When I turned the page in Melissa L. Sevigny's Brave The Wild River and saw the two photos below, I burst into tears. I’ve been leisurely reading about two botanists who, in 1938, ran the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon to document the flora and fauna. The first women to take on this adventure, with real dangers. The photos are from the day Lois Jotter and Elzada Clover left the river and stepped onto the shore at Boulder City. Some men were in their corner — their fathers, one man from the trip, and another who approved the field research. But in the hours after finishing, some of the men they encountered scolded them as if they were errant children needing to be brought in line. Men in their party thirsting for notoriety went to great lengths to squeeze the two women out of the story and make it about them when the journey began as a dream for Elzada Clover. And then there were the men in their academic institutions who framed the journey as reckless rather than legitimate scientific inquiry. It would be interesting to know how many of those men have work that lives on at The Smithsonian.
 
Two educated, professional women going to great lengths to achieve career fulfillment. Competent and determined in a world that saw women as frail, weak, and silly. ‘Those were the times’ is not the whole story because it still happens too often. Exceptional is unacceptable for one gender. I came away from reading the book with a clear sense of how attractive the spirit of adventure is in women, especially when mixed with intelligence. Admiration sparkles in me for Lois Jotter and Elzada Clover who were way out front doing work they loved.
 
***
 
I always worry that Spy apples will just up and disappear because of a lack of demand. My local market generally brings in only one bushel a season. They make superior applesauce and pies because they are juicy and have a bright natural acidity. Most recipes today call for a few generic apples. I wrote on the varietal dilemma for Mark Bittman and spoke to some smart people in Vermont and Germany. 
 
I made this apple cake from Smitten Kitchen. Any cake with sour cream or buttermilk in the batter has got me. The crumb topping hits the perfect salty note. On the surface, the recipe looks simple, but it’s tricky. The cake batter is thick and requires care in baking so as not to end up with a mucky centre — the riddle of all fruit-centre cakes. I baked it ten minutes longer because I chose a juicy apple. Do as instructed, and leave a few apple wedges out. Instead of vanilla, I used Fiori Di Sicilia, which brought out the floral essence — a reminder that the fruit starts as pink and pearl apple blossoms fluttering in a spring breeze. The cake is sweet and rich and is absolutely better on the second day. Perfect for a weekend lunch.
 
Baking always makes me feel better. I was in need of extra tender loving care on the day I made it.

When I lived on Lake Huron, I had a friend across the street, and her mom, Mrs. Carlisle, was a superb home baker. She would have worn a crown on competition baking shows. You could tell she loved being in the kitchen in her apron with the oven on. There was always at least one sweet on their kitchen counter — date squares, apple pie, bundt cake, chocolate chip, and oatmeal-raisin cookies. That made it a super bon place to land after some of our teenage extra-curricular activities.

***
​
THE QUEEN of all chanteuses is, in my opinion, Whitney. Her vocal range and the power of her delivery were phenomenal. She was a natural-born performer and an all-around exceptional woman. Watch Steve Tavaglioni on tenor sax grooving for all of us. If I had a time machine, I’d be in that audience. 
 
This is the sweetest thing on Instagram this week.

​Added it to my New York City file in Notes for my next visit.

This news about the sale of a Denyse Thomasos' painting is stunning. Her work is so important to this country and the international art world. I spent several hours at her show in Toronto last year.
 
***
 
New songs from two women. 
 
I’d play these songs for her if my friend Lynn were still here. I think she’d like them. It makes me smile thinking of us at fifteen, sitting in her room, half-baked, eating her mom’s treats, laughing and talking.

My grandmother Theo's cameo. It might be an image of Amphitrite, Goddess of the sea. Given all the years Theo spent on the water working on lake boats and canalers, it’s fitting. The cameo is costume, but I love it, and in the last few weeks, I’ve been wearing it pinned over my heart. I’m working on something I know she would love, and I am sure she would be proud of me.

Inside the box below are pieces of her jewelry and a scarf Theo wore often. It blows my mind how much it smells like her. I can bury my nose in it and be transported. My uncle sent it to me with a note. I only open it occasionally because I don’t want the scent to disappear. It's the Hope Diamond of this house.
 
