False Spring?

Other years I’d be looking forward to melting snow starting to expose the ground. This year I’m concerned that cold spells and blizzards may damage or kill those who have been suckered into believing winter may be over and start to emerge from dormancy. Will waterfowl head North prematurely, only to be faced with a refreeze and lack of food? I hope not. As is always the (often unacknowledged) case, we live one day at a time and have to play it that way.

early Spring arrivals, February 21, 2017

Photo by J. Harrington

Not quite a decade ago, in 2017, at the beginning of the third week of the month, the Sunrise River pools in Carlos Avery Wildlife Management Area looked like the picture above. (The gray and white color spots in the center are swans and Canada geese.) So early arrivals of Spring to the North Country are not without precedent. We intend to keep our fingers crossed that the pattern holds and no harm is done.

As a matter of fact, the Ojibwe have a story about the annual battle between winter (Biboon) and spring (Ziigwan). That seems to indicate early or late arrivals of Spring are relatively normal in the natural order of things and life goes on. Perhaps if we spent more time during winter telling stories and sharing legends, we’d have a better sense of what’s normal and what’s not.

Windigo

By Louise Erdrich

For Angela

The Windigo is a flesh-eating, wintry demon with a man buried deep inside of it. In some Chippewa stories, a young girl vanquishes this monster by forcing boiling lard down its throat, thereby releasing the human at the core of ice.

You knew I was coming for you, little one,

when the kettle jumped into the fire.

Towels flapped on the hooks,

and the dog crept off, groaning,

to the deepest part of the woods.

In the hackles of dry brush a thin laughter started up.

Mother scolded the food warm and smooth in the pot

and called you to eat.

But I spoke in the cold trees:

New one, I have come for you, child hide and lie still. 

The sumac pushed sour red cones through the air.

Copper burned in the raw wood.

You saw me drag toward you.

Oh touch me, I murmured, and licked the soles of your feet.

You dug your hands into my pale, melting fur.

I stole you off, a huge thing in my bristling armor.

Steam rolled from my wintry arms, each leaf shivered

from the bushes we passed

until they stood, naked, spread like the cleaned spines of fish.

Then your warm hands hummed over and shoveled themselves full

of the ice and the snow. I would darken and spill

all night running, until at last morning broke the cold earth

and I carried you home,

a river shaking in the sun.

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Walk? Chew gum? Simultaneously?🤣🤣

A growing number of cities have or are eliminating single family zoning to increase density and make housing more affordable and cities more walkable and bikeable. In a comparable effort, Minnesota is considering eliminating minimum parking requirements. Neither of these, not similar efforts, come close to addressing the growing awareness that it benefits people, a lot, to be in direct contact with nature. Creating an appropriate balance between the built and the natural environment, and incorporating that in a  physical design used to be one of the primary purposes of a community's comprehensive plan. These days such plans seem to be focused on meeting legal requirements for state and/or federal funds, unless that involves environmental review.

nature in the city -- equitably distributed?

Photo by J. Harrington

We seem to have lost, or given up, the ability to think coherently and holistically. As further evidence, without mentioning Israel, Ukraine, Jordan, etc., I call to your attention our inability, right here in Minnesota, to resolve what appears to me to be a reasonably straightforward issue regarding School Resource Officers.

Perhaps all these types of irresolvable conflicts can be sorted (sordid?) out once Artificial Intelligence has finished pawing through our private messages to learn how people (not persons) think and feel.

If it appears I’m getting increasingly disgusted and disgruntled with how the contemporary world is (dys)functioning, you’re reasonably perceptive. Worldwide General Strike anyone?

