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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False Spring?

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

early Spring arrivals, February 21, 2017

Photo by J. Harrington

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

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

Windigo

By Louise Erdrich

For Angela

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

You knew I was coming for you, little one,

when the kettle jumped into the fire.

Towels flapped on the hooks,

and the dog crept off, groaning,

to the deepest part of the woods.

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

Mother scolded the food warm and smooth in the pot

and called you to eat.

But I spoke in the cold trees:

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

The sumac pushed sour red cones through the air.

Copper burned in the raw wood.

You saw me drag toward you.

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

You dug your hands into my pale, melting fur.

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

Steam rolled from my wintry arms, each leaf shivered

from the bushes we passed

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

Then your warm hands hummed over and shoveled themselves full

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

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

and I carried you home,

a river shaking in the sun.

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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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In honor of wetlands month

 Until recently, I was unaware that May is American Wetlands Month. As a waterfowler, wetlands are one of my favorite places. Ducks, geese, swans, shorebirds, and others depend on wetlands. So do the rest of us who live on planet Earth. Someone whom I have been helping restore a nearby river shared an email a few days ago on videos of Wisconsin Tribes: Leading the way in protecting and restoring wetlands and watersheds. Today, as part of wetlands month, I want to pay forward that sharing. I hope you enjoy these videos as much as I have, even more, maybe. The summaries below the photo come from an Outreach Toolkit for the videos.

a neighborhood wetland->Sunrise River->St. Croix River

Photo by J. Harrington

Protecting our Waters: Wetland Conservation and the Red Cliff Band of Lake Superior Chippewa

The Red Cliff Band of Lake Superior Chippewa, located on the southern shore of Lake Superior in the northernmost tip of Wisconsin, retains a strong cultural connection to the waters and lands of the region. Tribal members use a wealth of natural products from wetlands including fish (gigoonh), blueberries (miinan), cranberries (aniibinim, mashkiigimin), wild rice (manoomin), and many traditional medicines and plants used in ceremonies. Protection of tribal wetlands and the associated cultural resources and natural benefits like clean water and flood protection is critical for the health and welfare of tribal members. Learn how the Tribe recently increased its investment in these critical resources by establishing a wetland program to protect, monitor, and manage wetlands for future generations.

Keywords: wetlands, water, Bayfield, Superior, Red Cliff, tribes, watershed, Bayfield County, culture, tradition, Chippewa, Anishinaabe, flooding, water quality, protection

                             

Water is life: Wetland conservation and the Bad River Band of Lake Superior Chippewa

For the Bad River Band of Lake Superior Tribe of Chippewa Indians in Northern Wisconsin, water is life. Protecting water means protecting the watersheds that provide water for their Reservation and people from top to bottom, including uplands, floodplains, and globally important coastal wetlands along Lake Superior. It also means carefully monitoring their land and water resources and developing programs and policies to protect these resources for future generations. As a result of these efforts, the Tribe is protecting water quality, alleviating flooding, protecting habitat for fish and wildlife, and providing natural resources for their people’s sustenance and cultural practices.

Keywords: wetlands, protection, restoration, Bad River, tribes, manoomin, wild rice, flooding, water quality, habitat, Superior, Ashland, Chequamegon, Ashland County, Mashkiiziibii, Chippewa, Anishinaabe

 

Preserving a way of life: Wetland conservation and the Bad River Band of Lake Superior Chippewa

The ancestors of today’s Bad River Band of Lake Superior Tribe of Chippewa Indians in Northern Wisconsin followed a prophecy telling their people to travel westward to seek a new home “where the food grows on water.” The vast beds of manoomin (wild rice) growing in what we now call the Kakagon-Bad River Sloughs on Lake Superior signaled to the travelers that they’d found this new home. Today, the Sloughs, which have received global recognition for their ecological and cultural importance, continue to provide the natural resources to meet the tribe’s physical and cultural needs.

