Nature's Liquid Gold

When I moved to the Village Of Marathon, 30 years ago this month as a matter of fact, I only had a slight idea of how this change to small town living was going to affect me, and what new wonders I was in for. I didn't have to wait long for the first one to put in an appearance. Only a few weeks after I was all moved in to my apartment on the top floor of a beautiful old craftsman home, sitting on the banks of a sweet little river, I was awakened one morning by the sounds of men's voices, a rhythmic tapping, and what sounded like metal cans being clanked together. I sat up in bed, opened the curtains, and was privy to my first ever lesson in tapping maple trees!

Since this was before I became addicted to gardening, I had no way of knowing that the trees which lined the street in front of my home were maple trees. It was March, after all, way up in northern New York, so the branches were bare of the leaves that might have identified them to this novice. I got dressed and went outside to see what the guys were doing. They had a pickup truck that was loaded in the back with metal pails and what looked like tiny water faucets. The would go from tree to tree, putting in a tap (what the little faucets were actually called) about 2-2 1/2 inches deep, and suspending a metal pail from the tap. The men were kind enough to take the time to explain the entire process to me, from the tapping of the trees to the finished product - maple syrup. They told me that our town had an abundance of maple trees and that they had been tapping them since the town's very beginnings in 1861. Every few days the men would go around and empty the pails into giant buckets lined up in the back of the truck and return the pails so they could collect as much as they could while the sap was still running, only a few weeks out of the year. The buckets were taken across the river to the other side of the village to a wooden building called The Sugar Shack. There the sap which had been collected was poured into a giant vat heated by a roaring fire 24/7, which the men watched over in shifts. The idea is to evaporate the water and boil down the sap to its syrupy essence. The final product is then bottled and sold, much of it, as I was to discover, at the town's annual Maple Festival which happened every Spring rain, snow, or shine (I've attended in all kinds of weather). 

As it happened, The Sugar Shack was also just across the river from where I lived and for weeks the smell of maple syrup wafted over the entire village. Is it any wonder that the local diner and coffee shops had an onslaught of folks ordering pancakes for breakfast? I couldn't wait to get my first taste of real maple syrup tapped from the very trees in front of my home!

Even though I no longer live up in Marathon, having moved about 45 minutes south to be closer to family and friends, I still go up every year for the festival. We weren't able to have one for the last two years due to the pandemic, but this weekend coming up we will be celebrating not only the beginning of spring and the first maple syrup of the season, but the return of the Maple Festival. It's not just about the food, the crafts, and the all-you-can-eat pancake breakfasts ... and, of course, the crowing of the Maple Queen. It's about community, and tradition, and the things that live on regardless of pandemics and fear. It's the coming together of complete strangers once a year when we're all family, all part of of the greater community called humanity, for one weekend a year to enjoy Mother Nature's gifts to us. It's what reminds us of what is important (and the maple candy is worth the trip if nothing else!). The fact that thousands have been known to show up over the course of the two-day event is a testament to family, tradition, spring, and a love for Mother Nature's liquid gold. 

And so it is. 

Spring Has Sprung!

At 11:33 AM yesterday, Spring arrived. Did it matter that it was cold, windy, and rainy out when it happened? Absolutely not. March may be the month that has trouble from day-to-day trying to figure out what season it is, but the Spring Equinox has arrived and with it the hope and promise of new beginnings.

There are two times in the year when the idea of new beginnings appeals to me. One is in September which is traditionally the start of the school year. That is when I like to learn something new, study something I've never studied before, and challenge my intellect. The other time of the year when I celebrate new beginnings is the first day of Spring. That is the time when I want to challenge myself inside and out, to get back to walking once the snow and ice and has finally departed (however, up here in March, that possibility hangs around until April), give my apartment a good spring cleaning and maybe improve the flow, and start preparing my tiny tiny tabletop garden for the growing season. Perhaps this year I'll try a new plant, or make yet another attempt at starting seeds indoors (I swear I'm going to master this). It's also about growing myself in some way, perhaps with a new spiritual practice or, better yet, a new writing project - which is exactly what is happening this year. It really doesn't matter what I do as long as it is new, fresh, and holds the promise of growing into something beautiful. In fact, the robin singing outside my window right now is telling me that it's time to get up, get moving, and get growing!

And so it is.

