Another "Bridge too far" (for now)

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

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

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

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

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

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

SpaceX Mars colonization program

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

Today a Welfare Trillionaire Is Born

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

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

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

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

You Could Never Take a Car to Greenland

by Maggie Smith

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

Spring Is a New Beginning

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

a March full moon in a dark blue sky

Photo by J. Harrington

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

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

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

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

Thank you for your attention to this matter.

Grace

Joy Harjo    1951 –

                                    For Darlene Wind and James Welch

I think of Wind and her wild ways the year we had nothing to lose and lost it anyway in the cursed country of the fox. We still talk about that winter, how the cold froze imaginary buffalo on the stuffed horizon of snowbanks. The haunting voices of the starved and mutilated broke fences, crashed our thermostat dreams, and we couldn't stand it one more time. So once again we lost a winter in stubborn memory, walked through cheap apartment walls, skated through fields of ghosts into a town that never wanted us, in the epic search for grace. 

Like Coyote, like Rabbit, we could not contain our terror and clowned our way through a season of false midnights. We had to swallow that town with laughter, so it would go down easy as honey. And one morning as the sun struggled to break ice, and our dreams had found us with coffee and pancakes in a truck stop along Highway 80, we found grace.

I could say grace was a woman with time on her hands, or a white buffalo escaped from memory. But in that dingy light it was a promise of balance. We once again understood the talk of animals, and spring was lean and hungry with the hope of children and corn. 

I would like to say, with grace, we picked ourselves up and walked into the spring thaw. We didn't; the next season was worse. You went home to Leech Lake to work with the tribe and I went south. And, Wind, I am still crazy. I know there is something larger than the memory of a dispossessed people. We have seen it. 

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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 moon in June is the berries

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

Strawberry moon of 2013

Photo by J. Harrington

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

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

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

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

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

Strawberrying

May Swenson
1913 – 1989

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

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

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

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

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

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A full moon of Spring

Night before last, an almost full moon, surrounded by a glowing halo, played peek-a-boo behind a thin layer of clouds. Last night [this morning], it shone in a clear sky. Tonight it will be full. Cloud cover remains to be seen, or not. Our copy of the Minnesota Weather Guide Calenday notes that the Ojibwe call this full moon Maple Sap Boiling Moon and to the Dakota, it’s Fattening Moon. (Other sources list the Fattening Moon in June.) Regardless of the name, moonrise tonight occurs a little after 8 pm and moonset about 6 am tomorrow.

two sandhill cranes in our back yard

Photo by J. Harrington

As days lengthen and temperatures warm, migrations from southern locales continue and locals become more active. Yesterday evening on the way to and from a visit with the Daughter Person, Son-In-Law, and Granddaughter, the Better Half and I saw swans, geese, pheasants, deer, turkeys, multiple species of song birds, and sandhill cranes. The trip reminded me of Aldo Leopold’s wonderful observation:

“There are some who can live without wild things, and some who cannot. These essays are the delights and dilemmas of one who cannot.” - A Sand County Almanac foreword

Another sign of warmer days arriving is the increasing number of locations where road work of one kind or another is getting underway. Those who claim there are only two seasons in Minnesota, winter and road work, aren’t entirely joking. I wish work crews would put signs face down when not relevant, instead of just moving them to the shoulder.

Uncharacteristically, I’m going to take in stride the fact that my plans for the week have been disrupted by wet weather and slow to germinate bergamot seeds (which are showing increasing signs of life, thank you for asking). If I can’t play outside, I’ll read inside about the outside, and bake bread. Tomorrow’s project: a whole wheat sourdough rustic boule, The dough is currently undergoing bulk fermentation in preparation for oven time tomorrow.

My Debt

Jane Hirshfield
1953 – 

Like all
who believe in the senses,
I was an accountant,
copyist,
statistician.

Not registrar,
witness.

Permitted to touch
the leaf of a thistle,
the trembling
work of a spider.

