After Independence, what?

Are you familiar with Joni Mitchell's wonderful song, The Circle Game? It's one of my all time favorites. Despite my grumbles, I really enjoy the seasons. Some more so than others. I'm trying to learn to appreciate each season for its own delights, even heat and humidity that gives me a good excuse to stay inside and read or write. For my birthday aa while back, my son gave me a copy of Emergence Magazine Vol. 6: SEASONS. I'm enjoying its reads and the provoked thoughts that accompany. I take too much for granted and fail to appreciate and enjoy the day-to-day beauties and pleasures in my life. Can you relate?

Swamp Milkweed (Asclepias incarnata)

Photo by J. Harrington

One of our seasonal beauties recently came into bloom in the wet spot behind our house. Swamp milkweed is in flower. That may help to explain the orange butterflies we're seeing flutter around the property. I wish I were better at distinguishing Monarchs from Viceroys as they herky-jerky around.

Yesterday I was trying to get caught up (as if...) on outside chores, over-deferred due to uncooperative weather and persistent summer laziness. Progress was made but more work lies ahead than behind. Part of the challenge is attributable to dew-wet grasses early that becomes humidity as the grasses dry and the day's heat builds and work outside gets deferred to cooler times.

I missed getting a burn permit in time to have an Independence Day bonfire. Maybe we'll see if we can celebrate Lughnasadh / Lammas on August 1 with a fire. Most of the local corn was well above knee high on the 4th of July. The Better Half did a really creative job for the holiday dinner. She made white(ish) pancakes with embedded blueberries and strawberry slices for a red, white and blue meal that exceeded patriotism with tastiness. Yes, we enjoyed a relatively quiet holiday weekend, thank you for asking.

There are no kings in America

Aileen Cassinetto

 

we are not that kind of country.

We are sanctuary for the hungry,

the homeless, the huddled,

held together by an idea

our immigrant fathers believed in.

Rendered, it meant independence.

Pursued, it kindled war, ordinance,

a fighting chance. Forty thousand

musket balls, by themselves, did not

shape the boundaries on which we

map our days. To draw our borders,

we needed more than firecakes.

More than a pound of meat

with bone and gristle,

or salt fish and a gill of peas.

We needed the faith and grit of people

who were not yet Americans.

To be an American is to

recognize the sacrifice

of the widow and the orphan;

it is to understand the weft of tent

cities expecting caravans,

and the heft of a child in a camp

not meant for children, or sitting

before a judge awaiting judgement.

What do we say to the native

whose lands we now inhabit?

What do we say to our immigrant

fathers who held certain truths

to be self-evident?

Do we now still pledge to each

other our lives, our fortunes,

our sacred honor.

There are no kings in America.

Only gilded men we can topple

again and again.

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It's "Earth-is-heating" season

It's the season of thunderstorms, heat and humidity. Butterfly weed is in bloom. Day lilies have started to come into flower, something like a couple of weeks later than I remember from years past. Sheep sorrel has added a reddish tinge to some road sides and disturbed fields. June is about to become July. Days are already about two minutes shorter than a week ago at the solstice. We've started to enjoy this year's occasional sightings of turkey poults and whitetail fawns.

Common Sheep Sorrel (Rumex acetosella)

Photo by J. Harrington

Last week we ordered something unusual, buckthorn honey. It's the first time I recall seeing any beneficial use from this invasive species. There's also a relatively recent report that fungus / fungi can help provide biological control of buckthorn. It seems to me such an approach would be far preferable to the use of chemical herbicides. Finding or creating additional beneficial uses might also lead to better management decisions. I'm far from an expert, but it seems a goal of eradication of buckthorn in Minnesota may be an unrealistic goal.

I was pleased to read that Minnesota's environmental perspective(?) is becoming more holistic. We no longer have "rough [trash] fish" in this state. Even the much maligned carp is now a “regulated invasive species.”

The adjustments to how we practice environmental stewardship are, I believe, critically important because our planetary environment currently is changing at rates faster than historic evolution reflects. We are also a much more significant factor in creating planetary changes than ever before. It's past time we learned how to do it right.

 Salvage 

Ada Limón 1976 –

On the top of Mount Pisgah, on the western
slope of the Mayacamas, there’s a madrone
tree that’s half-burned from the fires, half-alive
from nature’s need to propagate. One side
of her is black ash and at her root is what
looks like a cavity that was hollowed out
by flame. On the other side, silvery green
broadleaf shoots ascend toward the winter
light and her bark is a cross between a bay
horse and a chestnut horse, red and velvety
like the animal’s neck she resembles. I have
been staring at the tree for a long time now.
I am reminded of the righteousness I had
before the scorch of time. I miss who I was.
I miss who we all were, before we were this: half
alive to the brightening sky, half dead already.
I place my hand on the unscarred bark that is cool
and unsullied, and because I cannot apologize
to the tree, to my own self I say, I am sorry.
I am sorry I have been so reckless with your life.

