Hands-on help

Although this time of year is extremely busy for us, as we harvest and preserve our garden bounty, I've found enough little dabs of time to spin up some yarn and begin a scarf. I'm still captivated by the process.

But I need to find a human instructor; the Internet is a great source of information and guidance, but when it comes to the fine points of drafting fleece, for example, I need hands-on help. Though I can create passable yarn, I still manage to turn the fleece slowly back on itself as I spin, and I don't understand what I'm doing wrong.

I also learned a lot about the different breeds of sheep by reading articles on the Internet ... but visiting a local spinner/knitter/dyer who uses the fleece from her own sheep made a huge difference in my understanding of the process. Running my fingers through a chocolate brown tangled coat provided more information (way more) about what it takes to transform that warm mess into spinnable fiber than I could ever get from the many helpful Internet sites available.

I've learned several important things on "the farm" up here: Doing something yourself isn't just educational—it's exciting, awe-inspiring and life-changing. Finding your morning egg still warm and snuggled in a freshly made nest, for example, is an experience so far removed from picking up a dozen factory-produced eggs in a plastic box that it seems to come from an entirely different world. It certainly comes from an entirely different worldview. Homemade sauerkraut seems almost to be made from an entirely different vegetable than the store-bought variety. (It's simple to do and delicious to eat—try it!) For that matter, any food taken directly from the Earth and eaten within hours will open and entirely different—and fabulous—world of taste.

Here's another one of my little "ah-ha" discoveries: the human appears to be well designed to give and receive help. Not only do other folks know more than I do about a lot of things, there's something deeper going on when people get together and help each other out. Reading is fabulous, and I would never even suggest giving that up as a resource as well as recreation. The Internet is another excellent source of information. But you just can't beat sitting down with an old friend (or a new one) and learning the fine points of spinning—or farming, or teaching, or anything at all—with them.

And one's own store of learning and experience is a gift meant to be shared. Each of us has something she knows a little more about than someone else does. And when that someone else wants to learn, it feels really terrific to be able to pass along the little wisdoms we've acquired. In the midst of this human weaving of knowledge and learning, wonderful things happen. Friends are made, new ideas appear, fresh discoveries are made.

And that's when the real magic begins.

A push for more

This year I'm really (really) noticing how our world is changing. I fear much of the change is the result of human influence, and probably doesn't bode well for some of Earth's species—us, for example.

There's no doubt we are heading into a time of weather extremes, with massive hurricanes, monster tornados, melting glaciers, rising salt water levels, diminishing fresh water reserves, heat waves and cold snaps. The Earth also has her own weather pendulum, and whether or not we can survive at the far reaches of its movements, it may be swinging toward an ice age.

Interesting. It is said that the human ability for symbolic thought and speech developed into language around campfires inside ice caves. I wonder what we might come up with if we survive during the wild weather that may be ahead for us.

I've read that poison ivy will begin to grow larger and more potent in the years ahead. There's a pleasant thought. Here on the farm we're well acquainted with this plant's current power, and I admit I'm not inclined to think too hard about our prospects with this green neighbor.

As always, there are glorious bright spots as well. This spring we had one of the most prolific displays of flowering plants I've ever seen. The lilacs bent their branches and filled the air with their intense perfume. (Lilacs produce one of my particular "memory smells"; I played under lilac bushes as a child, and one wee sniff sends me right back to 1950's northern Indiana.)

Right now we are enjoying monarch and swallowtail butterfly displays, and it seems to me they are particularly large this year. I watched a yellow swallowtail on the anise hyssop yesterday, and it looked to be about 6" across. Have they always been this big, or am I just beginning to take note?

Carpenter bees, deer, robins, turkey vultures, click beetles, even the duck eggs ... so much seems either larger, more prolific, or both this year. I hope this isn't a last Cenozoicc gasp, though it could be.

Or maybe it's Mother Earth doing what she knows how to do: being beautiful, providing something wonderful to enjoy, giving her human offspring as much leeway as possible (though even loving parents have limits), simply delighting in the vast power of creation that blesses her existence.

"We" — a little, powerful word

The Episcopal Church (yep, that's "mine") did an amazing thing this year. It was time to elect a Presiding Bishop—not exactly a Pope equivalent, but the closest we can come. Oh-my-gosh, we elected ... a woman.

We have already been the object of intense media attention, as we elected a good man to be the bishop of New Hampshire; a good and honest man who happens to love another man. I can't believe Jesus cared about this one whit, or we'd have heard about it big time in the scriptures. We all know same-sex relationships have been around for ages, and are not limited to the human species, so if God or any of God's human manifestations had wanted to squash the idea, we'd know about it.

