a month into it

The photo project is getting fun! The more I look, the more I see. I was worried I'd run out of things to photograph.

weapons of mass creation

To me, gardening has always been an act of revolution. A revolt against the ten hours of desk work, the multinational food giant, soft hands, and city living. With every transplanted seedling, I am master (mistress?) of my domain. When I pop a warm, ripe backyard raspberry into my mouth, I feel like I stick it to the man, just a little bit. There are so many kinds of self-sufficiency of which I know absolutely nothing. But this I know: I can take a seed, stick it in the ground and make food come of it.

My friend Mara, whose beautiful shoe is photographed above, speaks of seeds like they are magic, music, medicine. She keeps a small vial of heirloom seeds on her and will shake them for a sort of musical meditation. Wendell Berry writes poetry about ploughing the earth. Me, I make charts. My charts tell me what seeds I have left (and how much of them) and what seeds I desire. Sometimes I'll add a picture to remind myself why "Chervena Chushka" was a must-have the last time I browsed Seed Savers catalog. I chart out an indoor starts schedule and then an outdoor starts schedule. I may even chart the planting boxes, so I can rotate a few different crops. Oh yes, spreadsheets have a poetry and music of their own - the only kind of poetry and music I can produce with wild abandon.

And yet as controlling as I am at this end of things, there always comes a point where I succumb and let the creation take over. Those rigid spring spreadsheets decompose into June's sprouts, July's entropy and August's gravity. We always, always, lose control. We enter the garden with one part intimidation and three parts glee as we stumble and bump our way around the overgrowth plucking warm tomatoes, twisting off an eggplant, bending into a carrot firmly entrenched in the soil. The dirt and toughened skin is never fully scrubbed off the hands. And you wear it like a badge of honour because it reminds you that you haven't completely lost your tie to the earth.

Sowing the seed,
my hand is one with the earth.

Wanting the seed to grow,
my mind is one with the light.

Hoeing the crop,
my hands are one with the rain.

Having cared for the plants,
my mind is one with the air.

Hungry and trusting,
my mind is one with the earth.

Eating the fruit,
my body is one with the earth.

- Wendell Berry

total: 20 days

Beautiful winter weather so my camera pointed outside a lot. Which is a good thing for February. Plus some crazy texture courtesy of the funky packaging from a box of schwag delivered to the office that week.

five minute break: an experimental film

to the lake


I've always loved the sounds associated with snow. Apparently, we are many who share this fascination.

weekend mandate

once more with feeling

the first ten days, originally uploaded by Helen de madison.

Deep winter has settled in and I sit still a lot more frequently this time of the year. It's great for seeing, all this sitting still, and the more I look at seemingly unimportant or banal things, the more fascinating they get. They call to me to find the beauty, the fascinating, the fractal complexity. And then, in the way that cosmic forces seem to converge and lead to something wonderful, I have lunch with a friend who tells me she has been taking a photo a day and that she can look back at these pictures and remember almost every day that they were taken. I'm smitten. For the next 365, I will take a picture a day. To see. To remember. It seems, this is a recurring quest in my life.

Here's what I'm drawn to these days:
*edges and transitions, where snow and ice meet pavement, how light moves around the corner of a small box of mints sitting by the window, where the self-contained meet and overlap, and interesting things happen;
*blurry images, where the tangible seems to be infused with magic and you can play tricks on your own eyes, flower morphs to octopus;
*little tiny things and my macro lens.

Ah. It's good to be back here.

summer fun!

like a hot house tomato

That's what life feels like these days. It's deep summer. The garden is busting out: fruits ripening, leaves multiplying, new sprouts seemingly exploding from the ground hours after the little seeds were tucked in there. I just might, maybe, be getting a bit of lettuce fatigue.

But our life in general feels like how the garden looks right now. The projects got bigger fast upon returning to Madison. Good things have been happening professionally. The kiddo, my favourite sprout, has been exploding with vocabulary and movement . He is like grass growing so fast you can literally see it getting longer before your eyes.

I am a little distracted with the unruly pile of things I need and want to do in a day, anything from grant writing to repairing the broken vent/faucet/toilet/hose/shower rod to making freezer jam because it's strawberry season. We have a non-functional shower but have managed to build a gonzo sandbox in the backyard out of a derelict raised bed. Do I continue to unpack the office or go for a run or make dinner?

Yes, you can say that the tendrils of our life have run a little amuck lately. And yet, somehow it works for us right now. There's a joy to the summer chaos that can only be appreciated after a long, isolating, sickly indoor winter. I kind of like feeling sand underfoot in the living room and sticky ice cream fingers wrapping themselves around my neck. And I think I'll finish writing that grant tonight. I'll make the jam tomorrow. And the office can wait a little longer.

Circling back

We circle back upon ourselves. An ever-widening spiral. Nine months ago, I hadn't let myself think about how much I missed my hometown and family. I couldn't go there because our return was fleeting, just months. I didn't want to have my heart broken at leaving again. Nine months later I learned something else. I really missed the place that had become home to me now: Madison, Wisconsin.
I hadn't understood that love of place is not a mutually exclusive phenomenon. You don't give your heart to one place at the exclusion of any other. It can be strange to feel simultaneous loss and gain. I knew it would be hard to leave Montreal again. But I hadn't expected to feel so much joy and anticipation at our return to this little midwestern town.
The little winged samara feels it too. He walked the perimeter of his new home for the first few days and then seemingly realized this is now his place. At the end of a long day he will walk in the door and audibly sigh. Sometimes lie down on the floor with relief at being back in "his" space.
I wonder if he too will one day come to feel like his heart lies in many different places. And if so, I hope it makes him feel as rich as I do.

The next best thing to being here

Since you're away for your birthday, we thought we'd bring the birthday hootenany to you instead. Happy birthday, Jake!





Love Helen and Milo

P.S. We ate a birthday banana in your honour. Figured the cake can wait for your return.