Category Archives: Awake to Earth

Upcycling Experiment

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They call it “upcycling” now, but I always think of it as the remnant of my time as a Catholic Worker when we always made practical use of whatever was on hand for what was needed. So this week, I upcycled an old screen tent to make a covering for this raised bed. I almost didn’t plant anything this summer, I’ve been so tired. But I happened to stop by the Portland Food Coop and they had organic kale seedlings for sale, and I got drawn in. I added compost and seaweed and turned over the soil in the bed.

This bed has often in past years been visited by critters such as groundhogs who love to chomp on greens, so I knew I had to protect it. (It has chicken wire underneath so that protects it as well.) The groundhog has always been easily put off by some sort of covering over the top. Many years ago I had purchased metal framing that I had repurposed for this bed. I had some netting that I covered it in years past (see a photo here), but I couldn’t find it. I did find the old screen tent in the garage–no longer usable because it had no frame anymore. So then I wondered–maybe this would be better than the netting, which had never kept out cabbage moths that liked to lay their eggs on the kale. Maybe the screen would keep out those pests as well?

So I took a scissors to the old tent, and cobbled it back together in a new shape, using a little superglue and paperclips. I tried to minimize any fabric that would block the sun. On the south end, is the zipper opening, and on the north end I folded over the larger remnants of screening.

To anchor the bottom, I placed some logs that we’d cut from fallen branches of our pitch pine. Once everything was in place, I planted my kale seedlings and watered everything well.

The experiment asks whether they’ll get enough sun through the screen, which does shade them a little, and whether they’ll be protected from cabbage moths? I hope it turns out well!

In the meantime, here is a picture of our perennial sea kale, from which we ate several small leaves and buds before it quickly turned to flowering. I love its honey smell.

Life in the Yard

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Mallard duck visiting the pond.

Life continues to be abundant in the yard. We’ve had visits by a duck couple, who land on the pond, sometimes walk around the yard looking for food, and then take off again. When I was cleaning up old plants from the pond, I discovered strings of toad spawn, and now we have toad tadpoles swimming around.

I am suspicious that the three bullfrogs who’ve taken up residence might be eating them sometimes, but so far the tadpoles continue to survive. We’ll see.

I don’t seem to have much energy this year, so projects in the yard are moving slow. We finished stacking our firewood, and I cleaned up weeds and refreshed the wood chips around the fire circle. I resonated with something that was mentioned on television at the Chelsea flower show in Britain–gardening is often a lesson in failures. The cherry tree has some problem that causes spots on the leaves and cherries and I don’t think we’ll get any cherries despite our earlier blossoms. Probably the black cherry aphids, but I don’t have the energy to sort it out. So I am appreciating the plants that seem to take care of themselves.

The irises by our deck are thriving this year, so happy and abundant. That sort of makes up for the lack of blue Siberian irises in our front patch–hardly any at all this year. The plants seem to move around, and I am not sure why the blue ones are not doing well. Happily, our neighbor’s are doing great, and I see them out our kitchen window.

Meanwhile, the wild strawberries were blossoming and spreading everywhere, which is great–good food for birds and bugs. It is an excellent native ground cover. That makes me happy.

Ephemeral

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Trout lilies are blooming near the brook.

There is so much beauty in the spring, but it all seems to be moving so fast. I can’t keep up. Mayday has come and gone. Already this season is half over. After two months of physical therapy for my hip and lower back, I am able to walk fifteen minutes and more again. The other day I walked to Capisic brook and onto the path nearby, and saw the trout lilies that usually grow there, a lovely spring ephemeral. American Heritage Dictionary defines ephemeral:

  1. Lasting for a markedly brief time.
  2. Having a short lifespan or a short annual period of aboveground growth. Used especially of plants.

Spring itself and all its beauty feels markedly brief. Is my love of photos a way of trying to hold on to all that is ephemeral? Is my need to write an attempt to halt the relentless flow of time?

