My People, My Planet

Last Saturday I was thrilled to be able to return to my very favorite farmers' market, the Ithaca Market in Ithaca, New York. Between Covid and surgeries, it had been a while since I was able to go. Trust me when I say it was a like taking a five year old to a candy store. Stall after stall boasted the very best of organic produce, homemade cheese, breads, wines, beautiful sustainably grown flowers, and lovely hand made crafts and artwork. It wasn't just the things for sale that made it such a wonderful experience, it was just as much the people who live their lives day after day in a responsible, sustainable way.

Walking around the market, I was also taken with the people who choose to spend their Saturday shopping, socializing, and enjoying this gem which sits on the shores of a branch of the Cayuga River. You can grab a cup of coffee made from homegrown beans, or some iced tea, sit outside watching the boats go by, and listen to whatever musician happens to be playing just for the joy of sharing their music. Whenever I go there, I always get the feeling that I am surrounded by "my people," the men and women who believe that we can live a sustainable, healthy life while at the same time protecting our dear Mother Earth by using healthy farming practices. Their stands filled with beautiful, luscious bounty shows what people can do if they want to save the planet and still produce healthy food to eat. 

I was also struck by the broad range of people who were there: students, young adult farmers, old hippies who never gave up the fight, and, most of all, lots and lots of children who are being taught where good, wholesome food comes from and how they can pass on that knowledge for the future. There's no big secret to growing food without pesticides or GMO's and protecting the earth, our home, for future generations. All you have to do is walk down those aisles, talk to the folks who are doing it, and be willing to put health and responsibility above money, taking personal responsibility for the welfare of the planet. Sure, it's a pretty big commitment, but the alternative is not something we can ignore much longer.

As for me, I came home with the biggest organic tomato I've ever seen (which made a great tomato sandwich, I might add), curly lettuce, homemade bread, and a sense of peace and contentment which only comes from being in the presence of like-minded people - my people, the ones who live every day of their lives in reverence for our Mother Earth and the future of food in this country. May that reverence carry on to the next generation and beyond.

And so it is. 

 

Sunrise, Sunset

"To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven; a time to be born, and a time to die ..."

Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

If there is one thing I've learned from nature, it is that everything has a time and a season, sunrise and sunset, winter to spring, life to death. Nothing remains the same. You'd think after 73 years on this planet, I'd get used to it, accept it and move on. Sometimes that works, like with winter to spring, and sunrise to sunset. When it comes to life and death, though, it's still a struggle.

Today is my birthday. Exactly one week ago my sweet, beloved four-legged, furry Golden Girl, Laura, crossed that rainbow bridge to be with her sister in heaven:

Laura was just coming up on her 18th birthday when a stroke took her. She went with my arms around her, singing to her, and watching her favorite Cat TV channel on YouTube with birds and squirrels. A cardinal was singing to her as she took her last breath. She knew right up to the very end that she was loved.

I have loved and lost 5 cats over the last 33 years. I have also been a gardener, of large and tiny gardens, for almost that long. Between both of these things, you'd think I'd have gotten the message that seasons come and go, and so do those we love. The flowers don't stay in bloom forever, the sun eventually sets, and the April showers will eventually be February's snow. If we know that, know it in our hearts as well as our minds, then why is death so hard to bear? I think the word we're looking for here is love. When we lose someone we love, it's like losing a part of us, a part we think we will never recover. We may know intellectually that the trees will bloom again in the spring, and the grass will grow back, but at that moment our hearts are telling us that there is a huge hole that will never be filled again. We have lost someone who loved us, unconditionally, and that is something you can't just replace by planting a new seed ... or is it? 

All things take time. A seed planted today won't bloom tomorrow, or the next day, or maybe even for a week or two. Eventually, if we give it water, light, warmth, and attention, it will sprout, and and a new flower will grow. It may not look exactly like the one we had, and it may even be something completely different, but when the sun shines on it, it will reach it's leaves to the sky in joy. So today, on my birthday, I will look for some seeds, perhaps some Forget Me Not's, plant them in new soil, water them with love, feed them with hope, and wait for that day when tiny green shoots of a new day poke through. 

And so it is.

Water, Water, Everywhere And Not A Drop To Drink

One of the things I love about walking very early in the morning is that the noises and distractions of the day haven't quite started yet and I can greet the day, and all my bird and animal friends, quietly and with gratitude. One day a few weeks ago was the exception, a very wet one as a matter of fact.

I was walking on a residential street lined on both sides with well established, older homes and beautiful big trees making a canopy for me from the rising sun. At that point of the morning it was low and just above the horizon. I always walk with sunglasses and a hat with a brim to protect my old eyes, but when it's that low, the glare slides right between glasses and hat. On that morning, when I came to a break in the trees in front of someone's house, I had to lower my head and divert my eyes towards the street to keep from being blinded for the few moments it took me to reach shade again. In those few moments, I wasn't focused on the houses or their front landscapes ...which is why I ended up with an unexpected morning shower!

