As we approach a time of resurrection

We’re close to mid-April this Palm Sunday. Here in the North Country, April is a time of snow showers and wild flowers. Wild turkeys begin mating rituals. Song birds return. Pregnant whitetail does will be dropping fawns in a month or two. Plant life (re)emerges from its winter retreat. Lakes and ponds lose their ice cover and some of us begin to lose our cabin fever as we wander about noticing Spring’s buds and blooms and growing warmth and open waters.

SiSi the yellow lab in her new home

Photo by J. Harrington

It was twelve years ago this month that SiSi came to live with us. She was between one and two when she arrived as a "rescue." We have had many happy times since she came and she has definitely done a good job of rescuing me. I'm glad we get to enjoy another Spring together, even though the Better Half has already found the first tick of the season on her.

April is also National Poetry Month. As part of my celebration, I bought a copy of Heidi Barr’s latest book of poems, Church of Shadow and Light, at a local independent book store, Scout & Morgan. As soon as I finish posting this, I'm going to start reading some of those poems as a reward for beginning Spring chores today. The back blade came off the tractor; both the front and back hoses got hooked up and water turned on; pounds of winter's mud got rinsed off the Jeep. It feels really good to be out and about doing something other than blowing snow, although we didn't have much of that to do this past winter.

Ever since last November, I've grown more and more concerned about the direction the returning administration has been trying to drag US and about the limited resistance expressed by those who are intended to serve as checks and balances to unbalanced behavior. Our current situation makes me think off how Native Americans have felt about the trail of broken treaties left behind by US. Maybe we'll respond to the stresses we're experiencing by realizing that we've allowed our spirits to be broken by relying on transactions instead of engaging in relationships. Perhaps we can learn what to do if we read and remember this poem.

For Calling The Spirit Back From Wandering The Earth In Its Human Feet

by Joy Harjo

Put down that bag of potato chips, that white bread, that
bottle of pop.

Turn off that cellphone, computer, and remote control.

Open the door, then close it behind you.

Take a breath offered by friendly winds. They travel
the earth gathering essences of plants to clean.

Give back with gratitude.

If you sing it will give your spirit lift to fly to the stars’ ears and
back.

Acknowledge this earth who has cared for you since you were
a dream planting itself precisely within your parents’ desire.

Let your moccasin feet take you to the encampment of the
guardians who have known you before time,
who will be there after time.
They sit before the fire that has been there without time.

Let the earth stabilize your postcolonial insecure jitters.

Be respectful of the small insects, birds and animal people
who accompany you.
Ask their forgiveness for the harm we humans have brought
down upon them.

Don’t worry.
The heart knows the way though there may be high-rises,
interstates, checkpoints, armed soldiers, massacres, wars, and
those who will despise you because they despise themselves.

The journey might take you a few hours, a day, a year, a few
years, a hundred, a thousand or even more.

Watch your mind. Without training it might run away and
leave your heart for the immense human feast set by the
thieves of time.

Do not hold regrets.

When you find your way to the circle, to the fire kept burning
by the keepers of your soul, you will be welcomed.

You must clean yourself with cedar, sage, or other healing plant.

Cut the ties you have to failure and shame.

Let go the pain you are holding in your mind, your shoulders, your heart, all the way to your feet. Let go the pain of your ancestors to make way for those who are heading in our direction.

Ask for forgiveness.

Call upon the help of those who love you. These helpers take many forms: animal, element, bird, angel, saint, stone, or ancestor.

Call yourself back. You will find yourself caught in corners and creases of shame, judgment, and human abuse.

You must call in a way that your spirit will want to return.
Speak to it as you would to a beloved child.

Welcome your spirit back from its wandering. It will return
in pieces, in tatters. Gather them together. They will be
happy to be found after being lost for so long.

Your spirit will need to sleep awhile after it is bathed and
given clean clothes.

Now you can have a party. Invite everyone you know who
loves and supports you. Keep room for those who have no
place else to go.

Make a giveaway, and remember, keep the speeches short.

Then, you must do this: help the next person find their way through the dark.

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Time for a change (or two)

It’s actually starting to seem like Spring here in the North Country. Once again the snow has melted and, come midweek next, overnight low temperatures are forecast to stay above freezing. Leaf buds on the maple trees have burst and, but for a few outliers, the oaks have dropped their overwintering leaves as the new buds swell.

maple leaf buds opening

Photo by J. Harrington

I hate to admit this but I spent way too much time last week doom scrolling and being in an absolutely funky mood. Between laying off thousands of federal staff and laying on thousands of tariffs, it was down the rabbit hole time again. We’re going to be years, if not decades, working to recover once we rid ourselves of our first (and only?) FOTUS [Felon Of The United States]. Despite all the madness, I did complete a preliminary, informal, climate action VENN diagram. It turns out to be trickier than I thought it would, especially since the DrawDown listing doesn’t really cover my interest: the relationships among climate change, the hydrologic cycle, and stream restoration. I made some progress and will keep picking away at it. Stay tuned and, meanwhile, if you’re interested, here’s a link to some local postings that explore climate change and trout fishing.

Speaking of changes, I think this will be the week I take the bback blade off the tractor and start to clean up some of the leaves and branches that came down over the winter. It's also time to get this year's fishing licenses and begin some exploring. That's one of the better ways I can think of to shake the residuals of cabin fever.

