It came Sunday around noon with a gentle snow drifting down like cherry blossoms. Two inches were predicted which meant no worries about the driveway, clearing the car, even shoveling wouldn’t be too bad. Snow was still falling at bedtime, branches were bowing, cares were mounting.
I am as grateful as the parched earth for the moisture. As I woke thinking of the efforts that a big snow demands, my momentary resistance was eclipsed by the realization that I traded traffic and all it implies for this, and I was instantly happy to shovel snow.
Monday morning Wren burst out the door in her pink ‘outside’ sweater scattering deer and songbirds, but she stayed only as long as she needed to. I committed the day to incremental shoveling of essential pathways with rests between ventures out. It stayed cold all day despite abundant sunshine. Topaz refuses to go outside. I’m so glad for our long ramble on Saturday, enough to hold us for a couple of months.
Wren wore her parka for our longer forays out to shovel, and changed into her blue ‘inside’ sweater until the house warmed up enough. Like puppy like human, changing up layers all day long to stay just right.
Today the forecast was again for two inches of snow. I didn’t trust that, and when it started soft again this morning as it had on Sunday, I called the clinic and postponed my appointment. It was cloudy and cold all day and snowed off and on, for a grand total of new snow measuring half an inch. Ridiculous! But I heard that the clinic parking lot was so icy that people were falling down, and I was glad I stayed home. After a productive day I baked cinnamon rolls for the neighbor who was kind enough to clear our driveways. I think I’m closing in on the perfect recipe. We’ll know more tomorrow!
A B-Brie-L-T on a quiet afternoon. I’m grateful for a peaceful lunchtime even as Hurricane Melissa bulldozes through Jamaica and the so-called president bulldozes the White House.
A friend sent me this link to a tour of the White House filmed by CBS in 1962 (how far they’ve fallen). If you have an hour it’s fascinating, and bittersweet. Jackie Kennedy walks us through the history and then her current tasteful, legal restoration. She quotes Theodore Roosevelt: “The White House is the property of the Nation… It should be kept as it originally was. It is a good thing to preserve such buildings as keep alive our sense of continuity with the Nation’s past.” In 1902, she continues, “President Roosevelt built two temporary extensions, which became permanent office wings.” It’s poignant in so many ways, including the respect shown to the structure through its many necessary structural renovations.
On an afternoon walk, I paused at a bench for a phone call and closed my eyes for a few minutes while we talked. Something shifted in the silence and I opened my eyes to this sight. It startled me, in a delightful way.
“It would have been easier and less expensive to demolish the whole building,” Jackie says, “but the White House is so great a symbol to Americans that the exterior walls were retained, and piece by piece the interior of the President’s house was put back together. The exterior views were exactly those which Americans had seen throughout the century…” After bringing us up to date on the history of The People’s House, Mrs. Kennedy takes us on a tour of the interior. The stark contrast between her respect for the house and the current situation beggars belief. She shows a plaque with words of President John Adams, “May none but Honest and Wise Men ever rule under This Roof.” Sigh.
As I watched them they watched each other. When Wren took a couple of steps toward him, he took a couple of steps toward her. I murmured for her to stay, to come back, and when she did then he stepped back.
A friend in Baltimore, who used to work in the East Wing as a calligrapher, shared a lament that she had posted in response to a CNN video about the demolition of this “regal, classically designed, and not at all gaudy” building:
“I shared the calligraphy studio with three other calligraphers and two interns. We scribed the most stunning historic documents, certificates, letters of diplomacy, invitations, menus, and even personal addresses of world dignitaries and celebrities…. I also managed The Signature Library, a room lined, floor to ceiling, of card catalog-type drawers, the wooden cabinets that we used to see in libraries, which stored THOUSANDS upon THOUSANDS of signatures of dignitaries and celebrities. No- we didn’t forge their signatures, each one was given to the White House for “procuration” (the opposite of forgery). Imagine this – a card for each individual, wrapped in archival glassine -signatures of important people from around the world, most of whom passed on decades ago. Each individual’s signature written and gifted one at a time through the ages, all brought to one room. A room no one knew existed but those who knew the East Wing. Have you ever conceived such a collection? If you’ve ever been in a space that inspired your intellect or called forth a sense of awe, this library would’ve blown you away. There isn’t even a display of this in the White House Museum. Now it’s GONE. RUBBLE. An INJURY.”
