Back to the future?

Yesterday was a Red Flag day and not just because it was Mother's Day! Low humidity, winds gusting into the low thirties mph, plus no precipitation for a week or so raised the grass fire danger over much of the state. We get this morning off and the Red Flag returns at noon for the afternoon and evening. Please keep your fingers crossed that all those exposed to danger and destruction stay safe. These days that includes about all of US and most other Earthlings, doesn't it?

brush fire: not all burns are controlled

Photo by J. Harrington

Have you noticed that many librarians are moving 1984 and Brave New World from the fiction to the nonfiction section? That's disheartening, to put it mildly. Although the term Anthropocene has been rejected as a new geological epoch, I think there's a more hopeful future for the term and those living during it. It will become known as the period in which humans finally became wise enough to stop destroying the life support systems of their home planet. This assessment is based on a growing number of books that flag intelligent and successful environmental restoration movements growing world-wide. Here's a few titles for your consideration:

• What if We Get It Right?, Ayana Elizabeth Johnson
• Carbon, Paul Hawken
• Hydrate the Earth, Ananda Fitzsimmons, and
• Is a River Alive?, Robert Macfarlane

I'm rereading the third title, almost finished each of the first two, and looking forward to getting a copy of the fourth next month as a gift. To paraphrase from the opening of the original Star Wars crawl: "A long time ago in on a galaxy planet far, far away [in time]...." the First People(s) believed Earth a sacred part of the Great Mystery. If you're old enough, you'll recognize where we borrowed this from: "Return with us now to those thrilling days of yesteryear."

I don't know about you, but I think it'd be great if we all stopped trying to burn up our home planet and dedicated more to tending what's left and restoring what we've trashed. Otherwise, we won't be the ancestors our children and theirs needed.

        Salvage

Ada Limón
1976 –

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

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Life returns in Spring

On this Easter Sunday, I take a measure of hope from the blossoms on the forsythia bush behind the house, from the songs of the birds, the flights of the returned waterfowl and the fact that more precipitation is rain instead of snow these days. Despite our continuing destructive activities, we are alive on a living planet and are again celebrating the season of life returning in the northern hemisphere. I wish more of US carried that awareness close to our hearts.

much anticipated marsh marigolds in bloom

Photo by J. Harrington

The driveway east of the house gets a mix of sun and shade in the mornings. An ell between the garage and the living room faces south and west and gets sun from late morning all afternoon. The day lilies along the driveway are less than three inches tall. Those in the ell are more than a foot tall. I think that's a good example of differences in microclimates. It also indicates spring's variability, since, in 2012, the day lilies in the semi-shaded front yard were a foot tall on March 24, a month earlier than this year.

The weather forecast includes April showers for the next several days. The water level in the "wet spot" behind the house is much lower this year than most. We're not listed as being even in an abnormally dry county despite an almost snowless winter, probably because precipitation for the past couple of months has been close to normal. We'll hold off until things green up lots more before we torch the brush pile in the back yard.

As far as I'm concerned, we have the best parts of the year ahead of us and I intend to spend at least part of my time paying attention to and enjoying the natural rhythms and beauties in our area. I refuse to spend all my time resisting the madness emanating from the state and national capitols. I also am entitled to enjoy, et alii, marsh marigolds coming into bloom sometime over the next several weeks, weather permitting.

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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What are we here for?

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

hen turkey flock sunning in the back yard

Photo by J. Harrington

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

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

Characteristics of Life

Camille T. Dungy
1972 – 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                                To say it is mindless is missing the point. 

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Getting real

No matter how inane our politics get, it's hard to be grumpy when faced with an abundance of wildflowers along roads and in summer fields. Again this morning I was reminded that I need to get out of the house and into the countryside more. Folk music on the Jeep radio as we head to the farm pick up barn, combined with an occasional sighting of does and fawns, or sandhill cranes, provides a wonderful respite from doom scrolling and headline scanning.

a field of black-eyed Susans

Photo by J. Harrington

Here’s what’s in our community supported agriculture [CSA] share this week:

• CUCUMBERS
• SUMMER SQUASH ASSORTMENT
• GREEN or RED SALANOVA LETTUCE
• TOMATOES
• ONIONS
• PARSLEY, and
• KOHLRABI

The Better Half has been flexing her creativity muscles finding new, and relatively appetizing, ways to use up the fresh vegetables I keep signing us up for each year but hate to eat. I’m not sure I can live long enough to actually enjoy veggies but I like to idea of supporting organically grown and local. These days it’s similar to the way I like the idea of being a Democrat more than the reality. Then, again, when I look at much of the rest of the world, our trials and tribulations are so much less than being bombed or jailed for doing your job as a journalist or just being who you are. That level of problem makes junk mail, spam calls and texts and even software system failures not less annoying but put in a different perspective.