Keywords: wetlands, protection, restoration, Bad River, tribes, manoomin, wild rice, migration, Superior, Ashland, Chequamegon, Ashland County, Mashkiiziibii, Chippewa, Anishinaabe

 

Managing watersheds in an age of climate change: Wetland conservation and the Bad River Band of Lake Superior Chippewa

Our climate is changing. Along the shores of Lake Superior in Northern Wisconsin, one signal of these changes is the intense storm events that in recent years have dropped many inches of water in just a few hours. The Bad River Band of Lake Superior Tribe of Chippewa Indians is working with nature to help manage these changes. By protecting wetlands within the watersheds on their Reservation, Bad River is helping manage water from these big storms. Wetlands help slow the flow of water, disperse its energy, and allow the water to soak into the ground, which replenishes groundwater. These areas also provide habitat for wildlife and a more resilient tomorrow for future generations.

Keywords: wetlands, restoration, climate change, Bad River, tribes, watershed, flooding, erosion, water quality, Superior, Ashland, Chequamegon, Ashland County, Mashkiiziibii, Chippewa, Anishinaabe

It’s truly unfortunate that in Minnesota, one of our congressional representatives [“mine" he typed in disgust] is putting at risk the wetlands and watersheds of the Boundary Waters and other watersheds in northern Minnesota in his efforts to toady to the mining interests up north. I wonder if there’s a way to make him watch the videos and follow the examples of Minnesota’s Ojibwe.

Praise the Rain

by Joy Harjo

Praise the rain; the seagull dive
The curl of plant, the raven talk—
Praise the hurt, the house slack
The stand of trees, the dignity—
Praise the dark, the moon cradle
The sky fall, the bear sleep—
Praise the mist, the warrior name
The earth eclipse, the fired leap—
Praise the backwards, upward sky
The baby cry, the spirit food—
Praise canoe, the fish rush
The hole for frog, the upside-down—
Praise the day, the cloud cup
The mind flat, forget it all—

Praise crazy. Praise sad.
Praise the path on which we're led.
Praise the roads on earth and water.
Praise the eater and the eaten.
Praise beginnings; praise the end.
Praise the song and praise the singer.

Praise the rain; it brings more rain.
Praise the rain; it brings more rain.

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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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Icing called!

This morning I drove past the Sunrise River pools along county road 36. It looked very much like they were covered with skim ice. In fact, the smaller, shallower water bodies in the neighborhood all look iced in, but not thick enough to walk on. Any waterfowl still in the vicinity will be forced onto the larger, deeper water bodies until they, too, begin to ice over. Winter continues to edge its way into the North Country.

poinsettias on the piano

Photo by J. Harrington

The poinsettias that spend the holiday season on top of the piano arrived today. well, actually, I bought them while out tending to other errands. We’ll dig out the lighting over the next few days and then it will be Thanksgiving. One week from today, Taylors Falls is having their Lighting Festival parade the day after Thanksgiving at 6 pm. If the weather cooperates, it should be fun to watch a 1 year old granddaughter watch the parade.

small ponds first ice ices first

Photo by J. Harrington

We got to see the tail end of this morning’s lunar eclipse and added the date of the first of next year’s to the calendar (May 16). The other one is about this time in November. The Anishnaabe refer to this morning’s full moon as gashkadino-giizis(oog): freezing moon. That’s a timely fit will our growing ice cover so, despite the madness of politics, much is on track in our world.

Thin Ice

Ellen Doré Watson

Reedy striations don’t occlude the beneath—
earthy mash of leaves, flat pepper flakes, layered,

tips protruding, tender-desolate above a mirror
surface, gently pressing on horse-mane, nest material,

tickle-brush, fringe. Buff block-shapes further down,
ghost-bits of green-green, a lone leaf burned white.

My thrown stone skitters on ice. The next, larger,
plunks through and for a moment I am a violator

but then I see it opened a bubble cell, a city,
a lesion, a map—the way in cold and luminous.

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Is it maple syruping season yet?

