Barbara, I love everything you write! And, this new word resonates. "Sensommer". I am currently waiting for the Italian Prune Plums to arrive to make a delicious plum tart- a favorite that only happens in Sensommer.
One, you’re making my tummy growl. To me this is gig season—plump, ripe, fleshy inside. But that tart sounds spectacular too. And yes I love that word: sensommer. Everything sounds better in Scandinavian.
Love the Day and night kissing. Wonder of those who do not experience seasons. Blessed to have been drawn to you on the edge of a baseball diamond. What if I missed your connectedness, the lessons and the witnessing. Today they were flying the other direction in the sharp goldpink of the rising sun and I can think of new words to describe the feeling I had. Thank you, again.
I consider it one of the great blessings of my life, those baseball stands that plopped us into each other’s hearts. Tickled and thrilled to find you here. Much love. ❤️
This made me think about how beautiful it is to actually feel the reality of leaving something behind... and then stepping into something completely new. I especially loved the idea of “sensommer”... there’s something really comforting about seeing change not as an ending, but as part of a cycle. One season leaves, another arrives, and somehow each one brings its own kind of hope... I really loved this.
thank you, Riyanka. that word, sensommer, really seems to have struck a gong....i haven't yet had a chance to dig into the 24 seasons known in Japan, but as with sooo many beautiful ideas in Japan, i am entranced....
Oops! Didn't see that this posted at the bottom. With this new platform, I copied to be sure I didn't lose it, and posted again when I didn't see it! Sorry!
I learned in my e-tegami classes, which embrace seasonal leaves, fruits, vegetables, seeds for our ephemeral watercolor compositions, that 24 seasons are recognized in Japan, and those 24 are each divided into three subseasons, which last about five days.
Thank you for "sensommer," something my Esbensen family surely would have observed on the farm in Denmark.
Nothing pierces deep into my core like the call of sandhill cranes. Sometimes I choke down sobs because it affects me so deeply. I don't often hear them on the Chicago lakefront. But one memorable time, I had pulled up to my dad's house on a Sunday afternoon, opened the car door and heard... something familiar. Oh! Sandhills! I looked up and hundreds were flying over his Northwest Side neighborhood. I got him outside (thankfully he was already bundled in a thick sweater against the sunny but crisp fall day) to witness this incontrovertible sign of the turning of the seasons. While I estimated circles of 10 to try to count them--yes, hundreds, in several waves--my long-ago aviator dad estimated their altitude-I forget now, 1,000 feet?--and how far across they spanned, about a mile. It was a wonderful shared moment.
Thank you for the evocative excerpts and poem. Where is the E.B. White quote from? And who did the Zen-like ink painting with the mournful tree figure the at the top of this page? Riveting!
I learned in my e-tegami classes, which embrace seasonal leaves, fruits, vegetables, seeds for our ephemeral watercolor compositions, that 24 seasons are recognized in Japan, and those 24 are each divided into three subseasons, which last about five days.
Thank you for "sensommer," something my Esbensen family surely would have observed on the farm in Denmark.
Nothing pierces deep into my core like the call of sandhill cranes. Sometimes I choke down sobs because it affects me so deeply. I don't often hear them on the Chicago lakefront. But one memorable time, I had pulled up to my dad's house on a Sunday afternoon, opened the car door and heard... something familiar. Oh! Sandhills! I looked up and hundreds were flying over his Northwest Side neighborhood. I got him outside (thankfully he was already bundled in a thick sweater against the sunny but crisp fall day) to witness this incontrovertible sign of the turning of the seasons. While I estimated circles of 10 to try to count them--yes, hundreds, in several waves--my long-ago aviator dad estimated their altitude-I forget now, 1,000 feet?--and how far across they spanned, about a mile. It was a wonderful shared moment.
Thank you for the evocative excerpts and poem. Where is the E.B. White quote from? And who did the Zen-like ink painting with the mournful tree figure the at the top of this page? Riveting!
oh, dear darling! i cannot remember if i knew of the 24 seasons, but my oh my i love that, and suddenly our "four" seems crude, as if someone chopped with a butcher's knife rather than a fine-blade scalpel. i must read up more.
and, yes, sandhills. among the many lessons our mama taught us, "look to the skies" was a big one. and never more so than for the sandhills. she traveled many a year up to Horicon Marsh to stand in awe before whole flocks of them. your story, as always, is so so beautiful.
and as for EB, i will have to dig back in my commonplace book and find where i found that. but, oh, i do love it........
I am deep into sensommer. Never knew of its existence until I read this, but it does explain the sense of impatience and ennui I feel every late August. Right now, I constantly think about pumpkin bread, jeans with a hoodie, a warm blanket, and those golden colors of the upcoming season. I hope it all happens soon because this constant humidity, threat of more rain, and then the heat from the sunshine make me a bit unhappy.
Oh Barbie, This is gorgeous. It makes we want to pad barefoot and in pajamas into your snoozing garden with you. I bet we'd stay up all night chatting away until dawn tiptoed into frame. xo
Barbara, I love everything you write! And, this new word resonates. "Sensommer". I am currently waiting for the Italian Prune Plums to arrive to make a delicious plum tart- a favorite that only happens in Sensommer.
One, you’re making my tummy growl. To me this is gig season—plump, ripe, fleshy inside. But that tart sounds spectacular too. And yes I love that word: sensommer. Everything sounds better in Scandinavian.
