Approaching a New Year (and better days?)

I missed my usual posting yesterday. I became entranced watching the continuous, continuing, snow falling most of the day. It became hypnotically mesmerizing and I lost track of time, space and place. So this week's posting is a day late and is being written before I snow blow the mess in the driveway or bake the cranberry-sourdough bread that's been rising overnight.

Christmas cookies: much better than real snowflakes

Photo by J. Harrington

The dogs, especially the 13-inch beagle, were dismayed this morning to discover they'd gone from slipping on an icy driveway yesterday to floundering in multiple inches of snow this morning. I'm sure both Harry the beagle and SiSi the lab will appreciate my snow blowing activities so they don't freeze sensitive parts as they take care of business. This is the second time this season we've had enough snowfall to require blowing. The first was back near the beginning of the month. According to the 2026 Minnesota WeatherGuide Santa left in my stocking. our average daytime high gets above freezing on or about February 26. I may start a countdown if the crazy weather we've had so far continues. It''s hard to slow down and curl up with a good story when snow needs blowing and dogs need walking on slickery surfaces.

Many decades ago I made a New Year's resolution to give up making such resolutions. It's one of the few I've kept. In an effort to go from disgruntled to gruntled (yes, that's a word) I'm considering adopting new guidelines for next year because there's constantly something or other stupid or evil, or both, in the news. Not reading the news seems like irresponsible escapism. I'm open to suggestions on other approaches. Any thoughts about living in and enjoying "the moment" when that moment is anything but pleasant would be particularly helpful. Here's one approach:

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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Donnie, Prince of Orange: Ruler by divine right? God forbid!

I just read a scary story in the LA Times: Is Donald Trump a new King David? Ask California’s right-wing Sons of Liberty The fact that a number of Americans think along the lines in the article is what I find most scary. I thought the Divine Right of Kings was eliminated centuries ago, but it looks frighteningly like The Donald might be trying to bring it back. Have you read the Project 2025 manifesto? “The Mandate states that "freedom is defined by God, not man."^[13] That's almost as bleak as Kris Kristofferson’s wonderful line from Me and Bobby McGee: “Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose” 

LeGuin: Divine Right of Kings quote

One of my favorite writers, Ursula K. LeGuin, has offered a much more positive perspective on freedom, embedded in an equally concerning warning in her speech at the National Book Awards years ago. That  speech was the source of the quote above. Please go read the whole thing.

Minnesota once had a US Senator who could, from time to time, be infuriating, but he was a real human being. We need to elect more politicians who believe, as Paul Wellstone did, that: “We all do better when we all do better.” Remember, we can’t all be first but we can all do better. Now, ask yourself, if monarchy is so great, why isn’t the United States still a British colony.

Freedom

By Jill McDonough

I talk to the students in jail about freedom, how in America

we obsess over it, write it over flags on T-shirts, spread

it around under eagles. It has something to do with guns

and fireworks, Harley-Davidsons, New Hampshire, living free

until you’re dead. I tell the students I think the people

fetishizing freedom don’t mean it. That they really mean

look over here, away from all the slavery

we did, away from all the jail! I tell them they

are the experts, ask them to write what freedom means:

privacy is freedom and if  you feel held back, afraid

to do something, you’re not completely free.   No fear

of  loss. No fear of  hunger, no fear of  pain.   A body

to call my own, a voice driven by my own mind.

The security of a dry, warm place to sleep.   To own

my own time left here.   Being able to hold my son

at night.   Showering in private.   Freedom to me

is having the choice to walk away from a fight. Freedom

a work in progress. Everyday freedom, the real work for us all.

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Easing into the season

The weather is beautiful today, blue skies, not much wind. Nevertheless, I have no intention of clearing leaves from the driveway again, because tomorrow the wind returns and the branches aren’t yet bare of leaves, so I’d just have to repeat driveway clearing for the 5th or 6th time this year. I’m just going to enjoy as much of the day as I can and let tomorrow (or the day after) take care of tomorrow. Next week we compensate for this week’s above normal temperatures so....

Today the Better Half and I started getting seriously, but joyously, organized for the holidays. She’s been playing Santa’s little Elf much of the year. I’m just starting to get into holiday moods and modes although, as noted recently on these pages, I’ve but begun to contemplate my own Christmas wishes, other than for, literally, peace on earth, good will to all. Have you noticed that the number of Scrooges has grown phenomenally over the last decade or two? May each and every one of them be visited by the requisite ghosts of past, present and future, so that they change their ways, each and every one.

some Novembers look more Christmassy than others

Photo by J. Harrington

Since I’ve already referenced Dickens’ Christmas Carol, I may as well pile on and include a Wordsworth sonnet that popped into my head this morning. It appears that concerns that arose during the first industrial revolution remain with US, changed in form but not substance. Perhaps it is well past time to reconsider our definition of “progress?” There’s an old dictum in planning that “more of the same never solved a problem.” Einstein has noted that “No problem can be solved from the same level of consciousness that created it.” I wonder if spirituality is a different level of consciousness than materialism.

