On the eve of a new year

This year, and a few preceding it, remind me of the opening of Charles Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way--in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.

That assessment then makes me thing of the proverb “The more things change, the more they stay the same.” That prompts me to remember some of my Christmas presents, literary postcards that came from the Book Elves via the Better Half, or vice versa.

tomorrow brings the dawn of a new year

Photo by J. Harrington

I’ve not read much of Tolstoy so I was pleased to read his observation, printed on a card, that “Everyone thinks of changing the world, but no one thinks of changing themselves.” It seems to me to nicely complement the card with the quotation from T. S. Eliot that “And the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.” [If interested, check here.]

Several times over the decade I’ve been posting here I’ve mentioned the poem Desiderata. To see how often, and in what contexts, follow this link. I can think of no better way to close out this year than to hope and pray that Desiderata is true for each of us.

Remember

Joy Harjo - 1951-

Remember the sky that you were born under,
know each of the star's stories.
Remember the moon, know who she is.
Remember the sun's birth at dawn, that is the
strongest point of time. Remember sundown
and the giving away to night.
Remember your birth, how your mother struggled
to give you form and breath. You are evidence of
her life, and her mother's, and hers.
Remember your father. He is your life, also.
Remember the earth whose skin you are:
red earth, black earth, yellow earth, white earth
brown earth, we are earth.
Remember the plants, trees, animal life who all have their
tribes, their families, their histories, too. Talk to them,
listen to them. They are alive poems.
Remember the wind. Remember her voice. She knows the
origin of this universe.
Remember you are all people and all people
are you.
Remember you are this universe and this
universe is you.
Remember all is in motion, is growing, is you.
Remember language comes from this.
Remember the dance language is, that life is.
Remember.

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We need a “bigger" picture

The year now ending included elections. Many politicians, or the political party to which they belong, like to ask US “Are you better off now than you were four, or two, years, or even one year, ago? What’s usually missing from that question are such considerations as:

• Is your water supply polluted?
• Is the air you breathe clean?
• Is the rain that falls on you full of PFAS?
• Does your government listen to you?
• Are the officials you elect telling you the truth?
• Are there more species endangered now than a year or two ago?
• Has more money brought an improved quality of life?
• Are you and your family more or less stressed than you were a year or two ago?
• Do you have a future you can look forward to leaving for your children?

soon, a new year will dawn

Photo by J. Harrington

Many years ago, a politician I admired, Robert F. Kennedy, raised such issues in a 1968 speech. From what I can see, we’ve continued for more than fifty years to elect those who would prefer to ignore such questions. Maybe next year we can prepare oursellves to do better in 2024? That’s only a short portion of seven generations.

University of Kansas, March 18, 1968

Even if we act to erase material poverty, there is another greater task, it is to confront the poverty of satisfaction - purpose and dignity - that afflicts us all.  

Too much and for too long, we seemed to have surrendered personal excellence and community values in the mere accumulation of material things.  Our Gross National Product, now, is over $800 billion dollars a year, but that Gross National Product - if we judge the United States of America by that - that Gross National Product counts air pollution and cigarette advertising, and ambulances to clear our highways of carnage.  

It counts special locks for our doors and the jails for the people who break them.  It counts the destruction of the redwood and the loss of our natural wonder in chaotic sprawl.  

It counts napalm and counts nuclear warheads and armored cars for the police to fight the riots in our cities.  It counts Whitman's rifle and Speck's knife, and the television programs which glorify violence in order to sell toys to our children.  

Yet the gross national product does not allow for the health of our children, the quality of their education or the joy of their play.  It does not include the beauty of our poetry or the strength of our marriages, the intelligence of our public debate or the integrity of our public officials.  

It measures neither our wit nor our courage, neither our wisdom nor our learning, neither our compassion nor our devotion to our country, it measures everything in short, except that which makes life worthwhile.  

And it can tell us everything about America except why we are proud that we are Americans.
     
If this is true here at home, so it is true elsewhere in world. 

The Road Not Taken

By Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

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Refreshing thaws and paws in the winter’s season

These above freezing temperatures have me almost giddy. The dogs are enjoying our walks and spending much more time sniffing their way around. Neither has hobbled back to the house for the past couple of days. May all of next year’s weather be at least as pleasant as the last few days.

looks that say “do we have to go out?"

Photo by J. Harrington

The tactic of taking down the bird houses so the birds won’t congregate and attract a hawk seems to be working. At least we’ve seen few songbirds and no hawks so far today. I’m thinking New Year’s Day will be a good time to return the feeders to their hangers.

I’m starting to think of the “good old days” as the times when life had a more not less stable rhythm to it, one that lasted for more than ten minutes or so; when seasonal weather was predominantly seasonal; when your chances of arriving on time, or close to it, taking an airline flight were more than random. I have very strong doubts that human evolution has prepared us for the degree of volatility we’ve injected into daily life. I’m also deeply concerned by the inadequacy our institutional and governmental responses. So, in accord with my efforts to be more positive than not in my recent postings, I want to close out this year with a recommendation that we all seriously consider the arguments made by David Whyte in Ecocide – Kill The Corporation Before It Kills Us. You can read a more detailed review here.

