Lies, damned lies, and statistics

Even here in the North Country we’re reaching a time of year when the sun’s rays, pouring through a window, bring a little warmth. It’s still a long time until we’ll be complaining about heat, humidity and mosquitos, but we’re on our way toward warmer, not colder, days, with, undoubtedly, some exceptions.

hoarfrost or rime ice?

Photo by J. Harrington

Looking through my pictures taken in Februarys past, next month more than others is a time to watch for hoarfrost. As more days get above freezing, moisture is released into the atmosphere. Nights, and especially early mornings, still drop below freezing, triggering formation of hoarfrost or rime ice.

Even a cantankerous curmudgeon like me admits that scenes like the one above are pretty, but no where nearly as pretty [to me] as bud burst. Some folks like to go out and play in the snow and on the ice. Just ask the John Beargrease mushers. Those of us who much prefer casting a fly to open, flowing water would no more think it appropriate to make skiing or dog-sledding or ice skating illegal than we would try to ban winter (although climate weirding is working on that). Unfortunately, too many of US elect those who would control what the rest of US read, feel, believe and tolerate. An opinion piece in today’s Star Tribune (Lying liars and their constitutional right to keep on lying) makes a case that our behaviors are controlled by what’s legal, not what’s right.

Lies provoke outrage, for sure. But unless actual physical or financial harm can be proven, Americans will simply have to live with all these lying liars and the lies they tell.

Such an overreliance on legalities, rather than ethics, concedes the prospect of improved behaviors, because we will never be willing to support enough police and lawyers to enforce effectively all the laws that would be needed. Perhaps its time to consider widespread adoption of shunning and other forms of boycott as a means to enforce social norms. At a minimum, we could, and should, stop voting for known liars and avoid purchasing products and services from major polluters, including industrial agriculture firms. We can also avoid promoting disinformation and disinformers (liars) on social media. To paraphrase an old saying “If a liar lies in the forest and there’s no one listening, did a lie get told?” Think about it.

[Today’s title comes from a saying attributed to Mark Twain.]

Bakery of Lies

By Judith Askew

My favorite is the cream puff lie,

the kind inflated with hot air,

expanded to make an heroic-sized story.

 

Another is the cannoli, a long lie,

well-packed with nutty details,

lightly wrapped in flakey truth.

 

A macaroon isn't a little white lie,

but it's covered

with self-serving coconut.

 

The apple tart carries slices

of sour gossip, only

slightly sweetened with truth.

 

Then there's the napoleon,

an Iago lie of pernicious intent,

layer upon layer of dark deceit.

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After mid-winter comes spring

Today’s (and yesterday’s) local weather will set a baseline for some of us that clearly demonstrates the validity of William McDonough’s assertion that “Here's where redesign begins in earnest, where we stop trying to be less bad and we start figuring out how to be good.” If it’s not clear to you, being less cold is not the same as being warm. The remainder of this week, temperatures will be less cold than yesterday and today, but won’t warm enough to begin to thaw, let alone hot enough to melt. I am so looking forward to warm weather instead of these dangerous, bad, cold below zero days. (I think the dogs agree with me although the Better Half is as strongly opposed to “too hot” as I am to “too cold.”) Meanwhile, in my olld home town of Boston, it’s currently in the mid 40s. I come by my intolerance honestly.

actually, this is progress toward Spring

Photo by J. Harrington

As we’ve noted elsewhere, our local temperatures normally get above freezing about the same time we reach eleven hours of daylight, during the last few days of February. Four weeks from now we should begin to enter mud season, except on our driveway, which probably will be thawing and melting for most of March. I’ll probably be grumping about the slippery ice covering the drive unless we get a major melt or I get creative with  the tractor and the backblade. The dogs don’t seem to care much about ice or mud because neither freezes their paws the way this morning’s seven below did. I don’t seem to be able to convince them to spend less time sniffing when it gets this cold and we’ve tried and failed to get them to wear boots. C’mon Spring, hurry fast!

We may get some more really cold days before meteorological spring (March 1) or astronomical spring (March 20) arrive, but I’m going to proceed with the Celtic first celebration of spring on February 1 and 2, by honoring Imbolc.

Although we would think of Imbolc as being in the midst of Winter, it represents in fact the first of a trio of Spring celebrations, since it is the time of the first appearance of the snowdrop, and of the melting of the snows and the clearing of the debris of Winter. It is a time when we sense the first glimmer of Spring, and when the lambs are born. In the Druid tradition it is a gentle, beautiful festival in which the Mother Goddess is honoured with eight candles rising out of the water at the centre of the ceremonial circle.