"The world is a beautiful place"

Lawrence Ferlinghetti     1919 – 2021

                The world is a beautiful place 

                                                           to be born into 

if you don’t mind happiness 

                                             not always being 

                                                                        so very much fun 

       if you don’t mind a touch of hell

                                                       now and then

                just when everything is fine

                                                             because even in heaven

                                they don’t sing 

                                                        all the time

             The world is a beautiful place

                                                           to be born into

       if you don’t mind some people dying

                                                                  all the time

                        or maybe only starving

                                                           some of the time

                 which isn’t half so bad

                                                      if it isn’t you

      Oh the world is a beautiful place

                                                          to be born into

               if you don’t much mind

                                                   a few dead minds

                    in the higher places

                                                    or a bomb or two

                            now and then

                                                  in your upturned faces

         or such other improprieties

                                                    as our Name Brand society

                                  is prey to

                                              with its men of distinction

             and its men of extinction

                                                   and its priests

                         and other patrolmen

                                                         and its various segregations

         and congressional investigations

                                                             and other constipations

                        that our fool flesh

                                                     is heir to

Yes the world is the best place of all

                                                           for a lot of such things as

         making the fun scene

                                                and making the love scene

and making the sad scene

                                         and singing low songs of having 

                                                                                      inspirations

and walking around 

                                looking at everything

                                                                  and smelling flowers

and goosing statues

                              and even thinking 

                                                         and kissing people and

     making babies and wearing pants

                                                         and waving hats and

                                     dancing

                                                and going swimming in rivers

                              on picnics

                                       in the middle of the summer

and just generally

                            ‘living it up’

Yes

   but then right in the middle of it

                                                    comes the smiling

                                                                                 mortician

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Contingency planning in the anthropocene

Yesterday and today, the dogs and I walked up to the pond North of the house. It’s a longer walk than we usually take at this time of year but with the warmer temperatures and lack of snow cover, we need the exercise. The ice cover on the pond is deteriorating for at least the second time this season. We’ll see lots of open water by the end of the week. If the general weather pattern continues, I wouldn’t be too surprised to see much of the Spring turkey hunting season to be a bit of a waste. Many of the hens may be bred, and the toms worn out, by the time hunting season opens in mid April. Or I may be way off base, depending on what the Wild Turkey Foundation means by “Unusually warm or cold spells may accelerate or slow breeding activity slightly."

local turkeys: early March past

Photo by J. Harrington

Then again, this being the North Country, we could be up to our armpits in snow by Valentine’s Day. I just don’t know what to make of it, but the dogs and I do prefer above freezing to below zero temperatures, when given the option, a very rare occurrence around here. We even got to enjoy approximately 49 seconds of sunshine today. More may be delivered later this week, or not.

One thing I feel relatively certain of: if I buy a turkey license, it’s likely to snow and rain and freeze and blow and maybe even blizzard. That assessment is based on the Spring weather we encountered in our younger days when we were know to join a few friends and hunt the birds in southeast Minnesota or South Dakota. We’ll see how the weather pattern plays out. I could be convinced to go trout fishing instead, or if the weather turns miserable enough, stay in, drink coffee, and read.

Turkey Fallen Dead from Tree

By Dore Kiesselbach

Startled from snow-day slumber by a neighbor’s mutt, 

it banged its buzzard’s head then couldn’t solve 

the problem of the white pine’s limbs 

with wings nearly too broad for a planned descent. 

Somewhere an awkward angel knows 

whether it was dead before it hit the ground.

Any sinner could tell it was dead after—

eyes unseen beneath bare and wrinkled lids,

feet drawn up almost as high as hands.

I loved to watch thistle and millet 

disappear beneath it in the yard.

As snow covers feathers that will still be 

iridescent in the spring I remember seeing 

a businessman take a dripping handful 

of pocket change and throw it down 

a subway grate beside a homeless man. 

The coins bounced and clattered, vanishing 

in the humid dark. The rich man said 

now you’re having a shitty day too. 

But it’s not a shitty day and won’t be 

when I retrieve the bird and walk it—

toes curling stiff from a shopping bag—

to a houseless scrap of oak savannah 

birdseed drew it from and dig it 

into deeper snow so what was hoarded 

by a man may by the thaw be doled.

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Circle after circle after ...