I have been drawn outside more and more each day, excited to see daffodils and violets and green shoots coming up everywhere. And, happily, the peach tree is now covered with pink blossoms, and the cherry trees have many blossoms too. Last year, because of the weather, there were none–so these beauties seem fragile and extra special because of that vulnerability.

Peach blossoms on a foggy day.

There are many projects in the yard to attend to. Many branches fell from trees in the storms of winter and early spring. Margy has been cutting them up and hauling them around. Some of these we’re using to make a brush pile in the back corner for wildlife habitat. The other day, I cleared that space of invasive plants. I also set up our eight rain barrels again. We are going to get an new order of firewood, after using up our last old logs in the storms. So we are working on the space for the firewood, and purchased a rack to keep them off the ground.

Yesterday, I added two more pond lilies to the plants in the little pond, and as I was tidying up old dead shoots from other plants, I found strings of toad eggs attached to the old ferns. (So of course I left those.) We haven’t had toad eggs in the pond before. But there are a few frogs beginning to make an appearance–shy ones who have been diving under when they hear me approach.

The robins did not come back to the nest on our back porch that they had used for two years. Maybe that pair are no longer living. I read that their average life span in the wild may be just two years. I also read that they often don’t reuse nest sites–so we were lucky to have them in that spot for two years. Another ephemeral.

Then we discovered a nest in the yew bush near our front door–able to be partly seen from our living room window. So new robins are raising young nearby again. Maybe one of them fledged from the back porch.

Blue robins egg barely visible behind branches.

Is my love of photos a way of trying to hold on to all that is ephemeral? Is my need to write an attempt to halt the relentless flow of time?

I was cuddling with my cat Billie on the couch and suddenly felt a deep sense of our own impermanence. She is 13, I am 70. Senior cat, senior human. How much more time do we have? Someday, I won’t be able to feel her warm little body, with its soft fur and sweet smell, curling up on the pillow near my face. Someday, she will be gone; someday, I will be gone. We too are ephemeral. I want to hold on, but life seems to be about movement, about letting go into the next moment.

Sacred Fire

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Fire in the wood stove during the April storm.

In the midst of a 55-hour power outage, before I knew how long it would actually be, I was sitting in front of the wood stove which had kept us warm for the last couple days. I was thinking about how fire is one of the sacred elements, and yet, I hadn’t been close to a fire recently except during our prior power outage and this one. (Yes, we have now had two power outages in the last two weeks! The first lasted 40 hours.) These power outages are exhausting for us, with our chronic fatigue anyway. But we are so lucky to have the wood stove which heats our house well, and on which we can even cook food, with our tiny cast iron pan or hot water kettle.

Tending the stove is a constant process, kindling a fire in the morning, adding wood, adjusting the flue, adding another log each hour or so. We were running out of wood, except for some poorly seasoned crabapple wood from when our tree fell during a storm last year. But our neighbor kindly said we could have some of his. I am grateful for our neighbors. That was a gift from this storm. The April nor’easter covered all the trees and branches with heavy wet snow that apparently caused over 300,000 outages across Maine, which is why it took so long for power to be restored. Still, it was beautiful outside.

We were without electricity, television, internet, all the usual ways we connect with the world. My phone has limited data (all used up) so I couldn’t use it to connect except for texts and phone calls. We have an old landline phone that we pull out to use because it doesn’t need electricity like our regular landline phone. I even had a great conversation with an old friend on that landline phone. But I realized how much I rely on the internet for connecting with people, for seeing news, for entertainment. Being without power was tiring, just to keep ourselves warm and fed, but being without the internet was so boring.

