the moon in June is the berries

Yesterday’s full moon, which was completely cloud covered around here, is called the Strawberry Moon by the Ojibwe and the Good Berries Moon by the Lakota. The community supported agriculture [CSA] share we picked up this morning included the season’s first container of strawberries. Coincidence? I think not!!

Strawberry moon of 2013

Photo by J. Harrington

Here’s a full list of this week’s CSA share:

• RHUBARB
• STRAWBERRIES
• ASPARAGUS
• GARLIC SCAPES, and
• LETTUCE

We almost collected a load of venison on the way to the farm. Just after we had rounded a sharp curve on a township gravel road, a couple of whitetail does came barreling out of the brush on the right-hand side of the road. Fortunately, the curve had caused us to slow enough that we could promptly brake and let the critters safely pass in front of the Jeep. In fact, there were surprising numbers of deer standing at or near the side of various roads this morning.

The day length today is 6 seconds shorter than yesterday, which was 1 second less than the solstice. It will take awhile before we really notice, but the days are getting shorter already. For those trapped under a heat dome, autumn probably can’t come soon enough. Some of us beleaguered by mosquitos and teeny little flies are already looking forward to the first frost. Plus, grocers this summer are selling peaches that look ripe but are firm as a rock and don’t soften sitting on the counter at home. Another case of mis- or dis-information?

I am pleased to announce that I baked a boule of high-hydration sourdough and it turned out to be one of the best loaves I’ve baked in a long time. If you’re looking for some good guidance on baking sourdough, let me recommend (again) Emilie Raffa’s Artisan Sourdough Made Simple.

Strawberrying

May Swenson
1913 – 1989

My hands are murder-red. Many a plump head
drops on the heap in the basket. Or, ripe
to bursting, they might be hearts, matching
the blackbird’s wing-fleck. Gripped to a reed
he shrieks his ko-ka-ree in the next field.
He’s left his peck in some juicy cheeks, when
at first blush and mostly white, they showed
streaks of sweetness to the marauder.

We’re picking near the shore, the morning
sunny, a slight wind moving rough-veined leaves
our hands rumple among. Fingers find by feel
the ready fruit in clusters. Here and there,
their squishy wounds . . . . Flesh was perfect
yesterday . . . . June was for gorging . . . .
sweet hearts young and firm before decay.

“Take only the biggest, and not too ripe,”
a mother calls to her girl and boy, barefoot
in the furrows. “Don’t step on any. Don’t
change rows. Don’t eat too many.” Mesmerized
by the largesse, the children squat and pull
and pick handfuls of rich scarlets, half
for the baskets, half for avid mouths.
Soon, whole faces are stained.

A crop this thick begs for plunder. Ripeness
wants to be ravished, as udders of cows when hard,
the blue-veined bags distended, ache to be stripped.
Hunkered in mud between the rows, sun burning
the backs of our necks, we grope for, and rip loose
soft nippled heads. If they bleed—too soft—
let them stay. Let them rot in the heat.

When, hidden away in a damp hollow under moldy
leaves, I come upon a clump of heart-shapes
once red, now spiderspit-gray, intact but empty,
still attached to their dead stems—
families smothered as at Pompeii—I rise
and stretch. I eat one more big ripe lopped
head. Red-handed, I leave the field.

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An unnatural moon?

The Minnesota Weatherguide notes that tonight’s full moon is the ricing moon (Ojibwe) or the harvest moon (Lakota). At month’s end, we’ll have a “blue moon.” Since there are 13 full moons but only 12 months in a year, I’m not sure what the Ojibwe name is for the second full moon this month. Here’s a resource if you want to try to sort it out. The Lakota named their 13 moons by the season, not the month.

full August moon

Photo by J. Harrington

Purple loosestrife is in bloom in local wetlands and marshes. Bees and butterflies don’t seem to care that it’s an invasive plant on which they’re foraging. Unless there’s a blockage (dam) on the river, local water levels are very to extremely low on the St. Croix.

Over the years, I’ve been poking around the National Park Service wild and scenic river web site, but it wasn’t until today that I discovered these natural resources inventories for the St. Croix. I’m looking forward to scanning them someday soon. (We could use more than a few rainy days this August.)