Then there's the fact that we decided to ordain women about a quarter of a century ago, and some furor over that step continues today. Though most parishes and dioceses at the very least can "stomach" the female priest business, more than you'd expect cry just-hold-on-one-minute when it comes to bishops. And God knows, a female primate is just out of the question, isn't it?

Nope.

The election of Katharine Jefferts-Schori as our next Presiding Bishop is causing comments from many quarters, some good and some less felicitous. I happen to know her, and she is a wise, humble, intelligent human being. I don't care if her plumbing is indoor or out; I think, if anyone can, she will be able to move the Anglican Communion toward reconciliation.

And here's why. Shortly after her election she was asked about her ability to handle male-female conflict, especially when she happened to hold the upper hand. As usual, she paused to think before answering (gee, I wish we all could do that). She then related her experience as the in-charge person on an oceanographic cruise, where the ship's captain wouldn't speak with her, just because she was female. This is what Katharine said to the audience: "That lasted about fifteen minutes. We got over it."

Not he got over it, but we did. When we are in conflict with one another, the difficult dynamic involves us all. It's never that "you" have the problem, it's that we do. It takes a bit of give and take on both sides to move past the difficulty.

Maybe it's time we all got over it—together.

A Spinning Passion

In some ways, summer is almost too intense to bear. The garden swiftly shifts from slow, little sprouts to raging, bulging harvest. Bringing in this abundance, cooking, trying to stay one step ahead of the fierce weed crop, replacing the hot water tank and the entire house-full of plumbing pipes, welcoming a new headmaster to the school ... it's all a challenge, and most of it is good.

Most of it. I could do without the hot water and plumbing thingies.

So what is the latest blip on my radar screen? Spinning. Yep, I've got the spinning bug. It may be worse than Erlichiosis (a particularly nasty tick-born disease) or even cellulitis (I've already logged my annual event). A good friend gave us some wool roving and two makeshift drop spindles, and a few days later I'm history. I've already ordered my first Kundert spindle (is there possibly any better?), and taken apart my first efforts so I could keep spinnng something—anything.

Including the dog's hair. Not just any dog, or even our dog, mind you — I used the hair of the adorable little poodle entrusted to our care by our summer intern (and fabulous blessing herself). It's entirely possible; You can actually spin dog hair. Is that amazing, or what?

Now I have my eye on Smooch, our long-haired cat.

I love all kinds of handwork—knitting, crocheting, sewing, quilting ... but this spinning business is a life unto itself. I'm a nun, and probably shouldn't be using this language, but it feels like a calling. I think I could spin all day, every day, and never be bored.

Jeez, that's scary.

I'm trying to figure out how this passion might be useful to our community. Can I learn to do it really, really well? Maybe experiment with natural dyes? Sell the stuff?

I don't know those answers yet, but I do know what it feels like to discover one of the passions we are each (yes, every one of us) endowed with when we appear on this planet. It sings you. It dances your body. It delights your heart in a thousand ways. You would give up food, sleep, maybe even sex, just so you could do it some more. That's passion, my friends.

And if each of us could connect with one or two (or, God help us, three) of those gifts, what an incredible world this would be.

Justice ... for whom?

One of our dear friends had a horrific experience last week, and it breaks my heart. She was riding her bike in a peaceful demonstration with the group called Critical Mass, a movement that promotes bicycle-riding as one solution to the rapidly dwindling availability of petroleum products, and our rather scary dependence on Earth's oil resource.

Apparently a row of police cars appeared and blocked a cross-street in front of the riders. They slowed down, and as our friend passed by one of the cars, the door flew open, knocking her off her bike. As she fell, her shoulder was broken. The officer who did this is claiming it was her fault. He did come to the hospital—not to see how she was, but to give her five tickets amounting to $150.

This is tricky. No one can prove whose fault this "accident" was, though witnesses believe the door was opened both violently and with purpose. But that's a tough thing to prove, and in our litigious environment, suing a police department has a pretty small chance of succeeding. At least, that's what the lawyer is telling her and I suspect it's right.

On the other hand, paying the tickets is tantamount to admitting guilt, strengthening the police claim to innocence. With the medical costs, the interruption to both her work and personal life, and the physical pain, to say nothing of the injustice of it all, such an act goes against the grain. I ache for her. She's been going through a rough patch in life, and this is the last thing she needs. She's a good and holy woman, who wants to participate in creating a better world for us all.