As I was sitting in front of the fire, on the third morning, I tried to be present to the day, to stop wishing for the power to come back, to accept the day on its own terms. It was then that I thought about fire, about the fires I had sat around, and even danced around in prior times. I thought about the rituals we had done in our own back yard around our own fire circle. Neglected fire circle now. We didn’t light it all last summer. The weeds have grown up around it. It takes some energy to light and tend a fire. I know I haven’t had much energy during the past years. But now I was, by necessity, tending a fire, and by gratitude and intention, remembering that fire is sacred, is beautiful.

When I consider it, it seems like electricity has taken the place of fire in my everyday life. I imagine that electricity might also be considered sacred, although it is more invisible. It heats our home, cooks our food, keeps our food preserved, washes our clothing, heats our water. It also enables these far away connections for which I have much gratitude. It brings stories and news and laughter. I was relieved and happy when the electricity came back on.

But I am also grateful for the quiet days of the storm that brought me back to appreciating sacred fire.

Hibernators Awake!

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The chipmunks woke up from their hibernation earlier this week. Peeking out from their warrens beneath the garage. It’s a good thing we don’t have bears. My friend who lives in the woods had a bear arrive in the night to break apart their bird feeders this past week. Our chipmunks merely climb the pole and share in the bounty. The wake-up seems early this year, and probably is. The winter was too warm and too short. But here we are, in a climate changed world, loving the earth as well as we can.

Today is the Spring Equinox! Equal parts night and day. I want to take a moment, in the midst of the vast troubles of the world, to express delight at the turning of the seasons. Small bits of green emerging from the perennial plants. And I am grateful that after five sessions of physical therapy I am beginning to get some relief from my hip pain. My PT person uses Integrative Manual Therapy, and it is a miracle worker. There are still many sessions to go, and I am hopeful that healing will happen. I took a very short walk each of the last three days–my five minute walk to the end of the block–which actually takes ten minutes with my current walking status. It feels good to be outside.

Meanwhile, the cats have new critters to watch through the windows. (They are indoor cats only.) Here is Billie looking out the back door.

I think about vulnerability. What it means for me to be 70 years old. I didn’t hurt my hip by falling or anything like that. I woke up one morning and there it was. It is a reminder to me to cherish the joys of each day. Who knows what tomorrow will bring? I can be prone to anxiety, and feel deeply the troubles of the world. I will keep bearing witness. But I will also find joy in these simple moments, these earth awakenings.

Snowy morning

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Snow coats every branch as the sun rises through the trees.

What a beautiful morning today! I took a little walk to the end of the block, where these photos are from. The road was icy, and I have a strange new pain in my ankle, so I didn’t want to try to get all the way to the brook near the school. But the brook also runs by the end of our street, and so that is where I saw it today. We are surrounded by various branches of Capisic Brook in our neighborhood, and it shapes the roads and layout and character of our neighborhood.

You can see the brook at the bottom of this photo, deep in the ravine.

I am grateful for the beauty of the snow on branches. I am grateful for the flowing of the brook. I am grateful for a new morning. I am grateful for a little walk. I am grateful for a neighbor who plows our driveway. I am grateful for the sun shining on white snow.

Walking in Storms

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Early morning at Capisic Brook Jan 8

A little magic has emerged in my life. For a long time, I didn’t have the energy to go on walks, except for a minimal 5-minute walk to the end of our street. But somehow my energy has lifted a little, and for the last several days I have been able to walk to Capisic Brook, where it goes under the walkway to the elementary school, about 15 minutes total. It started January 2nd when, as I entered my driveway, I felt the presence of the Marie Madeleines, my ancestors from Îlets-Jérémie. “We are still with you.” They would have spent so much time walking in their lives. So I felt them walking with me in the early morning, greeting the dawn.

I heard the message from these ancestors: “You need new boots. Walking will be needed.” It was true that my boots were quite old and my feet were feeling it. So when I got back home, I did some online research, and then called a local store. After arranging it, I went in with a mask on, tried them on and bought myself some new boots. (The ones I wanted were on sale!) When I am lucky enough to hear a clear directive, I find it is so beneficial to follow it. And so I have kept walking almost every morning before breakfast. Even in the snowstorm, even in the first rainstorm. Yesterday I couldn’t get myself out there, but today the sun helped.