It is now mid-afternoon on Tuesday, August 1, 2023. I have so far managed to avoid logging onto Elon’s Xfiles, for this first tweetless Tuesday. I’ll defer posting this link there until tomorrow morning. I will post it to Mastodon @JohnHthePoet https://mstdn.party/home. I noticed that my scanning the online versions of Star Tribune and Guardian did nothing to really improve my perspective on the state of the world. There are so many problems about which I can do little or nothing that I’m not sure why I should kknow about them. Maybe one of these days it will be time for me to question why neither of those “papers” does much by way of solutions journalism. Meanwhile, I’m feeling more human after spending time exploring geopoetics in practice and literary field guides.

Moon Ghazal

By Dorianne Laux

I can’t remember the first time I saw it, seems it was

always there, even with me in the womb, the moon.

It must have been night, above the ocean, making a path

on the waves, gilded invitation, the parchment moon.

Or the day moon, see-through-y wafer over desert, caught

in the arms of saguaro, thin-skinned, heart-stuck moon.

Blue as new milk, aquarium water, Mexican tile, blue

as cold-bitten fingertips, nailbeds’ quick-blue arcs, half-moons.

How I felt when I saw my first grown boy, round-eyed,

all sinew and muscle, his calves, his biceps, plump as moons.

Buttons, doorknobs, volleyballs, clocks, egg yolk, orange

slice, violet iris, our planet a pupil, mote in the eye of the moon.

The cell inside me splitting and splitting, worm of the fetus,

tadpole, the glazed orb of the eye, my belly taut as the moon.

The blood-streaked moon of her head pushing through, moons

of the faces above me, urging me, pulling, promising the moon.

There are earthquakes on the moon, water, not geologically dead,

still acting like a planet: upheaval, turmoil, shaking her head, the moon.

When I see the earth of you I still feel moonquakes, even now, after

so many moons my round breasts swoon, your fingertips, small moons.

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Near the Ides of January

Monday is Martin Luther King Day. It’s also January’s full moon, known as the Great Spirit Moon by the Ojibwe and the Hard Times Moon by the Lakota according to our Minnesota Weatherguide. But the name Wolf Moon “... is thought to have a Celtic and Old English origin, brought over to North America by European settlers. Other Celtic names of the Full Moon include Stay Home Moon and Quiet Moon...”

January’s full moon has several names

Photo by J. Harrington

Have you noticed that the days are getting longer. Later sunsets have become obvious. It’s but a little more than two weeks until Imbolc, the first of three spring festivals. Although snowdrops are a seasonal sign associated with Imbolc, in Minnesota we look for blooming snowdrops some six weeks after Imbolc.

Today we’ve decided to spare you another political rant but will observe that, thanks to politics and related factors in the human condition, such as stupidity and cupidity, we are now looking at the situation where Minneapolis is mandating that clientele in its restaurants show proof of vaccination but the staff thereof (restaurants, not the city) aren’t required to be vaccinated. This, as we enter the pandemic’s third year.

Back to Druidry. It makes lots more sense these days.

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

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Moon, rise!

Tomorrow night brings a full moon. Our Minnesota Weatherguide tells us that the Ojibwe call it the Great Spirits moon and the Lakota the "Hard Times" moon. Locally it will rise at 5:09 pm and set at 7:56 am. This year there will be only one full moon per month, every 29.5 days or so. No blue moons in 2021.

January: full moon

Photo by J. Harrington

It has been too long since we have been really aware of the moon's role in life. Back when we lived next to the ocean, we knew the moon phases because the moon strongly affects tidal rise and fall and, in those days, almost all of our fishing was for salt water species which were affected by tidal flows. Here in Minnesota, even Lake Superior is considered "non-tidal," and almost all of our fishing these days is done in rivers and streams.

The moon often is considered to play a major role in romance, and we're less than a month from Valentine's Day. That makes today a good day to dig out our copy of Ellen Moore Anderson's As Long as the Moon Shall Rise: Reflections on the Full Moon and start to reread it. It opens with the following, which seems all too fitting these days:

Let us know peace.

For as long as the moon shall rise,

For as long as the rivers shall flow,

For as long as the sun shall shine,

For as long as the grass shall grow,

Let us know peace. 

