It's Autumn reigns time

Despite Friday's scattered rain, we remain in severe drought. That may have started to trigger stress related color change in local trees, or the change could just be because it's that time of year. I've no idea how we might sort out correlation from causation on stress versus less daylight for photosynthesis. Minnesota's actual leaf color progression, starting Tuesday, can be found here.

maple trees displaying early leaf color

Photo by J. Harrington

Hummingbirds continue to show up at the sugar water feeders. Increasing numbers of sandhill cranes and Canada geese are gleaning harvested fields. Whitetail deer coats are trading summer reds for winter grays. The number of birds perched on telephone wires keeps growing, then the flocks will migrate as they get an Urge for Going [Tom Rush cover]. With any luck, we could be about to enjoy eight, ten, or twelve weeks of energetic preparations for winter, leading to an extended period of rest, recuperation, and storytelling until the cycle begins again with the coming of springtime next year, bringing the return of migrants and new growth.

Some of us are hoping we get enough precipitation to break the drought while it's still warm enough to fall as rain. The anticipated "super" El Nino may lead to a milder, wetter winter, or not. As with the upcoming midterm elections, we'll hope for the best, and do what we can to bring such about, while realizing what we think may be best may not put US in the majority. Meanwhile, we're going to do our best to enjoy as much as we can of our favoritest upcoming season.

Poem Beginning with a Line from It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown

Maggie Smith

Just look—nothing but sincerity 

as far as the eye can see—

the way the changed leaves,

flapping their yellow underbellies

in the wind, glitter. The tree

looks sequined wherever

the sun touches. Does anyone

not see it? Driving by a field

of spray-painted sheep, I think

the world is not all changed.

The air still ruffles wool

the way a mother’s hand

busies itself lovingly in the hair

of her small boy. The sun

lifts itself up, grows heavy

treading there, then lets itself

off the hook. Just look at it

leaving—the sky a tigereye

banded five kinds of gold

and bronze—and the sequin tree

shaking its spangles like a girl

on the high school drill team,

nothing but sincerity. It glitters

whether we’re looking or not.

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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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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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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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How b b b bad is it? Let's "Build back better!"

Yes, I'm aware of the current clashes between the American Gestapo [ICE] and local governments and/or protestors. Been there, done that back in the days of the Vietnam war protest days. Watched similar actions on tv during the earlier confrontations at desegregation os southern schools. Have you not seen Santayana's quote: "Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it." It seems our country has a memory as short as it's fuse. Meanwhile, we're doing little to nothing about the dangers of our burning planet and the disruption (by US and others) of the natural life support systems on which we depend for fresh air, clean water and food. If we end up with no future, that will certainly solve the problem of studying history.

One of the advantages we had during civi rights and Vietnam protests is our national leaders were at least semi-rational. Not this time. I wouldn't be surprised to see our situation follow the pattern of England's Charles 1. That seems preferable to a third world war. But enough....

Penstemon grandiflorus with pink blooms

Photo by J. Harrington

The blooms are coming off the lilacs. The deer haven't yet eaten all of my "deer resistant" serviceberries. Penstemon's in bloom. Goslings are growing up. Slowly but surely I'm pacing myself to clean up llast winter and spring's messes, although these days that makes me wonder if I'm rearranging deck chairs on an "unsinkable" ship. Fishing licenses are in our pockets, Father's Day is coming up. The Better Half made a wonderful rhubarb / apple crumble. I'm reading some books that give me some hope and am, once again, determined to find a way to be happy more much of the time.

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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A winter of our discontent

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

January's full moon

Photo by J. Harrington

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

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

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

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

Joy Harjo
1951 – 

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

Turn off that cellphone, computer, and remote control.

Open the door, then close it behind you.

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

Give it back with gratitude.

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

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

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

Let the earth stabilize your postcolonial insecure jitters.

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

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

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

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

Do not hold regrets.

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

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

Cut the ties you have to failure and shame.

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

Ask for forgiveness.

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

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

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

Speak to it as you would to a beloved child.

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

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

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

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

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

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The future is ours to make

 It’s the middle of the last week of 2024. I’m contemplating a New Year’s Resolution to give up doom scrolling. That probably also means no more reading Guardian and slashdot. But, other than support the #resistance, there’s only so much you and I can do to increase sanity and kindness while we wait for evolution to do its job. Have you figured out how to not watch a MAGAt train wreck in progress?