Signs of Hope

 On Saturday our area was hit with what the weather forecasters were calling a 'bombcyclone." The snow came down so heavily at times that I couldn't see out of the window, and the winds were whipping so badly that I was sure a tree was coming down any minute. It was a tense 24 hours for sure. While we didn't get the foot or more of snow they were calling for, 9.5 inches isn't anything to sneeze at, either. So besides prayer and a good supply of candles and batteries (just in case), what got me through the "dark and stormy night?" This:

No , not the cat thermometer. The geranium bloom. I woke up to a blizzard roaring outside, and a sign of spring to come on the inside. I have never had a geranium bloom in March, even though it is growing indoors. It was as if the geranium knew I needed a sign of hope, hope that spring would get here soon, and the promise that it would arrive eventually when the time was right. It reminded me of the old Native American saying: 

"Even in Nature, no storm can last forever."

Sometimes we need to look for signs of hope and promise when all seems dark and hopeless. The fact that I woke up today is a sign of hope and promise. The fact that the sun finally returned today , and in full strength, I might add, is a sign of hope and promise. The fact that I finally saw tiny paw prints in the snow on the roof outside my window, a sign that my little squirrel neighbors, whom I have not seen since the storm hit, were okay, is a sign as well. The fact that, after 30 years living in upstate New York, I should have faith by now that regardless of what is going on outside my window, spring is only a few more weeks away. All I needed was a sign of hope and promise, and Mother Nature came through for me once again. She always does.

And so it is.

To Seed, Or Not To Seed

It occurred to me the other day that I have been living in the upstate New York area for 30 years as of March 1st. Part of it was spent about 45 minutes north of where I am now in the beautiful area known as Marathon. The rest has been spend "down south" of there in the village of Endicott, a lovely combination of country and town all rolled into one. So you'd think after all this time, and all the years I've spent learning and practicing gardening, I'd be able to know when to start my seeds indoors. If I've learned anything from the school of hard knocks, aka gardening via the self-taught method, it is that all it takes is a move a few miles north or south to change the position of the sun, the wind, and even a slightly different climate to move the start date of seedlings up or down a few weeks or even a month or more. Even if you take the predictions of the Farmer's Almanac as gospel, Mother Nature has the final say. One year the conditions will be perfect to start your seedlings indoors in March, and the next year even mid-April will be too early. The worst blizzards I have experienced in the 30 years I've lived up in this area have arrived in mid-March. I guess Shakespeare was right when he warned: "Beware the ides of March!" While I can certainly make use of grow lights and heaters, what goes on outside the walls of my tiny home has as much to do with starting seeds as what I do inside.

I like to think that life works the same way. We want to plant new seeds in life, to start something new, and make positive changes, but the conditions have to be just right. Start it too soon and the seeds won't be strong enough to grow into seedlings. Wait too long and the season will have passed. So how do we know how and when to plant those seeds? We can start by getting the right soil, compost, and lighting, preparing the ground or pot. If we're trying to plant positive changes, we can start by letting go of what's no longer working and replacing it with positive thoughts and actions, preparing our inner soil just the way we would the soil in our pots. Then we begin watching for signs. Most often those signs come from within. We'll start talking to ourselves in a more loving manner. We'll start taking better care of ourselves.  We'll wake up one day and our spirits will know that this is the day! The sun will be shining, the air will smell like spring, perhaps we spy a few tiny green sprouts on the trees outside. Inside, our hearts will be telling us that it's time to open that seed package and sprinkle the tiny messengers of change over the soil you've prepared to receive them. Then just wait. Water, shelter them from unexpected cold, give them love and light, and behold, a beautiful new way of seeing the world will begin to grow. Before long, a whole new life will have bloomed! So get ready, prepare your ground of being, and listen. Spring isn't far behind.

And so it is. 

Not Done Yet

Many years ago when I was just beginning my journey as a gardener, still "green behind the ears" (pardon the pun but it was just there and I had to use it), I was driving home from work one very hot Friday afternoon and decided to stop at a local Home Depot near my office to see what they had in the Garden Center that might look nice in my brand new garden. Not being very well educated in what would work well for my area of the state, my Zone, as they say, I figured talking to someone who knew plants might help.

As I walked around the Garden Center, I saw all sorts of beautiful, flowering plants and luscious shrubs, but what caught my eye was a large cart that held a mountain of dead or dying plants just waiting to be taken out back and dumped. Right on the top was a large pot holding something that looked like it was on its last legs ... or stems, as it were ... and I felt myself being drawn to it. I took out the little card sticking up out of the pot that told you what kind of plant it was and what its sun and watering needs were. It was a foxglove, a purple foxglove. I loved foxgloves. My heart hurt for this sad plant that was being tossed aside because it wasn't relevant any more. Once it had been a seed full of promise, now it was being discarded because in the eyes of others, it had no worth. I pulled back some of the drying leaves and dug my thumb nail into the stem. Sure enough, I saw green. I picked at a few other spots on the plant and found more green hiding under the brown. I picked up the pot and asked the guy watering the plants if I could have the foxglove.