Imbolc by Damh the Bard

As the dark, cold morning gives way to light,
And the world shows its face dazzling in her nakedness,
So the twigs and leaf-bare branches,
Bow to the passing dance
Of old Jack Frost.
His crystal breath on the earth,
And the corners of houses weep icicles of joy.
But where is the Sun’s warmth?
Where is life?
A small flower, delicate and pure-white,
Looks to the earth,
As if talking to the waiting green,
“Not yet,” it seems to whisper.
“When I fall, then you can return.”
And she nods her head,
as the Lady passes by,
Leaving more flowers in Her wake. 

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Move for reconsideration!

The longer I live, the more it becomes evident to me that the world in which we live is imperfect, as am I. Despite that growing awareness, or perhaps because of it, I continue to struggle with the question of how to live happily and effectively in such a world. The question has been compounded by the growing affects of climate weirding, diminishment of biodiversity, increasing levels and types of global pollution, viral pandemics, and continuing failures of human institutions to effectively respond to events that present existential threats to our future as a viable species.

Consideration of our foundational documents offers little help. On the one hand, we are seeing increasing fragmentation of the values which once bound US together as a nation. We also have laws against the overthrow of our government(s). And yet the Declaration of Independence unequivocally states

... Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, --That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness ...

SCOTUS has found that corporations should enjoy personhood and that money is speech. And yet, corporations are not subject to any death penalty, as are the rest of US persons, and corporate executives are heavily shielded from the consequences of wrong-doing in their jobs. As a result, we are faced with reports describing situations such as

a new study from Stockholm University reports the amount of PFAS in rainwater exceeds the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency’s (EPA) Lifetime Drinking Water Health Advisory levels. Researchers also found rainwater is often above Environmental Quality Standard for Inland European Union Surface Water. 

I’ve not yet seen criminal charges associated with such findings, have you? Doesn’t such a condition effect your “Safety and Happiness,” especially if you enjoy fishing and hope to be able to safely consume any success from your angling, only to learn

A new study by Environmental Working Group scientists finds that consumption of just a single serving of freshwater fish per year could be equal to a month of drinking water laced with the “forever chemical” PFOS at high levels that may be harmful.

Is it safe to eat fish from this stream? Are you sure?

Photo by J. Harrington

All of the preceding is before we begin to consider whether our taxing and policing systems are at all equitable, whether our education systems teach values of which we can be proud, and why  we  have one of the more expensive and less effective “health care” systems in the developed world. Finally, it seems as though the situation isn’t significantly improved no matter who we vote for. It’s not the economy, stupid, it’s the stupid systems and the more stupid people who continue to support them. If money only buys US polluted food and water, what good is it?

Once the World Was Perfect

By Joy Harjo

Once the world was perfect, and we were happy in that world.

Then we took it for granted.

Discontent began a small rumble in the earthly mind.

Then Doubt pushed through with its spiked head.

And once Doubt ruptured the web,

All manner of demon thoughts

Jumped through—

We destroyed the world we had been given

For inspiration, for life—

Each stone of jealousy, each stone

Of fear, greed, envy, and hatred, put out the light.

No one was without a stone in his or her hand.

There we were,

Right back where we had started.

We were bumping into each other

In the dark.

And now we had no place to live, since we didn't know

How to live with each other.

Then one of the stumbling ones took pity on another

And shared a blanket.

A spark of kindness made a light.

The light made an opening in the darkness.

Everyone worked together to make a ladder.

A Wind Clan person climbed out first into the next world,

And then the other clans, the children of those clans, their children,

And their children, all the way through time—

To now, into this morning light to you.

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Bitter cold is not cool

 Sometime, recently I believe, someone snuck a bookstore into Center City, Twinflower Books. We’ll plan on stopping by and taking a peek one day soon. Several years ago there was a bookstore in Lindstrom that’s been gone for some time. I never could figure out how they expected to stay in business, open weekdays from 9 to 5 as I remember, in a community with a large pre-pandemic contingent of commuters to “The  Cities.”

The folks at Franconia sculpture had a book club years ago. Among other things, it made evident that, even within one county, travel distances could be too long to make in person meetings effective, especially during the winter season. But, it was fun while it lasted.

it was colder 4 years ago

Photo by J. Harrington

We’ve almost made it through January. The next week may be the toughest one of the winter. The Midwest Regional Climate Center has the current [and projected] Twin Cities winter rated at severe. I’m not only not going to argue, I feel validated about all the grumping I’ve been doing, although I don’t think their index includes percent cloud cover.