Laura White
Their little dance continued for a few minutes as I watched in awe. Then Wren sat at my feet and the buck cautiously stepped around us and walked on his way. When he was out of sight we resumed our walk to the canyon.
I’m grateful to hear people’s stories. Yet another friend, a young man of Indian descent who lives in DC, met some National Guard troops from a small town in West Virginia on the streets the other night. “They were teenagers,” he said, “and they said they’d never seen anything like this before. When I asked what this is, they said colored people, diversity. They’d never seen brown people, they’d only read about us in books.” They also told him that they were excited to be in DC, put up at taxpayer expense at some of the best hotels in the city including the Ritz Carlton. (Current low-end rates there start at $700/night double occupancy, and I have to wonder if their government rates are more or less than that.)
There the awe continued with the cloud-studded sky, cottonwoods raining golden leaves, and a little dog undaunted on the edge.
This steadily overwhelming assault on decency is inflicting trauma on the American people. Some of us know it and some do not, yet. But more are realizing it, seeing truth clearly, every day. Indivisible is calling on people to support Democratic senators in holding firm on the government shutdown. Jess Piper encapsulates the regime’s message: “If you don’t give up trying to get affordable healthcare, then we will starve our citizens, kids included, elderly included.” Caving to this blackmail will not make things better.
One of the best antidotes to the anxiety of this savage demolition of democracy is ACTION. Opportunities abound! The other best antidote is spending time in Nature. It’s scientific! Research demonstrates that spending even a small amount of time in nature reduces stress and anxiety, boosts mental and physical health, and promotes emotional resilience. I’m grateful for the causes and conditions that led to my being able to spend time in nature almost every day.
Another morning this week I was inside working and looked out just in time to see a flock of piñon jays fly laughing into the yarden and descend upon the bird feeder. There were a couple dozen of them and because it was cold I could not hear them but I could see their cacophony. They were in constant motion, diving onto the feeder and pushing each other off; drinking at the birdbath and soaring away; a few individuals flew up to the window. No one stayed anywhere more than a few seconds. It was mesmerizing.
The feeder was essentially empty before they arrived. When their frenzy subsided a bit, I went out and filled the feeder again, scaring them off. But in ten minutes they were back, and in ten more the feeder was empty again. I was grateful to contribute to their sustenance as they moved through the area. They don’t actually migrate, but I don’t see them all the time. They seem to flock through sporadically at different times of year. They are listed as Vulnerable, due largely to habitat loss and climate chaos: “Documented climate impacts including widespread mortality and morbidity, reduced cone crops, and decreases in canopy cover of pinyon pines.
It’s been an exciting few days here on the mesa, with lots of animal action, hours of yarden work, plenty of people time, all wonderful antidotes to more than enough political awareness. I was grateful to sit with the little pets outside in the sun for a short while this afternoon, simply sit.
Tomatoes, onion and garlic from the garden, along with a few Penzeys spices, made a nice sauce for an impromptu chili relleno casserole for lunch yesterday.
The roasted poblano chilis came from the Delta farmers’ market where I stopped last week. Five dollars for a bag of roasted chilis and five more for four big fresh peppers and two tomatoes.
I based it on the Chili Pepper Madness recipe, and added a splash of milk to the eggs based on some other recipes. So simple, so delicious!
Last night I slipped out of a zoom meeting for a few minutes to catch the full moon rising. It occurred to me that this could be the last October full moon I’ll ever see. Not to be morbid, but just realistic. Anything can happen at any time. Age doesn’t guarantee longevity, nor does genetics, nor anything else.
It also occurred to me that grief is an equally valid response to life as gratitude. Gratitude and grief go hand in hand. I attended a webinar this afternoon on how to help grieving people. It was perfect timing. I’d been thinking about grief a lot this past week, after helping a dear friend navigate a sudden, freak death in her family.
