Dear fellows, I am not ungrateful. The depth of my gratitude, and appreciation, for the life I was born into, for sweet surprises, for the spinning cosmos, for serendipity and yes, for the esteemed role I play in the tragedy of our so-called economy, is truly far too great to be expressed in words. I am and have been more than fortunate; blessed, some might say. I am, also, ornery, crabby, burnt-out, witchy, sad and frustrated. And, mainly, probably, just weary of the capitalist model of existence. It's not that there has to be a better way; there IS a better way. Maybe I was born in the wrong century, or on the wrong continent. This grossly self-centered American Way I've been reluctantly trying to follow is turning me into a monster, only part human, stretching my identity until it's nothing more than a wire, strung out from here to the end of the last footpath that leads into what was once wilderness, and is now another filling station. What are we filling our selves with?
Oh, it is a Happy Day. I am relieved of employment tomorrow, however briefly, and look forward to a trip to the beautiful State of Iowa, to visit good friends and hear some fine tunes. And--to my sweet delight--I arrived home this evening to home-grown salad in the spinner, home-made pizza dough rising and a bag full of cherries in the fridge, right next to a tall, cold can of Surly. Who's complaining?
Thursday, July 9, 2009
IF ELSE THEN
AS IF I should be grateful. AS IF I am a relentless bitch for asking, instead of someone else being an inconsiderate asshole for not responding. AS IF it is impossible for something to be done correctly. AS IF expecting that one might take a simple instruction (please do it this way) and comprehend it, instead of turning around not one fucking second after to ask me (so you want me to do it that way?) is unreasonable. AS IF actually listening and paying attention is giving the other person too much of your valuable time and energy. AS IF the fact that something is obviously and demonstrably not working matters at all when someone else says it's just fine. AS IF I have not been working so that others might have an easier time of things. AS IF I have asked for too much help. AS IF anyone has ever offered to give me a hand. AS IF I haven't suggested that at least a dozen times. AS IF we haven't been asking for that for years. AS IF you just had a great idea. AS IF it could really take that long to figure it out. AS IF I have kissed anyone's ass. AS IF I don't know what I'm doing. AS IF I'm doing this for my own good. AS IF I take pleasure in being disregarded. AS IF I enjoy having to ask again. AS IF I am asking for my benefit. AS IF there is anything else I can do. AS IF I could. AS IF I wanted to.
Monday, July 6, 2009
keeping track
Friday
A late dinner with my folks, my sister and her sometime husband, who brought the fine gift of a big fat brown trout he'd caught on Lake Superior earlier that day. Breaded and pan-fried with just a touch of fresh lemon, a salad of butter-soft-sweet-new lettuces from the garden with a bit of lightly steamed asparagus in a perfect vinagrette. A few red grapes, beers. (Funny how one bite of fresh fish makes everyone want to go fishing...) After that, a couple games of pool, played in that drunken way which is both astoundingly good and embarrasingly bad, from one shot to the next. A nice night.
***
Saturday
I woke to a surprise hangover, or something quite similar, feeling exhausted from the past week and wishing I'd gone to bed a little earlier. Noodles for brunch, of the Thai sort, thin rice ones with tofu fried in canola with toasted sesame oil, splashed with fish sauce, shoyu and Worcestershire (secret ingredient), garlic, cabbage, carrot, scallion, chile, cilantro and mint, dressed with oyster sauce, a bit of sugar, rice vinegar, fresh lime and probably some more fish sauce and shoyu. Not my best, but a pretty good breakfast for a weary person, a nice lunch for mom, and tasty leftovers for a hot afternoon.
Late start for me, and a slow one...quite a bit more tired than I ought to be at my age...Spent a couple hours in and out of the sun, working with Mom to mulch the three main rows tomatoes with paper and straw. This year we're trying just two sheets of newspaper; the four or more sheets we used last year seemed a bit much when it came time to burn and turn. I'm skeptical that two will keep the weeds from pushing through, but it might work out okay. Another change this year is that we're using shredded oat straw (having been run by Dad through The Chipper, his favorite new toy) rather than just spreading out the bales. Turns out there are a few advantages in this: one, it stretches the straw quite a bit further, since the smaller pieces form a denser mat (think sawdust vs. pile of sticks) relative to the surface area, so it doesn't need to be as "deep" to sufficiently cover the same area; two, it's a lot easier to work with and move around; three, it gives Dad a good reason to chip stuff (and thanks for that, by the way...).