 - A Cheyenne Indian prayer for peace

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Taking Winter Count

Well, our strategy of test-starting the snowblower a week ago mostly worked. We got a little more than a dusting yesterday afternoon, definitely not enough to actually cause us to blow snow. The cold temperatures led to a drop in the tire pressure in all four tires in the Jeep. We're thinking we should wait until it's warmer than today's low to mid teens before we head off to add air. Maybe tomorrow.

amaryllis, a week before Christmas 2017

Photo by J. Harrington

This year's amaryllis appear to be developing well behind schedule, they're less than a foot tall, while the Christmas cactus bloomed ahead of schedule. We'll just pretend the season started earlier and will run later than usual this year. Last year's beach plums didn't make it through the Winter. We haven't yet killed off this year's holly bushes, although we've noticed we have a tendency to overwater them. As we move toward year's end, we're beginning to take stock of what we did and didn't undertake this year. The three sisters garden didn't get planted. We're blaming a contrary tiller for that. Next year we'll see if it starts earlier in the planting season.

artisan sourdough kernza bread

Photo by J. Harrington

Baking our artisan sourdough bread made some progress and we successfully played with a new ingredient, kernza flour. Thanks to COVID-19 we never did get to the bakery in NE Minneapolis we wanted to check out. Maybe next Summer, after we're all vaccinated. The fishing season was almost a total flop since every time we were ready to go, the wind seemed to be howling enough to make fly-casting hazardous. As Minnesota sports fans know only too well, "there's always next season."

All in all the year has had enough good points that it goes in the "W" column, especially since a new granddaughter has been added to the team. We hope your year has brought you more joy and satisfaction than trials and tribulations, and that you are and remain safe and warm and fed and healthy during this season and all next year. If you're not sure what a "Winter Count" is, you can learn about it here.

Wearing Indian Jewelery

By Heid E. Erdrich

I was wondering why that guy

wore the blanket coat, bone choker, rock

watch, woven buckle, quilled Stetson—

I was wondering why he wore

that beaded vest, like a ledger drawing

or a Winter Count, its skinny figure

forever sneaking after two bison

around belly to back,

around back to belly—

I was wondering why, when he said,

I wear these getups every day—

Every day, because these things

are sacred, these things are prayer.

Then I knew I could live this life

If I had blue horses

painted around and around me,

shells and beads like rain in my ear

praying Prairie open in me

at stoplight, hard city, last call, bank line,

coffee break, shopping cart, keycode,

Prarie open in me

Prarie open in me

every day every day every day.

 

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To whom are we "The Other?"

Probably because of some of what I've been reading over the past few years, and, before that, the fundamentals of sociology course I took in college, and, especially, the way politics have been going both nationally and internationally, I've been thinking more and more about binaries. I don't particularly care for them although I can make choices when needed. Back in my college days, I came across a psychologist named Fritz Perls. He crafted what is know as the "Gestalt prayer."

I do my thing and you do your thing.
I am not in this world to live up to your expectations,
And you are not in this world to live up to mine.
You are you, and I am I,
and if by chance we find each other, it's beautiful.
If not, it can't be helped.
(Fritz Perls, "Gestalt Therapy Verbatim", 1969)

Simple concepts that many of us find hard to remember and even harder to live by. It depends on the existence of a you and an I. But, how does a Gestalt prayer fit with the Native American concept that the world, indeed, the universe, perhaps, is made up of each of us and "all my/our relations" [Lakota or Ojibwe].

Minnesota Goose Garden near Sandstone

Photo by J. Harrington

In sociology, "Otherness" is a fundamental concept. It is also a major theme in literature. So, it would seem that, depending on our cultural background, we may find ourselves focused on what makes us different or what we have in common. Is it clear how much either focus is a matter of choice? Not often nor entirely. It seems to me more like the emphasis on nature versus nurture.

Much of what we do is based on the kind of world we live in and the kind of people we live with, more so than on the kind of world we would like to live in and the kind of people we would like to live with. I know that, on an off day, when I try to envision living in a world full of people just like me, I shudder. I couldn't stand it. Not that I don't like myself, but that I've watched one too many times the "Dirty Harry" movie in which Clint Eastwood says "It takes a good man to know his limitations." Change, variety, unlikeness, other, is the spice of life, isn't it?

I don't have any clear answers to offer in today's ponderings. In fact, I'm not even sure I've got the questions right, or is it the right questions? I am sure that we need to transform our culture and, especially, our politics, into a celebration, rather than a condemnation, of our differences because the differences increase our options and are facets of that diamond, still in the rough, that is our common humanity. I think it was good old Ben Franklin who warned us "We must, indeed, all hang together or, most assuredly, we shall all hang separately."

