An enemy whom God has made a friend, A righteous man discounting righteousness, Last to believe and first for God to send, He found the fountain in the wilderness. Thrown to the ground and raised at the same moment, A prisoner who set his captors free, A naked man with love his only garment, A blinded man who helped the world to see, A Jew who had been perfect in the law, Blesses the flesh of every other race And helps them see what the apostles saw; The glory of the lord in Jesus’ face. Strong in his weakness, joyful in his pains, And bound by love, he freed us from our chains.
In the last year or so, I changed my mind about bread baking. I think it was in 2019 that I had decided not to bake bread — any more! Even though I’d been baking all kinds of yeast breads for most of my life. That was okay for a while, but recently, I realized it just didn’t feel right, to eliminate that art and craft entirely.
I planned to get back into making sourdough loaves, but week after week I never made time to assemble the ingredients for the “pre-ferment” that would collect wild yeasts from the air. Then when I was at my daughter Pippin’s earlier this month, I found that she had a good one going. She was happy to share it with me, so I moved half of her starter to a new quart jar and fed both jars a couple of times while I was there, and then brought the one home.
Today I used it to make a “sponge,” by combining one cup of the starter with two cups of water and three cups of (rye) flour. I will let that ferment for a couple of days and hope to bake just one loaf from it this week. Part of the reason I had given up bread baking was that I had too much bread to use or give away; the solution to that would be to make one loaf at a time — which I am certainly not accustomed to doing.
After I set the bowl of small sponge on the table, I went off to the church kitchen to help bake our special holy bread called prosphora. And today is my name day, on which I remember St. Joanna the Myrrhbearer. That’s three things that make me happy, and if I hadn’t been so busy about them, I might have figured out a way to tie the threads together for a blog post, the way I made a sponge out of several parts. If the bread turns out well, possibly it will be the unifying loaf.
I thought the earth remembered me, she took me back so tenderly, arranging her dark skirts, her pockets full of lichens and seeds. I slept as never before, a stone on the river bed, nothing between me and the white fire of the stars but my thoughts, and they floated light as moths among the branches of the perfect trees. All night I heard the small kingdoms breathing around me, the insects, and the birds who do their work in the darkness. All night I rose and fell, as if in water, grappling with a luminous doom. By morning I had vanished at least a dozen times into something better.
Soon after returning from Pippin’s forest dwelling in the northern reaches of California, I drove southward to the Santa Cruz mountains, where I hadn’t visited for six years. My Airbnb was quite close to Henry Cowell Redwoods State Park, and also to the cousins whom I was visiting.
This area is where our extended family used to have a cabin, at Mount Hermon, just up the hill from Santa Cruz, under the redwoods. Under the redwoods is the theme of this whole area, which I had apparently forgotten, because when I came into town and found my lodging, and found again my cousins’ place, I was astounded by the height of the forest and its unique scents. I know, I was just remarking similarly about Pippin’s trees, but of course these are a unique experience, in a different climate zone. The forest here is mainly redwoods, madrones, and oaks. Fog is abundant, and redwoods thrive in it.
The cousins’ driveway.
My first encounter with dogwoods was in the understory of these towering trees, many decades ago. Little towns have nestled on the slopes and along the creeks since the 19th century, and humans have planted their own shrubs and flowers that thrive, and add to the good smells that rise up when the morning fog dissipates and the sun draws out their essences.
The climate this far south and close to the ocean is very mild. Sometimes the winter passes without a frost; this June is cooler than usual here as it has been farther north.
But summer has officially arrived! My cousins and I ate seafood on the wharf at Santa Cruz, with views of the boardwalk and the beach. We drove as far south as Capitola, and north to Boulder Creek; the sun came out every day, eventually, and flowers bloomed everywhere. We were nourished by all the beauty (and great food), but primarily by our memories, and our affection for one another.
Now I have returned home, and see that my garden has filled out a lot just from the beginning of the week to the end. The layers of blooms and textures are different, now that the ixia has faded and the succulents and lavender are coming into prominence. In the last few years it seemed that the yarrow was dying out, but now I think maybe it just needed extra water, because after the wet winter it is doing great.
Everything looks pretty when the sun shines through in the evening. The acanthus is so tall, and the heuchera, whose flowers change tone week by week as they dry up; they started as greenish white, and now are ever darkening orangey brown…
Clary Sage
I’ll be traveling again in just two weeks, to visit Kate and her family in D.C. In the meantime I plan to take advantage of the energizing warmth of summer, and enjoy every moment, in the garden and all over the place. Summer is the best!
I planned to get back into making sourdough loaves, but week after week I never made time to assemble the ingredients for the “pre-ferment” that would collect wild yeasts from the air. Then when I was at my daughter Pippin’s earlier this month, I found that she had a good one going. She was happy to share it with me, so I moved half of her starter to a new quart jar and fed both jars a couple of times while I was there, and then brought the one home.
Gladsome Lights 