Here's what breaks my heart: we are a country crumbling under the weight of our consumer worldview and excessive lifestyles. Many of our police departments (along with churches, businesses and educational institutions, among others) are struggling to right themselves from reputations besmirched by members who have forgotten who they are and what (hopefully) led them to these occupations in the first place.

What has happened in that officer's professional and personal life that opened the door to such a cruel, needless, unfair act against someone he doesn't even know? And what continues to exist in our organizations that promotes the cooperation and tacit approval of their colleagues and superiors in such behavior? The Enron debacle has shown us how pernicious is the spread of participation in illegal, unethical, immoral behavior. And we are all cohorts in these crimes if we simply sit back and tsk-tsk about them, doing nothing to change our world.

"Terrorism" isn't a person we can shoot or a place we can bomb. It is a willingness in the heart to abandon self-respect, to forget that when we hurt anything else on Earth we hurt ourselves as well, to lose track of what it means to be a species capable of (and responsible for) compassionate behavior. The possibility for being a terrorist lives in every one of us; whether we act it out or not is a choice we must each make.

It breaks my heart that a people founded on, and quick to claim, the high ideal of "freedom and justice for all" has become the laughingstock of the world. Sadly, we continue to earn those snorts and snickers.

Marie Shirer: Quilter, Priest, Friend Extraordinaire

June 4, 2002.

She slipped away in the middle of the night, as many people do. We, her friends, family and colleagues had been sitting vigil with her for six weeks as she surrendered her Earthly life to the ravages of cancer.

We laughed and questioned and cried. We suffered and we celebrated. On this morning four years ago, we gathered one last time in her hospice room to say our final goodbyes. It was freezing in there—the hospice's attempt to preserve her body and keep the environment as safe as possible. But her room was always cold; she suffered terribly from "tumor sweats", so the rest of us wore sweaters and shawls and even used an extra blanket once in awhile to tuck around our shoulders or feet.

Marie's departure from us was an anguish, of course, and on this anniversary I find myself crying over the loss of her wild and wonderful presence as if it had happened yesterday. I miss her terribly.

And yet those days of her dying wove a holy coccoon of transformation around us all. She faced her death with the same honesty, humor, and intensity that characterized her whole, brief life. Whether she was designing a new quilt, challenging a seminary professor, entertaining her Colorado friends over a traditional Swedish Christmas dinner in her Arvada home, playing with her adorable Corgis, or sitting with a grieving family, Marie gave her entire being to the task of living.

Margaret Guenther called me at the convent to tell me that the investigation into Marie's troublesome cold had revealed a much more serious problem: stage IV liver cancer. As Marie quickly added to the diagnosis, "There is no Stage V." Everyone knew the remaining few weeks for her wouldn't include chemotherapy or radiation or any other attempt to delay her inevitable death. They would be filled instead with finding her a comfortable place to die and providing relief from her pain. (I can't say enough about Washington Home and Hospice; my sisters are going to have to cart me down there if I wind up in similar circumstances.)

Those short weeks were also filled with an amazing group of women who surrounded Marie and quickly learned to love each other with a depth that awed us all. Not one of us escaped Marie's challenge to engage in this dying as sister, comforter, companion of the heart. The day I arrived, she looked me in the eye (a classic Marie glare), and said, "OK, Sister. What really happens after death?" And she wanted a meaty answer, nothing that even hinted at platitude. Whew; I knew immediately the days ahead would prove to be an adventure typical—and worthy—of Marie.

No matter how awful a situation could be, Marie would occasionally find a way to lighten things up. She understood the healing power of humor better than anyone else I ever met. One day we suggested wheeling her bed her out to the patio to enjoy the warm sun. This was one of the first days that she knew she would never leave that bed. She was in a crabby mood, and we thought the change might ease her frustration. Suddenly she sat up, grabbed the bed railings and pasted a wild look of glee on her face. She made racing noises and rocked back and forth, just like a little boy in a pretend race car. We all burst out laughing; her Barney Oldfield impersonation had evaporated the building tension.

In late May, as I sat beside her shivering in the cold while she soaked her bed with sweat, she told me that the dying process was really boring. Our long, wonderful relationship allowed me to tell her I was finding it boring, too. I had knit enough scarves to outfit the entire crew of an oil tanker, and she could no longer engage in a book, TV or a long conversation. And we were both tired of the cruelty of cancer.

Near the end, Marie began to shift into dream-language; we often think a dying person is just "out of her head", but I believe that the same symbolism used by our dreams crosses over into our more wakeful moments, communicating important information. Days before she died, Marie awoke from one of her lengthening naps and said to me, "Sister, let's just get out of here, get in the car and head for the airport."