To ponder the Hubble’s recordings.

It did not matter
if I believed in
the party of particle or of wave,
as I carried no weapon.

It did not matter if I believed.

I weighed ashes,
actions, 
cities that glittered like rubies,
on the scales I was given,
calibrated
in units of fear and amazement.

I wrote the word it, the word is.

I entered the debt that is owed to the real.

Forgive,
spine-covered leaf, soft-bodied spider,
octopus lifting
one curious tentacle back toward the hand of the diver
that in such black ink
I set down your flammable colors.

—2018

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A secret spring? A spring secret?

Today is the first day of the last week of March, 2024. The full moon (Ojibwe: Snow Crust Moon; Lakota: Snow Blindness Moon) occurred at 2:00 am this morning. In our neighborhood, it was well hidden by snow clouds. Tonight the aurora may be visible well south of the Arctic Circle, but rain clouds are expected to obscure it/them. As this is typed. heavy, very wet, melting snow covers almost everything outside. More snow is expected tomorrow, after tonight’s rain. By Easter Sunday, the snow may be gone and life returned to local flora. My anticipated wander to look for, or at, emerging skunk cabbage is rescheduled for much later this week or, maybe, Easter Monday.

emerging skunk cabbage

Photo by J. Harrington

An updated drought map should be issued later this week. It’ll be interesting to see if there’s any significant change. At the moment, most of Minnesota is rated as low fire danger and much of the state doesn’t require burning permits. Where we are, everything is too wet to burn, although we have several brush piles to be reduced to ashes. Maybe next month.

Meanwhile, there’s been an unusually large number of blue jays around today. I saw more than half a dozen along the driveway after I’d cleared the snow. They’ve been flitting amongst the trees and one even arrived at the bird feeder, which is quite rare in my experience, unless it’s a tray feeder, which ours isn’t. As more and more unusual events occur, I wonder if we’re well past time to redefine “normal.”

Winter: My Secret

By Christina Rossetti

I tell my secret? No indeed, not I;

Perhaps some day, who knows?

But not today; it froze, and blows and snows,

And you’re too curious: fie!

You want to hear it? well:

Only, my secret’s mine, and I won’t tell.

Or, after all, perhaps there’s none:

Suppose there is no secret after all,

But only just my fun.

Today’s a nipping day, a biting day;

In which one wants a shawl,

A veil, a cloak, and other wraps:

I cannot ope to everyone who taps,

And let the draughts come whistling thro’ my hall;

Come bounding and surrounding me,

Come buffeting, astounding me,

Nipping and clipping thro’ my wraps and all.

I wear my mask for warmth: who ever shows

His nose to Russian snows

To be pecked at by every wind that blows?

You would not peck? I thank you for good will,

Believe, but leave the truth untested still.

Spring’s an expansive time: yet I don’t trust

March with its peck of dust,

Nor April with its rainbow-crowned brief showers,

Nor even May, whose flowers

One frost may wither thro’ the sunless hours.

Perhaps some languid summer day,

When drowsy birds sing less and less,

And golden fruit is ripening to excess,

If there’s not too much sun nor too much cloud,

And the warm wind is neither still nor loud,

Perhaps my secret I may say,

Or you may guess.

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A year’s end inventory

There’s a summer thunderstorm size puddle in the driveway. The wet spot behind the house is showing open water that suggests our moderate drought is over and done for now. Somethings with vivid green leaves (vivid vernal?) have emerged in the woods in front of the house. The creek/pond up the road is almost all open water. It is not feeling very much like Christmas time in the North Country. If we try to adjust and adapt, it will most likely trigger several eighteen inch snowstorms in a row.

a full moon in December looks like this

Photo by J. Harrington

Although  there was too much cloud cover to enjoy it, yesterday was the December full moon, know as Little Spirit Moon by the Ojibwe and Shedding Horns Moon by the Lakota. Come Saturday, days will be three minutes longer than they were a week prior. Spring Equinox is 83 days away (March 19, 10:06 pm locally). Around here, that rarely marks the end of winter weather. It’ll be interesting to see what next year brings.

