Water! And a new faucet that’s been in a box for four years, too complicated for me to install myself. I’m very grateful today for Plumber Chet who showed up promptly afternoon, after texting ahead, and was just as kind in person as he was on the phone. The first thing I did after he left was take an indulgent hot shower. I am usually pretty mindful in the shower, not so much about the amount of water because it goes out to the birch tree, but mindful of the sensations of the shower. Today I felt every single drop that hit my body, which practically sang in gratitude.
I’m grateful for growing into the mindfulness skills I’ve been learning and teaching. The equanimity lived inside me during this minor inconvenience; furthermore, I actually felt grateful for the challenge. They say most of our growth comes during the hard times, which I hope isn’t true (since, you know, spoiled white girl), and that we should be grateful for even the difficulties in life for that reason. Water rationing this weekend brought that alive for me: It was an opportunity to practice equanimity and patience for my own situation, and compassion for people who don’t have ready access to running water or potable water. The UN reports that nearly a quarter of humans globally don’t have drinking water on premises, and almost half lack safely managed sanitation. There are 2.2 million Americans who still don’t have running water in their homes, and there’s a human rights nonprofit working to close that water gap. This really puts rationing water for a few days into perspective; it’s also good practice for a future in which climate chaos will inevitably lead to water shortages. I’m grateful for the internal and external support through a stressful weekend.
One big accomplishment this weekend was The Fried Fish Sandwich. I’ve been wanting to make one for awhile, and finally had all the elements in place. It was Friday’s planned lunch, and the fish was mostly thawed when the water mini-crisis occurred. I put it in the fridge because I couldn’t deal with the mess it would make right then amid all the uncertainty. (Paradoxically, the minute my water use was curtailed, I wanted nothing more than to wash dishes and do laundry.) The next day, I had jugs and occasional tap water and so I tackled the complex lunch. First, I made coleslaw. I half-filled the Fry Baby with peanut oil, whisked egg with a little water, and mixed a flour, cornmeal, and panko bread crumb to dredge the fish. After patting dry the grouper filet, I then prepared the bun: mayo, ketchup, lettuce, tomato, red onion, pickle.
It was a tall one! But it held together remarkably well. It was a great opportunity to recognize the truth of dukkha, or dissatisfaction. It was delicious; and yet, the crust was a little too crunchy – next time, just flour and panko. It was a little too tall. I forgot to squeeze lemon. I wished I’d made tartar sauce. See how we can find dissatisfaction in even the finest moments? Life is hard enough, especially now. I’m practicing noticing these nagging little dissatisfactions so that I can shrug them off and turn my attention to the satisfying aspects of my life. As for the big dissatisfactions, the only thing that’s gonna turn my attention from them is a massive blue wave come November. (And not the one that’s threatening the west coast. How are we just now hearing about this?)
To keep my mind off the fact that I couldn’t repot houseplants or wash sheets, I stayed focused on the drapery project. The top third of the final panel is laid out, and I’ve resolved the dilemma of the rest of the empty space. I realized last week that birds, reptiles, insects, fish, and frogs are well represented in the panels, but I had not included a single mammal. Inspiration struck: a jaguar! So I hunted down some photographs and made a composite pattern from two. She’ll be standing on a fallen tree. I can’t wait to see how she turns out!
And Sunday there was a basic BLT with cheese for lunch, with one of the Sunfired Flare tomatoes from the garden. I wasn’t optimistic about this variety at first. I planted two, and the first one to flower only set a handful of tomatoes. The second one grew lush and tall but didn’t even flower until mid-August. But then it delivered a couple dozen modest-sized fruits, all of which I picked over the weekend because they were splitting from all the rain. They’ll ripen over the next few weeks. I’m grateful for the abundant water that flowed freely all summer through my hoses to nourish the garden through the extreme drought.
I was grateful for a gorgeous day today, and for the help of Good Tim in the garden. Here he’s cutting suckers from the wild plum with Wren’s help. She adores him and follows him around when he’s here like a—well, like a puppy dog.
I learned a new technique for bread scoring, where you do the decorative scoring only (wheatstalks, here) and bake for seven minutes, then you take the lid off and do the expansion score (straight lines) so the loaf can rise to its full potential, replace the lid and bake the rest of the covered time, then remove the lid as usual until done. Pretty pleased with my first attempt.
The shades are coming along, I spent hours this weekend on several panels in varying stages, and I’m happily absorbed in completing the appliqués. (I’ll iron out the wrinkles before assembly.) I’m grateful I’ve rediscovered the joy of sewing. I heard just this evening on Forrest Hanson’s ‘Being Well’ podcast that when you don’t find joy in things you used to it indicates depression.