Once the holiday season has passed, I intend to read the book and, if it’s as telling as I expect, devote some time and postings here to exploring how to do what the title calls for. I’m positive that allowing thieves and charlatans to hide behind corporate shields is not the way to restorative development or a sustainable future.

Revolutionary Letter #3

Diane di Prima - 1934-2020

store water; make a point of filling your bathtub
at the first news of trouble: they turned off the water
in the 4th ward for a whole day during the Newark riots;
or better yet make a habit
of keeping the tub clean and full when not in use
change this once a day, it should be good enough
for washing, flushing toilets when necessary
and cooking, in a pinch, but it’s a good idea
to keep some bottled water handy too
get a couple of five gallon jugs and keep them full
for cooking

//

store food—dry stuff like rice and beans stores best
goes farthest. SALT VERY IMPORTANT: it’s health and energy
healing too, keep a couple pounds
sea salt around, and, because we’re spoiled, some tins
tuna, etc. to keep up morale—keep up the sense
of ‘balanced diet’ ‘protein intake’ remember
the stores may be closed for quite some time, the trucks
may not enter your section of the city for weeks, you can cool it indefinitely

//

with 20 lb brown rice
20 lb whole wheat flour
10 lb cornmeal
10 lb good beans—kidney or soy
5 lb sea salt
2 qts good oil
dried fruit and nuts
add nutrients and a sense of luxury
to this diet, a squash or coconut
in a cool place in your pad will keep six months.

//

remember we are all used to eating less
than the ‘average American’ and take it easy
before we
ever notice we’re hungry the rest of the folk will be starving
used as they are to meat and fresh milk daily
and help will arrive, until the day no help arrives
and then you’re on your own.

//

hoard matches, we aren’t good
at rubbing sticks together any more
a tinder box is useful, if you can work it
don’t count on gas stove, gas heater
electric light
keep hibachi and charcoal, CHARCOAL STARTER a help
kerosene lamp and candles, learn to keep warm
with breathing
remember the blessed American habit of bundling

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Approaching a new year

At least two of the past three days, a hawk has stooped on the birds at our feeder. With the bitter cold, we had bigger crowds than usual. The first time all I saw was a dark shadow promptly followed by the disappearance of the songbirds and woodpeckers. This morning I saw the dark gray(?) back of what I think was a peregrine, but it may have been a different species, perched on the feeder hanger. After a quick Google check, I took down the feeders. The reasoning is the birds will disperse and the hawk will move on to more promising hunting territories. Someone neglected to brief the songbirds. They’re all over the deck looking for the feeders. If we continue to have crowds on the deck, I figure I may as well put the feeders back up. We’ll see how it goes tomorrow.

bird tracks make for slim pickings for hawks

Photo by J. Harrington

We took advantage of yesterday’s and today’s warmer weather to get some of the rough edges of the driveway cleaned up and much of the road snow droppings scraped and brushed off of the garage floor. Only 83 days until spring equinox next year. Snow season in our North Country extends well beyond that but by that time of season it melts pretty quick, usually.

The bulbs in the planter I got for Christmas seem to like their new home. The soil is beginning to swell and a couple of teeny, tiny shoots of green are barely visible. It’s very pleasing to have a spouse who frequently knows what I want and need better than I do. I’m looking forward to a taste of spring before we get close to the real thing.

New Year's Poem

By Margaret Avison

The Christmas twigs crispen and needles rattle

Along the window-ledge.

             A solitary pearl

Shed from the necklace spilled at last week’s party

Lies in the suety, snow-luminous plainness

Of morning, on the window-ledge beside them.   

And all the furniture that circled stately

And hospitable when these rooms were brimmed

With perfumes, furs, and black-and-silver

Crisscross of seasonal conversation, lapses

Into its previous largeness.

             I remember   

Anne’s rose-sweet gravity, and the stiff grave

Where cold so little can contain;

I mark the queer delightful skull and crossbones

Starlings and sparrows left, taking the crust,

And the long loop of winter wind

Smoothing its arc from dark Arcturus down

To the bricked corner of the drifted courtyard,

And the still window-ledge.

             Gentle and just pleasure

It is, being human, to have won from space

This unchill, habitable interior

Which mirrors quietly the light

Of the snow, and the new year.

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Some blessings of a thaw

Last night, after sunset but before full dark, we had two, possibly three, visitors in the back yard. Whitetails, substantial shadows on the snow, made their way to the pear tree and on toward the road. They were acting like food was what they were looking for. I doubt they found much. It was a poor year for acorns and the pumpkins were well covered by snow. We don’t want to attract crowds of deer because of CWD, so we won’t be feeding them, but, if the thaw we’re starting today doesn’t carry on for awhile, we may find a few brave deer looking for spillage from one of our bird feeders.

