Soon, but not quite yet...

And once again, the melting will transform flakes into drops, into rills, into rivulets, into groundwater or brooks or streams. Will there again be fog? Fog will come again in the warm times. When will the warm times come again? When the cold winds have ceased and the warm winds blow again. When will that be? The winds will blow warm again when it is their time.

April 19, 2013 snowstorm

Photo by J. Harrington

For now, the sun must warm the roads and clear the ditches. The trees must once again have wind's help to discard their Winter cloaks. The earth is neither ready nor willing to return to its Winter slumber. Making do until better, warmer, days arrive is the order of the day. As the earth continues to turn, Spring will continue to strengthen. This tale, attributed to the Chippewa, tells us what we can look forward to.

April 4, 2014 snowstorm

Photo by J. Harrington

Pete Seeger, with an assist from Judy Collins, offers a similar explanation through one of his most popular songs. Soon the season will turn, but not quite yet.

Turn, Turn, Turn (To Everything There Is A Season)

To Everything
Turn, turn, turn
There is a season
Turn, turn, turn
And a time for every purpose, under Heaven

A time to be born, a time to die
A time to plant, a time to reap
A time to kill, a time to heal
A time to laugh, a time to weep

To Everything
Turn, turn, turn
There is a season
Turn, turn, turn
And a time for every purpose, under Heaven

A time to build up, a time to break down
A time to dance, a time to mourn
A time to cast away stones
A time to gather stones together

To Everything
Turn, turn, turn
There is a season
Turn, turn, turn
And a time for every purpose, under Heaven

A time of love, a time of hate
A time of war, a time of peace
A time you may embrace
A time to refrain from embracing

To Everything
Turn, turn, turn
There is a season
Turn, turn, turn
And a time for every purpose, under Heaven

A time to gain, a time to lose
A time to rend, a time to sew
A time to love, a time to hate
A time for peace, I swear it's not too late

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It's almost Easter?

It's snowing; not very hard at the moment, but, nevertheless, snowing. Those Canada geese and swans and various ducks that have moved North will probably hunker down and wait it out. We saw some streaks of open water yesterday along the Sunrise River pools in Carlos Avery Wildlife Management Area. We also saw a couple of male red-wing blackbirds perched on last year's cattail rushes. Will blackbirds also wait out the early Spring snow fall? Probably.

red-winged blackbird, early Spring

Photo by J. Harrington

The top of our piano has one vase with apple branches and another full of pussy willows. They reflect  our response this Spring to the conundrum "If the mountain won't come to Mohammed...." Spring is dragging her feet this year on her way to our North Country, so we went and met some of her emissaries part way. The vases hold signs that Spring does exist actually exist, somewhere. Did we mention that it's snowing?

forced apple blossoms

Photo by J. Harrington

Today's snow triggers memories of childhood Easters, when we wore new Easter clothes that needed to be put on display, but were sometimes hidden under heavy Winter coats. Early Easter, late Easter, early Spring, late Spring are clearly not a recent phenomenon. We might be less perturbed about today's snow if we were likely to soon return to temperatures more typical of this time of year. When it comes to melting Spring snow, there's a significant difference between daytime highs in the low 30s versus the high 40s, but you knew that. By the way, it's still snowing.

pussy willow catkins

Photo by J. Harrington

If we were better students of Zen, we'd be cheered by the realization that the issue isn't with the weather, it's with our expectations. We noticed while walking the dogs that the snowflakes collected on dogs' backs and didn't melt until we returned to the warm house. We probably need to feel more gratitude that we have a nice, warm house to protect us from early Spring snowstorms. This is a very tough time of year for many. There's little open water, no new growth, most of Winter's stores have been eaten, it's a hungry time for many. Since Easter is a time of rebirth and renewal, we'll focus this year on renewing our appreciation for the many blessings we have. We wish you all a happy, healthy and joy-filled Passover tomorrow and Easter Sunday.

The Silent Singer

Len Roberts

The girls sang better than the boys, 
their voices reaching All the way to God, 
Sister Ann Zita insisted during those 
     practice sessions
when I was told to mouth do, re, mi,
     but to go no higher,
when I was told to stand in back 
    and form a perfect 0
        with my lips
although no word was ever to come out, 
the silent singer in that third-grade 
     class
during the Christmas Pageant and Easter 
     Week, the birth and death 
        of Christ lip-synched
            but unsung 
while my relatives, friends and parents
     praised my baritone,
     how low my voice was,
Balancing those higher, more childlike tones,
     my father said,
Adding depth, my mother said,
Thank God they had my huskiness to bring all
     that tinniness to earth,
     my great-aunt whispered,
so I believed for many years in miracles
     myself,
the words I’d never sung reaching their ears 
     in the perfect pitch, the perfect tone, 
while the others stuttered in their all-too-human
     voices to praise the Lord.