Today’s poem could be considered to be little more than a downer, or, viewed more opportunely, it can be seen as a caution for how to better enjoy and benefit from the upcoming holidays and holydays.

The World Is Too Much With Us

By William Wordsworth

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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The shape of time

More and more acorns are dropping from the bur oaks, and being joined on the ground by ripened fruits and berries. Signs of impending autumn increase by the week. “And the seasons they go round and round,” as Joni Mitchell tells us in her wonderful lyrics to The Circle Game. Six months from now, some of us will be praying for a prompt end to winter, but first we have to harvest and store the products of the current growing season. Those who make it through the winter will be able to plant again next spring. The circle continues, though we age as it does. Is our passage through time a straight line? Do we pass through our own seasons as we age? Is there another universe to which we will pass at the end of our time on earth?

bur oak acorn

Photo by J. Harrington

Einstein tells us that space-time is a continuum. I have as much trouble picturing what that means as I do picturing an oak when I look at an acorn or a butterfly when I look at a chrysalis. If a continuum never ends, what was there before the big bang? If the universe is all that exists, into what is it expanding? Can we ask “how big is a light-year?” Or, do we need to stick with how far light travels in a year? Got a headache yet?

I got pulled into thinking about these kinds of questions when I tried to follow a simple direction this morning, “travel sunwise.” My first thought was: Is that clockwise or counterclockwise? Then, I was on to the sun rises in the east and sets in the west, but that’s not actually the sun moving, that’s the earth spinning on her axis. The seasons are caused by the earth’s orbit around the sun, neither days nor seasons are clockwise or counter. See how all of this circles around like a game?

By now you may be feeling as I did the first time I realized that Joni Mitchell’s lyrics from Woodstock aren't simply a metaphor, they're also literally true.

We are stardust
We are golden
And we've got to get ourselves
Back to the garden

I hope you’ve enjoyed this brief excursion through space-time as much as I have. Now, let’s put on our gloves and get back to work. We have a garden (earth) to tend. It’s time to shape up.

Squaring the Circle

By Philip Fried

It’s a little-known fact that God’s headgear — 

A magician’s collapsible silk top hat,

When viewed from Earth, from the bottom up — 

Is, sub specie aeternitatis,

A pluperfect halo, both circle and square,

And a premonition of this truth

Spurred on an ancient philosopher,

Anaxagoras, to make numerous vain

Attempts to approximate the circle

Of his concerns with the square of the cell

He was jailed in for impiety.

Doomed calculations which God acknowledged

By doffing then pancaking his topper.

He was still bareheaded millennia later,

When he learned of von Lindemann’s proof that pi

Is not the root of a polynomial

With rational coefficients, hence

Squaring the circle’s impossible.

God un-collapsed, re-donned his hat!

But — it was 1882,

Progress was a juggernaut

And the public had no patience for “proof.”

From below, God’s gesture looked like a signal

For all hat- and cap-wearing men,

Proper in their headgear, for nations,

Well-stocked with helmets for delicate brainwork,

To take up “the compass and straightedge”

And prepare for a singular all-out attack

On this seductive conundrum, so men 

Enlisted en masse in Geometry’s army,

Tossing up and away all hats

Of cloth, opaque haloes, hurray!

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On Alban Hefin

Locally, we passed the Summer Solstice several hours ago at 9:57 am CDT. Spring is officially over both astronomically and meteorologically. Today Druids celebrate Alban Hefin. It’s one of eight festivals celebrated each year, known collectively as the Wheel of the Year. Personally, I enjoy the sense of an annual rhythm I get from a festival every six weeks or so instead of just the two solstices and two equinoxes.

I’ve mentioned elsewhere in these postings that I’m more a fisher, hunter, gatherer than a gardener, so I don’t get much involved in soil preparation, planting, tending, etc. Minnesota has fishing of one sort or another just about year round, so “fishing season” isn’t really. Hunting seasons are in the autumn, but much of early hunting season still feels like summer. Our membership in a community supported agriculture farm [CSA] helps with spring, summer and autumn recognition. Studying Druidry helps bring me more into alignment with an annual cycle of rebirth in spring, growth through the summer, putting food by in autumn, and deep sleep in winter.

this bookcase (2014) is now overflowing plus

Photo by J. Harrington

Much of today  has been spent picking up and assembling one of the two DIY bookcases our son gave me for Father’s Day. The case went together with  few issues. The second one will get assembled after the first has been placed against a wall and filled with books. I am once again attempting to bring stacks of read and unread books into some semblance of order. I’m trying  to restore the house from the equivalent of the old Norwegian uncle's kitchen with  passageways between  the stacks and walls of old newspapers. I think I’ll begin by seeing what happens if I dedicate one case to the unread and partially read stacks scattered about. Wish us luck, I’m pretty sure we’ll need it.

The House Was Quiet and The World Was Calm

Wallace Stevens     1879 – 1955

The house was quiet and the world was calm.
The reader became the book; and summer night

Was like the conscious being of the book.
The house was quiet and the world was calm.