C Monkey spent a good part of the day using his favorite new toy, The Stone Grinder, to carve a lovely sculpture and a nice little toad bath. At least that's what I'm calling it. There are quite a few toads in the garden this year, including one big one that lives under the shade of the rhubarb, and I figure they might like to have a soak now and then... Speaking of which, we finally got the boat out on the lake at the end of the day and had a nice swim with a couple of loons (take your pick) and a few curious dragonflies. Water's a little cold yet, but even so, it was the first time in a few weeks I've even approached anything resembling relaxation...
Another late dinner, of roasted chicken accompanied by newly picked lettuces and another salad I'd made earlier in the day, of chickpeas with generous amounts of minced garlic, black and green olives, a bit of scallion and loads of fresh herbs from the garden--mint, oregano, basil, rosemary, thyme--tossed in a simple olive oil and red wine vinagrette with a some freshly ground pepper and a dash of salt. I'd been wanting to try that one for a while now, and now I know why. Really quite good, especially this time of year. We'll have that again.
Before bed, I wandered for a while in the moonlight, out toward the pond, where the frog songs have modulated from the Spring cacaphony of chirping trills into the deep, slow, rubber-band twangs of Summer... I followed the sandy drive around to the old parking lot at the back of the shop and was taken for a moment by the beauty of the yellow moonlight spilling over the roof of the pole barn, setting the propane tank aglow and glinting off the shiny black plastic that covers that giant steaming pile of shit that's sitting there at the end of the garden.
***
Sunday
Everyone was up early, partly to confer over a call from my sister inviting us up to take the big boat out sailing on Lake Superior, which it turned out wasn't in the cards, with all of us looking forward to a rather more laid-back day and less driving. Shortly after coffee, we got a call back from our friend down the road, who did indeed have some eggs for breakfast (which we didn't end up eating) and also extended a kind invitation to come over and do the morning rounds with him, to get a feel for the place and the animals and the life there. Having my own obligations for the day I chose to decline, although a change of scenery and pace might have been a pretty nice way to start the day. Perhaps another time.
So, we all worked for the better part of a very pleasant day, with others and without, weeding (as always), spreading composted manure around the peppers, eggplant and last few tomatoes and mulching them with paper & straw, transplanting some horseradish, replanting a few cucumbers that fried up, reseeding a few sunflowers that didn't sprout, spreading more composted manure around the brassicas in back, mulching the peas and favas in front, chipping stuff, hoeing and scritching and watering everything, then watering some more... you might be surprised how long it can take to water everything thoroughly, especially when it's this dry. (Need to get on that drip irrigation system...)
At around six o'clock we pulled the boat over to the landing and there met Captain and Peg Leg with their sweet little new sailboat, which we took for a couple turns in spite of dwindling winds. Good to swim again, even with a chill, and to feel beautiful for a while in the dark water. Bright blue sky ringed by gleaming green, and a rainbow-striped sail cutting through... The boaters sped off, the wind died, and we ended up paddling the final stretch back to shore, with half a kayak-paddle each, while the water before us turned to glass... Remarkably lovely evening, without a biting bug of any kind anywhere. Dinner after sunset, chicken and asparagus in a dijon-tarragon sour cream sauce over brown rice, and--not a perfect compliment but equally delicious--salad of pinto beans with roasted red and green peppers, red onion and scallion, a few artichoke hearts, garlic and a bit of cilantro, dressed with red wine vinegar and olive oil, and topped off with slices of perfectly ripe avocado. We eat well.
