tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-45344504780225413842024-03-12T18:39:29.935-06:00MicrocosmStacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08297253093260251145noreply@blogger.comBlogger212125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4534450478022541384.post-16744833793195033702014-10-06T16:02:00.001-06:002015-07-16T18:11:30.852-06:00A New Adventureor The Pleasure of Your Company Is Requested
My friends, I've begun a new blog. It's not a gardening blog, though gardens will often be mentioned. It's more of a contemplative blog about roots and branches and lives that “leap greenly” but unfold slowly. I hope you'll enjoy The Stories of Trees. (The blog also has a Facebook page, which I invite you to Like.) They Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08297253093260251145noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4534450478022541384.post-90241683435529830422013-06-09T19:38:00.001-06:002013-06-09T19:38:07.964-06:00Courtesy of the WindsOr Letting Go
The desert olives impress me most. They have an actual strategy, and a long-term one at that. The winds have been blowing here, you see—and blowing, and blowing: the hard, buffeting winds of spring. They are the real test of adaptation in these parts, and many exotics that fare well in drought and sun receive their last rites from the wind.
My oldest Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08297253093260251145noreply@blogger.com30tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4534450478022541384.post-45016215059579046942013-03-31T19:27:00.001-06:002013-04-03T21:59:43.448-06:00Groundswellor L'Chaim
An old Taj Mahal song goes, "Remember the feeling as a child, when you woke up and morning smiled?" I've always loved the song for that line, because I do remember feeling that way as a little girl—running to the window first thing in the morning and looking out, happy that it would be a good day just because the sky was blue.
Mornings still smile fairly often, but I Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08297253093260251145noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4534450478022541384.post-256998607343786382013-03-07T18:41:00.001-07:002013-03-07T18:41:45.417-07:00Swooningor The Graceful Art
Pretending to be a ribbon isn't all that easy. I found that out when I was seven or eight and have never tried it again.
Crocus ancyrensis 'Golden Bunch'
I'd been reading a book, of course. It may have been Caddie Woodlawn, or something like that—a tale of pioneer communities in the 19th century and the odd smatterings of Civilized Behavior that followed themStacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08297253093260251145noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4534450478022541384.post-22378030851004302542013-02-28T21:31:00.000-07:002013-08-22T11:05:38.357-06:00Peripheriesor Coming to Terms (Again)
If you go back to its roots, a periphery is literally something that is "carried around." Back in the 16th century (or the 14th, depending on your source), the word referred to the atmosphere around the earth. I'd love to know what, in those long-ago days, people really meant by atmosphere. Maybe they had something like the Belt of Venus in mind: Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08297253093260251145noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4534450478022541384.post-29616688073141008082013-02-21T11:00:00.000-07:002014-08-09T15:36:32.624-06:00Seguesor Joinery
Crocus chrysantha 'Cream Beauty'
Friends of mine who are woodworkers get a little tender about joinery—tender as in touchy, but also softhearted. They will stew and fret (and quite possibly even curse) over a mortise and tenon that doesn't nest together just right. If you don't notice their rabbets and dadoes they will be wounded to the core. And their rough, Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08297253093260251145noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4534450478022541384.post-26731327865885192682013-01-31T22:01:00.000-07:002013-01-31T22:01:40.737-07:00Open and Shutor A Change in the Weather
Some winds close you down, slam! A cold, hard gust smacks into you, and suddenly you're huddled around yourself and sprinting indoors, with the door banging shut behind you. Other winds open you up—the warm, wild winds that smell of freshness, and maybe rain. They lure you outdoors to stand tall and stretch and breathe deeply, as if you were a fish inStacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08297253093260251145noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4534450478022541384.post-10986527722910711962013-01-24T19:47:00.001-07:002013-01-25T21:06:51.478-07:00Lost in Translationor As Cheap as Dirt
Find an old adobe home in New Mexico's pinyon-juniper country. Junipers planted along the north side of the property might offer a windbreak. An elm or so to the southwest, close to the house, will extend shading arms. Otherwise not a single thing will be growing near the house—not a lilac bush, not a weed. The house will be surrounded by bare earth, Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08297253093260251145noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4534450478022541384.post-44341261686853518612013-01-17T19:59:00.000-07:002013-06-17T10:50:03.644-06:00E-Weedsor Finding Magic in Unlikely Places
(All the phrases in italics—except for this one—are direct quotes.)
