I was grateful to get into the dentist today to check out increasing pain in my teeth since the crown a few weeks ago. All kinds of nightmare scenarios were going through my mind, but not with the pernicious insistence of pre-mindfulness days. The dentist was reassuring, diagnosed it as a “bite problem” and ground down both crowns to resolve it. They said my teeth were bruised. What? I was grateful to learn something new: teeth are held in place by ligaments, and ligaments can get inflamed for all sorts of reasons, including not quite perfect crowns. Fingers crossed that’s all it is. We’ll know more later.
I’m grateful for making it through to another glorious sunset. West, light smoke floated below the clouds. To the northwest the wildfire smoke seemed to float above the clouds, though really, I think, it was just closer.
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.”
The flat light of dusk shows off the brilliant blues of the mountain bluebird.
Do you remember that song Feed the Birds, from Mary Poppins? The old woman on the cathedral steps feeding the pigeons touched me profoundly at the time, and the song is probably the first to embed itself in my young brain. Its message was formative for me.
I was surprised to see a northern flicker using the birdbath, but both male and female have become regular visitors.
Last year I put out this copper birdbath (I think it was last year, maybe the year before). Every morning first thing I turn on the hose to rinse it thoroughly and refill it. But I haven’t fed seedeaters for a decade, ever since the kittens came, because it wasn’t fair to bait the birds in knowing the cats would hunt them.
Be careful what you ask for. I’ve always wanted evening grosbeaks but even a decade ago when I last fed the birds they never came. This year, they dominate the feeder, and perch in the peach tree.
A few years ago, with censure from the phoebes and some serious discouragement from me, Topaz learned not to hunt birds. Now she’s getting old and slow enough she rarely hunts even mice. So after I saw Ruth’s Bird Buddy, and had been longing for birdsong in my days, I started feeding again.
House finches bring the earliest and most lovely song to the yard. The juvenile male above is starting to come into his adult plumage, and will soon resemble the gorgeous red adult, below.
Why did I start feeding birds again when there’s a bird flu crisis? Well, it’s not really affecting songbirds, but because of the scare I think some people have taken down backyard feeders; and beyond that, humans have destroyed and poisoned enough bird habitat, erected enough glass skyscrapers, and loosed enough domestic cats to kill more than three billion birds since 1970. Across all species of North American birds, the average breeding population has declined by nearly one third. The least I can do is feed the birds.
Finches are among the families especially hard hit by this devastating species decline.
The past couple of years I’ve seen an oriole show up at a hummingbird feeder once or twice, but not stick around. So last winter, anticipating, I purchased an oriole feeder. I put it out a few weeks ago when I learned they were in the area, with some nectar and an orange, but no visitors until yesterday: I only discovered that when I checked the orange this morning and saw that it had been picked clean. After having to rescue too many bees from the nectar I had emptied that, but I put out a fresh orange half, and some organic grape jelly, and waited… and waited…
…and waited, all day. I had to go inside for awhile late afternoon, and when I came back outside before sunset I saw half the orange had been scooped out. I sat down again with husband camera. Within a few minutes, here came the Bullock’s oriole to feast! The gratification of watching this gorgeous creature enjoy the fruit was well worth the wait. I’ll try for better light tomorrow.
The elusive western tanager also made a fleeting appearance last week, slipping into the juniper and slipping out while I was on a zoom meeting I had taken outside because it was too fine a day to stay in. As I sat with camera to eye and continued to participate in the meeting, Ana asked if I had seen the Netflix show ‘The Residence.’ I knew immediately why she asked, and I’ve been laughing for days delighted that I reminded her of the detective obsessed with birdwatching. If you haven’t seen that mini-series yet, I highly recommend it.
I slept late and lingered in a sweet dream where my mother, my grandmother, and Auntie Rita were all waiting for me in a hotel lobby. It was wonderful to hug them each again, and then gather them all into a loving group hug. The rosebuds I’ve been watching unfurl in super slow motion for two weeks had burst open by the time I checked around ten this morning. It’s the first cultivated rose I’ve had in twenty-five years since my rose bonsai met its demise with a housesitter’s neglect. I picked this Sheila’s Perfume cultivar from the rose tent at Afton’s largely for its extraordinary aroma; a big bonus was the colors.
The next thrill arrived down at the pond where equally suddenly a huge ball of frogs’ eggs showed up this morning. I’m pretty sure they weren’t there yesterday. A mama frog in the rushes right above the nest may have just finished laying them.
The potato leaves have been working their way up through the soil for a week now, but it’s still a thrill to see how much they’ve grown. I also spotted a tattered Mourning Cloak butterfly and a Western Tiger Swallowtail in the fading lilacs, through the kitchen window.
We went back down to check on the frogs’ eggs this evening and mama was nowhere near them. I must have seen frogs’ eggs before but I don’t remember it; I don’t think I’ve ever seen them here. My curiosity piqued, I looked up the life cycle so I’d know when to expect tadpoles. Nine days is the average, according to one article, so I know how I’ll be spending my Memorial Day. I’m grateful for all the little thrills this Saturday offered.
I’m not able to attend any live rallies today, but am grateful to know many people who are doing so across the country at one of the 1100+ Hands Off! demonstrations in support of our democracy. Instead, I am streaming live coverage of the event in DC with remarkable and passionate speakers across the American spectrum on this link on PBS. The president of the National Education Association (NEA) used these words in defending the rights of every American to teach, and every American to LEARN: “I am determined and unafraid!” Let’s all be that.
We walked outside for half an hour today, Wren, Topaz, and I. The longest I’ve been able to walk comfortably, with pleasure, since early spring—or even longer. I’m so grateful for the absence of that crippling arthritis pain that had limited my life for more years than I like to admit. As we approached the back gate Topaz ran for it and Wren chased her. Topaz jumped through the slats and curled up in the sun under her big catnip. Wren had to wait for me to open the gate and then she ran circles around her cat. I savored the simple pleasures.
Now that I’m back to work more hours at my desk, Wren likes to sneak up and tuck in behind me in the desk chair. As though I might not notice her when I get up!
Young Bucky is growing up, but he still comes home for naps. Friday he slept with his head down, he was so relaxed and comfortable. Wren and I stayed inside until he’d left on his own. The next day he was back in his bed under the wild plum, and looking at me. He knows he’s safe here during hunting season. This is his sanctuary. As it is mine, and as I intend it to be going forward in whatever ways are needed.