After dinner I played piano for a while, that Brahms Intermezzo that I love so much and a couple pieces from The Piano of which I'm quite fond. My hands are clumsy, still, and slow. I have to watch the notes to know what to play, where to go next. My eyes and mind are slow, and I can't look down to see what my fingers are doing or I'll lose my place, lose track. It's been difficult to re-learn, especially with only a couple of hours a month of practice, but something happened last night that I haven't felt in many years... For a moment I didn't have to think about it, and my hands just found their place. I've experienced this residually from time to time, out of the deep memory of music I once knew by heart, long ago, but this time it was with something new--the Brahms piece that I picked up just last winter. Until yesterday I really thought I might not ever be able to play that way again. To reach out my hand and feel it there, as if it were easy, like swimming...
Another moonlit stroll, with everything illuminated, and the call of owls from the South and the West. Insistent moonlight kept me awake most of the night, when the dog wasn't barking, until macabre dreams pulled me into a realm somewhere between sleep and death, just before dawn.
The clouds were nice this morning.
A late dinner with my folks, my sister and her sometime husband, who brought the fine gift of a big fat brown trout he'd caught on Lake Superior earlier that day. Breaded and pan-fried with just a touch of fresh lemon, a salad of butter-soft-sweet-new lettuces from the garden with a bit of lightly steamed asparagus in a perfect vinagrette. A few red grapes, beers. (Funny how one bite of fresh fish makes everyone want to go fishing...) After that, a couple games of pool, played in that drunken way which is both astoundingly good and embarrasingly bad, from one shot to the next. A nice night.
***
Saturday
I woke to a surprise hangover, or something quite similar, feeling exhausted from the past week and wishing I'd gone to bed a little earlier. Noodles for brunch, of the Thai sort, thin rice ones with tofu fried in canola with toasted sesame oil, splashed with fish sauce, shoyu and Worcestershire (secret ingredient), garlic, cabbage, carrot, scallion, chile, cilantro and mint, dressed with oyster sauce, a bit of sugar, rice vinegar, fresh lime and probably some more fish sauce and shoyu. Not my best, but a pretty good breakfast for a weary person, a nice lunch for mom, and tasty leftovers for a hot afternoon.
Late start for me, and a slow one...quite a bit more tired than I ought to be at my age...Spent a couple hours in and out of the sun, working with Mom to mulch the three main rows tomatoes with paper and straw. This year we're trying just two sheets of newspaper; the four or more sheets we used last year seemed a bit much when it came time to burn and turn. I'm skeptical that two will keep the weeds from pushing through, but it might work out okay. Another change this year is that we're using shredded oat straw (having been run by Dad through The Chipper, his favorite new toy) rather than just spreading out the bales. Turns out there are a few advantages in this: one, it stretches the straw quite a bit further, since the smaller pieces form a denser mat (think sawdust vs. pile of sticks) relative to the surface area, so it doesn't need to be as "deep" to sufficiently cover the same area; two, it's a lot easier to work with and move around; three, it gives Dad a good reason to chip stuff (and thanks for that, by the way...).
C Monkey spent a good part of the day using his favorite new toy, The Stone Grinder, to carve a lovely sculpture and a nice little toad bath. At least that's what I'm calling it. There are quite a few toads in the garden this year, including one big one that lives under the shade of the rhubarb, and I figure they might like to have a soak now and then... Speaking of which, we finally got the boat out on the lake at the end of the day and had a nice swim with a couple of loons (take your pick) and a few curious dragonflies. Water's a little cold yet, but even so, it was the first time in a few weeks I've even approached anything resembling relaxation...
Another late dinner, of roasted chicken accompanied by newly picked lettuces and another salad I'd made earlier in the day, of chickpeas with generous amounts of minced garlic, black and green olives, a bit of scallion and loads of fresh herbs from the garden--mint, oregano, basil, rosemary, thyme--tossed in a simple olive oil and red wine vinagrette with a some freshly ground pepper and a dash of salt. I'd been wanting to try that one for a while now, and now I know why. Really quite good, especially this time of year. We'll have that again.
Before bed, I wandered for a while in the moonlight, out toward the pond, where the frog songs have modulated from the Spring cacaphony of chirping trills into the deep, slow, rubber-band twangs of Summer... I followed the sandy drive around to the old parking lot at the back of the shop and was taken for a moment by the beauty of the yellow moonlight spilling over the roof of the pole barn, setting the propane tank aglow and glinting off the shiny black plastic that covers that giant steaming pile of shit that's sitting there at the end of the garden.
