Cone | East Wenatchee, WA | April 2020

Each day I try to accept the bounty of fallen pine cones as a wind-blown blessing, a gift from God. But those spiky bastards won’t stop littering the yard despite my slow-breath offering of gratitude and oneness. It’s clear that cosmic union only goes so far towards curbing this domestic irritant — a blight on my stay-at-home bliss. “Rake,” I hear. The universe wants me to rake.

[In photo: That’s a fir cone on a glass cutting board. Also, I do realize lawn care is a minor problem in this virus crisis, so please soften any rebukes.]