We are now in the last week of January, or, based on the weather, the first week of March. The Sunrise River has, once again, shed its ice cover. What fascinates me is that Thursday evening, February 1, is the Druid celebration of Imbolc, the first of three Spring festivals. Most years we wouldn’t even consider thinking about Spring until several months from now. This year is different. The long spell of cloudy days is more than a little depressing, but the milder temperatures are, although not exhilarating, at least encouraging. There’s even a chance we may see some sunshine this week.

daily the sun rises earlier, grows stronger

Photo by J. Harrington

We have entered a time when black bear cubs will be born; when great horned owls will start courting; and squirrels start mating. Each day the sun grows a little stronger, even if some of us can’t see it. The return of longer days and the annual courting and mating activities of many critters matches nicely with our upcoming celebration next month of Valentine’s Day which, this year, is concurrent with Ash Wednesday, portending an early Easter.

Joni Mitchell, in her altogether delightful song The Circle Game, about a child growing older, sings:

 "take your time it won't be long now

Till you drag your feet to slow the circles down"

Those of us who have already gone round and round, many, many times, tire of dragging our feet and find anticipation and recollection of seasonal events, in or out of season, almost as full of wonder as catching dragonflies. May January go out like a lamb and February be born as gently as a bear cub.

The Season's Campaign

By Joyce Sidman

I.  Spring

 

We burst forth,

crisp green squads

bristling with spears.

We encircle the pond.

 

II.  Summer

  Brown velvet plumes

bob jauntily. On command,

our slim, waving arrows

rush toward the sun.

 

III.  Fall

 

All red-winged generals

desert us.  Courage

clumps and fluffs

like bursting pillows.

 

IV. Winter

 

Our feet are full of ice.

Brown bones rattle in the wind.

Sleeping, we dream of

seed-scouts, sent on ahead.

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“It’s the system, stupid” or “It’s the stupid system"

I may be uncharacteristically optimistic in my thinking about this, but it seems to me that the world and its inhabitants may be in better shape than we realize. Here’s my rationale:

• The world is a complex, self-organizing, emergent system.
• Most folks aren’t prepared to think about how such systems function.
• Mass media is focused on mass audiences that include most folks.
• Therefore, mass media rarely, if ever, reports on the complex, self-organizing, emergent system in which we all live interdependently. (See: “If it bleeds, it leads.” Also the movie “Network.”)
• Consequently, much of the world is adjusting and adapting in ways that rarely get reported and the implications of the emergent properties of those adjustments and adaptations won’t be evident for some time.

Earth
Image Credit: NASA/NOAA/GSFC/Suomi NPP/VIIRS/Norman Kuring

Examples of such changes include the removal of dams from the Klamath and other rivers; the inclusion of Native Americans in the management of some public lands. (If Ed Abbey were still with US, I’d love to read what he’d have to say about that.) The quantity and quality of pushback to business as usual is growing rapidly. It may be that Artificial Intelligence, and its implications, will be the straw that breaks the technology camel’s back. Let me know in the comments if you think I need to cut down my dosage of happy pills.

“Hope” is the thing with feathers

By Emily Dickinson

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -

That perches in the soul -

And sings the tune without the words -

And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -

And sore must be the storm -

That could abash the little Bird

That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -

And on the strangest Sea -

Yet - never - in Extremity,

It asked a crumb - of me.

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Serendipitous!

When the Daughter Person was in college, the Better Half and I would stop on occasion at a coffee shop know as the Ginko. It’s been quite a while since I’ve been in that neighborhood, so I don’t know if it’s still there. It’s where we first saw Carrie Newcomer perform live. If memory serves correctly, it may also have been where we “discovered” Krista Detor.

A little while ago I was reminded of that when I stumbled across the web site for The Ginko Prize, “... a major international award for ecopoetry ....” Before today I had been unaware of its existance. Since at least several regular readers here are fans of poetry, and others are environmentalists, and some are both, I’m sharing my discovery in hopes that it may be a previously undiscovered source of entertainment and education for those who partake.