On the other hand, one of the books I’m reading, What If We Get It Right?, is full of examples and good news on how smart, creative, folks are dealing with our “climate futures.” Based on what I’ve read so far, they seem to be having an awfully good time while they’re at it. Plus, the extended weather forecast, at least for the moment, has several days with sunshine (whatever that is) coming up around the start of the new year. I was about to write that we can’t create our weather when I realized that’s precisely what we’re doing by increasing climate volatility with our greenhouse gas emissions. Maybe we need to focus on fixing more than fighting while we wait for evolution to do its job.

early shoots in last year's forced bulb garden

Photo by J. Harrington

One of my Christmas presents from the Better Half is a “spring morning” forced bulb garden. Green sprouts have already appeared, much like last year’s version. I’m looking forward to an early spring, at least indoor, and maybe even in the yard. We’re now in the midst of an early January thaw. The snow is melted. Mornings and nights are foggy / hazy / freezing, making for slippery travel. I remember reading, several years ago, a report that asserted climate change would make Minnesota’s winters more like Missouri’s. There appears to be a fair amount of accuracy in that assessment.

I do believe the world has entered a period of major transformation. Perpetual growth isn’t feasible on a finite planet. Our global economy is based on the necessity of perpetual growth. We must develop and implement alternatives such as Doughnut Economics and a Steady State Economy. The knowledge is available. It’s up to US to provide the political will to use it. Maybe the incoming administration will provide just the impetus we need to do much better in the future we help create.

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

Joy Harjo
1951 – 

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

Turn off that cellphone, computer, and remote control.

Open the door, then close it behind you.

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

Give it back with gratitude.

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

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

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

Let the earth stabilize your postcolonial insecure jitters.

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

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

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

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

Do not hold regrets.

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

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

Cut the ties you have to failure and shame.

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

Ask for forgiveness.

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

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

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

Speak to it as you would to a beloved child.

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

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

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

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

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

********************************************
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Please be kind to each other while you can.

Another cloudy sunnie day

Once again I went fishing with my not-quite-four-years old Granddaughter and her Dad, my Son-In-Law. Once again she outfished me. This time quicker and better. She caught an 8 or 9 inch largemouth bass and a couple of small sunnies to my nada. I had swipes at my yellow ant, but apparently the hook was still too big. Next time we’ll scale down the rod, leader and try fishing teeny, tiny streamers. Fishing, like life, is a learning experience. All I knew from fishing different places years ago doesn’t readily transfer to much smaller fish in much tighter quarters around a city dock.

John Buchan: 'The charm of fishing is that it is the pursuit of what is
elusive but attainable, a perpetual series of occasions for hope.'

Photo by J. Harrington

The closest I’ve come to how and where we’re fishing these days was back in about the seventh grade, fishing late afternoon to early evening off the Hingham city dock for smelt, using seaworms as bait and a bamboo pole as a rod. I hadn’t thought about that for years, until this afternoon.

It’s encouraging to see the younger generations picking up where we’re leaving off. The tackle I’ve accumulated over the years may continue to bring pleasure once I can no longer use it. If I make a few adjustments and get back in practice, I hope that won’t be for awhile.

Bringing Forth

On the gold rock,
we used to sit
with our primitive poles.
Sticks we gathered
from grandmother’s
broken maples,
pins we tied by the head
onto white string.
The sunnies swam
brown-golden-rainbow
in her lake, near the sand beach
she brought in
herself. We always cheered
when we hooked
the surge of body and fin.
But I also cried
at the blood, the shining hole,
and more often than not
I threw the breathless sunnies
back in.

— L.L. Barkat

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A fish in hand is worth....

