Catapulting In the New Year

 

When I was a child my mother had a calendar hanging on the kitchen wall by the door. Made of cloth, with a wooden dowel run through top and bottom, it showed all twelve months of the year. Which year, I don't recall... it had just always been there. I would sit at the kitchen table and stare at those blocks of numbers with undying fascination. And to this day I still envision the year in a sort of quantum-dimensional form of this calendar. January is at the top; the year descends from there, wandering back and forth a bit through spring and summer, into autumn, then burrowing down into the darkest days of early winter. By the end of December I always feel as though I am deep, deep under all those months stacked above me, in a place that is dark, close, and lit by candles and firelight.

The quantum dimension comes into play in the connection between the last day of December and the first day of the new year. Somehow, on that last night as I sleep, I am catapulted up to the top of the year once again - a leap which is at once a great distance and no distance at all... a straight line which is also a circle, an exhilarating leap to a summit of light. For me, New Year's Day is fresh air, brightness and looking forward. I take down all the soft furry greens and lights of Christmas and solstice, in favor of the clarity of open space. I start to eat lighter; dinner is likely to take on a Mexican or Asian flair, as my body's biological clock tunes to the increasing daylight. I revel in the crisp crystal whiteness of snow and snowflakes and the sparkle of winter air. I look forward: to sledding, skating and hiking in a winter wonderland, to February when the temperature will be warmer, the air crystal clear and moist, cleansing the lungs. The secret to enjoying weather and snow is to get out and play in it - a secret that's no secret to children. The beauty of individual flakes and of the whiteness against the rich evergreen of pines and firs, crisper than a laser photo, helps mitigate the troubles of winter.

I listen to the whispers of springtime and green growing things.

I suppose most of us have a pretty straight-line perception of the passage of time. But on my mother's calendar I could envision myself perched in July and being able to smile and wave to my future self on its way up from December to January. (I always made the journey up on the RIGHT side of the calendar, by the way - that's important. I now know that counterclockwise represents rising or flying upwards; body into spirit, expansion of consciousness from inner core to the cosmic, rebirth, growth, awareness, journeying, wisdom, fulfillment of intent.) And my future self would wave back, watching the aerial view of the year past as it flashed by. I didn't realize at the time how this childhood vision would change the passage of time for me to a non-linear thing, would open windows of seeing that would stay with me for the rest of my life. It's a thing I want to share, because if the future is now, if you can see it and wave at it, maybe you're more likely to take care of it - because what happens to it is what happens to you.

As I prepare for this year's catapult into the light, I marvel at the mysteries of space, time and dimensions... and how one small calendar on a wall can shape a lifelong vision of existence.

RESOLUTION, n. 1. the act or process of resolving something or breaking it up into its constituent parts or elements; the result of this. 2. a resolving, or determining; deciding; the thing determined upon; decision as to a future action; resolve. 3. a resolute quality of mind. 4. a solving, as of a puzzle, or answering, as of a question; solution. 5. that part of a play, novel, etc. in which the plot is explained or made clear. 6. medieval: the disappearance of swelling, fever, or other manifestation of disease. 7. music: the passing of a dissonant chord or tone to a consonant chord or tone; a chord or tone to which such passing occurs. 8. physics: the capability of an optical or imaging system of making clear and distinguishable the separate parts or components of an object.

"It's Too Cold Outside for Angels To Fly"

Raw journal entry, from a rainy night in Shelton WA, four years ago... fall 2012.

I met a homeless woman last night, she asked for a ride from the library up to WalMart. She couldn't have been a day under 70. Wonderfully nice, tidy, educated, smart, fun to talk to - but it was mostly listening because she really needed to talk. A history buff who's learning about all the towns she passes through. We sat in the car for over an hour til some WalMart guy pointed out I was parked on the sidewalk. Then she asked me to drive her to McDonald's instead. She was clearly hoping I'd take her home for the night. She was putting up a good front for being confident, almost like she was choosing to live this way to travel & learn about history, but at the end she just got very despondent when she realized I could not take her home. She just stood there, a tiny little white-haired angel, and looked at me with those eyes... I told her the landlord would not be pleased - which may be true - so I couldn't. But it was more that something indefinable was keeping me from doing so. And I DROVE AWAY and left her. I felt like total shit. I was seriously thinking I should go back & get her anyway. Then I turned the radio back on and it was the song The A Team (Ed Sheeran - "It's too cold outside for angels to fly") and I just lost it. I pulled over & cried my eyes out. I thought the song was a clear message from the universe to go back & get her but I still couldn't bring myself to do it. I ended up driving to the police station & asking if there was anywhere I could take her but they said although there is a shelter in town, it stops taking people by early evening, so, too late.