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Happy Father's Day / Welcome Summertime

Today's title is only valid in the northern hemisphere. But you knew that, right? South of the equator they're starting winter. Since Minnesota is (in)famous for its two seasons of winter or road construction, I think we should again follow the old Celtic practice of dividing the year into only two seasons, summer or winter. As climate breakdown continues, spring and autumn are becoming more challenging to relate to as distinct seasons. We could help solve that by turning the solstices into midsummer or midwinter between each of the equinoxes.

goose and goslings celebrating Father's Day

Photo by J. Harrington

I do hope that all who celebrate Father's Day today enjoy warm wishes, wonderful company, and good to great weather. To those who get to share the day in person with Dad, enjoy! For those who must depend on memories, may they all be happy ones! I am a son whose father has walked on and am now both a father and grandfather, but still my father's son. Such relationships have brought much joy and satisfaction into my life.

I'm beginning to suspect this summer's weather is going to remain in a roller coaster pattern with excess amounts of cloudiness, wind and temperature swings. At least it provides lots of excuses for not cutting the grass. We did manage to celebrate the solstice with a seasonal fire in the fire pit that disposed of the latest batch of branches downed by the aforementioned weather.

My claim to being "of Irish extraction" explains my poem choice for this posting.

Digging

By Seamus Heaney

Between my finger and my thumb   

The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound   

When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:   

My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds   

Bends low, comes up twenty years away   

Stooping in rhythm through potato drills   

Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft   

Against the inside knee was levered firmly.

He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep

To scatter new potatoes that we picked,

Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade.   

Just like his old man.

My grandfather cut more turf in a day

Than any other man on Toner’s bog.

Once I carried him milk in a bottle

Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up

To drink it, then fell to right away

Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods

Over his shoulder, going down and down

For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap

Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge

Through living roots awaken in my head.

But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb

The squat pen rests.

I’ll dig with it.

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Another "Bridge too far" (for now)

Please don't misunderstand. I believe aspirational goals are valuable; more so when they're acknowledged as such. But, in my opinion, when the context for, and complexity of, attaining an aspirational goal isn't made evident, the effort can, and too often may, become a source of misinformation or even disinformation.

I was around when President Kennedy announced in 1962 a goal of putting a man on the moon by the end of the decade. Many of my aspirations have been shaped by the picture of our blue marble, Earth, taken by the Apollo 17 crew.

our "Blue Marble"
Image Credit: NASA/NOAA/GSFC/Suomi NPP/VIIRS/Norman Kuring

That image brought home just how rare and complex life on our home planet is. And, we didn't, and won't, get from earth to the moon, or to Mars, on an actual bridge. So, we need to be sensitive to what, and how much, we can bring with us or ship ahead if we''re going to survive in / on extraterrestrial environments. The research undertaken so far is interesting.

Eight go mad in Arizona: how a lockdown experiment went horribly wrong

Such constraints don't appear evident in the efforts of the world's first trillionaire to promote a scheme that would probably be highly profitable for one or more of his companies.

SpaceX Mars colonization program

This wouldn't trouble me as much were it not for reports about who has been funding much of the corporate development (and salvaging) of those companies.

Today a Welfare Trillionaire Is Born

President Kennedy's brother, Bobby, was also a politician. In remarks at the University of Kansas, on March 18, 1968, he noted:

..."Gross National Product - if we judge the United States of America by that - that Gross National Product counts air pollution and cigarette advertising, and ambulances to clear our highways of carnage. It counts special locks for our doors and the jails for the people who break them. It counts the destruction of the redwood and the loss of our natural wonder in chaotic sprawl. It counts napalm and counts nuclear warheads and armored cars for the police to fight the riots in our cities. It counts Whitman's rifle and Speck's knife, and the television programs which glorify violence in order to sell toys to our children. Yet the gross national product does not allow for the health of our children, the quality of their education or the joy of their play. It does not include the beauty of our poetry or the strength of our marriages, the intelligence of our public debate or the integrity of our public officials. It measures neither our wit nor our courage, neither our wisdom nor our learning, neither our compassion nor our devotion to our country, it measures everything in short, except that which makes life worthwhile. And it can tell us everything about America except why we are proud that we are Americans."

 In my opinion, we have much more significant efforts to invest in than space colonization and Artificial Intelligence. It is well past time for US to invest in making an escape to Planet B (as if there were such) unnecessary by practicing stewardship of earth and to put more resources into developing, protecting, and using human intelligence.

Kennedy spoke about an "other America." We need, as a priority, to create one America much closer to our long-standing aspirations of freedom, equality, and justice for all.

You Could Never Take a Car to Greenland

by Maggie Smith

my daughter says. Unless the car could float.
Unless by car you mean boat. Unless the ocean
turned to ice and promised not to crack.
Unless Greenland floated over here,
having lifted its anchor. Unless we could row
our country there. Our whole continent
would have to come along, wouldn’t it? Unless
we cut ourselves free. What kind of saw
could we use for that? What kind of oars
could deliver one country to another?
She asks, Why is Greenland called Greenland
if it’s not green? Why is Iceland called
Iceland if it’s greener than Greenland?
Unless it’s a trick, a lie: the name Greenland
is an ad for Greenland. Who would go
promised nothing but ice? Who would cut
her home to pieces and row away for that?

