptions of the lives of my Creature Cousins.

Sunday, August 6, 2017


The idea of rescuing wild animals always brings me a profound sense of uncertainty. I am never sure it is the right thing to do.

This morning as I walked out the Eastern door of the cabin, I spooked two of the Cooper's Hawks. They must have been roosting on the old swing set that stands there. In all the months we have been neighbors with the Hawks, we have never seen them settle on the swing set. Were they waiting for me?

I had to go back inside to do a chore, and when I returned they were perched in Cherry Tree, down by the pond. All this is in close proximity to where I eventually caught their brother yesterday. Are they looking for him? I know I have altered the course of all of our lives, but I am left wondering if I did the right thing.

This gets me thinking about acceptance. Whether I did the right thing or not, I did what I did. My actions live in the past and can not be changed. All I can do is make choices about what I do now.

Our Hawk neighbors are closer and louder than they have been in a week. I put in a call to the Center for Wildlife to check on their brother.

Now the Sun shines. Now the Wind blows. Now I am eating my breakfast. Everything else is a dream.

Saturday, August 5, 2017


There is a box next to the wood-stove hearth. In it is a blanket. These are all that remains as a reminder of this morning's adventure with Hawk. I woke up to a bird squawk and a bang, and found Hawk belly up next to the screen house. We transported Hawk in the blanket covered box. Hawk is now at the Center for Wildlife in York, Maine.

During the process, I held Hawk in my hands, trying to be comforting. In those moments, Hawk did not look at me, nor did he seem comforted. I was thinking so many thoughts and feeling so much. I was overwhelmed.

This got me thinking about conversations I have had with folks about what to do in response to overwhelmed. I realized that in those moments when I was holding Hawk, there was no option but to be overwhelmed. Being overwhelmed was a testament to how much I cared and how concerned I was that one of our neighbors was in trouble. Being overwhelmed was not only unavoidable, it was important.

Today, I will be paying attention to times when I get caught up in the idea that certain feelings are feelings I shouldn't be having, and how those feelings are emblematic of what I stand for and hold dear.

Friday, August 4, 2017


I found Rock on the back deck this morning. Without much thought, I threw it over the side. Then it occurred to me that I had no idea how Rock got there. It hadn't been there yesterday.

This got me thinking about how many times I encounter something unusual in my life, but don't really take it in. I just toss it over the side and move on.

Today, I will be on the lookout for more experiences that show up in my life that are unusual. I will be resisting the impulse to toss then over the side before taking them in.

Thursday, August 3, 2017

Maple Tree

Maple tree connects Earth and Sky just to the Northeast of the cabin. The top of Maple is dead. About ten feet up the trunk, Maple has sprouted new branches. In my culture, I am taught that trees stand blind and dumb, available to be harvested to fulfill my needs. The ability to spontaneously grow branches in response to peril seems to contradict this idea.

This gets me thinking about the mythologies I have been indoctrinated into that shape my expectations. Today, I will be paying attention through those mythologies to experiences that exist just on the other side of what they would have me believe.

Wednesday, August 2, 2017

7 Billion Geniuses-Basics-Work


Rock climbing is a process of finding good handholds and footholds. Sometimes, however the hand and footholds that are available aren't perfect. Sometime they aren't great, and sometimes they are rather marginal. Even so, there are moments when even the marginal holds will have to do. This gets me think about times when a possibility was lost because I was looking for the perfect handhold. Waiting for things to be perfect can get in the way of me taking a step.

Today I will be paying attention to times when waiting for things to be just so get in the way of me taking a step forward.

Tuesday, August 1, 2017


For a moment this morning there was no Bird song, and it was silent outside. I realized that my ability to experience silence required my having heard sound, and that silence was more an experience of the lack of Bird song than the presence of silence. Everything I experience is a manifestation of change from what was.

This gets me thinking about how sad it is the we have a word for Freedom. We have this word because we have experienced existence without it and needed to describe what was missing when it was gone or what we had when it returned. It strikes me that most of my creature cousins would not need a word for Freedom, since they have never experienced life without it.

I am grateful for the Freedom I experience. Today, I will be paying attention to when fears or doubts or worries invite me to limit my Freedom, or the Freedoms of others.

Monday, July 31, 2017

Common Place

When I walked out the Eastern door this morning, I did my best to take everything in as quickly as I could. There is so much happening around the cabin these days, I didn't want to spook anything or miss something. This got me thinking about how I prioritize certain types of experiences. Thing is, there is always a lot going on around the cabin. Whether it's Squirrel in the trees or Turkey passing through or Mouse tunneling under the snow in the deep chill of winter, someone is always doing something. It might not be as attention grabbing as Hawks playing in the Northern woods, or Fawn walking up to me as I sit on the porch steps, but something is still going on.

Today, I will be paying attention to when I discount the simple things that happen around me. I will be working to remember that every situations has something to teach me, no matter how common place it might seem.

Sunday, July 30, 2017


There is a major die off of Ants that happens around this time of year. We see piles of dead Ants in specific places, and live Ants carrying bodies back to their colony. This mourning I found Ant standing motionless. I wondered it Ant was dead. I touched Ant with a finger. Ant reared up as if to begin a battle. I pulled my finger back and Ant relaxed, but did not move away. I watched for a while, but Ant did not move again. It struck me that if Ant was dying, she still chose to respond to my prodding her with strength.