I hesitated as I thought about what she might be "processing" internally. Clearly her conversations had increasingly reflected a desire to move on. As I sat there she added, "But you would lose your parking space, wouldn't you?"

"Ah, yes," I finally said. "And I'm not really ready to give up my parking space yet." Marie closed her eyes, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

My last moments with Marie's body were incredibly healing. She had died with that same small smile tickling her face, and it was still there three hours later. I sat with her body as it traveled its own journey into the future, and was awed to realize that bodies don't "just stop"—they have a job to do and they do it with an elegance and beauty that stunned me. It was the opening of my own healing process.

On June 8, a large group gathered at her beloved St. Columba's Church to grieve her death and celebrate her life, and we did both. Margaret wrote the following prayer for that occasion, and I find comfort in it today as I did in those first moments when I realized that I would spend the rest of my own life without the challenging, joyful presence of my dear friend.

Loving, gracious God,Creator, Mother, Father, Look upon this weave of women! Mothers, daughters, sisters, friends; Woven together in love of you and in love of our sister Marie. Artist, creator, seamstress God, Gifted, ingenious user of scraps and pieces, big and little, look upon this patchwork quilt of women's lives, unfinished, filled with color, filled with light and filled with darkness, moving toward wholeness and stitched together in the intricate loveliness of your quilting.

Help us to be midwives. Help us to reflect your tender mother love. Help us to be fully present to the wonder of your presence. We offer you our thanksgivings. We offer you our hopes. We offer you our prayers. Help us to remember that this circle is and will be unbroken. Help us to remember that we are bound together in your love.

Marie, my dear friend, may you rest in the arms of the angels of Light. I'm sure you are entertaining them with your eternal, lively wit; may nothing ever bore you again.

News from the Front

Fear not, the raccoon wars rage on.

I was sure the large flower-pot-type unit over the duck food can was the answer. It worked for three days. I guess in terms of raccoon wars, that's a long time. But in terms of keeping the cost of feeding the ducks at a reasonable level, it's not long enough.

So, back to the drawing board. OK. They can unhook bungee cords. Those they cannont unhook, they just eat. They can knock a decent-sized rock off the top of the can. They can certainly remove a simple lid, and it took them only three nights to figure out how to remove a wedged-on, very large plastic pot from the top of the container. Hmmm. Even I couldn't get that danged pot off without lifting the entire, twenty-plus-pound contraption, food and all, and banging it down several times.

At this point, I just refuse to put the food in the basement. It's not that I don't think that's a good idea, I just can't admit an animal with a brain one-twenty-fifth the size of mine can outsmart me. My pride just won't allow it.

Now I think I've really, really got it. I located one of the many pavers that were used around here and that we laboriously dragged from hillside and garden to the side of the house for future use. Like to keep raccoons out of the duck food. Those babies must weight thirty pounds themselves. Maybe more.

Great. So I picked one up, huffing and puffing it down the steps, across the lawn, back up to the porch, and finally on top of that pesky food storage can. Boy, that should do it.

And it has. For three nights, now.

Perseverance

It has been quite a year for lilacs. The ones in the parking lot island have finished their blooming and are now lush in their summer greens. I guess the long, cold, snowy winter was just the ticket for lilacs (and a lot of other plants, by the look of things around here). But the poor bush I yanked unceremoniously out of the ground last fall isn't faring quite as well.

I decided this plant was in the wrong place, snuggled up in the corner by the kitchen porch—not enough sun, too much wind, and stiff competition from the forsythia. So I moved it about fifteen feet west, where it could get good sun, now that ten of the twelve hemlocks once crammed into that space are gone. And when the chapel doors stand open in the summer, it would provide a lovely view. So with about half an hour to kill one afternoon, I tackled the move.

Wrong plan.

Lilac root balls are impressively large and deeply buried. Once committed, I had to get the job done, so I just got what I could of the root ball, dug the deepest hole possible (not nearly deep enough), in the remaining few minutes I had, and hoped for the best.

When this bush budded out with her parking lot neighbors in January, I was thrilled. She had made it! What stamina. But in April, when the rest of the crew was bursting with color and perfume, this little one just sat there with the same tiny buds she had produced months earlier. Uh-oh.

Every day I visited her, made sure she had enough water, checked her limbs for any sign of life, sang to her and convinced myself that there was suppleness just under my fingertips. Let's give her another week before pronouncing her past hope. Every day when I examined the little buds, I told myself something was happening there. Truth to tell, I just couldn't face the fact the I may have killed this little bush myself. Please, God, don't let me be a murderer this late in my life.

