I have always wondered about the response, “I am humbled,” muttered after someone is lauded or receives an award. What do they mean? Have they compared their writing with another’s? (Comparison in the thief of joy, someone once suggested.) Do they question the judge’s opinion or criteria? Or, does the polite response demonstrate a modest spirit? The latter, perhaps.

I received word a couple of weeks ago that I had earned Honorable Mention in this year’s Wyoming Arts Council Fellowship for nonfiction—for an excerpt from CROFTER. My response was a grin, followed by, “I’ll take it!” But yes, I am humbled. And encouraged. No small thing. But mostly, I’m grateful—to the Wyoming Arts Council, NEA, and Wyoming’s Legislature for the acknowledgment. It lands like rain on thirsty ground.

In other news, I’ll be traveling to Livingston, Montana next Friday, August 25, 5:00 to 8:00, to do a book signing for CROFTER at Wheatgrass Books and Gallery. Thank you, Lisa Snow, for the kind invitation. This event is part of their 4^th Friday Book Signings. If you’re in the area, stop in! I look forward to the sweet drive from our Black Hills home in northeast Wyoming, into Montana, and west towards the Rockies. Livingston lies fifty-six miles from the north entrance into Yellowstone National Park—the one that was closed last year near Gardiner for road degradations and flooding. I’ll consider that side trip.

Garden and orchard-wise, the produce is maturing at last. Planting was delayed, due to much rain in June, leaving the soil too drenched. Extreme weather continues to mark the weeks. An autumn-like cool snap slowed growth, then summer returned last week with a vengeance. We may harvest corn after all. The green-house heirloom tomatoes (Brandywine and Cherokee Purple) hang like Christmas balls, and the prevailing joke remains their value—the price of the greenhouse figured in—yes, costly tomatoes indeed. But they <are> protected from hail, which has left spots on the apples this year. Humbug.

A new shrub graces the front yard. The surprising discovery at our farmers’ market of a zone 4-9 hibiscus required no deliberation and my husband perched it behind the passenger seat in the car. She’s bright with wine-red blooms, salad plate-size. Gorgeous. Now, I regularly make an infusion using dried hibiscus flowers, acquiring them from an herbal supplier, resulting in the delicious “red drink,” or sorrel of Jamaica and other Caribbean islands, but I suspect those companies harvest fields of the shrubs. The newest planting will mature into a five-feet diameter bush,  (it is to be hoped), her blooms only to last about two days, but O! the joy and delight at seeing them multiplies the herbal benefit of the infusion. A question of harmony, perhaps, if not balance. Healing infusions, like practical blessings, nourish bodies and souls.

The words humble and humility are derived from humus—of the Earth.  Like encouraging mentions, honorable or otherwise, we all begin as humble buds. With blessings for Maui, may the Earth heal.