If you realized how powerful your thoughts are, you would never think a negative thought.

Peace Pilgrim

Over South Falls dropoff

Trees downstream of South Falls

Looking towards South Falls from above

Leaves on South Fork of Silver Creek

Bridge above South Falls

Norton Buffalo

September 28, 1951-October 30, 2009

I had no idea that Norton Buffalo had died last fall. He is my all time favorite Harmonica player . I was lucky to have seen him at The Strawberry Bluegrass Festival in Camp Mather, California in the Fall of 1991. I will never forget him leaving the stage and walking through the audience playing his magic to us all. Viva Norton Buffalo!

Wow, yet another amazing Libra musician. Go figure.

Let us be grateful to people who make us happy;

they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom.

Marcel Proust

For as long as I can remember, anytime that I have lived (or visited) near a river, on the shores of Lake Erie or on the Pacific Ocean, I have enjoyed the meditative art of stacking and balancing rocks. I had seen them as Cairns in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, in the middle of the desert near Zion in Utah and on the banks of the Middle Fork of the Little River in the Great Smoky Mountains. A few months ago I read (somewhere) that stacks of rocks have been used for aeons to honor the dead and/ or mark a path or trail of a journey.

A few days ago I found these chunks of basalt in one of the maintenance yards here.

Basalt is a wonderful medium (of a rock ) to balance. Above are a few of my little towers.

The Copleys of Morocco!

I know some of their cousins in Ohio!

These cool cave houses were on a thing via Yahoo called The Daily Green Blog. I could definitely live in a cave too!

A window of green between some Foxglove flowers

Rocks in my Southeast window...






Tree Island in my church meadow...



An old picture of my cabin style in the CCC era...

Front door window

My shingles (new , that I Love looking at) in the morning light

Windows may be the theme for this past few days for me. Windows that I see through now, windows into my near future. I also think of Wendell Berry's The Window Poems, that I love to read. It's a small volume, find it, you'll like them too probably.
Here's Number 9 from that book:

9.

There is a sort of vertical geography that portions his life.

Outside, the chickadees and titmice

scrounge his sunflower seed.

The cardinals feed like fires on mats of drift lying

on the currents 0f the swollen river.

The air is a bridge and they are free.

He imagines a necessary joy in things that must fly to eat.

He is set apart by the black grid of the window and, below it,

the table of the contents of his mind:notes and remnants,

uncompleted work,unanswered mail,unread books-the subjects of conscience,

his yoke-fellow,

whose whispered accounting has stopped one ear,

leaving him half deaf to the world.

Some pads of paper,eleven pencils,a leaky pen,a jar of ink are his powers. He’ll never fly.

Wendell Berry