If not this week, the syruping season will be upon us soon. Those who inhabited this land before us continue to have rights to harvest maple syrup in many locations. There's an interesting article at Indian Country Today on some of the history of maple syrup and Native Americans teaching the early colonists how to produce it.

sugarbush and sap buckets

Photo by J. Harrington

Today's temperatures have climbed above freezing. We took advantage this morning and went for a ride. We wore a light coat over a vest and regular shoes, not snow boots. It was a delightful change. As we drove around looking at the melting snow and the growing puddles we begin to think about the thaw / freeze cycle needed to get maple sap flowing. As you know, an extended Spring thaw also helps minimize the likelihood of Spring flooding although our local snow cover, so far, presents minimal threat to rivers exceeding their banks.

Climate weirding and global warming are expected to affect maple sugar production, but, by how much, and the extent to which the trees and the syrup producers can adapt is still being researched. In Minnesota, the center of maple tree density has already moved North (#21). That isn't likely to diminish local syrup production, but we may see a loss of the temperature variability needed to generate sap flow if Spring continues too warm. Even someone like yr out svt, who abhors winter, would not want to lose maple syrup and maple candy in exchange for less winter. Plus, less sugar might be related to less colorful Autumns? That would also be terrible.

Apocalypto for a Small Planet

By Tess Taylor

1

 

& the radio reports how in 2050

farming Massachusetts will be like farming Georgia—

all’s flux, no one can say what will grow in Georgia,

 

where maples will grow then or whose fine taps

will sap sugar from the cold in spring. Will we get syrup

from the boreal forest, peaches from Massachusetts?

 

 

2

 

Drone strikes & opium poppies.

Oil spills & poisoned wells.

Drought zone. Famine. War zone.

 

 

3

 

Artisanal, this

 

                                              intervention:

 

what gift

                                              this day.

 

 

4

 

My inner cynic says

don’t bother this is navel gazing

 

& my friend at Yale says my hunger

to be near zucchinis

 

will not save the planet from real hunger

except I remember in the film on gleaning

 

when the priest in his compassion says:

those who glean now out of spiritual hunger

 

also should be fed.

 

 

5

 

Ecosystem of yard or field or mind:

 

these cucumbers are more art than science,

more daydream

 

than global action (if we separate the two).

But digging now I feel an otherness—

 

life, a great inhuman freedom—

here I work a plot that also grounds—

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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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Autumn treats

September's full moon occurred this morning at 12:22 am locally, when I was sound asleep. We are now in the waxing gibbous phase of the moon the Ojibwe call "Waatebagaa-giizis (Leaves Turning Moon)" and settlers often refer to as the corn moon.

Leaves Turning Moon

Photo by J. Harrington

We've not yet seen corn being harvested, possibly due to late planting in a wet Spring? Also, it's only the 2nd of September. This year's acorn crop looks like it will be much less of a mast crop than last year's. Tougher on the wild critters that eat acorns, but appreciated by those of us who are still cleaning up the remnants from last year.

When we were out cutting our grass the other day, the breeze picked up as it has today. We were surrounded by the tumbling seed heads of the purple love grass as we sat on the seat of the tractor. It felt sort of like we had tumbled into the story of Dorothy catching a ride out of Kansas. We're now watching the seed heads fly about as this is being typed. Seeing them rise and float off into the treetops is almost as unsettling as the time, many years ago, I was visiting a friend's office about forty storeys up in December and watched snow fall up.

is this a monarch butterfly?

Photo by J. Harrington

While walking SiSi today after lunch, we saw what we think was a monarch butterfly. Twice it landed on SiSi's back. A photo would have been great but we were short a hand or two needed to manage a dog on a leash, plus a smart phone camera, and a twitchy butterfly. We did get the picture above when the butterfly landed on a plant and SiSi sat still for a moment.

The artisan sourdough bread we baked this morning turned out to taste about as good as it looks. Now that cooler weather is here, we're looking forward to fixing apple and mustard grilled cheese sandwiches, as described in The Apple Lovers Cookbook, some Friday night soon. Apple season is another great thing about Autumn.