Beans

Mary Oliver
1935 – 2019

They’re not like peaches or squash.
Plumpness isn’t for them. They like
being lean, as if for the narrow
path. The beans themselves sit qui-
etly inside their green pods. In-
stinctively one picks with care, 
never tearing down the fine vine,
never noticing their crisp bod-
ies, or feeling their willingness for
the pot, for the fire.

I have thought sometimes that
something—I can’t name it—
watches as I walk the rows, accept-
ing the gift of their lives to assist
mine.

I know what you think: this is fool-
ishness. They’re only vegetables.
Even the blossoms with which they
begin are small and pale, hardly sig-
nificant Our hands, or minds, our
feet hold more intelligence. With
this I have no quarrel. 

But, what about virtue?

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A quest -- shunned?

This morning on one of the social media platforms I explore, I came across a question and answer that fascinates me. The question is: Anyone doing the baker’s dozen for books? 13 novels to know me? An answer was provided by a poet whose work I’ve read recently. I recognized and have read about half the novels listed and am familiar with the names of an additional three or four authors, but I was at a loss with the titles of half a dozen novels, until I looked them up on Kirkus Reviews. Now I’m pondering the questions of if I wanted to: could I list a baker’s dozen novels to help someone know me and, perhaps more significantly, do I want to?

For many years now, much of my reading has focused on nonfiction, creative and otherwise, poetry, and short stories by the likes of John Gierach. Any novels were likely to be of the science fiction genre. In fact, it might be interesting to check my list of books read over the past few years and see how many were novels. Much of my novel reading occurred before I reached about half of my current age so, how much about me might 13 titles reveal? The question seems worth exploring whether I share the answer or not.

a vase of forsythia blooms

Photo by J. Harrington

On a somewhat related topic, I’m still about halfway through reading Fritjof Capra and Pier Luigi Luisi’s The Systems View of Life: A Unifying Vision. I suspect that has something to do with a question that occurred to me earlier today. For context, about a week ago I bought a small bunch of forsythia stems in bloom. Since they came home, they’ve been sitting in a vase of water. The blooms have held up nicely and green leaves have developed at the tips of the stems over the week. The question is: are those stems alive? They have, as yet, no roots and are unlikely to be able to sustain themselves if planted. And yet, they might develop roots and become plantable, at which point there is no doubt in my mind they’d qualify as alive. I think I may let this question percolate as I review my listings and bookshelves for novels. Are you noticing how much trouble reading can get one into?

Life

By George Herbert

I made a posy, while the day ran by: 

“Here will I smell my remnant out, and tie 

                           My life within this band.” 

But Time did beckon to the flowers, and they 

By noon most cunningly did steal away, 

                           And withered in my hand. 

My hand was next to them, and then my heart; 

I took, without more thinking, in good part 

                           Time’s gentle admonition; 

Who did so sweetly death’s sad taste convey, 

Making my mind to smell my fatal day, 

                           Yet, sug’ring the suspicion. 

Farewell dear flowers, sweetly your time ye spent, 

Fit, while ye lived, for smell or ornament, 

                           And after death for cures. 

I follow straight without complaints or grief, 

Since, if my scent be good, I care not if 

                           It be as short as yours.

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There’s good news and ....

Because it is both depressing and irritating these days to try to comment intelligently on either politics or public policy, I’m pleased to report that we’ve recently learned that there’s a small flock of pine siskins visiting the feeder this winter. I confess to not paying much attention and thinking they were goldfinches until a couple of days ago. Cornell’s All About Birds notes the two species can be seen as similar.

some years it’s really hard to tell who’s there

Photo by J. Harrington

The other piece of recent good news is that a person or persons unknown have been using our Little Library [L.L]. I find it really encouraging when folks actually take and leave books instead of just one or the other. I’m only aware of one other L.L. on the routes we regularly travel here in the exurbs which probably says something. Then there’s also the issue that those of us whose reading taste strays far from the best seller list find it challenging to get a hard copy of what we’d like to read through our local public libraries.