The words were spoken as if there was no book,
Except that the reader leaned above the page,

Wanted to lean, wanted much most to be
The scholar to whom his book is true, to whom

The summer night is like a perfection of thought.
The house was quiet because it had to be.

The quiet was part of the meaning, part of the mind:
The access of perfection to the page.

And the world was calm. The truth in a calm world,
In which there is no other meaning, itself

Is calm, itself is summer and night, itself
Is the reader leaning late and reading there.

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Inching toward spring

The mail that was storm delayed Thursday arrived late last night. This morning I opened my first package of instructions on how to be a Druid. So far, reading it has been a delightful way to stay warm in the house, drinking coffee while the wind chill continues outside. We’ll see if I get interested enough to try to qualify for official membership at the level of Bard.

Yesterday we took another step toward the warmer seasons. I signed us up for the spring, summer and autumn shares of the Women's Environmental Institute of Amador Hill Community Supported Agriculture [CSA] program. Paying for all three seasons this far in advance truly makes it feel like we’re sharing the risks with the farmers. The only down side of this is I have to eat all my veggies for three seasons. It does work better than trying to grow our own food. I’m much more in the hunter-gatherer mode than a farming one. 

whitetail deer crossing snowy field

Photo by J. Harrington

The weather has been tough enough that this morning we had a pheasant hen feeding on the snow covered ground below the deck feeders. Thats a first in the 25 or so years we’ve lived here. Wild turkeys, yes, but this is the first pheasant visitor. Before the pheasant arrived, a whitetail deer walked across the field behind the house. Since we’re generally past the time of year when bucks shed their antlers, I’m not sure if the deer was buck or doe but, against the stark white background, s/he was really good looking.

There’s enough wind this afternoon to make cleaning the drive quite uncomfortable. Tomorrow is supposed to be both warmer and less windy. Scraping the drive can wait until then. This afternoon can be devoted to learning more about being a Bard.

What We Need Is Here

by Wendell Berry

Geese appear high over us,
pass, and the sky closes. Abandon,
as in love or sleep, holds
them to their way, clear
in the ancient faith: what we need
is here. And we pray, not
for new earth or heaven, but to be
quiet in heart, and in eye,
clear. What we need is here.

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It’s T Day

Depending on your perspective, “T” stands for Turkey or Thanksgiving. It’s a day many of us give thanks for our blessings. Some would argue that we should give thanks daily, or more often, but this is not a day for arguing, even with wrongheaded family members.

“T” also stands for Today and/or Tomorrow. Tomorrow is Buy Nothing Day. It is also Native American Heritage Day. Today, Thanksgiving, Turkey Day, has a significant Native American element to it, an element that is too often distorted. Today, this morning, I found a web site, Many Hoops Around Thanksgiving, that reflects on Thanksgiving with a Native American perspective from Massachusetts, my home land. I hope you will visit it and spend some time contemplating its message, which includes:

This website is many hoops made up of historical and current information, recipes, arts and crafts, and a variety of resources all of which are historically accurate and do not include any form of stereotyping of either the Pilgrims or Indians. For instance, the recipes unless otherwise noted are made of ingredients available in the early 1600's in the Plymouth Massachusetts area. It is an adventure into authenticity that is not readily available elsewhere. Information pertaining to the Wampanoag is from the Wampanoag themselves. The arts and crafts are based on authenticity and do not include activities that are commonly available. 

From that same site, we will close today’s posting with this prayer for you, those you love, those who care about you, and all our relations:

Prayer from Princess Red Wing Narragansett/Wampanoag

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How can we harvest honorably?

Three books have had a disproportionate influence on me in both my professional and my personal life. They are Ian McHarg’s Design with Nature; Aldo Leopold’s A Sand County Almanac; and, Robin Wall Kimmerer’s Braiding Sweetgrass. Today’s posting explores a section of the third book because I’m in  the process of deciding if I can figure out how, and how much, of the principles of an honorable harvest can actually be applied in today’s world.

deer eat the bushes, birds the berries, we harvest what’s left

Photo by J. Harrington

Here are the principles under consideration:

The Honorable Harvest, a practice both ancient and urgent, applies to every exchange between people and the Earth. Its protocol is not written down, but if it were, it would look something like this:

Know the ways of the ones who take care of you, so that you may take care of them.
Introduce yourself. Be accountable as the one who comes asking for life.
Ask permission before taking. Abide by the answer.
Never take the first. Never take the last.
Take only what you need.
Take only that which is given.
Never take more than half. Leave some for others.
Harvest in a way that minimizes harm.
Use it respectfully. Never waste what you have taken.
Share.
Give thanks for what you have been given.
Give a gift, in reciprocity for what you have been given.
Sustain the ones who sustain you, and the Earth will last forever.