In a similar vane (subconsciously I wanted to type “vain" there), I’ll share a link to the Alaskan Quarterly’s you tube channel and their presentation of:

Poet Jane Hirshfield, Stephanie Holthaus (Climate Action Advisor for The Nature Conservancy Alaska), Nancy Lord (Former Alaska Writer Laureate), and Marie Tozier (Iñupiaq poet) in conversation for "Ways of Knowing: Poetry, Science, and the Environment.”

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go explore some more of today’s discoveries. 

Perishable, It Said

By Jane Hirshfield

Perishable, it said on the plastic container,

and below, in different ink, 

the date to be used by, the last teaspoon consumed. 

I found myself looking:

now at the back of each hand,

now inside the knees,

now turning over each foot to look at the sole.

Then at the leaves of the young tomato plants, 

then at the arguing jays.

Under the wooden table and lifted stones, looking. 

Coffee cups, olives, cheeses, 

hunger, sorrow, fears—

these too would certainly vanish, without knowing when.

How suddenly then

the strange happiness took me,

like a man with strong hands and strong mouth,

inside that hour with its perishing perfumes and clashings.

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Wanna play baker?

The bread I baked this morning is about the best tasting I’ve produced in a decade or so. Unfortunately, it wasn’t on purpose. I’m still challenged by the routine of when and how much to feed the starter and how bubbly it really should be and are there tradeoffs between open crumb and real sourdough flavor? As my mother, if she were still here, would tell you, patience and organization are not my strong points. To which I would reply that I’m trying to be organic and artisanal, not mechanical and industrial. Bottom line is that replication of process doesn’t guarantee replication of results. Isn’t that like most of life?

loafing around and playing last year

Photo by J. Harrington

Perhaps children learn so much through play because, for the most part, they avoid perfectionism. I’m slowly adding a sense of play to my bread baking and accepting that, even if I never “master" sourdough baking, I can still have lots of fun learning, especially if I treat it as play and not as a “major production.” I believe the same philosophy may fit well with fly fishing, too. Didn’t someone, sometime, point out that "life is too short to be taken seriously,” or something like that? I hope so because that’s how I intend to approach lots of things from now on. For example, today I tried, for the first time ever, using a flour stencil on the bread dough before it went in the oven. The results were far less than spectacular. So, when the boule came out of the oven, I brushed off the flour, sliced the bread and really liked the taste and crust.

I’ve learned over the years that it’s unrealistic to expect to catch fish every time I go fishing. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t lots of other things to enjoy on a fishing trip. Have you ever seen the saying that poems are never finished, just abandoned? What else might that apply to?

Playthings

By Rabindranath Tagore

Child, how happy you are sitting in the dust, playing with a broken twig all the morning.

I smile at your play with that little bit of a broken twig.

I am busy with my accounts, adding up figures by the hour.

Perhaps you glance at me and think, "What a stupid game to spoil your morning with!"

Child, I have forgotten the art of being absorbed in sticks and mud-pies.

I seek out costly playthings, and gather lumps of gold and silver.

With whatever you find you create your glad games, I spend both my time and my strength over things I never can obtain.

In my frail canoe I struggle to cross the sea of desire, and forget that I too am playing a game.

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It’s broke! How should we fix it?

The sound of water dripping down the downspout brightened a gray day today and helped take the edge off this morning's slickery roads. Temperatures are expected to reach the mid-30s this week and mid-40s next. There’s even a tantalizing hint of sunshine arriving next week. It’s not true that I caused this exceptional warm spell by buying a handful of good books to carry me through the rest of the winter. 

early January 2023

Photo by J. Harrington

I know I keep going on about the weather, but the differences between last winter and this one are astounding. As of March 1 last year, we had had the snowiest or second snowiest winter on record. As of today, there is only spotty snow cover in the yard. I wonder if this is an example of the volatility the climate scientists tried to warn US about. Between the vagaries of Congress (still no new farm bill) and those of the climate, I’m glad I’m not a farmer, but then we do depend on some farmers for food, don’t we?