We appear to be augmenting increasingly volatile weather patterns with comparable political instability. These are times when we should focus more and more on the reality that the future isn’t just something out there that happens to US, it’s something we create with every action we take and decision we make every single minute of each and every day.

There’s only a few days before the  start of a new year. What kind of year will we make of it?

A Map to the Next World

By Joy Harjo

for Desiray Kierra Chee

In the last days of the fourth world I wished to make a map for

those who would climb through the hole in the sky.

My only tools were the desires of humans as they emerged

from the killing fields, from the bedrooms and the kitchens.

For the soul is a wanderer with many hands and feet.

The map must be of sand and can’t be read by ordinary light. It

must carry fire to the next tribal town, for renewal of spirit.

In the legend are instructions on the language of the land, how it

was we forgot to acknowledge the gift, as if we were not in it or of it.

Take note of the proliferation of supermarkets and malls, the

altars of money. They best describe the detour from grace.

Keep track of the errors of our forgetfulness; the fog steals our

children while we sleep.

Flowers of rage spring up in the depression. Monsters are born

there of nuclear anger.

Trees of ashes wave good-bye to good-bye and the map appears to

disappear.

We no longer know the names of the birds here, how to speak to

them by their personal names.

Once we knew everything in this lush promise.

What I am telling you is real and is printed in a warning on the

map. Our forgetfulness stalks us, walks the earth behind us, leav-

ing a trail of paper diapers, needles, and wasted blood.

An imperfect map will have to do, little one.

The place of entry is the sea of your mother’s blood, your father’s

small death as he longs to know himself in another.

There is no exit.

The map can be interpreted through the wall of the intestine—a

spiral on the road of knowledge.

You will travel through the membrane of death, smell cooking

from the encampment where our relatives make a feast of fresh

deer meat and corn soup, in the Milky Way.

They have never left us; we abandoned them for science.

And when you take your next breath as we enter the fifth world

there will be no X, no guidebook with words you can carry.

You will have to navigate by your mother’s voice, renew the song

she is singing.

Fresh courage glimmers from planets.

And lights the map printed with the blood of history, a map you

will have to know by your intention, by the language of suns.

When you emerge note the tracks of the monster slayers where they

entered the cities of artificial light and killed what was killing us.

You will see red cliffs. They are the heart, contain the ladder.

A white deer will greet you when the last human climbs from the

destruction.

Remember the hole of shame marking the act of abandoning our

tribal grounds.

We were never perfect.

Yet, the journey we make together is perfect on this earth who was

once a star and made the same mistakes as humans.

We might make them again, she said.

Crucial to finding the way is this: there is no beginning or end.

You must make your own map.

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Frank: incensed! Mirth!

This morning’s wind chill was below zero (-3℉), actual temperatures about 12℉. Since none of today’s errands are critical, they’re getting deferred until tomorrow or Wednesday. This kind of unseasonably cold weather makes it hard to stay motivated to respond to “global warming,” especially in a state concerned about abnormal winter warming.

Lest you classify me as a climate change denier, rest assured I’m really only complaining about weather events that stray well below the overall trend. In fact, I’ve noted a remarkable similarity in many of the themes found in Sustainable Happiness and Earth for All: A Survival Guide for Humanity. The idea that surviving our current crises doesn’t need to be a “suck it up,” dreary affair has some surprising appeal, doesn’t it? We simply can’t afford, in any sense of the term, to pursue a business as usual scenario. This holiday season you may want to consider giving a copy of either book, or both, to friends or relatives.

