The Gift Of A Foggy Morning

I live in a valley three blocks from a branch of the Chenango River in Upstate New York. Once August has made its final exit, the early mornings always start with a thick blanket of fog. Before all of the cars and buses head out for the day, the morning is filled with a silence that seems much heavier than before. The fog muffles the sounds and distorts it so that, without being able to see anything but only hear, we could be in some strange, distant land for all we know. Of course it speaks to the child in me that still loves a good fantasy.

The other morning I was sitting at my desk quite early trying to see my beloved hills in the distance when I heard the sounds of two blue jays calling to one another. Because of the fog, the calls weren't as sharp and distinctive as they would be a few hours later when it all cleared out. They sounded like they were searching for each other, each one lost and alone looking for comfort. It reminded me of what we humans can be like when we let someone or something distort what we see and hear. The news, the politicians, and all of the constant barrage of negative talking blankets our senses so that everything we see and hear is distorted by fear and anxiety. 

It occurred to me that morning that, once the fog was blown away by the morning breeze and melted by the appearance of the rising sun, those two blue jays would be just fine. Maybe we should take a lesson from them, and from old Mother Nature, by blowing away the fog of negativity and fear, and letting the light of the rising sun every morning burn off any doubts we may have that we will be able to find our way, to each other and to happy, productive, and positive lives. Perhaps the fog in our lives is as easy to burn off as turning off the TV and internet, and joining the blue jays outside in the light of a new day. After all, the birds know a heck of a lot more than we do. They should, they've been here longer. Food for thought, folks!

And so it is. 

An Apple A Day

 

One of the things I love most about September, besides cooler mornings, the sight of school buses going up and down the block, and that first hint of color on the leaves, is the official start of apple season. Apples are a big deal around here. I live within driving distance of two big apple farms that let us go and pick our own apples out in the glorious countryside. I am also located about an hour south of the home of those delicious Cortland apples. And, as I have shared here before, I am only a few blocks from our local claim to apple fame, the Cider Mill, which not only sells cider, apples, donuts, and everything apple, but lets you see for yourself how the cider and the donuts are made ... and, of course, there are baskets and baskets of every kind of apple you can think of. Yep, you could say that we're the apple capital of New York!

What is it about apples that brings a smile to most faces? I can remember being a kid, opening my lunch box at school and being delighted to see a nice, shiny apple waiting for me along with my sandwich. I have wonderful memories of apple picking, apple festivals, and spending a whole day with family members making applesauce. When I am in the presence of apples, my whole self smiles inside and out.

I have to wonder if maybe there was a reason that, as a child, the story of Adam and Eve always showed the forbidden fruit being an apple? Or if there was some nobler reason why Johnny Appleseed went across the country planting apple trees? One thing is for sure and that is that apples loom large in American culture. I don't know if we have an official national fruit the same way we have a national bird, but if we decide to "pick" one, I vote for the apple hands down. Nothing says love like an slice of warm apple pie and a glass of milk!

And so it is. 

Happy Laborless Day!

Happy Laborless Day! Nope, that isn't a typo. The whole idea behind the creation of Labor Day was to give the poor working stiff a day of rest at a time when people were working 12-16 hours a day, sometimes 6 or 7 days a week, and there were no child labor laws. Finally, after years of struggle, protest, and the creation of labor unions, a day was officially set aside for the average working person to rest. So what do we do with this holiday besides have one last cook-out and eat hamburgers? If you're a gardener, you work.

I can remember when I had a big garden to tend and was still working a regular job. I would covet this day as time I could put in cleaning up the things that had already had their glory and were starting to die back, pruning and checking those things that were still blooming, and harvesting the gold of my garden, my veggies. Red, White, and Blue in my garden translated into tomatoes, potatoes, and eggplant (okay, purple is as close to blue as I could get).  It was my way of celebrating all of the hard work I had put in starting in March with the cleanup from the winter and preparing the beds for planting, all the way to being able to pluck a ripe cherry tomato from the bush and pop it in my mouth. Yum! 