Then, a few weeks ago, there it was, the proof I had been watching and praying for all that time. No doubt about it now, there was green appearing at the bud tips. Oh, wow; we both had been reprieved.

But a few days later, I got a bigger surprise. This bush hadn't flowered in the three years since I moved here, so I assumed moving it would mean no blooms for several years more. But there, right at the tip of about half the branches, were tiny blooms!

She may be nearly half a year behind her sibs across the driveway, and she may look puny to other folk, but to me she's simply gorgeous. You can be sure I spend time with her every day, still watering, and touching, and speaking words of praise to her.

She has become one of my teachers. Hang in there, no matter how hopeless you feel, she says. If you're yanked out of your comfortable home, leaving most of your roots behind, just sit tight in your new digs. New life may appear when you least expect it, and it will be all the sweeter for the surprise of it. Rough treatment certainly is no picnic, but you may find out you are tougher than you think. And don't worry too much if your neighbors seem to be more beautiful than you are; there is someone in the world who will love you to pieces, just the way you are.

Things Change

From days of rain to a day so clear your eyes hurt. Well, that's weather for you. I don't know why I fuss when things like weather appear to get stuck with the needle pointing to "lousy". In the first place, that's a pretty lopsided judgment to make—that rain is lousy and sunshine is wonderful. Actually, I love and appreciate them both, so what gives?

I think some needle deep inside me hangs up occasionally, pointing at lousy. Then I just look around and blame it on the nearest possibility. Like the weather.

But things are changing all the time, and if I could just unstick my own internal value monitor, I could avoid that gray, nasty, hopeless feeling that this (whatever "this" happens to be at the time) is just the way life will be forever. OK, maybe only for the foreseeable future, but when this happens, I'm not appreciating such distinctions.

Maybe I could remember this, instead: I went out to the rocky area beside the kitchen garden about a week ago to see how the new weed crop was going. That would be dandelions, plantain, wild violets, a few little ground-crawlers I haven't met yet, and some big dude that sports deep purple leaves all summer. That one was so pretty I actually watered it all last year, right along with the herbs.

But when I got out there, the only returners were the dandelions and violets. Where the little ground cover and plantain once shoved rocks aside were plants I've never seen there before. There are two huge docks, for example (a large critter that looks a lot like rhubard early on). And a bunch of smaller greenies; I have no idea at all what they are. The big purple dude? No sign of him yet, but there's nothing in his place, so I'm still hoping.

Then I started checking father afield. The front "yard", the back meadow, the hill from the driveway to the playing field; they are all home to plants that weren't there last year, at least not the way they are this. Wild chives and wild onions are really popular (we eat both). It's back to my plant book again to find out who else has joined the Bluestone Farm family.

Yep. Things are changing all the time. Enjoy whatever is under my nose right now, because sooner or later it will surely change. I just need to remember that.

Raining again

It's pouring rain again today, so I just have to put some sunny photos under my nose. Here we have yet another view of the woods with the morning sun. I find our woods enchanting. Fairy tales were written with such views in mind.





And then we have ... potato plants!! Last year it seemed to be in late June or early July before these plants made their appearance, but here it is, mid-May, and voila, potato wannabes.

No preachy lesson this time. Just a chance to share in the beauty of the Farm.

Got real milk?

I was less than happy to see this sticker on a recent raw milk purchase. This is the result of our powerful dairy lobby, hard at work.

The message appears to be offered in the spirit of health-consciousness, but it is actually there in the interest of business. As in huge agri-business, factory farming, petroleum-dependent food production. The motive here is profit, not protection.

The truth is that raw milk is loaded with goodies that are beneficial to mammalian bodies. If you're not allergic to milk and want to drink it, raw's the way to go. Why? Because milk (obtained from grass-fed cows), when it has been properly gathered and safely stored and transported, is quite healthy. For example, some of the enzymes that raw milk contains actually assist the body in processing the fat in the milk. And the fat itself is healthy. If you're interested in the truth about raw milk, take a look at this brochure, produced for the Campaign for Real Milk (Weston A. Price Foundation, Washington, DC). Here's just one sentence from that brochure that should set you to thinking:

"Pasteurization destroys enzymes, diminishes vitamin content, denatures fragile milk proteins, destroys vitamins C, B12 and B6, kills beneficial bacteria, promotes pathogens and is associated with allergies, increased tooth decay, colic in infants, growth problems in children, osteoporosis, arthritis, heart disease and cancer."

Sr. Claire Joy remarked this morning that pasteurization is like chemotherapy. I started to laugh, then we suddenly realized that it is chemotherapy. The process is violent (milk is quickly heated, especially in ultra-pasteurization, which takes less than two seconds) and destroys all the friendly, healthy contents as well as the rare bad booger in its path.

