June 2026

“Some have asked what I got to eat; if I did not feel lonesome; if I was not afraid…” (HDT, Walden)

     I have not settled in the rural woods inside a self-built hut. Though compared to what is thought as a normal restaurant perhaps I have done something of the sort… I live a certain way and that is it. You may choose to call it what you want but I don’t identify. The wind does not call itself the wind. The sun does not call itself the sun. I do not call whatever I place onto the plate Art—it is a result. My life is my Art—the way I live.

   

  “It is something to be able to paint a certain picture, or carve a statue, and so to make a few objects beautiful; but it is far more glorious to carve and paint the very atmosphere and medium through which we look, which we morally can do.” (HDT, Walden)

     We’ve gotten busier at the restaurant and the requests pile in from those who do not know us because they have not taken the time to know us. And what can I do? I cannot break myself into one hundred pieces for them. How would I return? I would be broken, and when I worked so very hard to build within me a great temple. And while the restaurant reflects but a small portion of my thoughts—the physical is always so far behind—a church is a church whether only its first brick has been laid or its last. Yes this is a country church of sorts. A place that celebrates the divinity that is within man and all around him.

    

And God said, Let us make Man in our image, after our likeness: and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth. So God created man in his own image, in the image of God created he him; male and female created he them. (KJV Genesis 1:26-27)

     With Man’s dominion came a profound responsibility of stewardship. There are many examples of God’s wrath when Man’s stewardship faltered. And where is his wrath now after we’ve buried Him to exploit the earth? (nothing is free). There are many forms of stewardship and they are all a devotion and many may make little sense to others. Little sense little sense little sense to others have we always been this way and who do our insipid comparisons serve? I am a steward of my time and my place and not the world as represented by others. Personal. Personal. Personal. But here there is often a miscalculation from the outside world: some tell me my writing is brave… how vulnerable I am. But this is not that heavy. Our feelings are not so very different from one another nor from those who have come before us and those who will follow—you are just afraid of them. But I did not plan this stewardship no I’ve written no dogma. I do not lead. I follow the invisible force that is always within and all around me. Driving home on the old familiar route the sun sets pinks across the fields and creek. White tail silhouettes on darkening pasture. Winter fires burn bright though they hardly compare to a pastoral summer’s night. I’m returning home through painted twilight to tuck my girls into bed. To read them a bedtime story. To lie with them until they drift to sleep. Yes they’re getting older now but they still like to fall asleep in our arms. And we oblige because one day soon they won’t ask us to. I can’t think of something better to hurry home for, to keep the knife strokes sharp and focused. And so I butchered the chickens with efficiency and placed them in the brine of goat’s milk whey and salt and maple syrup. And I soaped the countertop and wiped away the day. And fed the starter. And turned off the lights and locked the doors. The little ones were waiting for me. And as something of a reward (though lying next to my angels is reward enough) the finished day cascaded in splendor all around me.

I don’t know this world as I think others know it. I see them go from place to place from thing to thing. To the next to the next. No I cannot break from the spirit of things. I carry them. They follow me. I cannot pass them. I cannot move from them so quickly… The spirit captures me and I capture it in return. Our bodies intertwine. Whether in food or words or pictures there is no beginning or end but a tide we reach we pull we fade.

     And this evening when it wasn’t night but it was no longer day I pulled over onto the dirt at the side of the soy field on Bessicks Corner Road and turned off my headlights and stared out into the opening of light through the dark I stared I stared. And I walked along the road and the fireflies were there with me and a herd of deer galloped across the field in front of me oh majestic earth… And I wondered what it would be like to return to it. To be with it and in it. We’ve moved so very far from it. I was born out of it. What would it be like to return to it… to be like the deer.

I wish to speak a word for Nature, for absolute freedom and
wildness, as contrasted with a freedom and culture merely
civil–to regard man as an inhabitant, or a part and parcel of
Nature, rather than a member of society. I wish to make an
extreme statement, if so I may make an emphatic one, for there
are enough champions of civilization: the minister and the school
committee and every one of you will take care of that.

