I’m grateful that today was significantly cooler and that what little wind there was came from the north, clearing the air considerably. Instead of Air Quality of 150-200 it’s fallen steadily through the day from 80 to 56 at bedtime.
I was able to spend a little time at the pond this morning, and run errands this afternoon with the car windows down. I was grateful for the kindness of Christina at the DMV, and the consideration of pharmacy staff, and the tiny blonde girl who said hi to me at the market. I said hi back and smiled, but she couldn’t see that because I was masked; with the forthright candor of her three or four years, she asked “Why do you have that?” I was happy to explain that my lungs don’t work so good so I’m wearing it because I don’t want to get sick. She nodded and continued chewing on the date in her hand.
I was grateful to sit by the pond for awhile this evening and watch tadpoles and frogs; and later, to sit on the deck while a small festival of dragonflies feasted on mosquitoes overhead and a few stray swallows swooped through, watching heavy clouds roll into the mountains, breathing easily. I’m grateful that the firefighters had an easier day too.
Morning, noon, and evening, neither rain nor hail nor fire nor smoke can keep me from doing grasshopper patrol around the patio and through the garden. Sometimes I use the hose and sometimes I just sweep with my hands. I’m grateful I’ve managed them as well as I have, despite not starting quite early enough; now they’re big I have some strategies in mind but I was waiting for the grasshopper webinar today to decide my next step.
They’ve once again demolished all the rabbitbrush in the yarden, stripping the leaves of what little grew back on this massive bush this year, after they completely denuded it last summer, killing the lower half.
The beautiful little rose bush I nursed along and finally potted up last month was thriving on the patio table, alongside three tiny citrus trees. I checked them several times a day for the slightest sign of grasshopper predation, intending to bring them inside at the first bite.
I failed miserably with the tiny trees: one afternoon I noticed a single leaf damaged, so I set the tray near the door to bring inside—but I forgot, left it out overnight, and the rock squirrel who haunts the patio ate all three down to a toothpick. The rose continued to thrive—until yesterday. Midday it was fine. Evening rounds it was missing three-quarters of its foliage. So I whisked it inside to the sunroom table and administered first aid.
I was relieved to sit down for an hour at lunchtime, amidst heavy smoke outside, to a PPAN (People and Pollinators Action Network) zoom webinar called “Pollinators Meet Grasshopper and Mormon Cricket Management.” Sharon Selvaggio, a pesticide reduction specialist with The Xerces Society, gave a riveting presentation on the complex relationship between grasshoppers, pollinators, and ecosystem health. The Xerces Society, a conservation organization working to protect the natural world through the conservation of invertebrates, educates about the unintended consequences of widespread pesticide use.
Ever wonder why honeybee populations are in steep decline? They’re a canary in the coal mine for native bees and other pollinators like butterflies and moths. APHIS aerial spraying of pesticides to control Orthoptera (grasshoppers, crickets, and katydids) in the Midwest and western states is a contributing factor in the decline of many pollinators. Sharon leads Xerces’ work in seeking sustainable solutions for grasshopper and Mormon cricket management, especially on public lands. She offered some alternatives to pesticides for the home gardener.
Great news! Having a low tolerance for snapping their little heads off, lacking chloroform as my zoo friends use, and not (yet) interested in freezing and frying them, she gave the answer to what to do with them if I choose to pluck or vacuum them off plants in the cool hours while they’re sluggish: drop them into bucket of soapy water! (Ack. I still hate the idea of killing them. Which do I hate more? Killing insects or losing the fruits of my labors? Probably losing my garden.)
Speaking of the garden… I made the onion greens pesto finally, with the chopped greens, some parsley, garlic, lemon juice, pecans, and parmesan cheese. So simple, so delicious!
I was grateful it was cloudy and a little cooler today, so I could also make “Vichyssoise light.” I’d been putting it off because I didn’t want to heat up the house, but you can’t make cold Vichyssoise without first cooking it. I sautéed the onions in butter, added a chopped potato, chicken broth, salt and pepper, and simmered for half an hour. Then I took it off the heat and stirred in a couple tablespoons of yogurt and a big splash of milk and blended til it was smooth and creamy. By then I was too hot to eat hot soup so it went into the fridge for tomorrow. But I did lick the spoon and it’s delicious!