It’s not just the weather and the government that’s become unreliable. Boeing’s planes have become noted for a lack of quality control and safety. In fact, many sectors of the economy, including pharmaceuticals, health care, food, packaging, manufacturing, I could go on, seem to have lost track of the basic concept that it’s not a good idea to imperil your market (you know, the peoplle who buy  your stuff). PFAS or microplastics anyone? How about unsafe levels of nitrates in your water supply?

Perhaps it’s time for US to incorporate a Native American seventh generation principle into our constitution and environmental and economic assessments. We’ve been allowing the corporatocracy to use shorter and shorter time frames and narrower perspectives as they lobby for greater profits. That doesn’t seem to be working out so well as we look about US, does it? Do you suppose AI can solve this one?

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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Nature always bats last!

In our neighborhood, today marks the start of a January thaw. The temperature has climbed above 32℉. It did that yesterday in The Cities (Minneapolis / St. Paul) due, I believe, to their urban heat island. What little snow was left on the deck is almost gone. Sometime in the next few days we’ll take a crack at starting the tractor and seeing if the back blade can be lifted from the frozen ground. I forgot to put a block under the blade when last I parked the tractor and having it available to plow snow increases the likelihood we won’t get much.

The persistent cloud cover may obscure Thursday’s full moon, called the Great Spirit Moon by the Ojibwe and the Hard Times Moon by the Lakota. There was a break in the clouds last night and an almost full moon brightly lit the snow covered back yard. Remember, from that famous visit, “the moon on the crest of the new fallen snow, gave a luster of midday... ?” Come February 4, we’ll have reached the midpoint of winter and from there, technically, will be on our way out. Meteorologically, that may or may not be the case. We’ll see.

Christmas 2023 -- rain

Photo by J. Harrington

To remind you of what a strange winter it’s been around here, the picture above was taken on Christmas. Yes, those are raindrops on the trees, -- in Minnesota, -- at Christmas!! Meanwhile, world governments continue to putz around instead of taking a coordinated, cooperative approach to minimizing greenhouse gas emissions and adapting to the climate changes we’ll be faced with for the next century or more.

If we don’t get a lot of snow, or rain, over the next several weeks, spring flows in local trout streams will probably be less than normal due to lack of snowmelt runoff. I don’t want to speculate about the rest of the  fishing season, since I’m trying to become more optimistic. Voting for Republicans who will focus on denying the existence or the seriousness of climate breakdown should only be done by those who have no descendants, don’t expect to have any, and don’t give a damn about the rest of US.

Let Them Not Say

Jane Hirshfield
1953 – 

Let them not say:   we did not see it.
We saw.

Let them not say:   we did not hear it.
We heard.

Let them not say:     they did not taste it.
We ate, we trembled.

Let them not say:   it was not spoken, not written.
We spoke,
we witnessed with voices and hands.

Let them not say:     they did nothing.
We did not-enough.

Let them say, as they must say something: 

A kerosene beauty.
It burned.

Let them say we warmed ourselves by it,
read by its light, praised,
and it burned.

—2014

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Ephemeral spring

Wind is down. Temperature is up. Cloud cover is back. I’m sitting, looking out the window, grateful the house feels warmer, and fantasizing about spring ephemerals and fly fishing. I’m also wondering how many times this year spring will come, and go. Beginning tomorrow and for the rest of the month, daytime highs are forecast to reach above freezing. What do we call a January thaw that runs into February?

thaw-freeze cycles = icicles

Photo by J. Harrington

I doubt we’ve seen the end of winter, even with an extended thaw. We’ll probably get a seesaw pattern of cold and snow, melting, cold and snow, melting, lasting through April, maybe into May, despite NOAA’s seasonal outlook of "leaning above" temperatures and equal chances of above or below normal precipitation.