Members of many Native American cultures have a Death Song. For me a Death Song is a way to approach my passing with courage and strength. Like Ant's rearing up at me, a Death Song is about begin fully alive until I am not, and engaging with every moment with all the energy I have until I have no more. Singing my heart out embodies this notion for me in daily life.

Today, I will be doing my best to sing my heart out in everything I do. 

Saturday, July 29, 2017

Hawk or Twig?

As soon as I woke up this morning I started thinking about what the Hawks would teach me today. I walked out to the screen house and sat down. I heard Hawk off to the North. The call seemed some distance away so I wondered if Hawk saw soaring, something we haven't seen the Hawks do since they've been here. Out of the corner of my eye I saw movement to the Northeast. Expecting to see Hawk I looked up into the gray of the morning sky, sure that I would see Hawk complete a circle. I didn't. What I saw was a twig caught in a Spider web hanging from the corner of the screen house.

I was convinced I had seen Hawk soaring, and it got me thinking about the power of expectations. Hearing Hawk at a distance, I had put together an expectation so powerful that the movement of the stick connected the dots and created Hawk for me. I started wondering about how often this might happen, where my expectations coupled with a little information create a seductive unreal reality.

Today, I will be paying attention to the effects of my expectations. I will be noticing how my expectations about what is happening get in the way of my experience of what is actually unfolding in the moment I am in.

Friday, July 28, 2017


This morning, I sat on the North steps of the porch hoping to see what the Hawks were up to. These are not quiet Hawks, especially in the morning. As a result, I quickly located two of them. One was calling from the Northeast, and one from the Northwest. Then two flew out of the woods and joined the one in the Northwest. As I sat there noticing, it occurred to me how open I was to what they had to teach me. I was not critiquing them, or judging them, or thinking I had a better idea about what they should be doing. I was simply open to what was happening in front of me, and paying attention, joyfully curious about what might happen next.

Our culture teaches me to look at others from a critical perspective. In fact, much of the pessimism I experience about what we will and will not be able to achieve comes not from thoughts about what we are capable of personally, but what others won't be able to do, or the shortcomings of our neighbors.

Today, I will be doing my best to see others the same way I see my Hawk neighbors: As teachers who can change my perspective and shake me out of a view shaped only by my fears and expectations.

Thursday, July 27, 2017


On my way home yesterday I saw Turkey and two chicks crossing the road. The chicks legs had to move quite quickly to keep up with their mother, but they made it, and the three disappeared into the woods. I was struck by what I saw. In order to get to their destination the three had to cross and extraordinarily dangerous obstacle, and the only way to do this was for each of them to convey themselves. The Mother could not carry her chicks, or send them ahead so she could protect the rear. They had to follow her, and do as she did. It is an interesting way to learn. She acts. They observe and do as she does. Following behind her, they learn how to eat, where to sleep, and how to get from place to place. She teaches them how to live by doing. They learn by making the choice to follow. She protects them by showing them what they need to know. Her attention is mostly on what she is doing, not if they are paying attention. In this way each has a responsibility for their own actions. If the chicks don't pay attention, they will not learn what they need to know.

I have heard stories of birds protecting their chicks under the shelter of their wings, but it strikes me that if that's all they did, they would all die of starvation. Taking the risk of letting the chicks out into the world to learn, unprotected by sheltering wings is an essential part of their figuring out how to live.

Today, I will be paying attention to when my own desire to stay close to what is comfortable and safe is keeping me for me learning lessons that are only available just outside the bounds of what I already know.

Wednesday, July 26, 2017

Subtle Signs

Sitting on the porch this morning, I could see four Coopers Hawks. Two were on the utility pole, and two were perched in Maple tree. They were all illuminated by the early morning sunlight. I noticed to my surprise that there were no alarm calls. The other birds were singing and flying freely from place to place, seemingly unconcerned by the presence of so many Hawks.

Why weren't they calling out warnings about the abundance of predators? There must be some subtle sign that I didn't understand that told the prey creatures when Hawk was a threat and when Hawk wasn't. I wanted to understand this sign. My culture teaches me that Hawk is always a threat, and that I need to be always be on guard. But apparently, there is wisdom here that I have yet to decipher.

Today, I will be paying attention to situations that I would usually consider dangerous and looking for subtle signs that tell me when I need to be on guard and when I don't.

Tuesday, July 25, 2017


Hawk could easily out fly the rain storms that come in slowly and stall here on the coast of Maine. Hawk could fly East and stay in the sunshine, hoping the storm will dissipate before she needs to turn back toward land. But Hawk stays, perched in a tree, and the storm to passes.

Hawk gets me thinking about how I could run from my struggles, and avoid the pain and suffering, hoping the storm will dissipate. Hawk reminds me that if I stay where I am and face what is happening, the storm and the pain and the suffering will pass. If I run hoping to outrun the storm, I will probably have to turn around and face it anyway, and I will also have to deal with the fatigue of trying to avoid d it in the first place.

Today, I will be noticing when I contemplate avoiding struggle in stead of taking it as it comes, where I am right here right now. 

Monday, July 24, 2017


I found a moth out in the screen house this morning. Moth was no bigger than a sesame seed, and fluttered toward me. I reached out to grab Moth, then I noticed something falling to the floor. Thinking it was Moth, I opened my hand. Moth flew out, and was lost from sight.

This got me thinking that sometimes what I want is right in my hand, but I don't notice until I reach out for it. Doing so, I lose what I wanted because I didn't realize it was already mine.

Today, I will be paying attention to what I am looking for and noticing when I have already found it.