The house that was sitting right between the two shade trees and open to the morning sun was, at that moment, getting soaked from a water sprinkler that reached way beyond their picture-perfect lawn all the way across the sidewalk to the curb. I walked right through it. To say I was surprised and put off my stride was an understatement. I had to dart out into the street to keep from getting soaked. If it had been 70 degrees, it would have felt good. Since it was only 56 degrees, it was a rude awakening to say the least. When I reached the safety of the sidewalk again (thankfully there were no cars at that hour to run into when I escaped to the street), I turned around to get a view of my attacker. The homeowners had positioned the sprinkler to wave back and forth over the lawn so it didn't hit the house, only the sidewalk. How thoughtful of them. It made me stop and get a good look at all the lawns up and down the street. As I continued on my walk, I took extra care to see who had used their frontage to grow something beautiful or useful, and who had just plopped a lawn down there because "that's what everybody does, right?" As it turns out, more than half the homes had front lawns just sitting there. Some were small, but some were massive and included the sides and backs of the homes. There they sat using up water and soil just to make an impression on the neighbors.

I'm not here to argue against the existence of lawns. They certainly have a use, especially if you have pets or kids who need a safe, soft place to play and exercise. However, after what we've been though for the last two years and the realization that we can, and should, be more self-sufficient and sustainable, it changes the need to impress the neighbors to a chance to help feed the neighbors and your family as well. Even a front lawn can be used to grow herbs and leafy greens that are decorative as well as edible. And let's not even get into the use of chemicals to keep the weeds and dandelions out of the lawn that poison the ground water, yours as well as your neighbors (by the way, did you know that dandelions are edible and can be used for salads as well as teas?). By now there is no excuse for anyone not to know about what Roundup can do to your health ... is a nice lawn worth it if your child gets too sick to use it?

Maybe I'm preaching to the choir here. All I know is that in this day and age, it's time to stop thinking about impressing the neighbors or keeping up appearances and start thinking about how we should be using the gift of our little piece of the earth. Do we want to feed it, and nurture it, or do we want it to look pretty as it slowly dies underneath? Do we want to feed our families or poison them? Do we want to start taking responsibility for where and how our food is grown, or continue to leave it up to the folks who are more interested in their wallets than your health? If I'm going to get an unexpected morning shower like that, I'd rather it be in the interest of good health and responsible homeowners than keeping up with the Jones!

And so it is.

A Conversation With Crows

I know I talked about crows last time, but I keep having experiences with them, especially when I am out and about. From a spiritual perspective, when crows keep showing up for you, it symbolizes change and transition, alluding to a shift in one's spiritual or emotional well-being. 

This week's lesson for me had to do with communication. I was taking one of my early morning walks on Saturday when I encountered a lone crow sitting on a wire above my head, crowing loudly. With the hills and woods so close, and the usual weekday noise gone as people slept in, it echoed quite loudly. The crow sent out four sharp calls, followed a few seconds later by the sound of another crow, perhaps a block or two away to his right, sending back exactly four calls. A few seconds later, the first crow repeated the four calls, only to be answered again, but this time from a crow a few blocks to his left. What fascinated me about this avian conversation was the fact that each crow waited a few seconds, then sent back the exact same sound. It was almost as if they were actually listening to what was being said before they responded.

It occurred to me as I listened that most of the time, humans may listen, but they don't really hear what's being said. They are only interested in their response, which they start formulating before the other speaker is actually finished. We listen to respond, not to actually hear what the other person is saying. When we do that, we miss so much. We miss the actual meaning of what is being said, the tone of voice, the nuances in speech that may indicate something quite different from what is being said. Generally, people respond to, "So, how are you?" with "fine," when, if we really listened, we would hear that "fine" was definitely not what the other person was feeling. Maybe, like the crows, we need to pause and give ourselves a chance to really hear all that is being said before we respond. Maybe, if we truly listen, we will hear ourselves in the thoughts and feelings of others. In fact, now that I think about it, that is probably exactly what those crows were doing ... consciously participating in community.

And so it is. 

When It's Time To Spread Your Wings

One of the things I like most about June is the chance to see all the new life that was born in April and May take their first, tentative steps into the world and discover the wonder of it all. For example, my squirrel family next door have already seen their little ones go from timidly exploring their immediate surroundings before darting back into their nest, to now being big enough, and strong enough, and brave enough, to not only go out on their own, but make flying leaps from the rooftop to the big pine tree next door. Who needs to go all the way down and crawl back up when you can just take a leap of faith and for for it. I've never even seen their mom do that, but these little ones have the heart and the courage of lions.

