It's been quite a while since I've posted to this blog. I've been thinking of posting for a while and have begun a few posts, finishing none. his week has got me into gear.
We're past the equinox now and we have seen the early hints of Spring already. Our daffodils are beginning to show yellow, buds are swelling on some trees, and we are hearing the birds gearing up. The itch to get to work outside has been needing a scratch, but it's been rainy for a week or so. Until Wednesday, that is.
That morning we woke up to over six inches of snow, with lots more falling. Soon after starting our morning coffee the power went out. We had a cold breakfast and enjoyed the show.
We hoped to be able to have another cup of coffee after breakfast, but as we had no power we had no way of boiling water. I thought "let's see what things are like out there." The temperature was just at freezing and I figured that while the main road would be pretty snowy (there's little chance that any plows would get out this way for a long time) it would be soft and we could follow the tracks of other cars. So we cleared the snow off my car and headed out to Chrystal's Cafe in Low Pass about three or four miles west of us. The road was drivable and we'd have to go around fallen branches from time to time, but we got to the cafe with no idea whether it would be open or have power. It was open (Chrystal and her family lived out back) and they had no power. But cafes have to wash and rinse with especially hot water (184 degrees) so Chrystal was making coffee with it and a half dozen locals were hanging around, including her two young children.
A few of the men (it was all men, save Chrystal) got some old cooking oil and newspapers and went out back to start up a fire (I later explained to Catherine that building fires was a guy thing) while we hung out with some of the other and our good fresh coffee.
One thing that came up in the conversation was herbicide spraying, something that Catherine dealt with out here in the 80's. A number of people about twenty miles west of us have been found with residues of herbicides in their systems and Chrystal said that there is evidence that the speech delay her daughter has is connected to the spraying. An example of painful underbelly of resource extraction dependence and its indifference to the lives and well being of others.
I also got into a good chat with a fellow (who also milled the center beam in our expanded shop) about apple trees and grafting. We had a great talk, but also one that had others drift off. He told me about the annual Propagation Fair in Eugene last weekend. Off I went, got two rootstocks and had two apple cultivars grafted on. Dreams of more fresh fruit and pies than I can imagine eating.
We did get our power back before noon and by the end of the day we had about eight inches of wet and heavy snow. We heard the sound of tree limbs cracking throughout the day and into the next day. When we went off to get our paper the next day we left with a saw and had to cut up and move a tree that fell across our lane.
By today, Tuesday, most of the snow is gone and we've been able to see what clean-up we have to do: a lot.
So it is Spring. Spring always seems to have been like this: no fixed reality, everything in constant flux.
Trees are budding and our daffodils are finally blooming, the newts in the pond are mating, and the woods are filling out with bird song. I heard Spring peepers last night. The snow was tough on the birds and yesterday I found a dead Varied Thrush that looks like it was killed in the snow. The deer are beginning to go at the new growth in the garden so I have to keep my bucket of stones full to throw at them and chase them off.
I think I'll finish off with news on the hens. One of them died when we came down to Berkeley in February (she had not been doing too well for a month or so) and another was injured when attacked a couple of weeks ago. She finally seems back to normal.
Right now a flock of Varied Thrushes flew in. They generally leave the area in April, so maybe they're fueling up for their trip north and saying good bye to us today.
drive
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Autumn
It's been in the air for about a month now: crisp evening air, sometimes dropping into the high thirties, sharper shadows and the light through the trees looking different, increased breezes blowing around the leaves that are falling. It is definitely autumn. The birds and animals all know it and are going at berries and stashing stores. The yellow jackets are dying off. The moles seem much more active as they fill up on worms and grubs. Ms Kitty is taking advantage of some of our wild friends who are becoming more reckless in their search for winter provisions. She shows up more often with her leftovers: mice, moles, and chipmunks. Burrows are opening all over. We are now hearing ducks and geese fly overhead. Last weekend we had a visit from seven turkeys. Tree frogs serenade us every evening. Deer also seem to be more present.
We're enjoying blackberries and raspberries now. What was driving us nuts earlier in the Summer is now a bonanza of berries. When we remember we bring boxes with us when we go get our newspaper and mail in the morning and load them up with berries. Most go into the freezer, but lots are eaten before they hit the boxes or go into our breakfasts.