Sunday, July 23, 2017

Hawk Calls

The abundant Hawk calls sing out like a round with Chipmunk's alarm calls. I wonder if Chipmunk is yelling at Hawk because of an interrupted day, or if Chipmunk is telling other Chipmunks to stay sharp. And is Hawk calling out as a warning to Chipmunk, or calling out to friends?

Then I let go of my human centered idea that something said has to be said to someone. That's when Crow shows up with all her relatives. Many Crow calls fill the sky, as the birds dive and climb. They circle the cabin then fly off to the North.

Calls get my attention, even if they aren't talking to me. Hawk, Chipmunk, and Crow get me to notice what I might otherwise miss. The wind is stronger this morning than it has been for a while. Hawk calls start again, and the Wren sings out.

Today, I will be remembering to notice.

Saturday, July 22, 2017

Pink Cloud

I woke up this morning and out the Eastern window of the cabin, I saw a pink cloud. There is an old saying that goes, “red in the morning, sailors take warning.” It refers to years of experience that have shown that red clouds in the morning usually mean storms in the afternoon.

When I got outside, I noticed lots of Hawk calls from the North. Almost immediately, I saw Coopers Hawk fly off to the Northeast, but the calls continued, as did the alarm calls from other birds and Chipmunk. Then I saw what looked like a young Coopers Hawk hopping from tree to tree, heading East. I noticed another Hawk in its path. When the two finally got close together the Hawk calls stopped, as did the alarm calls from the other creatures. It was silent for a moment. Then the bird song began again. The two hawks perched quietly in the tree close together until I had to head in to do other things.

What did it all mean? Why did the bird song start when the two predators were close together? Why were Coopers Hawks perching in the tree together in the first place.? Then I remembered that if I wanted to know, all I had to do was wait and watch. Eventually, the reasons would manifest in what they did next. The reasons why would become what happened. That's how it works out there. Nothing is hidden, you simply have to watch what is happening, and see what happens next. The sky is red in the morning, there is a storm in the afternoon. It's simple.

This gets me thinking that I can lament the loss of millions of years of wisdom sacrificed through our separation from the Natural World, or I can remember that it is all still available; Sometimes in old rhymes, and sometimes fresh and new and right in front of me, somewhere between what happens and what happens next.

Friday, July 21, 2017


Tick lives in the grass and woods around the cabin. Tick is there, doing the same thing I am, figuring out day by day what to do to stay alive. Though sometimes described as a parasite or a pest, what Tick does to get through the day isn't substantially different than any of the others who live here.

I read somewhere that I should build a fence around the cabin to keep Deer away. Doing so would supposedly also keep Tick and the diseases she carries away from me and my family. Unfortunately, there is no fence that would contain Tick. Like me, she travels where she will based on reasons that make sense only to her. She does not always hitch a ride on Deer.

Ideas like fences simply promote fear, and ask me to sacrifice interactions with all of the creatures that walk close to the cabin. There is no fence that would keep Deer out and allow Raccoon and Fisher, Squirrel and Mink to get though.

I am left to live with the possibility that Tick may end up on me, and that I may end up with one of the diseases she carries. For me, the sacrifices of the alternatives are too great. Today I will be living with the effects of my choices, in my experience of how I feel right here right now. I will avoid the limits of actions that are intended to protect me from what might happen at the expense of my freedom and the freedom of others, including Tick.

Thursday, July 20, 2017

Mountain Lion

I have been told that by the time you realize you are being stalked by Mountain Loin, it is too late. The trap has been set and sprung. This gets me thinking about the “In order to achieve what?” question. When I am being stalked by Mountain Loin her intentions are about survival. I am not begin taken advantage of or exploited or tricked. It is simply the unfolding of a life sustaining process. What is being achieved is the continuation of her life or mine.

I live in a culture where the intention of situations that involve risk and danger aren't always as clear or sincere or honorable. Sometimes what is being achieved is the continuation of profit or power or fear. Today I will be doing my best to discern when I am participating in these sorts of interactions. I will be checking my intentions and asking myself the in order to achieve what question in an effort to live life as clearly, sincerely, and honorably as I can.

7 Billion Geniuses-The Basics-Plants

Wednesday, July 19, 2017

Funnel Spider

The mist is so thick this morning, it begins to obscure the trees not 100 yards from the cabin. It floats through the air like smoke. Looking out the North window, I see at least one hundred Funnel Spider webs. I see them because they are soaked on the morning dew. They look like patches of frost sprinkled amongst the low greenery. It is the culmination of the light and the mist and the web that makes them visible. Without this mornings abundant moisture, they would be much harder to see, brilliant traps set in the night by hungry Spiders. But this morning they seem to be everywhere.

It gets me thinking about the seemingly random intersection of events that makes things visible, and how often experiences that can pass without catching our attention are suddenly and briefly illuminated. When the morning sun burns the morning mist away, Spider's webs will disappear from view.

Today, I will keep my head up and eyes open for those fleeting moments of possibility that manifest and disappear like Funnel Spider's web. I will be doing my best to notice and discern what they are offering me. 

Tuesday, July 18, 2017


If I put a grain of rice on the floor and stare at it long enough, it will disappear. If I move my eyes, even slightly, it will come back. This reminds me of how I can take things for granted. Over time, even this most amazing experience can become something I am used to.

Today, I am noticing times when I am not paying attention to the amazing parts of my life that, over time, can become what I am used to. I will remember that a slight change in perspective can reawaken me to the grain of rice.