That’s her recipe book dressed up in a scrap of wallpaper. I imagine her sitting at the kitchen table and covering the black binder. Finding her own joy in the midst of six kids. Mostly a single mother because Harry was working on the Great Lakes nine or ten months of the year. One small way she made her daily chores more beautiful. A homely piece of household art. It’s full of recipes she scribbled on scraps of cardboard and paper, newspaper clippings, and pamphlets from the ’70s from Robin Hood and Quaker Oats. In red pen she's written 'Good!' at the top of a recipe for Scalloped Potato and Tomato with Cheese, there's a Peach Schnapp's Cake with my aunt's name on it, and at least a dozen recipes for fruit cobblers — a staple recipe when you live in the Niagara region and have a small posse of children. 

The photo of Theo was taken in 1960 at Nickel Plant Beach in Port Colborne — apparently one of the nicest beaches in Ontario, still. According to my uncle she'd pack some of the neighbourhood kids in the car and while they were in the water she'd sit on the beach, smoke Peter Jackson's, and read. We had a laugh talking about the fact that Theo couldn't swim two strokes. Good thing the kids never got in trouble.

***

​Publishing on my website is delicious. I share Mandy Brown’s enthusiasm in Coming Home. “Writing on my own site has very different affordances: I’m not typing into a little box, but writing in a text file. I’m not surrounded by other people’s thinking, but located within my own body of work. As I played with setting this up, I could immediately feel how that would change the kinds of things I would say, and it felt good. Really good. Like putting on a favorite t-shirt, or coming home to my solid, quiet house after a long time away.”
 
"but if you are a gracious host
joy comes back."
  
The Wonder of Stevie. I played an episode and the next day played the album spotlighted in its entirety, and so on through six episodes. What a body of work. Lots of dancing here and BIG respect. Evil is a song for our times. So is the violence he sings about in Living For The City.
 
Keanu Reeves delivering solid advice on people in Destination Wedding.
 
***
 
All the songs came to me when I was out for a walk on Thanksgiving day. Sometimes the music comes in a rush — along with some of the words — on the day I publish last week's story.

Goodbye, field tomatoes. I’m crying like Jimmy Swaggart.
 
***
 
Every profession has evangelism — faith, chefs, books, sourdough, movies, tech, vintners, politics, and clothes — with preachers selling their way and handing out labels like scout badges. We’re all wrapped up in it. A friend sent me this fascinating interview by Nahlah Ayed with David Samson to add to the discussion about tribalism from last week. One of his suggestions is an offering custom-made for Thanksgiving — focus on “pro-social, face-to-face relationships.” Gather and feast, people. Do it again soon. Exercise your hospitality skills. Invite people in.
 
***
 
I felt dread and panic reading posts of people unable to evacuate from Florida this week because of poverty, isolation, incarceration, illness, or disability. There’s a grassroots culture of national and local mutual aid on social media. BlueSky is reminding me of the goodness of Bluebird Twitter. It’s a relief to see a virtual community, “the helpers,” jump into action. (There are better moderation tools to stem toxic invasions from the evil believers — the evangelic trolls — who try to follow me with fake Keanu Reeve’s accounts.)
 
Maybe you have friends in Florida starting completely over or calling it quits. Climate migrants leave a place in a hurry and never look back because of too much first-hand experience. Think of it for a moment. Even prepared, there are hard decisions to make at the last minute. Imagine the run on supplies in the few days before. Then spending hours on a highway in a long chemtrail of taillights hoping there’s enough gas to get to safety. This kind of stress is an increasingly common experience for us. 

Cole Gregson writing for Oxford American about North Carolina. Being a helper first and a writer next. Doing rural wellness checks and spreading the word of great need. All the way to the end showing us the spirit of Thanksgiving.

What if every time you turn on an engine this week, you thought for a moment about global coastal and island citizens losing everything? My tribe has advocated for Mother Nature since way back. I dug the button below out of one of my precious tins. I wore it on my jean jacket in Katimavik when I was seventeen — in this together.
 
***
 
I turned some whipped M-S Dairy cream cheese into a fabulous salad dressing. I shook these ingredients in a small jar: cream cheese, white wine vinegar, avocado oil, garlic puree, lemon zest, sugar, salt, MSG, and pepper. Bring to room temperature if refrigerated.
 
At one of my local markets, there was a sign advertising newly harvested carrots for $1.99/lb. How could I resist? I made a sweet, crisp julienne of one using a mandoline, added pea shoots, and tossed it with the dressing. So. Damn. Fine.