Then more chemistry is applied: scary-sounding stuff like oxidized cholesterol, neurotoxic amino acids, mucopolysaccharides, colorings, and bioengineered enzymes ... none of which even touch the antibiotics, hormones and pesticides that find their way into a cow's body, all in the name of increased milk production. The treatment of high-production animals, the destruction of small farms and farmers, and the dangers of genetically-engineered additives are each rich fodder for an entire blog of its own.

Yes, this is definitely a preachy entry, and for that I apologize. But I'm willing to take on just about any epithet if it helps awaken even one person to the dangerous "food" that lines our grocery store shelves, and to spurious marketing ploys that promise us health but give us junk.

They're here!!

For all you duck lovers out there (and those of you who just tolerate my frequent duck-gushing blogs), all the hard work of the past two weeks is finally paying off!

Because the ducks aren't fond of close scutiny, and therefore waddle away when I try to take their pictures, these aren't the best ... but I think you can still see those amazing new little feathers, just pushing out of recently-naked quills. Petra is at the top, and her new, perfectly formed tiny wing feathers are that lovely blue-green-gold that marks a healthy feeding environment.

Basil, below, is even harder to catch on film, but his blossoming white wing feathers are fairly obvious in this shot.

Spring is bustin' out all over!!

(And stay tuned for more pics tomorrow. The garden has already begun its own fecundity; we will have our first salad of the spring for lunch today.)

Abundance

This spring has a wildness about it I don't remember seeing before. Everything is sporting an eye-popping lushness. My theory is that the harsh winter (and perhaps the more reserved production of several prior years) has something to do with this year's extravagance. Then again, it might just be something cyclical in the nature of an ecosystem.

I really don't know, but I am certainly enjoying the show. This picture was taken from our kitchen window early in May. The pink blossoms front and center are on the redbud tree; the bright green leaves to the right are on the wild cherry tree just behind the redbud. Across the driveway is the ancient and always gorgeous copper beech, which displays a variety of red leaves from early spring to late fall. In the lower left corner is a dogwood that is actually behind the main building, and behind that is one of our many maples, just beginning to wave its own green signs of spring.

The view changes constantly. A few days ago the redbud began to exchange its deep pink beauty for wide green heart-shaped leaves, and will soon receive its first pruning in some years. The wild cherry is beginning to build its own blossoms: right now they are tiny green buds that look a lot like the cherries that will appear toward the end of the growing season, but soon they will appear as banana-like clumps of small white flowers. The copper beech leaves are beginning to darken, and the dogwoods are tossing their delicate petals to the ground in wild abandon. The azalea and lilac bushes are so prolifically decked out this year they are actually bending their branches toward the ground.

And it's not just this eye-candy thing going on; for some time the heady perfume of lilac blooms has saturated the air. Every day sisters, teachers, students and bees jockey for position to drink in that smell. (Okay, I know the bees are doing a little more than smelling, but you get the idea.)

I'm trying to figure out how all this works. A lot of animals and birds and insects are either waking up or showing up, most of them hungry. Do the showy colors and smell attract them in ways they wouldn't figure out on their own? I mean, really, is all this necessary?

I know nothing is wasted in a healthy ecosystem, but I'm convinced the beauty surrounding us is both necessary and gratuitous. Something changes inside me when the lilacs bloom. One deep breath, and I'm back in 1954 or so, lying down under another lilac, a nine-year-old transported to lilac heaven. I can see that same dozey look on the other adults as they take their turn at the purple blooms. Lilacs have a gentle "power" over most of us.

It might work for the birds and bees and every other hungry soul to be attracted to one color, or one smell, or one shape for that matter. It could have been that way ... but it's not. Our Universe seems intent on variety, and its living systems are built to enjoy that wild abundance, whether we're eating, or smelling or remembering.

I'm so glad.

Birdsong

Its about time for a picture. But it has been raining for the best part of ten days now, and that doesn't provide the best picture-taking opportunities. So here is one from just before this long rainy stretch began. There's no reason for this particular picture; I just like the look of this Grandmother Maple.

Its hard to say for sure, but I think morning is my favorite at this time of year. The sunlight slanting into the trees is especially inviting. As you can see from this shot, the four directions circle in the back yard is wonderfully illuminated, while the rest of the meadow waits its turn for the light of day.

But what I love most is the birdsong. It's mesmerizing. I'm slowly learning who's who out there by the sounds they make. Cardinals, blue jays, chickadees, mourning doves, a whole raft of sparrows, bluebirds, robins, crows, woodpeckers, nuthatches, phoebes, tufted titmice and many I have yet to identify.