There’s also the grief that I’ve felt since childhood about the madness of humans destroying the planet, and now the exacerbating grief of a regime that’s trying to turn back time in all the wrong ways while accelerating the unbridled pillaging of the natural world for corporate profit. I’m grateful for meditation, for mindful introspection, for compassionate and wise teachers from many traditions around the world available to any of us with a few keystrokes. I’m grateful for sleep, for friendships, for the moon and the sun, for water, wild birds, golden leaves, an open heart, for the ten thousand joys and the ten thousand sorrows of being human, and for this breath.
I’m grateful that there were plenty of windows of opportunity to visit the pond over the weekend. A massive wildfire northwest of here about eighty crow miles covers much of the state in smoke depending on which way the wind blows. When it blows from the south these days, we have good air; when it blows from the north, as it’s been doing the past several nights, the air quality shoots up over 110 and many of us have to stay inside. I’m grateful it’s not worse: friends from Chicago to Syracuse have been experiencing the worst air in the world on occasion over the past couple of weeks, due to even more massive wildfires in Canada. So when I get a window of clean air I make the most of it, and visit the pond.
Despite jaw and tooth pain as my mouth settles around new crowns and attendant complications, I’ve “gotta eat sometimes,” as the dentist kindly reminded me. So I’ve enjoyed eating homemade brown sugar-cinnamon poptarts for breakfast the past few days. Amy recommended the recipe and since that was always my favorite flavor poptart growing up I had to try it. Pretty good for a first effort, and not that hard to make. Not perfect, either, so I’ll have to make them again.
After breakfast, or sometimes before, I visit the pond, where fewer and fewer tadpoles swim and more and more froglets crowd the edges. They’re in the rushes, on the lily pads, among the flagstones, under the flagstones, out in the grasses. This evening I took a quick look and had to step very carefully to avoid stepping on some: little froglets everywhere! They’re so tiny they get a little tangled in the grass stems when they startle and try to hop to the pond for safety. Wren could catch and eat them easier than she does the grasshoppers, but she’s been very responsive to my admonishments to leave it.
Above, four froglets cluster at the edge, and a nearly-turned tadpole rests in the warm shallow just above the tiny snail on the brick. In the detail below you can see a fifth froglet’s leg peeking out below the brick, underwater.
At the slow north end, where algae has collected, I couldn’t count the gathered froglets, and kept getting closer, and closer.
I hadn’t thought about what the soles of a froglet’s feet look like and it kind of surprised me to see the little bumps. I think these are the toes beginning to develop, but that’s just an educated guess. After seeing how far they’ve ventured from the pond already and how fragile and vulnerable they are, I may need to use my next window to lay out some branches and build a few rock piles; I certainly won’t be mowing again this year.
After a weekend of adventures and work and smoke and play, Wren and I both rest.
I wonder if this frog has thoughts or feelings about her “mini me” sitting in front of her.
Evolution of a sunset. Last night I caught the sun going down below the clouds and smoke, and wondered whether to wait and see if it got any prettier…
Then when I turned around to walk home, I realized I’d missed the moonrise. Oh well. You can’t have everything. I’m grateful for plenty of wonder every time I turn around.
The pond just keeps on giving. More froglets in all stages, some with tails climbing onto the rushes, tadpoles with arms bulging beneath their skin, and some fully transformed. The rushes seethe with them fleeing when we get down there and the water bubbles beneath as they disappear into it. It happens so fast, they’re so tiny, I’m trying to film it but they dive before I can even steady the camera.
The good news is that by now there are so many that even when the masses dive away I can still sneak up on a few. Some look pretty thin and vulnerable to me, others look fat and sassy.
And whose eggs are these strung along the curly rush behind the froglet?
There’s always at least one big mama keeping watch.
The hummingbird feeders are busy, too; there’s not enough time in the day! Come evening, I walked the little pets up the drive a little way, and was startled when I turned around to see this:
The Leroux Fire is less then twenty crow miles northwest on BLM land. With winds it grew from one acre this afternoon to a hundred by dark. Thunderstorms Friday did bring some rain, but also lightning, and this fire may have been smoldering for two days before erupting. Another close call on this mesa with a strike at a neighbor’s, but the Crawford volunteer fire department put out the burning tree before it could spread. We are all so grateful for their commitment, bravery, and skill.