The pace of things is slowing down and we can feel the itch to be done with all the outdoor work and turn more inward. Soon we'll be getting freezes so there is work to be done to protect our late season crops (broccoli, chard, kale, spinach, and salad greens are what we're doing this year) and we also need to get our garlic and shallots in. We had a bit of rain last Sunday and we have to get ready for when the rains really come. We've had a couple of days of decent rain and the pond is starting to fill up again. The last of summer warmth seems to be fading fast, from now on it will probably be warm spells in the midst of the progression towards cold.
We are now into our first full cycle of seasons. As I think about it I am aware how much our activities have been a function of the season. I guess country living is like this, especially if you are going to grow as much of your food as you can and have a large woodland flower garden to tend. Then there's just having all the land to take care of. I am happily awaiting Winter and the in-dwelling that comes with it.
We're enjoying blackberries and raspberries now. What was driving us nuts earlier in the Summer is now a bonanza of berries. When we remember we bring boxes with us when we go get our newspaper and mail in the morning and load them up with berries. Most go into the freezer, but lots are eaten before they hit the boxes or go into our breakfasts.
The pace of things is slowing down and we can feel the itch to be done with all the outdoor work and turn more inward. Soon we'll be getting freezes so there is work to be done to protect our late season crops (broccoli, chard, kale, spinach, and salad greens are what we're doing this year) and we also need to get our garlic and shallots in. We had a bit of rain last Sunday and we have to get ready for when the rains really come. We've had a couple of days of decent rain and the pond is starting to fill up again. The last of summer warmth seems to be fading fast, from now on it will probably be warm spells in the midst of the progression towards cold.
We are now into our first full cycle of seasons. As I think about it I am aware how much our activities have been a function of the season. I guess country living is like this, especially if you are going to grow as much of your food as you can and have a large woodland flower garden to tend. Then there's just having all the land to take care of. I am happily awaiting Winter and the in-dwelling that comes with it.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Bats
Yesterday bats made it to our "what do we do about this?" list.
I was working in the attic with my son Jacob finishing an old job of putting up insulation. This was after finally getting around to putting screens on the attic windows. As we were stapling the insulation onto the rafters we seemed to have disturbed some bats that had taken up residence. Off went the screens and luckily the bats flew out. What we didn't know was whether there were more there or whether there were dependent young there. If we put the screens back up any bats inside would die. I read that the young, who are born in June, are usually fully functional by August. We decided to leave the screens off until evening, when they ought to have gone out. It was the best I could think to do.
Later that evening we found another flying around our zendo. It probably got downstairs sometime when the attic door was open. We got the screens off the windows and got all the windows open. It wasn't so easy, but the bat finally figured out how to get out.
Still I kept thinking about whether there were others up there stuck. Today, almost a week later, there was a pretty weakened bat on the attic floor. Catherine and I were able to coax it into a box and get it outside. We put the box atop a bird bath, hoping it could get to some water. It then curled up in the back of the box. I was a bit pessimistic about it's chances.
Life and death is one of the constants out here. Our cat brought us a special catch the other day: a rabbit. While Peter Rabbit's father ended up in Mr. McGregor's stew pot this one, nameless (as if rabbits in the wild need names), got a simple burial and the Dai Shin Dharani. Every time we go into town we pass road kill, usually raccoons or possums, but once a deer. Tuesday night I almost ran over an opossum. I'm beginning to get life and death, which is to say that while it's not easy to accept in its raw form, I'm learning how to see that it is a natural state of affairs. As Catherine says in one of our meal verses "turned in the wheel of living and dying"; well I'm seeing that wheel turn again and again and am increasingly seeing that there is no separation between life and death.
Morning end note: the bat left the box in the night and hopefully got its fill of 500-1000 mosquitoes.
I was working in the attic with my son Jacob finishing an old job of putting up insulation. This was after finally getting around to putting screens on the attic windows. As we were stapling the insulation onto the rafters we seemed to have disturbed some bats that had taken up residence. Off went the screens and luckily the bats flew out. What we didn't know was whether there were more there or whether there were dependent young there. If we put the screens back up any bats inside would die. I read that the young, who are born in June, are usually fully functional by August. We decided to leave the screens off until evening, when they ought to have gone out. It was the best I could think to do.