November: full moon

Photo by J. Harrington

Today’s full moon, reflected off the dusting of snow in the driveway this morning, made everything so bright I almost wondered if the garage yard lights had been triggered. According to the Minnesota Weatherguide Calendar,  the Lakota call this full moon the Starting Winter Moon and the Ojibwe know it as the Freezing Moon. Both fit well the current season and weather. We’re less than a month from the shortest day of the year in the Northern Hemisphere. In five weeks or so, days will slowly begin to increase and temperatures will lag by several months. May is less than half a year away.

But first, if we’ve been good boys and girls, we get to celebrate a visit from Santa. Christmas is also our son’s birthday, so the holiday ends about noon and the other birthday boy’s celebration takes over. All of which suggests I stop typing this and get to work on lists of who gets what from whom, when. Unlike Santa, I’m my own crew of elves.

Velvet Shoes

Elinor Wylie     1885 – 1928

Let us walk in the white snow
    In a soundless space;
With footsteps quiet and slow,
    At a tranquil pace,
    Under veils of white lace.

I shall go shod in silk,
    And you in wool,
White as white cow’s milk,
    More beautiful
    Than the breast of a gull.

We shall walk through the still town
    In a windless peace;
We shall step upon white down,
    Upon silver fleece,
    Upon softer than these.

We shall walk in velvet shoes:
    Wherever we go
Silence will fall like dews
    On white silence below.
    We shall walk in the snow.

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An unnatural moon?

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

full August moon

Photo by J. Harrington

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

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

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

Moon Ghazal

By Dorianne Laux

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

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

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

on the waves, gilded invitation, the parchment moon.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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“Mooning” the whole world

The dogs and I have been enjoying a(nother) lazy, layabout summer day, although it feels more like one of those spring days that never showed up during spring. It began early this morning when we took our walk under a waning gibbous moon. We know that because yesterday we looked up moon phases on NASA’s web site.

The research excursion was triggered because we had read recently that there isn’t a “half moon” phase. What we read seems true, according to NASA. Actually, we need to rephrase. There is a half moon phase but we don’t call it that, for some reason we refer to a “half moon” as a quarter moon. This web site has an explanation. See if it makes more sense to you than it did to me.

In case you missed it (we did because of all the cloud cover), July 3 was the full moon the Ojibwe refer to as Midsummer Moon and the Lakota call Cherries Blackening Moon. Sunday evening will be the last quarter moon. These factoids are brought to you from the WeatherGuide Calendar.

Now, we already told you it’s a lazy day so we’re going to close with today’s poem, keeping in mind that  poets aren’t astronomers, and go stir the sourdough starter we’re refreshing, just as we promised yesterday.

The Phrases of the Moon

By Andrew Joron

Full

 

            the blow to a gong

—gone blind

           

            with the sight of white

Silk, O milk

            of my reason—

           

            sun reseen in

My mad mad mirror.

           

 

Gibbous

 

Sense

Less science: the

 

Wish-apparition of a perfect fact.

 

            As thought, the war

Of one upon one.

 

 

Half

 

Half a mind almost mine.

 

Whole

             fragment, I am

A being from another word.

 

 

Crescent

 

Bow bent back—to what release?

 

            My lone line, the join of all I am not.

 

A minor truth betrays

A major one—

A lore

            for the lyre.

For it is written: liar with a why.

 

New

 

            Calling all coincidence, I will

Deem the dark my day.

 

Yet—if I say

            I am lying, I am lying

To you now.

 

O zero raised to zero—I am lying with you now.

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Say goodbye sugartime?

The Minnesota Weather Guide Calendar tells us that today, tonight  actually, the full moon is called Maple Sap Boiling Moon (Ojibwe) or Fattening Moon (Lakota). The Ojibwe name is self evident for those of us who grew up in maple syrup country. The Lakota name appears to be a shortened version of when wives cracks bones for marrow fat.