While I was designing a trumpet flower on the lower section, little miss Topaz did her cat thing. These are impressionistic shades, not ecologically or geographically accurate, so I anchored this panel with a bunch of cypress knees, checking my memory of them against photos from an Ecosia search online. Yes, they really do look that strange and otherworldly.
I had a couple of errands to run, including swinging by the lumber yard to buy the 1×2 strips for mounting the shades, so I saved them for Farmers Market day. Paonia is an interesting town, with the strongest Blue streak in a Red county. As US politics gets ever more bizarre and divisive, I found this interesting piece on the right’s attacks on Jon Ossoff somewhat enlightening.
Wren came to town with me, and her day got very interesting. She met Huckleberry at the lumber yard. Then she heard fire engine sirens up close and personal at our next stop. Then she met Huckle at the Farmers Market, and she was so excited to see him that I think she must have spent some time with him before, at the Bad Dog Ranch where he’s a neighbor.
Today was an extra bright day for me after the rough week the world just finished. Losing Dolly Parton was the first blow. I know there are a lot of ‘good millionaires’ out there just living their lives and not being greedy; but it does seem that the wealthiest people on the planet are the hungriest ghosts. There are some notable exceptions, among them Dolly, who spent her wealth freely for humanitarian causes.
Thankfully many of the worst fires in the US West are under control or out, though fires in Washington State continue to create unhealthy air, new fires burn in California, and some fires remain in Oregon, Nevada, Arizona, and New Mexico. Colorado, which kicked off the season well ahead of other states, now, blessedly, remains almost fire-free. The Guardian published this article last week about Josephine County, Oregon, which has the highest rate of deaths from wildfire smoke of any place in the country. It’s a sad testament to the obvious effects of climate chaos, and at the same time it validates my experience of our smoky days here and their effect on my breathing.
I’m thankful that the COPD that afflicts me does so only moderately, not severely, but I understand that it’s an irreversible illness that, without adequate precautions, will worsen and could eventually kill me. Oh well! This is how it is. I’m taking the precautions I know of, and always open to more helpful measures. In so many ways, I’m more fortunate than most people on the planet.
Certainly my good fortune far exceeds that of those poor people living along the Trishuli River on the border of Tibet and Nepal. A dear friend has lived in Nepal, has friends there, and has been watching developments in this climate-fueled mega-disaster closely. She shared this link to a fascinating in-depth analysis of the geological and climatological conditions that factored into the seismic ‘debris flow’ or, as some are calling it, ‘inland tsunami’, the effects of which will be felt for a long time to come. A lot of survivors I’ve seen interviewed said there’s no reason left to live: they’ve lost so much that life has no meaning anymore. Many expressed survivors’ guilt. The grief and trauma the entire remaining population of those demolished communities are suffering is almost as unfathomable as the mind-boggling catastrophe itself.
Holding tragedy and grief in my heart, holding the world and all beings in compassion, how else can I live but by appreciating all the small joys as they arise? And every day they arise one after another after another, though some days I notice only a few, and for awhile there I couldn’t see any. Today overflowed with lovely moments.
I spent more money than I should have at the market, including $20 on a pizza to support The Learning Council, a community advocacy group who offers wood-fired pizza and an organic full meal each week for any donation. I enjoyed a couple of slices at a picnic table, listening to the lovely music, before heading home.
I also bought a couple of tomatoes, some pickling cucumbers, and three skeins of yarn. I only intended to buy two. I was entranced by the colors of these hand-dyed wools last time, but I can’t wear wool, it itches. So I pondered what I could do with some, and realized that Wren can wear wool! And I call her Wrenbow, so I planned to get some rainbow wool to knit her a new sweater.
I was grateful to snag the last two skeins of the most rainbow yarn. Then I had a lovely chat with Tonya of Wooly Colorado as I perused the rest of her wares, and she pointed out “Those two are cotton, I spun them. Dyed with indigo.” Something happened. I picked one up and teared up. Emotion overcame common sense, rationalization reared its lovely head, I can wear cotton, and I bought one. Just holding it, carrying it to the car, telling someone about it on the phone later, tears and tingles kept coming. My heart is open again.
I’ve been delighted and horrified and everything in between as I read through my journals from the first one I started writing when I was fifteen. So far I’m up to age twenty-two, and reacquainting myself with me during those seven years a key finding is how unreliable my memory is. It’s comforting to know from memory science that it’s not just mine. Studies indicate that each time we recall a memory we overlay it with something of our current conditions, gradually shaping and shifting it into something that can be very different from the actual situation we think we remember. The journals are a gift as I unpack this phenomenon. I have written proof that I did not, in fact, do something that I years later memory-guilted myself over doing.
I was raised by republicans in the suburbs of DC and didn’t know any better. That’s my excuse for what my friend Wayne and I planned when candidate Jimmy Carter came to town. I was editor of the school newspaper, he was photo editor. We pinned Gerald Ford buttons inside our blazer lapels, and intended to flash them at Carter from our place in the front row as he came along greeting people.
