Sunday, February 13, 2011


Maybe paradise is all these things: a garden, an enclosed park, the memory of mother's milk or a golden age. Maybe the Garden is within or exists in the holiness of daily labor, the body making food for itself; or maybe it surrounds us every second if only we open our eyes.
Could it be that the dheigh at the root of the word paradise was, in fact, a dairy? A place where people learned to milk other animals?

From the book I am reading at present:
Goat Song, A Seasonal Life, A Short History of Herding, and the Art of Making Cheese - by Brad Kessler (page 132)

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