This morning, while driving to the Granddaughter’s so we can read some more of the Yule Tomte book, I saw in a field by the road a large flock of turkeys that looked almost black, later there was a deer wandering down the middle of a snow-packed township road, and later still a pheasant scooting into the roadside bushes. Looks like the break in our extended spell of bitter cold has local wildlife moving about instead of hunkered down. If my choice is between warmer but cloudy or sunny but bitter, I’ll go shopping for a SAD lamp.

Photo by J. Harrington

Mother Nature saved her biggest and best surprise for the drive home, as I was passing through Carlos Avery and crossing the Sunrise River, three swans flew across the marsh in front of me. I might have seen more swans to the north, but couldn’t be sure based on the glimpse I got. I know some swans overwinter on the St. Croix down near Hudson, and maybe some of them had come exploring. Our local marshes are, as far as I know, frozen solid so I wouldn’t expect swans to be hanging out around here except for brief periods. Maybe we’ll go exploring tomorrow. I’ve seen few things in nature more beautiful than swans flying below cloudy skies and over snow-covered marshes.

The Swan

by Mary Oliver

Did you too see it, drifting, all night, on the black river?
Did you see it in the morning, rising into the silvery air -
An armful of white blossoms,
A perfect commotion of silk and linen as it leaned
into the bondage of its wings; a snowbank, a bank of lilies,
Biting the air with its black beak?
Did you hear it, fluting and whistling
A shrill dark music - like the rain pelting the trees - like a waterfall
Knifing down the black ledges?
And did you see it, finally, just under the clouds -
A white cross Streaming across the sky, its feet
Like black leaves, its wings Like the stretching light of the river?
And did you feel it, in your heart, how it pertained to everything?
And have you too finally figured out what beauty is for?
And have you changed your life?

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Cold slows things down, right?

The dogs and their humans are lazing about today, cases of post-Christmas burnout, no doubt. Lots of folks went above and beyond so that our family could enjoy a wonderful Christmas together. I wish we lived in a world where that was true for everyone.

One interesting observation: county roads that ran through open farm fields had lots of places trying to drift closed. A township road that traversed through woods offered a better option for reaching the home of the Daughter Person, her spouse and daughter. The Better Half and I did some reconnoitering to assess road conditions, since we were leading the van from our son’s group home to the Daughter Person’s.

Santa and his helpers must have heard me complaining about the bitter cold because there were lots of warm clothes for me under the tree, including a heated electric vest. Putting that together with the heated electric gloves I ordered for myself, don’t be surprised if we stay well above zero for the rest of this winter. 

The Daughter Person and Granddaughter gave me books to record as I read so that I can “read” to the Granddaughter and to our son when I’m not there. Recordable Storybooks seem like a wonderful way to share the reading experience and related memories. I remember my mother reading to me when I was a child, especially Paddle to the Sea, but I have no recording of her voice.

May this week between Christmas and New Years be full of blessings for each of us and may the new year bring us better times and better lives (and no more bitter cold or feelings).

As we move through the transition from 2022 to 2023, I want to share a charming poem that found me on Twitter. Don’t forget to water your tree.

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Merry Christmas!

May today and all your days be filled with love and warmth and joy.

More tomorrow, we hope.

may you feel reborn with love’s presence

Photo by J. Harrington

Christmas Light

by May Sarton

When everyone had gone
I sat in the library
With the small silent tree,
She and I alone.
How softly she shone!

And for the first time then
For the first time this year,
I felt reborn again,
I knew love’s presence near.

Love distant, love detached
And strangely without weight,
Was with me in the night
When everyone had gone
And the garland of pure light
Stayed on, stayed on.

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T’was the day of the Night Before Christmas

 And all through the house, the cold was still seeping, through holes made by a mouse.

We’re still under a wind chill advisory. It looks like Santa will be taking the Arctic chills back North with him as he returns to the Pole. If you’re at all like me, be sure to leave him an extra cookie or two as a way of saying thanks. If I wanted to live in this kind of weather, I’d move to North Pole, Alaska, where someone named Santa Claus actually lives.

what stories does the snow tell?

Photo by J. Harrington

I bought myself a Christmas present, a book entitled From What Is To What If. In an effort to approach the world more optimistically, or at least more enthusiastically, I’m reading it as part of my makeover for next year. I’m curious to see whether my cynicism or the book’s positivism prevail as I read it. Odds are my reactions will appear in these postings from time to time.

As an interesting, perhaps telling, coincidence, yesterday brought us an article in MinnPost about how progressive some elements of our “Republican-leaning” county can be: One farmer set off a solar energy boom in rural Minnesota; 10 years later, here’s how it worked out. I’m flashing back to when I used to watch The X-Files on tv and the scenes with the poster on the wall, noting “I want to believe.” 

Isn’t this a time of year when we celebrate many of our beliefs and the start of a new year? What stories will shape how we spend that year? Are there other, better, stories to which we should pay more attention? Who is telling those stories. Are we doing anything to create new stories? What new story, or variation on an existing story, would we like to put under the tree next year to share with our loved ones and, maybe, the world? Think about it.

The Story of the Christmas Guest

Adapted by Helen Steiner Rice from an old German Legend>

It happened one day at the year's white end;
Two neighbors called on an old-time friend.
And they found his shop, so meager and mean,
Made gay with a thousand boughs of green.