All I could keep thinking was "My friends who have helped me, would never have driven away and left her like that." And they probably wouldn't have either. And I felt so ashamed of myself for doing that after all the help I have been given.

I have been seriously re-assessing myself as a person on this journey and not always liking what I see. I certainly didn't like what I saw last night. Here I am heading up to Seattle hoping that people there will help ME and what right do I have to hope for that when I didn't help her? The police were saying all the crappy usual stuff - "some people just want to live that way, she's survived til now, tomorrow night she'll just be in the same position," etc. etc. - even "those homeless folks look older than they really are." It made me so angry to hear that, what does it matter exactly how old she is? All that matters is that she is old and she has nowhere to go. And yeah, even if it was just for one night, it's still one night of warmth and sleep and compassion. It was awful to see the perception the police have of homeless people.

I think one thing that bothered me a lot was that it was almost like a mirror to the future. She's as educated as I am and still in this situation. Jesus. It hit too close to home. Seeing that was pretty motivational. And that's even worse - she actually did something for me and I did nothing for her. But maybe, maybe someday I will take this experience and turn it into something that makes a difference.

Is There Hope for the Bees?

Brown-belted Bumble Bee, Bombus griseocollis, on Echinacea.
Photo by Kent McFarland of the Vermont Center for Ecostudies

Almost everyone knows that The Bees Are Dying. Colony Collapse Disorder has become a recognizable phrase in lunch room conversations. But for most people, then, there is a pause... what bees, exactly, are dying? Um, honey bees, of course, isn't that right? The ones that pollinate all our food crops?

The causes for pollinator decline are complex and not fully understood. But perhaps the biggest concern is what we humans are doing. The first thing that probably pops into your mind is pesticides, then perhaps environmental degradation, habitat loss and climate change. All those things are having an effect on the bees. But the most devious devil in the works may be one that has been around for about ten thousand years: domestication. Humans started messing with the bees, as we have messed with so many other life forms, and things started going downhill. Most worrisome of all, we don't seem to have learned from our former mistakes with other animal species.

Honey bees are an introduced species in North America. Most are living in managed hives and being bred by humans. Now we have started breeding and managing native species as well... mason bees, leafcutter bees, alkali bees, and most notably bumble bees. Bumble bee populations are now also declining - what a shocker.

Breeding and managing our bees has resulted in a loss of genetic diversity, a loss of wild vitality and stamina, and a decrease in disease resistance. It has transferred diseases and parasites to our wild populations and diluted their gene lines. The practice of using migratory bee hives has increased disease through overcrowding, has promoted the rapid spread of disease throughout the U.S., and encourages and supports monoculture.

Every spring, over half (60%) of all the managed honey bee hives in the country are loaded on trucks and converge upon California's almond groves. They come from as far away as New England. For two weeks 1.5 million hives of bees work at pollinating over 750,000 acres of almonds. It is the world's largest pollination event. When it's over, the bees are packed up and taken away. There is nothing else growing in the almond groves. But there are other monoculture fields... of alfalfa, clover, melons, apples... where the bees are taken for another week or two. They travel around the country, following the crop bloom. It's a fragile system where if anything goes wrong, if for any reason we cannot transport vast numbers of honey bees to our crops at the precise time of bloom, there is no backup. There are no wild bees living in our huge monoculture fields because there is no food source for them for most of the year.

When varroa mites appeared (also an introduced species) beekeepers started applying pesticide to kill the mites. The pesticide produced negative effects on the bees and crept into the honey. It also did something more insidious: it prevented the bees from co-evolving with and adapting to the mites. In fact, it created super-mites that are resistant to pesticides, much as antibiotics create super-resistant bacteria. It's the same age-old story – humans try to manage something, screw it up, then attempt to fix it and instead further screw it up. Apparently, we cannot be taught.

Some people feel it's questionable whether honey bees could now even survive without human assistance.

Most of the major staple crops for global human diets – wheat, corn, rice, barley, millet, rye, sorghum – actually do not depend upon any animal pollinators, bees or otherwise. They are in the grass family and as such are self-pollinating or wind pollinated. These crops together account for most of the world's food supply by weight and caloric content (FAO, 2005). However fruits and vegetables provide essential nutrients as well as diversity for human diets, and these crops DO rely heavily on animal pollinators. For example, seven out of nine of our major food sources of Vitamin C are animal pollinated: oranges, tangerines, bell peppers, tomatoes, cabbage, melon and watermelon. Melons, cucurbit squashes, almonds and most pome fruits (apples, pears) are completely dependent on pollinators. And animal-pollinated crops in general have a greater economic value, providing farmers with more income per unit of land. Some of our oilseed crops depend on pollinators too; and the forage and hay crops (clover, alfalfa) used to feed livestock need pollination in order to produce seed.