Speaking of books and reading, at the moment there are two books I’m looking forward to reading once they’re published this year. In March, Rose McLarney’s Colorfast will be released on the 5th. Later this year, Chris La Tray’s Becoming Little Shell is scheduled for publication on August 20. In the interim, I’m rereading some of Thomas R. Smith’s poetry and Linda Legarde Grover’s latest novel, a song over miskwaa rapids.

All told, things could be much worse and I’m slowly learning to be grateful for what I have instead of being frustrated and aggravated by what’s missing. At least I’m not a pregnant woman in Texas or Tennessee, nor a family in Gaza. If only we had a Congress that understood they’re supposed to earn their pay by solving problems, not making them worse.

I wanted to be surprised.

Jane Hirshfield
1953 – 

To such a request, the world is obliging.

In just the past week, a rotund porcupine,
who seemed equally startled by me.

The man who swallowed a tiny microphone
to record the sounds of his body,
not considering beforehand how he might remove it.

A cabbage and mustard sandwich on marbled bread.

How easily the large spiders were caught with a clear plastic cup
surprised even them.

I don’t know why I was surprised every time love started or ended.
Or why each time a new fossil, Earth-like planet, or war.
Or that no one kept being there when the doorknob had clearly.

What should not have been so surprising:
my error after error, recognized when appearing on the faces of others.

What did not surprise enough:
my daily expectation that anything would continue,
and then that so much did continue, when so much did not.

Small rivulets still flowing downhill when it wasn’t raining.
A sister’s birthday.

Also, the stubborn, courteous persistence.
That even today please means please,
good morning is still understood as good morning,

and that when I wake up,
the window’s distant mountain remains a mountain,
the borrowed city around me is still a city, and standing.

Its alleys and markets, offices of dentists,
drug store, liquor store, Chevron.
Its library that charges—a happy surprise—no fine for overdue books:
Borges, Baldwin, Szymborska, Morrison, Cavafy.

—2018

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Wanna play baker?

The bread I baked this morning is about the best tasting I’ve produced in a decade or so. Unfortunately, it wasn’t on purpose. I’m still challenged by the routine of when and how much to feed the starter and how bubbly it really should be and are there tradeoffs between open crumb and real sourdough flavor? As my mother, if she were still here, would tell you, patience and organization are not my strong points. To which I would reply that I’m trying to be organic and artisanal, not mechanical and industrial. Bottom line is that replication of process doesn’t guarantee replication of results. Isn’t that like most of life?

loafing around and playing last year

Photo by J. Harrington

Perhaps children learn so much through play because, for the most part, they avoid perfectionism. I’m slowly adding a sense of play to my bread baking and accepting that, even if I never “master" sourdough baking, I can still have lots of fun learning, especially if I treat it as play and not as a “major production.” I believe the same philosophy may fit well with fly fishing, too. Didn’t someone, sometime, point out that "life is too short to be taken seriously,” or something like that? I hope so because that’s how I intend to approach lots of things from now on. For example, today I tried, for the first time ever, using a flour stencil on the bread dough before it went in the oven. The results were far less than spectacular. So, when the boule came out of the oven, I brushed off the flour, sliced the bread and really liked the taste and crust.

I’ve learned over the years that it’s unrealistic to expect to catch fish every time I go fishing. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t lots of other things to enjoy on a fishing trip. Have you ever seen the saying that poems are never finished, just abandoned? What else might that apply to?

Playthings

By Rabindranath Tagore

Child, how happy you are sitting in the dust, playing with a broken twig all the morning.

I smile at your play with that little bit of a broken twig.

I am busy with my accounts, adding up figures by the hour.

Perhaps you glance at me and think, "What a stupid game to spoil your morning with!"

Child, I have forgotten the art of being absorbed in sticks and mud-pies.

I seek out costly playthings, and gather lumps of gold and silver.

With whatever you find you create your glad games, I spend both my time and my strength over things I never can obtain.

In my frail canoe I struggle to cross the sea of desire, and forget that I too am playing a game.

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A life worth living

 

Open Book stone table

Photo by J. Harrington

Does anyone else see a problem here?

• Writing helps the incarcerated reclaim their humanity


• Public Colleges Serving Rural Areas Especially Likely to Cut Humanities

According to the National Humanities Center:

From an academic standpoint, the humanities include the study of history, philosophy and religion, modern and ancient languages and literatures, fine and performing arts, media and cultural studies, and other fields. Humanities research adds to our knowledge of the world, as scholars investigate differences between cultures and communities around the world and across time, consider the ways art is made and received, or unveil the undercurrents that have shaped history. Humanities education encourages students to think creatively and critically, to reason, and ask questions. And, as the humanities offer insight into nearly every aspect of life, they have been considered a core element of a well-rounded education since ancient times.