Also, please note that April is National Poetry Month. Enjoy Paul Simon's lyrics to help celebrate the month and the changing of the seasons.

      April Come She Will

Lyrics:

April, come she will
When streams are ripe and swelled with rain
May, she will stay
Resting in my arms again

June, she’ll change her tune
In restless walks, she’ll prowl the night
July, she will fly
And give no warning of her flight

August, die she must
The autumn winds blow chilly and cold
September, I’ll remember
A love once new has now grown old

© 1965 Words and Music by Paul Simon

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What are we here for?

It’s the end of March; the beginning of Spring. The back yard and the driveway are covered in an inch or so of fresh snow. More storms, with a possibility of more snow, are forecast for Tuesday night and Wednesday. Meanwhile,, a flock of more than a dozen wild turkey hens came out of the woods to visit the back yard Sunday. On Monday, three or four toms and jake turkeys were displaying to most or all of the flock of hens. A few whitetail deer also have wandered through from time to time. Springtime in the North Country is full of surprises. I’m working hard to temper my expectations and enjoy much of whatever comes next. That seems to work better with Mother Nature than with current versions of American government and politics.

hen turkey flock sunning in the back yard

Photo by J. Harrington

This morning I presented myself with a challenge: what would happen if I tried to find as many opportunities to demonstrate in favor of things I want instead of things I don’t want. I suspect I’d be more than a little frustrated. Then again, the country doesn’t yet have an Equal Rights Amendment. We are far from where we should be to respond effectively to a growing climate crisis. We seem to need many more leaders like Ayana Elizabeth Johnson to move the climate needle far and fast enough. (Full disclosure: I’ve yet to complete my own version of a climate action Venn diagram. I hereby make a public commitment to completing a personal version before posting again on this blog.) We’re nowhere near meeting the 1972 Clean Water Act's 1983 goal of “fishable-swimmable” water. Let’s not even get started on the loss of biodiversity issue and/or the increase in economic inequality. I bet the Venn diagram worksheet could readily be adapted to other issues that need support.

In his book, Cradle to Cradle, William McDonough writes about "Why Being ‘Less Bad’ Is No Good.” Among the things we make are environmental laws. What if we work more, and harder, and smarter, to create better laws that support indigenous rights of nature, for clean water, and air, and productive soils that exist for their own sakes. What would Venn diagrams for that approach look and read like? Can we afford to settle for any less? Do you remember the punch line from the old joke about “the operation was a success, but the patient died?” Isn’t that what we’re setting ourselves up for?

Characteristics of Life

Camille T. Dungy
1972 – 

^{A fifth of animals without backbones could be at risk of extinction, say scientists.
—BBC Nature News}

Ask me if I speak for the snail and I will tell you
I speak for the snail.
                          speak of underneathedness
and the welcome of mosses,
                                        of life that springs up,
little lives that pull back and wait for a moment.

I speak for the damselfly, water skeet, mollusk,
the caterpillar, the beetle, the spider, the ant.
                                                        I speak
from the time before spinelessness was frowned upon.

Ask me if I speak for the moon jelly. I will tell you
                        one thing today and another tomorrow
        and I will be as consistent as anything alive
on this earth.

                        I move as the currents move, with the breezes.
What part of your nature drives you? You, in your cubicle
ought to understand me. I filter and filter and filter all day.

Ask me if I speak for the nautilus and I will be silent
as the nautilus shell on a shelf. I can be beautiful
and useless if that's all you know to ask of me.

Ask me what I know of longing and I will speak of distances
        between meadows of night-blooming flowers.
                                                        I will speak
                        the impossible hope of the firefly.

                                                You with the candle
burning and only one chair at your table must understand
        such wordless desire.

                                To say it is mindless is missing the point. 

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United we stand ...

Today I’m (re)posting the story below because, as much  as I dislike MAGAts, I keep wondering who is benefitting from our being at each others' throats and in each others' faces. I really hate being played for a sucker.

Using Art to Bridge the Rural-Urban Divide

by Anya Petrone Slepyan, The Daily Yonder
March 21, 2025

As the 2024 election approached, news channels and commentators once again revived a familiar narrative: the urban-rural divide. 

But Laura Zabel, executive director of Minnesota-based arts non-profit Springboard for the Arts, was more interested in urban-rural solidarity. 

“Going into an election year, we knew that there was going to be a lot of narrative that focused on ways we might be different, or ways that people assume we’re different,” Zabel said. “And we wanted to do something to not only counter that narrative, but to help people build real relationships and real solidarity across urban and rural places.” 

Stoking resentment between urban and rural communities serves to divide largely working-class constituencies that could gain more political power if they work together, Zabel said. Emphasizing what these communities have in common, across different geographies and demographics, can help counter that divide. But it’s not easy to overcome a narrative that is so deeply ingrained that many Americans take it for granted.

So Springboard for the Arts launched a new initiative, consisting of over 35 artists working on projects across Minnesota, Michigan, Kentucky, and Colorado that connect urban and rural communities. The installations include phone booths that connect communities in rural Northfield, Minnesota and Minneapolis, a culinary project that celebrates the fusion of a chef’s Southeast Asian roots and rural midwestern upbringing, and a Kentucky poetry slam honoring the renowned theorist and professor bell hooks.