No more "same old, same old!!!"

Depending on whether you count from Memorial Day or Summer Solstice, Summer's arrival is a little late or a little early. In either case, that season's heat and humidity are now conspicuous by their presence. Those factors have recently been joined by several species of biting bugs, which removes, at least for me, any doubts about whether Spring has burst into Summer.

'tis "that" season again

Photo by J. Harrington

On the brighter side, we are now enjoying corn on the cob, ripe cherries, watermelon, peaches that need more ripening, and regular consumption of ice cream cones. I''m trying to (re)train myself to not let all that's wrong with the world keep me from enjoying some of what's right with it. Sometimes I do have to admit my perfectionist tendencies (me? 😉) can be counterproductive. Plus, I find we live in an increasingly annoying and inept society, thanks to technology misapplication and growing numbers of kleptocratic billionaires and wannabes. I have recently encountered some encouraging resources with worthwhile guidance on how to to turn today's deficits into tomorrow's opportunities. Please don't let the writings at the other end of the links below turn into TL;DR's.

• from The Guardian: The three things Democrats must do to regain rural America’s trust
• from Kosmos: Nate Hagens and the Work of Resilient Futures and,
• Bioregioning and Our Felt Sense of Place

I'm heartened to find intelligent folks are thinking seriously about what it will take to get US and the rest of the world out of the multiple predicaments (existential issues?) we face. I'm even more encouraged that some of them are citing one of my all time favorite poems. Enjoy!!

For the Children

by Gary Snyder

The rising hills, the slopes,

of statistics

lie before us,

the steep climb

of everything, going up,

up, as we all

go down.

In the next century

or the one beyond that,

they say,

are valleys, pastures,

we can meet there in peace

if we make it.

To climb these coming crests

one word to you, to

you and your children:

stay together

learn the flowers

go light 

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Looks like a long, hot summer ahead!

Last week we noticed many hay fields had had their first cutting. Several corn fields were showing emergence plus a few of inches of growth. A male scarlet tanager briefly visited the bird bath. I managed to run the mower over some of the back yard, after picking up most of the winter's deposit of dead branches and knocking down lots of pocket gopher mounds with the drag harrow. It wasn't quite a "no mow May" for us, but we came close.

male scarlet tanager next to bird bath

Photo by J. Harrington

The lilacs in front of the house are in fuller bloom than I recall in years prior. When I slow down enough to stand near them and take a deep breath, the fragrance is a treat. Summer solstice is three weeks from today, locally at 3:24 am CDT, but summer weather started here a week or ten days ago when daily high temperatures jumped from the mid-60's to the mid-80's and have pretty much stayed there. Plus, it's been very dry locally, with thunderstorms scattered around the state.

The fields behind the house have clusters of blue flax and hoary puccoon in bloom, plus a few other flowers I haven't identified. Last summer's two serviceberry bushes addition now have actual berries. It will be interesting later this summer to see what they taste like. I need to put larger enclosures around them to protect them from rabbits and whitetails. Speaking of deer, it's the season for new fawns. I've not seen any yet but the Better Half claims to have seen one during a trip to or from the barn to help with Daughter Person's horse.

Both political parties are lined up for strongly contested primaries come August, with the Democrats deciding between Craig and Flanagan for senate and the Republicans potentially deciding among several options as their gubernatorial candidate for the general election. Meanwhile the regime in D.C. is hell bent to undermine the integrity and validity of our electoral system. Sigh! It's likely to be a long, summer full of hot air and the best we can hope for is choosing least worst alternatives come November! Even a blue tidal wave is unlikely to clean up enough systemic political flotsam and jetsam to actually improve life for the average voter's family.

What Is June Anyway?

By David Budbill

 

After three weeks of hot weather and drought,

           we've had a week of cold and rain,

just the way it ought to be here in the north,

            in June, a fire going in the woodstove

all day long, so you can go outside in the cold

            and rain anytime and smell

the wood smoke in the air.

 

This is the way I love it. This is why

           I came here almost

fifty years ago. What is June anyway

          without cold and rain

and a fire going in the stove all day?

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This weekend, do you know where your memories are?

It's Memorial Day Weekend. The remembrance boards for my father and father-in-law are hung. Today is also Bob Dylan's 85th birthday. Here's a link to his Nobel Prize section. Dylan was highly motivated by the works of Woody Guthrie, who was noted for being, among other things, strongly anti fascist, for example, in this song he wrote: Tear the Fascists Down. I started to fuss about "where's our Woody Guthrie?" when I remembered the recent work of Bruce Springsteen: Streets of Minneapolis... not precisely on target, but close enough to satisfy me and shut down my fussing.

In memory of my father and father-in law

Photo by J. Harrington

As I think about it, these days we're still fighting much the same battles, against the same kinds of ideologies and idiots, that Guthrie and Dylan were singing about and my father and father-in-law fought against in WW II; and the North fought the South about in our "Civil War." Pete Seeger has observed the dismaying circularity of these battles in his hauntingly beautiful Where Have All the Flowers Gone?

