Caterpillar Soup

Should old acquaintance be forgot?

It's a legitimate question, but not one I feel like delving into today.

I had a quite enjoyable New Year's Eve at my place with my sister and her husband. Sadly, two other would-be guests were sick and couldn't make it so it was just the three of us, which actually ended up being one of the more pleasant visits of the holiday season, or recent memory. Good food, good drink, good entertainment, good conversation, good laughs...plus ping pong, hot tub (complete with a roll in the snow), music and even some dancing, all made for a nice little "celebration". (The ham and bourbon didn't hurt, either. And the decorations were very nice.)

One of the entertaining moments of the evening began with this amusing and delightful performance. I invite you to watch it and not smile:

Now don't you feel just a little bit happier?  

Okay, if that didn't work, try this instead:



 See?

What if--not unlike Rumi and his beloved, perhaps--you were to hear every love song as one inspired by you, written by you, and performed by you, for you?  For one thing, you would probably start listening to better music. For another, you might consider that there's not a lot separating your electrons from anyone or anything else's. Very little, actually. It's not outside the realm of possibility that we humans and/or scientists will one day discover that it is, in fact, love that shapes matter into coherent form. I mean who's to say that oxygen doesn't love hydrogen (even if H is clearly putting more into making it work)? It's 2016, and things are falling apart in this world, and any rocket scientist could tell you that we do not have it all figured out!

I'm not a dummy. I just act like one, which is almost--but not quite--the same as being one...

So anyway, here were are, on the first day of the so-called New Year. My "to-do" list is long and winding, but also mostly comprised for the next few days of things I actually want to do, like make my first batch of cheese, brew up some birch beer, set up my wireless receiver, do some paperwork, go skiing, eat ham, start a weaving project, hang out, do some reading even, and then maybe change the whole world, embark on a new path of existence, and realize all my potential as a living human being. But...before all that, I'm gonna drink some more coffee and get my skis cleaned up, and do nothing more important, necessary, or life-changing, for the rest of the day. If you know what I mean.

When did we get stuck with this idea of making the "most" of every day? It sounds kind of like a sales pitch to me. How about letting things be, and paying attention them, with respect, and acting accordingly?

Speaking of which...I learned something amazing from my guests last night, while we were (for some reason I can't recall) looking at pictures of the most beautiful moths in the world. Basically--and I still can't believe I didn't know this--caterpillars literally turn into goo before they turn into moths, or butterflies:

First, the caterpillar digests itself, releasing enzymes to dissolve all of its tissues. If you were to cut open a cocoon or chrysalis at just the right time, caterpillar soup would ooze out. But the contents of the pupa are not entirely an amorphous mess. Certain highly organized groups of cells known as imaginal discs survive the digestive process. Before hatching, when a caterpillar is still developing inside its egg, it grows an imaginal disc for each of the adult body parts it will need as a mature butterfly or moth—discs for its eyes, for its wings, its legs and so on....Once a caterpillar has disintegrated all of its tissues except for the imaginal discs, those discs use the protein-rich soup all around them to fuel the rapid cell division required to form the wings, antennae, legs, eyes, genitals and all the other features of an adult butterfly or moth....Depending on the species, certain caterpillar muscles and sections of the nervous system are largely preserved in the adult butterfly. One study even suggests that moths remember what they learned in later stages of their lives as caterpillars.

- source: Scientific American, How Does a Caterpillar Turn into a Butterfly

Imaginal discs................. I will leave you with that, dear reader, and end my rambling New Year's missive here. It's a beautiful, sunny, snowy day, and if I don't get out there and love it, I don't know who will.



 

May Your Days be Merry and Bright

It was a good Christmas. We filled our bellies as full as the moon and sang together and tromped through the snowy woods and had a merry time doing all the usual things that families such as ours do, to celebrate the holidays. A half foot of new snow fell Christmas night through day after, with big fluffy flakes floating softly down, bringing with them a sense of quiet gratitude, and peace, to those of us in need of them. There is a comfort in the sound of snowflakes falling, in the slight rustle of a lone oak leaf, the muffled crunch of icy snow underfoot, the way cold changes things...