I think of his smile now, which must have dazzled us back then but I don’t remember that. Some years after his legacy of compassionate integrity was cemented, I recalled with shame that youthful prank. It haunted me from time to time, popping up out of the blue when I heard his name as he built Habitat houses, unobtrusively and tirelessly worked for world peace, modeled a healthy marriage, and so much more. Imagine my delight to read that though we had intended to do it, we had restrained ourselves! I misremembered, colored my recollection of the event over time with the dark brush of the inner critic, the habit of creeping negativity bias.
It was a good week in the sandwich department. This one included farmstand tomato, smoked Gouda, refrigerator pickles, and pickled red onions. Dinners were also nourishing, which doesn’t happen every day. I got another three meals from the Aphid Kale, cutting the heat by serving with fried leftover parmesan-polenta, with or without cheese.
I notice ‘negativity bias’ more clearly in reviewing my life than I do in the present moment. It’s become habitual. Negativity bias is an evolutionary adaptation for survival which seems to make danger and aversion create stronger memories than pleasure. But we rarely need the protection from predators now as when we emerged from the forests onto the open plains, and most foods at our disposal we already know aren’t going to poison us. (Most, depending on where you get them.) I look forward to trying this malabar spinach when it grows a bit bigger, and thanks to Garden Buddy for the seeds of this edible leafy vine.
If this shift toward memory loss with aging is built in by evolution (and I’m not saying it is but these new studies may suggest it), then maybe it’s not all bad. Maybe it’s only our Type A-Grasping-Doing culture that sees forgetting with age as a flaw. Personally I’m thankful for some memory loss. Life gets easier with just a little bit of a blur. I’ve forgotten a lot of good things and people from my life, but as I age I am forgetting more and faster the unhappy, prickly, afflictive things that happen, and have happened. I used to be the queen of grudges, and I’m softer now. It could be that forgetting some things with age allows us to open in other ways, to become more compassionate and wise.
The week’s good sandwiches have also included tuna fish. ‘Tuna fish’, thinking about that redundant name, short for tuna fish salad, but why not just ‘tuna sandwich’? Because it could be confused with tuna prepared some other way than the standard mayo mush? I love it with celery, red onion, mayo, mustard, Worcestershire sauce, Penzeys Wauwatosa Village seasoning, and some pickle relish. It’s an infinitely versatile staple, and now that I’ve found Thrive Market sustainably caught skipjack tuna, I indulge in a couple of cans a month and get three servings per can. Next week I plan to branch out from the humble tuna fish sandwich to try a Gourmet tuna-noodle casserole. I used to love tuna fish casserole growing up (no, haven’t found it referred to yet in the journals) but it always seemed to suffer from an unjust stigma as ‘cheap’ food. I don’t remember the last time I had a good tuna fish casserole.
It’s been a joy to be able to eat outside again now that the smoke has dissipated, the nearby fires are largely under control, and it’s cooler than 98 degrees in the shade. We’re getting to enjoy sitting by the pond at either end of the day again, and sometimes even catch the lilies as they open. The summer chugs on by with its highs and lows, its holdings and releasings, and I’m grateful for awareness of Impermanence: When we’re in the midst of scalding, desiccating heat and my lungs burn with every breath, it can be hard to remember that this too shall pass. Whatever comes next, it won’t be like this someday. At least for awhile.
These two are not kissing. It’s a rare moment of domestic bliss when I can get them both in the same frame so I take it when I can get it. Wren is in her thunder shirt, which she half thinks brings the thunder but she actually does freak out a bit less if I can get it on her before a storm. This article on ‘The Death of the Kiss‘ makes me grateful I got so much kissing in as a youth. So much kissing! I don’t remember half the boys I kissed in high school but I’m glad I mentioned them in those journals. And oh, the giddiness of kissing. No wonder my mother called me “boy crazy” more than once. I’m surprised, too, by how little supervision I must have actually had, even though it felt oppressive at the time and created a crippling adult aversion to being scrutinized. I kissed a lot of men after high school, too, but it’s been a long time since I’ve experienced that particularly blissful physical surrender, since well before Covid. I wonder if the Covid Shift away from proximity and contact led to this tragic reported youthful self-consciousness, aversion to, and denial of the pleasures of kissing.
Everyone I know is grateful this week for cooler temperatures and more humidity. From Wednesday morning humidity in the single digits it was up to 42 by midday and 80 by evening. It never quite rained until after dark, but brought soothing clouds and a strong breeze. The house cooled down enough to finally bake granola, one of my favorite all-purpose anytime foods to keep on hand. So simple, so delicious!