"Microcosm" is not a useful blog. It's a pleasant one, I hope, but not one that offers detailed plant profiles or gardening how-to's. So when a comment comes along that says, "I have been surfing the internet for hours and have never seen such a useful Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08297253093260251145noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4534450478022541384.post-55013209966799143192013-01-10T21:22:00.003-07:002013-01-10T21:22:30.698-07:00Snow Dayor Usefulness
The old year faded out in snow.
Not much snow, but enough to yield 3/100 of an inch of moisture, raising our grand total for 2012 to 5.46 inches. I find it hard to believe that even a native plant finds a dusting of snow worthwhile, but what do I know? Maybe having its toes tickled occasionally is icing on the cake to Mormon tea (Ephedra viridis)—an enrichment Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08297253093260251145noreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4534450478022541384.post-49883249264410998402012-11-15T18:14:00.001-07:002012-11-15T18:14:14.775-07:00Deer and Geeseor A Pause
At Bosque del Apache: In the dappled light on the verge of a thicket of cottonwoods, a mule deer was browsing. It wasn't in any hurry, not bothered at all by the occasional vehicle passing by on the gravel road. I paused and watched it for a while, leaning against my car and enjoying the quiet scene while the sun warmed my back. It was one of those moments Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08297253093260251145noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4534450478022541384.post-23713251591244228352012-11-08T21:27:00.002-07:002012-11-08T21:27:44.687-07:00Usedor Everyday Ware
When Cousin Mary Frances broke up household in her later years, somehow I ended up with her dishes. (I used to think Cousin Mary Frances' first name was Cousin.) They were made by Frankoma, a pottery company in Oklahoma which took inspiration from nature, Native American arts, and the warm earth tones of the southwest. Frankoma dishes feel good. The creamStacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08297253093260251145noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4534450478022541384.post-83758051192027407062012-11-01T20:36:00.002-06:002013-01-18T19:23:47.226-07:00Please Stay ffor In Which We Think About Noise
The thing with living in an urban in-fill neighborhood, is that it keeps on getting filled in. More or less across the street from me, in an area formerly graced by asters and weeds, a couple of new houses are being built. The process hasn't been quiet, but at least the parts involving heavy machinery seem to be over with. Now the walls are Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08297253093260251145noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4534450478022541384.post-72828054754499476272012-10-25T21:40:00.002-06:002013-09-18T09:52:06.251-06:00October Surpriseor Things to Remember
A lot can be forgotten in a year: the names and terms of all the US presidents;* the capital of Mauritania;* what that one key in the utility drawer belongs to. Some things are a relief to forget; some are more or less irrelevant (not meaning any offense, presidents and Mauritanians); some are kind of a nuisance (what does that key belong to?). Some, Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08297253093260251145noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4534450478022541384.post-67127203811450246622012-10-18T20:19:00.000-06:002012-10-19T11:25:12.355-06:00"The Clock Stopped Long Ago"or Sandia Park, New Mexico
The sandstone glowed in late afternoon sun. A raven called as it passed overhead, a deep, throaty croak that rang briefly before melting away. Its wings beat with audible effort—not the quick flutter of the Oregon juncos and scrub jays darting between junipers, but a good, sturdy flap as it pulled against the air. That, too, melted into nothing.
Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08297253093260251145noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4534450478022541384.post-29814759280036265822012-09-20T17:21:00.001-06:002012-09-20T20:34:27.708-06:00Staying Out of the Wayor Resting Lightly
Sometimes you're just not the one who matters, and so you just don't move. When untamed lives that are not rabbits come to a tiny, urban garden, you do your best to efface yourself, and let them experience the garden as if without you. Photos? Forget them. They're not important. The slightest gesture toward your camera, even the subtlest tilt of Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08297253093260251145noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4534450478022541384.post-77189497302905821302012-09-06T20:25:00.000-06:002012-09-06T21:09:46.016-06:00The Giving Grassor Generosity
One day you're talking about baseball, summer, the slow growth of grasses, and all things leisurely, and the next (or so it seems) the UNM Lobos are winning (winning!) their first football game of the season, the grasses are exploding into bloom, and you're frantically shouting, "Slow down! Everybody just slow down!"