We’ll get a different perspective this coming Thursday when we watch to see if Phil sees his shadow. Later, as the snow eventually melts, the back yard gopher mounds left by Phil’s nephew, will no doubt  reappear as a topic about which I grump and mutter. Stay tuned.

On this day, in 1939, William Butler Yeats, a magnificent poet, died. Today’s poems is in his memory and honor, and to remind us neither winter nor youth  lasts forever.

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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Going local more

The wind is scouring some of the snow off the roof. There are brief patches of blue sky and glimpses of sunlight. A week from today we should begin to return to seasonable temperatures. I get my new glasses tomorrow. The Better Half returned from a morning excursion with a bundle of forsythia stems that will soon bloom. This time the township snow plow didn’t knock the mail box off its post. Things are looking at least mildly hopeful, plus:

My email inbox brought a review of a book by a local author 👆that looks interesting. That author has a second book coming out early next month that looks at least as interesting as the one in the review I read. Then I discovered the author’s publisher has multiple books of poetry that I want to check out. The odds are better than even I won’t run out of things to read before the geese return this spring and I begin to spend more time outside.

Meanwhile, as the wind howls and the snow flies, I’ve been reading The Systems View of Life. It’s giving me hope for our future in part because it describes a prior transformative world view, from organic to mechanistic. The view is now being replaced by a systems view. When I remember reading about the difficulties and challenges Da Vinci, Galileo, Copernicus and others encountered convincing the powers that be of their times that the universe is not earth centric, I have at least a little more tolerance for the effort to convince current powers that be that neither is our earth homocentric nor inexhaustible.

Earth, You Have Returned to Me

By Elaine Equi

Can you imagine waking up

every morning on a different planet,

each with its own gravity?

Slogging, wobbling,

wavering. Atilt

and out-of-sync

with all that moves

and doesn’t.

Through years of trial

and mostly error

did I study this unsteady way — 

changing pills, adjusting the dosage,

never settling.

A long time we were separate,

O Earth,

but now you have returned to me.

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As daylight grows

The sun is making one of her infrequent January appearances today. For the second time this year we’ve noted that her rays carry enough warmth to melt around the edges of the blacktop where it’s not covered by snow or ice. That’s enough to perk me up but not yet enough to make my heart sing.

a pileated woodpecker feeding on suet

Photo by J. Harrington

The turkey hens were back feeding behind the house this morning. The pileated woodpecker tried the refilled suet feeder and didn’t like the swaying caused by a medium sized bird, like a pileated woodpecker, landing on it. We’ll see if the bird adapts (adjusts?) as others of the species have. [see above]

The extended weather forecast for Groundhog Day at Punxsutawney, PA is for partly cloudy. Some of us will be on pins and needles hoping Phil doesn’t see his shadow. That may be the only circumstances and time I’d find cloudy weather in winter acceptable. Then, again, Phil’s record isn’t the best and it is more than six weeks from Groundhog Day to Spring Equinox.

I’m slowly accepting that seasonal change is inevitable and if it’s not happening as quickly as I’d like, or what has been normal, eventually warmth will return and snow will melt. If you think five year olds can be tough waiting for Santa, try me waiting for outside temperatures to approach 60℉.

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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Debt ceiling? What debt ceiling?

The following is from Stop the Charade: The Federal Budget Is Its Own ‘Debt-Ceiling’ in a recent Forbes. I am not a lawyer, so I don’t know how well the reasoning would hold up in court, especially today’s courts. On the other  hand, there’s the planning dictum that “More of the same never solved a problem." Read the whole thing by following the preceding link.

If President Biden, like Presidents Clinton and Obama before him, wishes to give would-be financial hostage-takers in Congress more rope to hang themselves with, he can of course play up the present pseudo-conflict, say that he ‘will not negotiate with terrorists’ or ‘cut Social Security or national defense,’ thank them for the de facto line item veto they’ve unconstitutionally conferred on him in the form of Secretary Yellen’s ‘extraordinary measures,’ and enjoy yet another public backlash against Republican House clown-shows.

If, on the other hand, the President decides that it is long since time to pull the plug on this farce so the nation can address real problems, he should simply inform Congressional Republicans that there is no debt ceiling apart from the budget that they themselves have enacted, then watch them either drop their latest hijack attempt or sue him and be told the same thing by the courts. 

In case you haven’t noticed (how could you miss), we’re all living in interesting times and have about 90 seconds to fix them. Wouldn’t it be nice if we were wise enough to elect political leaders who actuallly focus on the existential issues we’re facing?

That’s (almost) all for today.

