Back to the future? #phenology

Tree crowns are filling in. Leaf out is occurring even with our slow-moving oaks. The Better Half and I made a notable dent in the leaves covering the front yard. The area under the feeder, that gets buried in sunflower seed husks, and much or the yard surrounding that will get replanted with some slow grow-no mow seed mixture. Next week, or shortly thereafter, we're going to do some fun planting of a three sisters garden. This evening, unless showers develop, we'll have our first fire in our new fire pit, and in the process will reduce to ashes many of the branches that fell onto the yard during the Winter and Spring storms. The bushes down the road, we're not sure what they are other than pretty, have finally burst into flower, but not yet the back yard pear tree. Male goldfinches are now at peak yellows but we're not yet out of frost territory.

wild plum? or...?

Photo by J. Harrington

As we've been raking and using the electric leaf blower and loading leaves onto a tarp and hauling them to an out-of-the-way corner where the yard meets the woods, I've been thinking about what life may be like as more and more pressure builds to leave fossil fuels in the ground. What's the expected life of the current riding mower fleet? Who's developing viable electric alternatives? We've been looking at replacing an old lawn vacuum, one powered by a gasoline engine. Many of the electric options are too small to be useful on a property like ours. How disruptive will the transition become as climate disruption deniers hinder the prospects of a longer, more gradual change.

bright chrome yellow male goldfinches

Photo by J. Harrington

Tomorrow's the Governor's fishing opener. Minnesota's wiley walleye is pursued these days primarily in boats powered by gasoline powered outboard motors. Will those be viable in 2025 or 2050? The electric trolling motors used in today's boats aren't designed for traveling long distances at high speeds. Will everyone go back to oars and sails? We remember reading stories of the long ago days when folks fishing in the Atlantic bays and inshore grounds trolled while sailing. Perhaps, in many ways, we will end up going back to the future. We'd give more thought to turning our front lawn into a vegetable garden, but that's more likely to attract bears, whitetail deer, rabbits and heaven knows who else. That's one of the reasons we're trying the companion planting experiment. We're pretty sure Native Americans didn't have electric fences to protect their gardens. We're also pretty sure that the Earth and about all its inhabitants would be better off without industrial-scale and style agriculture. We haven't yet seen any promotion of living a sustainable, resilient, restorative life style as an adventure, but we bet that's coming soon. Let's find ways to enjoy it.

A Map to the Next World

By Joy Harjo

for Desiray Kierra Chee

In the last days of the fourth world I wished to make a map for

those who would climb through the hole in the sky.

My only tools were the desires of humans as they emerged

from the killing fields, from the bedrooms and the kitchens.

For the soul is a wanderer with many hands and feet.

The map must be of sand and can’t be read by ordinary light. It

must carry fire to the next tribal town, for renewal of spirit.

In the legend are instructions on the language of the land, how it

was we forgot to acknowledge the gift, as if we were not in it or of it.

Take note of the proliferation of supermarkets and malls, the

altars of money. They best describe the detour from grace.

Keep track of the errors of our forgetfulness; the fog steals our

children while we sleep.

Flowers of rage spring up in the depression. Monsters are born

there of nuclear anger.

Trees of ashes wave good-bye to good-bye and the map appears to

disappear.

We no longer know the names of the birds here, how to speak to

them by their personal names.

Once we knew everything in this lush promise.

What I am telling you is real and is printed in a warning on the

map. Our forgetfulness stalks us, walks the earth behind us, leav-

ing a trail of paper diapers, needles, and wasted blood.

An imperfect map will have to do, little one.

The place of entry is the sea of your mother’s blood, your father’s

small death as he longs to know himself in another.

There is no exit.

The map can be interpreted through the wall of the intestine—a

spiral on the road of knowledge.

You will travel through the membrane of death, smell cooking

from the encampment where our relatives make a feast of fresh

deer meat and corn soup, in the Milky Way.

They have never left us; we abandoned them for science.

And when you take your next breath as we enter the fifth world

there will be no X, no guidebook with words you can carry.

You will have to navigate by your mother’s voice, renew the song

she is singing.

Fresh courage glimmers from planets.

And lights the map printed with the blood of history, a map you

will have to know by your intention, by the language of suns.

When you emerge note the tracks of the monster slayers where they

entered the cities of artificial light and killed what was killing us.

You will see red cliffs. They are the heart, contain the ladder.

A white deer will greet you when the last human climbs from the

destruction.

Remember the hole of shame marking the act of abandoning our

tribal grounds.

We were never perfect.

Yet, the journey we make together is perfect on this earth who was

once a star and made the same mistakes as humans.

We might make them again, she said.

Crucial to finding the way is this: there is no beginning or end.

You must make your own map.

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