I used a cup of raw pecans which I toasted with the oats and dressing to bake, then added a half cup each of roasted-salted pepitas and mini-chocolate chips, and even more craisins on top after the grain cooled. It was so satisfying to break up the sheet of toasted oats and crumble everything together before scooping it all into a half-gallon mason jar. In the morning, with a big dollop of Greek yogurt and a splash of organic milk I started the day right.
But before breakfast, the morning too cool and dewy to resist, Wren and I walked to the rim for the first time in more than a month. Piñon needles and juniper leaves sparkled with raindrops and the sagebrush smelled crisp and medicinal.
I practiced a lot of deep breathing at stops along the trail, and also while walking. I’ve been practicing several techniques to open my lungs, along with using the new COPD inhaler twice a day. But yesterday I may have ended up with too much of a good thing.
Lots of exercise, lots of deep breathing, lots of energy. I was also halfway through a ten day course of prednisone to finally knock out once and for all this ear condition that’s plagued me since March. I was warned that the prednisone might give me jitters like too much caffeine, and I was feeling some of that, but was more than compensated by feeling so much better than I have in over a year in so many other ways. No more mouth-face-ear-jaw pain, plenty of motivation and stamina, and a sense of awakening. That movie came to mind, a miracle drug drawing me out of a deep haze. I enjoyed a mindful supper on the patio, not a book in sight, just dinner with the hummingbirds, and a half-glass of wine mixed with cold sparkling water.
Another cool evening, another oven bake, this time a recipe off a King Arthur flour bag for Chewy Chocolate Chip Cookie Bars. I blame Philip for everything that happened afterward. Not saying any of it was his fault, just that I blame him. I wanted a special trade for him when he brought me groceries today and he loves this brownie-blondie kind of treat. Timing was perfect, baked to perfection early enough to let the house cool again before bedtime, and the bars cool overnight before cutting. “You might initially think these bars are underbaked, but once you let them cool completely (overnight is best), they’re wonderfully chewy and moist.” So concludes the recipe. About ten o’clock I took the last activated charcoal capsule in my dental-mercury-cleanse protocol. They’re big and hard to swallow, so I cut off a little corner of the cookie bars to help wash it down.
Within minutes, as I watched TV and knitted, my heart started racing. I wasn’t worried, considering all the aforementioned conditions. But it went on. So I made a cup of chamomile-mint tea, and sipping that over the next hour failed to settle it. I checked in with my pulse oximeter to see just how fast my heart was racing, and was not surprised to see it peaking around 142 bpm. What shocked me was that it skittered rapidly up and down, bottoming out occasionally at 48. Then I got a little worried. I checked it a couple more times over the next half hour, before deciding I should just go to bed. But I thought of Philip saying how he always checks out medical stuff with AI, and thought, Why not? Maybe it’s something serious since it’s not stopping. AI advised me to immediately go to the hospital. I was grateful for the equanimity that comes of practice. I didn’t panic, I calmly called 911 and told the calm, kind dispatcher “the nature of” my emergency. He sent an ambulance to check me out.
It took about half an hour. Waiting, I calmly put on more clothes than I’d been wearing, and settled Wren in her little nest in the laundry nook since dispatch had asked me to shut any pets in another room. But they didn’t even come in. I met them outside and they kindly took me into their tiny space, hooked me up, spoke calmly, did the things. A few minutes in another EMT arrived, a few questions later, they let me go. My heart was fine, BP a little high, pulse a little high but regular. I had already felt much better by the time they arrived than I had for the two hours before they came. Wren was a mess when I got in. She’d shredded the lower rubber door jamb and was bouncing off the door when I opened it. I cuddled and consoled her, swept up the mess, and calmly we wandered up to bed. I lay still, spent but not sleepy, meditated for half an hour, and eventually drifted off, floating on awareness of gratitude for Christopher, Caden, and the third EMT whose name I didn’t catch, compassionate volunteers who showed up to reassure me at midnight. Christopher explained the form I signed this way: “You’re saying you’ve refused transport to the hospital, but you’re also promising that if anything happens after we leave you’ll call again, any time. We’re here for you, and there’s no charge for us to come out, it doesn’t cost you a thing.”
Causes and conditions. Everything is causes and conditions that arise, come together, and change. Nothing ever remains the same, whether we want it to or not. I woke well rested and sublimely grateful for a new day in which to start living all over again. I confess that I took it easier today, practicing moderation in all things. I’ll finish off the prednisone but hold off on the inhaler which also contains a steroid until I’m not double dosing. I trained my energy on some light housecleaning instead of a brisk hike. Lunch was a simple plate with pickles, tomatoes, and a piece of toast lightly spread with a quick fromage fort I whipped up with four different cheese ends, garlic, salt&pepper, and a splash of dry vermouth. I had to get back on the horse, so for dessert I ate a small cookie bar just so I wouldn’t be afraid of them. Hours later and I’m feeling fine, kind of like a fever broke: calm, steady, good O2 saturation, a steady pulse, and a distinct pleasure in simply being alive.