The Second Coming

By William Butler Yeats

Turning and turning in the widening gyre   

The falcon cannot hear the falconer;

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere   

The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

The best lack all conviction, while the worst   

Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;

Surely the Second Coming is at hand.   

The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out   

When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi

Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert   

A shape with lion body and the head of a man,   

A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,   

Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it   

Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.   

The darkness drops again; but now I know   

That twenty centuries of stony sleep

Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,   

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,   

Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

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Respite, despite ...

This was a heartening and fun morning following a beautiful sunset yesterday. First, we saw the sun rise, a rare occurrence these days. Second, we had several hours worth of blue skies and sunshine. Gone now, of course. Third, the two wild turkey hens that have been visiting the back yard searching for feeder droppings returned. Fourth, one of the hens flew up to and landed on the deck. [I didn’t see that.] Fifth, Harry the beagle noticed a wild turkey on his deck and scampered across the living and dining rooms toward the walkout door. An oncoming beagle prompted the turkey to fly away across the yard. [I did see that.] Harry seemed satisfied with the job he had done and settled down instead of running into the glass door.

January sunrise

Photo by J. Harrington

The best part of all of that was experiencing SUNSHINE! The second best part was the look on Harry’s face as the turkey flew off the deck.

Most of January is gone and I’ve done little but start to organize the tax filing info and complain about cloudy, cold, snowy days. No playing with the fly fishing toys; nor trying to tie one of the flies from the kit we bought a year, or was it two, ago. We hereby publicly announce that, after the envelope of materials has been delivered to the tax preparer [by mid-February we hope] we will promptly clear a desk, start tying a fly, and report back here by the end of February any progress. This will be a Valentine’s Day present to prove we love ourself at least sometimes. It is also a motivation to help us endure the upcoming return of single digit high temperatures later this week and at least into next. Sigh!

Sounds of the Winter

Walt Whitman - 1819-1892

Sounds of the winter too,
Sunshine upon the mountains—many a distant strain
From cheery railroad train—from nearer field, barn, house
The whispering air—even the mute crops, garner’d apples, corn,
Children’s and women’s tones—rhythm of many a farmer and of flail,
And old man’s garrulous lips among the rest, Think not we give out yet,
Forth from these snowy hairs we keep up yet the lilt.

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a winter’s day, after day, after ...

Baking a loaf of kernza sourdough artisan bread on another gray, cloudy January day helps, but not as much as a month’s worth of sunshine and blue skies would. It’s true that drought, wild fire, atmospheric rivers are both emotionally and physically devastating, but our persistent cloudiness makes me feel like I’m being subjected to eternal water torture, drip-drip-drip, and would confess to anything too make it stop, but there’s not even a guard within earshot that I can implore.

a taste of times to come

Photo by J. Harrington

I did get a good whiff of the fragrances from the bulb planter flowers this morning, which made me hope I might live long enough to once again enjoy a real spring day full of wildflowers and sunshine. I bet any wild animals susceptible to seasonal affective disorder are hibernating in a state of torpor. That’s similar to my current condition but, unfortunately, I’m awake, not asleep, although the Better Half might have a different perspective on that.

A hen turkey is again feeding on droppings from the deck bird feeders. I noticed her as I was checking on a load of clothes in the dryer and sneaking another peek at the jonquils and tulips near the west side downstairs window. For a scruffy-looking bird she’s quite handsome; for a handsome bird she’s quite scruffy-looking. I need to remember to dump some sunflower seeds on the snow for her, the cardinals, and squirrels.

Maybe tomorrow I need to take a ride and see if I can find some open, flowing, water and just sit and watch for awhile. Even if everything is frozen over, I’ll feel better for having tried. Beckett’s statement on “fail better” comes to mind, as does the idea that waiting for winter to end in Minnesota is about as useful and hopeful as Waiting for Godot.

The Song of the Happy Shepherd

By William Butler Yeats

The woods of Arcady are dead, 

And over is their antique joy; 

Of old the world on dreaming fed; 

Grey Truth is now her painted toy; 

Yet still she turns her restless head: 

But O, sick children of the world, 

Of all the many changing things 

In dreary dancing past us whirled, 

To the cracked tune that Chronos sings, 

Words alone are certain good. 

Where are now the warring kings, 

Word be-mockers? — By the Rood

Where are now the warring kings? 

An idle word is now their glory, 

By the stammering schoolboy said, 

Reading some entangled story: 

The kings of the old time are dead; 

The wandering earth herself may be 

Only a sudden flaming word, 

In clanging space a moment heard, 

Troubling the endless reverie. 

