Dachen / Jigme

There is a blessing, that calls to the heart of the place, the heart of the person and the heart of the offering. And it’s all ways about that, isn’t it — the heart of it; the spirit found and the finding of it?

And my office, my working space, the blessing of it, the blessing of the work and the place that I’m working. That work, that found, that finding…Blessings by Lama Jingme.

I’m wishing well, in every thing, well — wishing.

And heading out to India and Bhutan, tonight…

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The architecture of silence

The architecture of silence.


3.55am | d e c a t u r i s l a n d

This morning, the world was so silent. And I wondered, where is anyone? Any one. And there was no one. It was just that, profoundly quiet. So quiet, that there was barely a sound anywhere. No breeze, no shuffling leaves, no shuttering barked skin on the Madronas, no; there were no licking waves — and nothing in the air, flying; some distant jet, some night bound airplane sputtering along. No thing.

I contemplated that, the space that I was in, standing outside, nearly nude in the profundity of that — this one quiet moment. And while it might be barely unnerving, that quietude. I realized that, in the beating of my heart, there was serenity.

Just then, something squirmed in the water below. That set ripples in motion, shore lapping. Heron quorked that prehistoric croak, the world returned to rightful sound, that moment. And it rippled out.

Meanwhile, writing this, tiny winged insects whir their microscopic sounds and the computer cools itself, in harmony.

Still quiet, but silent no more, the world turns in its measure; and I’m listening to the next…For the next.


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What light, found?

In walking, wandering — that other side of the work, the world, I do like getting out, getting a way, being some place else. Being over there.

And I savor the storm.

I am that, storm seeker.

Because on the edge of any storm is the light. By any call, there’s a cracking of brilliant light, in the curled clouds the thunderhead, stormbringer.

Light emerges. And so does my spirit.


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What rain is like…

Looking at light and pattern, I see a figure…

Rain comes to St. Louis in great sheets of water, coursing, flooding, running. And last night, after returning from St. Charles, a storm emerged of fabulous magnitude. Lightning. Thunder. Gales. Driving back, it ran so densely I could barely see where I was going. I even drove off the road, sort of, since I couldn’t tell where the actual street was. And I was the designated driver…

Being a storm lover, I had to be out in it. Shooting.


Tim Girvin | St. Louis

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The Nest

A note to Eartha Kitt

Dear Ms. Kitt,

I’ve long admired the character of you. Your song. Your acting. Your spirit. And now, your love of nature; it was the one thing that I’d not known about before. And now I do.

I loved your story about your experience as a child, being one that roamed and explored, easily happy in being alone. And I was like that, and I am like that.

And I did (and do) love the hymenoptera: the vespid(ae), the solitary and paper wasps, the masons. All of them in that class I love, and do savor. And they are all the same in their taxonomic grouping, yet they are, as well, all different. Even ants number among them.

But like you, the one thing that I do love is the architecture of their making. So as I wander the island, the neighborhood, the woods, I’ve become a expert sighter of those nests — either live and active, or silent in winter. And if they are live; I’ll watch them, and wait till the cooler seasons come. The queens (the foundress) quiet in hibernation, the drones die out. Friends find them for me as well.

I’ve watched them from the opening single cell, one little egg, one tiny larva, to colonies in Costa Rica that as a big as a kneeling catcher at homeplate sitting atop a tree. I’ve seen grand cascading honeycombs in the jungles of Cambodia, and tiny little miniature water wasps nests in the tree tops of Central America, underground bumblebee galleries and the single bored home (and holes) of the giant black bees of Bali. I’ve spied hanging angry firewasp nests (just as I was reaching out to climb higher) in the swamps of Kauai, and like you, I’ve run like hell to escape the stringing (and stinging) scented attack line of black and white bald-faced wasps chasing me through the forest. I can watch the breeze for wasp lines and follow that winged corridor to a nest. Like you, I’d imagine.

Being one of those people that learned to see in and recognize those warning colors, I’ve not been stung in decades.

But I love how they build their colonies — whatever the type — and friends and family have contributed to these, at my island house, which is up north of Seattle, by some 80 miles.

Here are some images of what they look like, installed.

Who knows, perhaps one day we’ll meet?

Warmest wishes, all ways,

t s g | n y c + s e a t t l e + d e c a t u r i s l a n d

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The turning

I’m looking for paths.

The turning

Every thing turns

and spins in its

order. What, that?

I’ve been out, looking

at the stars, pondering

the turning. Listening

to the water, waves

like a river, riffling.

It’s turning, that

tide, a worldly

whirl, that

I sense, this moment.

And this dark

morning, I wonder

about that dawn;

she’s now far away —

but coming, in brilliant

light, later this morn

as she did, yesterday

looking east in

the rising. Seeing

that was a turning

for me, pondering

that movement

the larger shifting,

the patterning,

as she shows

herself, that long

path to her,

golden petals

to the embodiment

of light that

she is.

That’s one path —

seeing the turning.


d e c a t u r i s l a n d

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Taking flight : NYC —

Bye Bye!

Happy Sunday !



the Day: Autumnal

Autumnal. Of all adjectives associated with seasons, this is the only one that has a literary ring to it – perhaps because autumn is our only season word that comes from Latin and not from Germanic sources. We salute the adjective today on the first day of autumn (or fall, if you want to be all Germanic, all the time) in the northern hemisphere.

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Aren’t we all looking for light, looking into the light? Seems that way. I look in the light and I look into the dark. I live in both of those presences. That which illuminates, that which darkens.

What I’m about, what I’m exploring is all about that — like a true geminarian, the search for the balance between one, and the other — and the mist in between. So I think about that, the light, the dark, the mist. and I’m drawn to all this. And I look for it, to be there, be in there.

And of course, this is, in many ways, about the weather. The light that intersects and refracts. And creates the shading that is emblematic of my experience. Studying those alignments. Like my Father, a weather watcher.

I’m there.

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flying to eastern washington | storm emergent


out there
when you are

storm comes
wind bound

rain cast
force driven

I go there
see that

love that
into the heart

of storm

whirl, into

the soul
of the whorl

I go there
will be

there, in
the eye

of it.

11000 ft. south central washington | tsg

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Stone, found.

Stone, found.

I was working with the Reynvaan family on a project for their vineyards, and I’d been walking the ancient stone scattered grounds of their viticultural lands, with them. This land is powerful; this land is their land; this land is at the very heart of their work — the grape, distilled.

This terroir is a matching geology to the rough scrabble of the classic vineyards of Spain and certain regions in France; these stone bound regions create a version of growth that is strengthened by the rocky character.

What’s this reference, then? It’s about walking and seeing, looking in, deeply, and — finding what’s there.

So the character of the land is about strengthening the vines, the roots beneath, to create something special. Very special.

And when I walk, I’m looking. And seeing into things, into ways — that bring me closer into the heart of things. Nothing more than trying to be attentive. Tuning in. And what I can offer is merely that — the pathway of traveling in, moving in, seeing in. It’s a practice, that seeing inside the moment. That’s concentration. And there’s nothing to presume that what I’m doing is anything more than trying. There’s no mastery. Just timing in. Into time, into perspective, into seeing. What that, then? This group of stones symbolizes it all.

And what to this? Just look. In.

tsg | walla walla

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