I grew up during the Cold War period when "duck and cover" was supposed to protect US school kids from nuclear blasts. These days, in this country, we lose more kids to mass shootings than we've lost to nuclear weapons, at least as of the moment I'm writing this. If so many of US want to return to an era past, perhaps we could consider returning to the days of Lyndon B. Johnson and the Great Society. In fact, such an effort might even help unite the Democratic Party and provide respite to a perpetual rehash of what went wrong during 2024, demonstrating for the rest of US that, indeed, some wars don't have to be fought.

Masters of War

Written by: Bob Dylan

Come you masters of war
You that build all the guns
You that build the death planes
You that build the big bombs
You that hide behind walls
You that hide behind desks
I just want you to know
I can see through your masks

You that never done nothin’
But build to destroy
You play with my world
Like it’s your little toy
You put a gun in my hand
And you hide from my eyes
And you turn and run farther
When the fast bullets fly

Like Judas of old
You lie and deceive
A world war can be won
You want me to believe
But I see through your eyes
And I see through your brain
Like I see through the water
That runs down my drain

You fasten the triggers
For the others to fire
Then you set back and watch
When the death count gets higher
You hide in your mansion
As young people’s blood
Flows out of their bodies
And is buried in the mud

You’ve thrown the worst fear
That can ever be hurled
Fear to bring children
Into the world
For threatening my baby
Unborn and unnamed
You ain’t worth the blood
That runs in your veins

How much do I know
To talk out of turn
You might say that I’m young
You might say I’m unlearned
But there’s one thing I know
Though I’m younger than you
Even Jesus would never
Forgive what you do

Let me ask you one question
Is your money that good
Will it buy you forgiveness
Do you think that it could
I think you will find
When your death takes its toll
All the money you made
Will never buy back your soul

And I hope that you die
And your death’ll come soon
I will follow your casket
In the pale afternoon
And I’ll watch while you’re lowered
Down to your deathbed
And I’ll stand o’er your grave
’Til I’m sure that you’re dead          

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Sliding toward Summer

Today is the last day of this Minnesota legislative session. The evening weather forecast for today is full of thunderstorms. Some of us don't think that's coincidental. Democrats have a one vote edge in the senate and the house is evenly split with a Republican speaker. Will we ever grow up enough to elect those who believe solving problems is more important than win-lose? Should we only vote for those with knowledge about Multi-solving?

One of my long-time favorite authors has a (relatively) new book. Robin Wall Kimmerer, author of Braiding Sweetgrass and The Serviceberry, has written Bud Finds Her Gift. I'm planning on sharing it with our five year old granddaughter soon. Meanwhile, Ive been enjoying it myself. (Evidence I'm just an aged kid? Perhaps!)

Large-flowered Trillium (Trillium grandiflorum) in bloom

Photo by J. Harrington

Locally the trees are mostly leafed out with few bare branches visible. Lilac buds have developed on our bushes. It's about time to look for trillium in bloom. The rain we're supposed to get over the next several days should help bring some additional flowers into bloom but may make planting season messy and muddy for farmers in the area.

Yesterday, I baked a round loaf of sourdough bread full of blueberry jammies. The jammies turned the dough into a slippery, sticky mess, perhaps aided and abetted by suboptimal starter. The crust is darker than I like and the crumb more moist than I prefer. The bread is edible but I need to work on my technique. I'm not baking regularly enough to stay in shape; actually, to keep my loaves in shape. Time to adopt Samuel Beckett's perspective: "Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better."

For the Children

by Gary Snyder

The rising hills, the slopes,
of statistics
lie before us,
the steep climb
of everything, going up,
up, as we all
go down.

In the next century
or the one beyond that,
they say,
are valleys, pastures,
we can meet there in peace
if we make it.

To climb these coming crests
one word to you, to
you and your children:

stay together
learn the flowers
go light

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Happy Mother's Day

May all Mothers and families enjoy a peaceful day full of warm memories. May we all wish for many happy returns of the day. May this May avoid any more Maydays of the alarming type.

female bluebird perched on bare branch

Photo by J. Harrington

Over the past few days we've approached full leaf out on most of the area's trees. Rose-breasted grosbeaks, a male Baltimore oriole, and some kind of hummingbird have arrived at the feeders. A bluebird was flitting around the back yard yesterday. The two serviceberry bushes planted last Summer in the field behind the house are in bloom, as is the pear tree. Pocket gophers are creating an unacceptable number of mounds. We'll plan on using a drag harrow on the field next week and then set traps if fresh mounds show up.

Local roadsides and woods are showing more trees and bushes with white flowers than I ever recall seeing. The Better Half suggests concurrent blooming, rather than being spread over several week makes it seem like there's more flowering. Could our anomalous weather pattern roller coaster temperatures account for the compression?

Farmers have many of the local fields prepared for planting. We're holding off on hanging baskets and planting some annuals until frost advisories drop out of weather forecasts. Maybe another week or ten days will do it. All in all this Spring is shaping up to be about as good as this season usually gets hhere in the North Country. It is a noteworthy improvement over the preceding season and mostly avoids the humidity that's no doubt coming.