Later that evening we found another flying around our zendo. It probably got downstairs sometime when the attic door was open. We got the screens off the windows and got all the windows open. It wasn't so easy, but the bat finally figured out how to get out.
Still I kept thinking about whether there were others up there stuck. Today, almost a week later, there was a pretty weakened bat on the attic floor. Catherine and I were able to coax it into a box and get it outside. We put the box atop a bird bath, hoping it could get to some water. It then curled up in the back of the box. I was a bit pessimistic about it's chances.
Life and death is one of the constants out here. Our cat brought us a special catch the other day: a rabbit. While Peter Rabbit's father ended up in Mr. McGregor's stew pot this one, nameless (as if rabbits in the wild need names), got a simple burial and the Dai Shin Dharani. Every time we go into town we pass road kill, usually raccoons or possums, but once a deer. Tuesday night I almost ran over an opossum. I'm beginning to get life and death, which is to say that while it's not easy to accept in its raw form, I'm learning how to see that it is a natural state of affairs. As Catherine says in one of our meal verses "turned in the wheel of living and dying"; well I'm seeing that wheel turn again and again and am increasingly seeing that there is no separation between life and death.
Morning end note: the bat left the box in the night and hopefully got its fill of 500-1000 mosquitoes.
Monday, August 1, 2011
Drums
A couple of weeks ago there was a talk given at Empty Field Zendo (the zendo is at an organic farm eight miles from us). The talk was given by a Native American named Mala Spotted Eagle, who is half Shoshone and half Cherokee and who has a community(Nanish Shontie) near the farm that focuses on maintaining Native American traditional culture and spirituality and works to be what we nowadays call a sustainable and ecologically sound community, but for them is simply living with a Native American respect for Mother Earth.
His talk stressed the importance of being aware that everything we do affects everything else in this world and that everything we have comes from the bounty of life on this fragile planet. He spoke of the traditional ways as not coming from a "religion," but rather from a spiritual way of life: a way of life that holds that each little act should be done with the awareness of its connection to everything and that nothing should be treated simply as an object. A wonderful statement he made about experiencing things: just experience them from start to finish without thinking about them, there will be plenty of time later to think about the experience. I don't do justice to the simple and elegant way he expressed this. A fine Buddhist talk.
After he talked he led us in some "inter-tribal" songs with his drumming. The important thing about the drumming and singing is to keep subject of the song in your heart and sing from there: if it was a deer song you sang to the deer from your heart. Just honoring everything, it sounds so simple but my monkey mind often gets in the way.
A few days later at his community there was an afternoon of drumming and songs. Catherine and I went. There were about a dozen of us around two drums and we all drummed together and sang the songs. Whole hearted practice, singing and drumming with the ears, letting the voice and hands follow.
We had another drumming experience the next week. Early in the week Catherine and I heard some odd noises that sounded like drums, but may also have been some odd machines. I walked around our lane to try to get some idea of where the sounds came from, to no avail. But the sounds kept going, all day and into the night. We thought about it, forgot about it, thought about it, eventually thinking less and forgetting more. Jake and Leslie came and visited later in the week and they heard it and wondered. By Friday evening we were really wondering what it could be. We were sitting outside around dusk when Catherine gets her car keys and says she's going to find out what was going on. She had a hunch. We piled into the car and drove off, headed towards Camp Serene, a Lutheran camp about a mile from us. We'd stop the car and listen carefully for the sounds. They led us to Camp Serene. A bit down the road from the main entrance there were the drums and a big camp fire. But what was it? A Lutheran rave? We headed home and Leslie did some web searching and found out that there was a week long drumming camp going on, the twenty third annual drum camp. No frenzied Lutherans, they were just renting their space out. So next year when the drums begin we'll know that it's just the twenty fourth annual drum camp.
In telling the story over at Horton Organic Farm, where Empty Field Zendo is, we found out that in the valley over from them folks let there place be used a couple of times a year for raves. All day and all night and damned loud. It's amazing how sound travels out these ways.
Country living isn't always peaceful and quiet.
His talk stressed the importance of being aware that everything we do affects everything else in this world and that everything we have comes from the bounty of life on this fragile planet. He spoke of the traditional ways as not coming from a "religion," but rather from a spiritual way of life: a way of life that holds that each little act should be done with the awareness of its connection to everything and that nothing should be treated simply as an object. A wonderful statement he made about experiencing things: just experience them from start to finish without thinking about them, there will be plenty of time later to think about the experience. I don't do justice to the simple and elegant way he expressed this. A fine Buddhist talk.