There are several versions of these principles in publication, but they all convey essentially the same message. As I read them, many, perhaps all of these principles fit much better in a foraging or hunter-gatherer culture than one which depends on industrialized agriculture. But, many (most?) can be applied to small scale agriculture (know your farmer) and foraging and home gardening. (Do any farms have kitchen gardens anymore?) Here are the ones that look to me as if, in one way or another, we could readily do a much better job of respecting:

Know the ways of the ones who take care of you, so that you may take care of them.
[ecosystem services and biodiversity]
Take only what you need.
Harvest in a way that minimizes harm. 
Use it respectfully. Never waste what you have taken.
Share.
Give thanks for what you have been given.
Sustain the ones who sustain you, and the Earth will last forever.
[ecosystem services and biodiversity]

The adaptation isn’t perfect but it does represent a profound transformation in attitude and perspective. It may, or may not, offer an alternative to the Gordian knot of using legalistic standards such as “organic” food and regenerative farming. I’m reminded of a very true assessment in a book I recently finished reading. One cannot force another to love them. If we all do much, much better at learning to love and respect the Earth, we may need fewer regulations and have a better chance of lasting forever.

One final observation for today. Notice that the Honorable Harvest protocol is not written down. Now note that Aldo Leopold informs us that:

“I have purposely presented the land ethic as a product of social evolution because nothing so important as an ethic is ever ‘written’… It evolves in the minds of a thinking community.” The Land Ethic, A Sand County Almanac.

We could stand to do a lot more these days to (re?)create “a thinking community.” to help figure out how to harvest honorably, right?

Praise the Rain

By Joy Harjo

Praise the rain; the seagull dive

The curl of plant, the raven talk—

Praise the hurt, the house slack

The stand of trees, the dignity—

Praise the dark, the moon cradle

The sky fall, the bear sleep—

Praise the mist, the warrior name

The earth eclipse, the fired leap—

Praise the backwards, upward sky

The baby cry, the spirit food—

Praise canoe, the fish rush

The hole for frog, the upside-down—

Praise the day, the cloud cup

The mind flat, forget it all—

Praise crazy. Praise sad.

Praise the path on which we're led.

Praise the roads on earth and water.

Praise the eater and the eaten.

Praise beginnings; praise the end.

Praise the song and praise the singer.

Praise the rain; it brings more rain.

Praise the rain; it brings more rain.

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Spring: cool; cooler; coolest!

We’ve spent much of the past several months commenting on our unseasonably cool, wet, weather.  Here’s proof that we knew what we were talking about. We’re enjoying either the latest spring on record or one that comes only every 40 years [darkest or paler purple]. (Our validation also confirms an old saying that “even a blind hog finds acorns once in awhile.")

Status of Spring

Meanwhile, the front yard seeding project seems to be showing signs of success. Teeny, tiny, little blades of grass, about one inch tall, appeared overnight. If, over the next few days, we can avoid any of the strong thunderstorms with large hail that have been erupting elsewhere in eastern Minnesota, we may actually end up with a bee friendly lawn. Then, all we need are the bees.

This morning on social media we came across a poem we remember reading years ago. It’s attributed to Mother Theresa and some note it is very similar to a poem much like it, with spiritual tone modifications to the Mother’s version. We are not a terribly religious person, but we do try to maintain a spiritual element to what passes for our personality. We also recognize that we are not often enough grateful enough for all the many blessings we’ve enjoyed over the course of our life. We intend to reread today’s poem with more frequency than we have during the past 25 or 50 years. In today’s world it is more and more appropriate.

 

         People are often unreasonable, irrational, and self-centered.  Forgive them anyway.

            If you are kind, people may accuse you of selfish, ulterior motives.  Be kind anyway.

            If you are successful, you will win some unfaithful friends and some genuine enemies.  Succeed anyway.

           If you are honest and sincere people may deceive you.  Be honest and sincere anyway.

            What you spend years creating, others could destroy overnight.  Create anyway.

            If you find serenity and happiness, some may be jealous.  Be happy anyway.

            The good you do today, will often be forgotten.  Do good anyway.

         Give the best you have, and it will never be enough.  Give your best anyway.

         In the final analysis, it is between you and God.  It was never between you and them anyway.

-this version is credited to Mother Teresa

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Wait for the world to become perfect?

Easter this year is relatively late, but one can’t tell that by the weather. Today would be a beautiful March day and even more so if it were a day in February. Something I’m now curious about is, when spring is running two to four weeks behind “average,” does the phenological pattern get compressed or does the whole year shift? I suspect the latter. I suspect even more that the answer isn’t that simple. What prompted such ponderings is that today is stream trout opener and I’ve been looking at hatch charts. The screen shot below shows what can usually be expected to be hatching at this time of year. Would the weather delay hatches by several weeks? I don’t know but it may be fun trying to research that over the next few days.

Hatch Chart for Southeast Minnesota Trout Streams

Midges hatch year round in southeast Minnesota. Fishing something like a mole fly or a parachute Adams in a smaller size would probably be wise unless there’s an obvious hatch that the fish are feeding on. I confess that, as often as I’ve read about the benefits of watching a stream for ten or twenty minutes before beginning to cast, I’ve yet to reach a fishable stretch  of a stream without already having a fly attached to the end of my tippet. That may well be the result of too many years fishing for panfish and bass and, in saltwater, stripers and bluefish. Finesse was rarely, if ever, needed for that kind  of fishing. Plus, patience is not one of my strong points.

