The Wakinyan decided to take the power last night. They let it come back but Grandfather is hiding behind the clouds, and though the birds are singing in spite of the gloom, this disrupts my plans for Rose Quartz in the Garden (pt 2). I had planned to exercise my pitiful photography skills and take a picture of a rose quartz lying under my weigela bush. Oh well! Got to wait until better weather comes along.

I'm gazing out of my window, listening to bird song and seeing a thousands different shades of green in a thousand different textures. The greys, buffs and taupes of rock and bark, the flash of a snap dragon, the golden yellow of the dandelion. My garden may be full of weeds by most people's lights, but it is also organic and full of life. How often have I seen deer crossing my lawn, heard the cry of a hawk? Watched the turkeys show their babies where food can be found, seen the flash of red as a fox dove into the bush? They come here because it's peaceful and because there is life where Nature hasn't been forced into a rigid, structured order. I garden the beds around two sides of my house, and leave the rest to Mother Earth. I have milkweed at the edge of my property to feed the butterflies, wild blackberries, wild strawberries and wild roses, all volunteers and all welcome. I love it, and I feel so blessed.

The other day, as I smudged a smokey on my front stoop (fire alarms prevents me from doing it inside), a chickadee came to watch from a vantage point in my weigela. He stayed the entire time, brave, bold, fellow. If I had reached out, I could've touched him, he was that close. When the smudging was done, he flew away. It was almost as if he was bearing witness. A magical moment. If only we could clear our eyes to see.