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Poetry, serendipity, and resistance

This coming Sunday, April 1st, will be Easter, the start of National Poetry Month and April Fools Day, all at the same time. Coincidence? Let's hope so, although we've encountered several manifestations today that are causing us to wonder about the existence of coincidence. First, our Twitter timeline this morning produced a notice on Recall, Orpheus: Upon the End of National Poetry Month. The article contained this wonderfully apt quotation:

All language is magical, and all poetry is language, but not all language is poetry. The unique capabilities of verse are that it simultaneously refers to something beyond itself as all language does (whether something real or not) while also drawing attention to its own artifice. In this way poetry is both the means of expression, and the object itself. Poetry, through the use of certain incantatory affects which we call rhythm, meter, rhyme, consonance, assonance, metaphor, simile and so on makes its own artifice obvious, and thus is honest about and admits its magic. 

For some time now (precisely, since November 8, 2016) we've been struggling with questions about the impacts  and effectiveness of writing, poetry especially, in a time when language itself is being subjected to corrupting influences. Our country's "leaders" seem to have simultaneously gone through the looking glass and down the rabbit hole.

“When I use a word,” Humpty Dumpty said, in rather a scornful tone, “it means just what I choose it to mean—neither more nor less.” “The question is,” said Alice, “whether you can make words mean so many different things.” “The question is,” said Humpty Dumpty, “which is to be master—that's all.” 

when, not if, bluebirds of happiness will return

Photo by J. Harrington

In a time of fake accusations of #FakeNews and Tweeted statements, followed by denials the statement was ever made, plus "alternative facts," we have been getting more and more glum. Being reminded this morning of the magic of language began to restore hope. Then, as we were finishing the Orpheus piece, we stumbled into a serendipitous corollary, this one from The Paris Review: What We Can Learn from Neruda’s Poetry of Resistance. Here's a partial answer:

The effectiveness of Neruda’s poetry is proven by its endurance, how often people reach for and evoke his works as a tool to galvanize, to awaken, to sustain. In San Francisco, during the lead up to the 2003 invasion of Iraq, Neruda’s words were draped on banners over the streets: “Tyranny cuts off the head that sings, but the voice at the bottom of the well returns to the secret springs of the earth and out of the darkness rises up through the mouth of the people.” Nearly a decade later, the Egyptian art historian Bahia Shehab spray-painted Neruda’s words on the streets of Cairo during the Arab Spring: “You can cut all the flowers, but you can’t stop spring.” Five years later, during the January 2017 Women’s March, those same words of Neruda that had appeared in Cairo would grace posters bearing the original Spanish:“Podrán cortar todas las flores, pero no podrá detener la primavera.”

Each of the pieces we read primed us for a subsequent encounter, later in the morning, when we entered Common Good Books. (We really shouldn't be allowed in there without a responsible adult keeping an eye on us.) The first book to catch our eye was Matthew Zapruder's Why Poetry. Several other volumes subsequently screamed to us "Buy me! Buy me!" (We told you we needed supervision.) During this year's Poetry Month, we'll explore who the rest of those screamers were and at least some of what they have to say. That will give us topics to write about while pondering the inevitability of Spring's somewhat tardy, but avidly hoped for, arrival next month.

Curse

Pablo Neruda, 1904 - 1973

Furrowed motherland, I swear that in your ashes
you will be born like a flower of eternal water
I swear that from your mouth of thirst will come to the air
the petals of bread, the spilt
inaugurated flower. Cursed,
cursed, cursed be those who with an ax and serpent
came to your earthly arena, cursed those
who waited for this day to open the door
of the dwelling to the moor and the bandit:
What have you achieved? Bring, bring the lamp,
see the soaked earth, see the blackened little bone
eaten by the flames, the garment
of murdered Spain.

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How should Spring arrive? #phenology

Willow trees have taken on golden hues. (We finally lost hope and patience and bought a handful of pussy willow boughs this morning.) Male goldfinches are starting to show patches of bright yellow. Our formerly ice-coated driveway is now readily passable. Slowly, sometimes surely, with occasional misdirections, Spring creeps Northward.

male goldfinch starting to show breeding colors

Photo by J. Harrington

This year in the North Country, Spring seems to be taking longer than "normal." We suspect that's because several of our past Springs have arrived sooner and warmer than historical trends would indicate. We don't recall seeing any analysis about increasing volatility in seasonal transitions, although we haven't looked very hard. The animation above shows some areas where Spring is early and others where it's tardy. We're concerned about whether it actually stays "Spring" once arrived. Late season snowstorms, if not to heavy, can usually be taken in stride by our hardy natives. Late season hard freezes are a different story.