Since this is Easter weekend, and Passover began recently, let me suggest you lay your hands on a copy of, and promptly read,  A River Runs Through It. If you’ve already read it but it’s been a long time, a reread would be worthwhile. Perhaps a couple of quotations will help convince you of the value and appropriateness of that suggestion, plus, it’s that time when apostles became fishers of men.

“As a Scot and a Presbyterian, my father believed that man by nature was a mess and had fallen from an original state of grace. […] As for my father, I never knew whether he believed God was a mathematician but he certainly believed God could count and that only by picking up God’s rhythms were we able to regain power and beauty. Unlike many Presbyterians, he often used the word ‘beautiful.‘”

“Something within fishermen tries to make fishing into a world perfect and apart—I don’t know what it is or where, because sometimes it is in my arms and sometimes in my throat and sometimes nowhere in particular except somewhere deep. Many of us would probably be better fishermen if we did not spend so much time watching and waiting for the world to become perfect.” 

The River

By Jim Harrison

Yes, we'll gather by the river,

the beautiful, the beautiful river.

They say it runs by the throne of God.

This is where God invented fish.

Wherever, but then God's throne is as wide

as the universe. If you're attentive you'll

see the throne's borders in the stars. We're on this side

and when you get to the other side we don't know

what will happen if anything. If nothing happens

we won't know it, I said once. Is that cynical?

No, nothing is nothing, not upsetting just

nothing. Then again maybe we'll be cast

at the speed of light through the universe

to God's throne. His hair is bounteous.

All the 5,000 birds on earth were created there.

The firstborn cranes, herons, hawks, at the back

so as not to frighten the little ones.

Even now they remember this divine habit

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Writing a way home

 

have we the wisdom to know our place?

Photo by J. Harrington

This morning I registered for an online “nature writing” course offering a lesson by each of the following:

• Rebecca Giggs
  

  Her debut nonfiction book, Fathoms: The World in the Whale, came out in 2020 with Simon & Schuster (US), and Scribe (Aus/UK). In the US Fathoms was awarded the prestigious 2021 Andrew Carnegie Medal for Excellence in Nonfiction. The book also listed as a finalist in the Kirkus Prize and the PEN/E.O. Wilson Literary Science Writing Award. In Australia, Fathoms won the 2020 Mark and Evette Moran Nib Prize for Literature, the Royal Zoological Society's Whitley Award for Popular Zoology, and the WA Premier's Prize for an Emerging Writer. It was also shortlisted for the 2021 Stella Prize — Australia's most renown award for writing by women and non-binary authors in any genre. Recently the book was distinguished by being 'Highly Commended' in the shortlist for the 2021 Wainwright Prize for Writing on Global Conservation.

• Charles Foster
  

  Charles Foster is a writer, barrister and traveller. His books cover many fields. They include books on travel, evolutionary biology, natural history, anthropology, theology, archaeology, philosophy and law. Ultimately they are all presumptuous and unsuccessful attempts to answer the questions 'who or what are we?', and 'what on earth are we doing here?'

• Chelsea Steinauer-Scudder
  

  Chelsea Steinauer-Scudder is a writer based in northern New England. As a staff writer for Emergence Magazine, she explores the human relationship to place. Her work has been featured in Crannóg Magazine, Inhabiting the Anthropocene, and the EcoTheo Review. She is currently writing her first book.

• Lucy Jones
  

  I’m a journalist and author, based in England. I also teach writing workshops (the Guardian Nature Writing Masterclass) and talk about my research areas. My first book, Foxes Unearthed: A Story of Love & Loathing in Modern Britain, was published by Elliott & Thompson in 2016. It was long-listed for the Wainwright Prize and won the Society of Authors' Roger Deakin Award. My second book, Losing Eden: Why Our Minds Need The Wild was published in March 2020 by Allen Lane (Penguin). The paperback was published in February 2021. Losing Eden was long-listed for the Wainwright Prize and received a Society of Authors’ K Blundell Trust Award. The Times and Telegraph named it a book of the year (2020) and the paperback became a Times' bestseller (2021). It is published in German, Spanish, Italian, the United States and soon in Portugal and Estonia. My third book, co-written with Kenneth Greenway, is called The Nature Seed and is published by Profile Books. I write features about science, health, wildlife and the environment for a variety of publications, including the BBC, Emergence, the Guardian and the Independent. Before going freelance in 2015, I worked at NME and The Daily Telegraph. I am represented by Jessica Woollard at David Higham Associates. For commissioning or broadcasting queries, you can write to me at lucyjones01@gmail.com. I am currently researching matrescence.

• Lia Purpura
  

  Lia Purpura’s new collection of essays, All the Fierce Tethers (Sarabande Books) has arrived! Her most recent collection of poems is It Shouldn’t Have Been Beautiful (Viking/Penguin.) She is the author of three previous collections of poems (King Baby, Stone Sky Lifting, The Brighter the Veil); three previous collections of essays (Rough Likeness, On Looking, Increase), and one collection of translations (Poems of Grzegorz Musial: Berliner Tagebuch & Taste of Ash).