Perhaps the family that has moved me the most is a family of crows that live nearby. At first I would see mom flying across the open sky with the little ones flapping their wings hurriedly trying to keep up (and keep airborne, I would imagine). She took them out every day, and every day they got a little braver, a little stronger, and flew a little higher. A few weeks ago I saw them finally able to keep up with mom and practice their loop-di-loops up and down. The other day, however, I couldn't help giggling when I saw mom flying across the sky as usual, except this time the kids were doing their own aerial acrobatics like stunt pilots, not even paying attention to where they were supposed to be. It was obvious that they no longer needed mom to show them how to fly. They figured it out on their own: it was time to spread their wings and fly.

So often we start out taking baby steps to help ourselves go out into the world and do what our heart tells us we need to do, but our steps never progress beyond the baby stage. We find a million reasons not to take bigger steps, or more steps, or climb uphill so we can finally reach the top. There comes a time for all of us when we need to spread our wings and fly, to step off our perch of safety and take a leap of faith. Sure, we may stumble, and maybe even fall a time or two, but so does everyone else. Just like those baby crows, we may have to flap like crazy at first but, if we keep at it, before you know it, we'll be soaring. So let go and fly, my friend!

And so it is. 

Where Have All The Flowers Gone?

“Where have all the flowers gone?

Long time passing.

Where have all the flowers gone?

Long time ago.

Where have all the flowers gone?

Gone to graveyards every one.

When will they ever learn?

When will they ever learn?”

I cannot think about Memorial Day without thinking about flowers. I see rows and rows of graves, those that lost their lives for their country, and others, covered in flowers of every kind. It reminds me of the field of poppies that were planted on the field in France where the soldiers landed in WWII.  The practice of leaving flowers on graves began thousands of years ago when the Greeks would honor fallen warriors. The custom has carried on until this day. 

This Memorial Day, there will be fresh, new little graves covered in flowers. They are the graves of the children, our littlest warriors. What kind of flowers could ever bring solace to the ones who stand by those graves? Perhaps instead of just flowers, planting something that will take root and grow, something that is a constant reminder that if we plant a seed, water it, nurture it, and pull out the weeds, it will grow into something strong and lasting. 

So, what seeds do we plant on these little graves? We plant seeds of peace, of hope, of courage, and the strength to do what we all know is right. I think another field of poppies sounds about right for the littlest warriors among us, don’t you?

And so it is. 

Sweet Sunday Mornings

Even though the town I live in isn't large by most standards, living on the main street that runs from one end to the other does have its share of noise and traffic six days out of seven. Cars and trucks can be heard as early as 6 A.M., with school buses and city buses joining the symphony by 7. While it's certainly not Manhattan by any means, it can be annoying if you were planning to sleep in. Sunday, however, is a whole different story.

Since the sun has been rising earlier and earlier, I find myself waking up earlier as well. On a Sunday morning, it has a beauty all its own. There is almost no traffic except for an occasional car of folks on their way to the 6:30 mass at the Catholic church up the street, or running to the convenience store for milk and the morning paper. It is blissfully quiet of humans and their annoying interruptions. Instead, I am serenaded by birdsong, often lost in the day-to-day commotions during the week. I sit perfectly still except for my eyes which roam the treetops, hillsides, and sky watching for my feathered friends to come and help me greet the day. The air has a velvety softness to it and brushes my cheeks through the open windows, and the smell as the dew kisses the grass and trees is perfume to my senses. There is no better way to start the day than to experience it as all of my relations in nature do every day. We humans are just too distracted to realize that it is always there.

This past Sunday was especially poignant for me. On Saturday I tested positive for Covid. It is only a mild case, one that I had been misdiagnosing as acute allergies for over a week before the constant fatigue and the cough that wouldn't end suggested to me that maybe I had better check it out. Sitting there at my desk the next morning, with the windows thrown open wide, all of my senses, and my heart, went through a cascade of emotions. First, I was sad. Then I was mad ... and then I felt that first stir of the morning breeze on my cheek. Two blue jays came soaring overhead, playing chase and calling to each other. Two solitary geese flew silently overhead towards the river. The first golden rays came up over the rooftop to illuminate the hillside ahead. From the beginning of time, this is how life starts every day, for all my animal, plant, and human relations, and this is how it still begins even when we're sad, mad, or anything else. The sun always rises, the birds always sing the day awake, and the breezes blow the sleep from our eyes. Instead of being mad, I switched to gratitude, for being able to wake to another golden day, and for all the days ahead as long as I remember to rise, shine, and open the windows on the world.

And so it is.