All these storms have been a challenge. We expect snow in winter in Maine. I like snow. But we’ve only had one snowstorm. There have been at least three huge rain and wind storms–first, when the spruce tree fell into the orchard, another January 9th into the 10th, and then yesterday which mostly caused damage at the shore during high tide. I took this photo of the brook at flood level on the 10th–because the branches of Capisic Brook flow through deep ravines, it doesn’t come onto roads in our neighborhood.

After the rainstorm, January 10

I can’t help but wonder what these weather changes mean for the future. Will rain and wind be the new winter, alternating with snow and cold? Someone posted (on Facebook-but no attribution) this little diagram that showed how climate warming destabilizes the polar vortex causing the extreme colds and unusual warms we are seeing right now. My sister in Montana reported -34 degrees, and Texas at 40 degrees, while we were up to 50 degrees.

While often I am most inclined to grieve or be afraid of all of this, I am also hearing the message that we must find a way to keep loving our changing earth mother, keep loving through the ups and downs. Perhaps it is also about the magic of walking–keep walking through the storms. I don’t know the answers but I am so grateful for the moments of connection and care.

Happy Solstice!

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Santa at Kettle Cove Beach.

For a Solstice treat, Margy and I went to Kettle Cove beach a little before sunset. Santa was gathering seaweed for the garden. Now you might not think Santa would be out on Solstice, but the ancient European pagans laid claim to this gentle gift-giver from the north much before St. Nicholas. In fact, in the old old days, they say Santa was female. I think they might be right.

A group of hikers passed by and seaweed-gathering Santa was a big hit, with many photos taken. Job done, it was time for a little rest. Thankfully, there was a handy log nearby to sit on.

Oh look, who is that with Santa? It’s me! I was also sitting on that log. It’s a Santa selfie. The setting sun was bright upon our faces and we gave thanks for all the sun brings to us.

And then we had another surprise treat. The local mermaids came to the beach for a Solstice swim in the cold ocean. We did not join them but we had fun watching them brave the waves.

May all the blessings of this Solstice day be upon you! May the darkness be fruitful, and peace return with the lengthening days, peace upon Gaza, upon Ukraine, upon Sudan, and all the hidden sorrowful places.

Fallen Spruce

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It is raining here in the northeast and the wind is blowing mightily, with gusts past 50 miles per hour. This healthy spruce tree suddenly fell down from its very roots. I was inside and heard something, but didn’t realize what had happened until I poked my nose out the door. Thankfully, it just missed our deck! And our house! 

I found this little squirrel within the branches, perched on a cherry tree branch, probably wondering what the heck just happened! And also eating a seed. The spruces are like squirrel highways over here.

I went fully outside into the rain to survey the damage and was amazed by how we lucked out. The spruce landed in the orchard, tucked neatly between the trees. Some orchard tree branches are bent or broken, but not the trunks. Also, it could have hit our house if it had fallen in a different direction, but it did not.

Earlier, I had been worrying about an entirely different spruce–a dead one with a squirrels nest. That one is still standing so far, but this one took me by surprise. The whole root ball had come out of the ground. This photo is from that root, from the bottom of the tree, looking to the top, where you can see how it landed between the white painted trunks of apple and peach. The patterns of the branches are so beautiful, even in its dying.

I don’t know how much damage the orchard trees suffered. When Margy got home from an appointment, she went out in the rain immediately to begin cutting spruce branches that were interfering with orchard tree branches. I guess that is something else that I love about her. Going outside in all sorts of weather, and caring about trees. I think if the branches can be freed from where they are bent, they might have a better chance of recovering.