After he talked he led us in some "inter-tribal" songs with his drumming. The important thing about the drumming and singing is to keep subject of the song in your heart and sing from there: if it was a deer song you sang to the deer from your heart. Just honoring everything, it sounds so simple but my monkey mind often gets in the way.
A few days later at his community there was an afternoon of drumming and songs. Catherine and I went. There were about a dozen of us around two drums and we all drummed together and sang the songs. Whole hearted practice, singing and drumming with the ears, letting the voice and hands follow.
We had another drumming experience the next week. Early in the week Catherine and I heard some odd noises that sounded like drums, but may also have been some odd machines. I walked around our lane to try to get some idea of where the sounds came from, to no avail. But the sounds kept going, all day and into the night. We thought about it, forgot about it, thought about it, eventually thinking less and forgetting more. Jake and Leslie came and visited later in the week and they heard it and wondered. By Friday evening we were really wondering what it could be. We were sitting outside around dusk when Catherine gets her car keys and says she's going to find out what was going on. She had a hunch. We piled into the car and drove off, headed towards Camp Serene, a Lutheran camp about a mile from us. We'd stop the car and listen carefully for the sounds. They led us to Camp Serene. A bit down the road from the main entrance there were the drums and a big camp fire. But what was it? A Lutheran rave? We headed home and Leslie did some web searching and found out that there was a week long drumming camp going on, the twenty third annual drum camp. No frenzied Lutherans, they were just renting their space out. So next year when the drums begin we'll know that it's just the twenty fourth annual drum camp.
In telling the story over at Horton Organic Farm, where Empty Field Zendo is, we found out that in the valley over from them folks let there place be used a couple of times a year for raves. All day and all night and damned loud. It's amazing how sound travels out these ways.
Country living isn't always peaceful and quiet.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Back Home
I've been back home for almost two weeks after being in California for two weeks. When I left I wasn't sure whether Spring would move into summer and whether the vegetables would ever grow. When I got home the local flora took off, with the warm loving vegetables still hanging back. What it did mean was that there was a lot of weeding and pruning to do and a lot of the grasses in our little meadows going to seed at five feet in height. I think I'm caught up now, especially after getting the John Deere going with help from our neighbor Mike, and we finally have warm weather. The tomatoes and peppers are now growing and we're feasting on various greens from the garden. Buying produce is becoming a memory.
The chickadees that were working on a nest in the lawn post gave up that task, I do hope they found a better place. The hen house chickadee chicks have fledged as have the house wren chicks. I keep finding new wasps nests and butterflies galore are dancing through the garden. The woods continue to be alive with many different birds' songs and we find new wildflowers all around.
We've had no new episodes of hens eating eggs, so I'm relieved, but I have a deepened awareness of the wheel of life and death and my place within it.
The Sunday before last we went to a Jukai ceremony at Empty Field Zendo where Patricia, who sits with us Tuesday morning, received the precepts. It was a wonderfully powerful and intimate affair and moving as these ceremonies always are. Patricia is a student of Seido Martin, a lay transmitted disciple of Kyogen Carlsen. Kyogen was there and it was good to get to meet him and have the chance to talk to him. There is good strong practice happening up this way and we are gradually getting to meet what is becoming our extended Oregon sangha. So much is opening up as we establish our own practice here. All this with no planning.
The chickadees that were working on a nest in the lawn post gave up that task, I do hope they found a better place. The hen house chickadee chicks have fledged as have the house wren chicks. I keep finding new wasps nests and butterflies galore are dancing through the garden. The woods continue to be alive with many different birds' songs and we find new wildflowers all around.
We've had no new episodes of hens eating eggs, so I'm relieved, but I have a deepened awareness of the wheel of life and death and my place within it.