Put simply, the humanities help us understand and interpret the human experience, as individuals and societies.

Minnesota's higher education system provides for technical education options, including online and associate degrees. The Minnesota Humanities Center doesn't appear to have comparable offerings. What does this say about the value of learning how to be a [better] human?

“The case for the humanities is not hard to make, though it can be difficult--to such an extent have we been marginalized, so long have we acceded to that marginalization--not to sound either defensive or naive. The humanities, done right, are the crucible in which our evolving notions of what it means to be fully human are put to the test; they teach us, incrementally, endlessly, not what to do, but how to be. Their method is confrontational, their domain unlimited, their "product" not truth but the reasoned search for truth, their "success" something very much like Frost's momentary stay against confusion.” 
― Mark Slouka, Essays from the Nick of Time: Reflections and Refutations

Humanities Lecture

By William E. Stafford

Aristotle was a little man with

eyes like a lizard, and he found a streak

down the midst of things, a smooth place for his feet

much more important than the carved handles

on the coffins of the great.

He said you should put your hand out

at the time and place of need:

strength matters little, he said,

nor even speed.

His pupil, a king's son, died

at an early age. That Aristotle spoke of him

it is impossible to find—the youth was

notorious, a conqueror, a kid with a gang,

but even this Aristotle didn't ever say.

Around the farthest forest and along

all the bed of the sea, Aristotle studied

immediate, local ways. Many of which

were wrong. So he studied poetry.

There, in pity and fear, he found Man.

Many thinkers today, who stand low and grin,

have little use for anger or power, its palace

or its prison—

but quite a bit for that little man

with eyes like a lizard. 

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Transitory transitions

There's ice in the bird bath today. I’m wearing a winter weight sweater. This morning was bread baking time and the house enjoyed the warmth of the oven and the fresh bread aroma. The ground is covered with fallen leaves although most of the oak trees still have lots of leaves hanging on. We’re looking at half a year’s worth of cold and snow before what passes for spring in the North Country brightens our days.

neighborhood oak, fully crowned

Photo by J. Harrington

A week from tomorrow daylight saving’s time ends. Despite some trials and tribulations, come Thanksgiving it looks like there will be much for which we will want to give thanks, not least of which is having made it through another year.

Candidly, I don’t like winter weather but do enjoy the quieter pace as much of the world snoozes beneath a blanket of snow. Many past winters I’ve focused on getting reorganized as a transition from the year past to the one ahead. There’ll be some of that this winter, but I’m more interested in working toward simplification and overcoming some of my Yankee “but it might be good someday” perspective. The garage is still overstuffed despite selling three rarely used bellyboat--float tubes a few months ago. I may even donate or otherwise dispose of some old books and magazines, thereby making space for new additions.

As the year winds down, taking stock becomes easier if there’s less stock to take. Planning for a new year becomes easier if life is less cluttered. In my younger days, it seemed lless complicated figuring out what to let go of and what to hold. Maybe, as I’ve aged, I’ve picked up a variation of Midas’ disease. Everything I touch I want to hold onto because it may be useful some day. As John Fogerty tells us, that’s not the way life works.

November

By Maggie Dietz

Show's over, folks. And didn't October do

A bang-up job? Crisp breezes, full-throated cries

Of migrating geese, low-floating coral moon.

Nothing left but fool's gold in the trees.

Did I love it enough, the full-throttle foliage,

While it lasted? Was I dazzled? The bees

Have up and quit their last-ditch flights of forage

And gone to shiver in their winter clusters.

Field mice hit the barns, big squirrels gorge

On busted chestnuts. A sky like hardened plaster

Hovers. The pasty river, its next of kin,

Coughs up reed grass fat as feather dusters.

Even the swarms of kids have given in

To winter's big excuse, boxed-in allure:

TVs ricochet light behind pulled curtains.

The days throw up a closed sign around four.

The hapless customer who'd wanted something

Arrives to find lights out, a bolted door.

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Before the season leaves

Except when rain has fallen heavy and loud, it’s been a quiet, mostly peaceful day in the neighborhood. I’ve been reading more of our druidry booklets, placing an order for more free COVID tests, and drinking coffee.

