I never know how this happens.
All day long the thought arises, “Nope, nothing to blog about today.”
Tonight, making yellow split pea soup with burdock–you all know what burdock is, don’t you?–OK, I see some of you don’t. It’s sometimes accused of being a “weed”. But those of us who are savvy sometimes sliver the root into teeny-tiny pieces and add it to soups or stews or simmered carrots. It’s a tonic for your liver.
It’s so powerful and healing that you’ll glow after you eat it. I swear.
Your liver smiles smugly, delighted that you’ve attended to it.
The timer says: 24 minutes before the soup has finished.
I walked up the road as fast as possible this afternoon. It’s hard when the road is slick with snow. Not much snow, but it’s slippery unless you put one foot in the area plowed down to gravel.
Chickadees sang in the woods, lilting their tunes into the heart. I did not see any little black and white wings.
People are complaining because the temperature is 32 degrees (0 degrees celsius.) They want colder weather; more winter. Other people–those who do not like skiing or ice fishing or snowmobiling–nod in approval at the Weather’s Behavior.
My husband wants the temperature to hover at the zero mark. I try to nod in understanding at his attitude, but secretly I like the temperature just where it is.
My eyes seem to be getting older. Back in my teens and 20’s and 30’s and 40’s it was easy-as-pie to hike up the road in cold windy weather. Not any more. My eyes cry.
Honest-to-goodness, they cry.
I weep as I walk.
Part of me sighs and thinks “What’s going to happen at age 70?” Barry says, don’t worry. In a few years your eyes will turn dry and hurt instead.
Excuse me, time to check the progress of the soup.
OK, it’s boiling merrily. 18:36 minutes to go.
I grabbed another nine-inch raw carrot to munch.
Barry–who is listening to Minnesota Public Radio on the couch–said in amazement, “Another carrot?”
I love raw carrots, don’t you? They are an entirely different root from the carrot which bubbles in the simmering yellow split pea soup.
I have no new photos to show you.
Have not really felt inspired to photograph lately.
Have not really felt inspired to blog lately, but that doesn’t seem to matter when a blog requests to be written.
“Write me,” the blog says, and what’s a blogger to do?
I have been busy in spiritual concentration these days. Being present, being aware.
You know–chop wood, carry water.
(In other words, putting attention in everything you are doing, including typing. Being as present to life’s unfolding as possible. That means when you chop carrots, you are aware of chopping carrots. When you sliver burdock, you are aware of slivering burdock. You cry when you cry. You are not planning tomorrow’s dinner. You are not lost in last year’s memories. You are slivering burdock. You are crying. That’s part of my spiritual focus for January. You are with whatever is unfolding and thus you are surprised, more-than-surprised, when a blog presents itself somewhere between making split pea soup and munching a raw carrot.)
Oh gosh! Gotta hurry…Barry’s wondering if we’re planning on eating dinner tonight. The soup is done! See you later!
P.S. Sorry if I drew you over to this blog thinking that I wept while walking because I was sad. I wept because it was cold and windy. Isn’t it terrible to lure folks to your blog through such headlines? (They make me smile, because they’re true. They’re just unexpected. I hope you’re smiling, too, and not weeping.)