The Song of Wandering Aengus

W. B. Yeats - 1865-1939

I went out to the hazel wood,   
Because a fire was in my head,   
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,   
And hooked a berry to a thread;   
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,   
I dropped the berry in a stream   
And caught a little silver trout.   

When I had laid it on the floor   
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,   
And someone called me by my name:   
It had become a glimmering girl   
With apple blossom in her hair   
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.   

Though I am old with wandering   
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,   
I will find out where she has gone,   
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,   
And pluck till time and times are done,   
The silver apples of the moon,   
The golden apples of the sun.

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Mulling mullein

This Spring just past, in a field North of the house, on the East side of the road, in the West side of the field, the Better Half [BH] and I noticed some very large rosettes growing. BH claimed they looked like mullein. I've usually been focused on the plant's tall stalk and so demurred. Now that we've reached the time of year when the plant  is grown and flowering, it's more than obvious that BH was/is correct and I need to spend more time with field guides, botany books and my eyes wide open. This was  the second time I've been unable to identify a mullein that wasn't in flower.

mullein: early Summer

Photo by J. Harrington

According to one of the most interesting books on plants I've ever read, Plants Have So Much to Give Us, All We Have to Do Is Ask, Anishinaabe Botanical Teachings by Mary Siisip Geniusz, "Mullein is one of a large group of plants that are easy to spot in the early spring as they grow in rosettes, perfect swirls of leaves low to the ground."

The author lists mullein as a medicinal plant and writes that:

Mullein has several strong medicinal virtues to share. Its leaves are a specific for bronchial conditions. One uses mullein for bronchitis; deep thick coughs; bronchial pneumonia; and chest colds. Mullein also has an oil that will stop internal bleeding.

mullein stalk with flowers: mid-July

Photo by J. Harrington

The scientific name for mullein is Verbascum thapsus. Anishinaabe named it Nookaadizliganzh. There are a number of vernacular names for it and uses other than medicinal. See if you can find a copy of the book through your local library or independent book store. It's an enjoyable read, more so if you can remember what you've read next Spring time when you notice some large rosettes and wonder what they are. I suspect that I'd remember the names and what the plant looked like if I actually used it as part of my yearly living instead of simply reading about it from time to time. That's a variation on the old saying about giving someone a fish versus teaching them to fish, I think.

After the Removal of 30 Types of Plants and Animals
from the Junior Dictionary

Rose McLarney

Almond no more. Blackberry blanked out. Cheetah cast off.
But if no acorn, because the young will use language for nature less,

by that logic, no arousal, brief surge of blood that cannot continue
but lets lives be conceived. If no bluebell because flowers are fleeting,

no beauty to begin with for these bodies which wither. If no cygnet,
the downy being preceding permanent feathers, then no childhood

since those who are sheltered under a wing cannot stay, not the same.
As we might wish mother, many children’s earliest word, will always

be one they hold in mind, can we not let their mouths keep
mistletoe, minnow, and magpie? Leave a few things intact,

allow the possibility of turning books’ pages in reverse
to lobster then leopard then lark, to the letter of last—of lasting—of live.

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The end of June begins July

Today is the last Sunday in June 2020. July begins in a few days. Look for the [Ojibwe] full moon [Miin-giizis (Berry Moon)] next weekend on Independence Day. By then, we will have lost 7 minutes of daylight since the Summer solstice on June 21, but it still will be awhile until Jack Frost returns, although the prospect of a hard frost that thins out the deer flies and mosquitos has some real appeal.

oriole at grape feeder

Photo by J. Harrington

This morning we enjoyed one of the occasional visits Baltimore orioles have recently been making to the grape feeder. Unfortunately, the grape jelly is also attracting increasing numbers of yellow jackets, so we're taking it down and putting it away until next Spring. The orioles will have to settle for sharing the nectar feeder with hummingbirds and woodpeckers.

early July milkweed blossoms

Photo by J. Harrington

Still no appearances of local whitetail fawns or wild turkey poults and very little of the milkweed is in bloom yet. There are noticeably fewer dragon flies. The back yard brush pile continues to regrow. The next Celtic / Druidic / Pagan festival is "Lughnasadh on August 1st, which marks the beginning of harvest time." It's funny how, when I was back in school, Summer seemed to last almost forever. These days it seems to be gone almost as soon as it arrives, except for those hot, humid spells that never seem to end.  Let's all see what we can do to have a safe, healthy, and happy Summer this year so we can celebrate with Blue fireworks on Independence day 2021.