A Ritual to Read to Each Other

By William E. Stafford

If you don't know the kind of person I am

and I don't know the kind of person you are

a pattern that others made may prevail in the world

and following the wrong god home we may miss our star.

For there is many a small betrayal in the mind,

a shrug that lets the fragile sequence break

sending with shouts the horrible errors of childhood

storming out to play through the broken dike.

And as elephants parade holding each elephant's tail,

but if one wanders the circus won't find the park,

I call it cruel and maybe the root of all cruelty

to know what occurs but not recognize the fact.

And so I appeal to a voice, to something shadowy,

a remote important region in all who talk:

though we could fool each other, we should consider—

lest the parade of our mutual life get lost in the dark.

For it is important that awake people be awake,

or a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep;

the signals we give — yes or no, or maybe —

should be clear: the darkness around us is deep.

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Native American Heritage Month

November is National Native American Heritage Month. Minnesota, as part of the Midwest, has a number of tribes living here, according to the National Congress of American Indians.

The Minnesota Humanities Center has been a partner in the creation of the Bdote Memory Map, a beginning point to reclaim the history of the Dakota people in Mnisota Makoce.

wolf statue at Ancient Traders Market

Photo by J. Harrington

The St. Croix River valley, where we live, has long been home to the Chippewa (Ojibwe) and the Dakota.

Some of our favorite authors are Native Americans, among them are:

• Heid Erdrich


• Louise Erdrich


• Linda Legarde Grover


• Joy Harjo, and


• Robin Wall Kimmerer, whose Braiding Sweetgrass has been a major influence in our ponderings and reflections during the past few years.

Winona LaDuke, an internationally renowned activist working on issues of sustainable development renewable energy and food systems. who lives and works on the White Earth reservation in northern Minnesota has recently published a very though-provoking and hopeful response to the question: What kind of ancestor do you want to be? She responded with guidance on How to Be Better Ancestors.

Native American art gallery on American Indian Cultural Corridor

Photo by J. Harrington

As we observe, often with dismay, the proceedings in our state and national capitols, we wonder how much better things might be if we could, at a minimum, adopt the philosophy of learning to consider our decisions and whether that are in accord with the Seven Generations. It seems to us that we have, if we are wise, much to learn from those who inhabited a managed "wilderness," "discovered" and still later colonized by Europeans.

If you're ever in Minneapolis, visit Franklin Avenue and stop at the Ancient Traders Market and the All My Relations gallery. They're definitely worth a visit during Heritage month or any time. In fact, it's been too long since we've visited and eaten at Maria's Cafe. That goes on our list of things to do soon.

                     The Theft Outright

By Heid E. Erdrich
after Frost

We were the land's before we were.

Or the land was ours before you were a land.

Or this land was our land, it was not your land.

We were the land before we were people,

loamy roamers rising, so the stories go,

or formed of clay, spit into with breath reeking soul—

What's America, but the legend of Rock 'n' Roll?

Red rocks, blood clots bearing boys, blood sands

swimming being from women's hands, we originate,

originally, spontaneous as hemorrhage.

Un-possessing of what we still are possessed by,

possessed by what we now no more possess.

We were the land before we were people,

dreamy sunbeams where sun don't shine, so the stories go,

or pulled up a hole, clawing past ants and roots—

Dineh in documentaries scoff DNA evidence off.

They landed late, but canyons spoke them home.

Nomadic Turkish horse tribes they don't know.

What's America, but the legend of Stop 'n' Go?

Could be cousins, left on the land bridge,

contrary to popular belief, that was a two-way toll.

In any case we'd claim them, give them some place to stay.

Such as we were we gave most things outright

(the deed of the theft was many deeds and leases and claim stakes

and tenure disputes and moved plat markers stolen still today . . .)

We were the land before we were a people,

earthdivers, her darling mudpuppies, so the stories go,

or emerging, fully forming from flesh of earth—

The land, not the least vaguely, realizing in all four directions,

still storied, art-filled, fully enhanced.

Such as she is, such as she wills us to become.

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September, settling in

This morning's waxing gibbous moon was as close to full as it can get without actually being a full moon. That comes tomorrow. The Ojibwe call it Waatebagaa-giizis (Leaves Turning Moon), or manoominike-giizis (rice moon). The Lakota refer to it as canwape gi wi (moon of the brown leaves). Rice moon seems that it would be appropriate for a more limited area than leaves turning or brown leaves, but each nicely captures one of September's key features.