"Sorry, ma'm, but that plant is on the garbage pile to be dumped out back for compost."

"Well, then, can I just take it instead of making you dump it? You'll be rid of it either way."

The man said that he'd have to check with the manager since he didn't think I could just take it out of the store without paying something for it even if it was headed for compost. He returned a few minutes later and said: 'You can have it for $3.00, but I think it's a waste of money," So I paid the $3.00 and headed out. 

I had a 40 minute drive on a very hot, late afternoon with no working AC in my old car, so I stopped at the nearest dollar store and picked up a large bucket and two gallons of water. I put the plant in the back seat, emptied one of the gallons of water on the plant to submerge it, and drove like hell with all the windows open.  When I got home, I added the second gallon to totally submerge the plant, put it in the least sunny spot for overnight, and told it I wasn't ready to give up on it yet. The next day I emptied some of the water until it was just at the right depth to let the leaves dry out but keep the roots moist and put it in the sun. On Sunday, I took it out and planted it. In two weeks it had established itself and was actually standing up on its own without staking. In three weeks I had big, beautiful, purple bell-shaped flowers that I swear were smiling. 

We get to a certain age in life where we begin to feel irrelevant. We start out in life so full of promise and dreams for the future, then suddenly, before we know it, we look in the mirror and see this strange, old person staring back at us. People start to treat us differently when we're sporting grey hair instead of brown, and wrinkles where once our skin had been smooth and luminous. There are even times when people don't seem to see us at all. So what's the cure for people who no longer feel relevant? The same as it was for that foxglove: water, breathe, nurture, and plant in the sunshine. Feed and water yourself with positive thoughts, eat healthy and drink lots of water, get out in the sunlight (okay, take the sunscreen but you know what I mean), and smile ... lots and lots of smiling. Find something that brightens your spirit and sparks your curiosity. Pretty soon people will no longer be seeing grey hair and wrinkles. They'll be asking themselves: "What does she know that I don't, and how do I get some?" That's when you tell them: " Go plant a flower and smile."

And so it is. 

Did He, Didn't He, And What's The Point, Anyway?

You may think it a bit odd that I would be writing about George Washington chopping down the cherry tree here at Flower Bear's Garden. Not at all. A cherry tree is part of nature and isn't that what I write about every week - how nature influences our lives? Also, as it is Presidents' Day, I thought it would be interesting to find a way to work it in. Never let it be said that I can't come up with a good reason for what I write, strange as it may sometimes seem!

The truth about Washington cutting down the cherry tree, as it was explained on the Mount Vernon website, is that it was the imaginative creation of Mason Locke, a minister-turned-itinerant bookseller and one of Washington's first biographers. What is more important is the moral of the story, for grownups as well as children: honesty is the best policy. From my perspective, it also reminds me that even if the cherry tree falls, all we need to do is plant a few seeds and a new one will grow. 

So here is my take on the whole thing: If we are honest and truthful, even if we make a mistake, we can always plant new seeds and grow something even better. Happy President's Day!

And so it is. 

Green With Envy

I was watching a nature show on BritBox last week called "Winter Watch." The hosts spent two weeks traveling all over the U.K. showing stories of how the natural world and it's creatures survive the winter in their fair land. As beautiful and interesting as it all was, what hit me the hardest was hearing that they already have snowdrops, those first brave shoots of spring, coming up all over the place. Some areas have even been seeing them come up since the end of January. To say that I was green with envy was an understatement: I was bright, bold, green!

Back when I had my big garden in the little town up north from where I live now, watching for the snowdrops was what kept me going through winters that I was sure would never end. Day after day, well into March, I would check out the bed where I had planted them and watch for those first tiny green shoots, and then for the delicate little white flowers struggling to raise their heads and face the sun. They were so very symbolic of how we all felt waiting for the last of the snow to melt and the buds to return to the trees. We all needed something to hold on to in order to make it to spring.

We humans are very much like our gardens. Sometimes it seems as if spring will never come, the sun will never shine again, and out best growing days are behind us. It feels as if it takes longer and longer for us to spring back and put out those tender, tentative new shoots again, afraid that it's too late and we're too old to take root again. It is precisely for that reason that we have to find that one thing to hold on to, that gets us through until our attempts at starting over, whether it be a new life or even just a new day, start to send up shoots. It could be our faith, our family, or, as in my case, a few small pots on a windowsill or table-top that, somehow, find a way to start again in the spring. Whatever it is, believe in it, have faith in it, and feed it with all the love and positive energy you can muster. One fine spring morning, those first tender shoots will poke their little heads up through the earth, and a new day will begin. Count on it.

And so it is.