OF ALL THE TREES in our Church O’ The Pines forest, this White Pine is the champion. Seemingly touching the sky, with a nearly arrow-straight trunk, it is nine-and-a-half feet in circumference at chest height. Estimated age, 181 years. Experts say the percentage of White Pines over 180 years of age is very small, likely less than 1% of the
HERE AT THE CHURCH O THE PINES, it is a blustery November morning. The wind blows sharply off the river, while a low overcast contends with blue sky for dominance. The wind chimes on the deck sing, each with its own voice. Meanwhile the mostly bare branches of maples and basswoods whip wildly while the pine tops sway. The last
AT THE CHURCH O’ THE PINES, the congregation is largely on its own today as I am back and forth from the hospital. Mostly forth. Kathy is doing… OK. But there are bouts of nausea and significant discomfort. Lots of kind, competent nurses. Meanwhile in my visits back to the church grounds we find hints of Spring. Esteemed church choir
TODAY from the Church O’ The Pines, a small outing to the Little Stream. The woods seem dead, but are only resting. The stream is frozen, but only on the surface. Beneath the cold, still ice, everything is still moving, singing, flowing, living. Everything important happens below the surface. One day the ice, too, will move. It will be tossed
AT THE CHURCH O’ THE PINES, all is calm and rather bright. The blue jays holler and the squirrels scold. The chickadees gently gossip and the local deer herd drops by for a visit. The deacon pines reach their arms toward heaven. And the whole congregation seems to be at peace with the world, sharing the general feeling that it’s
OCTOBER SUNRISE, Church O’ The Pines. The morning gossiping of chickadees. The laugh of a pileated woodpecker. The reflecting Father of Waters…. All the congregation, surrounded by beauty. We wish you beauty. We wish you Good Sabbath.
AT THE CHURCH O THE PINES someone left the basement freezer open and now we are Narnia. The congregation shivers in their fur coats and feather stoles, and the morning hymns have a bit of a wobble in the high notes. Blue jays holler and shout, nuthatches mutter, chickadees say their names, and pileated woodpeckers, somehow, still laugh uproariously. The