And Conrad was sitting with face a-shine,
When he suddenly stopped as he stitched a twine,
And said, "Old friends, at dawn today,
"When the cock was crowing the night away…

"The Lord appeared in a dream to me,
And said, 'I'm coming your guest to be'.
So I've been busy with feet astir,
Strewing my shop with branches of fir.

"The table is spread and the kettle is shined
And over the rafters, the holly is twined.
And now I will wait for my Lord to appear,
And listen closely so I will hear.
His step as He nears my humble place,
And I open the door and look in His face."

So his friends went home and left Conrad alone,
For this was the happiest day he had known.
For long since, his family had passed away,
And Conrad had spent a sad Christmas Day.

But he knew with his Lord as his Christmas Guest,
This Christmas would be the dearest and best.
And he listened with only joy in his heart,
And with every sound, he would rise with a start.

And look for the Lord to be standing there,
In answer to his earnest prayer.
So he ran to the window after hearing a sound,
But all that he saw on the snow covered ground…

Was a shabby beggar whose shoes were torn,
And all of his clothes were ragged and worn.
So Conrad was touched and went to the door,
And he said "Your feet must be frozen and sore.
And I have some shoes in my shop for you,
And a coat that will keep you warmer, too.

So with grateful heart, the man went away,
But as Conrad noticed the time of day,
He wondered what made his dear Lord so late,
And how much longer he'd have to wait.

When he heard a knock, he ran to the door,
But it was only a stranger once more;
A bent old crone with a shawl of black,
A bundle of faggots piled on her back.

She asked for only a place to rest,
But that was reserved for Conrad's Great Guest.
But her voice seemed to plead, "Don't send me away,
Let me rest for awhile on Christmas Day."

So Conrad brewed her a steaming cup
And told her to sit at the table and sup.
But after she left, he was filled with dismay,
For he saw that the hours were passing away.

And the Lord had not come, as He said He would.
And Conrad felt sure he had misunderstood.
Out of the stillness, he heard a cry,
"Please help me and tell me where am I?"
He stood disappointed, as twice before.

It was only a child who had wandered away,
And was lost from her family on Christmas Day.
Again Conrad's heart was heavy and sad
But he knew he should make this little girl glad.

SO he called her in and wiped her tears,
And quieted all her childish fears.
Then he led her back to her home once more,
But as he entered his darkened door,

He knew that the Lord was not coming today
For the hours of Christmas had passed away.
So he went to his room and knelt down to pray,
And he said, "Dear Lord, Why did You delay?

"What kept you from coming to call on me?
For I wanted so much Your face to see."
When soft in the silence, a voice he heard:
"Lift up your head, for I kept My Word.

"Three times My shadow crossed your floor,
Three times I came to your lonely door.
For I was the beggar with bruised, cold feet.
I was the woman you gave to eat.
And I was the child on the homeless street."

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Approaching Christmas Eve

A gusting wind is deflaking the trees. Clumps and clouds of snowflakes are being blown off the branches every few minutes. Then the air will be mostly calm for a few minutes until the next gust from the west north west. To be candid, continuing windchills close to minus 30℉ has me feeling oppressed and we’re relatively well off compared to those in wide open wind swept places. A few more days of snow and bitter cold and we enter another December thaw. We’ve reached a point where the weather is almost as volatile as the stock market.

Have you noticed there are few days left in 2022? Even though we’re in the midst of the eve of Christmas Eve I’m starting to figure out some personal goals for next year. I gave up on New Year’s resolutions decades ago when my resolution was to make no more. I’ve decided that I spend waste too much time on social media; that my increasingly diverse interests are feeding into a shortened attention span and that I’m not spending enough time enjoying things I used to do lots more of. Presumably, if I concentrate more on some things I really enjoy, that will go a long way toward resolving much of my chronic dissatisfaction. So, some of the pieces are to spend less time looking at a screen and more time looking at a page, plus less time looking at a page and more time outside, once this insane wind chill tapers off. That should align nicely with next week, which aligns with the year’s end and the start of a new one.

our home grown “Charlie Brown” tree

Photo by J. Harrington

Christmas this year is going to be more chaotic than usual. People went “off list” a lot for presents because many lists were really limited, a good sign that much is well on the family front? Anyhow, I’m pretty sure there’s a bunch of us’ns that are going to get some real surprises come Sunday. And then I get some belated presents when the temperatures climb above freezing next week (the Better Half likes snow and cold, go figure!) The dogs will also cheer, in their own way, as we return to what passes for normal in our weather.

Since it will still be very cold on Christmas, and Christmas comes on a Sunday this year, today’s poem seems like a good fit.

Those Winter Sundays

By Robert Hayden

Sundays too my father got up early

and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,

then with cracked hands that ached

from labor in the weekday weather made

banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.

When the rooms were warm, he’d call,

and slowly I would rise and dress,

fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,

who had driven out the cold

and polished my good shoes as well.

What did I know, what did I know

of love’s austere and lonely offices?

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This week... winter; next week... ?