Today, with only a tiny table-top garden to tend to, I continue the tradition by harvesting my herbs to dry, pruning back the flowering plants like my begonias and geraniums, and pulling out my little autumn garden decorations to keep the gnomes and the fairies company. I even have a scarecrow hanging nearby, not to scare away any crows, but to keep a certain curious cat from checking things out up there.

Later on today I will be going to my daughter's house for the last cook-out of the season and, joyfully, also to help my great-grandson celebrate his 8th birthday which just happened to fall on Labor Day this year, a double reason to celebrate: the birth of a very special boy, and the feeling of accomplishment of a job well-done. May your Labor Day be as joyous and bountiful.

And so it is. 

Nature's Agenda

I read something quite disturbing the other day in an article about self-love. It said that our economic systems are driving something they called "body terrorism," the idea that we are not only less than perfect, but totally unacceptable, that we hate our bodies, our hair, our clothes, and everything about ourselves. Of course, "they" have the answer if we're willing to spend the money. Self-hatred is big business. Self-love isn't.

Where did we come by this awful idea? Certainly not from the natural world around us and that, as I always say, is the problem. We have become so separated from the world of nature that we have lost its positive influence on our lives. Nature has so much to teach us. Some would say that everyone has their own agenda. Well, I've been thinking about that and it would seem that Nature's agenda is the one we should be adopting. Here is what I've discovered:

• Nobody and nothing in Nature is jealous of anything or anyone else. A pine tree isn't jealous of a maple tree. It doesn't wish it had such beautiful autumn colors and sweet green buds in the spring. A dandelion isn't jealous of a rose and wish it wasn't discriminated against, being called a weed instead of just a plant. That's man's doing. Nature loves dandelions.
• An elephant isn't any better or more valuable or better looking than a monkey, a dog better than a cat, or any animal better or more acceptable than another. Each is perfect as it is.
• There is no greed in nature. There is enough for everyone. 
• There is no hate in nature. 
• Life and death isn't decided by who is considered more worthy or better than another. We are born, we live, we die, and a new life comes to continue the cycle. This is true for every plant, every tree, and every animal. 
• The seasons follow, one after the other, just as the sun rises and sets every day. As far as I can see, that's the only agenda that Mother Nature sticks to.

If a toad can accept himself just as he is, and a pine tree as it is, and a dandelion, who do you think is living a life free of self-hate and enjoying each day as the gift that it is? My money is on the toad.

And so it is.

The Eye Of The Storm

As I write this, what is left of Hurricane Henri has begun to pull out of our area and there are only some lingering on-and-off showers coming from a still-dark sky. In the distance to the west I can see peeks of whiter clouds and more light starting to push their way over the hills, trying to move the darkness out. They say we may see sunshine tomorrow. I sincerely hope so. We've all been holding our collective breath for the last two days and we all badly need to exhale now.

As I followed the weather reports on the storm, along with everyone else on the East Coast, I kept hearing them refer to "the eye of the storm," and where it was located at any given time. I can remember a hurricane we rode out back when I was a child and the moment when our location was in the eye of the storm. After what seemed like an endless barrage of rain and wind, it went very quiet. The sky took on an eerie, yellowish tint and the wind calmed down to a stiff breeze. My dad explained that this was the eye of the storm, the center, where the storm moved out from in a big circle. It was the calmest part of the hurricane.

With so much activity during this current hurricane season, that explanation has come back to me. It feels as if it is a perfect metaphor for all of the storms in our lives, especially with what is going on in the world at present. We all need to find our own center where we can calm down, take a breath, and look at where these storms may lead us if we don't make an effort to change course. Do we just let the storms continue to circle outward in a never-ending path of destruction, or do we do what we can, whatever we can, to change the course of the storm. Just like the cold front that is now coming in from the west, old Hurricane Henri is being pushed east and back out to sea, and by tomorrow, the sun will shine again. 

The Native Americans have a saying: "even in nature, no storm lasts forever." Maybe all these storms are really Mother Nature reminding us that we need to find our center and figure out how to change the course of climate change, hatred, and division, and let it all blow out to sea while we still can. 

And so it is. 

What Time Is It Anyway?