(Henry David Thoreau, Walking)

     And at Still Pond Creek the fish stopped jumping and the sun set and I didn’t chase after it. Where do the stars grow… for me… Because I wonder over the night hovering above still water. And I wonder over the night held tight in skin and bones. And inside—I’m becoming aware—I know as little about why why WHY as whatever grows beyond the sky. And they ask are you happy? and I smile and nod with the stroke of the knife. I hope I am not happy: when the moon is full it begins to wane. And now I feel the night strong within me how it crept… silently quietly creeping until dark overtook light. And I’m carrying it with me now. And rooster will crow. The sun also ariseth, and the sun goeth down, and hasteth to his place where he arose. (Ecclesiastes 1:5)

Still Pond Creek and Jacks Cove and the big Bay and the Sassafras and Lloyd Creek and Turner Creek. I live within these few square miles and do better when I don’t leave them. Not that I don’t leave. But I don’t like to leave.

     I have much to do this week if I’m to capture it. There are new vegetables and new fish and new… and someone asked me how nature influences me how it impacts the work and I’m unsure how to answer the question. I’m unsure how to answer most questions. I think what I most enjoy about nature are the quiet parts. The ocean is too loud. And powerful and destructive and when I visited it over the weekend it made me uncomfortable my babies playing in it they were nervous but exhilarated. And after an hour or so I understood it better than I had but the waves ceaselessly crash and crash and crash and I returned to Still Pond and the sun sets twice once in the sky once in still water and the only sounds are laughing children. Well I don’t know how nature inspires me but the quiet parts there are no people other than them whom I’ve brought along and I choose them carefully. And they also ask what my favorite season is and they are surprised when I don’t answer summer but summer can overwhelm me. Winter the work has been done and there are a few months of quiet introspection quiet contemplation and this summer—it has yet to even fully arrive—is busy and busy and busy with business. I think there’s not enough time but I know there is enough time if I’m careful with it…

9:33PM

Nature… how can I be so present in this ever-changing growing season… yet I’m not here at all. I see the ospreys taking turns in the nest. I see them fishing over Still Pond Creek. I help the turtle along across the road. Thousands of tadpoles in the still pools at high tide. And I’ve got blueberries ripening I’ve been picking mulberries and wild black raspberries. I’m grilling zephyr squash and Chinese broccoli and garlic scapes. Puntarelle pesto. Smokey fava beans. Snow peas. The last of the rhubarb made into sorbet with over-ripe strawberry juice. Lump crab meat fried in squash blossoms. Tempura soft shell crab. Green tomatoes hang from the vines in the garden cilantro and dill are bolting the roses are dropping petals. Sitting here and writing it all down it seems I haven’t been missing too much. But I missed the turn for St. James Road… and I drove and I drove and I drove until I came to but I couldn’t figure out where I was I couldn’t remember where I was going. A few long seconds passed. Enough to cause me concern why don’t I know where I am why don’t I know where I’m going? A teenage boy was mowing the roadside in a big green tractor. I passed him and turned off into the gravel just up the way and got going back to where I’d come from and I thought is this what it will be like? Then they’ll take it all away from me but I won’t really know… and I made a right onto St. James destined for crab meat. And the corn in the fields there was over knee-high and I’ve got too much going on and…

Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you
Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,
And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,
Must ask permission to know it and be known.
The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,
I have made this place around you.
If you leave it, you may come back again, saying Here.
No two trees are the same to Raven.
No two branches are the same to Wren.
If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
Where you are. You must let it find you.

(Lost, 1999, David Wagoner)

     No it doesn’t seem like I’ve missed many things this season I’ve followed the osprey and corn and soy and I’ve spoken with the garden and I’ve been pricked by the wild raspberry thorns… but I haven’t felt it lift my soul. If what a tree or bush does is lost on you | You are surely lost… I’m tired now. There’s a long weekend ahead… goodnight. Goodnight. Goodnight.

