by Lindsay McLaughlin | Apr 12, 2016 | Contemplations
Recently, Scot brought to my attention a poem by May Sarton called April in Maine: The days are cold and brown, Brown fields, no sign of green, Brown twigs, not even swelling, And dirty snow in the woods. But as the dark flows in The tree frogs begin Their shrill...
by Lindsay McLaughlin | Mar 2, 2016 | Contemplations
We are in an ephemeral time here at Rolling Ridge, an indefinable season between winter and spring. Our friend Cheryl is repairing her bluebird boxes while patches of crusty snow line the side of the gravel road. Days ago, a bitter wind chilled faces and bones....
by Lindsay McLaughlin | Jan 28, 2016 | Contemplations
Snow began falling Friday afternoon, lazily, drifting effortlessly from a soft gray sky. Within hours the mood had changed; it became swift and determined, tiny particles careening downward, as Mary Oliver says, “…irrepressibly” into a world...
by Lindsay McLaughlin | Jan 17, 2016 | Contemplations
It was a wind-whipped, changeable afternoon. Clouds and rain gave way to sun, then swept in to shower some more and left again on another breath. The swirling duet of rainfall and sunlight fit my mood as I looked over the winter-ready garden and the...
by Lindsay McLaughlin | Jan 3, 2016 | Contemplations
A week before Christmas, Scot and Linda hosted a festive community supper to celebrate this thin and holy time of year. We feasted, exchanged gifts, acted out a wacky rendition of “The Twelve Days of Christmas” and listened delightedly to Linda’s fanciful and...