Spring leaf index anomaly

Once upon a time, when we were much younger, we remember thinking that Spring's arrival in our native Massachusetts, although often early or late, was pretty much a gradual progression more than a sudden arrival. Clearly that's not the case this year. A careful examination of the animation makes it clear that neither Massachusetts nor Minnesota has, as yet, produced enough evidence of Spring to compare with past years. Sigh! That does leave us much to look forward to, including the possibility of a sudden change of season replacing this dreary pattern we're in.

                     Willow

By Anna Akhmatova
Translated by Jennifer Reeser

...and a decrepit handful of trees.

—Aleksandr Pushkin

And I matured in peace born of command,

in the nursery of the infant century,

and the voice of man was never dear to me,

but the breeze’s voice—that I could understand.

The burdock and the nettle I preferred,

but best of all the silver willow tree.

Its weeping limbs fanned my unrest with dreams;

it lived here all my life, obligingly.

I have outlived it now, and with surprise.

There stands the stump; with foreign voices other

willows converse, beneath our, beneath those skies,

and I am hushed, as if I’d lost a brother.

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Snow storms and bud bursts #phenology

The sun is shining. Yesterday's "wintry mix" has mostly melted. Dennis Anderson has stirred up a small hornets nest (in the comments) with his recent piece Unregulated farm tiling puts state's waters at risk. Once again we have to remind ourselves, never read the comments! As in many fields these days, we seem to be making some progress at the same time we're losing ground. We have no idea at the moment what the net effect may be but our concerns are growing more rapidly than our sense of accomplishment. The world seems to have gotten both more volatile and more contentious.

This Spring's weather certainly has been volatile. The stock market swings seem to be getting increasingly volatile. Political and legislative activity at the state, federal and local level is becoming more and more contentious. There seem to be fewer and fewer folks who recognize, agree on, or value what used to be know as the "common good." Robert Reich, author of a new book on that topic, is someone with whom my heart often agrees while my head disagrees. Maybe this time he'll help bring head and heart into alignment. That would be real progress.

red maple, late March bud burst

Photo by J. Harrington

A definitive sign of progress in our seasonal changes occurred sometime in the last day or so. The red maples in front of the house have started bud burst. We'll hope they're hardy enough to handle whatever Mother Nature throws at us from now until the start of Summer, which, in the North Country, occurs about two weeks after the average last frost. Remember, in Minnesota it's snowed every month of the year but one.

For No Good Reason

Twyla M. Hansen

As if you needed one,
as if you could help it,
for no good reason
a tune out of nowhere
pops into your head
when you least expect,
riffs effortlessly in the
folds of your cerebrum—

your own private jukebox,
your personal music device
on random minus the earbuds—
drumming itself up to keep
you company: here, a little
Janis Joplin while you vacuum
cat hair; there, a John Denver line
as you peel potatoes at the sink.

How can others not hear it,
this frequent odd gift?
Sometimes you forget
and blurt the words to the chorus,
which, after all, is all you can remember,
those take me home, country roads,
that feelin’ good was good enough
for me, even conjuring

the gas station in Colorado
back where you, wearing
those bell bottoms and that
paisley, were about to fill a tank
of freedom into the blue VW Bug
when Carole King belted out
and it’s too late baby, now it’s too late
though we really did try to make it

and you couldn’t move, couldn’t
quit sobbing to the steering wheel
that would not console those blues
or say what you had left to lose,
wouldn’t question why in hell
you were going down that road
where for no good reason
you seemed to be heading.

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Thawing turkeys #phenology

We're used to having turkeys scratching under the bird feeders. It doesn't happen daily, but, in warmer weather, varies from a few times a week to a few weeks between visits. This morning there was a pair of hen turkeys scratching through the snow under the front feeder. The second bird had disappeared by the time we got the camera out.

hen turkey checking under feeder

Photo by J. Harrington

Imagine our surprise as we then headed toward the kitchen to freshen our coffee and noticed company on the deck railing. We think she was trying to figure out if she could find a way to perch someplace and get at the seeds in the feeder. Eventually, she flew down without having solved that puzzle. After a Winter with almost no sightings whatsoever of turkeys, today's visit was another sure sign the Spring is on its way and that bears aren't the only hungry critters in our woods.

hen turkey on deck railing next to feeder

Photo by J. Harrington

The snow that fell overnight amounted to a little more than an inch or so around our neighborhood. It's forecast to return this afternoon, but may do so as rain. Daily thaws and nightly refreezes should be doing wonders for those tapping maple trees this Spring. We, having no such activity available, look forward to a complete melt-down of what's left of Winter. But, as today's Daily Good reading notes, we're also remembering to savor, rather than hurry, the transition. There are two additional classic thaw poems at the link. We suggest you see if you like them, especially Issa's haiku.