The Raincoat

Ada Limón
1976 –

When the doctor suggested surgery
and a brace for all my youngest years,
my parents scrambled to take me
to massage therapy, deep tissue work,
osteopathy, and soon my crooked spine
unspooled a bit, I could breathe again,
and move more in a body unclouded
by pain. My mom would tell me to sing
songs to her the whole forty-five minute
drive to Middle Two Rock Road and forty-
five minutes back from physical therapy.
She’d say, even my voice sounded unfettered
by my spine afterward. So I sang and sang,
because I thought she liked it. I never
asked her what she gave up to drive me,
or how her day was before this chore. Today,
at her age, I was driving myself home from yet
another spine appointment, singing along
to some maudlin but solid song on the radio,
and I saw a mom take her raincoat off
and give it to her young daughter when
a storm took over the afternoon. My god,
I thought, my whole life I’ve been under her
raincoat thinking it was somehow a marvel
that I never got wet.

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May the Fourth be with you this week! (couldn't resist)

Wild plum and other bushes are in flower. Some farmers have begun field preparation for this growing season. Trees are in various phases of leaf out. We enjoyed a small ceremonial fire to celebrate Beltane last Friday. Dandelions are in bloom everywhere. Pocket gopher activity is obvious in the field behind the house. Deer are shedding their winter coats. Marsh marigolds, which some call cowslips, are blooming. Even though we had a couple of overnight freezes this week past, Spring is peaking as we watch. You are watching, aren't you?

marsh marigolds in bloom

Photo by J. Harrington

The next time we post here it will be Mother's Day. We've managed to get organized early this year so we''re hoping to avoid, or at least minimize, last minute panics. We'll see how the count down to and the holiday herself play out. Meanwhile, we hope all Moms everywhere (actual and surrogate) feel loved and appreciated every day.

The Minnesota Legislature is in its final weeks for this session. They look as if they'll be about as productive and useful as Congress. How do we find ways to elect politicians who are more committed to solving problems than to scoring political points. Perhaps we could be better represented if more folks knew about the Center for Effective Lawmaking it could be a start. We're rapidly reaching a stage where a majority party spends most of its efforts trying to undo what was done to them when they were in the minority. That doesn't help most of US most of the time.

As we approach Mother's Day this year, let's think about the Seventh Generation principle and look for ways to make mothers proud of US and our descendants.

On the Fifth Day

Jane Hirshfield
1953 –

On the fifth day

the scientists who studied the rivers

were forbidden to speak

or to study the rivers.

The scientists who studied the air

were told not to speak of the air,

and the ones who worked for the farmers

were silenced,

and the ones who worked for the bees.

Someone, from deep in the Badlands,

began posting facts.

The facts were told not to speak

and were taken away.

The facts, surprised to be taken, were silent.

Now it was only the rivers

that spoke of the rivers,

and only the wind that spoke of its bees,

while the unpausing factual buds of the fruit trees

continued to move toward their fruit.

The silence spoke loudly of silence,

and the rivers kept speaking

of rivers, of boulders and air.

Bound to gravity, earless and tongueless,

the untested rivers kept speaking.

Bus drivers, shelf stockers,

code writers, machinists, accountants,

lab techs, cellists kept speaking.

They spoke, the fifth day,

of silence.

—2017

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Countdown to Beltane

This coming Friday some of US will celebrate May Day and/or Beltane. Many of US also will do our best to participate in the May Day Strong General Strike, a "Workers Over Billionaires" plus updated #NoKings. As we move through Summer and, eventually, midterm elections, I hope frustrated folks will focus on a "lesser of two evils principle." The Democrats certainly aren't all I'd like to see, but they're better than what we've got now.

Yesterday, while cleaning up yet more recently fallen oak leaves, I was delighted to see signs of life in the two serviceberry bushes we planted last autumn. There's a hint of emergent leaves where, a week ago, all the branches looked lifeless. Their wire protective cages seem to have deterred the deer from nibbling them to death. Stay tuned for updates and, probably, even some pictures if we get picturesque blossoms.

forsythia blooming in April

Photo by J. Harrington

The forsythia bush in front of the house came into bloom this past week, a week or two later than in several recent years. And yet, the National Phenology Network claims that this year, according to their Spring Indices: "Minneapolis, MN is 16 days early, Buffalo, NY is 3 days early, and Bangor, ME is 6 days early." Maybe the Minneapolis urban heat island is accelerating Spring? We're in the exurban fringe where it's cooler.

Watching bud burst, leaf out, and other signs of life actively returning to the countryside helps me restrain my gloom and doom assessment of much that's in the news these days. No doubt in something like six or eight weeks I'll be complaining about heat and humidity, but first we need to get this year's fishing licenses and enjoy the rest of this year's Spring sproinging.

For the Bird Singing Before Dawn

Kim Stafford

Some people presume to be hopeful
when there is no evidence for hope,
to be happy when there is no cause.
Let me say now, I’m with them.

