Bliss.
Mixed textures.
Heavenly shades of green.
What's not to
​love?

But those
large green leaves
are mini-oaks, taking over
a place not prepared
for ​trees.

With
the right 
tools & care,
it's not so hard
to make a
​change.

There
is power in
transplanting and
re-imagining a plant or
a space or even an assumption
about how things are meant to be. I 
feel that way all the time in the
garden. There's the vision
& then there's
​reality.

And
sometimes
that reality is like this
honeysuckle, planted to fill
& beautify the corner of the garden
that happens to be adjacent to the compost
and happens to, over time, look
amazing on both sides
of the fence.

As I free
the blueberries
& liberate bounded roots,
I am grateful for unexpected flourishings.
Amid the seeming chaos & disruption of transplants
& fixings, there are places where things
work and where beauty
​exists.

This
is perhaps
the 100th shrub
I have planted in our yard
during the past decade, and this
tight tangle of roots gets me every time.
Not all plants are so completely
ensnared, but most ​seem
to be at least this
rootbound.

Sometimes
aggressive action is
necessary because it is
absolutely essential to free the
roots from themselves. If they remain
entangled, the shrub will never
be able to settle into
its new home.

Earlier
today, when
I held this particular
plant and gently worked to
free ​the roots, I thought of how
hard it has been to liberate myself from
the constraints I created as a result
of ​expectations of all kinds,
some from within &
some from
​family.

A plant
will thrive in 
its new home when
its roots are free & it has the
water & nutrients it needs. As I write,
I am increasingly curious about what roots I
may choose to cut so that I can participate fully in
conversations about climate, race & our
nation's structural inequalities
that limit our collective
capacity to
thrive.

It's easy
to ignore the 
blueberry bushes.
I can't see them from the
house or from the gardens close
to the house. A few years ago they were
productive, but they've never
been ​abundant, so I
end up kind of
​ignoring
them.

Until
yesterday,
when they called
for attention. As I am
apt to do, I dove in, slashing
the grasses with my Japanese Hori
Hori gardening knife, madly
giving those poor
plants some
​air. 

On the
first bush, I just
cut back the grass; On the
next one, though, I focused on one
section, pulling up grass by the roots. It was
harder work, especially since we're having a drought
and the soil is compacted and dry. But as I 
said, I was in one of those "I have
take care of this NOW"
kind of moods.

When
I stopped for
some water, though,
my 'yay me look what I've
been doing' moment became 'oh
no, there's so much more.' How often do
I focus on one part of a thing and
feel great about it, until I
​notice how much
more there is
to do?

There ​is
no quick fix
for these struggling
shrubs. They need so much
more than air and space. But after
the superficial grass removal & my one
'deep dive' with that one bush,
my hands ached and I
needed to
​rest.

 But I felt
sad & really bad
that I had not actually
provided them the nutrients
& care they needed to thrive and I am
sure they were annoyed when I whispered
"please be patient. The entire garden is calling. I'll
be back." How could they not be annoyed? They know
that in recent years I have only paid attention to them when
blueberries are in season (when there's something in
it for me); They also know that I have been
disappointed ​with their production
even though I have obviously
been ignoring their
​needs.

 As I
created
these images
& whispered those
promises, I could feel their
skepticism & anger. "Yes," they're
probably thinking, "you do have a lot to
manage. But you planted us in the first place.
It really is your job to figure out how to not just
admire us, but to also do what it takes
so that we & all these other plants
can thrive in this garden
of your design &
​making.

There's
work to do 
at home and all
around, so we've been
working - digging & mulching,
pruning & planting. It
​feels good to
​work hard.

And
even though
these phlox are out
of control and need attention,
I'm OK with their extravagant abundance
because five years ago, there was
nothing in that particular place
but a neglected corner
of the terrace.

Those
lupin blew over
from a neighbor's field,
but the comfrey by its side and
those chives behind were intentionally
planted to increase soil fertility on what was once
a rocky dry hillside. These woodland phlox, so different
from those flowers surrounding the bird,
thrive in a space that was once
a pile of sticks.

These
phlox and
this myrtle (or
Vinca Minor) have
finally merged on the
hillside by our driveway.
5 years in the making,
this space is, at
last, feeling
whole.

I am
grateful
to my garden
for reminding me
that neglected places
can be transformed. There
just needs to be a plan, focused
attention, and patience to
let what will emerge,
​emerge.

Purples
are beginning
to share the stage with
other colors, like these white
flowers on a lone Hawthorn tree that
is abuzz. It was for these pollinators that we
created this garden in the first place, so hearing them
in action gives me hope and purpose as I
go outside to get back
​to work.

​There's
The Tempest, a
drama by Shakespeare,
and there's the perennial plant, Good
King Henry. Both white men. Both British. One
an old text with faux leather cover & the other gone to
seed. Together, they make a perfect mix
of nitrogen and carbon in 
​my compost
pile, 

Because
it had rained a lot,
I added some old newspapers
to the mix and was surprised that they
were from 2018 - must have been
from the back of the
​storage ​​bin.