Despite their critical role, there is shockingly little known about pollinators, and nowhere less than in the U.S. We have essentially no long-term data on population trends, in contrast with the U.K. and Europe where much better records show clear indications of declines. But collectively, the evidence we do have indicates that many American pollinators are in decline.

SO DON'T JUST SIT THERE, DO SOMETHING. HERE'S HOW.

CONSERVATION ACTION STEPS

Regulate and eliminate use of chemicals

Kent McFarland, senior conservation biologist at the Vermont Center for Ecostudies in Norwich, Vermont, points out that recent research fingers pesticides as harming bee populations. Neonicotinoids, introduced in the 1990s, are one of the most widely used crop pesticides in the world. They affect bees' nervous systems and behavior, including homing instincts and the ability to gather food. Without enough food the queens don't reproduce as much and colonies become smaller and produce fewer queens. There is also evidence that low levels of these pesticides reduce the bees' levels of resistance to fungal infections (US Agriculture Department's Bee Research Laboratory). Neonicotinoids have been banned in France, Italy and Germany; beekeepers in the U.S. and Great Britain are calling for similar bans.

Bees have low fecundity – they do not reproduce rapidly or in large numbers. So they are slow to recover from population depletion, no matter what the cause. For example, bumble bee populations were found to take 3 to 4 years to rebound after pesticide application (Plowright et al, 1978).

WHAT YOU CAN DO: Lobby to ban neonicotinoids as well as other pesticides and don't use them at home. Be an organic localvore. Write to law makers and farmers. Most of all, help raise awareness, and encourage everyone to let our wallets do the talking – just buy foods that are grown without these pesticides. Just do it!

Avoid GE Crops

While studies have indicated that contamination from GE crops can have “negative effects” on bees, there is allegedly no documentation linking GE crops with actual bee population decline. However, every stress factor contributes to weakening the health and resistance of bees and other pollinators. The negative effects of GE crops is just one more thing for them to have to deal with on top of everything else.

WHAT YOU CAN DO: Just don't buy GE foods. Help raise more awareness of GE oils and livestock feed. Many otherwise organic products still contain GE oils; for example, most tortilla chips that are “made with organic corn” still contain non-organic canola oil – almost certainly GE. Many farms that raise grass-fed beef still “finish” their cows with non-organic grain, again, almost certainly GE. Tell your farmers you don't need your cows finished!

Clean up the air

Researchers at the University of Virginia found that pollutants from cars and industry – ozone, hydroxyl, nitrate radicals – bond with flower scent molecules and keep them from traveling as far as they normally would. This inhibits the ability of pollinators to find the fragrance and the flowers. They must travel further and expend more energy to find dinner – and fewer flowers get pollinated.

Stop feeding bees sugar water?

It is common practice to feed domestic bees with sugar water at certain times, such as in early spring when honey reserves are low after the winter. While low honey reserves can occur even for wild bees, it is obviously a typical result of human harvesting of honey. Also, bumble bees used for greenhouse tomato pollination must be fed since tomato blossoms provide pollen but not nectar. Feeding solutions, typically provided by the same company that sells the bees, contain sugar, preservatives and artificial coloring (to make it easier for humans to see the level of the solution). Cane sugar has typically been processed with various chemicals.  Beekeepers are now being warned against feeding bees with high fructose corn syrup; studies indicate that when warmed to temperatures that can occur in bee hives, it produces a toxin, hydroxymethylfurfural (HMF), that kills honey bees. Could these artificial feeding solutions be lowering the bees' resistance to other stress factors?

Conserve and replenish habitat and forage

This is an area with lots of opportunity for individuals to make a difference. In general, pollinators need wild woodsy natural habitat with native plant species, not spaces that are tidily managed by humans and dominated by introduced plants. Studies show that it's not necessarily just diversity that's important but more the actual composition of floral species. Also, keep in mind that pollinators need more than just food. They need resources for breeding, nesting, overwintering and all the other aspects of their lives, just as you do.

Conservation of existing habitat should be a priority since restored habitats might not include everything necessary for pollinator survival; we just don't know enough about their needs, and humans are just not as good at this stuff as Mother Nature. Besides, it's physically and politically much easier to preserve what's already there than to try and re-create it.