***
Sunday
Everyone was up early, partly to confer over a call from my sister inviting us up to take the big boat out sailing on Lake Superior, which it turned out wasn't in the cards, with all of us looking forward to a rather more laid-back day and less driving. Shortly after coffee, we got a call back from our friend down the road, who did indeed have some eggs for breakfast (which we didn't end up eating) and also extended a kind invitation to come over and do the morning rounds with him, to get a feel for the place and the animals and the life there. Having my own obligations for the day I chose to decline, although a change of scenery and pace might have been a pretty nice way to start the day. Perhaps another time.
So, we all worked for the better part of a very pleasant day, with others and without, weeding (as always), spreading composted manure around the peppers, eggplant and last few tomatoes and mulching them with paper & straw, transplanting some horseradish, replanting a few cucumbers that fried up, reseeding a few sunflowers that didn't sprout, spreading more composted manure around the brassicas in back, mulching the peas and favas in front, chipping stuff, hoeing and scritching and watering everything, then watering some more... you might be surprised how long it can take to water everything thoroughly, especially when it's this dry. (Need to get on that drip irrigation system...)
At around six o'clock we pulled the boat over to the landing and there met Captain and Peg Leg with their sweet little new sailboat, which we took for a couple turns in spite of dwindling winds. Good to swim again, even with a chill, and to feel beautiful for a while in the dark water. Bright blue sky ringed by gleaming green, and a rainbow-striped sail cutting through... The boaters sped off, the wind died, and we ended up paddling the final stretch back to shore, with half a kayak-paddle each, while the water before us turned to glass... Remarkably lovely evening, without a biting bug of any kind anywhere. Dinner after sunset, chicken and asparagus in a dijon-tarragon sour cream sauce over brown rice, and--not a perfect compliment but equally delicious--salad of pinto beans with roasted red and green peppers, red onion and scallion, a few artichoke hearts, garlic and a bit of cilantro, dressed with red wine vinegar and olive oil, and topped off with slices of perfectly ripe avocado. We eat well.
After dinner I played piano for a while, that Brahms Intermezzo that I love so much and a couple pieces from The Piano of which I'm quite fond. My hands are clumsy, still, and slow. I have to watch the notes to know what to play, where to go next. My eyes and mind are slow, and I can't look down to see what my fingers are doing or I'll lose my place, lose track. It's been difficult to re-learn, especially with only a couple of hours a month of practice, but something happened last night that I haven't felt in many years... For a moment I didn't have to think about it, and my hands just found their place. I've experienced this residually from time to time, out of the deep memory of music I once knew by heart, long ago, but this time it was with something new--the Brahms piece that I picked up just last winter. Until yesterday I really thought I might not ever be able to play that way again. To reach out my hand and feel it there, as if it were easy, like swimming...
Another moonlit stroll, with everything illuminated, and the call of owls from the South and the West. Insistent moonlight kept me awake most of the night, when the dog wasn't barking, until macabre dreams pulled me into a realm somewhere between sleep and death, just before dawn.
The clouds were nice this morning.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
under the waxing moon
I pulled out the bottom drawer all the way, in search of something that was not there, and out it dropped--the whole drawer, stuffed full--squarely and woodenly, right onto my two big toes. On a different day I probably would have just sat down and cried, but tonight I calmly told myself at least nine times how much that hurt, while I put the drawer back. It really did hurt. I have a nice little blood blister, now, to prove it.
Inspired by my sister, I put on my beloved Shoes of Possibility and took off for a run after sunset. My toenails throbbed as though they wanted to fall off, but I hauled my sorry ass around a good loop, passing an armful of bunnies and a couple slow-moving trains. Watching my shadow run ahead of the streetlights, I saw that I did not appear to be the side-winding old man that I felt like I was. After a moment's hesitation I climbed the Tower Hill on a path too dark to see, nearly tripping over a band of light, took in the skyline for a few breaths and came down the other side, toward home.