Licorice mint (Agastache rupestris) in the upper Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08297253093260251145noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4534450478022541384.post-44812037346796427902012-08-30T20:27:00.002-06:002012-08-30T20:27:21.782-06:00Matters of Degree and Kindor Small Fires
Outdoor thermometers—the old-fashioned kind, not the digital kind—may be accurate as to temperature, but they're misleading about experience. That line of red creeping bit by bit up the scale, filling the space slowly from bottom to top, gives you the idea that temperatures ease gradually into one another. Since the hot temperature marks are right next to the warm onesStacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08297253093260251145noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4534450478022541384.post-74293128783052978642012-08-23T19:45:00.000-06:002012-08-23T19:45:52.257-06:00Windfallsor Making Room
The rain fell hard. It struck an orchestra's worth of tones from the hardscape of the city: dull, thudding drum notes from the roof, staccato tinklings off the metal gate, resonant pings against the windows. The sidewalks hissed, the swamp cooler chimed like an untuned bell. The water rushing from the canale by the kitchen door sang as the cistern caught itStacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08297253093260251145noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4534450478022541384.post-10862929536741423062012-08-09T18:20:00.000-06:002012-08-12T21:05:56.575-06:00Riftsor Unconformity
The finches are calling to one another from the feeder in the side yard and the desert olive in the back, from the neighbors' sycamore across the way. Their calls strike me as a kind of echolocation: sound waves sent out to meet another bright body and be reflected back from it. Lesser Goldfinches are not comfortable being alone. Their whistles and sighs Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08297253093260251145noreply@blogger.com29tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4534450478022541384.post-28243183196807251182012-08-02T17:00:00.000-06:002012-08-02T17:00:06.068-06:00The Extravagant Artor Divas
One of my favorite people of all time is in town, and he and I are headed to the Santa Fe Opera tonight. I do love "the extravagant art," as it's called: the hoopla and fanfare
'Major Wheeler' Coral Honeysuckle (Lonicera sempervirens), May 2012
and sumptuous costuming;
Butterfly milkweed (Asclepias tuberosa)
the villain plotting from the shadows;
He Who Must Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08297253093260251145noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4534450478022541384.post-52013840837966722742012-07-26T22:03:00.003-06:002012-07-26T22:03:31.929-06:00Immediacyor Taking the Heat
The moral is, never say anything negative about swamp coolers in the vicinity of your own. When I wrote a couple of weeks ago about the way they go on the fritz, I should have known that mine would get ideas. You know how unreliable they are.
Even though I hadn't been using the swamp cooler much recently, just a little bit now and then to take the edge off a Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08297253093260251145noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4534450478022541384.post-4946166328069874692012-07-19T18:52:00.001-06:002012-07-19T19:48:56.899-06:00A Little Knowledgeor Dangerous Things
Every time I start to write about wine cups, black widows get in the way.
Callirhoe involucrata
Sometimes literally, sometimes figuratively. From wine cups to black widows it's a short step, you know, to idle musing about injustice, fear and ignorance, but somehow then a long step back to wine cups. It's just that black widows get such a bad rap. Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08297253093260251145noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4534450478022541384.post-7645860149680981202012-07-12T19:28:00.000-06:002012-07-13T22:39:12.117-06:00A Bad Time for Swamp Coolersor Why a Rainstorm Is As Good As a Workout
A swamp cooler is a fine thing, if the water line doesn't split, and the belt doesn't break, and the pump doesn't give out, and the float doesn't sink, and the weather isn't too hot, and the humidity's really low. We usually manage the last one out here pretty well, and when the stars are properly aligned and all the other things work out and the Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08297253093260251145noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4534450478022541384.post-86284963861517829452012-07-05T19:46:00.000-06:002012-07-05T19:46:08.231-06:00Fifteen Minutesor Transformations
Photography may be all about light, but townhouses are all about shadows. In a tiny garden surrounded by walls, with the neighbors' houses spitting distance away*, shadows are eternal. They may move throughout the day, but they never vanish altogether. Sunlight is likely to enter the picture as mid-day glare, not the "golden hour" of sunrise or sunset. Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08297253093260251145noreply@blogger.com22