• Jamie Figueroa
  

  Jamie Figueroa is the author of the critically acclaimed novel BROTHER, SISTER, MOTHER, EXPLORER, which “brims with spellbinding prose, magical elements, and wounded, full-hearted characters that nearly jump off the page” (Publishers Weekly). Figueroa is Boricua (Afro-Taíno) by way of Ohio and is a longtime resident of northern New Mexico. Her writing has appeared in American Short Fiction, Emergence Magazine, Elle, McSweeney’s, and Agni, among others. She received a Truman Capote Award and was a Bread Loaf Rona Jaffe Scholar. A VONA alum, she received her MFA in Creative Writing from the Institute of American Indian Arts.

Given the array of writers, this should be interesting. I'm continuing to explore why New England remains "home" and Minnesota is a "home away from home." Maybe this will provide either insights or paths to follow, or both. After all, Robert Frost, known as a New England poet, was born in California. That’s really far from the real ocean, you know.

The Death of the Hired Man

By Robert Frost

 

... ‘Home,’ he mocked gently. 

                                       ‘Yes, what else but home? 

It all depends on what you mean by home. 

Of course he’s nothing to us, any more 

Than was the hound that came a stranger to us 

Out of the woods, worn out upon the trail.’ 

‘Home is the place where, when you have to go there, 

They have to take you in.’ 

                                      ‘I should have called it 

Something you somehow haven’t to deserve.’ ...

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Pining for Christmas

The Christmas tree, a young white pine, is (cut) down. The tree is up (in its stand). We’re several steps closer to Christmas decorations being in place, accompanied by the traditional cursing and griping from the senior male in the household, who once again has discovered that tools were not where he left them, even the ones he used last. New this year: the entire process of of adjusting the tree in the stand was accompanied by blood-curdling, heart-rending howls from Harry the beagle, the Better Half’s most recent rescue, who thoroughly disapproved of being left out of all the fun, especially if food might be involved.

one of our own white pines, decorated for Christmas

Photo by J. Harrington

Young white pines have very flexible, springy, branches. They won’t hold heavy light strings nor as many decorations as balsam and fir trees. But they’re home grown and attractive in an etherial way. (Plus, the Iroquois consider the White Pine the Tree of Peace.) Today we’ll just water the tree. Lights will go on tomorrow. After that, the decorations can be hung with care. The need for sparser decorations fits nicely with the fact that the Daughter Person [DP] and Son-In-Law [S-I-L] “inherited” many of the ornaments we’ve collected over the years. Passing such things on is a tradition some families follow to honor continuity, right? 

Based on photos shared via cell phone, DP and S-I-L have their tree up and decorated, but I don’t think they’ve enjoyed the satisfaction of gowing it on their own property. On the other hand, they have a one year old with whom they can share all the wonders and joys of Christmas time. Childhood, for us lucky ones, may be the best Christmas present of all. Wouldn’t it be great if we all lived in a world in which all children were healthy and happy? Shall we put that on our lists for next year and start working for it now?

Gidiskinaadaa Mitigwaakiing/Woodland Liberty

Margaret Noodin

Apii dibikong gaashkendamyaan miinawaa goshkoziyaan
When in the night I am weary and awake wondering
endigwenh waa ezhichigewag bagoji Anishinaabensag odenang,
what the wild young Anishinaabeg of the cities will do,
mitigwaakiing izhaayaan miinawaa anweshinyaan.
into the woods I go and rest.
Nimawadishaag zhingwaakwag miinawaa okikaandagoog
I visit with the white pines and the jack pines.
Nibizindaawaag zhashagiwag miinawaa ajiijaakwag.
I listen to the herons and the cranes.
Nimaatookinaag zaagaa’igan ogaawag miinawaa apakweshkwayag.
I share the lake waters with the walleye and the cattails.
Niwaabaandaanan wesiinhyag-miikanan miinawaa nakwejinaanig
I marvel at the complexity of wild paths and webs woven.
Miidash apii bidaaban niswi giosewag miinawaa
Then when the dawn hides the three hunters
niizhwaaswi nimisenhyag dibiki-giizhigong gaazhad
and seven sisters of the night sky
baabimoseyaan nikeye naawakweg zoongide’eyaan.
I walk bravely toward the noonday.
 

This poem was written in response to "The Peace of Wild Things" by Wendell Berry.

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Amid the noise and haste...

One week from today is Thanksgiving. The more we look around, the more we find for which we are grateful and in need of giving thanks. Slowly we are learning that much of the difference between a good day and an otherwise one depends as much on our focus and attitude as on the day’s actual events. We remember some advice from a management seminar years (and years) ago, under the heading of management by walking around: keep your eyes open so you can catch people doing something right and thank them for it. (It probabbly also works on Zoom, but maybe not  as well.) A very different approach to Aha! If need be, there’s almost always an opportunity to revert to Scrooge mode, but how often is that necessary?