Then nowise worship dusty deeds, 

Nor seek, for this is also sooth, 

To hunger fiercely after truth, 

Lest all thy toiling only breeds 

New dreams, new dreams; there is no truth 

Saving in thine own heart. Seek, then, 

No learning from the starry men, 

Who follow with the optic glass 

The whirling ways of stars that pass — 

Seek, then, for this is also sooth, 

No word of theirs — the cold star-bane 

Has cloven and rent their hearts in twain, 

And dead is all their human truth. 

Go gather by the humming sea 

Some twisted, echo-harbouring shell,

And to its lips thy story tell, 

And they thy comforters will be, 

Rewarding in melodious guile 

Thy fretful words a little while, 

Till they shall singing fade in ruth 

And die a pearly brotherhood; 

For words alone are certain good: 

Sing, then, for this is also sooth. 

I must be gone: there is a grave 

Where daffodil and lily wave, 

And I would please the hapless faun, 

Buried under the sleepy ground, 

With mirthful songs before the dawn. 

His shouting days with mirth were crowned; 

And still I dream he treads the lawn, 

Walking ghostly in the dew, 

Pierced by my glad singing through, 

My songs of old earth's dreamy youth: 

But ah! she dreams not now; dream thou! 

For fair are poppies on the brow: 

Dream, dream, for this is also sooth.

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Seasonal sightings

Late yesterday two whitetail deer poked their way along the edge of the woods behind the house. First whitetail sightings of the year on our property. This morning a couple of hen wild turkeys pecked at the seed droppings underneath the deck bird feeders. Later, a flock of about a dozen turkeys followed in the tracks left by the deer. First turkey sightings of the year on our property.

whitetails at a sunflower seed feeder a few years ago

Photo by J. Harrington

We saw one of the deer stop and browse on a young cedar tree. Last autumn’s acorn crop was close to nonexistent around here so I can’t begin to guess what the turkeys are feeding on and how they’re getting through a foot or so of mixed snow and ice cover. Ground hog day falls about midway through astronomical winter. We’re already past the midpoint of meteorological winter but March 1 doesn’t often resemble anything like actual spring here in the North Country. Late winter, early spring, is a hungry time for the wild animals that don’t have access to a bird feeder refilled by a two-legged animal.

To get to a fresh  food supply, most animals have to survive during the next couple of months. The sightings of the past 24 hours were a treat. I hope we get a better, complete, thaw soon and that winter’s toll is limited this year, although that may well mean a hunger season for the scavengers of the woods and fields. Spring is a new beginning only for those who make it ’til then.

Hunger Moon

By Jane Cooper

The last full moon of February stalks the fields; barbed wire casts a shadow.

Rising slowly, a beam moved toward the west

stealthily changing position

 

until now, in the small hours, across the snow

it advances on my pillow

to wake me, not rudely like the sun

but with the cocked gun of silence.

 

I am alone in a vast room

where a vain woman once slept.

The moon, in pale buckskins, crouches

on guard beside her bed.

 

Slowly the light wanes, the snow will melt

and all the fences thrum in the spring breeze

but not until that sleeper, trapped

in my body, turns and turns.

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Growing a culture as well as crops

The amaryllis bulbs, which were tucked away in a cool dark place at Christmas last year, are now repotted and showing signs of life. Maybe we’ll enjoy Easter amaryllis blooms this year?

There’s now more than half a dozen jonquils blooming on the downstairs bookcase in the west-facing window. The hyacinths and tulips in the planter are emerging and getting ready to flower.

The Better Half is baking one of my favorite kinds of cookies. That, and coffee, and good books, may help me make it until spring moves from inside to out. Would that snow season were as brief as lilac season.

local lilac season: mid-May

Photo by J. Harrington

I’ve, once again, knocked down icicles growing over the front stoop steps and thrown more chunks of ice melt salt onto the roof over the stoop. I think part of the issue is that the downspout gets blocked with ice so melt water also fills the gutter and overflows and refreezes.

Last night’s celebration of the Land Stewardship Project’s 40th anniversary, with Robin Wall Kimmerer as keynoter, was heartening. I’d like to see US phase out industrial agriculture and CAFOs. Meat raised for food is a significant source of greenhouse gases. This morning I finished reading Arwen Donahue’s Landings, a Crooked Creek Farm Year. I enjoyed reading the words and looking at the drawings. Donahue flagged one concern that troubles me deeply. As a society, how do we enhance the opportunities available to rural residents so they don’t feel compelled to move away to urban centers for what are perceived to be better opportunities? Industrializing agriculture to produce field corn (ethanol) and soy beans (biodiesel) is not feeding the world and it is contributing to automation of agriculture and consolidation of farms, reducing rural populations.