Monday, July 17, 2017


After three days of cloudy beginnings, it isn't surprising that I noticed the sky this morning. When I went out, the quarter moon hung in the Southeast. The Sun was still set low, filtering through the Pine grove. The clouds that were in the sky were high, and reminded me of Elephant's skin, bumpy and rough. They gathered in one continuous narrow band, running over the cabin Northeast to Southwest.

It occurred to me that there was nothing between me and them except Air, and that lifted my heart. How beautiful, and ever changing, I thought. Transforming from one moment to the next, one monumental spectacle to another, with no attachment to what was or what will be. It is, then it is, then it is again. Now I look up, and it is clear blue, but darker here and lighter there, never just one thing.

Last night I had dream. In the dream I realized I could fly. I kept putting me feet down to make sure I wouldn't fall. When I did, the flying stopped. I finally realized that I could fly, but only if I stopped putting my feet down.

Today, I will be paying attention to when I take myself out of the ever evolving flow of change. I will be thinking of Sky as a reminder that change from one beautiful way to another is possible, but only if I don't out me feet down.

Sunday, July 16, 2017

Ground Ivy

There is a plant growing in the Strawberry patch that I have been pulling by the hands full for weeks. A friend of mine identified it as Creeping Charlie. When I was pulling it, I found that I really loved the smell. It reminded me of my childhood for some reason, so I decided to find out more about it.

This morning, I discovered that it is a plant with many names. Creeping Charlie, Cat's Paw, and Ground Ivy are but a few. It was imported by the settlers because it prevents scurvy. Must reports suggest that it is high in vitamin C. That would be the scurvy connection.

An Elder of another friend of mine once told her that most of the plants we are overwhelmed by are so abundant because we don't eat enough of them. Perhaps the message is that I can get my vitamin C from oranges imported from 3,000 miles away, or from the plants growing in my backyard.

Today, I will be looking out for times when my expectations and assumptions have me looking to the distance for things that are right on front of me.

Saturday, July 15, 2017


The little boy asked his father, “What's it feel like to have a fever?”

The father thought for a moment, then replied, “I know what it feels like to have a fever because I know what it feels like not to. When I start to get better, I will know because it will feel different than I feel now.”

Friday, July 14, 2017

White Pine

If you walk out the basement door of the Cabin and continue due North, the first obstacle you will run into is a 50 foot White Pine. About five feet past White Pine is baby White Pine. Baby White pine isn't more than seven feet tall, and probably six years old. More than likely, Squirrel found Pinecone and started ripping it apart, eating some Pine nuts, and leaving the one that became Baby.

From White Pine I see a way of parenting. From White Pine, Baby knows to shade without prejudice, to drop needles when it is the Season, to stand tall, not bent down by the weight of supposed to's, to heal and grow at the same time, to reach up to Sky and down to Earth, to breath out as freely as you breath in, to be White Pine. But, White Pine doesn't teach Baby, White Pine just is.

White Pine and Baby remind me that the most powerful messages I can give come, not from what I say or write, but from my actions. When I lament the absence of good role models in the world, I am abdicating my responsibility to be one. If the world needs role models, I will do my best to meet that need by being what I would want a role model to be. I will begin with what I see White Pine doing, to give without prejudice, to accept change when it is the Season, to stand tall, not bent down by the weight of supposed to's, to heal and grow at the same time, to reach up to Sky and down to Earth, and to breath out as freely as I breath in.

Thursday, July 13, 2017

Rain Forest Man

In a thought, I went to the Rain Forest. I saw a man. He was hunting Monkey. I said to him, “My people are lost. Can you help us?” He kept hunting. I said, “I don't know what to do. Can you help?” He kept hunting. In frustration, I shouted, “We have forgotten so much, we don't even know that we have forgotten.” He stopped and turned his face toward me. Smiling gently, he said, “If all that is true, how is it that you knew to come here for answers?”

Wednesday, July 12, 2017


Deadly Nightshade is a viney plant that likes to grow around the garden. Right now there are large swaths of it growing North of the Rhubarb, covering the paths. The thing about Night Shade is it vines out from a central root. What can seem like a huge patch is actually only one plant. Nightshade reminds me that something can seem huge and overwhelming, when it actually is manageable. But in order to know that I have to start pulling.

Today, I will be paying attention to times when I am putting off getting started because I have already made the task overwhelming.

Tuesday, July 11, 2017

Cherry Tree

To the North of the cabin there is a Cherry tree. It is one of the largest and oldest trees on the land. It is dying, and eventually it will fall to the ground to begin the next cycle. But it's not dead yet. It is still tall and majestic, a sentry of the days when the land was a Cow pasture, and it stood alone.

Today, I am remembering to enjoy what is, and not be distracted but what will be.

Sunday, July 9, 2017


As I sat on the back deck this morning, I realized that the air that I breath connects me across time and space to everything. It is the air that has been breathed since there was air. It is the air that everyone breaths everywhere. There is only one air. Air connects us to one single cycle of breath, in each moment of each day.

Today, I am grateful for gift of air.

Saturday, July 8, 2017


This morning I found Moth in the screen house. It was no bigger than an Appleseed. It is our practice here at the cabin to catch bugs trapped in the screen house, and bring them outside. My impulse about this moth, however, was different. Because it was so small, I thought I didn't need to do anything.

I was struck by the idea that this small creature didn't deserve the same care as something larger.

