The Sam’s Owls Matriarch
Sam’s GHO Chick One
Sam’s GHO Chick Two
Coyote Ridge Couple – Burrowing Owls
Coyote Ridge Papa
Over the past few moons I’ve been learning about labyrinths—inspired by the wonderful posts of Jackie Morris. Jackie is an artist, naturalist and writer in Wales with a magical sensibility and a fondness for placing rocks she’s adorned with golden labyrinths in random locations where they may or may not be found. As my fascination with labyrinths grew, I decided to learn to draw them, practicing in my journal.
My studies have made clear that labyrinths are surprisingly hard to draw, yet, I’ve found my labors relaxing in a way I never imagined.
Labyrinths now wend their way into my dreams and creative consciousness, finding purchase in places I’d never have imagined before—places such as my basement floor! Ultimately we are going to finish the concrete floor down stairs, but in the interim I have an enormous canvas to practice labyrinths on, using street chalk. They can be removed, but in the end I will leave one on the surface when we put tile on the floor. It will satisfy me to know it is there under the modern finish!
We ended a magical day by finding two young great horned owl chicks trying out their wings, right across the street from our house. We’ve been seeing and hearing owls since mid-Winter. It is a delicious treat to have the little family so close by.
John Oliver takes you through the highlights of the first several days after the Electoral College process once again hosed the country it was meant to protect.
This grand show is eternal. It is always sunrise somewhere; the dew is never dried all at once; a shower is forever falling; vapor is ever rising. Eternal sunrise, eternal dawn and gloaming, on sea and continents and islands, each in its turn, as the round earth rolls. The sun shines not on us but in us. The rivers flow not past, but through us. Thrilling, tingling, vibrating every fiber and cell of the substance of our bodies, making them glide and sing. The trees wave and the flowers bloom in our bodies as well as our souls, and every bird song, wind song, and tremendous storm song of the rocks in the heart of the mountains is our song, our very own…
– John Muir