Personally, I’m on either a seesaw or a rollercoaster between looking forward to seasonal change milestones, such as arriving waterfowl, and anticipating what aberrant weather / climactic pattern will develop next. At least there’s a stack of books to read and a supply of coffee for drinking if we have to deal with weather extremes. For now, I plan on starting longer walks with the dogs as long as the temperatures stay above freezing. At least one of the three of us really needs the exercise.

Ephemeral Stream

Elizabeth Willis

This is the way water 
thinks about the desert.
The way the thought of water 
gives you something 
to stumble on. A ghost river.
A sentence trailing off
toward lower ground.
A finger pointing
at the rest of the show.

I wanted to read it. 
I wanted to write a poem 
and call it "Ephemeral Stream"
because you made of this 
imaginary creek
a hole so deep 
it looked like a green eye 
taking in the storm, 
a poem interrupted 
by forgiveness.

It's not over yet.
A dream can spend 
all night fighting off 
the morning. Let me
start again. A stream 
may be a branch or a beck, 
a crick or kill or lick,
a syke, a runnel. It pours 
through a corridor. The door 
is open. The keys
are on the dashboard. 

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Reason to believe?

Today’s posting will be very short and not so sweet. It’s been triggered by my listening to some folk songs from back when, especiallly one written and recorded by Tim Hardin. It focuses on this question:

Did Tim Hardin foresee the candidacy of Donald Trump and his following of MAGAts and tRumpsters?

Read these lyrics and I hope you’ll see the reasons for my question. Perhaps the campaign could try to turn it into a theme song.

Tim Hardin Lyrics

"Reason To Believe"

If I listened long enough to you

I'd find a way to believe that it's all true

Knowing that you lied straight faced while I cried

Still I look to find a reason to believe

Someone like you makes it hard to live

Without somebody else

Someone like you makes it easy to give

Never thinking of myself

If I gave you time to change my mind

I'd find a way to leave the past behind

Knowing that you lied straight faced while I cried

Still I look to find a reason to believe

If I listened long enough to you

I'd find a way to believe it's all true

Knowing that you lied straight faced while I cried

Still I look to find a reason to believe 

I can almost understand why some disenchanted voters supported a reported con man in 2016. Unless they're too embarrassed to admit how wrong they were, I can't comprehend why anyone would vote twice for the same loser.

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Whatcha got?

I’ve checked two different, authoritative, sources, The Bible, and A People’s History of the United States, and each concurs quite a bit with the other about the fact that humans seem to have been screw ups pretty much from the word go until today. That makes it easier for me to be less concerned about the prospect of knowing how to do the right thing all the time. It even diminishes my concerns about whether the upcoming election will determine the fate of democracy, the human race, BIPOC folks, women, nonbinary people etc. It may or may not, but only in combination with a bunch of other factors, some of which we may not even be aware of.

When I was a youngster, last millennium time, Disney released a film that included a song that’s keeps coming back to me every decade or so. The song’s title, It's Whatcha Do With Whatcha Got, pretty much says what I’m focusing on these days. [Full disclosure: I keep thinking, incorrectly, the song is from Song of the South instead of from So Dear to My Heart.]

As I’ve been rereading Agnrta Nyholm Winqvist's book on wabi sabi, I’m reminded of the principles that:

• Nothing lasts forever
• Nothing is perfect
• Nothing is ever finished

Long Time Coming and a Long Time Gone cover

To add some interesting perspective to these principles, see if you can lay your hands on a copy of Richard Farina's Long Time Coming and a Long Time Gone and read some of his "Little Nothing" poems.

