As in, Where's Waldo? Except that I'm easily spotted in the front row of the photo above, shot at Ring Lake Ranch in the Wind River Range outside Dubois, Wyoming, last night. That group of people includes many of the participants in my week-long seminar, "Cultivating Sacred Stewardship of Nature in a Time of Climate Change," and some of the staff and children of Ring Lake Ranch, a dude ranch with a mission of offering "refreshment and renewal in sacred wilderness."
I'm sitting at the breakfast bar in my condo, my arms scratched, body sweaty, and muscles sore, eating a grilled cheese sandwich with green chile and avocado for late dinner, feeling tired and quite satisfied. I've just spent an hour with my well-loved loppers and hand-saw, cutting invasive Siberian elm trees (Ulmus pumila) from the arroyo that runs through my neighborhood.
(That's the arroyo in the photo at the top of this post, looking upstream.)
clouds flame out, fade to purple
bruised like our hearts
I posted that haiku on social media on Monday, August 5th, after the mass shootings in Gilroy, California; El Paso, Texas; and Dayton, Ohio.
One of the things I love most about starting the long process of working in a new book (long for me anyway--I'm a ridiculously slow writer) is that it's a license to read widely. Since my new memoir, Bless the Birds, went off to my agent for her read, I've been clearing off my desk to make literal and also metaphorical space for the next project. And reading.
For some years now, I've had this dream of a little camper with solar panels on top and a cozy bed, kitchen, and space to write--a super-tiny house on wheels--that I could live in while I do my weeding work in Yellowstone and other wild places. Over the winter, I got as far as putting down a deposit on the compact RV I had chosen. And then, the very same day the sale of my Cody house closed, the RV manufacturer went bankrupt.
One of the things I love about my new neighborhood is that it's not manicured. And an arroyo--a stream channel that is usually dry on the surface but channels water underground--runs along one edge of the neighborhood.
This waterway serves as a pathway for wildlife and humans alike (oh, the nighttime coyote chorus!). At this time of year, birdsong fills the air when I walk at dawn, from the trilling of spotted and canyon towhees to flocks of busy bushtits, hoarse chickadees, and the sweet whistles of western bluebirds.
When I bought my snug condo last October, I promised myself I would not get involved in a long renovation project. There was nothing really wrong with the place, except for being a bit stuck in 1984, when the building was built. (The photo above is the dining area as I first saw it.)
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