The Sunday before last we went to a Jukai ceremony at Empty Field Zendo where Patricia, who sits with us Tuesday morning, received the precepts. It was a wonderfully powerful and intimate affair and moving as these ceremonies always are. Patricia is a student of Seido Martin, a lay transmitted disciple of Kyogen Carlsen. Kyogen was there and it was good to get to meet him and have the chance to talk to him. There is good strong practice happening up this way and we are gradually getting to meet what is becoming our extended Oregon sangha. So much is opening up as we establish our own practice here. All this with no planning.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Hens, Chickadees, and Mountain Men
A month ago we had a period of soul searching about our hens. Catherine announced one morning that one of the hens had eaten an egg. It doesn't seem like such a big deal at first, but it is actually a serious problem if you raise hens for eggs, as we do. They do like the taste and pretty soon the whole flock does it. Chicken books put this problem in the category of cannibalism (chickens will eat each other). Catherine has a friend who had a similar problem, but delayed action and the one egg eater initiated the others into the pleasures of egg eating. Chicken books all say that you have to remove the egg eater as soon as you can determine who it is. We swung into action. I made what I call our mini Guantanamo in the pump house and we both watched and watched, trying to find out who the culprit was. The important thing is finding the culprit and isolating her, but what then? The term the "experts" use is cull the hen from the flock. Cull is a nice word for getting rid of the chicken, i.e. killing her. If someone would take her it would only be for the meat, unless we lied about her situation.
So, here we have two Buddhist priests with a dilemma. Our hens aren't pets, they are parts of our household economy. Around here they are a part of most everyone's household economy and many of our neighbors depend on them for eggs and meat. Hunting, raising animals for meat, and small vegetable gardens are important in people's lives in ways that have been alien to this city guy.
We lucked out as the egg eating seems to have been a one time thing, but in the back of my mind I am aware that I may have to face this issue again. All I can say now is that I don't know what I would do.
We have some other egg layers around here.
In our lawn we have a post, about six feet high. It is the base of a tree that was cut down and is quite dead. Our cat likes to climb up to the top, as do my kids. A few weeks ago a chickadee decided that it would be a good spot for a nest (nesting season seems to get started in May around here) and she began to excavate a cavity. Day after day she would dig out her site. I first became aware of her work not by seeing her, but by hearing the tap tap of her work. The cavity got bigger and bigger and I was getting excited about having a nest I could see from my desk. I also was worried about our cat, so I strung up a fence of chicken wire around the post to keep the cat out. The chickadee began to get skittish about her site when tree swallows went zooming around the place looking for nest sites, but she continued her work. Then, she stopped showing up for work. I'm guessing that she realized what we realized: her site was very open to predators and had too much activity going on around it. So she apparently abandoned the site and, I hoped, found a better site elsewhere.
Birds and animals aren't the only interesting living beings out here. We have mountain men out here, independent and fairly self-sufficient folks.
About three or four miles down the road from us there's a fellow who is often having a yard sale (Catherine refers to it as the perpetual yard sale). So last Friday on the way home from picking up Deborah from the airport we stopped at the yard sale. This fellow comes out. He's got on a large floppy leather hat, a droopy mustache, and longish hair. Large and somewhat lumbering with what seems to be only one tooth on his lower jaw. Patricia, the woman who sits with us on Tuesday mornings told us that the fellow had a lot of skillets that he finds and restores. Well it was cast iron heaven. We talked about cast iron and skillets and he showed us some that were very old and beautifully restored. He has lived as a hunter and also as a restorer of muskets and cast iron, and showing folks how to use these.
I think our listening got him inspired and he then went into a tale about a Mountain Man Rendezvous (a get together of people who try to maintain and re-enact the lives of people in the early nineteenth century) during winter.
We were told that the wind chill factor was twenty below. There were a couple of sections to the site: the primitive area (using nothing that came after 1840) and the area merchants were. He was there showing his 300 plus collection of muskets in a 30x40 tent. He set up a butane heater and enjoyed the day with a couple of friends. In pops a woman in buckskin who tells him he can't have that heater, he tells her he wasn't in the primitive area and he damned well can. They have a good squabble and she storms out. It turns out that the woman was the wife of one of the fellows he was with. She comes back later a bit huffy, but goes over to the heater to warm her hands. He gets up and turns the heater off, followed by another scene. She does come back the next day and apologizes and they become good friends when when they learn they have an interest in beads.
I have the feeling that this is a mountain man tall tale or a stretch of what happened . I don't know what really happened, but he's a pretty good story teller.