Love the Day and night kissing. Wonder of those who do not experience seasons. Blessed to have been drawn to you on the edge of a baseball diamond. What if I missed your connectedness, the lessons and the witnessing. Today they were flying the other direction in the sharp goldpink of the rising sun and I can think of new words to describe the feeling I had. Thank you, again.
I consider it one of the great blessings of my life, those baseball stands that plopped us into each other’s hearts. Tickled and thrilled to find you here. Much love. ❤️
This made me think about how beautiful it is to actually feel the reality of leaving something behind... and then stepping into something completely new. I especially loved the idea of “sensommer”... there’s something really comforting about seeing change not as an ending, but as part of a cycle. One season leaves, another arrives, and somehow each one brings its own kind of hope... I really loved this.
thank you, Riyanka. that word, sensommer, really seems to have struck a gong....i haven't yet had a chance to dig into the 24 seasons known in Japan, but as with sooo many beautiful ideas in Japan, i am entranced....
The long low wail of cicadas at night with a touch of bracing cool. The memories evoked carry more meaning perhaps.
Oops! Didn't see that this posted at the bottom. With this new platform, I copied to be sure I didn't lose it, and posted again when I didn't see it! Sorry!
no worries, sweet love. i’ll take you in duplicate any and every day!
I learned in my e-tegami classes, which embrace seasonal leaves, fruits, vegetables, seeds for our ephemeral watercolor compositions, that 24 seasons are recognized in Japan, and those 24 are each divided into three subseasons, which last about five days.
Thank you for "sensommer," something my Esbensen family surely would have observed on the farm in Denmark.
Nothing pierces deep into my core like the call of sandhill cranes. Sometimes I choke down sobs because it affects me so deeply. I don't often hear them on the Chicago lakefront. But one memorable time, I had pulled up to my dad's house on a Sunday afternoon, opened the car door and heard... something familiar. Oh! Sandhills! I looked up and hundreds were flying over his Northwest Side neighborhood. I got him outside (thankfully he was already bundled in a thick sweater against the sunny but crisp fall day) to witness this incontrovertible sign of the turning of the seasons. While I estimated circles of 10 to try to count them--yes, hundreds, in several waves--my long-ago aviator dad estimated their altitude-I forget now, 1,000 feet?--and how far across they spanned, about a mile. It was a wonderful shared moment.
Thank you for the evocative excerpts and poem. Where is the E.B. White quote from? And who did the Zen-like ink painting with the mournful tree figure the at the top of this page? Riveting!
I learned in my e-tegami classes, which embrace seasonal leaves, fruits, vegetables, seeds for our ephemeral watercolor compositions, that 24 seasons are recognized in Japan, and those 24 are each divided into three subseasons, which last about five days.
Thank you for "sensommer," something my Esbensen family surely would have observed on the farm in Denmark.
Nothing pierces deep into my core like the call of sandhill cranes. Sometimes I choke down sobs because it affects me so deeply. I don't often hear them on the Chicago lakefront. But one memorable time, I had pulled up to my dad's house on a Sunday afternoon, opened the car door and heard... something familiar. Oh! Sandhills! I looked up and hundreds were flying over his Northwest Side neighborhood. I got him outside (thankfully he was already bundled in a thick sweater against the sunny but crisp fall day) to witness this incontrovertible sign of the turning of the seasons. While I estimated circles of 10 to try to count them--yes, hundreds, in several waves--my long-ago aviator dad estimated their altitude-I forget now, 1,000 feet?--and how far across they spanned, about a mile. It was a wonderful shared moment.
Thank you for the evocative excerpts and poem. Where is the E.B. White quote from? And who did the Zen-like ink painting with the mournful tree figure the at the top of this page? Riveting!
oh, dear darling! i cannot remember if i knew of the 24 seasons, but my oh my i love that, and suddenly our "four" seems crude, as if someone chopped with a butcher's knife rather than a fine-blade scalpel. i must read up more.
and, yes, sandhills. among the many lessons our mama taught us, "look to the skies" was a big one. and never more so than for the sandhills. she traveled many a year up to Horicon Marsh to stand in awe before whole flocks of them. your story, as always, is so so beautiful.
and as for EB, i will have to dig back in my commonplace book and find where i found that. but, oh, i do love it........
sending love acrosss the sensommer breeze.....
I am deep into sensommer. Never knew of its existence until I read this, but it does explain the sense of impatience and ennui I feel every late August. Right now, I constantly think about pumpkin bread, jeans with a hoodie, a warm blanket, and those golden colors of the upcoming season. I hope it all happens soon because this constant humidity, threat of more rain, and then the heat from the sunshine make me a bit unhappy.
I love the ring of that sentence: “I am deep into sensommer.”
So beautiful, so meaningful! I also like to think of Autumn as a time to harvest the many blessings of life, you among them!
You’re the blessing, sweetheart ❤️
Oh Barbie, This is gorgeous. It makes we want to pad barefoot and in pajamas into your snoozing garden with you. I bet we'd stay up all night chatting away until dawn tiptoed into frame. xo
Porch is wide open, sweet love!
I love autumn, too, and always feel the change coming - in the light, in the breeze, in the stars. This was a beautiful reminder that it's time. :)