There’s a saying about how much better it is to live from a sense of abundance than a sense of scarcity, but on the morning after Thanksgiving, it’s the rareness of things that brings me close to tears.
Persimmons will always remind me of my mother (still living) who would describe them to me in Japanese and how she loved them. We cherished and savoured every bite…
I wandered into this newsletter just now and am overwhelmed at the synchronicity. I have long been a fan of your writing, rereading many of your books and recommending to others. But this morning it is if you lived my life this past week. I had similar feelings after a houseful of Thanksgiving – my children with their significant others and dogs. It was delightful and exhausting, and I enjoyed it most in the remembering. My ginkgo tree, my mother‘s favorite (grown from a seed from her friend’s tree after she passed) also dropped its leaves in one fell swoop. So, once again, your writing affirms my experience and sends me delighted into the day. 💚
This year the crows, raccons and squirrels left me one ( 57-critters; 1 perfect for me) Total 58 this year. For 30 years this has been the pattern ( 0-1 for me), although in the very first year of fruit 31 years ago, I had a grand total of 24!, And I gave away 20 to neighbors and kept 4 for myself. The wild turkeys stir up the leaves that fall so I mostly have a look of muddy stew on the ground. I appreciate and would welcome your view.
Thank you for the journey into beauty found in the full and the empty and in our humbled embrace and thanksgiving. Your shared words, emotion, pondering, life is gift and grace, an anointment for soul and hide. Ever grateful.
My friend Mildred, who was a poet, told me back in the day the Helen library had a fund raiser. You could put money on what day the Gingko would drop her leaves. It was 25 cents per vote. It was the only fundraiser they had each year.
I think this sentence is beautifully written: "I find a perfect circle of yellow leaves under the gingko tree, as if a ballerina has shed her long skirt overnight." It’s so vivid and poetic that I can clearly picture the image in my mind—a graceful ballerina leaving behind her golden skirt in a perfect, delicate circle.
I wonder, will she get a new one? Will the tree grow new leaves again? There’s something so bittersweet in imagining the ballerina’s skirt replaced, as if the tree is preparing for a fresh performance in seasons to come.
Persimmons will always remind me of my mother (still living) who would describe them to me in Japanese and how she loved them. We cherished and savoured every bite…
Love the description of the graceful gingko leaves.
I wandered into this newsletter just now and am overwhelmed at the synchronicity. I have long been a fan of your writing, rereading many of your books and recommending to others. But this morning it is if you lived my life this past week. I had similar feelings after a houseful of Thanksgiving – my children with their significant others and dogs. It was delightful and exhausting, and I enjoyed it most in the remembering. My ginkgo tree, my mother‘s favorite (grown from a seed from her friend’s tree after she passed) also dropped its leaves in one fell swoop. So, once again, your writing affirms my experience and sends me delighted into the day. 💚
Loved articles I love persimmons and ginkgo ,to eat Gingko nuts are delicious ( so hard to clean hands gets messy )
though my favorite thing in fall 🧡🧡
Such beautiful writing! I’m so glad to have discovered you. ❤️
This year the crows, raccons and squirrels left me one ( 57-critters; 1 perfect for me) Total 58 this year. For 30 years this has been the pattern ( 0-1 for me), although in the very first year of fruit 31 years ago, I had a grand total of 24!, And I gave away 20 to neighbors and kept 4 for myself. The wild turkeys stir up the leaves that fall so I mostly have a look of muddy stew on the ground. I appreciate and would welcome your view.
Beautiful. Ginkgos are full of mystery.
Thank you for the journey into beauty found in the full and the empty and in our humbled embrace and thanksgiving. Your shared words, emotion, pondering, life is gift and grace, an anointment for soul and hide. Ever grateful.
My friend Mildred, who was a poet, told me back in the day the Helen library had a fund raiser. You could put money on what day the Gingko would drop her leaves. It was 25 cents per vote. It was the only fundraiser they had each year.
This brought so much delight and wonder. I’ve never seen a tree drop all its leaves at once. Aching brevity and beauty.
So glad to have you here, Barbara! Thanks for writing. Hope you enjoy Substack as much as I have.
Beautiful, thank you for this welcome to December.
This is exquisite. I feel every truth of this in my the deepest parts of me. Thank you for paying such close attention. Thank you.
I think this sentence is beautifully written: "I find a perfect circle of yellow leaves under the gingko tree, as if a ballerina has shed her long skirt overnight." It’s so vivid and poetic that I can clearly picture the image in my mind—a graceful ballerina leaving behind her golden skirt in a perfect, delicate circle.
I wonder, will she get a new one? Will the tree grow new leaves again? There’s something so bittersweet in imagining the ballerina’s skirt replaced, as if the tree is preparing for a fresh performance in seasons to come.
So gorgeous, thank you!
Yes sometimes I love remembering them more than living through them too.
Thanks for writing about life and persimmons.