Earlier, during a downpour, I tried to take the dogs for their post-lunch walk. We got out onto the front stoop, they looked at the rain coming down and the puddles all over the driveway and then gave me looks that said “You’re not serious, are you? Can’t you see how hard it’s raining?” We deferred the walk until a later, less wet, moment, at which time SiSi, my yellow lab cross, didn’t even want to get her feet wet.

a small sample of maple leaves’ color

Photo by J. Harrington

All in all, we could have used this rain last month, or the one before that, although I’ve read some opinions that the drought is contributing to this autumn’s really spectacular colors. Maple leaves are blazing into scarlet through orange flames all over our area. At least so far that’s been metaphorical, thank goodness.

So, we can expect peak color some time over the next couple of weeks. The rain is forecast to cease sometime in the next couple of days. I continue to struggle with my middle class compulsion to make the yard look neat, although reports are that messy is better for nature, and we have to wait and see if a Halloween blizzard develops this year. As I learn to relax and enjoy what life offers, there seems to be less exciting news to report here, especially if I stay away from politics. I’ll poke around some more and see if there’s something to natter about some day soon.

The Lesson Of The Falling Leaves

by Lucille Clifton

the leaves believe
such letting go is love
such love is faith
such faith is grace
such grace is god
i agree with the leaves

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Cylindrical file time

I’m spending less time on social media these days. Elon is busy trashing what used to be a decent online place to hang out and Mastodon, my alternative, needs more curating than I’m willing to put effort into. I’m also spending less time checking the news. Star Tribune is hiding behind a paywall and I refuse to subscribe. The Guardian is repeating many stories for several days in a row so I don’t check in there as often as I used to. If I manage to keep weaning myself from doomscrolling, I could end up spending more time living my own life rather than reading about other’s. That’s likely to be an improvement.

“The ultimate test of man's conscience may be his willingness to sacrifice something
today for future generations whose words of thanks will not be heard.”

― Gaylord Nelson

Photo by J. Harrington

Meanwhile, as I work on organizing and purging years’ worth of neglected files, both computer and physical, I keep finding stuff I had completely forgotten I have. Much of it is offering ideas for new or revived projects that I can work on with the time I no longer spend on social and news media. The hangup involves making an educated guess at what I would find satisfying to do, particularly regarding writing poetry and/or creative nonfiction (that’s what this blog is, as far as I’m concerned). For now, I’m foregoing decisions as I work through piles of files, organizing, deleting or shredding as we go.

Despite being a college graduate, I don’t recall ever being offered a course in how to organize files nor any  explanation regarding what files need to be kept for how long. Meanwhile, congress and state legislatures waste time and energy (theirs and ours) fiddling with laws that are too often poorly conceived and all too often not considered from a systemic perspective. Instead of the almost constant battles and impending government shutdowns over appropriations bills and continuing resolutions, should we, as citizens, require a constitutional amendment that mandates that agencies will continue to be funded at current levels until a new appropriations bill is enacted? Political fights should be kept among politicians. Those of US in the real world should be held harmless. At least that’s my opinion of a key element of good governance. I refuse to support a politician or party whose primary strategy or objective is to break things.

Open Memo To The Congressional Appropriations Committee And The Military Department Of Defense 

By Sandra Maria Esteves

To Whom It Does Concern:

 

        Could we please have just one space flight,

           one nine-million dollar adventure into the great breath,

           so that we could divide the loaves and fishes

           and put 900 more people to work for a year.

 

           Or could we please have one nuclear missile,

           so we can difuse it, sell the used parts

           for one-point-ten billion worth of more than just

           rice krispies breakfast-lunch-dinners.

 

           What if we could exchange an M-1 rifle for a solar reflector

           so that our building could have heat all the time,

           not wait for avaricious gun-toting landlords

           to remember to call the oil company tomorrow

           for the child next door with pneumonia today.

 

           We would even accept a leftover bomber,

           or one two-million dollar high tech space suit,

           however patronizing it may seem,

           or a decommissioned aircraft carrier to relieve tight housing

                problems.

 

           Its not much, is it?

           When you add it up, pull together the sum total

           of the four billion dollars-a-day catastrophy fantasy,

           the whole is worse than its parts.

 

           So to continue our list,

           could you please refund on our next tax return

           the difference between the limousines you drive,

           and the tokens we do not have

           to build our nation strong.