Inspired by my sister, I put on my beloved Shoes of Possibility and took off for a run after sunset. My toenails throbbed as though they wanted to fall off, but I hauled my sorry ass around a good loop, passing an armful of bunnies and a couple slow-moving trains. Watching my shadow run ahead of the streetlights, I saw that I did not appear to be the side-winding old man that I felt like I was. After a moment's hesitation I climbed the Tower Hill on a path too dark to see, nearly tripping over a band of light, took in the skyline for a few breaths and came down the other side, toward home.
Monday, June 29, 2009
another couple days
Friday. Got home late, again, decided I was too exhausted to drive up North. Too tired to think of anything else to do, I laid down on the couch in a state of blankness. Too wired to rest, I popped up and started cleaning things up a bit. Mom called to see what our plans were and we talked for a while about the state of the gardens and other things, an unexpected and pleasant conversation which changed my mind considerably. Instead of looking for reasons to stay here this weekend I began looking forward to leaving in the morning. Stayed up late, drunkenly sent an old friend a message on Facebook (and let me just say here, that I find FB unnerving, repulsing and strangely hostile to life. Upon my first descent into that madness I realized that I was entering a sort of graveyard, a kind of hell populated by the constant clicking of keyboards and millions upon millions of constructed personas, carefully or stupidly crafted out of painfully revealing snapshots and insignificant thoughts expressed in unconsidered words. Much like the rest of the world, I suppose, except that here no one hugs each other, or smells each other, or looks each other in the eye. Instead we silently become friends, and watch each other's motions (or not) through a magnificently devised and aptly named Screen, never hearing each other's voices or seeing each other's hands. It's fine enough for idle chatter and connecting with pals, if you're into that sort of thing--and I'll admit there were a couple faces I was happy to see, if only for the moment that I remembered being in their presence--but it leaves, well, everything to be desired, in my opinion. Why don't we all just barf on ourselves? The best minds of our generation...are not spewing tripe on Facebook. Sorry, friends. Okay...maybe I'm just jealous, really, that I can't have fun at your big fat party. But it's not because I wasn't invited.) It was a stupid note, of course. To bed, late.
Saturday. Up early. Could have sworn it rained and thundered in the morning but I guess that was a different day. Nice hearty breakfast and yerba mate for the road. Arrived around noon, to a sky still cloaked in clouds after an overnight rain. Mom and Dad showed us the new compost pile they'd mixed up with the chicken shit they'd gotten from a friend down the road, and another pile of composted shit in the pole barn which they'd picked up from a family acquaintance further north, for the meager price of $20 a pickup load (Dad gave them $30). A few sprinkles as we set to work weeding all the beds with stirrup hoe, scritcher, claw, by hand. The sun burned holes in moving clouds. Toward the end of the afternoon Cosmic M, Mom and I wandered out into the fields and woods, through daisies thick as thieves (and their artless accomplices), toward that patch of Werewolf Root near the oak on the south fence. It was lovely as ever, that place, and still after my heart, but I was not open to it or the frolicking Monarchs or much else, so after wading in and superficially admiring the neighboring thistles and ferns, we pressed on through the low spot where I met my first agrimony last summer, out into a sunny field full of mullein, on through milkweed and raspberries to the gravel pit, under black spruce and maples to the Big Hill, and back again through fields gleaming with daisies and yarrow, fleabane, sprinkled with bedstraw; glowing with cinquefoil, buttercups, goatsbeard; on fire with hawkweed and sorrel; blushed with sweet red clover; quieted by one purple in hue, which we could not name; swimming in waves of green, all. Spent the evening on more weeding and sharing a quiet and tasty dinner prepared by Mom while Dad was away for hours, playing the role of esteemed public official and only male representative on panel of judges for the "Little Miss" pageant of a town up the road. Managed to drag my weary old ass outside for the stars and fireflies, who had in one week gone from magical to desperate, in the cold Summer wind. Quite worth the trouble.
Mmmm, eggie weggies...
