“Picking Pebbles: The Morality of Choice” Boston Review May/June 2013
When I was in seventh grade and had to walk what seemed a long mile to school, I would sometimes choose a pebble in the road and kick it along with me for several blocks, just to amuse myself. At some point en route I would tire of the game and leave the pebble behind. But by then I had adopted the pebble and taken it into my heart. So as I walked on, I wondered whether I had abducted it from home only to abandon it among strangers, or brought adventure into its boring stone existence. It was only a pebble, I kept reminding myself, but each discarded pebble taunted my adolescent self with the hope that I could make a difference to somebody, at the same time as it haunted me with the power of my own arbitrariness. I’m sure that’s how my pebble-picking career started. Continue Reading…
Great Blue Heron taking off in Hall’s Pond Sanctuary, Brookline, MA.
Milk snake on the (dirt) floor of my basement in Lempster.
Yearling bear cub at my birdfeeder. It stood on its hind legs, grasped the feeder with its front paws, and sucked out all the sunflower seed as if it were nursing from a bottle. Then it brushed the fallen seed of its chest and daintily headed out of my yard by walking on top of a stone wall.
One sunny January afternoon, just after a snow storm the previous night, I was cross-country skiing through the woods and noticed these ribbons of snow draping from tree branches.
Pitcher Plant digesting a slug, in the bog in Quoddy Head State Park, Lubec, Maine