In addition to our spring plantings being stressed by the drought this summer, the Better Half and I planted something that seems to have attracted the attention of the local deer, or maybe it’s rabbits, but there’s a clump of plants I’ve been hand-watering that’s been gnawed into almost nonexistence. That’s frustrating. Maybe it’s comic relief, but right next to the chawed-on plants is a small dust bowl that’s getting used by at least one of the local turkeys.
Cooler weather and the possibility of rain return this coming weekend, so there’s that to hope for. At the moment, we’re under an ozone advisory until at least 9 pm Thursday. Following the precautionary principle, we’re going to forego the prospect of fly-fishing for now and hope Friday is a better day. In fact, it would be wonderful if the rest of the weather this Summer turns out better than what we’ve had so far this year.
beardtongue (Penstemon grandiflorus)
Photo by J. Harrington
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Milkweed is beginning to develop flowerheads but we don’t see any little caterpillars nibbling on them. Many plants, including orange day lilies and penstemon (beardtongue), plus at least one of the asters we planted this spring, seem to be aborting flower formation, due to drought? Once again I’m getting concerned about a shifting baseline syndrome conditioning the younger generations to think that this is what Summer is supposed to be like, with skies full of smoke from afar and ozone from who knows where, and drought.
Tomorrow, at 9:37 am CDT, we’ll honor Summer Solstice with our own private ceremonies. We hope you’ll do likewise. It will be difficult, but we need to transform our culture into one that recognizes and acknowledges our dependence on Earth’s natural systems for our continued ability to survive, let alone thrive. Our economy and culture continue to behave as though it’s fine to use next year’s seed corn in tonight’s chowder. That’s not sustainable.
Solstice Litany
By Jim Harrison
1The Saturday morning meadowlarkcame in from high upwith her song gliding into tall grassstill singing. How I'd liketo glide around singing in the summerthen to go south to where I already wasand find fields full of meadowlarksin winter. But when walking my dogI want four legs to keep up with heras she thunders down the hill at top speedthen belly flops into the deep pond.Lark or dog I crave the impossible.I'm just human. All too human.2I was nineteen and mentallyinfirm when I saw the prophet Isaiah.The hem of his robe was as wideas the horizon and his trunk and facewere thousands of feet up in the air.Maybe he appeared because I had read himso much and opened too many ancient doors.I was cooking my life in a cracked claypot that was leaking. I had foundsecrets I didn't deserve to know.When the battle for the mind is finallyover it's late June, green and raining.3A violent windstorm the night beforethe solstice. The house creaked and yawned.I thought the morning might bring a bald earth,bald as a man's bald head but not shiny.But dawn was fine with a few downed trees,the yellow rosebush splendidly intact.The grass was all there dotted with BlackAngus cattle. The grass is indestructibleexcept to fire but now it's too green to burn.What did the cattle do in this storm?They stood with their butts toward the wind,erect Buddhists waiting for nothing in particular.I was in bed cringing at gusts,imagining the contents of earth all blowingnorth and piled up where the wind stopped,the pile sky-high. No one can climb it.A gopher comes out of a hole as if nothing happened.4The sun should be a couple of million milescloser today. It wouldn't hurt anythingand anyway this cold rainy June is hardon me and the nesting birds. My own nestis stupidly uncomfortable, the chairof many years. The old windows don't keepthe weather out, the wet wind whippingmy hair. A very old robin drops deadon the lawn, a first for me. Millionsof birds die but we never see it—they likeprivacy in this holy, fatal moment or soI think. We can't tell each other when we die.Others must carry the message to and fro."He's gone," they'll say. While writing an average poemdestined to disappear among the millions of poemswritten now by mortally average poets.5Solstice at the cabin deep in the forest.The full moon shines in the river, there are palegreen northern lights. A huge thunderstormcomes slowly from the west. Lightning strikesa nearby tamarack bursting into flame.I go into the cabin feeling unworthy.At dawn the tree is still smolderingin this place the gods touched earth.
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Please be kind to each other while you can.
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