#30Inks30Days 7 April, 2020







Taccia Hokusai Saibimidori

(I added the second shot of the page to show off the ink’s sheening and shading properties)

I gave last night’s coyote a cameo. It was quieter tonight; no animals came by, wanting to be included.



The Waiting Time Continues, Plus: The Peach Tree Chronicles, Part IV

It was a great day for photos.  The peach tree continues to blossom, though some of the petals are starting to fall, either from the frost or from the natural progression from flowers to fruit. Time will tell.

And, as if to take advantage of the warm weather between freezes, the daffodils went from a single bud to a bouquet,

the plum tree burst out like fireworks



(it should be noted that never, and I mean never, have the birds left us a single plum),

the miniature irises went from little city-states to attempted-empire,


and the crab-apple in the front yard, one that we did not plant but that decided to grow there anyway, is dotted with tiny red buds.

We had another beautiful sunset,

that was graced with a couple hawks flying home for the night.



And then, of course, there was the moon:

It’s the largest Super Moon we’ll see this year and it’s called the Pink Moon and here, at least, it was for a while.

It was hard to catch the colour.








I am oh so grateful for these moments in the evening that provide some distraction and some easing of the sorrow and distress. But part of me wonders how the world can continue to reinvigorate itself so joyously when so many are suffering, dying, and having their lives up-ended temporarily or permanently by COVID-19. The dichotomy reminds of W.H. Auden’s poem, though the careless entities there are mostly human rather than Nature:

Musee des Beaux Arts

About suffering they were never wrong,
The old Masters: how well they understood
Its human position: how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous birth, there always must be
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
On a pond at the edge of the wood:
They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer’s horse
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.

In Breughel’s Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water, and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.

(Snagged from http://english.emory.edu/classes/paintings&poems/auden.html. Tgere’s a photo of the Breughel painting there.)

And our waiting continues.

While We Keep Waiting; The Peach Tree Chronicles, Part III

I found a panel in a comic that seems to encapsulate this moment:

That’s how I feel, too. (You can peruse the whole comic here.)

I keep reading on-line pieces here and there that are versions of “I didn’t want to talk about the COVID-19 situation, but…” (for example, go over to Mountain of Ink and read Kelli’s post on “Quarantine 2020 Ink Palettes.” Be sure to check out the link to the dreaming octopus, too. It’s amazing). I do want to talk about the coronavirus, but am having a difficult knowing what to say. I’ve been trying to walk some line between taking the pandemic seriously enough and not freaking out, but all the confusion, the almost non-existent testing, the lack of support for those fighting this disease, the lethal carelessness of the president and governors —well, freaking out begins to look like the reasonable response.

I continue to use my camera to mark the days and to remind myself there is still much beauty in the world. The moon has gone from this,

to this,

to this,






and, finally, to this:


There have been sunsets drenched in all kinds of colours:






And after one, long, sleepless night, there was a magnificent sunrise.

It got caught in the reflection and frost on our car’s windows.

In my pjs and coat, I sneaked across the street to the park to watch the sun appear.


The park was full of crows. 

You can see one flying low across the field in these two:








The sun tinged the mountains and clouds pink,

made the eastern sky flame,

and stained the tree bark and pine cones russet.

Frost rimed the grass and the soccer field sparkled in the sun.

Spring continues to unfold, just as if there were no corona viruses in the world. The daffodils are rising like the sun and my apple tree begins to put out leaves.


And while most of the blossoms on the peach tree survived,



























a few took a hit.

 More wintry weather is due this weekend.

I hope you all are staying well and staying at home as much as possible. 






Inktober 2019, Day Twenty-six: A Choice to Make…

Inktober Prompt: Dark
GoldspotPrompt: Haunting

26 October, 2019


Now I apprehend why you were reluctant to tell me about the last page that you have in the book. After your experiences in the wood, the thought of going back, of returning to the source of thoughts and memories so haunting, cannot be easy or comfortable. But if the women in the story brave the trees, the fog the path, the pond, perhaps that is what must be done?

Have you heard from Dr. Torres yet? Do not keep in a dark as grey as that between the innermost trees

Your anxious companion,