The driveway is passable. The tractor starts but the diesel engine won’t keep running in -9℉ with a windchill of -28℉ so we used the gas snowblower. At the moment, we’re hoping that the increasing wind doesn’t drift in the drive or take out the electricity and that the tractor will start and run once the weather warms up next week. I find it incredible, but real, that a week from today the weather forecast includes rain. Climate breakdown and/or weirding has become the new normal I fear.

we think we have it tough?

Photo by J. Harrington

This afternoon we’re going to pretend we’re a couple of Santa’s elves and deliver a bunch of presents to the home of the Daughter Person and Son-In-Law and Granddaughter. Christmas is going to involve some juggling so we want as much flexibility as possible. Hence, early delivery unless we encounter roads the Jeep can’t handle due to snow cover. (One winter storm in Massachusetts, many years ago, the snow was deep enough to bring my F-150 4X4 to a halt by wedging under my front tires.)

There’s an old cowboy saying to the effect that there was “never a horse that couldn’t be rode, never a rider that couldn’t be throwed.” I’ve come to believe the same about vehicles and road conditions. Yesterday’s tv news had video of school buses tipped on their side after they slid off the road. I’m going to do my best to avoid doing that to and in the Jeep. Tomorrow’s winds may well drift closed a couple of roads we usually take to the kids’ house so today’s trip may be the better part of valor and we'll cross our fingers that all roads are drivable by Sunday.

We’re presently operating on the premise that we must survive in order to thrive. We’re also taking it one day at a time.

The Snow Man

By Wallace Stevens

One must have a mind of winter

To regard the frost and the boughs

Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time

To behold the junipers shagged with ice,

The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think

Of any misery in the sound of the wind,

In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land

Full of the same wind

That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,

And, nothing himself, beholds

Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

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Happy Solstice!

Tomorrow, very slowly, the days will begin to grow longer, at least for the first half of the year. Temperatures will begin to increase on a schedule that lags behind the day length. The Minnesota Weather Guide calendar notes we reach our normal daily low high temperature (23℉) in mid-January and begin to see an increase in average daily highs the last week of that month. So, for some of us, there’s that to look forward to after the holiday season.

I’ve noticed that, since I’ve been paying more attention to the details of seasonal changes, and not just the broad brush awareness of which of the four general seasons we’re in, I’ve been more inclined to take in stride inclement weather and seasonal abnormalities. This morning I went off through the snow to get gas for the snow blower. I’m of the opinion that risking an insufficient fuel supply to clear the drive after the snowfall stops is an invitation to have record-setting snow amounts befall us. It’s a variant of the old saying “the best defense is a good offense.”

tomorrow our sun starts creeping northward

Photo by J. Harrington

Meanwhile, the Better Half has either taken pity on me or become fed up with my complaints about winter being worse than usual, perhaps both, because I got an early Christmas present, a bulb garden of paperwhites, tulips and others that will help bring early signs of spring to our windowsill in 5 to 6 weeks. That may be a little after the amaryllis bloom. We failed to give those bulbs their cool, dark treatment on a timely basis this year.

Birds are piling in to the feeder as the snow falls. It’s fun to watch them and makes me happy that I can do more than fluff my feathers to stay warm in this bitter cold. There’s been a flurry of present wrapping going on inside the house. That’s slowly winding down. My assessment of last week, that we were very, very likely to be assured of a white Christmas is turning out to be an understatement. Nevertheless, may we all find that next season, and the ones after that, are better and more enjoyable than the preceding one.

Winter Solstice

Ray McNiece 

Late December grinds on down.
The sky stops, slate on slate,
scatters a cold light of snow
across a field of brittle weeds.

Each boot step cracks a stalk.
The pigments have been dragged
earthwards and clasped. The groundhog
curls among the roots curling.

Towards home I peel blossoms
of frozen mud from my pant legs
and pull off burrs that waited
for wind or the flashing red fox.

In my jacket pocket I find
a beechnut, slightly cracked
open, somehow fallen there,
and, enfolded inside of it,

a spider that unclenches
yellow in my steaming palm –
a spider that is 
the sun.

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Chilling out on solstice eve

We know that Sunday is Christmas and, if the forecast is correct, Mother Nature is giving the North Country a Christmas present. The day after Christmas, temperatures should again exceed single digits and even get above freezing next week. I wonder how Santa avoids frostbite. Is there a windscreen on the sleigh? Our windchills during the next few days are expected to be in the minus 30℉ to minus 40℉ range. I’m debating the pros and cons of clearing a couple of inches of fresh snow off the driveway this afternoon versus waiting until tomorrow’s snowfall of five inches or so ends on Thursday and clearing it all at once. I have my doubts that I come out ahead either way.

I think most, maybe all, of the family’s shopping is done. The big question now is if weather will present obstacles to driving on Christmas / the Son’s birthday. Time for fingers crossed, prayers and Christmas wishes all combined.

yes, it’s as cold as it looks

Photo by J. Harrington

Last Thursday I had an early morning Zoom meeting that got rescheduled to this Thursday. Last Thursday we lost power twice, for most of the morning. At least it wasn’t as cold then as it is now. If we lose power again this Thursday, I may need to resign from the group that’s sponsoring the meetings. Something else we need to keep our fingers crossed about.

