April 22nd, 2020 | 1 Comment
Roadside flower rescue of someone’s old garden gone wild by an abandoned barn sinking into sun-sparked foggy marshland by the beach: jacks-in-the-pulpit, Indian paintbrush, lupine and small gold-yellow-white blooms I don’t recognize. You might think by reading these entries that all this woman does during a global crisis is go to the beach and pick flowers gone wild and watch seals and sandpipers dance. Well...wouldn’t you? My beach time is one sabbatical hour of the day, one with twentythreemorehours of hard new normal in it, just as you have. But in this blog I’d rather not dwell there. For your sake I hope to give you a fistful of wildflowers of hope, not the I-hope-it’s-sunny-today hope but the I-hope-that-helicopter-comes-soon-because-the-sharks-are-circling-this-rowboat hope, because as Dickinson wrote pressing her quill pen deeply one night into parchment by oil lamp, never imagining her intensity would become a bumper sticker saying: “‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers —that perches in the soul — and sings the tune without the words —and never stops— at all... I’ve heard it in the chillest land—and on the strangest Sea....” In this avian way I hope to pass to you deep joy from the oceanside, as well as from sayings of scholars who knew these dark nights of ours, and from the sky in a now-grounded but sparkling world.