Thanks to an invitation from the Son-In-Law and Granddaughter, I went fishing yesterday. My (not quite 4 year old) Granddaughter outfished me, I’m pleased to announce. In the time I was with them, she caught (and released) one sunfish while I, using a popping bug, had two strikes. Neither of the fish who took a swipe was big enough to get its mouth around a bluegill bug. I should have changed to a smaller fly but wasn’t sure I would be able to see it in the small waves that covered the lakes surface.

one of these might have been better than the popper

Photo by J. Harrington

Although I was outfished and came home empty handed, I accomplished several worthwhile objectives. First, I established I haven’t entirely forgotten how to cast a fly, even into a 10 mph (gusting to 15) headwind, despite a distressing lack of casting exercise over the past couple of years. Second, I demonstrated, to my satisfaction, that I know how to undo a “wind knot” in a leader, created by not being careful with my backcast into the aforementioned wind. Finally, I reconfirmed that the fun is in the fishing at least as much as in the catching. Now I need to haul myself off to a local trout stream and check out how my wading skills are holding up despite a lack of use. I will wait until the wind is topping out at 10 mph or less for that exercise. Today’s 20+ mph breeze is more than I can cope with.

Fishing Before You Know How to Fish

https://www.awakin.org/v2/read/view.php?tid=2574

Through the pines and the one maple I hear her.

I shouldn’t have gone fishing if I didn’t know how to fish.

I shouldn’t have gone fishing if I didn’t know how to fish.

There she stands

legs impossibly long

pink and black polka dot swimsuit baggy

pole in her hands

and a little oval sunfish impossibly on her hook.

I don’t tell her, but I do think

Oh, sweet girl, life is always like that.

Fishing before you know how to fish.

Leaving before you know how to leave.

Speaking before you know how to speak.

Fighting before you know how to fight.

Loving before you know how to love.

Dying before you know how to die.

We are all the child with the pole

worrying about who we’ve hurt.

And we are all the fish on the hook,

hoping for mercy.

Her aunt hears her muttering prayer

and though she hasn’t unhooked a fish in 30 years

grabs the wriggling innocent in her hands

and dislodges metal from cheek.

And this, too, is all of us.

Saved again and again by prayer we didn’t know we were saying

and a witness we forgot was listening.

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If at first ..., play it again!

As I measured water and flour to refresh my sourdough starter this morning, I realized that an adjustment of perspective was in order. I wasn’t doing a necessary, but annoying, task. I was playing with one of my toys. It would have been even better if I had felt like I was feeding a pet, but our two dogs are demanding enough that I doubt there’s room for another pet in my life at the moment. In any event, yesterday I had made a refresher batch using white whole wheat flour instead of all purpose flour and then made the mistake of putting it outside to gather more air-borne yeast. The damp towel I used to cover the starter dried out quickly, leading to the starter drying out. This morning’s play was to rectify and recover from yesterday’s errors. It seems to be working.🤞

[Pretend there’s a picture of my best loaf here. For the second day in a row, Blogger’s malfunctioning on inserting pictures.]

As a side dish to refreshing the starter, we made up a levain which is rising nicely. It looks like we may be able to assemble some sourdough this evening, let it do a bulk rise overnight, shape and bake tomorrow before it gets too hot. The last loaf we baked rose ok, but the favor was off. Hence, the refreshing the starter and related actions. It was frustrating, since the prior loaf had come as close to perfect as any I’ve managed to get in a decade’s worth of sourdoughing.

Ode to bread

Bread, 
you rise
from flour, 
water
and fire.
Dense or light,
flattened or round,
you duplicate
the mother's
rounded womb,
and earth's
twice-yearly
swelling.
How simple
you are, bread,
and how profound!
You line up
on the baker's 
powdered trays
like silverware or plates
or pieces of paper
and suddenly
life washes 
over you,
there's the joining of seed
and fire,
and you're growing, growing
all at once
like
hips, mouths, breasts,
mounds of earth,
or people's lives.
The temperature rises, you're overwhelmed
by fullness, the roar
of fertility,
and suddenly 
your golden color is fixed.
And when your little wombs
were seeded,
a brown scar
laid its burn the length
of your two halves'
toasted
juncture.
Now, 
whole,
you are 
mankind's energy,
a miracle often admired,
the will to live itself.

O bread familiar to every mouth,
we will not kneel before you:
men
do no
implore
unclear gods
or obscure angels:
we will make our own bread
out of sea and soil,
we will plant wheat
on our earth and the planets,
bread for every mouth, 
for every person,
our daily bread. 
Because we plant its seed
and grow it
not for one man
but for all,
there will be enough:
there will be bread
for all the peoples of the earth.
And we will also share with one another
whatever has
the shape and the flavor of bread:
the earth itself,
beauty
and love--
all
taste like bread
and have its shape,
the germination of wheat.
Everything
exists to be shared,
to be freely given,
to multiply.