Artists Drew Arrieta and Maddy Barsch created cozy phone booths that connected the communities of Minneapolis and Northfield, Minnesota. (Photo by Drew Arrieta)

The results, Zabel said, demonstrate “all of the different ways that we’re connected, and all of the different creative ways that we might reach out to one another and build that kind of understanding.” 

Using art projects to foster connection and understanding is effective, according to Zabel, because they leave room for nuance and complexity that is often flattened by media narratives.  Creative projects can also help people approach new ideas with a more open mind, she said. 

“Art has a tremendous ability to build shared experience in ways that takes people outside of their comfort zone, or makes people more open to thinking of things in a different way,” Zabel said.

A project installed in two Minnesota elementary schools demonstrates the principles behind the projects. Artist David Hamlow worked with 2nd and 3rd graders in rural St. James and urban Minneapolis to design wall sculptures made of recycled materials. Each student was also given a yearbook photo of a participating student from the other school, and asked to incorporate that picture into the sculpture. The resulting walls of faces serve a purpose similar to pen pals, according to Zabel.

Each student was given a class portrait of their counterpart at a different school, and asked to decorate the picture with recycled materials. (Photo by David Hamlow)

“The goal of this whole project in a nutshell is to just get people thinking about one another as individuals and as people who are living full lives and having similar experiences and to help people be more curious about what those lives might be like,” Zabel said.

The youth-focused project also hopes to reach urban and rural children before they’ve internalized the harmful stereotypes these communities can apply to one another. 

Project installations by the initial class of 35 artists are ongoing, but Zabel hopes to expand the initiative further in coming years.

“I think that if we are able to build greater understanding and connection, and help people see a more complete picture of what it looks like to live in different contexts, we end up finding out that there is a lot of shared interest and shared hope for our future and our children,” Zabel said.

This article first appeared on The Daily Yonder and is republished here under a Creative Commons license.

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Approaching Vernal Equinox

We have once again survived the conversion to daylight savings time. Tomorrow is St. Patrick’s Day. We wish a happy one to those who celebrate. This morning a ball of Irish soda bread dough went into the oven and made the house smell wonderful for awhile as it baked. The Better Half is cooking corned beef for tonight’s dinner. I’m wearing a green t-shirt, socks, and shoes today and will be attired in something similar tomorrow. I’m of Irish extraction as they say in my hometown of Boston

Unfortunately, since January 20, we appear to be blessed not by anyone good at driving out snakes, but with St. Upid. Many of US wish him a quick trip back to Apprenticeland, or wherever, until he learns how to behave with civilized people who lack the forbearance of, or for, some saints.

St. Upid, Patron Saint of Economic Collapse

We’ve already had our first 70 degree day and some thunder. Many waterfowl have returned over the past few days. Weeping willows are turning golden. Red osier dogwood has brightened. There’s only a few small patches of snow left, if that. There's snow in the forecast for the day before Spring arrives which, in Minnesota, isn't terribly surprising. In years past, we've had snow every month of the year but one. This year is looking like a tarriffic one for all kinds of volatility and roller coaster rides.

I spend too much time doom scrolling and hope to soon find something more enjoyable to do instead. Fly fishing, anyone? Then again, though I've not yet acquired the skill to turn away from watching an impending train wreck, I do hope we won’t soon be forbidden to wear certain colors, especially since “Spring Is a New Beginning."

"The Wearing of the Green" Lyrics

Oh, Paddy dear, did you hear the news that's going 'round?

The shamrock is forbid by law to grow on Irish ground

Saint Patrick's Day no more to keep, his color can't be seen

For there's a bloody law again' the Wearing of the Green.

I met with Napper Tandy and he took me by the hand

And he said, "How's poor old Ireland and how does she stand?"

"She's the most distressful country that ever yet was seen

For they're hanging men and women there for Wearing of the Green."

She's the most distressful country that ever yet was seen

For they're hanging men and women there for Wearing of the Green.

Then since the color we must wear is England's cruel red

Sure Ireland's sons will never forget the blood that they have shed

You may pull the shamrock from your hat and cast it on the sod

But 'twill take root and flourish there, though underfoot 'tis trod.

When laws can stop the blades of grass for growing as they grow

And when the leaves in summertime their verdure dare not show

Then I will change the color too I wear in my caubeen*

But 'til that day, please God, I'll stick to Wearing of the Green.

She's the most distressful country that ever yet was seen

For they're hanging men and women there for Wearing of the Green.

But if at last our color should be torn from Ireland's heart

Her sons, with shame and sorrow, from the dear old Isle will part

I've heard a whisper of a land that lies beyond the sea

Where rich and poor stand equal in the light of Freedom's day.

Ah, Erin, must we leave you, driven by a tyrant's hand

Must we seek a mother's blessing from a strange and distant land

Where the cruel cross of England shall never more be seen

And where, please God, we'll live and die, still Wearing of the Green.

She's the most distressful country that ever yet was seen

For they're hanging men and women there for Wearing of the Green.

*"Caubeen" is an Irish word for a certain type of hat, similar to a beret.