***

​A harrowing story from APTN. Basically a re-enactment of our entire history — the experience since the first invasion. Another thing sent to destroy the First Nation’s culture. The storyteller is reporter Kenneth Jackson and he shows up brave, demonstrates respect at every step, and cares for people.
 
“…and had no idea what it felt like to be queen in this castle of dissolute men.”
The Anita Pallenberg documentary is deep-fried perfection — extraordinary and bittersweet. Scarlett Johansson narrates Pallenberg’s journal entries. The footage is breathtaking and it’s revelatory in terms of her relationship with Keith and the band. So much of their enduring style and culture came through her, a vivacious and magnetic Euro girl. Keith is a whole lot of things and a large side of tender. Their children are brave, brilliant, and candid. Prepare for devastation and love — the Kate Moss finish is delicious. Kudos to directors Alexis Bloor and Svetlana Zill.
 
When I was a kid, I had a portable record player and a small pile of Jackson Five, Osmond Brothers, and Beatles 45s. My most prized possession because music was the first place I felt free. 

***

Music notes are the crème Chantilly of communication.
 
The Oliva Dean felt like a snug fit with Keith serenading Anita. The two songs are like parallel parking in sunny Villefranche-sur-Mer. I’m am basically supersaturaed like confiseur at this point with Leon Bridges. An evangelic sound.

I set a big work goal for myself this week. I’m embarrassed, but I will tell you it was to write 7,000 words. I’ve never done that much in five days in a decade of writing. I will never write with the speed of Kazuo Ishiguro. Five to seven hundred words a day is super bon. (Of course, there are days when I can do more.) I don’t know if this is the way it will always be. On Wednesday, it was clear I would not make it, so I took a ride on the mental rollercoaster called Funk. Living alone, there was no one to remind me to get off. Then I remembered my ex would look at my To-do lists and ask me why climbing Mount Everest wasn’t on it. Poking fun at the gap between my desire to achieve and what is humanly possible. Making me laugh was helpful. Is this a women's thing? Is it a way to prolong disappointment in myself? A micro-abuse to act out daily. A lifetime of making restaurant mis en place lists with tasks perpetually dropping off the bottom into an abyss. After a few hours of moping, I settled on being more than halfway through the first draft.
 
Then I turned Friday into a minor celebration of my achievements because cake weather is back. I’m a card-carrying member of the night baker community. I made the Banana-Date Tea Cake from one of my favourite books, Tartine, because Elisabeth M. Prueitt writes good recipes. Sent a friend a text later that read: “This is the best banana cake I have ever had.” The crunchy sugar crust is texture perfection, and the dates and toasted walnuts give it elegance.
 
***
 
This devastating photo from Liz Renzetti of the clear-cut at the former Ontario Place circulated on social media this week. I imagine seeing the same thing in cottage country from a boat when a big property is being built. A sure sign a developer lacks the imagination to embrace the landscape. Globally there was one big takeaway from the pandemic and that is the value of being together and outdoors. Some can’t imagine nature having priority over commercial waterfront development. The idea of public space delivered by the people who don't spend summers here. Projects born on a wave of bullying have doom built into their DNA.
 
***
 
Something I read this week written in 1961 by Robert Ulich at Harvard University:
 
“In many groups hatred against outsiders has been a social glue as effective as internal understanding; we have not completely overcome the dangers of tribal mentality.”

***

​My standing desk in the kitchen. The blinds were down, and a fan blowing on me because Tuesday, October 1, was humid in the city.
 
“We know it’s not individual genius.” Long live Derrick Gee. The discussion on bands is *chef’s kisses.* 
 
“I always say it feels like church...When I go to AMC, I just sit there. And I can’t really experience that communal thing that we have here, where we’re all just worshipping at the altar of celluloid.” Because watching movies is not better at home.
 
Fangirling over Andrea Brusendorf.  Then, out for a walk with a friend, I see an Honorine Jobert anemone growing in my neighbourhood. I must take half a dozen photos of flowers every time I’m out for a walk. Who can resist? Might need the reminder in February.
 
***
 
I was introduced to Melody Gardot at the place of heart-shattering sunsets. The rest came this week in radio mode.

I went through a period in my late 30s where I was trying to figure out what my relationship was to having children. Facing the fact that whatever choice I made would be for forever. Feeling the medical pressure of being at a crossroads where ideal biological conditions and being single met. Approaching the reproductive cul de sac.
 