The wind shifted to the west this evening and blew in some fresh air. I was able to cool off outside without a mask and leave the doors open to get a cross breeze through the house for a few hours. I took the opportunity to pick the rest of the un- or less-damaged apricots and harvested more than expected. Another garden success in a scant year!
A screenshot from the Watch Duty app yesterday showing the South Rim fire perimeter, evacuation zones, and the two planes and one helicopter working it at the time. The blue dot near the top is where I live, nine miles as the crow flies from the fire. I’ve been relying on it so much in the past week that I felt compelled to pay their reasonable membership fee; getting the little purple aircraft moving in real time was an unexpected bonus.
I’m grateful for the nonprofits that make the world better, like Watch Duty, PPAN and Xerces, and for endangered government agencies, like APHIS and the National Weather Service, that use science to serve diverse human needs; and I’m grateful for the technology that puts warnings, forecasts, and other helpful data at our fingertips.
I’m grateful for the Weather Underground app, with all the bells and whistles selected: radar, cloud cover, fronts, heat, hail, severe storms… and for knowing where I stand in the midst of it all, once again that little blue dot near the top.
I’m perpetually amazed by having a camera in my pocket at all times, which also functions as a phone, a weather station, and an encyclopedia. I’m grateful for my Girlfriend camera who can capture a bee on a blossom this clearly.
I’m grateful for my Husband camera, too. Here he is poised to capture the bluebirds fledging this morning. Sadly, they had already flown, last evening, but we didn’t know that yet. Stay tuned for the two-day adventure of watching them slowly emerge: nothing like I expected.
After watching the nest for a couple hours after sunrise I was confident enough that it was empty that I asked Girlfriend camera if she could squeeze inside and take a look. The only thing we learned for certain was that it was definitely empty. What exactly we’re looking at remains a mystery. Is the actual nest down inside the wall space on one side or the other of the central platform? What various materials did they build it with? How many chicks were there? It’s been a great mindfulness exercise to observe the stories I’ve made up every step of the process, and realize how little I actually know.
Exquisite pastries from the North Fork Boardwalk chef
At noon I took both cameras to Zenzen Gardens in Paonia to document the celebration of life for a precious friend. It was a beautiful venue in a field of mown clover, with tasty snacks, talented musicians, and filled with my found family, and reminiscences from the wonderful community that had grown around our dear departed neighbor and his lovely wife. What happens when we die? Another mystery to consider. The cameras did a good job but, like me, overheated, so we left early.
I was grateful to rest in the cool house for awhile after so many hours outside in the heat of deep summer the past few days; and to then spend some deeply quiet time in the garden this evening.
Fledging is imminent. It could be tomorrow, or it could be another week. Research says they fledge between 18-21 days after hatching. I don’t know exactly what day they hatched, but do know the parents were flying in and out sixteen days ago. The past few days the food deliveries have been increasing, and the chicks’ cries when the parents leave are now loud and clear.
I couldn’t be more grateful to see them fly in carrying one grasshopper after another to the nest. Sometimes they fly straight in from the top of a nearby juniper, or from the tip of the patio umbrella; more often, they land on their antler perch and look around before hopping up to the nest cavity.
In the past two days their deliveries have become so frequent they occasionally overlap, meeting in the doorway as one flies in with food and the other flies out with a fecal sac. Cornell Lab of Ornithology defines this as “a clean, tough mucous membrane containing the excrement of nestling birds.” You can see mama with it below.
They move so fast I can’t see their weightless ease without the camera. Above, he floats from the nest to the perch; then gathers himself for a few breaths, and takes off. Their wing-to-body length is almost falcon like, and the long wings give them the ability to hover and dive when hunting. I can’t get enough of watching them, and will be spending every possible minute on birdwatch until the babies emerge.
I think how my mother would have loved this unexpected delight. As a bird-lover and also a painter whose favorite color was blue, she was entranced with mountain bluebirds. When she visited and saw them dancing along the fenceposts, she wanted to name my driveway Bluebird Lane. Back then, I rarely saw one in the yarden. So in an interconnected accepting sort of way, I guess I’m kind of grateful for the grasshopper plagues that have brought the bluebirds to my front door.
Today I’m grateful for grassroots resistance, for solidarity and community in opposition to the current regime. I’m grateful for Indivisible, for our local chapter, for our founding mother Ellie, for everyone who helped put on a great event at the best town park in the county; for the volunteers and musicians, and the citizens who spoke, and for the roughly 450 concerned people who showed up in peaceful protest.