Sunday. Up early. C Monkey finished up the cinnamon rolls he'd started the night before and the two of us got to work in the cool of the morning. The birdsongs were exceptional. Among the singers, seen, were a pair of brown thrashers, orioles, goldfinches, rose-breasted grosbeaks, bluebirds, red-winged blackbirds, woodpeckers various sorts, pigeons, doves, robins, hummingbirds, swallows, bluejays, at least. It was a windy morning and it stayed that way, blowing all day without a moment's rest, pushing over corn and sunflowers and anything else big enough to stand in its way. In response to Mom's suggestion (which I'd previously poo-poohed, thinking it too impractical or just un-doable), I decided to pull the pile of tangled grape vines out of the old chicken-coop foundation and wind them around the arbor, to create a way up for the honesuckle, clematis, firecracker vine and morning glories in need of a lift. Turned out quite nice and just right, a good morning meditation. After a late breakfast we spent the rest of the day winding, weeding, spreading compost, seeding cover crops, undersowing, chipping, mulching, watering. Can't speak for the others but I put in a good eight hours and was glad for it, if a bit tired. Home by just after dark.
For a weekend which I had thought might be better spent here at home or in a canoe, we really got a lot done, and things are in good shape because of it. Hopefully next weekend we'll be able to swim, play bocce ball, shoot pool, kick back, lie down...
Couple of pagans, gardening and drinking beer.
Saturday. Up early. Could have sworn it rained and thundered in the morning but I guess that was a different day. Nice hearty breakfast and yerba mate for the road. Arrived around noon, to a sky still cloaked in clouds after an overnight rain. Mom and Dad showed us the new compost pile they'd mixed up with the chicken shit they'd gotten from a friend down the road, and another pile of composted shit in the pole barn which they'd picked up from a family acquaintance further north, for the meager price of $20 a pickup load (Dad gave them $30). A few sprinkles as we set to work weeding all the beds with stirrup hoe, scritcher, claw, by hand. The sun burned holes in moving clouds. Toward the end of the afternoon Cosmic M, Mom and I wandered out into the fields and woods, through daisies thick as thieves (and their artless accomplices), toward that patch of Werewolf Root near the oak on the south fence. It was lovely as ever, that place, and still after my heart, but I was not open to it or the frolicking Monarchs or much else, so after wading in and superficially admiring the neighboring thistles and ferns, we pressed on through the low spot where I met my first agrimony last summer, out into a sunny field full of mullein, on through milkweed and raspberries to the gravel pit, under black spruce and maples to the Big Hill, and back again through fields gleaming with daisies and yarrow, fleabane, sprinkled with bedstraw; glowing with cinquefoil, buttercups, goatsbeard; on fire with hawkweed and sorrel; blushed with sweet red clover; quieted by one purple in hue, which we could not name; swimming in waves of green, all. Spent the evening on more weeding and sharing a quiet and tasty dinner prepared by Mom while Dad was away for hours, playing the role of esteemed public official and only male representative on panel of judges for the "Little Miss" pageant of a town up the road. Managed to drag my weary old ass outside for the stars and fireflies, who had in one week gone from magical to desperate, in the cold Summer wind. Quite worth the trouble.
Mmmm, eggie weggies...Sunday. Up early. C Monkey finished up the cinnamon rolls he'd started the night before and the two of us got to work in the cool of the morning. The birdsongs were exceptional. Among the singers, seen, were a pair of brown thrashers, orioles, goldfinches, rose-breasted grosbeaks, bluebirds, red-winged blackbirds, woodpeckers various sorts, pigeons, doves, robins, hummingbirds, swallows, bluejays, at least. It was a windy morning and it stayed that way, blowing all day without a moment's rest, pushing over corn and sunflowers and anything else big enough to stand in its way. In response to Mom's suggestion (which I'd previously poo-poohed, thinking it too impractical or just un-doable), I decided to pull the pile of tangled grape vines out of the old chicken-coop foundation and wind them around the arbor, to create a way up for the honesuckle, clematis, firecracker vine and morning glories in need of a lift. Turned out quite nice and just right, a good morning meditation. After a late breakfast we spent the rest of the day winding, weeding, spreading compost, seeding cover crops, undersowing, chipping, mulching, watering. Can't speak for the others but I put in a good eight hours and was glad for it, if a bit tired. Home by just after dark.