***********************

MORE THINGS YOU CAN DO!

In your community:

* Advocate for your local businesses, parks, golf courses, schools, and community areas to become pollinator-friendly by landscaping with native plants and allowing perimeters and islands to go natural.

* Support restoration and especially preservation efforts for native habitats: prairie, forests, wetlands, etc. - including green wildlife corridors.

* Become a citizen scientist; contact your local environmental organizations and universities for information on how you can participate in pollinator monitoring efforts.

* Organize events and efforts to raise public awareness of pollinators in your community, library and school: film showings, speakers, display boards, newsletters, articles for local papers, fairs and events, etc.

* Become informed on the truth about forest conservation. Carbon trading is a false solution, and clear cutting diverse native hardwood forests and replacing them with pine plantings is no solution at all. It eliminates acres of hardwood blossom forage as well as dead wood, stumps and other nesting sites – and creates countless other problems.

See http://vh-gfc.dpi.nl/img/userpics/File/publications/Therealcostofagrofuels.pdf, co-authored by Vermont's Brian Tokar, for an excellent unveiling of truths and deceptions about forest management and other issues.

At home:

* Practice diverse wildlife landscaping with native plants in your yard, rather than monoculture lawns or non-native species

* Allow weeds!

* Leave brush piles, dead stumps, dead wood, undergrowth, etc. around the perimeter of your property to provide habitat and nesting areas for pollinators and other wildlife. Native bee nesting sites typically include dead wood, suitable soil, and abandoned rodent burrows – the majority of native bees nest underground.

* Plant a diversity of native flowering plants – at least 15 species – and aim to have at least three species in bloom at any given time, spring through fall. Include spring blooming trees. Bees are sort of like bears. They need to stock up in fall for the coming winter, whether to build up their energy reserves or store food, and when they first emerge in spring they need a quick source of food to replenish depleted supplies. So an abundance of spring and fall bloom is sure to make your property a popular pollinator hangout.

* Choose perennials over annuals; perennials provide more dependable annual food sources and are usually richer in nectar than annuals.

* Use heirloom varieties, which tend to have more fragrance, nectar and pollen.

* Avoid flowers bred as “doubles” - double-flowered roses, marigolds, etc. They have been bred for appearance and tend to have less nectar and pollen.

* Plant in clumps

* Choose a variety of flower colors and shapes.

* Include night-blooming plants for moths

* Provide water (a birdbath, fountain, etc.) and a mud patch to serve as a mineral lick for butterflies and a source of nest building material for bees. Add a small amount of mineral salt or wood ash to the mud.

* Provide housing. Here are some things you can try: create patches of bare ground within perennial plantings such as hedgerows or pastures for ground nesters; leave dead wood and standing snags; provide piles of stones; leave clump-forming grasses; drill holes in dead wood; and put out nesting boxes of various types such as drilled bee boards. Look on line for information on nesting boxes for different bee species.

For farmers:

* Leave “insectary strips” within fields or on field margins and buffer strips. These provide pollen and nectar sources and attract pollinators.

* Use hedgerows.

* Plant cover crops such as clover and buckwheat and allow them to bloom before tilling them under. Plant native wildflower mixes in fallow or old fields or allow the weeds to colonize them while the fields rest.

* Use drip or spray irrigation instead of flooding, to avoid drowning ground-nesting bees. Irrigate at night to avoid interfering with foraging and nesting activity.

* Avoid extensive use of plastic mulch.

* Try no-tillage methods to avoid disturbing nest sites. The density of squash bees on no-till farms is three times that of tilled farms (Shuler et al, 2005).

* Avoid pesticides. Even products approved for organic gardening, such as pyrethrins and rotenone, are toxic to pollinators. If they do not kill outright, they can weaken pollinators, damage their nervous systems and affect their reproduction. Native bees are smaller than honey bees so may be harmed by smaller doses. If you must use a pesticide, avoid contact with blooming plants, apply it in the late evening after bees stop foraging, and use liquid, not powder.

ROMANCING THE WILD LEEK

 When the leaves start to turn yellow, the season is nearly over...

You can still eat the bulbs but they'll rapidly become hard and coarse.

There are few food plants more seductive than a wild leek. Satiny leaves of verdant green, silky alabaster bulbs like elongated pearls, all permeated by the primitive, wild scent that is neither onion nor garlic but somewhere unique and between, potent and irresistible as the tree of life, stimulating the mind to gratifying visions of dishes fit for the gods.