In deep darkness on a cold twig
in a dangerous world, one first
little fluff lets out a peep, a warble,
a song—and in a little while, behold:

the first glimmer comes, then a glow
filters through the misty trees,
then the bold sun rises, then
everyone starts bustling about.

And that first crazy optimist, can we
forgive her for thinking, dawn by dawn,
“Hey, I made that happen!
And oh, life is so fine.”

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Wednesday is Earth Day

Some leaf bud scales have dropped. Our day lilies are a couple of inches tall. A few flowers have appeared in the front flower bed. Hints of leaves-to-be have appeared on the lilac bushes. Spring is getting sprung. This morning, in the dark early, we got about an inch of snow. Friday the wind chill was in the low teens. Such is Spring in our North Country.

mid-April 2020: emerging day lilies in snow

Photo by J. Harrington

The local high temperature forecast for Earth Day is 85℉, which will be about 40 ℉ higher than this weekend's highs. Clearly, the flora and fauna of our North Country have to be highly adaptable, resilient and regenerative. That includes us Homo saps. We'll head north or south, east or west, depending on the extant of the glacial and oceanic coverage, as the climate responds to our abuse of Earth's gifts.

If I had one wish that the Earth Fairies could grant me for Earth Day this year, it would be that everyone, everywhere, read, remember, adopt the philosophy and follow the guidance of Braiding Sweetgrass and The Serviceberry. My intent to celebrate Earth Day is to get out to somewhere near the St. Croix River, park my butt, be quiet, and pay attention to my surroundings. I'll hope to experience some awe and remember to feel gratitude for living in a basically beautiful region that I keep taking for granted because it's there every day.

May you enjoy the week and make every day an Earth Day.

An Earth Song 

Langston Hughes   1901 – 1967

 

It's an earth song,—

And I've been waiting long for an earth song. 

It's a spring song,—

And I've been waiting long for a spring song. 

    Strong as the shoots of a new plant 

    Strong as the bursting of new buds

    Strong as the coming of the first child from its mother's womb. 

It's an earth song, 

A body song, 

A spring song, 

I have been waiting long for this spring song. 

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May: be better days ahead

A mile or two up the road, I used to enjoy looking at a cluster of prairie smoke (Geum triflorum) in bloom in May or June. It's been a couple of years or more since I wandered that way. This year seems like a good time to see if it's still growing there. I suspect today's warm weather has made me think of that. We may actually get to enjoy a few days of real Spring over the next week or two.

prairie smoke in bud

Photo by J. Harrington

Although the buds on the maple trees in front of the house have swelled a lot this past week, there's still barely a hint of bud burst or leaf out. No green tinge on the tree tops yet. On the other hand, there's a lot of waterfowl and shorebirds in the area now. I flushed a flock of five wood ducks from the pond north of the property a couple of days ago. The pair of mallards on the other side of the road just swam away. This year there seems to be more swans than I remember in years past. It's always a delight to see and hear them in flight. A couple of Tom turkeys have been doing mating displays this week in the field behind the house.

I've long been interested in phenology and Emergence Magazine's current volume has an absolutely wonderful video/written piece about Seasoning a Kid. Please check it out. I'm finding that the return of life, and the promises that implies, are helping me minimize the dismay and despair triggered by the current regime in Washington and its aiders and abettors. I'm not sure we could last through sixteen years, the way Hungary has, and hope we don't even come close.

We're now less than three weeks from Beltane. I have my fingers crossed that conditions will permit burning the back yard brush pile that evening as a seasonal celebration. Many years it's been too dry and/or windy to safely have such a fire.

In recognition of National Poetry Month, and the state of the world, please enjoy

This Morning I Pray for My Enemies

by Joy Harjo

And whom do I call my enemy?
An enemy must be worthy of engagement.
I turn in the direction of the sun and keep walking.
It’s the heart that asks the question, not my furious mind.
The heart is the smaller cousin of the sun.
It sees and knows everything.
It hears the gnashing even as it hears the blessing.
The door to the mind should only open from the heart.
An enemy who gets in, risks the danger of becoming a friend.

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No April Fools here!

April is the month
of poetry
of snow melt
of snow fall
of the return
of ducks, geese, swans, and
of herons and cranes, and
of red-winged blackbirds

April 4, 2014

Photo by J. Harrington

April is the month
of bud burst
of leafout
of showers of rain
of snow
of sunshine and
of wild flowers

April 2, 2012

Photo by J. Harrington

April is the month
of greening
of flowing
of Easters
of growing
of nesting
of warming
of cooling

Here in the North Country
April is the month
when life that survived
begins again to thrive

Welcome April!

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When thaw becomes flow

Today is Palm Sunday and next Sunday is Easter, for those who celebrate. Yesterday was the third (inter)national No Kings protest. (The Better Half and I braved mid-day local wind chills in the teens for almost an hour while participating.) This coming Wednesday is April Fools Day. I'm mildly troubled by the juxtaposition of those latter two events but the next demonstrations are planned for May Day, which is also Beltane. With only 365 days to work with most years, we have to do the best we can as we schedule things. It's not just western water rights that are subject to prior appropriation.

late March: time for new growth to flow

Photo by J. Harrington

April Fools Day also brings us the start of National Poetry Month, this year celebrating its thirtieth anniversary. In recognition of the times we're living in, and the times we've lived through, I'm going to celebrate the month by focusing my reading attention on Bob Dylan Lyrics 1962 — 2001. Some of his recordings have been showing up on the shuffle play list in my Jeep, and I find it both reassuring and disconcerting how well many of his lyrics from years ago seem to fit today's tempora et mores.