I made a decision of golden proportions. I chose no children. It was not a flighty-uninformed-selfish-crazy-hasty-flip-of-the-switch decision like I don’t know how to live my life. I gave it thoughtful consideration. I could care less about most opinions on the issue. How soon can we colonize Mars with the people who are emotional wrecks over my right to choose?
 
My parents knew the strength of my spirit. I did not feel a great pressure to be anything else but me. But there were no era-marking celebrations for me. I will never tie a paper plate of bows to my head or unwrap a breast pump. To the pronatalist, I’m a loser. That reminds me of one of my heroes, Lisa Simpson.
 
I knew enough to leave my heart open to have relationships with children and parents. There are aspects of a family I need. And I’m a lesson for people who hold a stereotype of mature women — like we’re all Stepford Wife-style grey-haired grannies. I’m a challenge to some and that’s something to be proud of.  
 
My mom would come to terms with never having grandchild news — a sometimes toxic, highly competitive landscape she’s been spared. She adjusted nicely. But I understand the loss too when I think of the pleasure of holding my grandfather Harry’s calloused hand.
 
I’m thrilled with how it worked out. Squeezing into the hetero-patriarchal mold is not all that, amen. 
 
***
 
When I see Borlotti beans in their pods, it takes me straight back to my dad. We’d buy a bushel basket at the Centre Mall market in Hamilton on a Saturday morning around this time of year and then spend a few hours in the afternoon shelling. The feel of the velvet talcum residue on the pods — dirt from the field transferred to my hands. Driving country roads past bean fields that look apocalyptic just before harvest. Store fresh beans in the freezer. They cook up tender quick and are best simmered with loads of vegetables and herbs.
 
A note for some cooks and bakers, it’s time to fill up your wallet and buy the dried ingredients to macerate for fruitcake. Get the best you can afford and mess around with flavors. Even an economy model fruitcake is a work of wonder. My magic mix includes dried cherries, currants, apricots, golden raisins, Flame raisins, candied ginger, and peel. I’m team rum. Also, start thinking about fruitcake’s favorite side squeezes —  aged cheddar and quality milky tea.

***
September is for Dahlia lovers. Here too.
 
This wins Instagram this week. 

This six part podcast tracing Joni Mitchell's career is fantastic. Her commitment to the creative process and her indomitable spirit are something to admire.
 
***
 
I’m thinking about the voices of North American protest. I began with women when I shared a few tracks of Roberta Flack’s Compared to What as a high watermark a few weeks ago.
 
At the tenth hour, I was offered a single ticket to see Joan Baez at Roy Thomson Hall in 2018. (Come to Toronto for our stellar music venues.) A great deal of intimate enrichment happens when you go to a cultural event alone. It’s a good practice and I felt full up on her music that night. She’s in a top spot here for good reason. One of many voices from the March on Washington.
 
Stevie Wonder with the Jackson Five giving it to Richard Nixon and playing his fingers over the keyboard like butterflies while we all groove. Seeing the back of some “politicians” is sweet.

Willie Dunn's baritone voice, guitar and words. 

​There’d be a long row of broccoli if I had a garden.

I steam it until just before it crumbles, then toss it tenderly with an insane amount of butter and flaky salt. I can eat a lot of it and don’t care if there’s nothing else. I had some of that head left to crush with leftover steamed fingerlings for a quick mash — it was second-day delicious. Stir-fried broccoli with lots of half-crisp onion crescents, garlic, ginger, mushrooms, and black bean paste is so good. A cook’s treat is the peeled stem eaten raw while I’m pulling dinner together. Why would you ever buy crowns?

***

A year ago, the west end of Bloor Street went through a metamorphosis. The stretch I live on went from a four-lane speed trap to a proper boulevard. One lane was removed for cyclists, the speed limit dropped to 40 mph, and planters were installed as barriers. A downtown pinko's dream. The nights here are quieter. On Sunday mornings, I hear the whir of racing bike tires when a peloton passes on the way to High Park. There hasn’t been a single accident. Months before the work began, I spent what felt like an eternity holding the hand of a catatonic young man who’d hit a speeding motorcycle right out front. Mixed-use roadways are inclusive and civilized. I like looking out my front window at dusk and seeing the long trail of red taillights snaking toward downtown. There is enough time to admire a classic car passing — like this intoxicating '68 Chevrolet Corvette convertible. Driver inconvenience does not bother me. The east-west axis is well served by a subway. I want to believe property value and business benefit from the change. Let me bury you in urban studies.