Harry the beagle and SiSi the Lab caught behaving well

Photo by J. Harrington

In today’s Guardian, Rebecca Solnit offered Ten ways to confront the climate crisis without losing hope. That prompted us to remember that, lurking somewhere around the house, is a copy of Max Ehrmann’s Desiderata. It will probably turn up during the next week as we dig out seasonal decorations, books and music. In case you’ve never heard of it, or read it, we’ve included it as today’s poem, because we think the season, our moods, and our home planet could be vastly improved if more of us took its sentiments to heart and did our best to actually live them. 

Desiderata 

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story. 

Avoid loud and aggressive persons,
they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. 

Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism. 

Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass. 

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself. 

You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. 

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul. 

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy. 

Max Ehrmann, Desiderata, Copyright 1952.

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In the spirit of the season

Branches bare of leaves are top-coated with snow. The woods look full of giant skeletons. An occasional peek of sunshine brightens an otherwise dull day. Fields freshly coated with snow will soon return, for a time, to their autumnal tans, bronze, and brass. Consider last night and today a preview of coming attractions. The dogs don’t remember last winter’s snow so they’re freshly disconcerted by this stuff on the ground under their paws.

pileated woodpecker at suet feeder

Photo by J. Harrington

Conifers have been seasonally highlighted by sparkling flakes. The birds and squirrels have already displaced most of the 3” snow cap on the deck railing. This morning, for the first time, we saw a flicker at the bird bath. Some time during the next few days we’ll put up the suet feeder and see how long until a pileated woodpecker arrives.

There’s been a serendipitous alignment between our season’s first snowfall, watching video’s of our one year old granddaughter exploring her yard in the snow (with parental assistance) and a paragraph in a book I’ve recently begun reading. I may be stretching a little, but not a lot. See what you think:

.... We know that, although our children have come through us, they issue from a source deeper than us. In their face we glimpse something of the Light from which all life has come. In their skin we smell the freshness of life’s origins. It is this deep natural knowing that Celtic wisdom builds on. It is a sacred knowing that becomes the basis of spiritual vision.

The book just quoted is Sacred Earth Sacred Soul, Celtic Wisdom for Reawakening to What Our Souls Know and Healing the World. I picked it up at Scout & Morgan Books on not much more than a whim, while dallying before checking in for my COVID booster shot at the Cub pharmacy down the road. Since the snow doesn’t warrant blowing, and I’m feeling more lethargic than usual, and my left arm is sore, I’m curling up with that interesting book until I return to what laughingly passes for normal around here. Today’s Campbell McGrath poem seems to capture much of what Sacred Earth is about.

The Everglades

Campbell McGrath

Green and blue and white, it is a flag
for Florida stitched by hungry ibises.

It is a paradise of flocks, a cornucopia
of wind and grass and dark, slow waters.

Turtles bask in the last tatters of afternoon,
frogs perfect their symphony at dusk—

in its solitude we remember ourselves,
dimly, as creatures of mud and starlight.

Clouds and savannahs and horizons,
its emptiness is an antidote, its ink

illuminates the manuscript of the heart.
It is not ours though it is ours

to destroy or preserve, this the kingdom
of otter, kingfisher, alligator, heron.

If the sacred is a river within us, let it flow
like this, serene and magnificent, forever.

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On Native Wisdom

Last night  the Better Half and I enjoyed watching (via Zoom) the US Poet Laureate, Joy Harjo, do a reading from her latest memoir, Poet Warrior. She also shared a song from I Pray for My Enemies. The event more than lived up to its title, Bringing Joy: An Evening with United States Poet Laureate Joy Harjo. It was presented by Fond du Lac Tribal and Community College and several other Northland American Indian organizations as well as the Library of Congress Center for the Book, the Friends of the St. Paul Library, and others.

All of us in the Northland shared the beauty of an almost full moon, which will be full tomorrow night. Those in Duluth enjoyed its reflection on "the lake." All in all it was one of the most pleasant and relaxing hours I’ve spent in a long, long time. Harjo writes and talks a lot about the relations of individuals with themselves, family, community, and nations. Relations that, in these times, in way too much of the country, have become excessively frayed and frazzled. She  has wisdom to share about that also.

If you search past postings in this blog, you’ll find many of Harjo’s poems. We’ve been fans for some years. Some of us hope that there may soon be an evening with Minnesota’s own Native American poet laureate, Gwen Nell Westerman, shared over the internet. Bringing poetry to the people via internet may be more effective than bringing the  people to poetry in times of pandemics.

Harjo’s reading last night began with the following poem. Please read carefully, and retain.

For Calling The Spirit Back 
From Wandering The Earth 
In Its Human Feet

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 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 yourself back. You will find yourself 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 will 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.

© Joy Harjo. Conflict Resolution From Holy Beings. W. W. Norton & Company, 2015.

