Woods-Walking on Two and Four Legs

I'd been feeling those last-day-of-vacation blues, at the end of a glorious trip home: a week of tent sleeping and garden picking, of gramma and grandpa (mom and dad) and their culinary tricks, of lakeside sand castles and car adventures---all soul-manna for this begrudging city kid and her kid. But we were set to leave …

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Midsummer in Van Cortlandt Forest

If there's something I'd like to believe, and also to teach all our daughters, it's that you have got to love your home country. Yearn for others at will, lament your distance from past lovers (aspen and mountains), identify yourself more closely with life-chapters past. Fine. Still, get out there on your own backyard trails. Learn …

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Loving the garden too

Here is the Native Plant garden: a terraced pool with geometric cascades; a wet hot corridor of mountain laurel and rhododendron; a bird-bath pond, frequented just as often by turtles and frogs. Pollinators feasting on a rainbow of stalks and sundials. Hawks in flight overhead or perched in the neighboring woods. Squirrels, black and slender, skittering …

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Coyote Lovely

It starts like this: Nonna and I were walking the baby to a different playground from our usual, when we spotted a statue I'd seen before but never investigated. I went in for a closer look. I thought it might be Balto, a hero dog who already has one stony likeness in Central Park. But …

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My Mother (the Skunk Cabbage.)

To every wild feminine spirit in love with the words and the woods: Happy Mother’s Day. Through our gifts of transcending and caring and loving, we are all of us mothers. “A good mother grows into a richly eutrophic old woman, knowing that her work doesn’t end until she creates a home where all of …

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Moon, moon, moon

Here is an image I love: Nonna’s kitchen with the lights off, baby at the window in her grandmother’s arms. Two heads dear to me turned away, looking up and out at a clear night sky. Guarda la luna! exclaims Nonna. Mon! squeals her laughing grandbaby. Then again in our home: my husband heaves our …

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The lightness of being (on a Genova beach)

Pen, be my heart: for these two wave-thundering fingers of golden-blue before that sun hits these rocks--in Genova, friend and lover, a city where nothing is not wild. Genova, where all ties and times and turns itself to the sea, and thus to the moon, that pulling, reflecting body... I am here on the spiaggia …

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