Today, I will be paying attention to how I make determinations about what deserves care and what does not, and the ideas behind these thoughts.

Friday, July 7, 2017


Tracks are everything and everything is a track. The Comfrey outside the Western window of the cabin is a track. I could follow the tracks of that plant back to the origins of how it came to be outside the window, but that is only one Comfrey path. The plant is also a track of its own origins back to the beginning. In its DNA, its roots, its Spirit, the tracks of its beginnings are all right in front of me.

It is the same for everything and everyone. I am a track of the path that brought me to this moment, right here, right now. I am a track of my ancestors and their origins. I am a track of the Earth, and the Cosmos, and the origins of everything. We all are. In this way, we are all connected to the infinite in every moment, in everything we do. We are inextricably linked to and a manifestation of the infinite. And its all staring back at you when you look in the mirror.

Today, I am remembering to pay attention to my connection to the infinite. I will use this to change my perspective when I am invited to take up the idea of finite possibilities.

Thursday, July 6, 2017

Around the Corner

I didn't want to pick Strawberries today because I didn't want to accept the the harvest was waning. I did anyway, and found more than enough for breakfast. My path took me to the Mint for tea, then past the Wild Blueberry patch. The berries are just starting to ripen. Now my breakfast includes some of the beginnings of the Blueberry harvest. All this reminds me that abundance follows abundance. Rhubarb to Strawberries to Blueberries to Potatoes to Garlic to Apples to Pumpkins. On and on.

Today, I am paying attention to when my attachment to something can keep me from seeing the abundance that is around the corner. These are tracks of love.

Wednesday, July 5, 2017

Tracks of Love

The shadow from an Oak on the East side of the cabin is the same shape as the crown of the Apple tree on the West side. Apple stretches out its branches beyond the limits of the shadow to catch the morning sun. These are tracks of Love.

Tuesday, July 4, 2017


While I was sitting this morning, Phoebe came and perched on the woodpile. She had a bug in her mouth. Phoebe seemed to doze for a moment, and I thought”What would happen if, in a doze, she didn't notice Hawk?” Then I thought, “Where is her mate? Is he dead?” Moments later, he showed up. I was relieved and noticed how much I loved them living on the East side of the cabin.

Later, as I opened the door to go pick Strawberries for breakfast, I startled Coopers Hawk. She flew from the ground up into the canopy. Not twenty feet to the North, on the dog run, Phoebe looked on. Had her mate just been killed? I walked down to where Hawk had been. There were small gray feathers scattered around in the grass. My heart sank. The other Phoebe flew away.

I walked up to the Strawberry patch to pick. I was not quite steady on my feet. In the moment it seemed that there were no more berries. “Has the time of Strawberries passed,” I thought? Then I began to see them. Still there. Still many. Why hadn't I see them moments before? “What else am I missing,” I though?

Once I'd picked enough berries for breakfast, I walked East to see if I could spot the surviving Phoebe. The Eastern deck came into view, and I saw one. I waited for the moment. Then I saw the second. Grateful, I though, “Not our Phoebes.”

The thought shuttered through me. “Not our Phoebes?” What about Hawk? What about the bug in Phoebe's mouth. Bug died. Phoebe died. Strawberries were picked. Then I started to see. Attachment to Phoebe had caused my heart to sink. More importantly, my attachment had distracted me from something larger. A friend of mine introduced me to a powerful image. It is the image of holding a frame and pulling it back, allowing more to become visible. I use this image to change my perspective. In a small frame the death of Phoebe is tragic. In a larger frame, Bug, Phoebe, Hawk, Strawberry, and I are all part of something miraculous. Something where death and life meld together into a sacred flow of purpose.

Today, I will be doing my best to hold that larger frame, though I want so much to return to the smaller more familiar one. The familiar one where Phoebe and her mate live forever on the back deck, and I watch them happily, choosing not to think about bug.

Monday, July 3, 2017

7 Billion Geniuses-7BG Basics-Breathing


If I take a misstep or make a mistake what matters is what I do next. I can't undo what is done or return to the past. By I am in control of what I do right here, right now. 

Sunday, July 2, 2017


Here, in the woods of Maine, the Elder is in bloom. Elder teaches me the difference between living in the future and planning. Elder is a gentle antiviral. A tea brewed from the dried flowers has taken the edge off many colds for me and my family. However, in order to have the tea, we have to pick the flowers.

Picking the Elder flower is not living in the Winter cold, it is paying attention to what is. In this moment the Elder is in bloom. What do I do next? I pick the flowers. Once the flowers are hung, I have done what I can do.

The freshly cut flowers hang from the Cabin rafters, swinging rhythmically to the gentle breezes of early summer. That is what is happening in this moment, right here, right now.

Saturday, July 1, 2017


Looking out one of the Northern widows of the cabin this morning, I have a twinge of melancholy as the days of summer in Maine slip by. Then I remember that trying to hang onto moments has me missing what is happening in this moment, right here, right now.

Today, I will be savoring every second of what promises to be a day in Maine.

Friday, June 30, 2017

Upside Down

Upside-down, Squirrel clings, motionless, to the side of Maple tree for a long long moment. As a sometimes rock climber, it occurs to me that in order for me to do what Squirrel is doing, I would have to be at ease. Then I think, in order for me to be at ease with where I am, I have to be at ease with who I am. In order for me to be at ease with who I am, I have to be at ease with what I am doing.

Today, I will be paying attention to what I am doing, and the proximity of intention and action.

