At
some point
in 2020, I lost 
​my way.

The
turmoil
went to my
head and to my
heart and I
​froze.

Thankfully,
though, the compost
pile beckoned.

The colors,
textures and yes,
the pungent odors kept
things real and reminded me of
the beauty of it all.

I am
grateful
for extended
time with my family
and with my
​thoughts.

Light
emerged
on the other
side of dark, and
we just kept showing
up for each
other.

The
dailiness
of watermelon
& houseplants that
needed trimming invited
calm in the midst
of brewing
​storms.

And
I voted.
We voted.
​Hope.

And the
Christmas Cactus
bloomed at Thanksgiving
as it does every
​year.

And
we finally
bid farewell to
my mother-in-law's
pressed leaves and rhyming
dictionary she used to
write holiday
​poems.

It was
a messy, smelly
and uncomfortable year,
but it will be impossible to forget
2020 and the good that
will emerge from
the all of
it.

For me,
photographing
the spent blooms has also
been an invitation to see the beauty
embodied in decay, especially
during the past 3 years,
when she has been
in decline.

This
first 'dried
flowers' photograph
is part of my original "Compost
Composition" greeting ​card collection.
There is still a limited supply available, which
I hope to get out into the world. Please express your
gratitude for the US Post Office by writing
cards to those you love. Rumor has
it that these images make
people feel good.
Here's a
link.

it took
over a year,
for the dress and
the woman to emerge -
smiling. ​

"I am
terrified at
the earth," but I
drink my demitasse
and smile. Really? Is that all?
What an incongruous
sham!

But am
I allowed to show
fear or anger? Do I even know
what ​these emotions feel like? And if I
can't show them when no one
is looking, will I ever
be able to be
​real?

I've
buried them
for so long, always
hiding behind that ​smile.
Don't get me wrong. I've only
recently understood how beautiful it
is. But just as the demitasse is a
curious distraction, so is
a smile a fabulous
​cover. 

Common
Milkweed is really
not so common. The pods,
like a bird's beak, or perhaps an
alligator's head, add texture
​to the early Fall
garden.

Who
knew that all
kinds of bugs, in addition
to the well-known Monarch Butterfly,
appreciate the seeds. Is this one searching for
food, finding material for a nest, or
just playing in the lacy
​fibers?

Just
up the hill,
more pods open,
their silky seeds seductively
swaying, inviting me &
​my camera
to play.

These
Swamp Milkweed,
planted for the first time this
year, reminded me of the Monkshood I
planted for the first time earlier this summer. Their deep
​purple flowers, shaped like the cowl of an
actual monk's hood, captivated
me, as they, too, danced in
​the late afternoon
​light.

You
can imagine
my surprise when
I learned that every part of
the Monkshood plant, also known as
Wolfsbane, is highly toxic - - & I had planted
it by our terrace, right next to where
we sit! Of course I quickly
moved it to a more
​remote spot.

These
plants got me
thinking. I make so many
assumptions about plants & people.
Milkweed is quirky, but valuable for insects
and fiber artists; Mugwort might be considered a weed,
but it's capable of calming nerves; And Monkshood,
named for people who serve & protect 
is poisonous. 

What is
a gal to do? Every
year, it seems, putting the
garden 'to bed' inspires reflection.
This season, for example, I experienced the
impact boundaries have on the flow of energy as well
as the value of plant placement
to ensure safety.

What's
next? I have a 
hunch I'll be digging
into the power of assumptions
not just in the garden but also in the rest
of my life. There are just so many
beautiful plants & people
​to behold.

A worm
or some other
bug took a few bites 
out of these apples. Question
for the day: Do I hide or celebrate
these 'ugly fruit'? I'm increasingly done
with perfection of any kind, so here's what
emerged. I say, "welcome sweet
creatures. There's plenty
to go around."

It made
me think: Who
really said that a bite of an
apple leads to banishment? What
an absurd story. Apples provide essential
nourishment for the body, mind,
heart & soul.

And our
particular tree,
a gift from my in-laws
in 2014, bends but does not
break with time. What does it take
to be so flexible? What does
it understand & what
can it teach me?

While
I 'compost' the
issues -- race, political
discord, economic disparity and,
yes, that nagging issue, Climate Change,
it feeds on living mulches, provides
perches for birds & in spring
is a beautiful focal
point in the
garden.

It seems
ironic that this
year, with drought and
psychic tension in the universe,
it is more abundant than ever before.
This portrait reveals a collection of apples
from a much older tree that predates us by a few 
decades (on the left), and a few of our
yummy Honeycrisp in a bowl
made by my husband
thirty years ago
(right).

I love
how the soft
light plays on these
discarded cores and peels,
their transformation from apple to
delicious desserts & beautiful compost
a lesson in mindfulness.

While
turning the
apples into desserts, I
remembered when our apple
tree first produced five years ago. My
sister and I harvested the entire crop of eight
precious fruit to bring on a cross country road trip from 
New Hampshire to Idaho. We rationed those
home grown Honeyscrip, allowing
ourselves one a day -- each
bite, a precious
gift.

We
experienced
joy and a powerful
sense of abundance even
though there was scarcity -- Only
one apple a day. As we drove across North
Dakota & into Montana, we ate the
final apples, savoring their
​crispy juiciness.

This
year, there's
drought. The leaves
are sickly. My gratitude is intense,
but subdued. Will this more fragile tree
break from the weight of it all?
Did I care enough?

My
relationship
with this tree is ancient,
and I know it's too late for regrets.
Between wheelbarrows full of mulch I stop
and eat an apple. "Don't worry," it
seems to say. "I am strong
and so are you."

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.

At this
point, my walk
had become it's own
kind of Easter Egg Hunt, but
instead of colorful eggs, I  found random
objects, each of which felt like a
sign, because I was on a
search and there
they were.

This pink
ribbon, so bright
on the forest floor, but
there, communicating something
to someone, perhaps even to me -- Beware,
I'm here - Don't trip? But instead, I got tripped up by these
mysterious marks on the trees. Are they part
of some game, or do they have
great significance? 

Maybe
it's just that
simple. I am being
asked to co-exist not just
with my immediate family, but
with the all of it -- the mysteries & the
uncomfortable realities of being
human on a planet that is
struggling to support
us. In the midst
of it all,
I seek meaning
and relevance. It's why I
take photographs. It's why I share
my work and my ideas on this blog. Because
for me, it's spiritual. Just as there is power in the way
compost emerges as nutrient rich soil, there is power in
showing up & trying to make sense of ourselves
and our circumstances, with all our
abundant and colorful
imperfections.