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Time for rebirth

The snow cover is leaving, again. This time perhaps until the start oof next winter. We’ll see. It’s about time, since sandhill cranes should arrive soon. Signs of open water have appeared on the creek north of the property. The Sunrise river has been at least partly open for more than a week now. Perhaps the rebirth of nature will help trigger a similar rebirth of sanity and what passed for democracy for US. The continued and increasing insanity emanating from Washington, D.C. and Mar-a-Lardo has put me in a deep funk. I may have done better anticipating the outcome of last November’s election if I had kept in mind H.L. Mencken’s all too true observation: “No one in this world, so far as I know... has ever lost money by underestimating the intelligence of the great masses of the plain people.” I doubt we’ll accomplish much to increase their intelligence by banning books, words, or ideas but that won’t stop kakistocrats from trying.

ice and snow melts, open water flows

Photo by J. Harrington

I continue to hope that what we’re experiencing will turn into a non-fatal wake up call that facilitates a societal, economic and cultural transformation for US. Money has become too dominant a measure of success in life. I continue to look toward (the original) Robert F. Kennedy’s assessment:

Yet the gross national product does not allow for the health of our children, the quality of their education or the joy of their play. It does not include the beauty of our poetry or the strength of our marriages, the intelligence of our public debate or the integrity of our public officials. It measures neither our wit nor our courage, neither our wisdom nor our learning, neither our compassion nor our devotion to our country, it measures everything in short, except that which makes life worthwhile. And it can tell us everything about America except why we are proud that we are Americans.

Perhaps the current malaise among Democrats could be eased, even erased, if they read, contemplated, and responded to Kennedy's entire speech from which the extract above was derived. Some of US are reaching a point at which we are no longer “proud that we are Americans.”

Rebecca Solnit has written about “Hope in the Dark: Untold Histories, Wild Possibilities.” For any who ever claimed democracy was easy, they probably changed their mind when they discovered the barbarians inside the gates. We can do better. We have done better. We will do better. We must. It’s imperative for US to share why we are proud too be Americans as we work together to fulfill the promises embodied in our Declaration of Independence as we recognize our interdependence on each other and the air, water, soil and habitats on which we are totally dependent.

Narcissus

Patricia Hooper

Near the path through the woods I’ve seen it:
a trail of white candles.

I could find it again, I could follow
its light deep into shadows.

Didn’t I stand there once? 
Didn’t I choose to go back

down the cleared path, the familiar?
Narcissus, you said. Wasn’t this

the flower whose sudden enchantments
led Persephone down into Hades?

You remember the way she was changed
when she came every spring, having seen

the withering branches, the chasms,
and how she had to return there

helplessly, having eaten
the seed of desire. What was it

I saw you were offering me
without meaning to, there in the sunlight,

while the flowers beckoned and shone
in their flickering season?

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Advice for these times from times past

There’s an old piece of advice that goes something like “If you can’t say something good, don’t say anything at all.” There will be no political commentary forthcoming from this source today. if we had a third major political party in our country, we could call the parties: Larry, Moe and Curly.

On to better news, we’ve made it to meteorological spring. Astronomical spring begins locally with the seasonal equinox on Thursday, March 20, 2025 at 4:01 am CDT. Snow is in the forecast for this coming Tuesday and, a week later, the high temperature is forecast to reach the low 60’s. Make of that what you will. I see few options but to try to ride the roller coasters of weather and politics as best I can and try to follow another old piece of advice: Illegitimi non carborundum [Don't let the bastards grind you down].

spring greening, life reviving

Photo by J. Harrington

Last week I successfully completed my two major objectives, I policed the dog droppings and, in a frustratingly similar effort, organized and delivered the tax data to the preparer. I’ll pick up the results from the preparer tomorrow. The dog’s materials are in the trash can for collection tomorrow. May all bad luck go with them to repeat another old phrase.

Back in the days when I went to grammar school, I was taught by nuns. They always counseled us kids if someone we knew was sick, we should pray for “a happy recovery or a speedy death." [Either would end the suffering if the individual was in a state of grace. If not, and a speedy death occurred, suffering could be eternal.] I can see no way that those who support #45 a&b [aka #47] could continue to do so unless they were suffering from some sort of disease. I think that means the Christian and humane behavior for US is to follow the guidance the nuns provided. Let’s all of US pray for a speedy recovery or happy death for all those supporting the current regime in D.C. and Mar-a-Lardo. It should do US a lot of good if our prayers are promptly answered. Maybe we could even avoid the worst of March’s snow jobs.

Instructions on Not Giving Up

Ada Limón
1976 – 

More than the fuchsia funnels breaking out
of the crabapple tree, more than the neighbor’s
almost obscene display of cherry limbs shoving
their cotton candy-colored blossoms to the slate
sky of Spring rains, it’s the greening of the trees
that really gets to me. When all the shock of white
and taffy, the world’s baubles and trinkets, leave
the pavement strewn with the confetti of aftermath,
the leaves come. Patient, plodding, a green skin
growing over whatever winter did to us, a return
to the strange idea of continuous living despite
the mess of us, the hurt, the empty. Fine then,
I’ll take it, the tree seems to say, a new slick leaf
unfurling like a fist to an open palm, I’ll take it all.

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Evolution or Revolution?