The Thaw

I saw the civil sun drying earth’s tears —
Her tears of joy that only faster flowed,

Fain would I stretch me by the highway side,
To thaw and trickle with the melting snow,
That mingled soul and body with the tide,
I too may through the pores of nature flow.

But I alas nor tinkle can nor fume,
One jot to forward the great work of Time,
‘Tis mine to hearken while these ply the loom,
So shall my silence with their music chime.

- Henry David Thoreau

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Bearly Spring #phenology

As we were sipping our first cup of coffee this morning, we noticed that the bird feeders were missing from their deck hangers. Then we saw the feeders were perched on top of the galvanized trash can where we store the sunflower seeds. Our guess was that the Daughter and Son-In-Law had decided it was time to bring in feeders at night so any neighborhood bear is less tempted to nosh. Last year we were a little slow to change our seasonal pattern. The wear and tear on the feeder was noteworthy.

how to tell when bears leave hibernation

Photo by J. Harrington

There's still lots of snow covering grasses which aren't even close to greening. Not much good to eat in the woods these days. The young'uns had also put the trash can in the garage. When we finally got the full story, it turns out that as they were walking their dogs last night, one of the dogs went stiff, hackles up on its back, all that good stuff. Then the kids heard and smelled the bear. So, we're back into the season where one more chore gets added to the daily list for first thing in the morning and last at day's end: put feeders out, take feeders in.

We're hoping that tonight's and tomorrows "wintry mix" won't set the season back too far. Today we did manage to get Wisconsin fishing licenses for ourselves and the Better Half. On the way back, we saw a pair of sandhill cranes looking for a nesting spot. Spring--we're gettin' there, but bearly so.

Each year

Dora Malech

                  I snap the twig to try to trap
the springing and I relearn the same lesson.
You cannot make a keepsake of this season. 
Your heart’s not the source of that sort of sap,
lacks what it takes to fuel, rejects the graft,
though for a moment it’s your guilty fist 
that’s flowering. You’re no good host to this
extremity that points now, broken, back at
the dirt as if to ask are we there yet.
You flatter this small turn tip of a larger 
book of matches that can’t refuse its end,
re-fuse itself, un-flare. Sure. Now forget
again. Here’s a new green vein, another
clutch to take, give, a handful of seconds.

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Spring: hope's eternal #phenology

We first saw them last night in the downslope corner of last year's corn field, flooded with this year's snow melt. Flocks of Canada geese are back, joined by some swans. The first large waves of Spring's migrants have finally arrived. Since many of the local ponds are still frozen, they're congregating where they can find food and water. (Still no signs of pussy willows, though.)

local ponds slowly thaw

Photo by J. Harrington

Much of the St. Croix River downstream of Taylors Falls is open water. Late on warmer days some open water appears briefly on our local pond, before it refreezes overnight. We picked up our penultimate Winter CSA share this morning. (The Better Half informs us that we're signed up for Spring shares with the same CSA.) Once again purple finches are flocking to the feeder. We are incredibly encouraged that so many are voting with their wings that the arrival of actual Spring, not just calendar spring, is eminent.

purple finches pass through

Photo by J. Harrington

#MarchForOurLives 

events are happening across the country today, focused on state capitals and the national capital in Washington, D.C. We wish the marchers success. We also hope that inappropriate shortcuts, such as adding those on the No Fly list to those prohibited from purchasing firearms, fail. Finally, we want to call to your attention the fact that there were 1093 people killed by police in the US in 2016. Gun control must include additional restrictions on the ability of police to kill, with impunity, unarmed civilians. That's another hope we have for the upcoming year.

                     Of History and Hope

By Miller Williams

We have memorized America,

how it was born and who we have been and where.

In ceremonies and silence we say the words,

telling the stories, singing the old songs.

We like the places they take us. Mostly we do.

The great and all the anonymous dead are there.

We know the sound of all the sounds we brought.

The rich taste of it is on our tongues.

But where are we going to be, and why, and who?

The disenfranchised dead want to know.

We mean to be the people we meant to be,

to keep on going where we meant to go.

But how do we fashion the future? Who can say how

except in the minds of those who will call it Now?

The children. The children. And how does our garden grow?

With waving hands—oh, rarely in a row—

and flowering faces. And brambles, that we can no longer allow.

Who were many people coming together

cannot become one people falling apart.

Who dreamed for every child an even chance

cannot let luck alone turn doorknobs or not.

Whose law was never so much of the hand as the head

cannot let chaos make its way to the heart.

Who have seen learning struggle from teacher to child

cannot let ignorance spread itself like rot.

We know what we have done and what we have said,

and how we have grown, degree by slow degree,

believing ourselves toward all we have tried to become—

just and compassionate, equal, able, and free.

All this in the hands of children, eyes already set

on a land we never can visit—it isn’t there yet—

but looking through their eyes, we can see

what our long gift to them may come to be.