Wild leeks, also known as ramps or ramsons, are one of our first botanical harbingers of spring, and only a northerner can truly understand the yearning for that first sight of green washing lushly across the bare grayish-tan hillsides. It’s more than just psychological food for the soul. A true spring tonic, wild leeks are an intoxicating elixir of vitamins, minerals and bio-flavonoids after a long northern winter.

 Leeks prefer to grow on hillsides.
At the bottom of the hill there's often a stream...

handy for washing off the dirt!

I’m an experienced leek hunter, and I know these members of the Lily family in ways that few people do. I know how to find them by their inconspicuous dry flower umbels, long after their leaves fade and vanish into the forest floor. I know that not every plant blossoms; that they don’t blossom every year, depending on conditions; that seeds can lie dormant for at least a year and a half; that they reproduce more by bulb division than by seed, meaning that most leeks are actually clones. I know that in the fall the bulbs are a lot larger, harder and tougher than they are in spring, but just as flavorful. And I know how the outer layers of those bulbs, feeding the new growth, disintegrate and slough off by spring; this is what we rub off when we clean the bulbs down to their small, tender, delectable core. I have a few captive leeks in my refrigerator right now; this is the second time I have wintered some over in the fridge, playing the voyeur, covertly observing their behavior – a sneak peek into the private life of leeks.

Unfortunately the human craving for their wild, fresh, clean garlicky taste has put leeks on the “species of special concern” list in three states (Maine, Rhode Island and Tennessee) and on the endangered species list in Quebec where they are protected from all but limited individual harvesting and may not be served in restaurants; poachers carry them across the border into Ontario to sell. Annual east coast festivals in Pennsylvania, West Virginia, Tennessee, and North Carolina unintentionally but unfortunately encourage over-harvesting. But the story of how wild leeks achieved endangered status is more complex.

Leeks are spring ephemerals – like the frogs and salamanders in a vernal pool, they are obvious for only a short time. They take advantage of the intense spring sun in deciduous forests before the leaves arrive on the trees and shade out the forest floor. In just a few weeks, their high photosynthetic rate enables them to rapidly accumulate enough carbohydrates to survive the rest of the year. Then the leaves die back, returning their calcium and nutrients to the soil for re-use, and the plants (sometimes) send up their single flower stalks; leeks are unusual in that they have separate photosynthetic and reproductive phases. This brief and intense period of growth requires highly fertile forest soil. When it’s over, the leeks hunker down deep in the dirt and go into dormancy (some differentiation occurs in the bud during the summer dormant period). Dormancy is broken by the low soil temperatures of autumn, and the roots and shoots begin to grow slowly. They will continue to grow over the winter.

Little is known about the pollination of the flowers. Commercial growers of wild leeks have observed bumble bees and ants working the flowers. The species name, Allium tricoccum, refers to the three seeds produced by each flower. Leeks seem to prefer hillsides, where rain washes the seeds down the slope. But leeks reproduce mainly by cloning (bulb division), and the largest bulbs are the ones that do most of the reproducing.

Since leeks have few natural predators, they don’t reproduce fast - it can take a colony up to ten years to recover from as little as a 10% loss. Populations recover more slowly in the north; in Quebec, the minimum viable population size for a colony is 300 – 1030 plants, and harvesting rates of just 5 – 15 percent have been shown to decrease population growth rates to below equilibrium. In southern Appalachia, a 10% harvest every 10 years would be sustainable. Another important factor is that foragers tend to selectively harvest the largest bulbs, effectively robbing the colony of its breeding population. This can drastically affect the recovery rate.

Increasing research into the commercial cultivation of wild leeks has led to more information on their secret sex life. As it turns out, they are touchy little critters who don’t really like to breed in captivity the way they do in the wild. For starters, it’s tough to duplicate the proper balance of high soil fertility (they favor soils with high calcium : magnesium ratios and an average pH of 5.5), and even tougher to replicate the necessary light conditions. The seeds aren’t inclined to sprout in an open farm field. The best germination rates were obtained under a 30% shade cover, but the seedlings didn’t live long. They need light to sprout, but more than 30% shade to grow.

Additionally, leek seeds contain a dormant, under-developed embryo. To sprout, the embryo needs a moist warm period, which breaks root dormancy, followed by a cold period, which breaks shoot dormancy. In the wild, the proper warm conditions may occur in the late summer or early fall and the seeds will sprout the next spring. If weather conditions are not right the first year, the seeds may sprout the following spring. They require particular moisture throughout the year.

