Changing signs of the seasons

Happy groundhog day! Depending on your perspective, there's only six weeks of Winter left or there's still six weeks of Winter to go. Which choice is yours?

full moon rising

Photo by J. Harrington

Tomorrow is February's full moon, which some sources claim the Ojibwe call Namebini-giizis (Sucker Fish Moon) and others say is called Mkwa-giizis (Bear Moon). One explanation for this difference can be found here. The more I study Native American culture, the more I realize how much there is to learn. Of course, that's no surprise because the longer I live in our global, capitalistic, American culture, I find the more I learn the more I don't understand about it. High on the list of things I don't understand is why we aren't doing more to mitigate global warming and minimize climate change.

storm clouds blowing in

Photo by J. Harrington

Minnesota Public Radio (MPR) has a primer on Climate Change in Minnesota. (In fact, MPR has a whole series on Climate Change.) I already knew about the weather pattern changes (warmer, more intense storms etc.), but I hadn't previously come across references to aspen and tamarack in northern Minnesota declining due to climate change factors, nor had I read anything about purple finches moving north as a sign of climate change. The "sign" of the center of Minnesota's maple trees moving northeast is something I need to look into more since it relates to another project I'm working on about maple sugar candy production. I'm also going to have to see if I can find out why Minnesota isn't listed as a maple syrup producing state in this USDA report since I know we produce at least some syrup locally. Maybe I'll have some answers before the sugarbushing moon or the maple sap boiling moon.

Song from a Reedless Flute

By Sara Littlecrow-Russell 

You are beadwork woven by a broken Indian woman

That I mend with cautious, needle-pricked fingers.

You are raw sweetness of burning chaga

Scraping my lungs and startling tears.

You are the bear claw necklace

No longer caressing

The space between my breasts.

You are cigarettes

That I quit years ago,

But sometimes smoke anyways.

You are maple syrup on snow

Melting on my tongue

Until I ache from the cold.

You are the cedar tree

Sheltering my childhood

From unwanted caresses.

You are the star blanket

Sliding off the bed on autumnal nights.

You are a stubborn braid of wiingashk

That must be relit with a dozen matches

Before it releases thin streamers of sweetness.

You are the love song

Played on a reedless flute

That only spirits hear.

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