My all-time favorite bird call comes from the thrush family, though. We have both wood and hermit thrushes in the woods nearby, and their clear, flute-like melodies stand out like the Big Dipper in the night sky.

Identifying birds from their song can be quite a challenge. Try it: pick out one sound from all the rest, remember it, and then go search the internet for an audio clip that matches it. It's sort of like trying to use a dictionary to find the correct spelling of a word. And in the spring, birdcalls change quite a bit, as mating and nesting songs are added to the variety of sounds any one bird produces.

This is one of those times when it's quite obvious we need each other. Those thrushes, for example, are difficult to spot. They are shy, for one thing, and by the time they appear in our neighborhood, the trees are already decked out in their lush summer garb, making bird-spotting all but impossible. On the other hand, bluejays are not only raucous singers (though "yelling" is more like it), but they also hang around in plain sight, stealing the duck food every chance they get.

I only know about the thrushes because I sat on a bench near another wood several years ago, joined by someone I hardly knew. We were attending a conference. She was an older, reserved woman, and we sat quietly together, listening. "OH!! Did you hear that??" she said suddenly. "That's a hermit thrush!" She said it with hushed awe, and I knew were were hearing something very special. It took awhile for me to pick out the sound, but she was patient, and fortunately the little bird hung around, singing its heart out for some time. Once I could isolate its beautiful lilting voice, I knew I would never forget it.

That's what we do for each other; we sit together, listening, and we help one another sort out the voices of the world. The next time someone shares her wisdom with you, thank her—and remember to pass it along.

The "Habits" of the Universe

We are studying Swimme and Berry's The Universe Story in chapel each day, reading one paragraph at a time and using the structure of the African Bible Study model to explore, ponder, discover, and challenge ourselves to delve into this amazing place in which we live.

Today it was about the "habits" of the Universe: the four basic forces of gravity, electro-magnetic, strong nuclear and weak nuclear. These four immutable actions determine relationship and interraction throughout the Universe, and though we rarely think about it, they determine how we live our lives in minute detail.

But what caught my attention was the instant before those forces coallesced into existence. In the primordial moment, there was no gravity, no electromagnetism, no strong and weak nuclear forces. There weren't any atoms or quarks, either, and I can't even begin to imagine what "time" and "space" meant at that point.

Just as I cannot grasp the concept of time or space having a beginning point, I can't wrap my limited brain around the idea of "pre-gravity". In the beginning the flaring forth was wildly chaotic—an exploding soup of heat and light and infinite possibility. And almost instantly, in Universe time, that soup differentiated into forces and particles, and the infinite span of future possibilities narrowed dramatically.

There is something about our Universe that yearns toward organization—not to the exclusion of ongoing creativity, certainly, but that "leaning into" the creation of determined structures is clearly there. Our Universe seems to prefer building its unique body on a skeleton of predicability.

So I guess it shouldn't surprise me that I have the tendency toward organization as well. I have a definite penchant for neatness and clear space; I am driven by a-place-for-everything-and-everything-in-its-place thinking. I can't be creative when surrounded by personal chaos. In fact, I find it hard to breathe in a chaotic environment. (Perhaps literally: the dust bunnies under my bed were beginning to grow teeth and develop language.)

So I spent most of yesterday implementing my own laws of structure in the mini-universe of my bedroom/office space. I know my sisters find my leaning into organization annoying (on their best days), but I prefer to think of it as echoing the nature of the Universe. Of setting structure into place so that creativity can blossom forth. Of living in harmony with the basic nature of the Universe.

Yeah, that's the ticket.

The Raccoon Wars

We're at war again. Oh, we're not about guns and smart-bombs (isn't that an oxymoron?) and terrorizing our Earthly neighbors—we're just trying to figure out a way to keep the raccoons out of the duck and bird feed storage. It's a war of mind and skill, not murder.

All winter we keep the feed in metal garbage cans outside on the porch. No problem. But with the riotous explosion of spring, the raccoons awaken and are famished. In additional to a ravenous appetite, they also have extremely clever brains and opposable thumbs. A raccoon is a formidable competitor, even for humans.

So instead of a simple push on the lids at night, we placed a cement paver on top. That worked until the raccoons were actually awake. The first signs that they were completely conscious was that the plastic liner, which hung (notice the past tense) over the lip of the can and down its side, was shredded in the morning, the lid was off and the the food supply noticeably lowered. No problem, we'll use the bungee cords. We don't mind sharing a bit; we like to think of ourselves as good neighbors, after all.