 

                                        Signed,

                                        The People of the Rest of the World

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Home away from home

Today’s weather, so far, on top of last night’s rain showers, is a treat. Blue skies, breeze, warm not hot. sunshine... maybe thunderstorms this evening, we’ll see. We’re definitely doing a lot better than Maui and Phoenix.

The other day I once again started picking my way through a book titled Exploring a Sense of Place. A few years ago I began working through sections of the book but it never seemed to jell. After intermittently thinking about it, I believe I now know why. The places I feel most connected to are places where I was doing things I loved doing, especially hunting and fishing things. I’ve never felt comfortable enough with, or interested enough in, botany to be really good at foraging, never mind collecting mushrooms. Then again, I tried and didn’t persist in fly-tying, maybe because I didn’t get sufficiently interested in aquatic entomology?

We’ve lived in the same place for about a quarter century. I like the place but, especially in years like this one, wish it were more interesting. Not much grew in the back yard due to a droughty summer after a very wet spring and preceding winter. We’ve seen few whitetail fawns or wild turkey poults this year. It was interesting, and very disappointing, to discover late spring or early summer that a bear had destroyed one of the bluebird nesting boxes. As with much of life, most of the time very little happens day to day and then there’s a minor or major crisis. I believe the high point so far this season has been the sandhill crane visit, and they haven’t been back.

recent visitors to the back yard

Photo by J. Harrington

I think what I’m fussing about today is I don’t seem to be able to find a satisfying balance between learning and doing and thinking and the rest of living. Uncooperative weather patterns has something to do with that. Aging in a less than graceful manner is a coconspirator. (Lots of effort goes into teaching children to to grow and become productive, but precious little to teaching us how to age gracefully, as if we were born knowing that.)

Back to my lack of a sense of place. While I acknowledge the truths of Heraclitus’ [via Plutarch] metaphor “It is not possible to step into the same river twice,” perhaps I’m past due to read Ursula K. Le Guin’s Always Coming Home. For some time I’ve been haunted by the line from Neil Diamond’s I am I said: But nowadays, I'm lost between two shores. Duluth is not Boston and Lake Superior isn’t the Atlantic ocean. Maybe I need to discover familiar home waters where I am to complement those where I was. 

Lines Written at Castle Island, Lake Superior

Jane Johnston Schoolcraft
1800 – 1842

^{translated from the Anishinaabemowin}

Here in my native inland sea 
From pain and sickness would I flee
And from its shores and island bright
Gather a store of sweet delight.
Lone island of the saltless sea! 
How wide, how sweet, how fresh and free
How all transporting—is the view 
Of rocks and skies and waters blue
Uniting, as a song’s sweet strains 
To tell, here nature only reigns. 
Ah, nature! here forever sway 
Far from the haunts of men away
For here, there are no sordid fears, 
No crimes, no misery, no tears
No pride of wealth; the heart to fill, 
No laws to treat my people ill. 

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Which way to turn

Those who read this blog with any regularity have probably realized that Joy Harjo is one of my favorite poets and writers. Today I encountered an epigram from her works in Natalie Diaz’ Postcolonial Love Poem:

I am singing a song that can only be born after losing a country.   JOY HARJO

Curious about which of Harjo’s works was the source, I entered the phrase into an internet search engine. The answer is that the epigram is from Conflict Resolution for Holy Beings, although I’m not sure from which poem. The pleasant surprise is that the answer was first found in a section of the web site of the National Trust for Historic Preservation: U.S. Poet Laureate Joy Harjo: A Life in Four Directions.

Conflict Resolution for Holy Beings
 Joy Harjo

It is very improbable I would have found the section linked above were it not for searching for the epigram. Having quickly skimmed through the National Trust section, I’ll be returning to it for a slower, more careful read sometime in the near future. I’m also curious about Harjo’s use of the four cardinal directions compared with their role in the Druidry material I’m reading. How much overlap is there between her indigenous perspective and that of the European ancients as currently interpreted and presented? As political winds continue to howl, and climate weirding intensifies, and other human induced disruptions occur with increasing frequency, I feel a growing need to determine a direction to face to keep from spinning around.

Once the World Was Perfect

Joy Harjo
1951 – 

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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As Lent ends, life returns

Last night we had ten or twelve deer in the backyard. I believe that’s a record although I admit not staying awake nights to observe. We may be finished with below freezing temperatures until next autumn, but in the North Country, that’s not a safe bet even though an 80℉ high, or thereabouts, daytime temperature has crept into next week’s forecast. (If you can’t see all the deer, try clicking on the picture to enlarge it. ymmv)

7 of last night's visitors

Photo by J. Harrington

We hope that, as the snow melts and things warm, and green, up, the deer will return to their usual browsing and leave our lilac and forsythia bushes alone. The Better Half believes that some of the horde are grazing on our feral oregano. Based on where they’ve been feeding the past few days, she’s probably correct.

