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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Myke painting tree trunks in the orchard (Photo by Margy Dowzer).
When I feel devastated by the images of premature babies in al-Shifa hospital in Gaza, without incubators, without oxygen, placed together for warmth, but some dying, (and finally I hear that they are being evacuated today)… When I feel devastated that the initial violence and hostage-taking of Israeli citizens by Hamas has been multiplied by more violence and death by the Israeli government… When I feel devastated by bombs killing innocent civilians and journalists and children… When I feel devastated that I cannot stop the killing or bring food or water to the starving families… I cannot find the words to write…
And so I have been tending the only life I can tend. To get ready for winter, I sprayed the orchard trees with holistic spray (with Neem oil, Karanja oil, hydrolyzed fish, and probiotics in water). And then a few days later, I painted the trunks with my own combination of white milk paint and “Surround.” The white paint protects the trees from sunscald. When the sun warms the trunk by day, and the nights are cold, the extreme fluctuations of temperature can cause the bark to split.
Milk paint is a non-toxic biodegradable paint made from milk and lime. Surround is a natural clay product that protects trees from boring insects. It is also light colored, so I decided that to combine them would make sense. They both come in powdered form that is mixed with water. And so I knelt beneath these trees and tended them with love.
This is not enough to remedy even the suffering I feel in my own heart for all the suffering happening so far away. But somehow I must choose life, choose tending, choose care.
Years ago I heard a Buddhist phrase–“The cup is already broken.” Its intent is for us to meditate on the transient nature of all of our reality. If we think of the cup as “already broken,” we can appreciate the cup now, and not be attached to keeping it in the future. At least, that is my brief paraphrase of what it means to me. Last night I knocked into a glass measuring cup and it fell to the floor, shattering into many pieces. Margy says she thinks that this measuring cup had originally belonged to her mother. But it was not really a sentimental piece, rather a long-lasting useful tool in our kitchen. Very long-lasting. Very useful. I locked the cats in the bedroom so they wouldn’t step on glass, and swept and vacuumed all the pieces from the floor into a paper bag to put into the trash. So it goes.
However, there is another version of “already broken” in modern American life–planned obsolescence. Manufacturers purposefully making products that are designed not to last, so that “consumers” will keep buying more products to replace them. This kind of “already broken” is so frustrating as we try to live in sustainable mutual relationship with the earth. We have these metal yard chairs whose weave has torn so that they are no longer useful, and not repairable. They were not long-lasting–maybe only a few years old. We’re likely going to call The Dump Guy, to come and pick up four of them plus a broken patio umbrella. It just makes me feel angry.
Broken yard chairs
Meanwhile, it seems to be an autumn full of broken mechanical things–but happily so far, most able to be repaired. The garage door was broken and then fixed a month later. A groundhog dug a tunnel under the garage that we needed to get filled, and a contractor worked on it. The clothes dryer stopped working and was able to be repaired. Now the heat pumps won’t work, and someone is coming on Tuesday. (We have a back-up oil boiler, so we are not cold.) I have felt burdened by all of this household decrepitude, yet also grateful–because we have been able to get repairs done, able to afford them, able to find repair people to tackle the jobs that are too big for us.
But I am also reminded of the larger brokenness all around us in our world. I always resonated with the Jewish concept of Tikkun Olam, “repairing the world.” I am not Jewish, but have learned so much from that tradition (and people from that tradition) about working for justice. So much of my life, I was involved in activism to end oppression and injustice. I dreamt of a world of freedom and equality and compassion. Now as I face the latest chapter of my life, with chronic illness, I don’t have the energy or ability to be so active. I feel discouraged about the backlash that has undone many of the hard won victories for the world that we dreamed about.
So I ask myself, what do we do when we cannot repair the world? What do we do when oppression and injustice and violence seem relentless. What do we do when the very earth we rely on is on a course for a mass extinction. What do we do when the world is “already broken?” I have been struggling over this writing for weeks now. I don’t have any answers, but it feels like a critical question for this time of my life. If I have attached my meaning, purpose, and value to improving the world, to repairing its brokenness, then who am I if that is not possible? Who am I if the world is already broken?
I still don’t really have an answer. I still am pondering the question, as I feel such sorrow and grief for those who are suffering right now in ways I cannot alleviate. I remember that many people have lived in times of great horror, have lived in situations which they did not have power to improve or repair. We are tangled in a web of broken relationship. We cannot escape. Yet in every situation, people have made choices to affirm their humanity and interconnection. What choices might I make during this next chapter?
Tangled branches of cut “climbing spindle tree” (invasive in Maine)
Today is Halloween, that wild holiday of ghosts and ancestors and gifts of sweets. Some say the veil between the worlds is thin during these days. Celtic Samhain, Mexican Dia de Muertos. The day midway between autumn equinox and winter solstice. This morning I woke to our first frost of the season. It is later than usual for Maine, but also earlier this week than I had expected. Still, it drew me out to walk in the dawn’s first light.
I harvested the last of the (now frozen) raspberries. We often don’t get any in the fall because they don’t get enough sun to ripen before the frosts. So we’ve been grateful for several little bonus treats over the last few weeks. I also cut some (frozen) chives, and quickly chopped them up small and put back into a frozen state for use during the winter.
