One thing I love about living closer to nature is how attuned I have become to the seasons. Although fall is still my favorite— for its surge of energy, its bittersweet luminosity—I have developed a much deeper appreciation of each one's particular qualities. The light, the air, the plants and the animals all telegraph the changes and make me so accutely aware of the cycle of life. In nature, death is not hidden away. Decay, rot, disease, skeletons—even genocide and homicide—are all around. These signs of death can sometimes be chilling, but also poignant and beautiful. You come across "scenes," learn to piece together clues and decipher narratives. On the rickety porch of an abandoned cottage nearby (I stop by there often to check out the old apple tree, the twining vines of wisteria and wild grape, the rampant patches of day lilies and iris), I found this tattered bird's nest. Inside were the dessicated skeletons of two baby birds. They reminded me of Heckle and Jeckle and I took them home, adding them to my collection of deer vertebrae, dead bugs and found feathers.
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It's been a strange and wonderful transition from spring to summer this year, with recent nights dipping down into the 40s again. It almost feels like fall. Good for sleeping but not so good for the tomatoes, eggplant and cucumbers trying to make headway in the garden. This constitutes glorious hiking weather, the air so impossibly fresh that you are instantly energized. The woods are cool and damp, carpeted with moss and overrun with ferns so green they are almost neon. Pileated woodpeckers and yellow-bellied sapsuckers hammer away in the treetops; baby bunnies are living under our honeysuckle bushes; tiny freckled fawns gambol in the tall grass; great blue herons careen over the marsh; and at night the barred owl calls out "who-cooks-for-you? who-cooks-for-you-now?" It's pretty magical to be a creature among so many other creatures. I identified the one above as a Rosy Maple Moth (Dryocampa rubicunda). Its fuzzy orange body and lavender-tipped wings give it sort of a bridge-&-tunnel look, don't you think?
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It's raining again, which probably means there are more mushrooms in our future. I say our future because I can't help but share with you all my mycological finds. Cry uncle if it's too much. In the meantime, recent walks have revealed a frenzy of weaving going on. It's almost as if the spiders are busy luring as many insects as possible so they can chow down and put on some winter weight. Everybody's getting ready for the cold. Their magnificent webs, beaded with dew, glitter in the early morning sunlight. Some creations remind me of those delicate Victorian chain-mail purses; others, more dense and cottony, are like hammocks for fairies, strung between two plant stalks. And if you're lucky enough to find a spider at work, stop and watch. Their skill and dexterity is truly inspiring.
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The garden is literally teeming with life. This is the time of year when I must be diligent about going out every few hours to pick the Japanese beetles off the plants. One year they decimated the yellow dogwood in what seemed like one day. Now I watch for them as soon as true summer hits, and I am ruthless in my pursuit of these shiny winged creatures. They're not the only ones cluttering up our airspace. The bees can't seem to get enough of the honeysuckle that lines our front path, and they also love the wild raspberry flowers and the bee balm, naturally. So distracted is everyone by the intoxicating pollens and nectars around, that I was able to get close enough to snap a few portraits. (If you're a subscriber and got a weird "Test Post" email today, my apologies. We're trying to fix a few glitches on here and it's a little frustrating. Bear with me!)
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It's been quite a while since I've shared anything about the great outdoors. And that's a shame because so much is going on. The delicate pink tree peonies are in bloom, as are my gorgeous bearded irises worthy of Van Gogh. The hay-scented ferns are up, the butterflies are back and the herb garden is already bursting with thyme and chives. The angelica, now protected behind a fence is big and bushy, sending up tall shoots topped with lovely, frothy blooms. I'm spread so thin, I've barely been out other than to take a cursory glance and do some much-needed weeding. Thankfully, G is able to get up on his crutches for long enough to do the daily watering required in this heat, and he goes around on his butt planting new acquisitions. Yesterday, from inside the house he heard a noise or somehow sensed a strange presence in the yard, and hobbled out to find this fellow propped up against the garden fence. An enormous, prehistoric-looking snapping turtle, all fierce and armored.