I know I’ve been posting a lot about weather the past week or so. Minnesota’s recent weather has been colder and stormier than usual and even usual is barely tolerable to my taste. No doubt I got spoiled growing up along the Atlantic Ocean, where the moderating influence of a large body of salt water meant that really cold temperatures and wind chills were a rarity. The only time I’ve found fowl weather tolerable is when I’ve been duck hunting and then I looked for the ducks to be on the move when we experienced this sequence:

Fust it rained
and then it blew
and then it friz
and then it snew!

I remember one late season trip in Minnesota where we used the runabout to make waves to break up the skim ice forming around the decoys. By the time I got home, the dekes and their anchors were frozen to the bottom of the boat until spring thaw. That was all lots more fund than blowing or plowing snow in a minus 20℉ wind chill. Does it make sense to wish for an early spring as a big Christmas present? I think I’ll leave a note on Santa's cookie plate.

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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the solace of solstice

It’s snowing again, still. Wednesday and Thursday we’re forecast to get another six+ inches. It all looks pretty and Christmassy, except on the roads and sidewalks and driveways etc. While I was out running errands today I saw several highway plows doing cleanup along the shoulders. I suppose all this weather makes sense, since winter solstice is the day after tomorrow and then... only 89 days until spring equinox.

With luck, the snow will have ended in plenty of time for highway crews to get the roads clear so everyone can get where they’re going at Christmas. I do believe it’s going to preempt my plans for a solstice “bonfire” in the fire pit along the driveway, but I just noticed the forecast is still changing so we can live in hope.

winter solstice “bonfire"

Photo by J. Harrington

In fact, that may be what this season is really all about, hope: that we all make it through the winter; that next year is better than the one just passed; that the sun will return higher in the sky; that the community will thrive; that good will will prevail and winter won’t be too harsh; that all the things that could go wrong, don’t; that our guardian angels don’t get overworked and our offspring grow up to be good people.

In my drive today, I traveled roads I’ve not driven for some time. The countryside looks very different blanketed in white. Once again I realized that, even though it’s not my place of origin, the St. Croix valley has its own beauty and I’m lucky to be able to live in such a special place.

Dead Stars

Ada Limón - 1976-

Out here, there’s a bowing even the trees are doing.
                 Winter’s icy hand at the back of all of us.
Black bark, slick yellow leaves, a kind of stillness that feels
so mute it’s almost in another year.

I am a hearth of spiders these days: a nest of trying.

We point out the stars that make Orion as we take out
       the trash, the rolling containers a song of suburban thunder.

It’s almost romantic as we adjust the waxy blue
       recycling bin until you say, Man, we should really learn
some new constellations.

And it’s true. We keep forgetting about Antlia, Centaurus,
       Draco, Lacerta, Hydra, Lyra, Lynx.

But mostly we’re forgetting we’re dead stars too, my mouth is full
       of dust and I wish to reclaim the rising—

to lean in the spotlight of streetlight with you, toward
       what’s larger within us, toward how we were born.

Look, we are not unspectacular things.
       We’ve come this far, survived this much. What

would happen if we decided to survive more? To love harder?

What if we stood up with our synapses and flesh and said, No.
     No, to the rising tides.

Stood for the many mute mouths of the sea, of the land?

What would happen if we used our bodies to bargain

for the safety of others, for earth,
                 if we declared a clean night, if we stopped being terrified,

if we launched our demands into the sky, made ourselves so big
people could point to us with the arrows they make in their minds,

rolling their trash bins out, after all of this is over?

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Time to walk on water in the North Country

Sun’s out; sky’s blue; temperature’s in single digit. Fairly typical North Country winter day unless it’s snowing. Most of the trees are still encapsulated with snow. Parts of our road might as well be on the Gunflint Trail, although Duluth got lots more snow than we did the past few days. With all the hills up there some sledders must be really happy.

I’m starting to do my usual routine of getting agitated because I’m not completely in charge and I’m not sure folks are following my “suggestions” regarding who should get what for whom. Then again, I didn’t believe that yesterday the Vikings would pull off the biggest come back of all time in the NFL. I’d claim that the cold is going to my brain, but I find ways to tie myself up in knots in summertime too. I believe I’m an imperfect perfectionist, which  isn’t the same as a double negative being a positive.

The preceding paragraph provides a classic example of why one of my Christmas presents to myself, and those around me, is rereading and folllowing wabi sabi. Another present, of a similar nature, is to take more closely to heart John Voelker’s Testament of a Fisherman. May we all enjoy tight lines, but not too tight, from now through next year.