I have been spending a good deal of the summer reading and thinking about time. The summer itself has been a study in seasonal time with its extreme weather, from dangerous heat in one area, to cold and rain in another. Where I live in upstate New York, we experienced three out of four seasons in the course of a few days: summer heatwave, torrential spring rains, and cool, brisk autumn breezes. After living here for so many years, I've made it a habit of keeping out a few items of clothing to cover all extremes ... yes, I have sweatshirts and sweatpants hanging next to my shorts in the closet!

My understanding of actual time has also been on my mind lately. Surely this last year and a half or so has put the subject of time front and center for all of us, especially if we had to spend the majority of our time indoors. Between surgeries and the pandemic, I spent so much time inside that I would have lost it completely if it hadn't been for focusing my attention on my tiny, tabletop garden, and writing. My garden not only kept me in the moment as I tended to it, but kept me on track with the seasons. Mother Nature has a way of doing that for us when we lose all track of time. I spent the winter making plans for the garden, spent the spring starting to plant and rearranging the garden, and now in the summer I am watching my herbs grow tall, even having to harvest some already to keep them from getting out of hand. Now, in the early mornings, I am starting to feel those first stirs of autumn even though the calendar says we have several weeks yet before we should even be thinking about it. With Climate Change front and center these days, those hot, steamy, dog days of August may still show up, but the cooler mornings and the first, tiny bits of color on the very tips of some of the leaves are telling me a different story.

Time is an concept. "To everything there is a time and a season," scripture tells us. For some of us who have full to-do lists, time flies. For others that no longer go to jobs or have children at home, time lays heavy on their hands. The one thing I've learned these past few months as I've been studying time is this: the only time I need to worry about is the moment I'm in. This very moment I'm in right now is precious and is where my power lies. What will I do with it? Even using it to sit and watch two blue jays soaring across the sky while having a shouting match is precious and powerful. So is using it to write this blog post. I don't need a calendar to tell my body and soul what season it is, nor do I need a clock to tell me when to eat and when to go to bed. Mother Nature took care of all that when she set up the whole sunrise/sunset circadian rhythms system, as well as the seasons that come and go when they will. All I need to do is stay present, stay mindful, and keep a few pieces of all-season clothes handy. Mother Nature will take care of the rest.

And so it is. 

By The Light Of The Silvery Moon

The name of the full moon for August is "The Sturgeon Moon." It was called that by the fishing tribes of North America because that was the time of the year when the species appeared. It has also been called the Green Corn Moon, The Grain Moon, and The Red Moon because of the corn and grain getting ready to be harvested, and because of the reddish hue the moon takes on in the summer haze.

What is this fixation we have with the moon? For generations farmers have plotted their planting and harvesting by it's glow and phases. People have worshiped it, women have danced around it, and many star gazers follow its movement from new moon to full moon, then over and over again, month after month. The moon has many names depending on what month it is: Strawberry Moon, Rose Moon, Honey Moon, Thunder Moon, Buck Moon, and Hay Moon ... and, of course, now the Sturgeon Moon. Do you think we should warn the sturgeon?

All I know is that for all the years I grew up in New York City, it was pretty hard to be able to see the moon let alone follow it's phases. I used to beg to be able to go and visit my cousins out on Long Island where there were fewer lights (and fewer people), and you could lay out in the back yard and watch the evening sky. When I moved to the country, I became fixated with watching the moon's phases and travels across the night sky. After the years I spent reading up and learning about the Native Americans' relationship to the moon, I have taken to calling her Grandmother, and ask her every night as I lay down, and she shines through my window, to take care of me and mine while we sleep and bless the earth while it sleeps as well. She is a great comfort to me because I know that she does not shine only for me, but for all of creation. That gives me such a feeling of connection with the rest of the world. When Grandmother Moon shines down on us, she shines down on all of us. 

So on August 22 when the Sturgeon Full Moon rises in the sky, I will make sure to thank her for protecting me and mine, thank her for guiding the farmers as they harvest the food I will eat, and hope that the sturgeon get away  (what else would a vegan say, I ask you?). 

And so it is.