If we can truly remember, they will not forget.

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Spring, like fog, tip toes in on little cat's feet #phenology

Some years Spring surges into the North Country. Others, like this one, it pads North slowly as the line of melted snow and open water creeps up toward the Arctic Circle.

local water is still more closed than open

Photo by J. Harrington

Today we saw a few robins, a pair of sandhill cranes standing in a still frozen marsh, a few Canada geese flying about or walking on the ice and a bald eagle land in a stand of trees near Mud Lake East of Stacy, one of Minnesota's many, many Mud Lakes. We weren't able to find any signs of pussy willows. Perhaps it's still early for them. Maybe they're waiting for the ice and snow to melt and the main flights of waterfowl to arrive? Maybe, like us, they're awaiting more sunlight.

We did manage to celebrate this week's arrival of Spring by purchasing 2018 fishing licenses and a replacement state park sticker for the Jeep's windshield. Maybe by this time next week we will have added Wisconsin fishing licenses to our collection of Spring's emergent signs. Most of the Winter's snow has melted from the driveway. Drip, drip, drip, melting is slow but persistent. So is Spring's actual arrival this year.

                     To One Coming North

By Claude McKay

At first you'll joy to see the playful snow,

  Like white moths trembling on the tropic air,

Or waters of the hills that softly flow

  Gracefully falling down a shining stair.

And when the fields and streets are covered white

  And the wind-worried void is chilly, raw,

Or underneath a spell of heat and light

  The cheerless frozen spots begin to thaw,

Like me you'll long for home, where birds' glad song

  Means flowering lanes and leas and spaces dry,

And tender thoughts and feelings fine and strong,

  Beneath a vivid silver-flecked blue sky.

But oh! more than the changeless southern isles,

  When Spring has shed upon the earth her charm,

You'll love the Northland wreathed in golden smiles

  By the miraculous sun turned glad and warm.

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Seasonal volatility

With apologies to Longfellow,

"Between the Winter and Springtime
As the sun is regaining its power
Comes a pause in the seasonal changes
That is known to make many folks dour"

March 20, 2013

Photo by J. Harrington

We've been looking through half a decades worth of March photos. This relatively short period of record prompts us to declare there is no such thing as a normal March, even less so as the implications of global warming become more pronounced. At this time of year, some years the roads have still been snow covered; others, like this year, they're bare.

March 14, 2015

Photo by J. Harrington

Some years we've had open water on the local pond; not so this year. Warmer Springs have brought us fields free of snow cover. This year, although we've avoided (so far) the East Coast's 4 Nor'Easters in March, our late snow storms and stagnant thaw left local fields still buried under several inches of melting crust. We'll get there eventually. Zen masters are undoubtedly correct when they note the problem is not in the world, but in our mind. It is our expectations that are incorrect, not the weather nor the seasonal transition. Knowing that works about as well for us as when we were kids anticipating Santa's arrival. We could count the days on our fingers, but that made the days until Santa, or Spring, no less interminable.

Compounding our perturbation with the weather is the insanity in Washington, D.C. and the madness in St. Paul. At least while state legislators attempt to substitute political acumen (an oxymoron?) for science as they debate water quality standards, Congress, for now, is reported to have avoided a giveaway of federal property to a foreign mining corporation. Heaven only knows what is actually in the "budget" bill and hat it will do to those of us who attempt to cling to some shred of belief that the future should hold more than the quarter's profits and next election's winners.

March

Elizabeth Drew Stoddard

Ho, wind of March, speed over sea,
     From mountains where the snows lie deep
     The cruel glaciers threatening creep,
And witness this, my jubilee!

Roar from the surf of boreal isles,
     Roar from the hidden, jagged steeps,
     Where the destroyer never sleeps;
Ring through the iceberg’s Gothic piles!

Voyage through space with your wild train,
     Harping its shrillest, searching tone,
     Or wailing deep its ancient moan,
And learn how impotent your reign.

Then hover by this garden bed,
     With all your willful power, behold,
     Just breaking from the leafy mould,
My little primrose lift its head!

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Emergence and discovery #phenology

OK, we admit that the weather we've been experiencing has us grumping around the house. It's not that it's actually unpleasant outside, but neither is it actually pleasant outside. Who was it that had the hit song "Stuck in the Middle With You?" That's pretty much how we've been feeling about the weather for the past few weeks. We're really looking forward to enjoying the two or three days we get  each year when it's warm and sunny but the mosquitos, black flies and deer flies haven't yet arrived in great numbers.

British soldier lichen surrounded by snow

Photo by J. Harrington

What we had failed to realize until this morning is that, with a little luck, we still have ahead of us chances to go find British soldier lichen and maybe collect a few pussy willows. But first we'd like to let a little more of the snow melt in the fields.

