The Geography of Hope
On our Island, in the magic hour, off the beaten path – there it is.
Behind us a supermoon rose over the Fischers’ cow pasture against a salmon-pink sky. In front of us, an otter motored down the cove, splitting the glassy water neatly in two with his swift determined pace.
We stood in a path cut through the brush, on either side a gentle riot of ruby and gold bittersweet, sprays of tiny wild rose hips, the spent furry blooms of goldenrod gone to seed.
I bent down to pluck at a downy thatch of milkweed seeds captured by a cage of thorny rose canes. I told myself I wanted to set these little miracles free, but really I just longed to hold them, to feel the soft feathery floss between my fingers. Maybe to slip a bit in my pockets, where I try to stow moments like this, as if I could pull out a smooth stone or a crisp seedpod or a crumpled leaf and instantly come back into alignment with the world.
We left the edge of the shore and the distant otter show reluctantly. I slipped my arm through his. A line from a Wendell Berry poem came into my head: “What we need is here.”
I said out loud, “I am happy here.”
“Yes, me, too,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve ever been as happy as I am here and now and with you.”
We looped back, first hugging the path along the cattle fence, then turning to cross the pasture. Dodging goose poop, we passed the sagging shack and a lone cow in a pensive mood. The sun met it’s 4:22 p.m. deadline, slipping over the trees with one last burst of radiant blinding light.
By the time we reached the hay pasture, the sky had turned from pink to blue like a litmus paper test. The horizon was all fiery embers and black silhouettes. Making our way up the hedgerow, we scanned the field for skunks and deer. The wind had mercifully laid down; in the stillness we heard a single unknown bird settling down for the night. “Pock-pock-pock” it cried, perhaps warning the rest of the flock to higher ground.
We did not have higher ground to climb to. We had to leave this reverie and step back into the melee, where the earth felt wobbly beneath our feet, the wind began to stir restlessly, and the moon, now spotlight-bright, threatened to expose our disappointment. Clutching our pockets, we resolved to keep this hour close, to find our milkweed floss and slipper shells and tiny purple asters hidden in the cracks in the walls, in the lulls between storms, in the detours between here and there. 🌝
And we pray, not
for new earth or heaven, but to be
quiet in heart, and in eye,
clear. What we need is here.
— Wendell Berry
💚 A few quick notes:
If you have come here to Sixburnersue looking for recipes, please head on over to
where I do all my cooking content now. We’re having a Thanksgiving chat for paid subscribers on Wednesday if you’re interested!If you are one of my longtime readers, I just wanted to let you know that Farmer and Dad are both doing okay this week. I’ll have more updates for you soon.
Progress on the farm! Our cover crop of field peas and daikon (oilseed) radish actually germinated in the big field — but only in the places where I threw it in a rush to get it down before my last trip to Delaware.
Dahlia report: We dug up more than half of the dahlia tubers today and I have my work cut out for me to divide them and store them before I go back to Delaware. I have what is unfortunately not a very eco-friendly system of storing them: Clear plastic storage boxes filled with peat moss. The good news is that I use the same boxes and the same peat moss year after year. And the boxes, stored in the basement, seem to keep the dahlias well. From our 65 plants, I’m guessing we now have 300 to 400 tubers! If you’re thinking of growing dahlias next year, here were my top favorites this year. (Eek, I’m sorry, but the Garden Grams are behind the paywall.)
What I’m reading: Louise Penny’s latest, The Grey Wolf. Mary Oliver’s Devotions. A lot of news.
My 3rd wedding anniversary is coming up. My 18th sobriety anniversary is next month. Meanwhile, I just discovered that chocolate addiction is a real thing. And that people with a genetic predisposition to addiction (including deficient dopamine receptors) are more susceptible to chocolate addiction. Ugh.
Ending on a positive note! My favorite Garnet Hill cashmere sweaters (which I have no business buying but always add at one to my collection each winter) are on sale through today, 30 percent off. Everyone needs a treat!
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Thank you, once again, for sharing the twin gifts of your words and photography.
You had me at Wendell Berry--just finished his little novel "Nathan Coulter," set in his beloved Port William, Kentucky. Like you, a lover of land, of place, of family, community, common and crazy characters all. I often read that poem, and those last few lines.