I find the Native American names for full moons to be much better seasonal descriptors than those of the calendar months. Here’s a listing for the Ojibwe and one for the Lakota. There appear to be more and more folks claiming we need to return to living closer to nature to live healthy, sustainable lives in a culture that has the potential for a future. Learning the full moon names used by the Native Americans who once occupied wherever you live seems like a fairly easy and good way to acknowledge seasonal changes noted by those who lived in the area before US.

maple syrup time

Photo by J. Harrington

I’ve not been out to take a peek at any of the local sugar bush. With today’s wind, any bucket not full could be blown loose and maybe, in some gusts, even those that are full might be at risk. If you look carefully at the picture, you’ll see several trees have a number of lichen growing on them. As the weather warms and we get more moisture in the air (warm air holds more water than cold air) lichen became active again. Looking at the extended forecast, this week could be the end of sugar season for this year. we’ll watch and see if cold nights return after our upcoming warm spell.

Goddess of Maple at Evening

Chard deNiord - 1952-

She breathed a chill that slowed the sap 
inside the phloem, stood perfectly still
inside the dark, then walked to a field 
where the distance crooned in a small 
blue voice how close it is, how the gravity 
of sky pulls you up like steam from the arch.
She sang along until the silence soloed 
in a northern wind, then headed back 
to the sugar stand and drank from a maple 
to thin her blood with the spirit of sap. 
To quicken its pace to the speed of sound 
then hear it boom inside her heart. 
To quicken her mind to the speed of light 
with another suck from the flooded tap.

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More of the same, no thanks!

Tonight’s full moon is known by the Ojibwe as the Sucker Fish Moon and by the Lakota as the Popping Trees Moon, according to the Minnesota WeatherGuide Calendar. By Tuesday we’ll be back to ten hours of day length and it’s increasing at an increasing rate. The afternoon temperature is around 30℉ and melting is occurring on some roads and rooftops.

a full February moon

Photo by J. Harrington

Our dogs are happier with the warmer temperatures when we go for a walk although, even when it’s bitterly cold, they still feel compelled to sniff a lot to find exactly the right spot to do business. I’ve tried explaining to them that the longer they stand when it’s below zero, the more their feet get cold but they just look at me as if to say “well, what can we do about that?”

The packages of Irish Soda Bread mix arrived today and most of them will sit in the pantry until next month, closer to St. Patrick’s Day, but I may yield to temptation and bake a loaf next week for practice. My excuse is my renewed interest in Druidry. I’ve read about it off and on during the past few years and now it’s time to try a serious study. I’m very concerned that our entire culture seems so separated from nature and the growing consequences of our past actions and current inaction in responding to climate weirding and an increasing pollution load in the earth’s air and water systems. Congress, back in 1972, declared that "as an interim goal, wherever attainable, to achieve water quality that is “fishable” and “swimmable” by July 1, 1983.” But, according to a report from a year ago:

“Today, almost four decades after the Clean Water Act’s deadline for ‘fishable and swimmable’ waters across the U.S., 50 percent of assessed river and stream miles across the U.S. — more than 700,000 miles of waterways — remain impaired with pollution, as well as 55 percent of lake acres and 25 percent of estuary miles,” wrote authors from the Environmental Integrity Project, a nonprofit launched by former EPA attorneys in 2002.

There’s an old planning dictum I’ve mentioned before, “More of the same never solved a problem.” We need enough of US to change at the individual, family, and community level to bring about a transformation of our culture and economy. If that means we need more druids and pagans, I’m for it.

The World Is Too Much With Us

William Wordsworth - 1770-1850

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers,
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.—Great God! I'd rather be
A pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.

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Seeing through the flakes

Flakes are everywhere, not just in the House Republican caucus, but the scenery outside our windows is full of the super whiteness of another snow job. Basic clearing of the driveway is accomplished. My new battery-powered gloves worked well, but, fortunately, it’s not really cold enough to test them. If they simply prevent us from experiencing below zero temperatures, they’ll serve their purpose. The last bit of snow cleanup from the  latest storm will be accomplished by a thaw, or early spring, or the next time I get overwhelmed by ambition combined with a desire to play on the tractor. It’s most likely to be the latter if the extended forecast is on target. No above freezing temperatures scheduled for our neighborhood.