Thursday, June 29, 2017


As the interest in these reflections has grown, I have realized that my relationship to them has shifted. As it did, they became harder to write. I wondered why. I realized that I have started to try to do something, in stead of just passing something along. By doing so, I have removed myself from the flow. The abundance of summer teaches me that the Earth gives. Earth dies not try to give. I receive or I don't. There is no “try.”

Today, I am paying attention to when I am trying and when I am receiving.  

Wednesday, June 28, 2017


It is early in the season, and I'm already having trouble keeping ahead of the Strawberries. The Arugula is turning into a small hedge and the Rhubarb is three feet high. Rogue Foxglove is popping up in several spots, Violet greens are everywhere, and the Blueberries are turning from green to blue.

I am struck by the generosity of Earth. I am surrounded by overwhelming unconditional abundance. Today, I will be paying attention to how and when I can take up this model of generosity in the face of the invitations of fear of scarcity.

Tuesday, June 27, 2017


This morning, as I sat in my spot, I noticed something different. It was to the North East, out in the Pine Grove. The silver shine of pine exposed to the weather for a long time shone bright in the morning sun. Something had flown in front of it, and this registered to me as “different.” I was struck by how, after sitting in the same place at roughly the same time every day for some time now, I can see slight shifts in the view and register things as different. What is striking to me is that I can't tell why it's different, but simply that it is different. It comes as something less than a thought. More like a, “Hum,” then I know. Something has changed.

Today, I will be noticing when I notice, in things that are familiar, that something is different. I will be letting go of trying to figure out why it's different, and just noticing that it is different.

Monday, June 26, 2017


The strength of the summer sun always seems to take me be surprise. I got a sunburn picking the Strawberries on Saturday. It got worse yesterday, so sleeping last night wasn't easy.

I appreciate pain. I find it centering. It reminds me to be grateful for the times when it is absent. It reminds me that, like all things, it will pass. It reminds me that everything is always changing. Sometimes the sunburn pain is really bad, sometimes I don't even feel it. It reminds me about acceptance. Acceptance disconnects me from what might be or what might have been and brings me back to what is happening right here, right now. I can't make the pain go away, but I only have to experience it in the moment I am in.

Today, I am paying attention to pain,
And experiencing it,
As it is,
In the moment I am in,
Right here,
Right now.

Sunday, June 25, 2017

Catbird Medicine

This morning, my path to my sitting spot took me out around the South side of the cabin. I was approaching the grape arbor when a bird flew out. I was struck by it because it flew as gentile as rain. It didn't chirp as it flew, nor did its feathers unsettle the air enough to make a sound. It was not a bird I was familiar with.

It flew out ahead of me then banked East. It had the same coloration as Catbird, but its tail feathers were much shorter. It bonked into the deck railing, righted itself then flew down into some tall grass. I went ahead and sat down in my spot. That's when Catbird showed up. She sat on the deck rail looking, in turns at me, then toward the tall grass. Catbird squawking, but quietly. Catbird squawks at me a lot, but not quietly. Catbird is a generous squawker. This squawk was very different. Somewhere in the midst of all this I figured it out. I had spooked Baby Catbird.

A second adult showed up. This one swooped under a Ceder tree and hopped around, looking for something. I noticed one of the pair appeared on the grape arbor, squawked a bit, then disappeared. I saw the two adults fly up to the Maple tree and chase each other around, than soar North. One of them appeared again on the deck rail, looking at me, then flew off.

I could discern no pattern in the adult's actions, just a simple centeredness around the apparent location of Baby Catbird. They appeared to be doing what they would do anyway; eating and hunting, soaring and perching, chasing and following, flying away and returning, squawking and feather flipping.

It got me thinking about how I teach my children. I imagined that Baby Catbird was watching everything the adults did, taking it all in. Learning, not from instructions, but from actions. Learning how to be. Seeing what adults did and learning what was possible. There were no requirements, only possibilities.

And the tests were built in. When Baby Catbird evaded me, it was an opportunity to try out some skills, but the stakes were real. Baby could not know whether I was walking, or hunting. And Baby's parents could not protect her. Baby was taking what had been taught and putting it into action.

Today I will be thinking about how I teach my children through my actions. Anyone who knows me knows I love to talk. I think of this as Snake Medicine. Snake Medicine is instruction. Stories are Snake Medicine. This writing is Snake Medicine. Catbird is reminding me that my actions are powerful teachers. Catbird can't tell stories or give instructions with human words. Catbirds teaches by living in the presence of Baby Catbird. Today, I will be practicing Catbird Medicine.

Saturday, June 24, 2017


I woke this morning and my wife had already gone downstairs to feed the animals. I had missed the dog nudging her with a quiet whimper. I had missed her getting out of bed. I had missed the squeaky stairs. These things usually wake me up. It's the Valerian. Not that I used any last night, or chewed it, to be more accurate. It is in bloom., however.

Valerian is a great sleep aid. Better, in my opinion, than home grown Chamomile. Some of the Valerian plants that grow around the cabin are five feet high, with flowers ten inches around. The sweet and somewhat off putting smell wafts around the land this time of year, replacing the scent of Wild Rose that has just gone by.

There are lots of studies about how many people experience the effects of medicinal and mind altering substances before they enter the body. It is well documented how people begin to relax and unwind upon ordering their first drink. Is it possible that simply having the Valerian at our disposal is what gave my such deep and restful sleep?