March is pussy willow time

Photo by J. Harrington

We've had reports from reliable observers that numbers of Canada geese have arrived in the neighborhood and read several reports that sandhill cranes are back in the general area. We've had no real sightings of either. so that's something else to look forward to.

A third- or fourth-hand report has reached us that a gray wold was trapped near the borders of Washington and Anoka counties. We're a little surprised but not astounded, since their known territory has extended to the northern half of Pine County, which borders ours on the North. It will be very interesting to watch for additional reports, if there are any, and to see how the possible arrival of wolves affects the local coyote packs.

Instructions on Not Giving Up

Ada Limón, 1976

More than the fuchsia funnels breaking out
of the crabapple tree, more than the neighbor’s
almost obscene display of cherry limbs shoving
their cotton candy-colored blossoms to the slate
sky of Spring rains, it’s the greening of the trees
that really gets to me. When all the shock of white
and taffy, the world’s baubles and trinkets, leave
the pavement strewn with the confetti of aftermath,
the leaves come. Patient, plodding, a green skin
growing over whatever winter did to us, a return
to the strange idea of continuous living despite
the mess of us, the hurt, the empty. Fine then,
I’ll take it, the tree seems to say, a new slick leaf
unfurling like a fist to an open palm, I’ll take it all.

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North Country: Springing into a new world?

As we write this, it's almost exactly the Vernal Equinox and it's snowing, not heavily, but steadily. Welcome to Spring in our North Country. Purple finches are back at one of the feeders. Woodpeckers have been having lots of fun with one of the trees in the neighborhood. We hope, when the trunk finally lets go, it doesn't land on the road.

a woodpecker favorite

Photo by J. Harrington

What do you see when you look at today's photos: a series of various size woodpecker holes not connected to each other nor anything else; a much-abused dead tree trunk and limbs, pock-holed, growing fungus amongus? Or is it possible, with just a skosh of imagination, to see archways, doorways and entrances to other dimensions? Could the mushroom steps lead to a newer, higher, better universe? Are there tunnels through the limbs and trunks, connecting at least some of the holes, connecting us to a neverland such as Alice discovered? If you see no such possibilities, you might want to ask yourself why?

where do the holes lead?

Photo by J. Harrington

We admit that we have been aided and abetted in our thinking about and experiencing the "old, dead tree" by the chapter in Robert Macfarlane's Landmarks titled "Childish." If you haven't yet read Landmarks, please do. Macfarlane is among the more powerful and compelling writers we've found who explores the relationships among languages and places and times. We continue to wrestle with whatever linkage exists between the idea and the reality. Annie Dillard writes in "Total Eclipse," "All those things for which we have no words are lost." We wonder what that means for those, like children, with limited vocabulary but much less limited imaginations. What, also, does it mean as too many of us age, expand (if not improve) our vocabulary, and simultaneously lose access to our imaginations? Words are tools. Words cast spells through incantations. Words are squiggles on screens and sheets of paper. Words may have started as grunts or birdsong or.... Words are used to lie and cheat and steal and hurt. The Bible claims that "In the beginning was the Word." Which came first, the Word or the reality, our Words or our World?

                     World Word

By Eamon Grennan

What over the gable-end and high up under tangled cloud

           that raven might be saying to its tumble-soaring mate

or what the blackbird might intend when chattering among

           scattered breadcrumbs or what the bellowing of one cow

then another in the near field might mean remains beyond

           my ken—being all noise for which no words will manage

though all is language settling and unsettling the world

           beyond me . . . and yet there’s the dunnock in all its

dun colours at work among the small stones and patchy grass

           of the driveway and here’s the robin’s aggressive tilt

at breadcrumbs and there goes the sudden shriek

           of the blackbird . . . all alive inside the inhuman

breath-pattern of the wind trawling every last leaf

           and blade of grass and flinging rain like velvet pebbles

onto the skylight: nothing but parables in every bristling inch

           of the out-of-sight unspoken never-to-be-known pure

sense-startling untranslatable there of the world as we find it.

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Winter's end. Better days ahead?

We've received several email notices today the the PolyMet folks are trying to get their land transfer legislative approval inserted as a rider in the budget bill. Since Minnesota has two Democratic Senators, we'll be very disappointed, to put it mildly, if such a provision ends up in the final bill. As the message from MCEA via Duluth for Clean Water notes:

"If they succeed in jamming the PolyMet Poison Pill into the budget, 7,000 acres of Superior National Forest land would be transferred to PolyMet for their sulfide mine proposal immediately, ending court review of the land transfer. Instead of letting the courts do their job of protecting public land users and taxpayers, lobbyists would get their way through back-room negotiations."

