Tales from the Manor

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In the days following the spring equinox on the earth calendar and leading into Easter on the Christian calendar, we sit on the edge of the explosion into green. We wait, we watch, for signs of the metamorphosis. Last week, on a warm sunny day wedged between cold rainy ones, I pulled the winter weeds and the worn out strawberry plants from my garden and planted the first cool weather seeds: greens, carrots, peas. And now I wait.

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Adventure Log: Grays Harbor & Nisqually Refuge

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It’s been an aggravating week of technology failure, including (still unresolved) loss of internet at home. On the up side is WiFi is back at the Manor, and along with it, Alexa is back in Mama’s room. She loves Alexa. Visitors are treated to her rendition of Star Spangled Banner. Now I just have to learn how to program her to do things that Mama would enjoy and that would be helpful. More technology. Ugh.

I’ve had a full two weeks of guests in the Airbnb, a good thing; and lots of cleaning, laundry, and baking.

The happy news is the rains stopped on Monday and rather than do the yard and garden work that is getting out of hand, I got out of town for a drive through the valleys of Lewis County to Grays Harbor and the edge of the continent.

And a best friend from Raleigh made a 24-hour visit on her way to British Columbia. On the way from and back to the airport, we stopped at Nisqually Wildlife Refuge. In between walked in the woods behind my home. We talked and talked, diving quickly into the depths of our lives. I love where I live. And I miss my dear friends. A few hours with Grace reminded me of the loss.

And then there is this…

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Highway 6, heading west at dawn.

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Morning has broken.

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Dancing.

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The view from sea.

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Nisqually Wildlife Refuge

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Thousands of Canada geese flew in.

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Raindrops on reflection

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Grace and me in the Seminary Hill Natural Area.

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No place like home.

 

 

 

Like Heaven

There’s a new post on Daughter on Duty.

I returned yesterday from a week on Whidbey Island writing like heaven by day in silence with eight other women; listening to them read their heart stories in their unique voices around the flame in the evening. We wrote at desks, by the fire, in window seats on the bluff above the Saratoga Passage that stretches to Camano Island on the other side of the waters and flows through the distant opening into Puget Sound on its way to the mighty Pacific. The rising sun set to glistening the snowy Koma Kulshan (Mt. Baker) and the white ridges that flank it.

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