Sun on an early Saturday morning

The summer flowers remind me of people huddled against a storm of pelting sleet while waiting on a railway platform.  But this morning you feel the plants reach, stretch, straiten and open with relief.  We’re out harvesting before dawn, then the glorious sunlight, obscured for weeks by clouds and rain, pierces through the trees with symphonic luster.  Perhaps the flower pots will dry out and the unhappy peppers and tomatoes might begin to believe it is July. 

Sister Helena Marie and Suzanne this morning before the truck leaves for Farmer's Market

Sister Helena Marie and Suzanne this morning before the truck leaves for Farmer's Market

The sisters asked me to make some bouquets to sell this week for Farmer’s Market.  I smell like tansy, feverfew, lilies and lavender, and my sneakers and pants below the knee are  still soaked with dew while I sit at the computer.  While the garlic is harvested and hung, and baking and cooking taking place at St. Cuthbert’s, I’m now in my studio at St. Aidan’s putting together next week’s post for the Edge of the Enclosure website and newsletter.  Tomorrow our amazing intern Emily and I plan to to visit the sisters at the city convent, go to the Rose Planetarium and experience the Big Bang and Universe Walk, the halls of geology and biodiversity.  The next day we’ll go to the Met to see the temporary exhibit on Medieval drawing.  I hope we’ll be able to see the new documentary Food, Inc..

The blog entry ends here, then, because I need to finish, prepare for Eucharist and help with Farmer’s Market clean up this afternoon. So I leave you with a Wislawa Szymborska poem.  This piece seems especially appropriate to our continual embracing of The New Story, observing our lives as a mere part of the unfolding narrative of the universe. 

Sorry about the spaces between the lines.  I can’t figure out how to format a poem on WordPress.


A Speech at the Lost and Found


I lost a few goddesses on my way from south to north,

as well as many gods on my way from east to west.

Some stars went out on me for good: part for me, O sky.

Island after island collapsed into the sea on me.

I’m not sure exactly where I left my claws,

who wears my fur, who dwells in my shell.

My siblings died out when I crawled onto land

and only a tiny bone in me marks the anniversary.

I leapt out of my skin, squandered vertebrae and legs,

and left my senses many many times.

Long ago I closed my third eye to it all,

waved it off with my fins, shrugged my branches.


Scattered by the four winds to a place that time forgot,

how little there remains of me surprises me a lot,

a singular being of human kind for now,

who lost her umbrella in a tram somehow.


Wislawa Szymborska, from Miracle Fair

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