***

September is a sultry month. I walked south along the Humber River to an appointment this week, parkland all the way. The quality of late summer light in the morning is something. The sky was azure, the sun made a silver shimmer on the river, and the vegetation along the path was a wild tangle of skeletal seed heads and late blooms. 

​***

This is a loving tribute. My writer's heart melted reading it. Mentors are everything. Thank you, Katie Ward, for stitching those words together. 

I booked an hour of a librarian’s time through the Toronto Public Library. Where is my crown? I had three specific questions about their collection and international library access. The response I got was thorough. Brilliantly helpful. Librarians are superheroes of democracy. They are on the front line.

I read everything about Peggy Guggenheim. "For it was while staying at Yew Tree that the budding gallerist began to reframe her life, seriously considering her long-held desire of opening her own art museum." The privilege in buying a painting a day.

This interview on funk music with D’Angelo is thoughtful — he is a pro and knows where he fits. The intro is pulse-raising. What he says about Prince is right. The list of bands he offers is a gift.

I keep your notes in a file labelled "for the days of doubt." 

***

This week’s mood was R&B. The beauty of the collaboration in the first song. Then Snoh Aalegra followed by D’Angelo. Her angelic voice...the tension he creates with the keyboard...their vocal range...his live performance. Imagine the thrill of being in an audience full of feeling. A community singing along, “Won’t you get closer.”

My father wrote letters to politicians. The kind that got him annual Christmas greetings from men like Brian Mulroney. A well-set photo on nice cardstock — Canadian posh. He hung out smiling on the shelf above my dad’s desk where I could give him a side eye.  
 
Democracy is a demonstration. It is a multi-tasking action — exercising your voice and chasing off cynicism. I miss having political conversations with him. We’d regularly talk events through on the phone because we were interested and tried to stay informed. I wish I’d recorded some of those conversations to hear his voice again and get reassurance.
 
In the past month, I’ve written letters to federal and provincial government members across party lines about the temporary foreign worker program, and about food bank use rising to over a million in Ontario. Human security concerning housing, jobs, and food is an essential contract with our governments. The issues are non-partisan and serious enough to demand a response that isn’t racism or posturing. People are not being served.
 
I’m fed up and put that energy, time, and talent to good use. Putting words together is how I contribute. I can get to the point quick and am mindful of not wearing out the welcome. 
 
***
 
Our national apple. The McIntosh. The pride of the country, in a basket with so many other regional beauties. 
 
When perfect, the skin’s so taut you can almost see your reflection. The memory of the crisp, saliva-triggering tart-sweetness of biting into one as a kid. Lush and milky. A frothy drink of freshness. The season is a day long. I buy them one at a time. Like their blossoms, spectacularly here and then gone.  

​Small wins:

Discovering Melissa L. Sevigny this week was a miracle. I followed her trail and now I’m waiting for one of her books to show up on the hold’s shelf at the library.  
 
A heartwarming tribute to Mr. Jack Long of Long & McQuade. “Jack’s generosity was legendary…If you told him your circumstances, he’d go to his staff and say, ‘Cut this person a deal.’ That caring approach carried throughout all his stores.” 
 
This little bit of sanity about research and the comments and quote posts that extend out from it.  
 
Stunning glazes and structure. Japanese ceramics on social media. 
 
I had no idea that YouTube caps a playlist at 200 songs. I’ve started today volume two. 
 
***
 
A fine example of the power in the singer. Both versions are stunning. 

It’s the grande allée between green bean and Hubbard squash season. Maybe my favourite vegetables. Sorry, celery root. 
 
I like to blanch beans, quickly fry them with garlic, and snug them against a roast chicken. Good hunger is standing beside my friend Ghaithaa at the stove while she makes Fasoulia with the flat green beans she loves. Sizzling heaps of thinly sliced garlic and green onions in ghee.
 
An embarrassment of salted butter is all a roasted Hubbard squash needs. 
 
The garden grows like a fever in September. A desire path, a wheelbarrow tire wide runs between it and the kitchen.
 
***
 
Scarlet rosehips are luminous in the dinnertime sun. A geisha’s lips. Spent blooms hang like an Issey Miyake among them. The Rosa Blanda metamorphosis. The scent on a hot July night hangs in memory’s closet.
 