This gets me thinking about how I come to believe that I need some form of aid in order to accomplish something. I used to think that, in order to really be free, I had to take a shower before singing. I still wear the same tee shirt when I work out, even though I don't believe it does anything but keep me from sticking to the bench. I am wondering if there are any other hurdles that I put between me and whatever it is I have come to believe I need “x” to be able to do. It seems there is so much that we are capable of that we doubt because of some prerequisite we have been told has to come first. I am obviously not sleeping well because I am chewing Valerian. Is it just reminding me that I am capable of good sleep? Am I giving myself permission to sleep because it is in bloom?

Today, I will be looking out for roadblocks I don't even know I have put up that get in my way. And I will be asking myself, “What are you waiting for?”

Friday, June 23, 2017


A couple of days ago I got to do the first big Strawberry harvest. I picked a lot of berries. I also ate a lot of berries. Thing is, there are times when you pick a berry and it is just this side of begin over ripe. It's not rotten, yet. But it also isn't quite hard enough to survive in the bowl under all the rest of the berries you are about to pick. The only option is to eat it. That's about as fresh as you can get. But it occurred to me that it is also a sublime wonder. Coming onto that berry just as it is about to cross the line toward rotting. The perfect juncture of time and sunlight and, well everything.

And sometimes they are amazing. Like, the best berry I have ever eaten. Like no other berry. And unshareable.

Thing is, there's no telling if the berry you are about to eat is going to be one of those amazing berries. It's not until you've eaten it that you know. So you can't say to someone, “Here. Taste this. It's going to be amazing.” Because it might not be. Sometimes these just this side of mush berries taste terrible, or bitter, or bland. You just have to pop it in your mouth and hope for the best. Even describing it to someone is impossible. It's one of those things you just have to experience yourself.

It got me thinking about other types of experiences that are the culmination of so many seemingly disparate events that come together to make something amazing. And how they can't be described. To say that a berry was amazing doesn't really get across what it was like to find and eat that berry. What it was really like. You just had to be me in that moment. Me, in the patch, finding that berry, then. It defies description, because a description is about now, not about then. Seems like the best way to honor that moment is to head out to the berry patch and see what happens next.

Thursday, June 22, 2017


As I sit on the back deck, I see an old Apple Tree to the East surrounded by Maple and Oak trees. To the North, there is a woodland meadow of Enchanters Nightshade, Jewel Weed, and Wild Raspberry. To the South the Grape leaves flow out from the arbor below the Peach trees. Here, in the woods of Maine, we are at the beginning of months of abundance, but to recognize the true measure of what is available, I have to be able to see it. One of the most striking things that happened to me when I started to learn about edible plants was when I began to actually see them. Once I knew what they looked like, I couldn't not see them. Dandelion greens, Lambs quarters, Violets, Queen Ann's lace, we are surrounded by wild edible plats in such numbers that it would be difficult to harvest them all. But if you don't know what to look for, it can look like nothing more than a carpet of green.

This gets me thinking about how there are always months, or weeks, or days, or moments of abundance in my life. Times when I can relax, and know that there is so much available to me, even if I miss something, there will be more around the corner. The abundance is there, but, like edible plants, I have know what it looks like to be able to see it. One of the biggest challenges I faced in my foragers journey was breaking from the supermarket culture that taught me that something edible and safe couldn't possibly be growing next to my driveway. And how could something nourishing possibly be free? I receive so many invitations from our culture to be “saving for the rainy day,” or “being prepared for the next shoe to drop.” It can be hard to recognize the times when, even if it does rain, there will be more than enough to get me through; Even if I don't prepare. Our 24/7 culture invites me to think I have to always be on guard in anticipation of the bad times, but today I am remembering that sometimes there is so much good, it will outweigh the bad anyway. The real danger is in missing these times and the rejuvenation they offer. Today, I will be keeping my head up and my eyes open, looking for those possible but perhaps unfamiliar moments of abundance. And I will be taking the time to stop and fully relax into their warm embrace, trusting that in this time of plenty, there will be enough. 

Tuesday, June 20, 2017


As late spring roles into early summer here at the cabin, emerald green unfurls all around us cued by the warming sun. As it happens, my attention keeps being drawn to the Bittersweet. Bittersweet is a viny climber, but it can't climb alone. It requires the assistance of partner plants to reach upwards. This partnership is, however, one sided. The Bittersweet doesn't give back to these partner plants. In fact Bittersweet will grow and grow, clinging tighter and tighter to the partner plants as they, too, attempt to grow. Eventually, the partner plant will die, strangled by Bittersweet's grasp. Curiously, when this happens the partner plats collapse, and Bittersweet falls back to the ground.

I wondered, is Bittersweet teaching me about relationships where there is not true partnership? Where one person grows at the expense of another? Or perhaps about the choices I can make about who I choose to spend my time with, that sometimes I am taking or giving in ways that aren't reciprocal? Or is she teaching me about a balance of Nature that exists beyond my ability to perceive; a balance that has a larger arch than I am conscious of? Then it occurs to me. Maybe Bittersweet is reminding me that sometimes the most import lessons aren't in the answers I get, but the questions I begin to ask. Today, I will be paying attention to the questions that arise from the teachers I encounter. Thank you Bittersweet.

Monday, June 19, 2017


Wren lives in the bird house that hangs from the dogwood tree above the Western Strawberry patch. It's picking season, and she is not happy when I show up in the morning. She is about twice the size of my thumb, but she doesn't hesitate to let me know how unwelcome I am. She perches not three feet from me and calls the alarm. I don't know if she would call it courage, but I have a deep sense of respect for her willingness to place herself in harms way to protect her babies.