Just a shout out to the Crawford Volunteer Fire Department: There was a spine jolting lightning strike in the neighborhood this evening. The ‘brave fire laddies’ (as the Colonel used to say) (and lassies, which he never said) were out in several vehicles in no time. I don’t know if there was a fire they put out, but they apparently patrolled the area for the duration of the dry lightning storm.
Our What’s App fire watch group responded to the strike over the next hour with observations from various perspectives. Some could track the patrol vehicles from their vantage points, at least one scouted the woods, one smelled smoke briefly, and I climbed the tower with binoculars. I know at least one person will sleep easier tonight for our community’s vigilance. I’m very grateful.
I’m grateful that the California poppies self-sowed this year and bloom with more vigor than those I bought last year. I’m savoring their remarkably velvet-looking petals, and how much the pollinators love them.
These are the pink snapdragons mentioned in the previous post. Just look at those colors!
I baked the sourdough a little differently yesterday after watching Paul Hollywood demonstrate plaiting dough. I started with the simplest variant, just twisting two strands together. This meant that the loaf wouldn’t fit the round dutch oven, so I baked it on parchment paper on a cookie sheet, and covered with another parchment paper. This allowed the dough to dry out a bit much making a thick dark crust, just a little overdone. Next time I’ll find a lid that fits, or use foil, for the first half of baking.
These two screenshots are from the app Watch Duty, which now covers flood conditions as well as fires. This is a great app! The image above is from yesterday morning around 8 am; below is from this afternoon around 2:30. The pink areas denote Red Flag warnings: high fire danger. The fire icons indicate various sizes and stages of wildfires. The lower house with the blue dot is mine; the one above is my friend Barb’s, and the one in northern Utah is my cousin Robin’s.
The Bee Hive fire southwest of Montrose, roughly 75 miles from here, started yesterday and was holding steady at around 180 acres this afternoon, with lots of air support. See the little purple planes? But note the difference in the maps in just over 24 hours. So many more active fires! I’m grateful for the folks who invented this app, and for the many people who provide information and reports to keep it up to date. I’m grateful to anyone who is willing to call out the drivers of climate chaos, like the fossil fuel industry and the banks that finance these greedy, immoral corporations. Check out this graph from Rainforest Action Network, and this article in The Guardian about the ‘unfathomable’ increase in banks’ support for the industry last year.
Where’s Wren? And, how many pollinators? I was grateful to catch this western tiger swallowtail on the native thistle right outside the front gate, and didn’t notice the native bees until I looked at the pictures tonight. It’s amazing they all came out so clear given how windy it was at the time.
The wind got stronger through the afternoon. I spent as much time as possible outside today, until it was just too hot and windy. Then I came in for a meditation, some work time, and wrapped up the day with our monthly Grateful Gathering. Keeping with the month’s theme, Live Fully Alive, we talked about connections with nature, with people we love, meaningful interactions with strangers (or friends we hadn’t met yet); we heard about a nonagenarian who said life is a blink in cosmic time and a grandmother who said it’s a glance out the window. We held the truth of the phrase “Death is certain, time of death uncertain” as we shared gratitude that one of us had survived surgery after a life-threatening emergency; and we savored Mary Oliver’s poem “The Summer Day.”
Who made the world? Who made the swan, and the black bear? Who made the grasshopper? This grasshopper, I mean — the one who has flung herself out of the grass, the one who is eating sugar out of my hand, who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down — who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes. Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face. Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away. I don’t know exactly what a prayer is. I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass, how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields, which is what I have been doing all day. Tell me, what else should I have done? Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon? Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?
~ Mary Oliver
Biko, Wren and I hung out together in the shade under the deck for awhile this afternoon. Later, after the gathering, when it was cool enough, Wren and Topaz and I strolled the Sunset Loop and the Breakfast Loop. The wind was so strong I had to strap my hat, and the atmosphere was hazy. Before we returned home the smoke rolled in. I hurried the last hundred yards, gathered the sheets off the line, closed up the house, and turned the air purifier on high. At bedtime, it’s still smoky out, and I’m grateful it’s cool enough inside to leave the house closed.
By the time we got home from the walk, most of the California poppy petals had blown off, but I got this shot earlier just as they started to fall. The penstemon blossoms are starting to fall also, and were blowing like cherry blossoms as we came inside. Life is a single bloom.
This piñon jay braved the snow last weekend and was surely grateful for the new ‘premium’ feed with a higher proportion of sunflower seeds. In more freeze news from The Colorado Sun about that devastating night, many orchards of the famous Palisade peaches squeaked through with some damage, but it appears that “Most of Delta County had 100% crop loss on all fruits….” That’s our county, our precious organic fruit capital of Colorado.