Milkweed

Helen Hunt Jackson

O patient creature with a peasant face, 
Burnt by the summer sun, begrimed with stains, 
And standing humbly in the dingy lanes! 
There seems a mystery in thy work and place, 
Which crowns thee with significance and grace; 
Whose is the milk that fills thy faithful veins? 
What royal nursling comes at night and drains 
Unscorned the food of the plebeian race? 
By day I mark no living thing which rests 
On thee, save butterflies of gold and brown, 
Who turn from flowers that are more fair, more sweet, 
And, crowding eagerly, sink fluttering down, 
And hang, like jewels flashing in the heat, 
Upon thy splendid rounded purple breasts.

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Repairing the window of my world view

If I had started practicing my fly casting back in April, today would have been a great day for practicing casting into the wind. I hadn't, so it isn't. Fortunately, I learned long ago not to spit into the wind so that's not an issue. Prepare for some sort of untoward weather events tomorrow since that's when I plan to check out some trout fishing spots. I'm more interested in getting a look at a handful of places I want to reconnoiter for river access and casting obstructions than in actually wetting a line, but, to be on the safe side, I'll bring a rod or two. Otherwise, I'm sure I'd get to see the hatch and rise of my lifetime and there I'd be, standing empty-handed looking like a witless damn fool.

even sunny days often have storm clouds

Photo by J. Harrington

Yes, the continuing diminished and undistinguished state of the world has once again gotten under my skin. The tiller I want to use to make mounds for planting a three sisters garden may be ready this weekend. When I dropped it off at the beginning of last week, they said it should be done some time this week. It's been my experience that similar issues occur with about every small engine repair shop I've used in the past twenty or so years. "Oh, you thought we'd have it done when we said we would?" If the planting doesn't get done by the first part of next week, I'm not going to try it during our 100+℉ spell forecast for several days midweek. (Time to remember the wabi sabi "accept imperfections" approach.) Late next week, after the hot spell, should still allow a viable time to maturity so....

As I promised a day or so ago, I've been looking through the "Progressive's Style Guide." Today I learned a definition of intersectionality:

Intersectionality is a concept often used in critical theories to describe the ways in which oppressive institutions (racism, sexism, homophobia, transphobia, ableism, xenophobia, classism, etc.) are interconnected and cannot be examined separately from one another. The concept first came from legal scholar Kimberlé Crenshaw in 1989 and is largely used in critical theories, especially Feminist theory, when discussing systematic oppression. When possible, credit Kimberlé Crenshaw for coining the term "intersectionality" and bringing the concept to wider attention.

Although I know the meaning of each of the words in the definition, when they are all strung together, I'm still not sure holistic might not be a better term, unless the inclusion of oppression affects the denotation and connotation of the term. Plus, I have reservations about the validity and utility of critical theory, but then I had been more inclined toward a Hegelian than a Marxian world view. These days I find myself leaning much more toward Margaret Wheatley's emergent systems perspectives, combined with the Ojibwe world views described by Richard Wagamese, with a moderate sprinkling of zen and wabi sabi thrown in.

Fortunately, when I become as disgruntled as I too often am these days, I can almost always rely on the oeuvre of one of Minnesota's own Nobel laureates to help me out. Dylan has, decades ago, described today's challenges to a "T."