Sunday marks a return of life and that’s about how I’m feeling at the moment. It’ll take a few days to shake of the rest of winter’s dreary, dead dregs, but we’re feeling more optimistic than we did at the beginning of the week, although for the time being that’s not really saying much.

In honor of Easter weekend, we want to share a couple of interesting online resources we found this morning:

• 45 Degrees North: Local Wool  (learn about fibersheds and rambunctious sheep)
• The American Communities Project (an unprecedented growing attempt to understand the subtleties and complexities of the United States as the country reimagines its future and its place in the world)
• Restoring Aquatic Ecosystems in Northwest Lower Michigan (provides a potential model for parts of Minnesota’s rivers that need restoration)

Those three discoveries, along with some other happenings this week, are helping me to again believe that there may well be hope for US and the rest of the Earth’s inhabitants. That  assessment seems timely.

Easter

Emily Pauline Johnson

Lent gathers up her cloak of sombre shading
    In her reluctant hands.
Her beauty heightens, fairest in its fading,
    As pensively she stands 
Awaiting Easter’s benediction falling,
    Like silver stars at night, 
Before she can obey the summons calling
    Her to her upward flight, 
Awaiting Easter’s wings that she must borrow
    Ere she can hope to fly—
Those glorious wings that we shall see to-morrow
    Against the far, blue sky.
Has not the purple of her vesture’s lining
    Brought calm and rest to all? 
Has her dark robe had naught of golden shining
    Been naught but pleasure’s pall?
Who knows? Perhaps when to the world returning
    In youth’s light joyousness,
We’ll wear some rarer jewels we found burning
    In Lent’s black-bordered dress.
So hand in hand with fitful March she lingers
    To beg the crowning grace 
Of lifting with her pure and holy fingers
    The veil from April’s face. 
Sweet, rosy April—laughing, sighing, waiting
    Until the gateway swings,
And she and Lent can kiss between the grating
    Of Easter’s tissue wings.
Too brief the bliss—the parting comes with sorrow. 
    Good-bye dear Lent, good-bye! 
We’ll watch your fading wings outlined to-morrow
     Against the far blue sky. 

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Water is life!

There’s a “wet spot” at the foot of the slope in the yard behind the house. Most springs it looks something like the picture below. Notice there’s still snow cover but there’s also an obvious pool of water. So far this year there’s no sign of a pool developing. I think it has something to do with the extended drought Minnesota has been experiencing up until this winter.

backyard wet spot in late March

Photo by J. Harrington

The pool appears to be groundwater-based. I think the lack of surface water is because the groundwater had dropped a lot and not been replenished when winter set in. This morning the mud and puddles at the east end of the driveway were gone. Evaporation and/or seeping into the soil probably accounts for most of the disappearance. What little was left froze overnight. Midday today the mud and puddles are back. I’m not a hydrologist but I am suspicious that we won’t see our wet spot until the groundwater has been replenished in our neighborhood. Remember the old song about "Dem Bones" (also called "Dry Bones" and "Dem Dry Bones”)?

Verse 1
Toe bone connected to the foot bone
Foot bone connected to the heel bone
Heel bone connected to the ankle bone
Ankle bone connected to the leg bone
Leg bone connected to the knee bone
Knee bone connected to the thigh bone
Thigh bone connected to the hip bone
Hip bone connected to the back bone
Back bone connected to the shoulder bone
Shoulder bone connected to the neck bone
Neck bone connected to the head bone
Hear the word of the Lord.

The hydrologic cycle works pretty much that way except where we’ve made a mess of it. Atmospheric water falls as rain or snow, runs off or sinks in and what doesn’t re-evaporate flows eventually back into the oceans where the cycle restarts. The pollution we discharge into the air or local rivers gets conveyed to the ocean or precipitates from the atmosphere. Remember acid rain? It’s still falls and is now accompanied by PFAS. Except for sunlight, our Earth is pretty much a closed system. There is no “away.” 

Wind, Water, Stone

By Octavio Paz
Translated by Eliot Weinberger

for Roger Caillois

Water hollows stone,

wind scatters water,

stone stops the wind.

Water, wind, stone.