For a weekend which I had thought might be better spent here at home or in a canoe, we really got a lot done, and things are in good shape because of it. Hopefully next weekend we'll be able to swim, play bocce ball, shoot pool, kick back, lie down...
Couple of pagans, gardening and drinking beer.Saturday, June 27, 2009
plant dream / dream medicine
I dream of plants, often.
Earlier this year, a colleague brought to my attention a rather interesting piece of writing by Michael Pollan which got me musing about poppies and the history of their use as food and medicine, and how they, like so many valuble edible and medicinal plants, have been forgotten, eschewed, disregarded or demonized by the culture at large. What a loss. During this time, which was still a few weeks before the first Spring Ephemerals emerged, I dreamed of the soft new green of May and saw a plant with distinctive lobed leaves which I believed to be Bloodroot. It was not familiar enough to me to be sure, so on waking I looked it up and found that was indeed Bloodroot, which happens to be a member of the Papaveraceae (poppy) family. And, as it happens, I encountered quite a lot of Bloodroot in my ramblings this Spring.
I mention this because I dreamt last night of Spreading Dogbane, a dream which I might not have remembered had I not found myself aimlessly flipping through a field guide over breakfast, presumably looking for the name of a flower I recently introduced to the garden. In this dream a man was explaining to me how he used Spreading Dogbane as a medicine, in minute amounts, over an extended period of time... I was a little surprised to hear this, because this is not a plant to be taken lightly. As I recall it, Matthew Wood's description included the words "you will never be the same again". It is potentially highly poisonous, to be used only in situations which call for powerful transformation, by persons with years and years of accumulated knowledge and wisdom.
So I have to wonder what this plant is doing, showing up in my dreams?
There are couple patches of Spreading Dogbane that I know. One on the river, in a place among those I love best in all the world. Another at the homestead, on a slope near a giant oak tree. Might have to wander out that way today, and see what I find. Or what finds me...
Earlier this year, a colleague brought to my attention a rather interesting piece of writing by Michael Pollan which got me musing about poppies and the history of their use as food and medicine, and how they, like so many valuble edible and medicinal plants, have been forgotten, eschewed, disregarded or demonized by the culture at large. What a loss. During this time, which was still a few weeks before the first Spring Ephemerals emerged, I dreamed of the soft new green of May and saw a plant with distinctive lobed leaves which I believed to be Bloodroot. It was not familiar enough to me to be sure, so on waking I looked it up and found that was indeed Bloodroot, which happens to be a member of the Papaveraceae (poppy) family. And, as it happens, I encountered quite a lot of Bloodroot in my ramblings this Spring.
I mention this because I dreamt last night of Spreading Dogbane, a dream which I might not have remembered had I not found myself aimlessly flipping through a field guide over breakfast, presumably looking for the name of a flower I recently introduced to the garden. In this dream a man was explaining to me how he used Spreading Dogbane as a medicine, in minute amounts, over an extended period of time... I was a little surprised to hear this, because this is not a plant to be taken lightly. As I recall it, Matthew Wood's description included the words "you will never be the same again". It is potentially highly poisonous, to be used only in situations which call for powerful transformation, by persons with years and years of accumulated knowledge and wisdom.
So I have to wonder what this plant is doing, showing up in my dreams?
There are couple patches of Spreading Dogbane that I know. One on the river, in a place among those I love best in all the world. Another at the homestead, on a slope near a giant oak tree. Might have to wander out that way today, and see what I find. Or what finds me...
Friday, June 26, 2009
Passage of Many Moons
I think it's fair to say that most Americans are more familiar with the concept of dog years than the reality of lunar cycles. I'd wager, also, that a majority of women are unaware of the relationship between moon and menses ("what men sees?").
Another moon circles round and becomes crescent, rises to fullness and wanes into darkness. Do you experience this, also? Or perhaps the better question is, are you aware of this also? It pulls at your blood as it does as mine, whether you know it or not.
And so here I am, at the ripe old age of thirty-five, living for many months now in the clutches of a good old-fashioned mid-life crisis, looking back on not five or ten years but many more than one hundred months, all these circlings of our moon... not a cycle of death and rebirth but one of living and dying. Period.