This is why, bread,
if you flee
from mankind's houses,
if they hide you away
or deny you,
if the greedy man
pimps for you or 
the rich man 
takes you over,
if the wheat
does not yearn for the furrow and the soil:
then, bread, 
we will refuse to pray:
bread
we will refuse to beg.
We will fight for you instead, side by side with the others,
with everyone who knows hunger.
We will go after you
in every river and in the air.
We will divide the entire earth among ourselves
so that you may germinate,
and the earth will go forward
with us:
water, fire, and mankind
fighting at our side.
Crowned
with sheafs of wheat, 
we  will win
earth and bread for everyone.
Then 
life itself
will have the shape of bread,
deep and simple, 
immeasurable and pure.
Every living thing
will have its share
of soil and life,
and the bread we eat each morning,
everyone's daily bread,
will be hallowed
and sacred,
because it will have been won
by the longest and costliest
of human struggles.

This earthly Victory
does not have wings:
she wears bread on her shoulders instead.
Courageously she soars,
setting the world free,
like a baker
born aloft on the wind.

               -Pablo Neruda

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Step this way, please!

I think I’ve finally figured out a way to spend more time appreciating, enjoying, and being grateful for what I have (instead of focusing on what I want that I don’t already have). Over the course of the summer, I’m going to get my stacks of books organized. They may not end up well organized, but whatever I end up with will be an improvement over the random, mixed stacks lying hither and yon. In the process, I hope to distinguish among those already read, those partially read, and those unread. At the risk of being excessively optimistic, I may also get my fly-fishing gear organized so that, if the wind stops blowing and the rain stops falling torrentially, I may get to go fishing.

these are now overfilled to overflowing

Photo by J. Harrington

It has slowly occurred to me that I can’t try to better organize my personal library until I’ve first organized my personal library. As Lao Tzu noted some years ago “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.” My single step is this public announcement of my intent to organize my library. I almost typed “try to organize” until I remembered Yoda “Do or do not. There is no try.”

That’s all for now. I’m going to clean oak catkins out of the gutter so it will stop overflowing onto the front stoop. It will be interesting to see if my strength matches my growing ambitions.

Happiness

By Jane Kenyon

There’s just no accounting for happiness,

or the way it turns up like a prodigal

who comes back to the dust at your feet

having squandered a fortune far away.

And how can you not forgive?

You make a feast in honor of what

was lost, and take from its place the finest

garment, which you saved for an occasion

you could not imagine, and you weep night and day

to know that you were not abandoned,

that happiness saved its most extreme form

for you alone.

No, happiness is the uncle you never

knew about, who flies a single-engine plane

onto the grassy landing strip, hitchhikes

into town, and inquires at every door

until he finds you asleep midafternoon

as you so often are during the unmerciful

hours of your despair.

It comes to the monk in his cell.

It comes to the woman sweeping the street

with a birch broom, to the child

whose mother has passed out from drink.

It comes to the lover, to the dog chewing

a sock, to the pusher, to the basketmaker,

and to the clerk stacking cans of carrots

in the night.

                     It even comes to the boulder

in the perpetual shade of pine barrens,

to rain falling on the open sea,

to the wineglass, weary of holding wine.

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Here comes summer

Dame’s rocket is now blooming, as is our patch of lilies of the valley. Yesterdays rain has been followed by today’s gusty winds. This spring, much of May feels like March. Tomorrow, the techs show up to check out our air conditioning for the summer season. Meanwhile, no signs yet of scarlet tanagers nor indigo buntings. This may be a migration season without exotics.