The Farm

By Joyce Sutphen

My father’s farm is an apple blossomer.

He keeps his hills in dandelion carpet

and weaves a lane of lilacs between the rose

and the jack-in-the-pulpits.

His sleek cows ripple in the pastures.

The dog and purple iris

keep watch at the garden’s end.

His farm is rolling thunder,

a lightning bolt on the horizon.

His crops suck rain from the sky

and swallow the smoldering sun.

His fields are oceans of heat,

where waves of gold

beat the burning shore.

A red fox

pauses under the birch trees,

a shadow is in the river’s bend.

When the hawk circles the land,

my father’s grainfields whirl beneath it.

Owls gather together to sing in his woods,

and the deer run his golden meadow.

My father’s farm is an icicle,

a hillside of white powder.

He parts the snowy sea,

and smooths away the valleys.

He cultivates his rows of starlight

and drags the crescent moon

through dark unfurrowed fields.

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It’s about relationship and reciprocity

 Many years ago I read a book that has strongly influenced my thinking since then. The independent book store at which I bought it is still in business, but at a vastly different location than when my purchase was made. A second edition of the book was published some years ago and I haven’t been able to figure out if there’s enough difference to get a copy, so I just keep rereading my first edition. The book I’m writing about is Braiding Sweetgrass, Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge and the Teachings of Plants, by Robin Wall Kimmerer.

In  the years since I first read Sweetgrass, I have tried to better reflect in my life many of the teachings the author shared. Alas, overcoming the definition of reciprocity that I learned as a child [“an eye for an eye” more than  “do unto others as...”] has been but one of the challenges I’ve faced in adopting the wisdom in the book.

Tonight I’ll be remotely watching Ms. Kimmerer present the keynote at the Land Stewardship Project’s 40th anniversary celebration. Perhaps, through osmosis or something like it, I’ll find that my heart has been changed as much  as my mind. As she notes:

“Restoring land without restoring relationship is an empty exercise. It is relationship that will endure and relationship that will sustain the restored land.” 

The keynote will be followed by a conversation and a question and answer session.  I’m looking forward to watching, listening and maybe even taking notes.

As I recall, I first became involved with the Land Stewardship Project [LSP] many years ago when they had Wendell Berry reading at an event. You might want to follow the link above and consider joining or supporting LSP if you believe we have too much industrial agriculture and not enough regenerative agriculture.

Meshkadoonaawaa Ikidowinan: Exchanging Words

By Kimberly Blaeser, Molly McGlennen, and Margaret Noodin

baazhigwaadiziwin—persistence

Ningii-bazhinemin, we have barely escaped

nightly, a threshold looms in the cold.

Again, we sing ourselves strong—

Anishinaabikwewag, women of history and persistence.

Observe: constellations have long illuminated patterns,

relentless stories, adizookanag,

of who we might be, noongom aawiiyaang

gemaa waa-aawiiyang, or become.

Across skies trace belonging, ezhi-dibendagoziyang

in the land of wiindigoo-cannibals, awaken the crumbling spirit.

Become swirling light, motion—where Bagonegiizhig

still lives. This ancient portal a promise.

Become the shadow others expect—aagawaatesen

hiding in significance. Like stars, anangoog, excluded.

Anyone could read this.

No matter this bitter

winter, still.

wiingashk—sweetgrass

How she stitched the rim, gashkigwaadan.

Leaf blades and needle fingers circled,

smallest curve, waaganagamod, of song—

endless like the scent.

Held, there are, atenoon, some parts

one cannot see—

but she knows, gikendaang, what they hold.

Words from bogs and marshes.

Heaven fits neatly, mii gwayak, under

the snug lid, shut tight as lips

long used to gaadood, keeping secrets

of grandmothers and crane companions.

Notes:

The authors write about the collaborative process behind this piece here.

Does Mother Nature get SAD?

It’s snowing still. Again! It’s snowing again. Still! At least that  situation is tempered by the observation that  a second jonquil has opened in the bulb planter, with more to come. Sixty (60) days until Spring Equinox! Not quite 6 weeks until meteorological spring. That’s when, approximately, snowflakes become drops and drips and flow into or over the ground feeding aquifers and brooks and creeks and wetlands.  Can you tell I’m not really a winter person?

Groundhog Day is two weeks from today. Will Phil see his shadow? Let’s hope not. It would mess up the Celtic celebration of Imbolc [their start of spring]. I may go with that celebration to reinforce my Irish heritage. If the United Nations, or Congress, or the Minnesota legislature were earning their keep, they’d pass a law that mandates the duration of winter is inversely proportional to its intensity. Actually, maybe Republicans will pass such legislation in a broader form and claim they solved climate breakdown.

see any nests of white-eyes?