As I'm writing this the chickadee has reappeared to work on the nesting cavity. Meanwhile we have another bird house where another chickadee is sitting on her eggs. Right now I'm just wondering how long it's going to take to finish the cavity.
End Note: I took a break from editing this and went outside to do some work. I found another eaten egg. No more editing of this; just being here with this awful feeling in the pit of my stomach.
So, here we have two Buddhist priests with a dilemma. Our hens aren't pets, they are parts of our household economy. Around here they are a part of most everyone's household economy and many of our neighbors depend on them for eggs and meat. Hunting, raising animals for meat, and small vegetable gardens are important in people's lives in ways that have been alien to this city guy.
We lucked out as the egg eating seems to have been a one time thing, but in the back of my mind I am aware that I may have to face this issue again. All I can say now is that I don't know what I would do.
We have some other egg layers around here.
In our lawn we have a post, about six feet high. It is the base of a tree that was cut down and is quite dead. Our cat likes to climb up to the top, as do my kids. A few weeks ago a chickadee decided that it would be a good spot for a nest (nesting season seems to get started in May around here) and she began to excavate a cavity. Day after day she would dig out her site. I first became aware of her work not by seeing her, but by hearing the tap tap of her work. The cavity got bigger and bigger and I was getting excited about having a nest I could see from my desk. I also was worried about our cat, so I strung up a fence of chicken wire around the post to keep the cat out. The chickadee began to get skittish about her site when tree swallows went zooming around the place looking for nest sites, but she continued her work. Then, she stopped showing up for work. I'm guessing that she realized what we realized: her site was very open to predators and had too much activity going on around it. So she apparently abandoned the site and, I hoped, found a better site elsewhere.
Birds and animals aren't the only interesting living beings out here. We have mountain men out here, independent and fairly self-sufficient folks.
About three or four miles down the road from us there's a fellow who is often having a yard sale (Catherine refers to it as the perpetual yard sale). So last Friday on the way home from picking up Deborah from the airport we stopped at the yard sale. This fellow comes out. He's got on a large floppy leather hat, a droopy mustache, and longish hair. Large and somewhat lumbering with what seems to be only one tooth on his lower jaw. Patricia, the woman who sits with us on Tuesday mornings told us that the fellow had a lot of skillets that he finds and restores. Well it was cast iron heaven. We talked about cast iron and skillets and he showed us some that were very old and beautifully restored. He has lived as a hunter and also as a restorer of muskets and cast iron, and showing folks how to use these.
I think our listening got him inspired and he then went into a tale about a Mountain Man Rendezvous (a get together of people who try to maintain and re-enact the lives of people in the early nineteenth century) during winter.
We were told that the wind chill factor was twenty below. There were a couple of sections to the site: the primitive area (using nothing that came after 1840) and the area merchants were. He was there showing his 300 plus collection of muskets in a 30x40 tent. He set up a butane heater and enjoyed the day with a couple of friends. In pops a woman in buckskin who tells him he can't have that heater, he tells her he wasn't in the primitive area and he damned well can. They have a good squabble and she storms out. It turns out that the woman was the wife of one of the fellows he was with. She comes back later a bit huffy, but goes over to the heater to warm her hands. He gets up and turns the heater off, followed by another scene. She does come back the next day and apologizes and they become good friends when when they learn they have an interest in beads.
I have the feeling that this is a mountain man tall tale or a stretch of what happened . I don't know what really happened, but he's a pretty good story teller.
As I'm writing this the chickadee has reappeared to work on the nesting cavity. Meanwhile we have another bird house where another chickadee is sitting on her eggs. Right now I'm just wondering how long it's going to take to finish the cavity.
End Note: I took a break from editing this and went outside to do some work. I found another eaten egg. No more editing of this; just being here with this awful feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Friday, April 29, 2011
Spring
I haven't written anything for some time. I've been busy and away, but mainly dealing with Spring.
So, I've been thinking about this season called Spring. The calendar says it is a new season and it is called one. It is true that the days are getting longer (it's not getting dark here until almost 8:30) and flowers, both wild and cultivated, are blooming, and trees are budding. But, being out here reminds me of what I remember of Spring back in the Northeast: not a season as much as a transition, and a messy transition at that. The weather has been going from warmer and sunny to colder and wet. We are still getting frosts and last week we had another hail storm. It was characteristic of Spring as a transition: at noon it was sunny and the temperature was in the mid fifties, an hour later it dropped to the mid forties and began to hail, the sun then came out, and within an hour we had rain mixed with snow.
