The Second Wave.

June 2020.

It feels good to be outside. 

We’re adapting. We stay six feet apart. No hugs. No high fives. No carpooling. But we can be outside and identify flowers for each other. We can count the rings on trees and let it serve as a reminder of how small this moment is when considered in larger context. We are grateful. 

I adopted a barn cat to chase the woodchucks away from the garden. She’s not very friendly but she (mostly) tolerates my presence—I hope she warms up to me someday. 

I’m working again, although it feels strange to be around other people. It’s strange to photograph people wearing masks. I constantly wonder whether the work I’m doing is essential.

It feels essential for my mental health and general well-being. It feels essential to be around other humans and feel some connection to community. It’s truly a gift that some of my work is simply to be immersed in beauty. 

I’m just photographing flowers but this farm provides the livelihood for several people in my community. Keeping them employed is essential. And the flowers they grow will bring joy into the homes of so many. We all need to remember the magic and beauty of this world, even as our relationship to it is radically shifting. 

I’m moving into a new studio space—it feels good to be in the midst of working artists. It feels good to have a space where I can be that is not home. It feels good to have a room that is entirely my own. 

The seedlings are doing well. Every day I carry them from shelves inside to a sunny spot in the yard. I walk each tray through the house, down the stairs, and across the driveway where they can soak up maximum sunshine with minimal wind damage. It takes an hour each day to shuffle dozens of trays back and forth. I’m sure there’s a more efficient way to do this but I don’t care. This slow pace suits me,  it gives me time to think. 

July 2020

The cat still tolerates me, barely.

I’m grateful for a new hobby that is pandemic-safe and gives me a reason to leave the house without needing  a destination.

It’s mid-July. It’s time to swim.

All the usual swimming holes are swamped with folks who have cancelled summer vacation. There have been several hot, cranky days when all I want is to jump into a river and cool off, only to arrive at the swimming hole filled with unmasked sunbathers.

I head north to seek out new swimming holes—getting off the beaten path. 

High summer: The yurt is coming along. I discovered HipCamp and skipped town for a couple days. I visited friends with little ones.

August 2020

It’s hot—that sticky, sweaty, can’t-sleep-all-night kind of hot. One of my housemates has taken up residence on the sofa because she says it’s too hot to sleep in her bedroom on the second floor. We all sleep on the second floor. 

The garden is abundant. I haven’t needed to buy produce since April, which is great—I go weeks without needing to visit the grocery store.

I’m freezing, fermenting, pickling, dehydrating, and canning. Putting up as much summer bounty as possible, who knows how long the pandemic will go on. I’m always grateful to crack open a jar of summer flavors in the middle of February, I have a feeling these jars of jam will taste extra-sweet this winter. 

September 2020

Practice: documenting dahlias from the garden & testing lights with M. Sward pots. 

September 2020

It’s time to raise the yurt.