The snow is melting!!! It will take a few days to get gone. Fortunately, we’re in for a string of 40+℉ all week. Can you tell that I’m not one of those who has to have their ice house removed by a week from tomorrow? I have two objectives for next week: 1) finish organizing the tax information, and 2) get much of the dog droppings cleaned up as melting continues. If I succeed at both, I’ll reward myself with a trip to one of the local fly-fishing shops.

February hoar frost on the trees

Photo by J. Harrington

The dogs are much happier now that the temperatures have gone to positive numbers. The warmer, moister, air seems to hold more enticing aromas (smells if you’re a dog) so they enjoy that too. We’ve come into hoar frost and rime ice season. If we get some it’ll be beautiful, as usual. Soon the song birds will be singing their spring songs and tom turkeys will be gobbling to impress hens.

I’m rarely sorry to see February go. In Minnesota, winter is usually three or four weeks longer than I’d like. I’m crossing my fingers that this spring may actually be like a springtime, instead of just a jumbled-up change from winter to summer. Next month we’ll get this year’s fishing licenses and start planning some trips. The older I get, especially since last November, the more I’m taking to heart John Voellker’s Testament of a Fisherman.

I’m also looking forward to digging out one of the presents I got last Christmas and doing more local exploring based on Angie Hong’s Exploring the St. Croix River Valley. The best part of the year is ahead of us and we need to enjoy as much of it as we can.

We’ll close out Black History Month this year and respond to a wannabe king with an all too fitting

Declaration 

Tracy K. Smith
1972 – 

He has 

              sent hither swarms of Officers to harass our people



He has plundered our—



                                             ravaged our—



                                                                   destroyed the lives of our—



taking away our­—



                                 abolishing our most valuable—



and altering fundamentally the Forms of our—



In every stage of these Oppressions We have Petitioned for

Redress in the most humble terms:

                                                                Our repeated 

Petitions have been answered only by repeated injury.



We have reminded them of the circumstances of our emigration

and settlement here.



                                    —taken Captive



                                                              on the high Seas



                                                                                             to bear—

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‘Twixt Valentines and Spring

We hope you had a warm Valentine’s Day full of hugs, kisses and loves. Ours did and added too much candy to be good for us since we were just finishing off the Christmas stash. Time to start practicing self control again. Wish me luck!!

Over the past few days we’ve watched a flock of a baker’s dozen turkey hens scratch the daylights out of our back yard. Where there had been a couple of inches of snow cover, after the birds’ visits, oak leaves cover the ground. They no doubt found most of the acorns they were looking for or they’d still be scratching for them. Yesterday, as they trod downhill, they looked like a division of miniature tanks coming toward the house. By sometime next month, toms may start to gobble as mating season begins.

red osier dogwood brightening

Photo by J. Harrington

At the moment, we’re under an “Extreme Cold Watch” with wind chills from minus 33 to minus 39 forecast for tomorrow and Tuesday. By next weekend, daytime highs are forecast to reach above freezing. Remember the old saying “If winter’s here, can spring be far behind?” Let’s hope it’s right (behind)!! Meteorologically we’re now less than two weeks from the beginning of spring on March 1.

It’s about that time of year when red osier dogwood begins to brighten tamarack swamps. Soon we’ll be hearing the tinkles and tunks of snowmelt dripping and flowing as nature begins to climb out from under her winter blanket. Spring is a season the Minnesota does not usually do well. The pattern is too often cold, cold, cool, warm, hot, over about that many days. Maybe this year will be an exception to the usual and we’ll get to enjoy an extended, gradual warming over weeks to come. Maybe some year the Vikings will win the Superbowl, too. Lots of natural, and naturalized, Minnesotans have become quite good at saying “Wait ’til next year.”

Here in the North Country, by the time we leave Black History Month, we will be entering the

Country of Water

Mahogany L. Browne

I know who I am because I believe it

The breath in my chest
Insistent in its choice

The skin that I’m in
The bones and blood and veins
It carries like a promise

          Have you witnessed the ocean

Moving with so much gust and life
Have you witnessed the river
Still waters bubbling the rebirth of school

           Have you witnessed your body

Its own country of water
Moving against the tide of a world
So heartbreaking      it’s forgotten its own voice

Be still friend
Be still
Be kind to yourself in the gift of stillness

I know who I am because I believe it
I know
I know
Who I
Who I
Believe
Believe
Believe
In three’s we will come
A drip of water moving against a boulder
Water slow and steady can turn rock
Into a pebble
Like anxiety
Like self-doubt
Smaller
Smaller
Until gone
Let your love for yourself be the water
Be the rise
Be the mist
Let you be

I know who I am because I believe it
I believe I am my mother’s daughter
I believe I am my grandmother’s prayers
I believe I am my great-grandmother’s backbone revealed

I am I am because I believe so
I am because a woman believed in me
What a continent I became
What a country of water I be
I flow and fluid and rise and ebb and I believe in me

           I am not wrong
I am wronged

In this skin I’ve reclaimed
From this trap of this country’s tourniquet
Only to find the sweet solace is a river bed
Its mud beckons me closer to its silt
Small fish and forgotten glass unearth themselves
Like baby teeth
Only one can cut into flesh purposely
Only one does not know what it is capable of

I believe in the air as much as I believe in the fire
I believe in the fire as much as the water consumes
I believe in a higher source
Energetic and wise
I believe in my ability to thrive

