Cultivating Stillness in a Chaotic World
This morning, I opened Lamentations and found the ancient sentence waiting: “His mercies never end. They are new every morning.” Outside in the wild blackberry thickets, my peonies look as if they’d been unfurled by a botanist, her hands peeling back each…
To build a lush forest in a glade takes a geological mercy. And time. Lots of time. The valley was once a layered green habitat, filled with oaks, hickories, and cedars. We’re looking at trees that were at least 120…
1958, as I played hopscotch in my grandmother’s Mississippi garden, I didn’t know about global initiatives or environmental footprints. I poured milk from glass jars. I ate Mimi’s tomatoes straight off the vine. I only knew the damp, warm feel…
A Liturgy of the 4:13 PM Before the unmaking began on Water’s Hill, the woods held the calls of a Wood Thrush and Bob-Whites. Those afternoons brought a Sunday-afternoon-nap kind of grace. It was a cedar glade with wild violets…
There is an unmistakable honesty in a sun-drenched windowsill. A million years ago, I set these grocery store lilies in Mother’s old ironstone pitcher. Alstroemeria, for those counting. Sure, they’re cute. Maybe elegant. And any bouquet carries the edge of…
Have you ever questioned the definition of joy? The word is used as a synonym for happiness and contentment, but are these ideas interchangeable? And what about other nouns that are stirred in–hope, grace, mercy, and gratitude? Are they just words? All…