***
 
I recognise myself as a writer while reading Duncan J. Watts, Five Feet at a Time. I’m working on a project and striking out in several directions, like the ink blots. A colleague once commented on my mind-map note-taking. My concentration on one thing caps out at three hours. Of course, I can get caught in a flow that lasts a day. But in figuring out how to be productive, I’m learning to flip the switch. And the solo climber metaphor he uses in the title is the way. 

***
 
I don’t have much extra, but there’s always enough for: 
 
Eating cassis sorbet in Trinity Bellwoods. The French know how to extract the lush essence from fruit. Ripeness has to rise above the numbing effect of cold. In flavour and texture, sorbet is a masterclass.
 
Stopping at the Polish deli for a raspberry donut. Two quarters change back from two dollars. A cheap thrill. Puffed like a foam pillow stuffed in a velum sugar case. Carried home in a small brown paper bag. Eaten while I make coffee. 
 
***
 
The songs go out to a friend from high school.

​“Their increasing liberation makes the country itself more beautiful.” 
 
Sentiment for the times. 
 
Rebecca Traister on Thelma and Louise. Maybe the best paragraph about a movie ever written:
 
“It’s not just that Thelma and Louise get inarguably hotter with every discarded lipstick, floral blouse, and trapping of conventional femininity; it’s that, in Khouri’s script and through director Ridley Scott’s lens, along the geographically impossible road from Oklahoma to Mexico, their increasing liberation makes the country itself more beautiful, both to them and to us. These women and their willingness to disobey, hang up on, laugh at, and even kill the men who degrade and underestimate them are not a blight on the nation; rather, their trek west, toward imagined freedom, flatters America, lights it up from within.”
 
***
 
Eating three perfect Ontario peaches in two days in the last week of August is haute seasonal. Like Gucci, but fruit. A Las Vegas fountain for the taste buds — passionfruit and tamarind and lime and agave and what-else. 
 
A few days later, they were mealy. The season comes to a smoke and screeching tires halt. Louise behind the wheel of the Tahoe Turquoise 1966 Ford Thunderbird Convertible — "peaches."

Stories of the week: 
 
“This paragraph took three fucking hours.” Ed Yong on practiced intentionality. Crazy good.
 
A guitar and a mahogany tree from The Met.
 
***
 
There was a trickle of emails waiting for me on waking last Sunday — messages about orchards. Thank you, universe. 
 
One from a friend telling me of a heritage apple tree they inherited with their Wolfe Island property — a St. Lawrence. The poetic embrace of location and tree. The watercolour by Deborah Griscom Passmore is on page 144 of The Ghost Orchard. 
 
If you’d like to get today by email, please send me your address. Then check your junk mail.
 
***
 
Music from two women. The Maya Delilah song is a new jewel. Phoebe Bridgers singing Metallica.

For the last two years, when I pass this tree on the Humber River, I put my hand on it to express solidarity with it in age and spirit. My admiration is more urgent this year because there's no fruit, the charcoal limbs are knobbly-arthritic, and the leaf cover is thin like a bad comb-over. Two days ago, I put my arms around it and hugged it proper.
 
It's part of a ghost orchard — five trees from an orchard planted in the 19th century. They are wild now and produce green apples the size and consistency of a jawbreaker. Before they hit the ground there are copper blemishes marking insect feasts. Starting in late August, the scent of fermentation is in the air.  
 
I might see this tree pass. I don't know the tree plan for parkland in the west end. I bet it's safe and economical. Why can't we establish orchards in city parks? 
 
I went on a Saturday outing to Ben Nobleman Park Community Orchard. It's right across from Eglinton West station. Volunteers care for it. There's a beautiful pollinator garden, too. I strolled back downtown along the Cedervale Ravine. 

​​My love of orchards goes back to my Niagara childhood.

​***
 
"It was more powerful than I had imagined finding Frost's last orchard still thriving…All praise and all miracle...The poet may die, but the poetry continues."
 
A passage from Helen Humphrey's The Ghost Orchard about the thrill of standing in Robert Frost's orchard at his Ripton, Vermont writing cabin.
 
***
 
You can't imagine the talks I've heard on addiction in nearly 30 years of recovery. None have expressed more compassion than this talk from Tara Brach. She expresses humanity beautifully. 
 
***
 
I like the way these songs sound together. Adrianne Lenker is something.