Large flocks of dark-eyed juncos and of robins have been observed this week past. I'm inclined to tempt fate and take the back blade off the tractor some warmer day this coming week, but not Wednesday. I'm hoping that one day soon warmer weather will arrive and stay and then hanging around outside will be something to look forward to, until the mosquitos and deer flies arrive. But that's weeks away, right? Meanwhile, the last mounds and shaded patches of snow still have to melt.

This year our country celebrates its 250th anniversary. Dylan wrote a song / poem that I believe fits and represents my birthday wishes for this and each succeeding anniversary.

Forever Young

Written by: Bob Dylan

May God bless and keep you always
May your wishes all come true
May you always do for others
And let others do for you
May you build a ladder to the stars
And climb on every rung
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young

May you grow up to be righteous
May you grow up to be true
May you always know the truth
And see the lights surrounding you
May you always be courageous
Stand upright and be strong
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young

May your hands always be busy
May your feet always be swift
May you have a strong foundation
When the winds of changes shift
May your heart always be joyful
May your song always be sung
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young          

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Spring is sprung, what's next?

Yes, thank you, I have almost recovered from the Spring cold I started coming down with last weekend. Also, once again, the snow cover has finally melted. Locally, things are looking up, but the skies are too often clouded. That hasn't kept the waterfowl from returning. The Sunrise River pools have lots of open water occupied by swans, Canada geese and diving ducks. I also saw the unusual sight of a handful of crows walking along the ice at the edge of open water. Surrounding marshes may contain red-winged blackbirds, but our observations weren't close enough to confirm identification.

returning Canada geese and ducks on Sunrise River in Carlos Avery WMA

Photo by J. Harrington

While suffering the sneezing, coughing, snuffling, nose-blowing, no energy miseries this past week, I had the pleasure of reading most of Rebecca Solnit's The Beginning Comes After the End. So far it's got me, Mr. Gloom and Doom, feeling more optimistic than I have in quite a while. I've lived through and been generally aware of almost all the changes she writes about, but hadn't put them together quite the way she does. Meanwhile, I'm still adjusting to the idea that the future isn't something out there that we adapt to but something all of us are creating by our actions (or inactions) every day.

I'm looking forward to bud burst, leaf out and green up, along with days growing warmer and maybe even occasional sunshine. However, I've lived in the North Country long enough to know better than to prematurely pack away our gear for snow and/or cold weather. Maybe the last few patches of icy snow on the shaded south side of the drive will actually finish melting one of these days and we can look forward to seeing ducklings, goslings and sandhill crane colts as the seasons go round and round.

Of Course It Hurts

by Karin Boye

Of course it hurts when buds burst.
Otherwise why would spring hesitate?
Why would all our fervent longing
be bound in the frozen bitter haze?
The bud was the casing all winter.
What is this new thing, which consumes and bursts?
Of course it hurts when buds burst,
pain for that which grows
and for that which envelops.

Of course it is hard when drops fall.
Trembling with fear they hang heavy,
clammer on the branch, swell and slide -
the weight pulls them down, how they cling.
Hard to be uncertain, afraid and divided,
hard to feel the deep pulling and calling,
yet sit there and just quiver -
hard to want to stay
                      and to want to fall.

Then, at the point of agony and when all is beyond help,
the tree’s buds burst as if in jubilation,
then, when fear no longer exists,
the branch’s drops tumble in a shimmer,
forgetting that they were afraid of the new,
forgetting that they were fearful of the journey –
feeling for a second their greatest security,
resting in the trust
                         that creates the world.

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Winter's last grasp?

Today is the Ides of March. Tuesday will be St. Patrick's Day. Friday is the Vernal Equinox, at 9:46 am locally. As I'm writing this, we have about half a foot of fresh snow on the ground and several more hours of continuing snowfall ahead of us. Will this storm reach the depth of the March 22, 2024 "Spring blizzard?" We'll see. Often, what's left of Winter grasps us by the proverbial short hairs. I consider "Winter's last gasp" a misnomer, in part because, here in the North Country, it's been known to snow every month except July. But after 9:46 am Friday, until Summer Solstice, precipitation will officially be known as "Spring showers."

almost 9 inches, March 22, 2024

Photo by J. Harrington

According to the ORDER OF BARDS, OVATES & DRUIDS:

"Winter sometimes seems so long, that we could be forgiven for wondering whether Spring will ever return. But the Goddess of Spring is merely sleeping through the darkness of Winter, and while she stirs at Imbolc, she is truly awake by the time of the Spring Equinox.