Leaves turning, brown leaves, rice moon

Photo by J. Harrington

Hummingbirds are still coming to the feeder today. (Noting each day we see one or more makes it more likely we'll notice when they've stopped showing up.) Some are also chasing away others. Locals and migrants? There seem to be at lest two pair, perhaps more. Next year we'll plan on adding at least one more feeder and see if that helps, although we've seen hummers at both the back and the front feeders yesterday and today, there seems to be more aggressive behavior around the back feeder.

leaves turned brown in September

Photo by J. Harrington

Today's cooler temperatures and cloudy skies are dampening our mood and seem to also be inhibiting the development of aggressive feeding in the sourdough starter we're trying to get started, although, in an ironic aside, the mason jar of "discarded starter" that we've collected seems to be bubbling more boisterously than the bowl of "good" starter we're working on. It will be fascinating to see how this actually plays out. We're up to day three and would be much happier if there were more bubbling action than we're seeing so far.

Porch Swing in September

Ted Kooser, 1939

The porch swing hangs fixed in a morning sun
that bleaches its gray slats, its flowered cushion
whose flowers have faded, like those of summer,
and a small brown spider has hung out her web
on a line between porch post and chain
so that no one may swing without breaking it.
She is saying it’s time that the swinging were done with,
time that the creaking and pinging and popping
that sang through the ceiling were past,
time now for the soft vibrations of moths,
the wasp tapping each board for an entrance,
the cool dewdrops to brush from her work
every morning, one world at a time.

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Ojibwe 13 moons #phenology

Thunderstorms in October bring high water to the Sunrise River and revive the chrysanthemums along the driveway. The front that moved out the storms left us with a classic October Autumn day. Practically cloudless blue skies frame stunningly vibrant colors in those leaves still hanging while there's just enough of a breeze to fill the air with, as my mother or her mother would have claimed at this time of year, "leaves falling so thick and fast they remind us of the poor souls headed for Hell."

Are there "blue moons" in an Ojibwa calendar?

Photo by J. Harrington

My morning wasn't quite a trip to Hell, but spending 25 minutes or so in an MRI machine, surrounded by pounding that sounded as if it could have been made by doomed souls trying to escape from the cells of Hell, brought my imagination into play to help me escape my immediate surroundings. I started thinking about Native American phenology and, in particular, what terms were used to name days of the week. I'm still looking for a satisfactory answer, but, in the process, I did finally find an Ojibwe reference to phenology. I also came across several names for September's moon "Waatebagaa giizis is the Leaves Changing Color Moon. Other names for new September moon are Mandaamini giizis (Corn Moon) and Moozo giizis (Moose Moon)." Spot checking several web sites on Ojibwe culture only turned up the single name "Falling Leaves Moon" for October. I'm slowly learning to use Ojibwe or Lakota instead of Native American in Google searches for indigenous cultural information relevant to Minnesota. Since we manage to keep track of several different time zones across the country, I think we might benefit a lot if we could and would superimpose Ojibwe or Lakota or whatever the appropriate cultural moon names and periods would be for where you live on top of our own Gregorian calendar. Is there an app for that?

Zen Living

By Dick Allen

Birdsongs that sound like the steady determined tapping

of a shoemaker's hammer,

or of a sculptor making tiny ball-peen dents in a silver plate,

wake me this morning. Is it possible the world itself can be happy? The calico cat

stretches her long body out across the top of my computer monitor,

yawning, its little primitive head a cave of possibility.

And I'm ready again

to try and see accidents, the over and over patterns

of double-slit experiments a billionfold

repeated before me. If I had great patience,

I could try to count the poplar, birch and oak

leaves in their shifting welter outside my bedroom window

or the almost infinitesimal trails of thought that flash and flash

everywhere, as if decaying particles inside a bubble chamber,

windshield raindrops, lake ripples. However,

instead I go to fry some bacon, crack two eggs

into the cast-iron skillet that's even older than this house,

and on the calendar (each month another oriental fan

where the climbing solitary is dwarfed . . . or on dark blue oceans

minuscular fishing boats bob beneath gigantic waves)

X out the days, including those I've forgotten.

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