I’m slowly coming to a conclusion that there are those who are benefiting by keeping US upset and at each others throats and the best way to combat that is with a positive attitude and outlook. The great and wonderful Leonard Cohen seems to support such a perspective with the lyrics of

Anthem

Leonard Cohen

The birds, they sang 
At the break of day 
Start again 
I heard them say 
Don't dwell on what 
Has passed away 
Or what is yet to be 
Ah, the wars 
They will be fought again 
The holy dove 
She will be caught again 
Bought and sold 
And bought again 
The dove is never free

Ring the bells that still can ring 
Forget your perfect offering 
There is a crack in everything 
That's how the light gets in

We asked for signs 
The signs were sent: 
The birth betrayed 
The marriage spent 
Yeah the widowhood 
Of every government
Signs for all to see

I can't run no more 
With that lawless crowd 
While the killers in high places 
Say their prayers out loud
But they've summoned, they've summoned up 
A thundercloud 
And they're going to hear from me

Ring the bells that still can ring 
Forget your perfect offering 
There is a crack in everything 
That's how the light gets in

You can add up the parts 
But you won't have the sum 
You can strike up the march 
There is no drum 
Every heart, every heart 
To love will come 
But like a refugee

Ring the bells that still can ring 
Forget your perfect offering 
There is a crack, a crack in everything 
That's how the light gets in

Ring the bells that still can ring 
Forget your perfect offering 
There is a crack, a crack in everything 
That's how the light gets in 
That's how the light gets in 
That's how the light gets in

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Find happiness in the last place you look

I’ve noticed that the news and social media do a much better job of informing me about things of which I disapprove than things I like. I can find lots of things to like, even these days, but I have to go looking for them. I’m going to share a couple of examples in hopes they inspire you to find a way to minimize gloom and doom even in the depths of winter.

I enjoy baking sourdough bread. I also like to support regenerative and restorative agriculture. Did I mention I like to eat scones made from King Arthur Flour mixes? A short while ago, King Arthur sent a notice of a new flour produced from regenerative farms. I wanted to try some but the shipping cost would have been twice the cost of the flour. Some time later, there was a different announcement: free shipping of you bought a certain dollar amount of goods. Today a box with a bunch of smaller packages of scone mixes and Irish Soda Bread mix and the flour arrived. Instead of forcing an issue, I tried to “go with the flow.”

Regeneratively-Grown Climate Blend Flour

This afternoon brought a different example involving two of my favorite activities: poetry and fly fishing. For the past several weeks I’ve been poking around the corners of the internet looking for poems about fly fishing, mostly without much success. For reasons that aren’t obvious to me, I hadn’t done a search on the web site of the Poetry Foundation until today. I need to double check my bookshelves but I think I discovered a poet (Robert Haight) whose published works look like something I want to read and don’t yet have. I’ll be surprised if any of the local libraries have a copy of any of his works, but I’ll check and, if not, add one or more titles to my list for Father’s Day and/or my birthday. Meanwhile, I’ll do some more searching and document what I find.

There’s no way I’m ever likely to become pollyannaish, but it is beginning to look as though I may have overdone the cynicism and pessimism bit. See if you like today’s poem by the aforementioned Mr. Haight. It fits the season.

How Is It That the Snow

By Robert Haight

How is it that the snow

amplifies the silence,

slathers the black bark on limbs,

heaps along the brush rows?

Some deer have stood on their hind legs

to pull the berries down.

Now they are ghosts along the path,

snow flecked with red wine stains.

This silence in the timbers.

A woodpecker on one of the trees

taps out its story,

stopping now and then in the lapse

of one white moment into another.

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Is Minnesota too (small d) democratic?

I’ll spare you most of my sputtering and ranting about this. Perhaps you’re already aware of the plethora of opportunities to exercise our rights as a citizen and voter. Let me note that some of US might be wondering if this is too much of a good thing.

• February 27, 2024 Precinct caucuses
• March 5, 2024 Presidential primary
• November 5, 2024 Election Day

Full discllosure: my nose is still bent out of shape from several elections ago when I, and many others, made successful pitches at local caucuses in support of a position that the party’s state central committee(?) decided to ignore.

Your Voice Your Vote   Use It

Photo by J. Harrington

It seems to me to be far from clear why one might wish to participate in a caucus and vote in a primary. I suppose there are hard core political junkies who enjoy that kind of thing. I’m already annoyed by repeated requests for contributions piling up in my email and snail mail boxes. But then I remind myself that “No good deed shall go unpunished.”