I’m grateful for ripe tomatoes (not grown here) and Olathe Sweet sweet corn, salt, pepper, mayonnaise, and homemade bread.
I’m grateful for a couple of days of reprieve from the smoke, and that the teams have most of the fires somewhat contained, and that they have stayed safe. Despite the heat, I’ve been able to get some work done in the garden mornings and evenings, including covering the remaining cabbages with screen cubes, and thinning carrots which grew even though their tops got munched.
I’m grateful it was cool and clear enough on Friday to leave the house open overnight, which made it cool enough inside on Saturday to cook. I threw together a potato-pepper-onion-garlic-cabbage-corn-black bean fry with Penzeys Arizona seasoning to use in burritos for the next few days, and dug out a specialty tool I bought last summer to slice the corn off the cob. My first time using it lacked precision but was effective.
It was cool enough to make a batch of apricot jam, but still too hot to process it, so I gave away a few jars and froze a few. I’m grateful to have learned that apricot jam freezes well.
Wren’s been a bit put out that she hasn’t shown up here for awhile, so she took a break from frog hunting to pose nicely this morning. So did a big frog, right by my feet, but then she sensed Wren coming!
It was hot early again today, so when the sweetest neighbor stopped by on her walk to pick up her jam, I invited her to cool off under the sprinkler. Then I went inside for breakfast, two little waffles with the last of the sweet cherries I picked up on Thursday, some yogurt, and of course, real maple syrup.
I’m grateful there have only been a couple of bird strikes against the windows this summer. But today the total doubled with two in a matter of hours. They both hit the south windows, despite the fluttering prayer flags. The first was a young female Bullock’s oriole, whom I set in the shady apricot tree; the second, a young house finch who might have been drunk on apricot mash. I put her in the juniper near the feeder where they all hang out. I’m grateful that both birds recovered.
I don’t live an exciting life. It’s not like I’m wallowing in active joy all day every day: far from it. I spent most of today inside, too hot to do much of anything besides read, meditate, and clean the kitchen. But I do cultivate contentment by practicing gratitude every day. I’m aware of horrors happening the world over: there are at least 35 wars going on which are devastating people, cultures, and the environment. The US government has lost its moral compass and spun off in an inconceivable direction. The planet is burning, flooding, quaking, drying, crying, aching from our species’ misuse of it.
And still life goes on. Everywhere, all the time, life is hatching and dying, growing, playing, eating, aging, changing. I’m aware of this, also, and of my good fortune to live this simple life, this rare and precious human life, immersed in nature. Sometimes it’s pretty hard. It’s been a rough ten days with the heat and the smoke, and the mental poisons that still trouble me despite mindfulness practice. In the midst of all that is naturally tedious or trying in this human life, almost every day I experience moments of joy. Maybe not many, and most of them small, but by remaining receptive and aware, I find them everywhere.
Though the reason for it is harsh, the smoky sunset light is lovely. On our stroll the rescue horses next door thundered up to the fence to greet us. After a mutually curious visit, they moved on and left us in pensive, contented silence, grateful for a weekend enriched by many bright and colorful moments of joy anyway.
“Indeed, I see heartbreak as the most proportional response to the state of the world – to say I love you is to say my heart breaks for you, and this sentiment resonates within all things, bringing a clarity to both the world before us and the world beyond the veil. Sorrow becomes a way of life, part laughter, part tears, with very little space between. It is a way of conducting oneself in the world, of loving it, of worshipping it.”
But by the time I wrestled myself out of bed it had begun to disperse northward.
I’m ever more grateful for connecting with Ted Leach, and for his eminently readable daily blog. Today he shared a link to this essay, You Can’t Love Jesus and Hate Immigrants, which sprung the first tears of the day just after noon.
More tears bubbled up reading a story on Daily Good about a woman rescuing cats from flood debris along the Guadalupe River. I chose to spend some work time reading about humans doing wonderful things, and weeping with awe.