Redwing blackbirds take flight as Wren interrupts their feeding on one of her routine patrols.
I promised a story about a black bird, but first I want to share this philosophical essay by an anthropologist friend about her own black bird story. I’ve been reading it in small bites, as it’s dense and loaded with meaningful inquiry. I’m personally fascinated with Karen’s exploration of “the self,” which touches on so much of my own mindfulness and Buddhism studies. Then came the darling and ultimately heartbreaking story of Hercules, a starling she and her family raised one summer. I cried. This is followed by a deep dive into linguistics in several more sections covering umwelt, metaphor, naming, deiectics, and a few other concepts exploring the nature of reality for humans and other living beings. Like Hercules, for example. What I love about this essay is how thoroughly it represents my fascinating friend. She and her husband have ranched in this valley their entire lives, and he’s a retired veterinarian: non-human animals have been their constant companions since they were born. If anyone can figure out how non-humans experience life, my money’s on them.
Between last weekend’s freezing weather and this weekend’s rainy chill, I met a few goals in the garden. Wren is exhausted after supervising the planting of the last six perennials in amongst irises in the Tortoise Border. These great cages move around as necessary, and here they’ll keep deer from ripping the tender new plants out of the ground, and give the transplants a chance to root well and grow strong this year before being left to their own devices next year.
Some notable lunches this week have been salads with homegrown perennial lettuce and feral arugula, dressed with chopped pecans, cheese, poison fish, and homemade honey mustard dressing.
On Thursday I’d had enough of this lingering earache so I called our local audiologist. She insisted I come in right away so she could do an impedance, measuring pressure in my middle ear to determine if there was an inner ear infection. There wasn’t, which was a relief, so investigation continues. Meanwhile, I was profoundly grateful that she rushed me in, and I thought on the beautiful drive over how grateful I am for this community treasure. She lives in a pastoral vineyard on the edge of the next town, with her office downstairs. There was a lot of traffic on the twenty-mile drive, about twenty cars altogether both directions. It’s a pleasure to drive there, and to park in the shade of an old tree, and be treated like a friend. She always takes time to explain things, and in this case recommended that I do the Valsalva maneuver each morning to make sure there was no pressure buildup in the middle ear. That, it turns out, is pinching your nose shut and blowing as you would to equalize pressure driving over a mountain or in an airplane. Turns out it can also quickly restore an abnormal heart rhythm, but not always. You probably have to blow harder for that than she showed me, and it can backfire, so don’t play around with it.
Yesterday Wren helped me plant potatoes. I’ve been moving these feral violas as I need the space in the garden beds, planting them randomly in borders or patio pots. I’m grateful they’ve self-sown so profusely, just like the lettuce. Then I sliced the end off a fresh loaf of sourdough and enjoyed a deconstructed cheese sandwich for lunch. Later we all took a nice long ramble through the woods with our imaginary infrared lens. It was Wren’s Arrival Anniversary, and we celebrated her being here at Mirador for four years!
And now, at last the black bird story. It’s short, but it cracks me up to even think about it. I told it to Ellie the other day and we both enjoyed a good long belly laugh about it, just as I did when Neighbor Fred told me, in his consummate, wry style. We have a lot of redwing blackbirds in our yards these days, a cacophony of them as Mary says. When Fred came to prune the apricot we stood and watched them at the feeder for a few minutes. “We had a friend from Australia visiting once,” he said, “who was real interested in the birds here. We were sitting outside and he said ‘What’s that black bird over there with the red wings?’” We both started laughing. The punchline says itself.
And then today, it rained off and on all day. It was glorious. There might even be mud tomorrow. I was glad I chanced to look out the window in a momentary break in the western clouds to catch a rainbow cast over the canyon.
Yesterday’s quote from the Waking Up app
While there’s plenty to worry about, I was grateful to spend a weekend immersed in home and yard maintenance, restorative relaxation and meaningful connection. Instead of pointless anxiety. Tomorrow, I’ll step up again and start taking action, while still cultivating equanimity and perspective. Wishing the same for you. We’re in this together.
Among the millions of American patriots at thousands of rallies across the country, there were about five hundred of us in Paonia Town Park today.
I arrived early to film the installation of a powerful art piece, ‘168 Pairs of Shoes.’ Local artist Virginia Unseld honored the Iranian schoolgirls slaughtered a month ago by US bombs. Throughout the afternoon, I spoke with people who walked the spiral and came out stunned, shaken, or in tears. (Video link coming soon)
Virginia acquired 168 pairs of little girls’ shoes from regional thrift stores. They cost more than she expected to pay, but when they heard about her project, store managers were generous; and friends also rallied to contribute shoes.