Meanwhile, I am inside thinking about how vulnerable we all are to the wind and weather. How even with so much care put into this orchard, it could be wiped out with a storm. Or a tree could fall on our house. I tend to worry, to imagining worst case scenarios. Yet, I have been so blessed in so many ways, protected from harm by what magic? I can’t put it on “being blessed,” because I don’t think people who face tragedy or catastrophe do so because of not “being blessed.” (I don’t think people being killed in Gaza are outside of the view of that Mystery who blesses all, and who is especially with those who are suffering.)

Luck? Fate? I am reminded of the Chinese story about a farmer whose horse escaped into the hills. When his neighbors came by to sympathize with the old man over his bad luck, the farmer replied, “Bad luck? Good luck? Who knows?” The next day, the horse returned with a beautiful wild stallion. This time the neighbors congratulated the farmer on his good luck. His reply was, “Good luck? Bad luck? Who knows?” Then, when the farmer’s son was attempting to tame the stallion, he fell off its back and broke his leg. Everyone thought this very bad luck. But the farmer again replied, “Bad luck? Good luck? Who knows?”

Some weeks later, the army marched into the village and conscripted every able-bodied youth they found there. When they saw the farmer’s son with his broken leg, they let him off. Now was that good luck or bad luck? Who knows?

When a tree falls I am reminded that the world we live in is much bigger than we can understand or imagine. 

First Snow, Gaza, Small Birds

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Green bird feeder in front of snow covered branches of hazelnut hedge.
Bird feeder near hazelnut hedge.

We have our first snow-covered morning here in our yard in Portland Maine. In places further from the shore they got several inches, but we had mostly rain until early morning. Now it feels like winter is really here. My internal clock has felt the shift, as the days grow shorter and darker. A few days ago, I started working again on sorting through my old documents–my winter project of the last few winters. This year, most of the documents are digital, though there is at least one box of paper files to go through in the basement. In prior winters, I looked back on all the years before we moved to Maine in 2005. This winter, I am looking through my time as minister of Allen Avenue Unitarian Universalist Church here in Portland, before I retired in 2018.

I started by reading all of the “annual reports” I wrote for the church to summarize the work of that year. It was a simple way to quickly turn the pages of thirteen years of ministry. I was astounded at the sheer number of times I marched in protests, or spoke at vigils in solidarity with issues of justice or worked on legislative change in support of human rights, usually along with other members of my congregation or other ministry colleagues. My life now is so much quieter and less intense, but also less connected. It was good to have that public voice, and to use my voice in service to all that I believe. I feel so far removed from that life and that work.

I suppose in some ways a blog is a kind of public voice, but much quieter and less visible. My life these days is much quieter and less visible. That is chronic illness, compounded by our continued COVID precautions in our household. I can’t put my body out on the line for love and justice. It takes most of my body’s energy just to manage our household tasks. It is like I am looking out a window at all that is happening in our world.

I was surprised to notice that I hadn’t blogged for a few weeks. Lately, all I can think about is Gaza and the way the people there are suffering and dying. In my files I found a sermon I preached in 2014 about Palestine and Israel. In many ways, the issues are all the same. In other ways, everything has gotten worse, much worse. So many deaths, so much destruction. I can’t even imagine the words I could say about it, and then I don’t have words for anything else. My heart is on the ground. My heart is on the ground.

And then, out the window I see a large flock of small birds visiting the hazelnut hedge and the bird feeder. They find their way to our yard each day, traveling together as a group. They usually arrive mid-day, but today they are early. Tufted titmice, chickadees, goldfinches in their winter garb, sparrows, juncos, finches, even a bluebird. (Maybe they come more than once a day, but you have to be looking out a window to see them so I am not sure.) Often a few chickadees even stop at our back porch pecking for stray seeds. It is not so easy to take a photo of a flock of small birds. They scatter themselves across the orchard. They come through and then they are gone again. Traveling all together on their mysterious rounds.

And my heart is lifted just a little, with their flight and their community.

Finches at feeder.
Junco on a branch.