This body
        This body is a good thing

Turning two miles walked over a bridge into a family’s meal
Creating poems that become cashier’s checks
Dentist bills and rent
I’ve three holes in my teeth
And a nation that pretends I didn’t almost die for it to survive

I am I am still here still here
I am still here and like the ocean, full of salt and shells
Full of ship remnants and noble ones
I bleed and the sand grieves
I be because someone survived for me to be here
Today

Breathing this almost air
Marching for cleaner belongings
My front seat beneath the deadening stars
Is still a seat
Is still a ground
Is still a home that I can pronounce my given name
To write amongst the forgotten names
The taken and the ignored
But today

            There are no tombstones

Today
There is no true death

Only life
Only life
Only a song of the living
Maybe even a belief system
With water as its minister

            I am water

I dive into my own currents
I dress my dreams in the satin breath
Of my ancestors

I know
I know
I know who I am
I know who I am because I believe it

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O tempora, o mores!*

We got five or six inches of snow late Friday and early Saturday. The birds have been pouring in to the feeders: goldfinches, juncoes, woodpeckers, cardinals, bluejays, nuthatches and chickadees for the most part. My aging shoulders ache from wrestling with the snow blower. Spring can’t arrive soon enough as far as I’m concerned. Unfortunately, we’re again looking at a week ahead full of days with high temperatures in the single digits, at least according to my smartphone weather app. The Weather Underground outlook is marginally more optimistic.

a forced bulb pot garden in bloom

Photo by J. Harrington

On a more pleasant theme, we got an early start baking Irish soda bread this week, instead of waiting until next month for St. Patrick’s Day. I’ve almost finished reading a book the Daughter Person lent me (which the Better Half assures me she read to our kids when they were young): Wise Child by Monica Furlong. I have no memory of it but find the current reading to be delightful. I’ll be curious to see how I react to the other two books in the series. Mentioned previously on these pages has been the forced bulb garden the Better Half gave me for Christmas. Watching it bloom has helped my sanity immeasurably during this interminable winter season. A version from 2023 is shown above.

Despite the goings on in D.C., this is still Black History Month. As a matter of fact, here’s a link to this year’s presidential proclamation announcing it. (I took a screen shot as backup.) Today’s poem feels fitting for all of US during the times and goings on the administration is shoveling on US. I wonder how much “love of country” will be in the air come Friday.

*O tempora, o mores! [click for translation  and explanation]

Still I Rise

By Maya Angelou 

You may write me down in history

With your bitter, twisted lies,

You may trod me in the very dirt

But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?

Why are you beset with gloom?

’Cause I walk like I've got oil wells

Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,

With the certainty of tides,

Just like hopes springing high,

Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?

Bowed head and lowered eyes?

Shoulders falling down like teardrops,

Weakened by my soulful cries?

Does my haughtiness offend you?

Don't you take it awful hard

’Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines

Diggin’ in my own backyard.

You may shoot me with your words,

You may cut me with your eyes,

You may kill me with your hatefulness,

But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?

Does it come as a surprise

That I dance like I've got diamonds

At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history’s shame

I rise

Up from a past that’s rooted in pain

I rise

I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,

Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear

I rise

Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear

I rise

Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,

I am the dream and the hope of the slave.

I rise

I rise

I rise.

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Welcome, February!

Yesterday was the Feast of Imbolc. It was also the first day of Black History Month. Today, on Groundhog Day, Punxsutawney Phil is reported to have seen his shadow, which means six weeks more of winter. That brings us to mid-March, several weeks after the March 1 beginning of meteorological spring and about a week before the spring equinox, the start of astronomical spring. However, according to NOAA, Phil has a history of not being very accurate with his forecasts.

If you’re reading this, it’s a good indication you made it through January with us. This morning, for the first time this year, I heard the spring song of a chickadee. The little snow we got yesterday and last night is melting. More flakes are forecast for tonight and tomorrow morning, followed by daytime highs in the upper teens and low twenties for at least a week or so. Normal highs this week should be in the mid-twenties, so Phil looks to be on target for the first week of February.

Valentine's Day hearts and candy

Photo by J. Harrington

Valentine’s Day will be a week from Friday. Last night we helped the Daughter Person and Son-In-Law, and many of their friends, celebrate the 20th anniversary of their first date. Several of the folks whose blogs I follow are focusing this month on the need to love the world and all our neighbors, both human and more than. I find that I can love much of the world but have severe difficulty with creatures like viruses that make folks sick or worse. I have similar issues with many people who seem to have been placed here primarily to cause suffering and/or serve as a bad example. Neither do I believe in unilateral disarmament. I suspect sainthood isn’t in my future.

In light of events of the past couple of weeks, and those anticipated for the foreseeable future, I can think of no better way to begin celebrating Black History Month than with this poem of Langston Hughes:

Let America Be America Again 

by Langston Hughes 

Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.

(America never was America to me.)

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed--
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.

(It never was America to me.)

O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.

(There's never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this "homeland of the free.")

Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?

I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery's scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek--
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.

I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one's own greed!

I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean--
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today--O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.

Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That's made America the land it has become.
O, I'm the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home--
For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore,
And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa's strand I came
To build a "homeland of the free."

The free?

Who said the free? Not me?
Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we've dreamed
And all the songs we've sung
And all the hopes we've held
And all the flags we've hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay--
Except the dream that's almost dead today.