Testament of a Fisherman

In case the text above is hard to read, here it is as plain text:

Testament of a Fisherman

I fish because I love to. Because I love the environs where trout are found, which are invariably beautiful, and hate the environs where crowds of people are found, which are invariably ugly. Because of all the television commercials, cocktail parties, and assorted social posturing I thus escape. Because in a world where most men seem to spend their lives doing what they hate, my fishing is at once an endless source of delight and an act of small rebellion. Because trout do not lie or cheat and cannot be bought or bribed, or impressed by power, but respond only to quietude and humility, and endless patience. Because I suspect that men are going this way for the last time and I for one don’t want to waste the trip. Because mercifully there are no telephones on trout waters. Because in the woods I can find solitude without loneliness. … And finally, not because I regard fishing as being so terribly important, but because I suspect that so many of the other concerns of men are equally unimportant and not nearly so much fun.

— John Voelker, a.k.a Robert Traver, Anatomy of a Fisherman 

The Song of Wandering Aengus

By William Butler Yeats

I went out to the hazel wood,

Because a fire was in my head,

And cut and peeled a hazel wand,

And hooked a berry to a thread;

And when white moths were on the wing,

And moth-like stars were flickering out,

I dropped the berry in a stream

And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor

I went to blow the fire a-flame,

But something rustled on the floor,

And someone called me by my name:

It had become a glimmering girl

With apple blossom in her hair

Who called me by my name and ran

And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering

Through hollow lands and hilly lands,

I will find out where she has gone,

And kiss her lips and take her hands;

And walk among long dappled grass,

And pluck till time and times are done,

The silver apples of the moon,

The golden apples of the sun. 

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A week ‘til Christmas Eve

We’re a week out from Christmas Eve. A white Christmas is highly probable to almost certain. I still need to decide what the dogs are getting for Christmas. Last year Harry the beagle’s big present was moving into his furever home with us. It’s hard to believe he was a shy, retiring, timid, little hound a year ago. Now he thinks he runs the place as long as no one makes loud, unusual noises. Harry and SiSi are getting along at least as well as my sister and I used to when we lived in the same house.

SiSi reassuring a pensive Harry in his new home

Photo by J. Harrington

This morning I began to get concerned about the prospect of strong winds taking down the snow encrusted branches. Then I started thinking about whether the weight of leaves was more or less than the weight of the snow. Then I remembered that, either way, I can’t do anything about it except wait and watch. The odds are very high that the snow will come down before the leaves come out but, this being Minnesota, we can’t be certain unless we’re willing to risk being wrong.

If you look back over the postings of the past few days, you’ll find a couple of mentions of a pileated woodpecker. We now believe the bird is a young female: unfamiliar with a suet feeder; no red streak on her cheek (no mustache). Her latest strategy at feeding from the “squirrel-buster” feeder is to perch on the deck railing balusters and reach into a feeding port with her bill. If it weren’t for the birds, there’d be little evidence of life in the fields and woods behind the house. Even tracks have been missing the past few days, probably getting filled in almost as soon as they were made.

I’m looking forward to Christmas Eve and a sense of peace and quiet. Some year’s that sense is missing as someone in the family is heard to be muttering “Now, where did I hide that damn present so no one would stumble into it?” May we all be blessed this year with everyone and everything being just where they should be, home for the holidays.

A Rescue Dog’s Christmas Poem

‘Tis the night before Christmas and all through the town,
Every shelter is full – we are lost but not found.

Our numbers are hung on our kennels so bare,
We hope every minute that someone will care.

They’ll come to adopt us and give us the call,
“Come here, Max and Sparkie – come fetch your new ball!”

But now we sit here and think of the days…
We were treated so fondly – we had cute, baby ways.

Once we were little, then we grew and we grew
Now we’re no longer young and we’re no longer new.

So out the back door we were thrown like the trash,
They reacted so quickly – why were they so rash?

We “jump on the children,” “don’t come when they call,”
We “bark when they leave us,” “climb over the wall.”

We should have been neutered, we should have been spayed,
Now we suffer the consequence of the errors THEY made.

If only they’d trained us, if only we knew…
We’d have done what they asked us and worshiped them, too.

We were left in the backyard, or worse – let to roam –
Now we’re tired and lonely and out of a home.

They dropped us off here and they kissed us good-bye…
“Maybe someone else will give you a try.”

So now here we are, all confused and alone…
In a shelter with others who long for a home.

The kind workers come through with a meal and a pat,
With so many to care for, they can’t stay to chat.

They move to the next kennel, giving each of us cheer…
We know that they wonder how long we’ll be here.

We lay down to sleep and sweet dreams fill our heads…
Of a home filled with love and our own cozy beds.

Then we wake to see sad eyes, brimming with tears-
Our friends filled with emptiness, worry and fear.

If you can’t adopt us and there’s no room at the Inn-
Could you help with the bills and fill our food bin?

We count on your kindness each day of the year-
Can you give more than hope to everyone here?

Please make a donation to pay for the heat…
And help get us something special to eat.

The shelter that cares for us wants us to live,
And more of us will, if more people will give.

Author – Anonymous

This Christmas, donate to your local shelter and make a shelter dog’s dreams come true.

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a wabi sabi Christmas?

Santa and the reindeer should have no problems in our neck of the woods. There’s several inches of snow on the roofs and the ground and temperatures will stay well below freezing at least through Christmas Eve. Looking at the family letters to Santa, all the adults are pretty undemanding. I think that’s a good sign but it is frustrating for those of us who like to hear “Oh, you shouldn’t have,” come Christmas morning.