"The forces of light are equally balanced with the forces of darkness at this time, but light is on the increase – and will reach its apogee at the Summer Solstice three months later.

"The symbolic plant of the Equinox in Druidry is the trefoil or shamrock, which is also customarily worn on St. Patrick’s Day, 17th March – almost at the time of the Spring Equinox. The usual explanation for the use of the shamrock is that St Patrick once used its three-leaved shape to illustrate the doctrine of the Trinity, but in fact shamrock is probably the national emblem of Ireland because of its earlier Druidic associations, and it is seen by some authorities as a survival of the trignetra, a Christianised wheel or sun symbol."

Wouldn't it be wonderful if, once again, the forces of light truly became dominant in and for US and the rest of the world, starting with this week? Our world is not a monoculture. Our moon is closer to that, and closer to being lifeless. The more we learn about Earth, the more she appears comprised of interdependent relationships rather than a collection of objects. Truth, much like beauty, is often found in the eye of the beholder. Don't just take my word for that, ask a quantum physicist.

Meanwhile, we'll keep our fingers crossed that waterfowl, sandhill cranes, and other migrators that arrived last week can hang in there through a couple of cold days after this storm so that they don't give up on the North Country as a good place for nesting and raising families. Now, it's time to assess how we're going to make the driveway drivable and walkable. C'mon Spring!!!

 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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Perfecting Hope

Yesterday Saturday's snow melted back to bare ground. Several inches more is currently in the forecast for next weekend. Maybe the forecast will improve by midweek. Non-freezing rain is preferable to snow. On the brighter side, red osier dogwood stems are bright red and willow branches have turned golden. Spring is waiting in the wings.

a bouquet of red osier dogwood stems

Photo by J. Harrington

Several pairs of swans are hanging around on the graying ice of Pool 1 in Carlos Avery Wildlife Management Area and we spotted flocks of waterfowl loafing in an oversized farm-field puddle south of Forest Lake. Slowly we expect frozen to thaw, migrants to return or pass through, and more wildlife and avian mating to get underway. Writing this blog posting yesterday was interrupted by one of the most spectacular sunsets I can recall seeing. This morning I saw and heard a "V" of northbound Canada geese. There may yet be hope for an end to winter.

I'm looking forward to seeing if the serviceberry bushes I (re)planted last summer made it through the winter. (The first bushes died withing several weeks. The current ones made it through several months of Summer and Autumn.) Although tempted to write "I hope they made it," my current rereading of Rebecca Solnit's Hope in the Dark has put a twist in my understanding of "hope." She writes:

“I believe in hope as an act of defiance, or rather as the foundation for an ongoing series of acts of defiance, those acts necessary to bring about some of what we hope for while we live by principle in the meantime. There is no alternative, except surrender. And surrender not only abandons the future, it abandons the soul.”

I really like that belief although I've never thought of hope that way. Perhaps I'm not too old to augment or modify my beliefs. Anyhow my rereading is to help maintain some semblance of sanity in today's world and to prepare for reading Solnit's latest, The Beginning Comes After the End, which was published last week. I expect to get a copy within a fortnight.

There is much happening, or not happening, in the world about which I can do little by myself. Several of the conservation organizations to which I belong are not as assertive as I would like about the issues I find important. One thing I can control, on a good day, is my reaction to the world and my behavior. (Who else do you know that keeps a small poster that says "You know it was a good day if you didn't hit or bite anyone.") (Re)reading Solnit (and Donella Meadows Dancing with Systems) is a big factor helping me to put a few good days together.

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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Spring Is a New Beginning

Today, as I hope you know, is the first day of meteorological Spring. Parts of the driveway are still ice-covered. Maybe by the time daylight savings starts next weekend, the ice will be gone. The dogs and I are tired of slip-sliding away during our walks.

a March full moon in a dark blue sky

Photo by J. Harrington

Emergence Magazine has a fascinating essay by Melanie Challenger about The Springing Time. I commend it to your attention as a worthwhile alternative to doom-scrolling in social media or reading the news.

Did you ever read Spring Is a New Beginning by Joan Walsh Anglund? We used to have a copy that, I suspect, now resides with the Granddaughter. My interest in phenology and seasonal changes has been growing for a number of years, enhanced by actual and potential effects of climate disruption. Challenger's essay and other writings offer some reassurance that all is not totally lost (nor yet won).

This Tuesday, March 3, is both a full moon and a lunar eclipse. I'm not sure if or how that (those?) may affect horoscopes for that day. The current weather forecast calls for cloudy skies during the eclipse period. We'll see if that improves or deteriorates.

You're correct, we've not mentioned the attack on Iran, pedophiles in office, or related matters. I vote. I donate to causes. I participate in protests. I even contact my elected officials from time to time. What I don't, can't, and won't do is charge enough rent to let treasonous politicians and their MAGAt followers live inside my head. See the title of today's posting. It's also the equivalent of a cerebral eviction notice to those who do all they can to make my days miserable. That includes most Republicans, billionaires, tech titans, and too many elected Democrats. If I can't or won't take action for or against something or someone, I don't need to know about it or them.

Thank you for your attention to this matter.

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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