The birds also say that it is a new season. The woods are full of bird songs, most of which I've never heard before. In the early morning the crows gather in the tree tops and caw enthusiastically before flying off to some other place. At dusk the birds are lustily singing again and we've begun to hear an owl somewhere off in the woods (by the sound and is considered common around here it's probably a Barred Owl). Then there's a Rufous Hummingbird showing up from time to time. There's a frog croaking mightily in the pond at dusk. Our cat brought us a Spring gift the other week: a mole. I was happy about that gift as moles are a big nuisance here. I don't mind them in the woods, but my garden? No way. I reminds me of the bit I wrote some time ago about "whose place is this?" I feel a pang when I consider being happy about the cat's mole hunting. And the truth is that moles haven't been a problem (yet) in the garden. I don't think about her bird hunting the same way. I've got my preferences and likes and dislikes these keep me from seeing this hunting as a part of the natural world.
Then there is the garden. I'm still going to have to protect against frosts, but I feel good to be getting things planted. Weeds are also taking off. Having a garden here also requires a lot of defensive maneuvers. The two main problems are the deer and the hens. I have finally been able to foil the hens attempts at getting in and there is still more to do about the deer.
So let's get back to this thing called Spring. It is transience and unsettledness par excellence. Spring also is my impatience for the warmth of summer, whether that means shucking layers of clothing or planting vegetables. Spring is also about believing that today's weather will be tomorrow's when it's what I think is good. Spring is also that when this cold raw weather keeps returning summer will ever come.
I'm reminded of a children's book: "When is Tomorrow?" Right now is today and will always be today; right now today is 40 ish and rainy. But since I can't ever live in tomorrow I might as well try to live as thoroughly in the rainy forties as I can. The frogs and the birds certainly can.
So, I've been thinking about this season called Spring. The calendar says it is a new season and it is called one. It is true that the days are getting longer (it's not getting dark here until almost 8:30) and flowers, both wild and cultivated, are blooming, and trees are budding. But, being out here reminds me of what I remember of Spring back in the Northeast: not a season as much as a transition, and a messy transition at that. The weather has been going from warmer and sunny to colder and wet. We are still getting frosts and last week we had another hail storm. It was characteristic of Spring as a transition: at noon it was sunny and the temperature was in the mid fifties, an hour later it dropped to the mid forties and began to hail, the sun then came out, and within an hour we had rain mixed with snow.
The birds also say that it is a new season. The woods are full of bird songs, most of which I've never heard before. In the early morning the crows gather in the tree tops and caw enthusiastically before flying off to some other place. At dusk the birds are lustily singing again and we've begun to hear an owl somewhere off in the woods (by the sound and is considered common around here it's probably a Barred Owl). Then there's a Rufous Hummingbird showing up from time to time. There's a frog croaking mightily in the pond at dusk. Our cat brought us a Spring gift the other week: a mole. I was happy about that gift as moles are a big nuisance here. I don't mind them in the woods, but my garden? No way. I reminds me of the bit I wrote some time ago about "whose place is this?" I feel a pang when I consider being happy about the cat's mole hunting. And the truth is that moles haven't been a problem (yet) in the garden. I don't think about her bird hunting the same way. I've got my preferences and likes and dislikes these keep me from seeing this hunting as a part of the natural world.
Then there is the garden. I'm still going to have to protect against frosts, but I feel good to be getting things planted. Weeds are also taking off. Having a garden here also requires a lot of defensive maneuvers. The two main problems are the deer and the hens. I have finally been able to foil the hens attempts at getting in and there is still more to do about the deer.
So let's get back to this thing called Spring. It is transience and unsettledness par excellence. Spring also is my impatience for the warmth of summer, whether that means shucking layers of clothing or planting vegetables. Spring is also about believing that today's weather will be tomorrow's when it's what I think is good. Spring is also that when this cold raw weather keeps returning summer will ever come.
I'm reminded of a children's book: "When is Tomorrow?" Right now is today and will always be today; right now today is 40 ish and rainy. But since I can't ever live in tomorrow I might as well try to live as thoroughly in the rainy forties as I can. The frogs and the birds certainly can.
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