I suspect much of my desire to overproduce at Christmas is based on decades of being exposed to marketing that tells us buying something is the key to health and happiness (and someone else’s wealth). Meanwhile, I’m sitting in a comfy chair wearing a flannel shirt and a brown cardigan, eating thumbprint cookies the Better Half baked for me (again) with a couple of mellow dogs loafing about and a drive that I’ve again cleared of recently fallen snow, giving me an unaccustomed sense of accomplishment.

impermanent, not quite perfect, almost complete

Photo by J. Harrington

Some time over the next week I need to run a handful of errands, but much of Christmas appears to be as much under control as ever. The core of wabi sabi is finding beauty in that which is "imperfect, impermanent, and incomplete” in nature. Much of this afternoon, and a little of this morning, has been spent watching the blue sky behind the snow covered tree crowns be sometimes covered by thin clouds, other times by thicker, gray clouds. When the sun is shining on the snow from an uncloudy part of the sky, the brilliance is almost overwhelming. When clouds dim the sun and backdrop the tree tops, the appearance much resembles Japanese paintings.

Toward the Winter Solstice

Timothy Steele - 1948-

Although the roof is just a story high,
It dizzies me a little to look down.
I lariat-twirl the cord of Christmas lights
And cast it to the weeping birch’s crown;
A dowel into which I’ve screwed a hook
Enables me to reach, lift, drape, and twine
The cord among the boughs so that the bulbs
Will accent the tree’s elegant design.

Friends, passing home from work or shopping, pause
And call up commendations or critiques.
I make adjustments. Though a potpourri
Of Muslims, Christians, Buddhists, Jews, and Sikhs,
We all are conscious of the time of year;
We all enjoy its colorful displays
And keep some festival that mitigates
The dwindling warmth and compass of the days.

Some say that L.A. doesn’t suit the Yule,
But UPS vans now like magi make
Their present-laden rounds, while fallen leaves
Are gaily resurrected in their wake;                           
The desert lifts a full moon from the east
And issues a dry Santa Ana breeze,
And valets at chic restaurants will soon
Be tending flocks of cars and SUVs.

And as the neighborhoods sink into dusk
The fan palms scattered all across town stand
More calmly prominent, and this place seems
A vast oasis in the Holy Land.
This house might be a caravansary,
The tree a kind of cordial fountainhead
Of welcome, looped and decked with necklaces
And ceintures of green, yellow, blue, and red.

Some wonder if the star of Bethlehem
Occurred when Jupiter and Saturn crossed;
It’s comforting to look up from this roof
And feel that, while all changes, nothing’s lost,
To recollect that in antiquity
The winter solstice fell in Capricorn
And that, in the Orion Nebula,
From swirling gas, new stars are being born.

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Just one of those days...

The beauty of today's snowfall has been tempered because it fell not only on woods and fields and waters, but also on roads and driveways and parking lots. It’s a heavy, wet mess to clean up. We decided to start early, after the power went out for a second time and the phone outage did in our internet access. I suspect that utilities aren’t paying enough attention to hardening the grid and making the local distribution system less vulnerable to what appears to be an increase in the number of heavy, clingy snowfalls we’re getting as the climate breakdown continues. Generating clean power with fusion won’t help much if it can’t be delivered.

A 7 am Zoom meeting I was scheduled to present at this morning was rescheduled because the convener just came down with COVID. The reschedule would have been necessary anyhow since our power and internet were out. Meanwhile, the Federal Reserve has again raised interest rates and the Dow Jones has shown its displeasure by dropping close to 900 points by early afternoon.

Tomorrow is trash and recycling pickup day but I don’t dare to put the cans out by the road until after the township plow comes by. The plow driver is sometimes a bit exuberant even with a powdery snow. With this heavy stuff our cans could end up in the next county over if they’re at all close to being in the way.

Here is the good news:

snow covered trees and fields are pretty


Photo by J. Harrington



• The trees and fields really are pretty, even on another cloudy day.
• I haven’t yet eaten all the Christmas cookies
• Once again I am reading and trying to follow a wabi sabi outlook based on

Nothing lasts forever 

Nothing is perfect

Nothing is ever finished

Also, I just rediscovered a book on poetry that I put aside a couple of years ago. It's going near the top of next year's reading list. It’s not unreasonable to think that this will be the last messy snow storm until next March. 

Removing the Dross

By Thomas R. Moore

After snowstorms my father

shoveled the driveway where it lay

open to a sweep of wind across

a neighbor’s field, where the snow

drifted half way down to the paved

road, before snow-blowers, before

pick-ups cruised the streets with

THE BOSS lettered on red plows.

He heated the flat shovel

in the woodstove till the blade

steamed, like Vulcan at his furnace

removing the dross, then rubbed

a hissing candle on the steel

so the snow would slide unchecked

as he made each toss. He marked

blocks with the waxed blade, lifted

and tossed, lifted and tossed again,

squaring off against the snow.

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