We called the offices of both Minnesota Senators (Smith and Klobuchar) and left messages that we would appreciate it if the Senators would oppose the PolyMet Poison Pill. We also tried to leave a message with Senator Schumer, the Minority Leader, but kept getting an all lines busy signal.

Much of the rest of the day has been spent trying to purchase a replacement for a leaking bathroom vanity faucet. It took trips to 3 big box stores miles and miles apart because the model and style the Better Half wants wasn't in stock at the first two stops. Of course, it could have been ordered on line and shipped to home or the nearest store. We just weren't sure all relevant information was available on the web sites. (We recently deferred purchasing a pair of shoes on line because the color listed was black but the picture was obviously brown.) It's not to hard to imagine a future where the only way to purchase anything is online, unless we do a lot more to support local economies. Anyhow, the job is done thanks to yeoman-like efforts by the Son-In-Law.

early arrivals, Canada geese

Photo by J. Harrington

While getting the parts to close the loose water under the sink, we noticed there's no open water yet, but the ice cover on the Sunrise River pools has turned rotting gray. We also noticed one pair of Canada geese sitting on a muskrat house mound, but they were the only waterfowl in sight. That pair may, or may not, have been the same ones we saw later as we headed out on yet another errand on one of those days that Murphy's Law is being actively enforced, although that and distorted immigration laws seem to be the only ones that count these days. Enough! Spring arrives on the morrow!

                     Cold Spring

By Lawrence Raab

The last few gray sheets of snow are gone,

winter’s scraps and leavings lowered

to a common level. A sudden jolt

of weather pushed us outside, and now

this larger world once again belongs to us.

I stand at the edge of it, beside the house,

listening to the stream we haven’t heard

since fall, and I imagine one day thinking

back to this hour and blaming myself

for my worries, my foolishness, today’s choices

having become the accomplished

facts of change, accepted

or forgotten. The woods are a mangle

of lines, yet delicate, yet precise,

when I take the time to look closely.

If I’m not happy it must be my own fault.

At the edge of the lawn my wife

bends down to uncover a flower, then another.

The first splurge of crocuses.

And for a moment the sweep and shudder

of the wind seems indistinguishable

from the steady furl of water

just beyond her.

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Earth IS Planet B!

Yesterday was another Minnesota first for us. We participated in a walking subcaucus. We understand and agree with the principle involved, although the process felt pretty silly. As we recall, the major winners were Rebecca Otto for Governor, Leah Phifer for Congress, and a pleasantly large contingent against copper-sulfate mining. Several times during the event we were reminded of Will Rogers' observation "I am not a member of any organized party — I am a Democrat."

As a reward for spending a warm, sunny St. Patrick's Day doing our civic-political duty, today we have been rewarded with overcast skies and slightly cooler temperatures. No good deed goes unpunished in today's world.

still snow covered

Photo by J. Harrington

Local signs of Spring encroaching on our countryside are still sparse. However, in honor of the Northern Hemisphere's Vernal Equinox arriving this week, we're setting a goal of getting 2018 fishing licenses for ourselves and the Better Half, plus a new state park sticker for our Jeep. We'll see how close we come to reaching what should be simple, personal goals this week. Maybe we could start a winning streak?

but melting

Photo by J. Harrington

If so, another goal we'd like to see achieved is more than personal, it's social and political and environmental and cultural and.... We'd like to see the Democratic Party contravene Rogers' observation and collectively pay a lot more attention to an idea called "Donut Economics." The following quote from the linked interview with Kate Raworth, its originator, helps explain why:

I believe we need economies driven by two design features. One, economies should be distributive by design, which means that value created is shared far more equitably with all those how helped to create it. Think of an employee owned company, which that value is shared amongst all the employees who helped do the work instead of siphoned off to distant and fickle shareholders. So we need economies that are distributive by design but also regenerative by design so that instead of using up earth’s materials and resources, we can use them again and again and again and work with the cycles of life, rather than cut against them.

As we see it, addressing the distributive question of economics should go a long way to minimizing both the rich-poor split and the urban-rural split, since geographically there seems to be a growing overlap in those geo-demographic splits. Somehow, years ago, Will Rogers foresaw recent (2008 and 2016) events that Congress seems committed to repeating:

This election was lost four and five and six years ago not this year. They dident start thinking of the old common fellow till just as they started out on the election tour. The money was all appropriated for the top in the hopes that it would trickle down to the needy. Mr. Hoover was an engineer. He knew that water trickled down. Put it uphill and let it go and it will reach the dryest little spot. But he dident know that money trickled up. Give it to the people at the bottom and the people at the top will have it before night anyhow. But it will at least have passed through the poor fellow’s hands. They saved the big banks but the little ones went up the flue.