The township plow has made one pass, throwing a bunch of roadway snow into our drive and, on the  return trip, knocking our mailbox off of its post. [It doesn’t seem right that property owners are prohibited from depositing snow on the road, but the local government can deposit lots of snow into or onto a private drive.] The mailbox has been reinstalled but, come spring, I think I’ll install a tether so I don’t have to stumble through snowbanks as much next winter. There was no mail delivered yesterday, nor had the road been plowed before we went to bed.

January’s full moon

Photo by J. Harrington

The day after tomorrow is January’s full moon. That’s the Ojibwe Great Spirit Moon and the Lakota Hard Times Moon, per the Minnesota WeatherGuide Calendar. If the skies are clear and the trees still snow covered, the view around 5 pm and later could be spectacular. It’s also the day we’ll start to take down the Christmas decorations. Then, mostly peace and quiet until Valentines? I could do with some of that.

I’ve started to refresh my sourdough starter so “baking season” will soon be underway, again. Although I wouldn’t want to say it out loud, even snowblowing this morning felt mostly good to be up and active. I really must work on getting longer walks into my schedule, typed the guy who can barely manage to remember to do his morning exercises two days in a row. We are now less than a month from winter’s astronomical midpoint on February 3. Maybe by then the House of Representatives will have elected a speaker.

River Snow

Mark Van Doren - 1894-1972

The flakes are a little thinner where I look,
For I can see a circle of grey shore,
And greyer water, motionless beyond.
But the other shore is gone, and right and left
Earth and sky desert me. Still I stand
And look at the dark circle that is there—
As if I were a man blinded with whiteness,
And one grey spot remained. The flakes descend,
Softly, without a sound that I can tell—
When out of the further white a gull appears,
Crosses the hollow place, and goes again…
There was no flap of wing; no feather fell.
But now I hear him crying, far away,
And think he may be wanting to return…
The flakes descend… And shall I see the bird?
Not one path is open through the snow.

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Chilling thoughts of the season

We are now under a Hazardous Weather Outlook. The counties immediately to our east are under a Winter Weather Advisory. It appears that the difference between our getting 1 inch of snow and 5 inches of snow may be little more that a ten or twenty mile shift in the storm’s track or the width of the snowfall bands. We’ll try to let you know Wednesday morning what happened, when it’s all done. [Sometimes I think the kind of forecast uncertainty that lets meteorologists mess with our heads brings out the sadistic streaks in weather folks.]

Yesterday was the beginning of Advent this year, for those who follow such observations. It will, of course, end on Christmas Day. Several of the Advent calendars I’ve seen recently only count the 24 days beginning on December 1. Maybe that’s the difference between religious and secular Adventures?

a spirit of weather yet to come

Photo by J. Harrington

We’ve seen reports that some locals have ventured forth onto the thin ice to start the ice fishing season. We’ve also seen reports about how lots of other local folks think that’s pretty stupid, to put it as diplomatically as possible. Personally, I find sitting around and watching a bobber or vertical jigging to be only slightly more exciting than watching paint dry or grass grow. [Can you tell I’m not a big fan of winter?]

Last night a beautiful crescent moon rose in the southern sky before dark. A first quarter moon occurs Wednesday. Cloud cover is likely to keep us from seeing the moon tonight or tomorrow. As of today, it is 112 days until Spring Equinox. I’ve already heard from the elves that Santa isn’t likely to deliver an early spring as a Christmas present, but he’s willing to help us walk on water locally for a couple of months after Christmas. That covers the two months from December 25 til the end of February, when permanent ice houses have to be removed.