It was Wren’s first time at a public event like this, and I couldn’t get over what a good girl she was! She engaged with the many people who spoke to her, and honored some of them with extra attention. She slipped her collar a few times when I was conversing with someone and she wanted to keep investigating, but came right back with a gentle request when we both noticed. It was a true joy to have her companionship at this event, and she delighted lots of other people too.
There were many of her tribe there and she got along with all of them, even getting a little off-leash play with another rescue dog about her age, Cowboy. And she was happy to see some of her regular human friends there as well.
One of her compatriots had his own sign, which said ‘Crown Clown.’
The tiny red hats weren’t as popular as I’d hoped they would be, but the North Fork Immigrant Protection Team was grateful to have them and raised a little money. I left them with them to sell at the farmers’ market or wherever they can.
The day included inspiring songs and presentations from North Fork Indivisible members, including a singalong with Ellen Stapenhorst to ‘This Land is Your Land,’ and a tribute to our eldest matriarch, 94 year old Mary Smith.
Other protest art included these provocative television pieces by Karen Floyd, and Mary’s popular sign-making table. It brought home the importance of the arts as free speech, and also as a force in our little valley.
At the end of the rally, the crowd ambled past the shoe memorial to march downtown.
Just like last time, I lingered at the park awhile and my escape from town was curtailed when a city cop pulled up to block the road for the march. As I pulled over, grateful for the opportunity to film them, he tried to stop my car, thinking I was trying to drive around him. When I explained I was with the group and thanked him for helping he was all smiles. I thanked him again as I returned to my car. “Of course,” he said. I drove home with my broken heart soaring for a little while, humming This land is your land, this land is my land…, while savoring the sensation of community and the sweet spring air.
Savoring the sights, sounds, scents of the fruit trees in flagrant bloom this week, I laid a camping pad under the apricot tree on the day the petals all flew off. I was grateful to see a dozen painted ladies, a few bumblebees, some moths, and several other kinds of native bees as well as a few honeybees also enjoying the flowers.
The next day, the wild plum burst into blossom, and the day after that the peach tree buds started to open.
And Biko showed Wren how to enjoy a strawberry.
Saturday is the third No Kings Day national protest against the corrupt, murderous regime in power in the US. If you’re not outraged, you’re not paying attention. You can find an event near you here. I’ll be joining friends at the Paonia Town Park, and donating my craftivism to the local Immigrant Protection organization. These little red hat badges will be available for a $10 minimum donation to support local families affected by ICE terrors.
In our gratitude group this evening, top two mentions went to Bad Bunny and the Walk for Peace monks. We didn’t even touch on the Olympics, but the games have certainly played into my sense of “prosocial emotions” the past few days. The most poignant moment for me so far came tonight watching Max Naumov in his Olympic debut in the men’s short figure skating program. After a beautiful routine he held up a photo of him as a toddler between his parents of his very first time on ice. His parents, Olympic skaters themselves, were killed when that Army helicopter crashed into a passenger plane over the Potomac River just nine days into the new regime. (Remember the ‘official’ spin on that?)
When I woke up a little grumpy about mouth pain, I quickly recalled that the monks were crossing into DC, pivoted to gratitude, and came downstairs to watch their livestream. They were greeted on the Virginia side of Chain Bridge with a bow from a DC police officer, and escorted across the bridge over the Potomac River by a line of bicycle cops in neon yellow vests.
The procession continued down the center line of Canal Road. Snowbanks edged each side, bare trees arched over from the C&O canal on their right side, and climbed the hill on their left. The road was closed to traffic so there were few spectators, and I imagine this must have incidentally supported the sacred nature of this crossing expressed by Bhikkhu Pannakara.
I was impressed by the slow-cycling cops’ ability to match the pace of the brisk-walking monks as they navigated into the city and made their way to American University. People appeared on sidewalks as the monks continued down the center of closed roads. I was grateful for the massive presence of peace officers surrounding the peace monks. A few nuns and monks fell in behind from the sidelines wearing fresh bright orange robes easily distinguished from the well-worn travelers’ robes. Greeted at AU by a diversity of clerics along a path strewn with flower petals, they settled in for a short rest and a public talk.
Then they resumed their walk through DC among, at last, crowds shouting their thanks.
At Washington National Cathedral thousands gathered out front where the monks were introduced by Bishop Mariann Edgar Budde. Bhikkhu Pannakara spoke for about half an hour to a rapt audience. The cathedral’s livestream caught it all.
After Secretary of State for DC Kimberly Bassett presented a proclamation from Mayor Muriel Bowser (“I vow to practice peace every day”), our monks and a hundred or more gathered clergy and faith leaders from all traditions went inside to talk about their commonalities: loving kindness, peace, and compassion. As they entered, the sweet camerawoman live-streaming for the monks walked through crowd cooing greetings and filming smiling faces, waves, and signs amplifying the monks’ message.