Most of our food plants were domesticated long ago, so it's unusual and interesting to see the process in action with wild leeks. Based on past data on other domesticated species, we can probably expect cultivated ramps to get larger, less flavorful and less nutritious than wild ones. We can also expect that, inevitably, they will lose much of their mystique and cache... alas. Domestication has never been kind to species. As you enjoy this spring’s earthy pleasures of wild leek flesh, remember to treat them with respect and appreciation. Harvest gently!

Cleaned, peeled and ready for dinner!

FUN FACT!

Legend has it that the Midwestern Menomini Indians called leeks pikwute sikakushia – “the skunk.” They referred to the rich woodlands at the southern end of Lake Michigan, a popular leek foraging ground, as shikako, “the skunk place.” Now a large city has replaced the woodland leek colonies, and it smells much worse than the leeks. But it’s still called “the skunk place” – shekako, or as we now say, Chicago.

WILD LEEK (GUILTY) PLEASURES

So many recipes for leeks are based on potatoes and eggs, but wild leeks are far more versatile. They make a great potato-leek soup for sure, but they are also exquisite in a nettle-leek soup, spiked with rosemary. Try them slivered into salads; tossed with pasta, rice or grain; or pureed into salad dressing. Brush the entire plant with olive oil and grill, or bake beneath a sprinkling of pine nuts. Wrap choice morsels of whatever in whole leek leaves, brush with olive oil and bake, broil or grill. By happy coincidence leeks are superb sautéed with fiddleheads (which arrive at the same time).

You can prolong your leek ecstasy by drying, freezing or pickling them. A to-die-for freezing option is to make pesto; if you're using cheese, add it after thawing. Think beyond pasta when using pesto: it’s equally swoon-inducing with rice or grains, in casseroles, spread onto good bread, mixed into dips for crudités, or dolloped on top of soup or stew. Use your imagination. Ramp it up – and ramp on!

A PILGRIMAGE TO BLUEBERRIES

When I was a child, one of the highlights of summer was the traditional voyage to a special mountain on the Massachusetts – New Hampshire border. The mountain is small, only about 1,500 feet; easy to climb, especially when we drove up the bumpy dirt access road by the ski slope, and parked in the tiny shady lot with the old apple tree in the center. On top of the mountain is a fire tower, the kind with metal rails and old bleached-silver wooden steps riddled with carved initials and dates. We would climb the stairs, clinging to the rail when the gusty wind made the tower tremble, just for the thrill of looking down and imagining what would happen if we slipped. If we were lucky, a ranger might be there to open the trapdoor when we knocked, and let us into the tiny room walled with windows.

But the ultimate reason we went to this mountain, instead of just any other mountain, was not the tower. We went for the blueberries.

Between the hot naked granite where pools of rainwater ripple in the wind and big brown grasshoppers jump and click in the sun, are thick green carpets of blueberries. We came with our buckets and baskets and saved plastic containers, and with the warm sun on our backs and the cool breeze in our hair, we would pick and pick, rummaging among the small dense green leaves to find the biggest berries hidden in the shady depths. We ate lunch perched on the rocks overlooking the whole world, watching the cloud shadows move across the land spread out below. In the late afternoon we headed leisurely down the edge of the ski slope, snatching a last few berries, coming at last into the lower shady forest where the path was laced with tree roots. We piled into the old family station wagon and bumped slowly down to the paved road, past the little farm stands, to the ice cream stand on the corner that had the best ice cream in the world. And for days afterward, we would eat blueberries:  pies, and cake, and my Dad just bowlfuls with milk and sugar.

Years later, my own children and I would still make the annual pilgrimage. We never varied our routine, never risked disrupting the mountain muse. The fire tower still stood sentinel with the wind trembling its metal girders, and the grasshoppers still spread their wings purple and yellow in the sun; I could swear the very same grasshoppers I chased as a child. The smell was still the same… blueberries and ferns, sweet and musky in the heat. The cloud shadows still drifted across the land below. Time had held its breath on our mountain.

Since we moved to Vermont, we have not made the pilgrimage to the mountain. But we have found that, no matter where we pick our berries, there is still magic. The way in which our food connects us to the land is an enduring force wherever one may be. And there is something about gathering food in the wilderness that awakens the primal beast. The senses become more alert, to every sound and smell and nuance of the air.  The wildness arises within:  the tendency to startle at the snapping of a twig, at the cry of a bird; the urge to duck and hide from the chance passing hiker. As I gather the small round fruits I feel an intimate connection to the beings with whom I share nature’s abundance:  the bears, the deer, and the countless smaller creatures of field and forest. I keep an ear cocked to where my children are playing, wary of any danger they might be exposed to. For just these few hours, I am rooted completely in the right-here, right-now, in the perfection and simplicity of the present. And the sense of place is very strong; the protectiveness for this little patch of planet that gives me its nourishment and tranquility, and the sense of how I not only fit, but blend, into the rhythm and cycle of it all.