I bet you know that this weekend is Memorial Day, the unofficial start of summer, as compared to the summer solstice on June 20 this year or the beginning of meteorological summer on June 1. Got that straight? It would be nice if the weather settles down enough to make fly fishing a pleasant experience rather than a life threatening (lightning) excise in exasperation (wind).

a variety of fly lines for different rods

Photo by J. Harrington

Now that you’ve mentioned fly fishing, I’m considering replacing some of my “high modulus graphite” rods with new fashioned fiberglass. Yesterday I was reading about Have We Reached "Peak Fly Fishing"? (Or at least peak fly rod) and some related articles. In the process, I came across a mention of anglers, like me, who’ve developed a habit of overloading their graphite rods by one line weight to slow the casting action (e.g., use a 7 weight line on a rod designed for a 6 weight). What caught my eye was reference to making casting easier and less tiring. Some years ago, I tore up my right shoulder trying to tip up an outboard motor. I’m right handed so that’s my casting shoulder. Finding ways to enjoy casting without wearing out my shoulder has lots of appeal. I’ll start with my bamboo rod and play with a couple of line weights and see how that works and feels. At least I now have more insight into what I’m trying to accom[lish, and avoid, and how to try to do that. Next, I need mother nature to cooperate with some mild, sunny, basically calm weather. Of course, that will require freshening the permethrin on my bug shirts

Trout

By Kathryn Starbuck

I do my best 

to keep pointlessness 

at bay. But here, 

wet above my 

knees, I let it fly. 

Here, hot and cold, 

fingers thick with 

thinking, I try to 

tie the fly and look 

for the net, loosening 

the philosophical   

knot of why I came 

here today, not yet 

knowing whether 

I’ll free or fry 

the rainbows 

and browns once 

they’re mine.

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Enjoy from now ’til June’s rare days

Wind is mostly calm.
Sky is mostly blue.
Sun is mostly shining.

Many birds are chirping.
Many buds are swelling.
Many faces smiling.

Spring is almost here.

Soil warms.
Leaves emerge.
Wildflowers bloom.

Spring arrives.

Hearts warm.
Walkers stroll.
Lovers love.

A rare June day
Gets matched
In April, sometimes, May.

wild plum blossoms in April

Photo by J. Harrington

What Is So Rare as a Day in June? -

by James Russell Lowell

And what is so rare as a day in June?

Then, if ever, come perfect days;

Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune,

And over it softly her warm ear lays:

Whether we look, or whether we listen,

We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;

Every clod feels a stir of might,

An instinct within it that reaches and towers,

And, groping blindly above it for light,

Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;

The flush of life may well be seen

Thrilling back over hills and valleys;

The cowslip starlets in meadows green,

The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,

And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean

To be some happy creature's palace;

The little bird sits at his door in the sun,

Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,

And lets his illumined being o'errun

With the deluge of summer it receives;

His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,

And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings;

He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,--

In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?

Now is the high-tide of the year,

And whatever of life hath ebbed away

Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer,

Into every bare inlet and creek and bay;

Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it,

We are happy now because God wills it;

No matter how barren the past may have been,

'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green;

We sit in the warm shade and feel right well

How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell;

We may shut our eyes but we cannot help knowing

That skies are clear and grass is growing;

The breeze comes whispering in our ear,

That dandelions are blossoming near,

That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing,

That the river is bluer than the sky,

That the robin is plastering his house hard by;

And if the breeze kept the good news back,

For our couriers we should not lack;

We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing,--

And hark! how clear bold chanticleer,

Warmed with the new wine of the year,

Tells all in his lusty crowing!

Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how;

Everything is happy now,

Everything is upward striving;

'Tis as easy now for the heart to be true

As for grass to be green or skies to be blue,--

'Tis for the natural way of living:

Who knows whither the clouds have fled?

In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake,

And the eyes forget the tears they have shed,

The heart forgets its sorrow and ache;

The soul partakes the season's youth,

And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe

Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth,

Like burnt-out craters healed with snow.

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The man who planted bergamot

There’s a story, and a book, about the man who planted trees. I have a copy of the Heron Dance published edition. I’m starting to wonder, if I live long enough, if I’ll become know as the man who planted wild bergamot.

Most instructions refer to planting bergamot seeds as if they were more than microscopic in size. Some instructions refer to the plant as liking “wet feet.” Others caution to not over water. The plant prefers either full sun or afternoon shade. The planting medium that came in the seed trays comes close to being unmanageably fluffy which makes providing “good contact with the soil” a challenge. What started as a simple project is rapidly becoming a labor of love. We’ll see how it all turns out. Milestones, if we reach any, will be reported here. Germination is supposed to occur in ten to fourteen days. Stay tuned. Perhaps by the time the bergamot seeds have germinated, our ferns will have emerged and shown their fiddleheads.

fern fiddlehead in April

Photo by J. Harrington

When I started this effort, I neglected to do enough research to learn that blossoms are a year two reward. An opportunity to develop my patience has presented itself. As the “Planted Trees” cover notes, “Generosity of Spirit as a Source of Happiness.” I’m slowly, verry slowwly, learning that I can bitch about the world and be miserable, or I can seek joy and happiness, but I can’t multitask both. Most of the time I do try to practice “Yes, and,” but have my limits.