This is what women know: no one is born again. We are not saved. We enter this world once, we live once, we die once, each of us. Unlike many, I've never feared death, but I have been foolish enough to think I might out-run life... I've literally attempted to run away from my own life force, the blood in my veins, the beating of my own heart... You might imagine how I've fared.
Am I getting too personal, here? I realize that my audience--all three or four of you--is mostly male. I'm sure my meaning is not lost on any of you, but I suspect you cannot fully appreciate what it's like to hear your younger sister tell you, in her almond contralto, that she's only twenty-six, she still has time--that same refrain you sang for years, in a hushed voice: time to go back to school, buy a house, find work she loves, have children, build a life, time to change... so much time...
My mother tells me things, now, about the life she's lived. Things I won't share here, far too much to reveal, and other things: the roots have quadrupled in size in one week; flowers have gone to seed; remember where we were at this time last year... I do remember. But this year, where we are now, is not where we will be or where we strive to be. She turns my attention toward what has grown and changed, to revolving skies full of clouds and constellations. She tells me how she had hoped to bequeath to me, and to her daughters, the kind of love that would let us feel as though we could bring another life into this world. These are different times, now, than when we were welcomed into the world. And we both know that, and we grieve for it.
This sadness that takes us--Robert Bly, what was it that you said about grieving for a hundred years, and about it being right and beautiful?--it comes, to some us, with the passing of every moon. Each and every moon. Each and every life, taken by war, lost in blood. Every idea unmanifested, every color unpainted, each song unsung, every call unanswered, each bite untasted, each caress not felt, each sunrise not seen... it goes on... And so we go on. Persistence, maybe. Perseverance, perhaps. Lunacy, more likely. It pulls out us out to sea, and back to shore again. And again, and again, and again... Amen.
Another moon circles round and becomes crescent, rises to fullness and wanes into darkness. Do you experience this, also? Or perhaps the better question is, are you aware of this also? It pulls at your blood as it does as mine, whether you know it or not.
And so here I am, at the ripe old age of thirty-five, living for many months now in the clutches of a good old-fashioned mid-life crisis, looking back on not five or ten years but many more than one hundred months, all these circlings of our moon... not a cycle of death and rebirth but one of living and dying. Period.
This is what women know: no one is born again. We are not saved. We enter this world once, we live once, we die once, each of us. Unlike many, I've never feared death, but I have been foolish enough to think I might out-run life... I've literally attempted to run away from my own life force, the blood in my veins, the beating of my own heart... You might imagine how I've fared.
Am I getting too personal, here? I realize that my audience--all three or four of you--is mostly male. I'm sure my meaning is not lost on any of you, but I suspect you cannot fully appreciate what it's like to hear your younger sister tell you, in her almond contralto, that she's only twenty-six, she still has time--that same refrain you sang for years, in a hushed voice: time to go back to school, buy a house, find work she loves, have children, build a life, time to change... so much time...
My mother tells me things, now, about the life she's lived. Things I won't share here, far too much to reveal, and other things: the roots have quadrupled in size in one week; flowers have gone to seed; remember where we were at this time last year... I do remember. But this year, where we are now, is not where we will be or where we strive to be. She turns my attention toward what has grown and changed, to revolving skies full of clouds and constellations. She tells me how she had hoped to bequeath to me, and to her daughters, the kind of love that would let us feel as though we could bring another life into this world. These are different times, now, than when we were welcomed into the world. And we both know that, and we grieve for it.
This sadness that takes us--Robert Bly, what was it that you said about grieving for a hundred years, and about it being right and beautiful?--it comes, to some us, with the passing of every moon. Each and every moon. Each and every life, taken by war, lost in blood. Every idea unmanifested, every color unpainted, each song unsung, every call unanswered, each bite untasted, each caress not felt, each sunrise not seen... it goes on... And so we go on. Persistence, maybe. Perseverance, perhaps. Lunacy, more likely. It pulls out us out to sea, and back to shore again. And again, and again, and again... Amen.
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