It’s Alright, Ma (I’m Only Bleeding)

Written by: Bob Dylan 

Darkness at the break of noon
Shadows even the silver spoon
The handmade blade, the child’s balloon
Eclipses both the sun and moon
To understand you know too soon
There is no sense in trying

Pointed threats, they bluff with scorn
Suicide remarks are torn
From the fool’s gold mouthpiece the hollow horn
Plays wasted words, proves to warn
That he not busy being born is busy dying

Temptation’s page flies out the door
You follow, find yourself at war
Watch waterfalls of pity roar
You feel to moan but unlike before
You discover that you’d just be one more
Person crying

So don’t fear if you hear
A foreign sound to your ear
It’s alright, Ma, I’m only sighing

As some warn victory, some downfall
Private reasons great or small
Can be seen in the eyes of those that call
To make all that should be killed to crawl
While others say don’t hate nothing at all
Except hatred

Disillusioned words like bullets bark
As human gods aim for their mark
Make everything from toy guns that spark
To flesh-colored Christs that glow in the dark
It’s easy to see without looking too far
That not much is really sacred

While preachers preach of evil fates
Teachers teach that knowledge waits
Can lead to hundred-dollar plates
Goodness hides behind its gates
But even the president of the United States
Sometimes must have to stand naked

An’ though the rules of the road have been lodged
It’s only people’s games that you got to dodge
And it’s alright, Ma, I can make it

Advertising signs they con
You into thinking you’re the one
That can do what’s never been done
That can win what’s never been won
Meantime life outside goes on
All around you

You lose yourself, you reappear
You suddenly find you got nothing to fear
Alone you stand with nobody near
When a trembling distant voice, unclear
Startles your sleeping ears to hear
That somebody thinks they really found you

A question in your nerves is lit
Yet you know there is no answer fit
To satisfy, insure you not to quit
To keep it in your mind and not forget
That it is not he or she or them or it
That you belong to

Although the masters make the rules
For the wise men and the fools
I got nothing, Ma, to live up to

For them that must obey authority
That they do not respect in any degree
Who despise their jobs, their destinies
Speak jealously of them that are free
Cultivate their flowers to be
Nothing more than something they invest in

While some on principles baptized
To strict party platform ties
Social clubs in drag disguise
Outsiders they can freely criticize
Tell nothing except who to idolize
And then say God bless him

While one who sings with his tongue on fire
Gargles in the rat race choir
Bent out of shape from society’s pliers
Cares not to come up any higher
But rather get you down in the hole
That he’s in

But I mean no harm nor put fault
On anyone that lives in a vault
But it’s alright, Ma, if I can’t please him

Old lady judges watch people in pairs
Limited in sex, they dare
To push fake morals, insult and stare
While money doesn’t talk, it swears
Obscenity, who really cares
Propaganda, all is phony

While them that defend what they cannot see
With a killer’s pride, security
It blows the minds most bitterly
For them that think death’s honesty
Won’t fall upon them naturally
Life sometimes must get lonely

My eyes collide head-on with stuffed
Graveyards, false gods, I scuff
At pettiness which plays so rough
Walk upside-down inside handcuffs
Kick my legs to crash it off
Say okay, I have had enough
what else can you show me?

And if my thought-dreams could be seen
They’d probably put my head in a guillotine
But it’s alright, Ma, it’s life, and life only

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What do we value in our communities?

It is too hot (~92℉ right now) for yard chores and too windy (S ~20 mph) to be standing in a cool trout stream casting a fly. So, since lots of folks are talking about disbanding police forces, and what  that means, I'd like to focus on some fundamentals I believe should be considered and, ideally, incorporated into any formulation of public safety departments.

In her outstanding  book Who Do We Choose To Be, Margaret J. Wheatley writes that

Ethics are rules for how to live together. Moral principles mediate our interactions by establishing expectations of how to behave. All spiritual traditions have a clear code of ethics so that people can grow and prosper as a community, restrain individual impulses, and together withstand challenges great and small. This is always the role of ethics, to bind together individuals in trustworthy relationships so we can stay together through the vicissitudes of life.

Ethics are designed to serve us in community; they have no relevance to individuals who live in isolation or self-absorption, where there is no concern for others. Without ethics, there is no social coherence, no community resilience. Without ethics, it becomes a dog-eat-dog world. Such as many of us are now experiencing in this popularity culture.