Economy

Sandra Beasley

After you’ve surrendered to pillows 
and I, that second whiskey, 
on the way to bed I trace my fingers 
over a thermostat we dare not turn up.
You have stolen what we call the green thing—
too thick to be a blanket, too soft to be a rug—
turned away, mid-dream. Yet your legs
still reach for my legs, folding them quick 
to your accumulated heat.
                              These days
only a word can earn overtime. 
Economy: once a net, now a handful of holes. 
Economy: what a man moves with 
when, even in sleep, he is trying to save 
all there is left to save. 

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Happy St. Patrick's Day

accept neither fake shamrocks nor fake democracy

Photo by J. Harrington

Our democracy needs to emulate St. Patrick and escape from its pirate captors. That's why we're spending today at our MN senate district DFL convention. We see attendance as a matter of necessity more than choice. Better policy and better politics must be made if we hope to preserve some semblance of democracy in this country. The only way we know of to bring that about is to get more involved. Voting, alone, is no longer enough. This attitude probably has something to do with having grown up in Boston, you know, where this whole thing started with a real tea party, and coming of age during the time of the civil rights "struggle" followed by the Vietnam War protests and the 1968 police riot in Chicago. In some, but not all, ways we've been here before. It looks like it's time to do it again. Sigh!

If you wonder what we're nattering about, here's some resources and/or reminders:

• Why Gil Scott-Heron Wrote “The Revolution Will Not Be Televised” Finding inspiration in a world of unrest and rage


• Gill Scott-Heron performing "The Revolution Will Not Be Televised"


• A Test of American Traditions: Timothy Snyder’s “On Tyranny”

Meanwhile, our own Minnesota Legislature is tackling critical issues like slow-poke drivers in the left lane and the GOP majority leaves Democrats uninvited to meetings on legislative issues. We hope they eventually find time to deal with Audit calls for upgrades to Minnesota voter registration and don't cut it during some end-of-session back-room deal cutting.

Something we learned about fishing a long time ago also seems to apply to democracy. We never caught a single fish sitting at home bitching about how bad the fishing could be. Seems to apply to our government at all levels theses days, doesn't it? If we want better choices in candidates, maybe we have to help select those we want to vote for. Corporations are not people. Money is not speech.

Leonard Cohen, a Canadian, seems to have presciently described our situation with two of his songs. We're going to provide links to those pieces instead of a poem today:

• ANTHEM (lyrics) (performed) 

•  DEMOCRACY (lyrics) (performed)

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When Spring is more promise than real

Next week is the vernal equinox in the Northern Hemisphere: official beginning of astronomical Spring. Then, again, this is Minnesota, where Spring usually arrives with the enthusiasm of a three year-old on the way to the dentist or doctor, foot dragging all over the place. Sometimes even a full scale thrash about on the floor tantrum through the appearance of a Spring snowstorm, followed, two days later, by the arrival of 80℉ Summer weather.

The driveway is still mostly covered with ice and snow. Snowlines in our fields are slowly shrinking and slipping down South-facing slopes. Bluebirds have been reported to have returned to houses some 30 or 40 miles South of us. We'll close up our houses in the next few days, although it still seems very early. While we're at it, we'll hang our native bee house and see if anyone shows up as the snow melts.

reported, but neither seen nor heard

Photo by J. Harrington

We've also seen reports that male red-winged blackbirds are back but can't yet personally vouch for that either. Knock on wood we seem to have dodged this past season's flu but we are definitely looking forward to having a bout of Spring fever. At least we haven't suffered through a series of Nor'Easters bringing massive amounts of snowfall, as has New England. I never, ever expected to be grateful to spend late Winter in Minnesota instead of Massachusetts, but this year proves there's an exception to everything.

swollen, but not yet burst

Photo by J. Harrington

Although maple buds are beginning to swell, there's still no sign of bud burst nor open water, unlike some past years when one or the other, or both, have been in evidence about this time of month. March may well be the most variably volatile month of the year. As climate change and global warming continue, will it stay that way or will other months begin to equal March's madness?

Enjoy St. Patrick's Day tomorrow. We'll be in a political convention all day (what were we thinking?) and may or may not get home in time to post a report. Of course, the weather is forecast to be warm, maybe even 50℉ and sunny. Sigh!

Not Ideas About the Thing But the Thing Itself

Wallace Stevens, 1879 - 1955

At the earliest ending of winter, 
In March, a scrawny cry from outside 
Seemed like a sound in his mind. 

He knew that he heard it, 
A bird’s cry at daylight or before,
In the early March wind.
 
The sun was rising at six, 
No longer a battered panache above snow . . . 
It would have been outside. 

It was not from the vast ventriloquism 
Of sleep’s faded papier mâché . . .
The sun was coming from outside. 

That scrawny cry—it was 
A chorister whose c preceded the choir. 
It was part of the colossal sun, 

Surrounded by its choral rings, 
Still far away. It was like 
A new knowledge of reality.

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