Later, as the sun nudges the horizon, the children come romping back across the field. They are immersed in their own wildness: a pair of wolf cubs munching down a few mouthfuls of sun-warmed berries and discovering the endless wonders of the forest. One eats a stinkbug by accident and spends a comical few minutes in expressive grimaces, mouth open. They turn over clumps of reindeer moss, sniff at spiders, find an owl feather in the grass. Then they are off again, gamboling over the thick soft carpet of fragrant needles in the nearby pine grove.
It’s time to go home, across the rolling fields, over the weathered boards bridging the tiny creek, with the sound of summer insects filling our ears, the chilling air of the summer evening filling our nostrils and lungs, and this perfect moment filling our souls. Tonight we will make blueberry cobbler together, and at bedtime we will snuggle up and read Robert McCloskey’s Blueberries for Sal, smiling about how humans and bears spend a day together on Blueberry Island, gathering food for the winter. We will fall asleep and dream of the smell of blueberries in the sun and of clouds in the wind.

Here in our little place on the planet, the magic is alive and well.

Take Back the Night and Dance Into the Light

Light is a metaphor for knowledge and hope. But in order to dance into the light, we need to learn to embrace the night. Natural light may be a wonderful thing, but the same cannot always be said for artificial electric light which is a visual expression of energy use. Humans are a primarily visual species, which is one reason why turning out the lights can be such a powerful experience in so many ways.

Author and speaker Michael Meade notes that witnessing the sunrise after the darkness of night is a metaphorical participation in the creation; creation, he says, is ongoing, not something that happened just in the past. Having lost the true night through electricity, most of us seldom or never experience this connection to creation in the fullest sense.

It is estimated that only 10% of the U.S. population can see an unobscured night sky. Air pollution is one of the reasons for this, but the biggest culprit is light. Light bleeds into our sky in two ways. A small proportion is "indirect upward light," reflected upwards from roads, pavement and buildings. The majority is "direct upward light," from poorly designed or installed light fittings that emit up to 50% of their light above the horizontal – allowing it to escape up into the sky. This is extremely wasteful of energy and fossil fuels as well as our tax dollars. And artificial lighting can have adverse effects on wildlife: misdirecting hatching sea turtles on beaches, confusing migrating songbirds, and disrupting the circadian rhythms of plants and trees - and humans.

           

For the first time in history, a large percentage of our planet can no longer appreciate one of the most beautiful parts of its heritage: dark skies. Light pollution, from over-used, poorly designed, and badly aimed lights from homes, businesses, highways, and all the other aspects of modern living, has deprived us of the "grandest free show in Nature." Satellite photos from space show a planet aglow with wasted light. Astronomers worldwide are joining the campaign for dark skies. The tenth anniversary of the inauguration of the Canary Islands Observatories was celebrated by a one-hour blackout ("put out a light, switch on a star"), publicized as "an opportunity to see the sky as it was seen by the aboriginal people of the islands."

           

Thus, turning out the lights is actually an opportunity to dance into the light – light of a metaphorical kind. We can all do our part to help take back the night. We can support planning policies that control lighting; encourage efficient and effective lighting; and protect unlit landscapes and countryside. We can encourage the recognition of light pollution as a statutory nuisance, similar to noise pollution. And we can make sure our own home lighting illuminates our house and yard - not the sky. Security lights, especially, are notorious for being overly bright and badly aimed, and studies show they do not decrease burglary.

Since the dawn of the human race, observing the night sky has inspired wonder, inspiration and motivation. The stars have shaped our religious beliefs, guided us across deserts and oceans, and led us on scientific quests. They have inspired us to build great pyramids and space probes. Always, they have given us something to reach for. The sight of our dark skies is as precious and as spectacular as our finest mountain views. It is an inheritance that all humans have a right to.

The light from the stars has traveled for thousands of years to reach our eyes. What a pity to miss it at the last instant of its journey. To quote the British Astronomical Society: “If all those who value the night sky can work together, our children and grandchildren will never have to ask us…

"WHAT WERE THE STARS?"