O, let America be America again--
The land that never has been yet--
And yet must be--the land where every man is free.
The land that's mine--the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME--
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.

Sure, call me any ugly name you choose--
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people's lives,
We must take back our land again,
America!

O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath--
America will be!

Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain--
All, all the stretch of these great green states--
And make America again!

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As January prepares to leave....

 A (late) January thaw is on its way. The combination of days of bitter cold and a barrage of Executive Orders has put a major crimp in my sunny personality. I confess to spending entirely too much time sitting and brooding and bitching. Several days of even mild melting may also help thaw my grumpiness, I hope. The fact that Minnesota’s legislature is a dysfunctional mess doesn’t really improve one’s outlook on the state of the state, the country, or the world.

pileated woodpecker at suet feeder

Photo by J. Harrington

Backyard sightings of deer or turkeys have been slim to none, although there are deer tracks in the snow behind the house where they’ve been searching for acorns under the snow at night. So far, no pileated woodpeckers have visited the suet feeder, at least while we were watching. 

On to more pleasant themes: my forced bulb garden is developing nicely. The dogs appreciate the slight improvement in temperatures. My sourdough bread is improving as I get back to baking more frequently. We’re approaching Valentine’s season. The Vikings didn’t tease us along only to break our hearts again. The best parts of the year are still ahead of us and I’ve lots of good books to read to get through the rest of winter. (Spring Equinox is 52 days away. Meteorological Spring begins March 1.)

Joy Harjo’s poem seems to capture only too well the times and the season we’re living through. Pllease be kind to each other.

Grace

Joy Harjo
1951 – 

                                    For Darlene Wind and James Welch

I think of Wind and her wild ways the year we had nothing to lose and lost it anyway in the cursed country of the fox. We still talk about that winter, how the cold froze imaginary buffalo on the stuffed horizon of snowbanks. The haunting voices of the starved and mutilated broke fences, crashed our thermostat dreams, and we couldn't stand it one more time. So once again we lost a winter in stubborn memory, walked through cheap apartment walls, skated through fields of ghosts into a town that never wanted us, in the epic search for grace. 

Like Coyote, like Rabbit, we could not contain our terror and clowned our way through a season of false midnights. We had to swallow that town with laughter, so it would go down easy as honey. And one morning as the sun struggled to break ice, and our dreams had found us with coffee and pancakes in a truck stop along Highway 80, we found grace.

I could say grace was a woman with time on her hands, or a white buffalo escaped from memory. But in that dingy light it was a promise of balance. We once again understood the talk of animals, and spring was lean and hungry with the hope of children and corn. 

I would like to say, with grace, we picked ourselves up and walked into the spring thaw. We didn't; the next season was worse. You went home to Leech Lake to work with the tribe and I went south. And, Wind, I am still crazy. I know there is something larger than the memory of a dispossessed people. We have seen it. 

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Chilly outlook for the future?

The temperature probably won’t get above zero before the day after tomorrow. Then flurries are in the forecast for Wednesday. We’re paying a steep price for a little sunshine and blue skies but it’s not as bad as it was in 2019 when we hit -31 at the end of January. Getting back to seasonal highs in the low twenties gives us something to look forward to. I know, I don’t believe I just wrote that either. Spring equinox is still two months from tomorrow. Sigh!

We’ve not yet heard any spring calls from the chick-a-dees or cardinals. Maybe when this cold snap lets go? On a brighter note, the tulips in the “Spring Morning” forced bulb garden the Better Half gave me for Christmas are beginning to bloom. That and the other flowers will help perk me up until the real Spring thing is here.

last January's forced bulb garden

Photo by J. Harrington

We’re planning on a tv-less Monday tomorrow except for weather reports and, possibly, updates on the latest madness at the Minnesota legislature. It seems that, both locally and nationally, politicians are determined to prove the validity of Churchill’s observation:

‘No one pretends that democracy is perfect or all-wise. Indeed it has been said that democracy is the worst form of Government except for all those other forms that have been tried from time to time.…’

Winston S Churchill, 11 November 1947

Another bit of good news, at least for me, is that the Daughter Person is now baking her own version oof one of my all-time favorite cookies, white chocolate and cranberries. I’m rationing my consumption to keep from exploding my blood sugar levels, but it’s hard!

This is about the time of year when bear cubs are born while mom is still hibernating. If humans were actually as smart as we like to believe we are, hibernation is a skill we would have acquired long ago.

Furry Bear

A. A. Milne

If I were a bear, 
   And a big bear too, 
I shouldn’t much care 
   If it froze or snew; 
I shouldn’t much mind 
   If it snowed or friz— 
I’d be all fur-lined 
   With a coat like his! 

For I’d have fur boots and a brown fur wrap, 
And brown fur knickers and a big fur cap. 
I’d have a fur muffle-ruff to cover my jaws, 
And brown fur mittens on my big brown paws. 
With a big brown furry-down up to my head, 
I’d sleep all the winter in a big fur bed. 

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A winter of our discontent

After getting a couple of inches of snow during the past few days, the neighborhood is looking more seasonal. The little snow cover we had around Christmas melted during December's January thaw, leaving the countryside looking cold and bare. The 10-day forecast includes a couple of days above freezing around mid-month but many other days sliding back into single digits. Neither the dogs nor the dog walker much like that kind of cold, especially when combined with enough “breeze” to create “feels like” temperatures well below zero.