Poems

by Rita Joe

Our home is this country
Across the windswept hills
With snow on fields.
The cold air.
I like to think of our native life,
Curious, free;
And look at the stars
Sending icy messages.
My eyes see the cold face of the moon
Cast his net over the bay.
It seems
We are like the moon --
Born,
Grow slowly,
Then fade away, to reappear again
In a never-ending cycle.
Our lives go on
Until we are old and wise.
Then end.
We are no more,
Except we leave
A heritage that never dies.

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’Tis prime October

Locally, we’re close to peak color. We’ll probably attain it next week. Over the next couple of weeks we’ll put away the summer toys like the lawn mower and check out the snow blower. The mower deck will come off the tractor and the back blade will go on for the heavy, wet snows that make the blower struggle. But there are still some leaves to mulch and grass to mow before the season's change is done. That fits with the full moon on Sunday, which both the Ojibwe and the Lakota call the Falling Leaves moon.

artisan sourdough bread

Photo by J. Harrington

Sourdough baking is getting back into an autumn / winter schedule, which makes it easier to keep the starter fed, happy and bubbly. A book I ordered recently, Sourdough by Science, arrived today. I’m going to pretend there’s no inconsistency between science and artisanal bread making. It’s part of my effort to practice a “both, and” philosophy instead of the binary “either / or” I’ve been following most of my life.

It’s also the time of year when country mice and spiders are seeking warm, dry spots to spend the winter. Mouse traps are tending to the rodents and a plastic cup and cardboard catch and release routine takes care of most of the spiders.

So far, the most perplexing challenge of the season, whichever one it is on any given day, is managing proper clothing. Mornings near freezing and afternoons at or above 70s covers all but the deepest winter. It seems as though I’m perpetually over- or under-dressed these days. If that’s the biggest problem I have to cope with for the rest of the year, I’ll take it and be grateful.

Neighbors in October

By David Baker

All afternoon his tractor pulls a flat wagon

with bales to the barn, then back to the waiting

chopped field. It trails a feather of smoke.

Down the block we bend with the season:

shoes to polish for a big game,

storm windows to batten or patch.

And how like a field is the whole sky now

that the maples have shed their leaves, too.

It makes us believers—stationed in groups,

leaning on rakes, looking into space. We rub blisters

over billows of leaf smoke. Or stand alone,

bagging gold for the cold days to come.

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Autumn-triggered nostalgia

The dogs and I got a really good look at an almost full moon this morning. It was bright white and high in the sky when we took our early after breakfast walk. As we reached the end of the drive and turned onto the road, I looked around and started to hear in my head the lyrics to a wonderful Cat Stevens hit from years ago. Although we posted yesterday that some call the September full moon the Harvest moon, I’ve always considered a harvest moon to be mellow yellow rather than bright white. Perhaps I’m remembering the years in which the Harvest moon occurred in October rather than September.

October full moon 2014

Photo by J. Harrington

Late night, early, early morning temperatures were in the low 40’s when the dog walking under the Harvest moon was going on. That contributed a lot to an autumnal atmosphere, although the deer we saw the other day are still in their summer coats. That must mean we’re in the midst of what I think of as a shoulder season, like the shoulder on a road is neither road nor field, we’re in the transition time between summer and autumn. Then shortly after peak autumn, we enter the shoulder between autumn and winter in late November, early December, unless, of course, we get another Halloween blizzard.

Lest we forget amidst the other trials and tribulations of the day:

Photograph from September 11

By Wisława Szymborska
Translated by Clare Cavanagh

They jumped from the burning floors—

one, two, a few more,

higher, lower.

The photograph halted them in life,

and now keeps them   

above the earth toward the earth.

Each is still complete,

with a particular face

and blood well hidden.

There’s enough time

for hair to come loose,

for keys and coins

to fall from pockets.

They’re still within the air’s reach,

within the compass of places

that have just now opened.

I can do only two things for them—

describe this flight

and not add a last line.

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