I was asked to speak as the co-founder of our Indivisible chapter, and after I was introduced by the Statue of Liberty, I kicked off the program. The video file of my speech, which I promised Gina I would share here, is just too big, so instead I’m posting the audio file, above. It’s just over seven minutes, including a moment of silence to honor with broken hearts the Minnesota public servants whose lives were stolen and shattered last night in an act of domestic terrorism. Apologies for getting Ms Hortman’s name wrong; let us not forget these victims as this fight escalates.
Despite the undercurrent of grief and existential angst that any open-hearted American is suffering these days, we had a wonderful time. Having fun, being joyful, feeling happy, each of these is “a revolutionary act in the face of despair.”
The first hour, people mingled, and visited the flag-making table, the sign-making table, the information tables for various organizations, and the postcard table. I saw a post on Instagram a month ago that tickled my fancy: A woman cutting trash cardboard to postcard size, to send to congressional reps: “Trash for the trash,” she said. So I brought my paper cutter, some pens, and some talking points.
An old friend sat down beside me and I put him to work drawing lines and stamping the blank cards while I kept cutting donated cardboard and roping people in to write to our CO District 3 congressman, Jeff Hurd. He said he wouldn’t vote to cut Medicaid and then he did. He campaigned as a moderate and he’s caved.
Many demurred, saying “I email him every week,” or “I just called him the other day,” or “It won’t make a difference anyway.” Then I dropped the “trash for the trash” line, and their eyes widened, their lips ticked up, and they picked up a pen. Messages ranged from angry to disappointed to almost kind, about the Big Bad Bill threatening Medicaid, Medicare, the VA, and food security, selling off public lands, selling out education, and more; several called out his consistent failure to show up for his constituents in many ways. It did my heart good to see so much engagement. Some people may have never written a postcard or called a representative, but now they feel empowered to do so. I’ll mail them all on Monday.
There were a lot of great signs brought from home and made at the park but from my vantage point I mostly saw great shirts!
It was a big day for me. I haven’t been to a gathering like that in years. I saw a lot of long-ago friends and acquaintances with whom I’d long ago lost touch, and was grateful that I’d only forgotten a couple of their names, both of which came to me before I needed them. A couple of people didn’t recognize me and I happily reminded them; and then there were a few whom I reminded of my name because they looked confused, then they quickly assured me they recognized me. There were many hugs and a couple of kisses and lots of talking in close quarters. If I get sick this week I’ll know why, but it would almost have been worth it.
I think my favorite sign was one Garden Buddy texted me this morning before I left home, just in the nick of time for me to print it. It lay on the postcard table, and one man considered it for a moment, read it aloud, and said, “Well no queens either.” I said gently, wondering how he’d respond, “It means drag queens.” A small slow smile brightened his face and he walked away chuckling.
It only took a month to finally capture a western tiger swallowtail. I’ve seen one occasionally flitting about the yard but the conditions have not yet been quite right to get a picture—until today.
The wild butterfly bush (Buddleia alternifolia) burst into bloom this past week. It took a few days before its perfume began to fill the yard and draw in the swallowtail who spent most of the day feeding from its many laden branches.
I had a couple of work zooms today and couldn’t bear to do them inside, so I brought the technology outside and sat in the shade under the deck; grateful for zoom, grateful for the deck shade. And most grateful for the trust of the bluebirds. He flew in from gathering insects in the yard and perched over my shoulder on the deer skull just outside the hole in the adobe wall where they’re nesting. In a moment, she fluttered out of the hole and joined him. They both observed me carefully; then she flew away and he remained awhile. I was entranced, and I think we were all three reassured. I’m hopeful I’ll be watching when the chicks fledge.
Where’s Wren? She’s off ahead as we enjoy an evening ramble through the elegant old junipers, exemplars of resilience.
The light was a little strange as evening settled. When we reached the top of the ridge on the way home and could see the horizon through the trees there was strong haze dimming the mountains. Maybe diffuse smoke from Canadian wildfires, maybe why some of us are suffering extra allergies—we can’t bear to stay inside but the air quality isn’t as pure as it looks at high noon. But first, we watched moonrise from our new favorite sitting log in the southern woods.
Nighthawks screeked and dove overhead as we wended our way home just as the sun went down.