I always miss the snow, but this year the Fall was particularly hard, with bleak grey skies and chilly rains persisting well into December. Sunday was the first bright blue snow-shiney day in many moons, and the first we've seen of the sun in weeks. In the afternoon I borrowed a pair of skis, put on a pair of ill-fitting blue-and-white striped boots and set out to break a trail through the fresh snow, past the first fence-row and the second, through the old gravel pit and back to the lake, down to the beaver dam, up through the circle and around to the big hill, then back home through the north woods...the snow hung gently on the trees, and sparkled silently in the open fields, catching the light of our nearest star and throwing it forth again in a spectacular, unknowable number of angles.

A sight for sore eyes, to be sure. As the day is long, and the night is dark...

They say, of course, that every snowflake is unique, but does that come as a surprise, when every moment is unique, unrepeatable, unfathomable really, in its singular infinitude? What time does it take for a crystal to form, to join with another? Is this a simple thing, or a complex one, to take and/or create shape in this way? How is it that we can think of water as a molecule, apart from the drop, the crystal, the snowflake, the snow-covered field, the blue-colored sky casting itself onto it, the grassy ground that lies beneath? Why do we humans persist in thinking of these as separate things? Is it a failure of language, of imagination, of intelligence? Or is it simply that we refuse to acknowledge what we already know? Or have we not yet learned it yet? Or, all of the above--and then some?

We scarcely understand what matter is, much less what matters.

Upon my arrival home yesterday, I discovered on my doorstep a surprise Christmas gift, from a man who I love and admire very much...it was a book, sent to me by my father, one which I think may hold answers to some of these questions, as well as to others that I've not had the insight to ask or to consider on my own. A timely present, as it were.  And a sweet one. An act of kindness and of love...is that a simple thing? What is received, and what is reflected, by such a gesture? Or any gesture?

It is the thought that counts, they say, and there is some truth in that.
 
Ah so, I wax philosophical while the moon wanes, and the winds blow...There's more snow coming our way tonight, and yet more tomorrow. It will be a relief, to be blanketed in white once again, and to rest in the arms of Old Man Winter for a time. Until then, I shall have to settle for resting in my bed... 

Heart Shaped Box

I’ll wrap it up in something bright and shiny, tie it down tight with a string, and carry it with me lightly across snow-covered fields and into the woods, to the foot of an old familiar tree where I will bury it in the quiet ground, under the mosses and leaves, for safekeeping. When the snows have come and gone, I will come again, or perhaps someone else will, to reclaim this gift. As Fall has turned to Winter, so Winter will turn to Spring... Peace to all this season, and may you carry your hearts with you, and give them freely, with love.

Ghosting

I Forgot Happy

Now I think I know what my Dad meant when he told me, young woman that I once was, "don't let the bastards grind you down."

think twice, cut once

two times should be enough, right? maybe some of us need more, but some must get it right the first time... or am I over-thinking it again?

Debatable

I'm tired today, from an unexpectedly wakeful night that only offered up some rest, finally, upon this morning's rather chilly arrival. I did not wake to my alarm, which I'd seemingly dismissed, but at the urging of my phone--a saving grace of sorts, although it felt more like a rude disturbance at the time. Despite my weary edges, or perhaps because of them, it felt good to leave the house today, to breathe in the brisk air, take note of the changing colors, sip my black coffee and join the flow of morning traffic--in fact it was one of the first times in recent memory that I actually felt some amount of optimism toward my impending workday, even if only for a few minutes, before the insistence of the morning commuters got the better of me...or at least went racing away with the better part of my happier thoughts...

I've been less than productive today, mostly, and not really surprisingly, although if I were subject to a quota I guess I would probably have met it and maybe that's really all I should care about. Fortunately, expectations of me are few, leaving my mind free to wander, perhaps to stray, into a vaguely pensive state... I'm too tired to be entirely melancholy, or particularly reflective. It's not just for lack of sleep, but lack of rest, lack of peace, lack of clarity, lack of truth...

A strange, fleeting thought passed over me the other day or maybe just last night, after seeing someone take a fall on TV, that it's been a really long time since I've fainted...but I clearly recall the last time I did, and how much I struggled coming to, alone for those fearful moments, and for what felt like an eternity, I had no idea of who, what, or where I was... there was just the sensation or realization that I was rushing through time toward a waking state, and the answers to those questions would arrive with me, once I got there. 

I feel a little like that, today, except that I know that, once the workday is over and my appointments are out of the way and my errands are run and my chores are all finished and I lie down to rest my head and my bones, that no answers will come. But then again, was there a question?