Photo by J. Harrington

Yes, winter has affected my judgement and thought processes. Plus, I’m still recovering from the workout of clearing lots of slush from the driveway earlier this week. My slow recuperation reminds me of the old joke “I’m not the man I used to be, never was.” Winters aren’t what they used to be either.

White-Eyes

By Mary Oliver

In winter 

    all the singing is in 

         the tops of the trees 

             where the wind-bird 

with its white eyes 

    shoves and pushes 

         among the branches. 

             Like any of us 

he wants to go to sleep, 

    but he's restless— 

         he has an idea, 

             and slowly it unfolds 

from under his beating wings 

    as long as he stays awake. 

         But his big, round music, after all, 

             is too breathy to last. 

So, it's over. 

    In the pine-crown 

         he makes his nest, 

             he's done all he can. 

I don't know the name of this bird, 

    I only imagine his glittering beak 

         tucked in a white wing 

             while the clouds— 

which he has summoned 

    from the north— 

         which he has taught 

             to be mild, and silent— 

thicken, and begin to fall 

    into the world below 

         like stars, or the feathers 

               of some unimaginable bird 

that loves us, 

    that is asleep now, and silent— 

         that has turned itself 

             into snow.

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Easing winter’s doldrums

Last night while we slept, the plants in our bulb garden we busy. This morning we enjoyed the first bloom, a jonquil-daffodil-narcissus. After our extended cloudy, dreary, rainy spell, it was a delightful surprise.

bulb planter jonquil brightens winter

Photo by J. Harrington

Mid-morning we headed off to get the windshield in our Jeep replaced. It cracked almost all the way across during the brutally cold spell a month ago. Our first appointment to get the work done earlier this month was preempted by one of the snow storms. This has been a royal pain in the patoot winter so far. At least with all the cloud cover I wasn’t getting blinded and distracted by the sun reflecting off the windshield crack. More snow is in the forecast for tonight  and tomorrow. Current estimates for our area are 3+ inches. We’ll see if more work will be needed on the driveway this week. It will depend on whether I can wheel the trash can through the freshly fallen snow. Then we’re back to single digit highs a week from now.

The Better Half has been brightening the place with cut flowers, including some scarletish tulips, but that’s not the same as a living, breathing plant in bloom. If things don’t get much  worse, we may well make it until spring and then we get to enjoy the new plantings that went in last autumn, unless the pocket gophers or moles get them. 😉

The Promise

By Jane Hirshfield

Stay, I said

to the cut flowers.

They bowed

their heads lower.

Stay, I said to the spider,

who fled.

Stay, leaf.

It reddened,

embarrassed for me and itself.

Stay, I said to my body.

It sat as a dog does,

obedient for a moment,

soon starting to tremble.

Stay, to the earth

of riverine valley meadows,

of fossiled escarpments,

of limestone and sandstone.

It looked back

with a changing expression, in silence.

Stay, I said to my loves.

Each answered,

Always.

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S’no thank you, slush!

I’m not sure how it turned out this way, but we have slush and puddles at the end of our driveway, right next to ice on the township roadway that it seems their plow couldn’t remove. Meanwhile, the county and the state highways are mostly bare roads. I suspect the township has someone new on the maintenance crew this winter, because the plow has also put our mail box out of service twice in the past month. Our tax dollars at work!

I’m grumpy because the high moisture content slush was a royal pain to clear off the drive this morning. If the weather works out as I hope it will, the snow forecast for tomorrow night and Thursday will provide a traction coating over what otherwise will be a driveway trying to pass as a skating rink, or vice versa. Both the industrial tread on the tractor and the deep lugs on the snow blower dug into the slush but kept getting stuck. I’m not sure if chains would have helped and I sincerely hope conditions like today don’t occur frequently enough to make it worthwhile for me to research adding chains. If you have experience with tire chains on tractors and/or snowblowers, please leave a comment pro or con.

icy driveway, late December 2019

Photo by J. Harrington

We had a similar icy thaw in 2019, but the snow cover wasn’t nearly as deep. As those who study such things inform us via MPR, our winters aren’t what they used to be:

More slushy snow? 

And here's one more takeaway. As winters continue to warm, storms similar to what struck Minnesota last week, where temperatures hovered right around the freezing mark, producing heavy, slushy snow, or sleet, will likely become more common. 