Let me make clear that I’d be less grumbly if the process(es) were better structured so that there might be a reasonable relationship between effort input and results. Unfortunately, given the amount of mis- and disinformation being spread around, the lack of integrity by most representatives and representations of one major party, and my lack of patience in dealing with ill-informed, stubborn individuals, I plan on voting but not much more. It seems like a poor investment of time. Does that leave the field to “true believers” and charlatans? Perhaps. but contemporary politics seems to display too much resemblance to the old saying about “good money drives out bad.”

Good Bones

Maggie Smith

Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least
fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my children.
For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children. I am trying
to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
right? You could make this place beautiful.

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January’s half gone!

Yesterday we left some of you in suspense about our bread in the oven. The best way to describe the outcome, after the Better Half [BH] and I taste tested the results, is to say we’ve found a different rye bread recipe that looks promising. That’s probably what I’ll try next.

Baking with rye flour is very different than with wheat. I hadn’t realized how much rye dough lacks oven spring. I think I over misted the dough and the crust turned out excessively crusty. So the end result was overly dense and moist with too firm a crust and a taste I found more okay than did the BH. My most significant “learning experience" in more than a decade of baking artisan bread reminds me of the ancient saying “Fall down seven times, get up eight.” That leaves me with six downs and seven ups to go.

Although we’ve passed the below zero high temperatures, single digit highs are barely better. When gassing the Jeep today, I sat in the vehicle instead of cleaning the windshield. We’ll tackle the cleaning chores next week when the temperatures are forecast to climb above freezing and we may get some rain mixed with snow. Does it seem to you it’s almost like someone has broken the climate?

winter evening: red bird

Photo by J. Harrington

Yesterday evening, after sunset, I got a glimpse of two cardinals perching in the trees behind the house. Since we’ve seen nary a sign of such birds for weeks, I was heartened by the sighting. It may be one of the  few good things to come out of our current cold spell.

Red Bird

By Mary Oliver

Red bird came all winter

Firing up the landscape

As nothing else could.

Of course I love the sparrows,

Those dun-colored darlings,

So hungry and so many.

I am a God-fearing feeder of birds,

I know he has many children,

Not all of them bold in spirit.

Still, for whatever reason-

Perhaps because the winter is so long

And the sky so black-blue,

Or perhaps because the heart narrows

As often as it opens-

I am grateful

That red bird comes all winter

Firing up the landscape

As nothing else can do.

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Learning to cope & hope

If “learning experience” is what lies between failure and success, that’s what we’ve had with our first boule of sourdough rye bread. It’s still in the oven and part of what we’ve learned is that rye has nowhere near the spring that wheat flour does. The bread will have to cool for some time before we taste test it. One way or another, we’ll report tomorrow. Depending on how it tastes, we’ll be more or less impatient to try again in a near (tastes great) or distant (tastes meh) future.

It’s too soon to tell if next week’s warmer temperatures will be simply a January thaw or may be the start of an early spring. Unfortunately, spring is one of those seasons Minnesota usually makes a mess of. Maybe one in ten fits a classic pattern of gradual warmth and green-up. All too often we experience an extended period in the 50s, a few days in the 60s and then a jump into summer with temperatures in the upper 80s or low 90s. Of course, at the moment, any of those would be a vast improvement over current conditions.

yellow tulips foretell real spring

Photo by J. Harrington

As long as we’re thinking about spring, I hope you enjoy the picture of the yellow tulips. That’s what they looked like yesterday. They’ll bloom some more and other flowers will follow along. Add in some above freezing temperatures next week and my mood may approach exuberant, regardless of pollitical storms on the horizon.

There’s an old joke about a fellow pounding his head on a brick wall. When asked “Why?” he responded “Because it feels so good when I stop.” That’s how I feel about winter in the North Country.

Thaw

Edward Thomas
1878 – 1917

Over the land freckled with snow half-thawed
The speculating rooks at their nests cawed
And saw from elm-tops, delicate as flowers of grass,
What we below could not see, Winter pass.

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