A friend texted midafternoon from northwest across the valley to see if I was ok, because from his perspective it looked like Crawford was enveloped in heavy smoke. I drove up to get the mail to get a wider view myself, just to be sure, and sent him a picture looking north toward his mesa. It’s deceptive when you’re inside the smoke cloud looking out. Perspective is everything.
I harvested the last of the Katarina F1 cabbages when I watered this morning. Looking them up online I see that mine are just about perfect: they’re billed as “impeccably uniform, light green, 4 inch globes on compact plants” that mature in 45 days. I’m grateful I’ll know how to grow them next year, and how to thwart the grasshoppers.
Aside from stepping out a couple times to water plants and shake off demon grasshoppers I spent the day inside, still not getting things done. When I went out in the morning I wore a wet mask, and later in the day the oxygen as well. For lunch I enjoyed a sandwich with the last of the chicken half I didn’t freeze, smoked Gouda, Drunken Woman looseleaf lettuce from the garden, and coleslaw from the first of five perfect little cabbages; while reading Dottie, a novel by 2021 Nobel Laureate Abdulrazak Gurnah.
Zen wisdom: “When you’re eating, know that you’re eating. When you’re reading, know that you are reading. When you’re eating and reading, know that you are eating and reading.”
“I have just three things to teach: simplicity, patience, compassion. These three are your greatest treasures.” Lao Tzu
Today’s daily guidance from the Mindful Life Community really spoke to me. This smoke roulette could go on all summer. Keeping patience and compassion alive is essential to a healthy perspective. It’s hard enough living with a biblical insect plague and apocalyptic wildfires. It could be so much worse: I could be an immigrant, or a pregnant teen in Texas, or a trans child almost anywhere in the country. May we all grow in compassion for ourselves, for each other, and for our precious planet.
The Fire Moon, or as some would call it, the Buck Moon, full on Thursday night through the smoke haze.
I’ve got onions protected from grasshoppers in two net cubes, and this morning while it was still cool, I wore a wet cloth mask outside to remove the cube, thin the onions, and replace the cube.
Later I trimmed the onions and divided them into proto-bulbs to use instead of leeks in some vichyssoise, coarsely chopped greens to make into pesto, and finely chopped greens for garnishes and salads this week.
I grated one of the two little cabbages I’ve harvested, and some store bought carrots, to make coleslaw and put some in a sandwich with leftover roasted chicken.
The air by then was clear enough to eat lunch outside, though I could see smoke billowing from the South Rim fire beyond the apricot tree. Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park Facebook page shared several photos of the fire, and reassured people that the Visitor Center had not burned, and also that the fire had not jumped the canyon: they’d gotten a lot of calls from people on the north side worried about the thick smoke. Here are two of those images from the park’s page.
It’s startling to see that it’s spotting down into the canyon. It would take some precision water drops to put out those fire spots. It could easily spark from there to the other side with a few exploding embers. I started packing pet supplies into go-bags this evening just in case.
The smoke continued blowing due east rather than northeast, so by evening the air quality here had improved from 150 to 50. We were able to visit the tadpoles and spiders at the pond for awhile, and leave the doors open until bedtime to get a cooling breeze through the house.
For dinner, I used up some frozen corn that was open making this cheesy grits dish, sautéing a few of the onions in butter, adding the corn, then two cups milk and two cups water, and when it boiled stirring in slowly a cup of grits. When that had cooked into a creamy porridge, I added more butter, grated cheddar and parmesan and topped with a dash of homegrown paprika and chopped onion tops.
After supper, we drove up to get the mail, and a better view of the sky. Above, the South Rim smoke cloud settled over the West Elks, while below, the Sowbelly haze colored sunset, resulting in gorgeous clouds overhead. It was just another full day alive, for which I’m profoundly grateful.
Remember those waffles I froze awhile ago? One toasted, with organic almond butter and grape jelly, made a terrific breakfast.
There’s a question that’s been bugging me for nearly a decade. How is it that half of America looks at Donald Trump and doesn’t find him morally repellent? He lies, cheats, steals, betrays, and behaves cruelly and corruptly, and more than 70 million Americans find him, at the very least, morally acceptable….
