-

With focus on the wild rose, Emma’s smile is glowing even more – her new hair color matching the blossoms, she becomes one of the roses...

Let me introduce you to Emma. Since August she has been coming on Fridays to help for a few hours in the garden. What a lovely spirit of openness she brings, always finding little treasures while weeding, collecting live oak leaves, struggling with ivy, and her own perfectionism :)


Happily lost in the wilderness cutting back hidden live oak shoots


Emma's words, written on her cell: 


“I was first connected to Karina through a mutual friend and fellow garden lover. This connection came on the eve of starting a three month break from my full-time job to nurse my anxiety riddled burnt out little bodysoul. It feels like divine timing to become acquainted with the beautiful, healing, and grounding Karinaland at the beginning of this respite. Karina and the land she stewards helped me learn some transformational lessons of moving slow, thoughtfully and in rhythm with nature, which is much slower than the capitalist machine that had been steering my inner rhythm for so long. I continue to treasure afternoons in the garden munching on strawberry fruit, getting lost in thought while weeding oak sprouts, and chats with Karina ranging from Nasturtium to tai chi to the art world in 1980s SF.  Karinaland literally brought me down to Earth (more specifically the dirt!) when I needed it the most. Thanks Karina for caring for such a special space to share with your community. I feel blessed to be a part of it.” 


Thank you, Emma!


Emma always matching the flowers in Karinaland


Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

-
Image
  Immigration On Friday morning of September 20, I am spending a couple of hours for my naturalization interview in the federal building  on 630 Sansome Street in San Francisco  that houses the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services. Then later at 1 pm, in the oath ceremony, I am reciting the Pledge of Allegiance. Standing, holding up my right hand like everyone else, repeating the words after our master of ceremonies, I am engulfed in a chorus of immigrants’ voices from all over the world. Out of maybe 80, only two are Caucasian. The man leading us through the 20 minutes ceremony, is most likely a judge, but without his robe. He is an elegant, kind, and personable elder. We can hear the genuineness in his voice, and we are genuine, too. As we pledge allegiance to this country, the English sentences might ring slightly different for each of us. In another minute we will be citizens of the United States. Something in me is expanding. I am swearing to be a responsible an...
Read more
-
Image
  Last Dance with Uncle Oak This time, to honor the loss of another member of my ancient live oaks, I want to climb into the tree. Like I used to do 32 years ago, move, touch, feel – suspended in the air, resting on bark, sensations to be remembered. Perhaps documenting it? I ask around last minute, and find a good match in photographer  Rebecca Weinstein  to take stills of my last dance with old Uncle Oak. Once my naked feet touch the rough bark, a dynamic joy starts spreading through my body and limbs. The surprising urge to elongate myself within the safety of his sturdy arms. Next morning in a different light, I dress for another chance of closeness, envisioning my smallness to be captured. The freedom to grow into a tree, become tree , get an oak’s view, blend well, and disappear eventually. Uncle Oak, has been leaning for decades, growing northward horizontally, reaching far over into the neighbor’s yard. Now that Mama Oak has left, his malaise is more apparent...
Read more
-
Image
  Looking at you… f aintly the handwriting reads:    Karina & Bob, Here’s looking at you in 1994 With best regards, Howard   Back when he studied T’ai Chi with me for a few years, Howard was already older, a fine, eccentric gentleman. And a very good and well-known artist. With a deeply philosophical side to him which made him enjoy my way of teaching the Art and Principles of this ancient practice. He’d have questions, comments, always delighted by insights, his or mine.   In the hallway I often pass his small watercolor, with its (faded by now) inscription to Bob and me. Bob’s birthday will be in three days on May 18.  If alive, my late husband – who died in October of 2016 – would turn ninety-five this year. Suddenly I feel the presence of time in my heart, swirling about back and forth, swooshing from chamber to chamber, expanding. Howard’s greeting from 1994 – thirty years later, I am now seventy, about the age he was back then.  Suddenly I am...
Read more