In a fortuitous bit of serendipity, this morning I had reasons to research the Ojibwe Seven Grandfather Teachings. "Many Anishinaabeg view the Seven Grandfather Teachings as traditional knowledge that collectively represents what is needed for community survival." I respectfully propose that the Grandfather Teachings contain the kernel of much of what is needed to be included in ethics for any public safety department to serve its community. The teachings, according to several Ojibwe / Anishinaabe web sites are:

• Nibwaakaawin—Wisdom
• Zaagi’idiwin—Love
• Minaadendamowin—Respect
• Aakode’ewin—Bravery
• Gwayakwaadiziwin—Honesty
• Dabaadendiziwin—Humility
• Debwewin—Truth

Can you think of a set of values that offers a better basis for community protection? In a similar vein, I was delighted to read today this article in the Strong Towns Journal: "Is It Time to Hit the Reset Button on Policing?" which concludes:

There is no credible argument against dismantling the Minneapolis police department. Nor the police department in Ferguson. Nor the dozens, potentially hundreds, of police departments across the country that—due to whatever cause —do not represent the values of the communities they serve.

the bullet was a girl

Danez Smith

the bullet is his whole life.
his mother named him & the bullet

was on its way. in another life
the bullet was a girl & his skin

was a boy with a sad laugh.
they say he asked for it— 

must I define they? they are not
monsters, or hooded or hands black

with cross smoke.
they teachers, they pay tithes

they like rap, they police—good folks
gather around a boy’s body

to take a picture, share a prayer.
oh da horror, oh what a shame

why’d he do that to himself?
they really should stop
getting themselves killed

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I don't know beans about pulses

I grew up in Boston, MA, aka, Beantown. Brown bread, hot dogs, and Boston baked beans were a frequent, Saturday night dinner (supper) standard. I even learned, somewhere along the line, that beans are a form of legumes. It was not until this morning, when I discovered that today is World Pulses Day, that I found out that legumes are pulses.

If I had been more diligent in reading my copy of Bean by Bean, a cookbook,  I could have known, before today, that:

Lentils and "pulses" (an archaic term used for legumes of all kinds, including peas and beans) are mentioned four times in the Old Testament: Genesis 25, Samuel 17, Samuel 23, and Ezekiel 4. (This is the passage that spawned the natural foods company Ezekiel 4:9, which bakes many type of bread; ironically, although their bread itself is delicious, the biblical verse mentioning it views the bread as punishment rations, part of an elaborate penance meted out for the sins of the House of Israel and the House of Judah.) [p. 57]

We still have baked beans (from cans) for supper some nights. Last Summer (remember Summers?) we were going to plant a three sisters garden, which includes beans as one of the sisters. It never happened. Maybe this year? We enjoy chili with and without beans. The Better Half makes a delicious bean soup, and a ham and split pea soup that really hits the spot. I'm not unfamiliar with beans and peas. Lentils are a different story. But, until this morning, I was absolutely unaware that legumes = pulses. I always thought a pulse is what the nurse checks for in your wrist. We have once again proven that one is never too old to learn something new.

It's very unlikely I'll try to do my part to help repair our broken climate by foregoing meat. I can, with little disruption to my long established diet, eat less meat and more pulses. Think that might work with your family?

February hoarfrost

Photo by J. Harrington

One thing we never had in Boston, as far as I remember, was hoarfrost. There was some gorgeous frosting on the trees this morning. I hope you got to enjoy something as beautiful.

Wildwood Flower

Kathryn Stripling Byer

I hoe thawed ground
with a vengeance. Winter has left
my house empty of dried beans
and meat. I am hungry

and now that a few buds appear
on the sycamore, I watch the road
winding down this dark mountain
not even the mule can climb
without a struggle. Long daylight

and nobody comes while my husband
traps rabbits, chops firewood, or 
walks away into the thicket. Abandoned
to hoot owls and copperheads,

I begin to fear sickness. I wait
for pneumonia and lockjaw. Each month
I brew squaw tea for pain.
In the stream where I scrub my own blood
from rags, I see all things flow
down from me into the valley.