Wren gets me thinking about how when she is faced with what might seem like insurmountable odds, she stands up anyway. I could spend a lot of time thinking about why she does it, but I won't. In stead, I'll just remember her getting in my face because that's what she's doing. She does it because she does it. What difficult action might I take, not because I have weighed the odds, but because it is the next right step in my path?

Sunday, June 18, 2017


My father was, above all else, a sailor. As a result, most of the lessons I learned from him, I learned on a boat. The one that returns to me most often has to do with steering. He taught me that a in the flow of wind and water, gentle change is the way to go.
There are two parts to the steering mechanism of any sail boat; The rudder and the tiller. The rudder is the part of the system that you see in the water behind the boat. The tiller is the part you hold on to. Through the tiller you can feel the interaction between the boat and the sea. What you give is what you get back, and sudden movements telegraph though the craft rattling you out of the natural flow. I learned that I might want my heading to suddenly be different, but I wasn't in charge, the sea and the wind and the craft were.
Today I am thinking about my father and the lessons he taught me. I am remembering that as much as I might want things to be different in any given moment, change happens slowly and in its time. The best I can do is hang onto the tiller, feel the ocean and its intentions, and allow the flow to show me what to do next.

Saturday, June 17, 2017


Mosquito bounced off the wire mesh not five inches from the opening left by the screens I had taken to the hardware store for repairs. I watched her bounce and retreat, move North, bounce again, now South, bounce, up, down, bounce, retreat, over and over. I wondered what it must be like for the little creature. Limitless open space just the other side of what probably looked like prison bars or a vast chain link fence. What she wanted was so close, yet unreachable through the seemingly infinite barrier.

Then I noticed something new. As she approached the two inch piece of frame supporting the screen, moving south toward the gap and freedom, she changed direction and headed north again, returning to where she had already searched for an opening. Even though the solution to her dilemma was just past the frame section, there was apparently something about it that kept her away.

Mosquito got me thinking about how sometimes, even though an answer or a goal seems within my grasp, in order to reach it I have to follow a path that is harder. To reach freedom, Mosquito has to let go of what she could see through the screen and traverse the hard darkness of the wooden frame. If she did, she would find the vastness of possibilities she could sense but couldn't quite reach. I wonder how often I am doing this myself; so seduced by an almost answer, that I don't muster the courage to face the uncertainty of the unfamiliar to get what I really wanted in the first place.

Grateful to Mosquito for all she had taught me, I got up and approached her from the North, hoping my presence would push her South, toward the opening the the screen wall. Sensing my presence, she did. She moved South bouncing and searching even faster, but, still, she refused to cross the wooden barrier. Reaching my hand out toward her was what finally pushed her to traverse the frame and escape. Could it be that the threat of real parallel my hand manifest was what motivated her to fly through the unknown and find her freedom? Was she so focused on me that she forgot her fears and did it anyway? That is something Mosquito left behind for me to ponder.

Friday, June 16, 2017


This morning I looked out the kitchen window and noticed that the Rhubarb isn't flourishing like it has in the past. I'm guessing that's because I haven't been watering that section of the garden. We've had enough rain, so it's growing, but usually the Rhubarb seems to expand exponentially as soon as the weather warms. So much, in fact, that I end up putting most of it in the compost. (There is a limit to how much I can dump on my neighbors front porches.) This year we have a manageable amount. Enough to use. Enough to share.

This got me thinking about what else I water in my life, what grows exponentially, and what stays manageable. If I water worries and concerns, they grow. If I don't, they tend to stay manageable. It's not that I don't have them, it's about what I do when I do. Can I do something about them right here right now, or am I caught up in a lot of could'a, should'a, would'as?

Some Rhubarb is manageable, but piles and piles of it is overwhelming. Today, I'm paying attention to what I water.

Thursday, June 15, 2017


When our kid's friends come over to the cabin, they generally leave there shoes on the hearth, or under the coat rack. As a result, when I get home, I can usually figure out who's there by figuring out who's shoes are who's. All of the shoes are emblematic of what they stand for. Whether it's my daughters adult size jellies, my son's Van's, or a friend's knee high Doc Martens, each says something about the wearer's intentions. In this way their shoes become tracks of what they stand for (And what they stand in.).

This gets me thinking about the tracks I leave behind. It is my intention that my tracks reflect my intentions. I want my tracks to remind those who come across them that there is always hope and that there are always possibilities. Today, I will be thinking about the tracks I leave and what they say about what I stand for.

Wednesday, June 14, 2017

Zoom Out

Two of the screen panels in the screen house had been damaged by the heavy winter snow. Last week I removed them and they are now at the hardware store being repaired. This morning I noticed that a small wasp had died just five inches from the opening one of the screens left in the wall. Five more inches South, and the wasp would have flown free. This reminded me that possibilities can go unnoticed if my field of view is too limited.

I once saw a book called Zoom. The title refers to the act of Zooming in and out, and the effect that has on the images in the book. We zoom out from a picture of a person to reveal a street. We zoom out from the picture of a street to reveal a town, and so on. A friend of mine calls this widening the frame. The idea that an unnoticed possibility can exist outside the frame I am limited by reminds me that I can make the choice to zoom out and see what is just beyond the bounds of my current perspective. Doing this can keep me from being trapped like the wasp.