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In my quest for wild edibles, I dredged up a distant memory of my friend Julia telling me about a morel she had once found at her weekend place nearby. So I headed over there, still dreaming of a big score. Her house has been closed up all winter long and as I drove up a big, fat groundhog scurried across the lawn. She has a beautiful piece of land that slopes down to a brook, now swollen from all the rains. Plenty of skunk cabbage along the bank, a favorite snack for bears. No sign of morels, sadly, though I did find a nice patch of stinging nettles. They must be picked and handled with care—heavy gloves do the trick—as the stems and undersides of the lovely, heart-shaped leaves are covered with fine spines that release irritating formic acid upon contact (like the sting you get from fire ants and bees). Nettles are surprisingly high in protein and deliver lots of calcium, magnesium, iron and potassium, among other vitamins and minerals. For millennia, they have been prized for their anti-inflammatory properties. Their delightful green color and spinach-y flavor makes a wonderful spring soup. And the skull pictured above? Stay tuned for an episode of CSI: Sullivan County.
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The marshy area in the woods behind our house is bursting with the sounds (and occasional sights) of new life. The rains and melting snow have united in large vernal pools that are the breeding ground for frogs and salamanders. You can hear their trilling and chuckling, great crowds of them creating a cacophany that we once took for an enormous flock of geese. When you draw near, they all go silent of course, so a stealthy approach is essential. We did scare a couple of ducks who took off, leaving behind a lavish breakfast buffet of bugs and water creatures. Here's a quick visual tour of some of the natural wonders we came across yesterday morning.
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I awoke to this the view from my window today. I have traveled to Sandpoint, Idaho, this week and am staying in the northern Idaho Panhandle at The Lodge on Lake Pend Oreille. A French-Canadian fur trader allegedly gave the lake its name, which is French for an ear-hanging or pendant, the likes of which were characteristic of the local Kalispell Indian tribe. When viewed from above, the lake is also shaped much like a human ear. If I weren't here for work, I would be trekking into the breathtaking wilderness, hoping to catch a glimpse of the abundant wildlife: whitetail deer, elk, moose, grey wolves, black and grizzly bears, bobcats, bald eagles, osprey and lots of other beautiful birds. Still a big logging area, local trees include ponderosa pine, Douglas fir, poplar, quaking aspen, birch and Western larch. And, yes, Idaho has the good potatoes. I had the best hash browns ever for breakfast!

It's day 7 of my juice fast. The simple act of taking food out of the equation can be hugely transformative. Our relationship to eating tends to be very complex, because it provides not only nourishment but comfort, sensual pleasure and perhaps a buffer to shield us from some of our deepest feelings. One thing I grapple with is the herpes virus that I have carried in my body since 1985. During that time it has been more and less active, but seems to have migrated now to reside in my sacrum, a very vulnerable spot indeed. Os sacrum is Latin for "the seat of the soul." This area seems to have become very congested for me, and I sense that lower back pain, writing blocks and deep fears are all lodged here. On day 3 of my fast, after a couple of dull headaches, including one that woke me in the night, and a surge of the virus in my system, I began to feel like all my defenses and resources were falling away. I slipped back into a pattern of self-doubt and recrimination, where I relive the life-long pain of feeling like a disappointment to my parents. I also felt very isolated and out of my element. This was probably exacerbated by the fact that our week-long bathroom renovation is now in its frustrating and enraging fourth week, and we are still availing ourselves of the incredible hospitality of our dear friend who has lent us his house at Beaver Dam.
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Such gorgeous weather this weekend, perfect for a walk in the woods. The wild turkey and deer abound; half a dozen turtles are sunning themselves on an old log in the lake; and the musical cackle of migrating geese fills the air. Even if you don't live in the country, I hope these photos inspire you to drive to a nearby forest or visit your local park to take in a few of the sights and sounds of this glorious season.