On October 16th, I had dug up the licorice plant, to harvest the roots–they make my favorite herbal remedy–such an energy boost iced as tea with lemon in the summer garden work. I cut off several large roots near the main plant, and all the long extension roots to new plants. After that, I replanted the original plant, and mulched with wood chips all around. Then, and I haven’t yet finished, I wash them with a scrub brush, and cut into small pieces to dry in the herb dryer. It takes quite a bit of my energy, so I can only do small batches at a time. Here is the latest:
licorice root as dug
licorice root washed and cut
So the end of the harvesting is in sight. No more zucchini. Still more kale–that keeps going after the frost. Still some carrots in the front yard beds. Leaves are still falling. Margy did some final mowing and some not-final raking. Much of our back lawn is moss mixed with wild strawberry, clover, grass, and weeds. We love the moss. On more mechanical themes, our garage door was fixed today! (It has been broken since the end of September.) We’ve also had a broken clothes dryer. Appointment scheduled for Friday. I guess these are part of our preparations for winter.
But today, mostly I think about the ancestors, those I loved who have died, and those I never knew who are the roots in my family tree. I had a new thought about my mom’s father, whom we called “Papa.” He was born “Johann” in Austria in 1884, but was “John” in the United States. He left his country with a few friends, who all worked as waiters to pay their way traveling across France, England, Canada, and finally Detroit, Michigan. None of his family of origin were on this side of the Atlantic. He remained friends with those men to the end of his life. He died when I was a young teen, so I don’t have too many memories except of a very quiet, very short man. Even though he lived with our family for a while. But when I look at my own life, I too left the place of my family, and bonded with friends who have been like another family in my life. So maybe we have that in common.
Really, there is so much we don’t know about the lives of our ancestors. All we can do is wonder. During this past year, since last Halloween, my friend Estelle joined the company of the ancestors. She was a true spirit sister. So I honor her today along with those others in my life whom I loved, and who loved me. In that, I have much for which to be thankful.
If you look closely you can see 8 white-throated sparrows visiting the pond.
This week we’ve had a flock of dozens of white-throated sparrows in our back yard and the field and trees next to it. I love their little striped heads and loud chirping. They are drawn by the water of the pond, and I’ve seen them drinking and bathing there. It is such a blessing to feel the yard full of birds. If I am sitting right next to the pond, they are a bit timid, but yesterday I took the photo above from a little further away so as not to spook them. A few days before, one sparrow kept peering out from the nine-bark branches, but wouldn’t come any closer.
Then a couple days ago, when I sat quietly for a long while, a few began to venture near to drink even with my presence on the other side of the pond.
Every living being needs water. A human being can only survive for about 3 days without water. I am thinking about water in relation to the people in Gaza under siege, where Israel has cut off water and the electricity needed to pump and purify the water for drinking. The killing of innocents is always wrong, I believe that what Hamas did was wrong. But I also believe that the government of Israel is wrong to attack the civilians of Gaza, or cut off their access to water, food, and fuel. I am not unaware of the long history that is the context for these attacks. I have been following Jewish Voice for Peace for information and guidance in the midst of this deeply sad time. As someone who is neither Jewish nor Palestinian I can’t begin to grasp the depth and complexity of it all, but I trust the deep values of the Jewish Voice for Peace.
In the midst of this larger sadness, about which I can do nothing really, except to bear witness, I find peace with wild things gathering at the water. Everyone needs water. We are all relatives in this, whether large or small, near or far.
My favorite part of gardening is when native plants show up and bloom all on their own! Asters are all around the edges of our yard, and in so many other Maine yards in our neighborhood right now. Different varieties, all beloved by pollinators, tiny beautiful blossoms when you look closely.
My least favorite part of gardening is wrestling with the invasive species that show up on their own. For the last three weeks I’ve been pulling buttercupplants that spread all over under the honeycrisp apple tree, and were also just starting to infiltrate the raspberry patch. So first I pulled up all the plants I could, in sections, then I set down cardboard over the area, watered it, and spread a thick layer of wood chips on the cardboard. Handily, the tree is right next to our pile of wood chips. The hope is that the cardboard and wood chips will smother the rest of the buttercup roots that I am not able to eradicate.
Halfway done pulling buttercup plants and layering cardboard.
While I was at it, I also pulled up all the oregano under that tree–my other nemesis, though it has its uses as an herb. It was intermixed with the buttercup. I was sad that I had to cover other ground plants like wild strawberry, and I hope they will spread again over the wood chips once things settle down. But finally, it was finished. (For now–I imagine I will have to be on the lookout next season for sneaky little survivors.)
Completed!
Meanwhile, the other least favorite thing about gardening is watching how climate change is disrupting the patterns that nature usually unfolds in each season. Yesterday, I discovered that there were open blossoms on the cherry trees–just a few–but this is October in Maine! Last winter’s unseasonable warming and freezing killed all the blossoms that should have come out in the spring. We have yet to harvest any cherries from these trees beyond one or two. And now this. I have heard that other people are noticing weird blooming out of season on other plants too. I don’t know if the cherry trees will survive. I hope they will. I tend them as well as I can, but there are forces far beyond the little garden here in our yard.
Meanwhile, I try to be grateful for the gifts that still emerge, the asters and goldenrods, the frogs and birds, and that I am able to go outside to watch and learn.
Finding Our Way Home 