Even after sunset the day’s work wasn’t done. Grasshopper mitigation continues: 24 hours after neem spray the front line seems to be holding. There were just a few grasshoppers in the raised beds throughout the day. But I’m not taking chances. There were a lot of little feral lettuces in amongst the onions. To protect them, and to remove the competition from the onions, I popped them out and planted them in the new bed where I could cover them. The cover will cool them with a little shade, and keep out marauders. I hope.
I look forward to another brand new day tomorrow.
“Waking up this morning, I smile. Twenty-four brand new hours are before me. I vow to live fully in each moment and to look at all beings with eyes of compassion.”
I spent a lot of time in the garden today, spraying vinegar on the ground to kill grass and weeds popping up through the chips we put down to mitigate grasshoppers; pulling weeds, spraying a neem/soap mix on the cabbages, onions, potatoes, carrots and more to drive grasshoppers away; and burning some scrap wood since it was finally calm enough and damp enough to not pose a wildfire risk. And I also found time to take Husband Camera for a few strolls around the yarden to capture the love between flowers and their pollinators.
The little orchard bee first caught my eye in the top picture, and as she moved down the Gaillardia blossom I saw the spider. But she did not.
I serendipitously caught the moment when the two insects communicated: as though the spider said “I am here” by gently reaching a leg toward the bee’s antenna.
Then the bee courteously said “Pardon me!” and flew back to the top of the flower. And the spider smiled her thanks with her eyes.
I’m grateful for this gorgeous day, for the communication I witnessed among many beings, for communication with several friends, for the health, energy, and stamina to spend the day working and playing in the yarden.
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.
“Our glorious, gasping, wounded world is reeling from many budding catastrophes. Among the most crucial and least acknowledged: our collective amnesia. We have forgotten who we really are: sacred vessels of a sentient cosmos—not just us humans, but also the stones, rivers, foxes, oak trees, wetlands, microbes, everything.”
This opening paragraph from Rob Brezsny’s weekly astrology newsletter introduces a beautiful analysis of the tragic results for our planet of millenia under the thumb of the patriarchy. “It’s the operating system of empires and corporations, the not-so-covert programming behind clear-cut forests and strip-mined mountains—and the code that ensures women’s bodies are controlled and exploited.”
I’m feeling more and more fierce these days about toxic masculinity and the abusive relationship we’re experiencing on a national level. So I enjoyed reading a fierce feminist fiction this week called Camp Zero by Michelle Min Sterling. It’s perversely refreshing to read about women doing a little retaliatory violence to the patriarchy instead of the disturbingly pervasive male violence against women that saturates so-called entertainment these days.
Meanwhile, I’m finding moments of happiness barefoot in the kitchen baking muffins, and nurturing the planet in my tiny sphere in my own feminine ways.
House finches and evening grosbeaks are among the regular visitors at the new smart feeder. Their songs and conversations brighten the days even more than their colors.
How did I not notice this extraordinary pattern in Wren’s blue eye? This is one reason I love photography. I see better sometimes through a different lens. I can zoom in or out for a fresh perspective. My aging eyes can’t see this detail when she’s got her face in mine and we melt looking into each other. I’m grateful for this delightful surprise today.
I’ve looked back through images of her to see if this was just an artifact of the camera, or the light, or whether it’s been there all along—and it has! Even in one of first pictures I took of her (above) in May 2022 when I’d had her only a few weeks, you can see the starry darker blue in her iris, but not with the striking clarity of the new phone camera. I simply didn’t look closely enough back then.
Today was classic March in the mountains, windy, cold, with stinging snow flurries, and occasional fits of tepid sunshine. It was a great day to stay inside. Lunch was a grilled Havarti, mushroom, and shallot sandwich. On breaks I continued to puzzle in the sunshine. More about this one later, just a taste today.
I long for the halcyon days when there was nothing more urgent to do with my spare time than enjoy the beauty around me. The causes and conditions of this new era we’re in demand that we all participate in the fierce tapestry of resistance growing daily. I’m grateful to be among many who see clearly; and grateful for the many others who work to strengthen the warp and woof of the weave, the good lawyers and good politicians and good journalists who get paid to defend democracy. Our local Indivisible chapter met this afternoon on zoom and held the full range of each others emotions on this terrifying roller coaster.
Though tonight’s sunset was flat grey, last night’s was ethereally stunning. I’m grateful for a new tripod attachment that let me shoot some short timelapses, and anticipate much joy in coming months from acquiring this single implement. No matter what else you do, make time to do the things that bring you joy. Choose beauty wherever you can.