Wind carves stone,

stone's a cup of water,

water escapes and is wind.

Stone, wind, water.

Wind sings in its whirling,

water murmurs going by,

unmoving stone keeps still.

Wind, water, stone.

Each is another and no other:

crossing and vanishing

through their empty names:

water, stone, wind.

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Whose environment is it? Ours!

 I recently watched a presentation by a fisheries biologist regarding the fishing pressures and fish stock structure of a nearby trout stream. The essence of the presentation was that the current fishing regulations include a possession limit of 3 fish and a minimum size of 12 inches. The majority of fish in the stream are in the six to ten inch class. To improve the fishery structure [to what end?], the preference is to change the regulations to a maximum size of 12 inches and a possession limit of five fish.

trout stream? polluted? who’d know?

Photo by J. Harrington

I’ve read about other fisheries where the biologists claim that an overabundance of smaller panfish precludes the ability of the habitat to produce fewer, bigger fish. I believe I understand the concepts involved but I have major doubts that the fisheries folks have clearly enough defined the problem they’re trying to solve to be confident their proposed solutions will work without generating unintended consequences in today’s world, a world in which “New research from Stockholm University found that the levels of PFAS in rainwater now exceed levels deemed safe by health and environment advisory agencies.” 

For example, recent stories about PFAS/PFOS in fish indicate more and more of our environment has become contaminated. Other articles note just how ubiquitous those contaminants have become. For example, Minnesota’s Fish Consumption Advisory [FCA] goes on for 25 pages, mostly because of mercury contamination, but we’ve been sampling for mercury much longer and probably more extensively than for PFOS. According to the Minnesota Pollution Control Agency:

PFAS testing began in Minnesota’s lakes and streams in 2004, which has led to fish-consumption advisories due to perfluorooctane sulfonic acid (PFOS) levels in fish tissue. PFOS is just one of the almost 5,000 PFAS chemicals. Continued monitoring is needed; many Minnesota lakes and streams that are potentially contaminated by PFAS have not been tested.

Please note that the FCA is issued by the Health Department, the water quality is overseen by the MNPCA and fishing regualtions are set by the Minnesota Department of Natural Resources. Presumably, many other states, and the federal government, have a plethora of agencies involved in the permitting of intermedia transfer of pollutants that ultimately end up in our bodies and cause health issues for which each of us must pay for treatment. This state of affairs is yet another reason citizens should be able to petition for the termination of corporate charters so remediation costs don’t just continue as a cost of business (See, e..g., fossil fuel industry.)

If you’re reading this and you live, work or play in Minnesota, you might want to let your state legislators know how you feel about a bill to ban nonessential use of PFAS. Here’s some background that includes a link for contacting your legislators.

There It Is

By Jayne Cortez

My friend

they don't care

if you're an individualist

a leftist  a rightist

a shithead or a snake

They will try to exploit you

absorb you  confine you

disconnect you  isolate you

or kill you

And you will disappear into your own rage

into your own insanity

into your own poverty

into a word a phrase a slogan a cartoon

and then ashes

The ruling class will tell you that

there is no ruling class

as they organize their liberal supporters into

white supremacist lynch mobs

organize their children into

ku klux klan gangs

organize their police into

killer cops

organize their propaganda into

a device to ossify us with angel dust

preoccupy us with western symbols in

african hair styles

inoculate us with hate

institutionalize us with ignorance

hypnotize us with a monotonous sound designed

to make us evade reality and stomp our lives away

And we are programmed to self-destruct

to fragment

to get buried under covert intelligence operations of

unintelligent committees impulsed toward death

And there it is

The enemies polishing their penises between

oil wells at the pentagon

the bulldozers leaping into demolition dances

the old folks dying of starvation

the informers wearing out shoes looking for crumbs

the life blood of the earth almost dead in

the greedy mouth of imperialism

And my friend

they don't care

if you're an individualist

a leftist  a rightist

a shithead or a snake

They will spray you with

a virus of legionnaire's disease

fill your nostrils with

the swine flu of their arrogance

stuff your body into a tampon of

toxic shock syndrome

try to pump all the resources of the world

into their own veins

and fly off into the wild blue yonder to

pollute another planet

And if we don't fight

if we don't resist

if we don't organize and unify and

get the power to control our own lives

Then we will wear

the exaggerated look of captivity

the stylized look of submission

the bizarre look of suicide

the dehumanized look of fear

and the decomposed look of repression

forever and ever and ever

And there it is

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