Some time over the next few days the Better Half and I will take a look at the front flower garden and see if we can guess how much damage was done by the extra mild winter followed by the freezing, snowy first week of spring. The reemergence of green, growing things (except for the local poison ivy vines) offers reasons to hope that things will get better, especially if we work for it.

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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As life returns to the lands (and waters)

Yesterday evening we were visited by four whitetail deer in a far corner of the field behind the house. This morning the dogs and I did indeed walk to the pond north of the house. There we unintentionally flushed a pair of wood ducks from the open water. Midday today we noticed a small flock of turkeys pecking away in the same area the deer visited yesterday. Warmer weather and melting snows are bringing critters in search of food and nesting sites. Soon we can look for bud burst and nest building.

migrating wood ducks on a pond

Photo by J. Harrington

Are you familiar with the story of blind men describing an elephant? I’m at a point of thinking it applies to all our individual and collective attempts to understand and describe the reality of our existence and purpose on the earth in an expanding universe. It seems that a good part of the problems are captured in the saying about the devil is in the details. Plus, too many of us, too often, forget that there is more than one path through the woods. Not that I would ever be guilty of such parochialism!!!!

Tomorrow, for those who observe, is Easter Sunday. For all who follow the Gregorian Calendar, it’s the last day of March. Monday is April Fool’s Day and, purely coincidentally, the start of National Poetry Month. For many of us, the best times of the year lie ahead. We hope we all get to thoroughly enjoy them.

The Silent Singer

Len Roberts

The girls sang better than the boys, 
their voices reaching All the way to God, 
Sister Ann Zita insisted during those 
     practice sessions
when I was told to mouth do, re, mi,
     but to go no higher,
when I was told to stand in back 
    and form a perfect 0
        with my lips
although no word was ever to come out, 
the silent singer in that third-grade 
     class
during the Christmas Pageant and Easter 
     Week, the birth and death 
        of Christ lip-synched
            but unsung	
while my relatives, friends and parents
     praised my baritone,
     how low my voice was,
Balancing those higher, more childlike tones,
     my father said,
Adding depth, my mother said,
Thank God they had my huskiness to bring all
     that tinniness to earth,
     my great-aunt whispered,
so I believed for many years in miracles
     myself,
the words I'd never sung reaching their ears 
     in the perfect pitch, the perfect tone, 
while the others stuttered in their all-too-human
     voices to praise the Lord.

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Captive on the carousel of time*

Our temperatures are consistently running above “normal” while precipitation is sparse to nonexistent. This is likely to present complications for greening up the North Country this spring. The buds on the maple trees in front of the house are beginning to swell but no bud burst yet. Once again local waters are becoming ice free. I’ve lost track whether this is the third or fourth time this year. There’s a better chance this time may last since the Spring Equinox is about a week and a half away and the next few days are forecast to bring high temperatures well into the sixties.

March maple buds beginning to swell

Photo by J. Harrington

We’re watching for signs of maladjustment attributable to our springing ahead an hour early this morning. So far, so good, although the sun’s warmth, when it finally arrives, induces a sleepiness we’re not accustomed to. We expect to adapt over the next few days and look forward to later sunsets bringing longer evenings. I think it’s fair to say that, for most of us, the best two-thirds or three quarters of the year lie ahead.

I’ve actually made some progress getting (some of) my fly fishing gear ready for the season. Two rods have fly lines that have been washed clean and leaders straightened. I discovered that some of my teeny-tiny flies (Tricos) may actually be based on hooks too small to hold a fish. Plus, the eyes are obscured enough that getting the tag end of a tippet through is a) a challenge or b) not doable. Better I should learn these things at home rather than when I’m in the stream and fish are rising.

Please be advised that this coming Thursday, March 14, is reported to be Pi Day. We’re planning on celebrating with French Silk.