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Tree of Life, oaks #phenology

The oak trees leaf buds are swollen and beginning to open. No sightings so far of ruby-throated hummingbirds or Baltimore orioles. Black-capped chickadees have been enjoying tasting the grape jelly in the oriole feeder. Dandelion flowers are appearing in increasing abundance. Tomorrow is the last day of April. Saturday is Beltane, the start of the last month of meteorological spring, and about half-way through astronomical spring.

oak tree leaf buds opening

Photo by J. Harrington

Today, for the first time this season, I wore my Celtic Tree of Life t-shirt. I'll wear it, or something comparable, again tomorrow in honor of Arbor Day. The signs are looking good for starting this year's clean-up of dead branches and fallen leaves. Cold, damp, rainy cloudy weather could not induce me to exercise any ambition or enthusiasm. Sunny, even partly cloudy, warmer weather will do it. We'll even see if we can fit in a small bonfire on Beltane's eve.

Celtic Tree of Life

The Oak

Letitia Elizabeth Landon

 

. . . It is the last survivor of a race
Strong in their forest-pride when I was young.
I can remember when, for miles around,
In place of those smooth meadows and corn-fields,
There stood ten thousand tall and stately trees,
Such as had braved the winds of March, the bolt
Sent by the summer lightning, and the snow
Heaping for weeks their boughs. Even in the depth
Of hot July the glades were cool; the grass,
Yellow and parched elsewhere, grew long and fresh,
Shading wild strawberries and violets,
Or the lark's nest; and overhead the dove
Had her lone dwelling, paying for her home
With melancholy songs; and scarce a beech
Was there without a honeysuckle linked
Around, with its red tendrils and pink flowers;
Or girdled by a brier-rose, whose buds
Yield fragrant harvest for the honey-bee
There dwelt the last red deer, those antler’d kings . . .
But this is as dream,—the plough has pass’d
Where the stag bounded, and the day has looked
On the green twilight of the forest-trees.
This oak has no companion! . . . . 

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Bread and hyacinths

T'is another cloudy, dreary, day in February. Snow showers, or flurries, does anyone know if there's an actual difference, are falling off and on. We're beginning to think about open water and fishing seasons, although it's premature to get this year's licenses. Give us another couple of weeks.

a hyacinth to feed the soul

Photo by J. Harrington

Fortunately, we have a couple of hyacinths in the window well downstairs that have begun to blossom and share their aroma. They triggered a vague memory about an old saying -- hyacinths to feed the soul -- so we turned, as we often do, to an internet search engine.

First we encountered, on goodreads, what purports to be a quote from Mohammad:

“If I had but two loaves of bread, I would sell one and buy hyacinths, for they would feed my soul.” 

The web page was unsatisfactorily absent any additional information about the source so we checked out other leads. The Paris Review yielded a delightful article, Lost and Pound, which explores several variations of a poem, attributable to Ezra Pound, and others, on the theme of bread and hyacinths. We'll share a couple of them. You should follow the link and read the entire article.

Hast thou 2 loaves of bread
Sell one + with the dole
Buy straightaway some hyacinths
To feed thy soul.

 *******************

If thou of fortune be bereft,
And thou dost find but two loaves left
To thee—sell one, and with the dole
Buy hyacinths to feed thy soul.

These passages clearly are in the vein that "man does not live by bread alone," something many of us too often seem to forget. We're trying to find some sort of sustainable balance between bread and hyacinths in our personal life. The plants need regular watering. The sourdough starter needs feeding on a regular basis. Some days baking bread makes the house smell wonderful, but quite different than a hyacinth's aroma. According to wikipedia, "Hyacinth bulbs are poisonous; they contain oxalic acid. Handling hyacinth bulbs can cause mild skin irritation." However, we discovered that there is a hyacinth bean that, in some forms, is considered edible. There's also water hyacinths, which some suggest may be eaten.

a loaf of Irish bread fresh from the oven

Photo by J. Harrington

Before we began today's post, we had never put hyacinth plants, hyacinth beans and water hyacinths together in the same thought. After our quick reads, we think we'll stay with the idea that bread is to feed our body and the beauty and aroma of hyacinths are, indeed, meant mostly to feed our soul, unless we get very brave and creative. Stay tuned in case we get serious about foraging. Meanwhile, we're pleased to report that earlier today, in anticipation of St. Patrick's Day, we ordered several packages of King Arthur Baking's Irish Bread mix. When baked and dusted with powdered sugar, it's also beautiful enough to feed a soul.

Heaven for Stanley

Mark Doty - 1953-

For his birthday, I gave Stanley a hyacinth bean,
an annual, so he wouldn't have to wait for the flowers.

He said, Mark, I have just the place for it!
as if he'd spent ninety-eight years

anticipating the arrival of this particular vine.

I thought poetry a brace against time,
the hours held up for study in a voice's cool saline,

but his allegiance is not to permanent forms.
His garden's all furious change,

budding and rot and then the coming up again;

why prefer any single part of the round?
I don't know that he'd change a word of it;

I think he could be forever pleased
to participate in motion. Something opens.

He writes it down. Heaven steadies
and concentrates near the lavender. He's already there.

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