When
I stirred all this
green and brown stuff
together, they mixed & mingled,
creating a fertile space for decomposition.
It takes time, but not much, if I aerate the compost
by turning it over & making sure it gets good
& messy along the way. It smells like
an old barn, which I love, and
all that work makes
​me strong.

We are
in the midst of
a global pandemic. There
are riots & demonstrations throughout
the country. I'm angry, sad and very tired of feeling
complicit in a system I did not design or
choose. Turning compost is my
way of processing the
​all of it.

The
natural
cycle of life,
death & renewal
I witness in this pile is
also context for the other
continuum it includes - - The
shredded news, sometimes current
and sometimes from years past, that reveals
the causes and effects of policies
and actions over time. 

Mix &
mingle a diverse
bunch of decomposing matter,
turn it over once in a while and you get
soil to renew the earth from which it came; Create
policies that increase inequality and you get anger, frustration
and the perpetuation of an unfair system. It's all right
here in the compost behind my garage,
messy, smelly and beautiful
in a weird kind of
way.

In 2018,
when I composted
my Harvard and University
of Virginia diplomas, I experienced
the power of decomposition as not just a source of
life for the earth but also as a source of inspiration & renewal.
What seemed a dangerous & radical act at the time
did not cause the earth to shatter, but
instead freed me to reframe
​my narrative.

For two
years now, I've
been exploring what
it means to be the product of
privilege and to own my complicity
not just with the climate crisis, which was
the original impetus for my reflections on "Two
Degrees," but also with the social and
economic disparities that exist
as a result of our current
market economy.

Facing
truths is hard,
but when I go astray,
feeling tired & lost as I do now,
compost keeps me grounded. It is in that
pile behind the garage that clarity emerges: The power
of diversity & balance, the importance of
showing up & being patient,
and the beauty that
emerges from
the mess.

​Instead of
leaving my diplomas
in a frame in the attic, I tore them
up & let them break free as well. There is power
in recomposing, decomposing and reframing our narratives.
Sometimes, there truly is a tempest in the compost.
It's smelly & messy & hard to take, but it's
beautiful, too, and I'm ready for
whatever work is needed.
It builds strength of
​many kinds.

Yesterday,
the story was about
people - - crowds at the annual
Yard Sale where I purchased this dignified
bird, my friend Larry, who gave me these violets,
and Elmer, from whom we purchased
these River Birch trees over a 
​decade ago.

And then
there's dandelions,
showing up in random places,
a pesky weed for some, but a cheerful
harbinger of health for others.
It's all about the narrative
we choose.

The
dandelion
at the foot of
a tree, shaded by
daffodils feels different
from the dandelion blowing
in the wind on a grassy 
hillside at the
​landfill.

And the
hawk soaring
above that same landfill
inspires a different kind of reverence
than do robins digging
in my yard.

Please.
May I find hope
in a time of trouble. Thank 
you for the gifts that emerge. Forget
me not. The world is sweet, even though it
can be hard to focus & things feel
blurry when people & plants
try to share space. It's
possible, ​though.
So much is
​possible.

No.

No Smoking.

No Parking.

Positively No Parking.

And
definitely
no bad behavior,
because cameras are recording
even me, meandering around empty
​back allies in Hanover, NH
on this cold day
​in May.

There
are cracks
in the sidewalk...

and bricks everywhere
provide structure.

until
I look down
& see these leaves
emerge from
the grate...

and this
tree in a small
garden in the midst 
of it all,

and 
the word
​Please.

Earlier
today I shared
my story in an empty
AVA studio with my work,
Casey Carpenter and his cameras.
It was raining & cold, but the light was lovely
& the space welcoming, as always.
I am here, I thought, in
​community.
At last.

The
day began
with a 6am Zoom
call with Natalie Isaacs,
the founder of 1 Million Women.
With 1000 people from around the
globe I joined the conversation. We shared
joy in each other's company & inspired each other
to feel the collective power of our individual
actions. It was the perfect way to
close out Earth Month
​2020,

What
am I to do,
I wonder, with the
joy of being in community
making a difference for people &
the planet and the simultaneous strange
anxiety that that participation creates? For me,
it means it's time to go to the compost,
and see if, once again, it can
help me make sense
of our ​world.

On Earth
Day it was fresh
​snow & a few days later
it was a bunch of flying insects
among the shredded COVID-19 behavior
guidelines sent by our President. Hot and cold;
Inspired & anxious. Is that ​what I will
remember about Earth
Month 2020? 

Measurable
data, whether from
an ecochallenge or a global
health crisis, is real & understandable.
When it comes to climate, I feel good that I have
done something to increase biodiversity or decrease waste;
​When it comes to health, I feel proud that I have
helped flatten the curve. But it feels like
that objectivity actually denies
me the visceral realities
of ​being human...