I buttered stale focaccia and added a touch of cream to my tea. Butter and cream are strong in flavor. Unmistakably from an animal. Unmistakably late spring. Many people would find the flavor disagreeable. Many people are unaccustomed to strong flavor.

     We have all these things technologies: pictures of our children ice skating indoors in the wintertime that pop-up on our phone-screen in summer digitized memories an alarm clock of memories… and a voice in grey on the white email screen suggesting to us what we should write and we accept it without writing a word… weight loss pills… silver iodide released into the skies to promote rain…

     We are so impressed with ourselves. We are so impressed with ourselves. We are so impressed with ourselves. And there’s the issue of our morality… It’s bizarre to watch people walk their dogs. Leashed are the animals on a stroll. Sniff sniff. Pee pee. I watched an owner hold a bag to the dogs rear to catch the shit. Responsible dog ownership.

     Responsibility is the state or quality of being accountable, dependable, and capable of rational decisions. It broadly means owning your actions, fulfilling obligations, and answering for the consequences of your choices.

     A rational decision is a choice made through an objective, logical, and data-driven process that maximizes benefits while minimizing costs. It relies on facts and evidence to select the option most likely to achieve your specific goals, rather than relying on emotions, biases, or intuition…

     Logical describes something that relies on clear, sound, reasoning rather than emotion, bias, or guesswork. A logical decision or argument follows a predictable structured pattern where the outcome makes sense based on available facts and established rules.

     Tender ground. Tender ground. We, the weak, walk on tender ground. False ground. The false ground laid by the usurpers. Usurpers of our morality. Yes there is the issue of our morality. With all Their rights and wrongs.

    

I’m distracted. Unfocused. Annoyed. How trivial. I’m angry and I shouldn’t be. The outside world is knocking knocking. But what’s in it for me? I don’t have to answer the door and I don’t want to I won’t and I owe no explanation so I give none. I’m polite but today I’m saying no there is a deep and angry voice calling me and I’m now wondering over Abraham:

     Now the Lord had said unto Abram, Get thee out of thy country, and from thy kindred, and from thy father’s house, unto a land that I will shew thee: And I will make of the a great nation, and I will bless thee, and make thy name great; and thou shalt be a blessing: And I will bless them that bless thee, and curse the, that curseth thee: and in the shall all families of the earth be blessed. (KJV Genesis 12:1-3)

     My anger is walking with me today. I go to retrieve the cooked rice. I crack an egg into the pan. Anger beast swelling inside of me. I quiver inside. Look at the shaking hand. Like I’ve drunk too much coffee. I need to walk over a threshold and close the door on the beast. Where is my home? Where is my home? I must go there…

     …infer the totality of my thoughts and beliefs because of a few words I’ve said or written. As if many things cannot be true at once. Many things are always true at once. For such an adaptable species we have great trouble thinking non-linear thoughts. Considering this I wonder why our morality is controlled by mind and not body—consciousness: complicated predator and prey. The mind has not evolved to face these current mass manipulations. There is no right or wrong way of seeing the world. Our capacity to choose… usurper… tender ground… yes there is the issue of our morality. With all Their rights and wrongs. Fire does not ask metal if it is comfortable.

     What you are seeing (Sassafras) is not the final destination. There are no roads that will take me so I build my own. To wherever they may lead.

		The sun is shining
		The corn is rising
		The Reverend Robert Jones is
		Playing in my ears
		“Precious Lord, take my hand
		Lead me on
		Let me stand
		I am tired, I’m weak, I’m worn
		Through the storm, through the night
		Lead me on to the light
		Take my hand, precious Lord
		Lead me home.”

     I’m grateful for this anger. It means something. Something is talking to me. Presenting me an opportunity to heal what is inside of me. There is nothing outside of me that will take it away. A heavy price is paid for dreams that come true.