fossils from a vineyard in our village in southern france. from back when the village had some different inhabitants, and the local vineyards grew a different kind of crop. but the seafood was still fresh.
I am so bummed to learn that you cannot stand an egg on its base at the moment of the vernal equinox, and make it stand perfectly upright without falling over. i wanted that to be true. i also wanted to be able to stand my broom up in the middle of the living room and leave it for tax clients to wonder at. i guess i will have to content myself with the arrival of spring. that’s magical enough.
feathered nest with pheasant egg
vladimir nabokov was not just a writer but a world renowned lepidopterist, spending long summer days in alpine meadows stalking butterflies. his love of science and nature equaled his love of great works of human imagination. “a creative writer,” he once said, “must study carefully the works of his rivals, including the almighty.” with that said, i present these feathers, as a kind of homework.
assorted found feathers
i like that such an elegant plant is raised to offset the sweetness of malt with a little bit of bitterness in the beer we drink. these wild hops were growing on the bank of the orb river in southern france, below a stone arch bridge amid the sound of running water, with trout holding in the current below boulders. the hops were perhaps the only touch of bitterness in the entire scene.
along the orb river, languedoc, france
most nights my husband comes up for a glass of wine by the fire after 7 tax appointments and tries to tell me about the stories he’s heard. they mostly involve people just muddling through. there are tragedies and sadness. there are old marriages and new babies. there is imperfection everywhere in the midst of a striving and love. the impression i’m left with is the impression this rock gives me. of a beautiful, broken, wholeness.