[*  The Circle Game]

 

Baked Goods

By Aimee Nezhukumatathil

Flour on the floor makes my sandals 

slip and I tumble into your arms. 

Too hot to bake this morning but

blueberries begged me to fold them

into moist muffins. Sticks of rhubarb 

plotted a whole pie. The windows

are blown open and a thickfruit tang

sneaks through the wire screen

and into the home of the scowly lady

who lives next door. Yesterday, a man 

in the city was rescued from his apartment

which was filled with a thousand rats. 

Something about being angry because

his pet python refused to eat. He let the bloom 

of fur rise, rise over the little gnarly blue rug, 

over the coffee table, the kitchen countertops

and pip through each cabinet, snip

at the stumpy bags of sugar,

the cylinders of salt. Our kitchen is a riot

of pots, wooden spoons, melted butter. 

So be it. Maybe all this baking will quiet

the angry voices next door, if only

for a brief whiff. I want our summers

to always be like this—a kitchen wrecked

with love, a table overflowing with baked goods

warming the already warm air. After all the pots

are stacked, the goodies cooled, and all the counters

wiped clean—let us never be rescued from this mess. 

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Standing precedes standing up to

Remember Popeye’s famous line: “That's all I can stands, cuz I can't stands n’more!” Were this not a leap year, today we’d be done with February. Yesterday’s snow and this morning’s single digit temperatures and below zero wind chill were hard to take after several days of well above seasonal temperatures, temperatures that are forecast to return tomorrow and continue into the foreseeable future. The warmer forecast made me feel brave enough to ask the Better Half to trim my rapidly thinning hair. I hope I haven’t jinxed us into a belated return of winter.

Yesterday’s snow has already melted from the open, south-facing hillside behind the house, even though the temperature is below 20℉. That seems weird to me but I’m neither a climatologist, meteorologist, nor physicist.

some years look like this in late March

Photo by J. Harrington

Has anyone seen the odds on a (partial) government shutdown by Saturday or next week? The longer we go without actual appropriations bills having been passed, the more complex the situation becomes. Forbes magazine has a disheartening assessment of the possible effects of the Fiscal Responsibility Act if there’s not a real budget by April. I don’t know about you, but I’m getting tired and fed up with living in a political house of cards, built on sand, in a quake zone. At least warmer weather and an upcoming fishing season should provide some respite.

Under the heading of things could always be worse, I was mildly heartened when I read in this morning’s The Writer’s Almanac that Montaigne "lived at a time when religious civil wars were breaking out all over the country — Protestants and Catholics killing each other. The Black Plague was ravaging the peasants in his neighborhood; he once saw men digging their own graves and then lying down to die in them.” Then I remembered we’re still in a COVID pandemic and appear to be heading toward a religious civil war over reproduction health and book reading. Maybe Artificial Intelligence can bail US out, since we seem to be running very short on the natural kind.

Museum of Tolerance

By Michael Miller

The shirtless man by the ticket counter

  has already broken the gloom here, his crowd

    of two boys and the cashier with the Star of David

      gathered around and mouthing astonishment

as he tells the tale behind every scar.

  Yes, this one on the side was from the camp—

     he tells them not to be shy to ask—

       when he tripped into the ditch

on the run after stealing cigarettes,

  the one on the knuckle from punching the soldier

   in the bar, brave with whiskey, a decade after.

     Touch it, he snarls, jutting out his fist.

That split a real Nazi’s lip.

  In the rooms behind him, the voices lay low

    but touch is the rule, the extended families

      passing in fours and fives as tight

as at church or the carnival. Are they

  all survivors here, dazed and exhilarated

    by the fate that dropped them so far from blight?

      A father heads the line, shirt fat with muscles

and a single proud thumb pushing the stroller;

  the woman and girl hug sideways, then again,

     tight as dancers in a row. At each display,

       the time lines and the whispered assurances

reiterate that what is done is done.

  Pol Pot is dead, the children of Kampuchea

    reading again to go to college; Rwanda

       has forgiven itself and opened supermarkets;

the ghettos are demolished, the Cold War won.

  Sudan, they skip. For now, the beasts are gone.

    They face the new life, the one after the mending,

      after the last mistakes were made.

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