January's full moon

Photo by J. Harrington

The Minnesota Weather Guide notes that tomorrow’s full moon is called the Great Spirit Moon (Ojibwe) and Hard Times Moon (Lakota). Shortly after the moon starts waning, we’ll be halfway through the first month of the year. We’ve already noticed that the days are longer, a signal that sometime soon they should actually start to get warmer. Meanwhile, as of January 20, the world of politics is headed for a major heat up. I’ve already been wearing out the serenity prayer. I'm afraid it's going to be a lonnngg four years.

In light of the growing obsequiousness of tech bros to a dictator wannabe, perhaps it's time to consider recreating a version of the Luddite party. One of its primary responsibilities would be to be sure there are viable primary challengers for all politicians, of any party, that support corporate donors more than constituents. Cutting personal safety nets like sociall security and medicare to fund tax cuts for billionaires should never get a pass. A democracy and a corporatocracy are very far from versions of the same thing.

At least the occasional arrival of cardinals at the feeder brings some cheer these days, although we've yet to hear the male's spring song.

For Calling the Spirit Back from Wandering the Earth in Its Human Feet 

Joy Harjo
1951 – 

Put down that bag of potato chips, that white bread, that bottle of pop.

Turn off that cellphone, computer, and remote control.

Open the door, then close it behind you.

Take a breath offered by friendly winds. They travel the earth gathering essences of plants to clean.

Give it back with gratitude.

If you sing it will give your spirit lift to fly to the stars’ ears and back.

Acknowledge this earth who has cared for you since you were a dream planting itself precisely within your parents’ desire.

Let your moccasin feet take you to the encampment of the guardians who have known you before time, who will be there after time. They sit before the fire that has been there without time.

Let the earth stabilize your postcolonial insecure jitters.

Be respectful of the small insects, birds and animal people who accompany you.
Ask their forgiveness for the harm we humans have brought down upon them.

Don’t worry.
The heart knows the way though there may be high-rises, interstates, checkpoints, armed soldiers, massacres, wars, and those who will despise you because they despise themselves.

The journey might take you a few hours, a day, a year, a few years, a hundred, a thousand or even more.

Watch your mind. Without training it might run away and leave your heart for the immense human feast set by the thieves of time.

Do not hold regrets.

When you find your way to the circle, to the fire kept burning by the keepers of your soul, you will be welcomed.

You must clean yourself with cedar, sage, or other healing plant.

Cut the ties you have to failure and shame.

Let go the pain you are holding in your mind, your shoulders, your heart, all the way to your feet. Let go the pain of your ancestors to make way for those who are heading in our direction.

Ask for forgiveness.

Call upon the help of those who love you. These helpers take many forms: animal, element, bird, angel, saint, stone, or ancestor.

Call your spirit back. It may be caught in corners and creases of shame, judgment, and human abuse.

You must call in a way that your spirit will want to return.

Speak to it as you would to a beloved child.

Welcome your spirit back from its wandering. It may return in pieces, in tatters. Gather them together. They will be happy to be found after being lost for so long.

Your spirit will need to sleep awhile after it is bathed and given clean clothes.

Now you can have a party. Invite everyone you know who loves and supports you. Keep room for those who have no place else to go.

Make a giveaway, and remember, keep the speeches short.

Then, you must do this: help the next person find their way through the dark. 

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C’mon Spring!

For many, tomorrow, January 6, is the feast of the Epiphany. That’s when our Christmas decorations will start to come down for another year. It’ll feel like a long time until we celebrate Valentine’s Day next month. At least many of us will be able to  have some fun organizing to file taxes in April (he typed snarkily). Looking at what is claimed to be “normal” high and low temperatures in our area, we’ll begin to thaw near the end of the third week or start of the fourth in February. Then it’s only another month until Spring Equinox (March  20).

say "good-bye" Christmas

Photo by J. Harrington

If you got the impression I don’t like winter, you’re perceptive. We’ve been experiencing a polar vortex with windchills persisting below zero. At least (for now) the freezing rain, ice and snow are occurring well south of us. On the brighter side, there’s a forced bulb garden and another plant growing towards blooming, bringing spring early to our indoors. Plus I have a stack of books I’m enjoying reading and a list of those to be published this year that I’m looking forward to. We’ll try to avoid being overly grumpy despite the season, the weather and the incoming administration. I’ve noticed that all I accomplish by getting upset at others’ (or my own) incompetence is getting upset and being unhappy. It’s a habit I’m trying to break.

Thanks largely, but not entirely, to the vagaries of the weather, I’ve missed fly fishing the past couple of seasons. We plan on making a mighty effort to do better this year. (See above re: not getting upset as often.) Furthermore, some of my recent readings note that Native Americans focus on storytelling during the winter. Storytelling and reading are a lot alike, but I need to forego doomscrollling, news about the inauguration and the incoming administration, and focus on phenology, fly-fishing and successful responses to our climate and related environmental crises. These might be considered New Year’s Resolutions, but I made a new year's resolution decades ago to never make another and I haven’t yet broken that one.

Here’s a fine way to ground ourselves for what lies ahead:

Remember

Joy Harjo
1951 – 

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

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