...like ​the
joy of arranging
silky colorful fabrics into
a 'collage' or the deliciousness
of these treats from Umpleby's, where
I collected compost earlier today
& purchased this weekly
"Stay-At-Home"
​'pick-me-up.'

As I ​ate
these treats, I reflected
on this collective need to 'be
counted,' whether in the economy, in an
Ecochallenge, or in this global crisis. Might this
slowing down invite us to think more deeply about
this connection between individuals and
the collective, whether on
​Zoom or in our
​kitchens?

And in
the process, might
we also consider the differences
between what is actually counted and what
actually matters? If I counted everything that mattered,
I would no longer be living - - I would be
a counter, not a person. It would
be weird.

I fumbled
my way through the
EcoChallenge, just as I feel like
I am fumbling through this COVID-19 
situation. Flexibility and forgiveness of self and
others seem vital, especially when dealing with variable
weather and emotional fluctuations during a global pandemic!
But as the story I told this morning reveals (you'll
have to stay tuned for the actual video),
powerful things happen when
we honor moments of
tension & discord.

I'm
coming to 
understand not just
in my head, but deep in my
heart, that reconciliation with self in
relation to climate is possible, but only when in
community, whether that community is a bunch of plants
or garbage ​or really cool people at a place like AVA.
To learn more about this cool storytelling
stuff, check out Casey Carpenter's
work and stay tuned for
whatever comes
​next.

Roads,
for example,
curve in relation to the
topography, but still there are
roads. We impose again and again.
But from a hot air balloon on this particular
morning, in this ​particular place,
it was a stunning,

This
love letter is
to people & the planet
because Earth Day is about our
relationship. For me, it celebrates those
quiet places where I find and nurture peace,
not alone in the wild, but in domestic places, like
in an intimate garden at home where
​I try to be in balance with
the land on which
​I live.

Are these
solar panels, for
example, a blight on the
landscape, or a work of modern
art? As a photographer, it's all about the
relationship between light, form and function.
As for me, it turns out I am happiest celebrating the
natural world when in close proximity to
structures of all kinds that allow
us to live. I am, I guess,
a domesticated
​naturalist.

My
pleasure
in and gratitude
for the natural world are
immense. And in the fifty years
since we first named a day in honor of the
​earth we humans have learned and accomplished
a lot. We pay attention to air & water quality
& we make time to reflect on our
dynamic relationship...
most of the
​time.

The
fibers, dyes,
and designs on table
runners & bags come directly
from the magical interplay of sunlight
and the earth. It's stunning
and I ​love the
​all of it. 

So even
though it snowed
this morning, later today,
I'll be in my  protected and nurturing
herb garden planting some rhubarb, most
of which we will eat and some of
which may become a
​work of art.

When
I look at this
rhubarb in the compost,
I see the playful and colorful action
of the discarded stems on the surface & the
discolored coffee filters & mildewed orange rind hidden
behind. 50 years of celebrating the earth & I think I, like many, 
continue to struggle to both enjoy the beauty of what we
see while also embracing & actively working
with the mess we have created just
below the surface.

At the
end of the day,
the sun will set, and
the light and energy that gave
me life will move on, whether I am
here or not. I can, however, celebrate the
beauty that surrounds us while also
honoring the true impact
of my life.

Other
pieces, like
Mixed Carbon, hide
in my studio, bringing calm
and delight, but calling ​out for a wider
​audience. Or, my first ​Dried Flowers, from 2017,
are part of a set of greeting cards also wanting to share
their energy - - The cards are calling out "please
write letters, keep connections between
people going, & oh, by they way,
the US Postal Service
needs us!"

Over the
years, I have learned
to listen to my children & am
grateful for their guidance, like when they
unknowingly inspired me to finally seek help for my
lifelong anxiety or when they encouraged
me to actually sell my photographs.
So now, I am listening to
them & my work.

During
this time of
social isolation, it
feels strange to store all
these magical moments in my
studio, when they could be out in the
world for others to see. Because, at their heart,
Compost Compositions are all about community and
our essential interdependence. Just as the
green stuff and brown stuff have to
mix & mingle to create nutrient
rich 'black gold,' so too do
we depend on
​each other.

So here
we are! It's the
50th Anniversary of Earth
Week, we are entering our sixth
week at home as we #flattenthecurve,
and it's time to share the love  & powerful magic
in each of these Compost Compositions.
Please visit my online Store or the
Vermont Center for
Photography.

I am
excited to
donate a portion
of proceeds from all Compost
Compositions sold during April 2020 to
COVID-19 Relief and, in celebration of the 50th
anniversary of Earth Day to ecochallenge.org.
We are in this together. If you are able
and inspired, please share
​the magic!