Once I climbed the ridge
to the place where the sky
comes. Beyond me the mountains continued
like God. Is there no place to hide
from His silence? A woman must work

else she thinks too much. I hoe
this earth until I think of nothing
but the beans I will string,
the sweet corn I will grind into meal.

We must eat. I will learn
to be grateful for whatever comes to me.

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Don't forget a card for your mail carrier!

Tomorrow the moon will be full. The Ojibwe call it Manidoo-Giizisoons (Little Spirit Moon). Tomorrow is also my sister's birthday. In fact, December gets downright complicated in our family since the Daughter Person and the Son Person also were born this month. Add in Christmas and things get a little hectic.

Manidoo-Giizisoons (Little Spirit Moon)

Photo by J. Harrington

With yeoman-like effort by the Better Half, we finally appear to have a handle of who's getting what, for whom and from whom. In fact, many of the presents have already been purchased and some have even been delivered and are waiting to be wrapped or put in stockings. Last night our local mail carrier didn't arrive until after 8:00 pm. (Does the Post Office pay overtime? Do they bill Amazon extra for any overtime?) As this year's Christmas cards begin to arrive, I've noticed a pattern, half the cards we've received have deer on them. Is that because the senders associate us with deer and the country or is it because the senders liked the card with deer on them and so sent them to us and others. I doubt that we'll ever know, but it gives me something to look for as we open the rest of the cards, delivered evening after evening, by an overworked mail carrier who now has to watch for deer crossing the road in the evening. Plus, we can soon expect a visit from Santa and his reindeer. That should bring this month's overtime for mail carriers to an end. Do they get Christmas off?

Christmas Mail

By Ted Kooser

Cards in each mailbox, 

angel, manger, star and lamb, 

as the rural carrier, 

driving the snowy roads, 

hears from her bundles 

the plaintive bleating of sheep, 

the shuffle of sandals, 

the clopping of camels. 

At stop after stop, 

she opens the little tin door 

and places deep in the shadows 

the shepherds and wise men, 

the donkeys lank and weary, 

the cow who chews and muses. 

And from her Styrofoam cup, 

white as a star and perched 

on the dashboard, leading her 

ever into the distance, 

there is a hint of hazelnut, 

and then a touch of myrrh.

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Thankful or Otherwise?

I'm thankful today that I don't have a job that requires me to be outside in this record-setting, or at least record-tying, cold. Walking a dog a couple of times a day is more than enough exposure, thank you! I'm thankful for warm clothes, a warm house and hot food. I'm also mindful that many have none of those things.

a full November moon

Photo by J. Harrington

The rim of the birdbath is coated with rime ice. The birds, and squirrels, seem thankful to find open water they can drink. I was thankful early this morning for the view of a beautiful full moon setting. The Ojibwe could not have named this month's full moon more appropriately, the Freezing or Freezing Over Moon.

deep Winter's rime ice

Photo by J. Harrington

Have you ever thought about what you use as a baseline for determining gratitude. I never used to, I always wanted "more." Isn't that part of the American Dream? Was it always? The first "Thanksgiving" included Pilgrims who were no doubt thankful they had survived the previous Winter. That's pretty basic.

If you read the postings here with any regularity, you've probably noticed that we include a poem with each day's post. I'm thankful for all the very talented poets who've written the poems we include as complements to the day's theme. Today, we share a Jane Kenyon poem that, we think, fits fantastically with the theme of a baseline that triggers, or should trigger, Thanksgiving.

Otherwise

Jane Kenyon - 1947-1995

I got out of bed
on two strong legs.
It might have been
otherwise. I ate
cereal, sweet
milk, ripe, flawless
peach. It might
have been otherwise.
I took the dog uphill
to the birch wood.
All morning I did
the work I love.
At noon I lay down
with my mate. It might
have been otherwise.
We ate dinner together
at a table with silver
candlesticks. It might
have been otherwise.
I slept in a bed
in a room with paintings
on the walls, and
planned another day
just like this day.
But one day, I know,
it will be otherwise.

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Please be kind to each other while you can.