Over the past 30 years, people have tried to fill the hole in their soul by seeking to derive a sense of righteousness through their political identities. And when you do that, politics begins to permeate everything and turns into a holy war in which compromise begins to seem like betrayal.”
David Brooks, The Atlantic
One of the fennel stalks getting ready to flower.
This incisive philosophical exploration of why some people like Drumpf traces the moral collapse of Western Civilization back to The Enlightenment. I’ve been spending too much of my attention budget on this question, but it’s helpful to read others exploring the origins and ramifications of current conditions. I’ve also been spending too much energy on wishful thinking, wishes like this bit of a ‘Prayer for the Resistance’ in Rob Brezny’s newsletter: “May the rich and powerful bullies perpetrating cruel violence be plagued by the consequences of their own actions, as their attempts to undermine empathy and democracy backfire spectacularly….” and other eloquent ill-wishes.
An early variety of cabbage I planted is tiny but ready! The grasshoppers figured it out a day before I did.
Perhaps a complementary article is this reflection from Mark Nepo on the Grateful Living website, about wonder and “finding the wisdom that lives in your heart.” There are two kinds of people in this world… which two kinds are always shifting for me, but there sure do seem to be a lot of aspects of human nature where polar opposites exist. I know, the last thing any of us needs to be doing is polar opposing people. I can’t help that I think about it, though.
A lettuce harvest gets a refreshing rinse from the sprinkler.
In a Saturday morning workshop with dharma teacher Martin Aylward, one of the takeaways was “I’m here to love.” At the end I thanked him for the teachings which validate a lot of the choices I’ve made in recent years, and said, “But I get stuck on ‘here to love,’ because I feel such rage and hatred toward the people making hateful, racist, cruel policies in the US.” I could have seen his answer coming, I know the teachings. He replied, gently, so compassionately, “So that is where you start, right there in your own heart, bringing love to your anger, your hatred which poisons only you, your tendency to demonize others.” A weight shrugged off my shoulders, my hand came involuntarily to my heart, tears to my eyes.
A spatchcock chicken roasted with potato and onion chunks will feed me for weeks.
In other inner work, our Grateful Gathering discussed this video Tuesday evening, which touched all of us deeply. Even more compelling, Ted Leach shared with us the next day some links to give more context on the life of Dot Fisher-Smith, whose wisdom and gratefulness shine through in the video. Talk about a paragon of inner work! And about the power of genuine compassion.
This is the earliest I’ve seen apricots ripen. There aren’t many, and they’re mostly out of reach, but they’re the largest the tree has ever produced.
In grasshopper plague mitigation, I’ve just signed up for this free webinar and recording from PPAN, People and Pollinators Action Network, in hopes of learning once and for all what strategies will work to save my yarden.
And in tadpole development, I remain mesmerized whenever I get a chance to visit the pond. It’s not far away, but with the air quality the past couple of days I haven’t been down there. We’ve only seen a couple of frogs in the past few weeks, and I was glad to catch one on the edge of the rushes the day before the fires. And welcome a lily blossom.
Speaking of the fires, the South Rim fire closed the day at 2500 acres, the Sowbelly at 2240, and the Deer Creek fire near the Utah border which also started yesterday blew up to 7000 acres within 24 hours. This exponential growth is sadly the new normal for wildfires. The smoke wasn’t as thick today due to less wind, and I was grateful for that though I still found it helpful to mask the few times I stepped outside. Grateful living has given me peace beyond the obvious. Where once I may have bemoaned the smoke and worried about its effects or potential duration, now I am simply grateful that it’s not worse: that the closer strikes were spotted and extinguished quickly, that these fires haven’t killed anyone, that the smoke isn’t denser, that my house protects me from most of it, that I’m slowly but surely taming my unruly mind, that every now and then a sliver of true compassion replaces my anger, and so on.
“Living gratefully is not something we aspire to one day. It is what we do. When we practice, this doing shapes who we are, who we are becoming, and the life we lead, transforming our way of being.”