“We’re not going to suddenly get storms like that every year,” said Blumenfeld.

But “it's safe to say, for the foreseeable future, we can expect them to have increased frequency.” Some years will be drier than others, but “when you average it all out, everything points to more of these.”

Blumenfeld said he hears frequently from skiers and other outdoor enthusiasts that even if the quantity of snow has remained strong, the quality of the snow has degraded. There’s less dry, fluffy powder than there used to be.

Tracy Twine, an atmospheric scientist at the University of Minnesota, said it can be useful to look to other parts of the country for analogs of what Minnesota’s winters could look like in the future.

“And so you can kind of think of the winters that happen in the southern Midwest, maybe Missouri, southern Illinois, that's the kind of weather that we might be seeing more typically in the future,” Twine said.

As much of a pain as our slush can be, I’m glad to not have to cope with winter as described by Jerry Apps in his book The Quiet Season: Remembering Country Winters. 

The Dead of Winter

By Samuel Menashe

In my coat I sit

At the window sill

Wintering with snow

That did not melt

It fell long ago

At night, by stealth

I was where I am

When the snow began

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Remember diseconomies of scale?

Today I find myself pondering how it is that we’ve gone from trying to repress civil rights marches and sit-ins to honoring the Reverend Doctor Martin Luther King Jr. with a federal holiday to electing creatures such as Sarah Huckabee Sanders and trying to ban the study of critical race theory, all in my lifetime. Cultural whiplash anyone? Alternative facts for sale?

This democracy is facing a number of very significant existential issues while we have state legislatures assigning priority to preventing women from showing bare arms and one House of Congress working to cut Social Security and Medicare payments to seniors who have paid taxes into those programs during their working lives at a tax rate that’s probably higher than the aggregate rate paid by many corporations and billionaires. Meanwhile, Democrats are working to limit the ability of Republicans to further gerrymander districts and repress voting rights. Defending existing rights, even if successful, isn’t progress. Are we approaching a stage at which voting isn’t enough? Some governments are even suppressing public comments.

Are you ready to vote?

Photo by J. Harrington

I remember many times seeing certain politicians opening televised addresses by referring to “My fellow citizens....” As often as not, my reaction was that I wasn’t a fellow citizen-fellow traveler. My recollection, such as it is, is that the states are supposed to function as test cases within a broadly defined federal framework, so that we could determine how democracy works better under some circumstances. According to the History Channel:

“The powers not delegated to the United States by the Constitution, nor prohibited by it to the States, are reserved to the States respectively, or to the people.”

Those so-called “reserved” powers include all authority and functions of local and state governments, policing, education, the regulation of trade within a state, the running of elections and many more.

The world in which we are living is vastly different than the world in which the Constitution was drafted and ratified. Many issues we face couldn’t be envisioned by the founders, foremost among them, as I see it, is the creation of a global economy and the almost unconstrained powers found in multinational corporations. I believe that leaves us with two basic premises to restart from. The first was stated some decades ago by Pogo, aided by Walt Kelly: “We have met the enemy and he is us.” The second is becoming more evident by the month and is articulated by David Whyte in his book: “Ecocide – Kill The Corporation Before It Kills Us”

I believe there is much good being accomplished in the world these days, almost exclusively by smaller, more humane entities, most non-profit whether by design or not. Alternatively, consider the recent example of the Fairview / UMN health systems. Corporate giantism is often far from an answer. Plus, there’s the perspective raised by Naomi Klein in her books, especially “The Shock Doctrine.” 

If there is a helpful exposition of the meaning of the phrase “or to the people.” I’d like to read it, It seems as though it might be able to support a popular uprising against all the megapowers that are supporting the 1% that’s sucking up most of the benefits of improved productivity these days. 

Freedom

By Jill McDonough

I talk to the students in jail about freedom, how in America

we obsess over it, write it over flags on T-shirts, spread

it around under eagles. It has something to do with guns

and fireworks, Harley-Davidsons, New Hampshire, living free

until you’re dead. I tell the students I think the people

fetishizing freedom don’t mean it. That they really mean

look over here, away from all the slavery

we did, away from all the jail! I tell them they

are the experts, ask them to write what freedom means:

privacy is freedom and if  you feel held back, afraid

to do something, you’re not completely free.   No fear

of  loss. No fear of  hunger, no fear of  pain.   A body

to call my own, a voice driven by my own mind.

The security of a dry, warm place to sleep.   To own

my own time left here.   Being able to hold my son

at night.   Showering in private.   Freedom to me

is having the choice to walk away from a fight. Freedom

a work in progress. Everyday freedom, the real work for us all.

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