 * * * * * * 

A New Storyteller

"Tell me about light pollution,"

says the guy behind the counter at the print shop

as he opens my files.

"There's all this bad stuff, right?"

I can see that he is a representative human:

basically cheerful but

with that diagnostic streak of morbidity

that is a field mark of the human species ~
humans love looking at tragedy.

"Yeah there's some bad stuff," I tell him,

acknowledging his humanity.

"There are confused sea turtles

and disoriented insects. Disrupted biorhythms

and wasted energy and vanished stars.

But that's not what I talk about on stage."

"Really," he says. "What do you talk about?"

He looks at me expectantly

and in that moment,
there are no other customers in the shop.

"I've lived off the grid," I say.

"I've lived where the dark is so dense

you swim through it like liquid."

And I speak to him of candleglow

and lanterns and the soft blue hiss of gas lights.

Of the rhythm of sun and moon,

of going to bed early in the unbroken cradle of night

and waking, reborn,

at the first breath of dawn

with no alarm clock.

"Ahhhh," he sighs.

My favorite environmental event, I tell him,

is Earth Hour.

He gives me a blank look.

It's a global event, I tell him.

One night at the end of March,

turn out the lights for an hour.

Seattle's Space Needle winks out.

The Acropolis goes dark.

The Great Pyramids. The Eiffel Tower.

And tens of millions of homes.

All across the planet,

a rally for more efficient energy use

that does not involve using energy to get there.

You stay home.

You switch off and unplug.

Deceptively simple.

Ah but then the magic happens.

The subtle layers of awesome and wonder

begin to reveal.

His eyes grow wide as I rhapsodize about

the hush when the refrigerator is silenced.

About campfire gatherings and

guitar and drum voices and human voices and

the call of a tribal flute in the night.

Sparks merging with stars.

Eyes that see in the dark.

After an hour of darkness, I tell him,

those eyes cringe at the mere thought of electric lights.

You don't want to turn that

loud agonizing harshness back on.

A shift has taken place.

And you bathe by candlelight, slipping softly into sleep.

In the morning you wake like waking from a dream.

And you go back to life as usual only it's not quite the same...

You go back to life as usual.

But what if ~

What if, instead of once a year,

we had Earth hour every month, every week?

Could we reprogram our bodies, our selves,

into a softer but stronger way of life?

Could we rewrite ourselves

back into the magic

of a more sustainable story,

a legend where humans

once again experience creation

with every new dawn after a dark night?

We can - one human at a time.

As he hands me my printouts,

I see a new dawn whispering

in the eyes of this representative human

standing here with me.
We smile, because we both know.

He's going to be a great storyteller in the dark.

 

Have You Given Hope Today?

I've been very interested lately in the concept of effort vs return, from many different aspects.

Last night I was thinking again how deer and turkeys and other wildlife will sometimes sit and starve / freeze to death within sight of food because they are too exhausted to fight through the snow to get to it. Of course back when I first learned that, it was via "scientific" articles that would not dream of suggesting a psycho-emotional factor. But I am quite sure I know exactly how those deer and turkeys feel.

Recently I've been pondering a new angle on the basic premise - job hunting. With the internet making every upper level job search national and even international, and the economy being what it is, the chances of getting any particular job is now about the same as winning Powerball. (Okay, tiny exaggeration but not much.) Back in late summer I applied for a Farm & Food Policy Analyst position with Cornucopia Institute for which I am well qualified. They were supposed to make a decision in September I believe. I just got a letter about a week ago. They had over 500 applicants, including PhDs and MDs. The job went to a PhD. Frankly I was impressed that they sent the letter and even offered a free membership... most employers don't even bother to send anything any more.

So, yes, the amount of time & energy expended on job hunting and sending resumes is no longer worth the return - or lack thereof.

I suppose "hopelessness" is maybe another word for it.

I'm concerned about someone I know, back in New England, because she is about at that point of hopelessness - feeling like almost any energy expended to help herself will provide too little return to be worth it. Sucks. She is surrounded by an entire community, town, full of people and still in this predicament. Starving within sight of food because she is too exhausted to struggle through the snow to get it. WTF is wrong with our culture?

Oh, a few people have offered to help her, in the sense of temporary shelter or a little financial assistance. But they are few, and while those offers are priceless lifelines and those people are to be cherished, still, it does not solve the root of the problem. That is the job of a community and communities everywhere are failing miserably at it.

She told me today that it is not my responsibility to worry about or help her. I told her it's EVERYONE'S responsibility to worry about and help other living beings on the planet -- help each other. That's all that matters in the end. Why else are we here?