a personal sketchbook
There is a particular quality to the light at 7am in early March — still angled low, still carrying winter's coolness, but with a warmth that was not there a month ago. I watched it move across the table for twenty minutes, turning the wooden surface gold, then amber, then back to its usual pale oak. The tea went cold. I did not mind.
the shadows were lavenderFound the first crocus this afternoon — a single purple flame pushing through the mulch by the stone wall. The soil smells like possibility. I knelt there for a long time, just looking, feeling the cold earth through my jeans. The hellebores are already up, drooping their pale green heads like modest scholars. By April this border will be unrecognizable.
plant the sweet peas this weekendRoasted carrots with harissa, honey, and dill — but the secret was in how long I let the honey caramelize before adding the carrots. Eight minutes at least, until it went from golden to deep amber and the kitchen smelled like autumn. Served with labneh and toasted walnuts. E. asked for the recipe. I could not explain the honey timing in words. You have to watch it change color.
try with parsnips next time?Finished the Dillard book — Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. There is a passage about seeing where she describes the difference between looking and really seeing, and I have been thinking about it all day. How much of my garden do I actually see? How much is just green blur that my brain fills in from memory? Tomorrow I will sit by the pond and try to see a single square foot of ground. Really see it.
the whole book is one long act of attentionMarch arrived on a south wind, carrying the smell of wet earth and something almost sweet — snowdrops? The calendar on the wall shows a woodcut of a hare. I have decided this month belongs to noticing. Every day, one thing seen clearly. One thing drawn, however badly. One sentence written. That is enough.
enough is exactly right