As sun streamed through the high stained glass windows of the cathedral and lit the vaulted ceiling in teal, pink and gold, flags from every state waved at the tops of arches. With music softly playing and my eyes and nose streaming, our intrepid monks took their seats in an arc on stage while pews filled with orange robes. The Dean of the Cathedral said it was one of the most beautiful sights he’d ever seen, and Bishop Budde welcomed all of “our interfaith friends and siblings of one human family.”
Questions were invited from the assembled, and the first was from a Muslim cleric: “How do we reconcile the belief that we must be at peace, with our duty to act in the name of justice?” Bhikkhu Pannakara invited Bhikkhu Bodhi up to answer the question and escorted him up the short stairs onto stage. “I’m 81 years old and I grew up in the Sixties… and now what are we facing? I have to say sadly it’s almost a reign of terror…
“We have to balance this inner peace with what I call a strong commitment to conscientious compassion: compassion inspired by a sense of conscience, a responsibility for the welfare of all our fellow citizens, all the residents of this country, and indeed a universal compassion for all human beings around this world, and—do we have Aloka here?—all sentient beings around this world.”
A representative of The United Tribes next asked, “What is your message for children in our next seven generations?” Bhikkhu Pannakara responded with the same message he’s been sharing along the way: we’re way too dependent on technology!
And then they were on their way again, walking down Embassy Row, and the livestream stopped. I was wrung out. I got a text from my dear friend who had been in the crowd outside the cathedral, with the message, “It could have been one of your Mindfulness classes! You should market all over DC because it was such a moving speech, breaking all barriers of religion, race, age, socio-economic background. I think DC people would sign up for classes if they knew about you!”
Bless your heart Doodles, I wish they would! But we have all had a crash course from one of the very best, an extraordinary young monk who had an idea one day and followed through with passionate dedication. In 108 days he’s done more for mindfulness than anyone I can think of. The culmination of their journey this week in DC is the antidote that so many of us needed after the year we’ve suffered. Bouyed these past few days by the monks on one coast exemplifying the path to peace, on the other coast by a young Puerto Rican pop star epitomizing joy as resistance, and in between by the creative, resilient solidarity of a huge community defending itself with love in Minneapolis, it was an easy week to practice gratitude.
All images today are photos or livestream screenshots I grabbed from the Walk for Peace USA Facebook page, or from the National Cathedral’s livestream on YouTube.My favorite: that courageous Bishop Budde loving on Aloka the Peace Dog. A close second: that resilient Venerable Maha Dom Phommasan who lost his leg in the accident near the beginning of the journey, followed by the sweet French monk with walking poles, Venerable Samma Maggo, both of whom returned for this sacred conclusion after leaving the walk earlier.
After a foot of snow last weekend, the week has been cold and sunny, keeping the ground snow-covered.
Thursday was a good day to bake. I was out of bread, and the sourdough starter was low and feeble. So I followed dear Amy’s lead and baked these one-hour sourdough discard rolls again.
This time I made half a batch, and tucked a little pepperoni and cheese inside. I’d have put a smear of tomato sauce in, too, except there was a little mold on top so that went to the compost. I’m grateful for the process of composting, so that I feel no waste-guilt when I let food go bad: It all goes back to the garden. Still, I try to not waste food.
I love working with dough. I’ve got so much to learn. I was happy with these rolls but will refine them the next time. The way I filled and folded them, all the goodies ended up in the top half but they’re still pretty good.
I brushed the tops with an egg wash and sprinkled them with marigold salt. I enjoyed a couple warm out of the pan the first day, sliced and toasted one the next day with extra cheese on the bottom half, and the third day toasted and buttered one, served it with sweet onion jam and a fried egg.
Today I made a big batch of turkey tetrazzini with the Thanksgiving turkey that keeps on giving—more cheesy goodness. And spent some time tending the sunroom garden. It was restful self-care. I also attended the Upaya Zen Center teaching on courage and resilience, and listened to Francis Weller on caring for our souls in uncertain times. I’m grateful to have access to these supportive resources.
I’m also grateful to be able to offer resources to support others through the mindfulness course coming up on February 20, the Telesangha I lead weekday mornings, and other avenues. I’m grateful for the multiple mindfulness skills I continue to learn and practice daily which help me cultivate courage and resilience during this dark turning. It will invariably change.
I can hardly wait for the red yarn to arrive so I can join knitters around the world in making Melt the ICE hats. Amy bought the pattern from the Minneapolis yarn shop that created it and has raised nearly half a million dollars to support immigrants.
What is this curious little creature I found in the sunroom today? (The one above I mean, not the one below.) It’s doing whatever it’s doing on the trunk of the bonsai honeysuckle. I’ll just wait and see what happens, knowing it will invariably change.