Two short cords, threaded through the lid handle and secured (ha) on the can handles should do the trick. "Should", maybe, but raccoons can't read. Off came the cords and down went the food. My "good neighbor" attitude vanished. Enough of feeding those little bandits.

The next night I twisted the cement paver into the cords and stretched them tight. With a great deal of effort, I also managed to wedge a good-sized log under the cords as well. I wasn't sure I'd be able to get in the next morning, but I knew I'd sleep soundly that night.

I did, but the 'coons didn't. I can just imagine the sniggering as they surrounded the can. "Look at this!!" [Snort-snort.] "Oh, those humans. What an entertaining bunch! But so stoooopid. OK, guys, let's do it." Chomp-chomp. BANG goes the cord as they chew through. I doubt if even one of them got clonked in the head in the process. "RESTAURANT OPEN!" one hollers to the waiting hordes. Down goes the food.

That's it, Jodi declares. The food goes down to the basement. I agree. I'm pretty sure the raccoons can't get into the house (though it wouldn't surprise me if they have a key to the door stashed somewhere). OK, so we'll schlep food cans up and down stairs every day for the rest of the summer. I can use the exercise.

But this morning I decided to google (great verb, hunh?) "animal-proof cans" and found something even a grizzly bear couldn't break into. Big old twist-top lid. Slippery, killer-thick poly construction—they could even bounce it down the steps and not get to the food. Only $49.95. Plus shipping and handling.

I almost did it. But then it occurred to me: grizzlies don't have opposable thumbs.

Our Mother(s)

My biological mom died twenty years ago, but Mother's Day still stirs the memory of her as if she were still here, home with Dad in their little house in Kentucky. Her last years weren't her best; she couldn't remember our names or who were were in the family hierarchy. When we gathered for our folks' fiftieth wedding anniversary, she ate butter for dinner and insisted that I pour her wine exactly to the top of the glass.

When I finally managed to push the limits of surface tension in the glass, she settled down to playing with her blouse buttons, and ignored the rest of us (and the overfilled wine glass) completely. It was the last time I remember seeing Mom dressed and in a normal setting.

She wasn't always that way, of course. When my sister and I were in our early teens, we got a wild hair to make mudpies one rainy day. Mom surprised us by hauling out the wheelbarrow and joining in the messy fun. I must have looked bewildered when she rounded the corner of the house with that wheelbarrow, because she said to me, "This is the last time I'll see my children playing in the mud. I don't want to miss it."

Moms come in all shapes and sizes and with a wild variety of personalities and parenting skills. I've been a mom, too, and it's not all that easy. Loving your children is the joyful, natural and practically brainless part. It's raising them well that makes your stomach ache and sprouts the gray hair. Most of us manage to botch the job thoroughly on occasion, even with the best of intentions.

There is something about that tension between maternal loving and living—tenderness bound by steel—that draws me in. A child enters your life and for years afterward you live in the chaos of trying to shape them safely into their future without destroying their uniqueness, and mostly you can't figure any of it out in advance. Basically you really don't know how you're doing until your chance to change it is long past.

I often think Mother Earth is suffering a similar angst with her human children. We are filled with possibilities, eager to try every new thing that catches our attention, convinced we will live forever, blind to the messes we make in the process of growing up.

So, Happy Mother's Day — to you, Mom, wherever you may be, and to you, Mother Earth. Both of you gave me life, and sheltered me, and fed me, and tried your best to see that I grew into a compassionate, responsible, happy adult. I hope you are thinking all that effort was worth it.

Duck Feathers

Let me begin by acknowledging that I have been more than remiss in my blogging. I have many good and valid reasons, but I won't bother trotting them out, because I know everyone can produce a "good" excuse when she needs one, and the rest of us don't think too much of it.

OK, then, let's talk about ducks. (This one's for you, Lynne.) We have been wading through duck feathers for a couple of weeks now. I can't seem to find a reliable source of information that can tell me how much longer this may last, but it seems to be somewhere between two more weeks and maybe next November.

In the meantime, I pick up several dozen discarded feathers a day, with hundreds more passed by. Our three older ducks (that would be Basil, Macrina and Petra) are molting.

Oh, boy, are they molting.

I've never experienced this before (nor have these particular ducks), and I am definitely impressed. Everything else in duck life is put on hold in the effort to be decked out in a new feathery spring outfit: no eggs, no wandering about the neighborhood, no mating ... just feather-dropping and feather-making. Though I admit I don't really see much evidence of that feather-making part just yet.

It's really sad.

The ducks are looking shabby; everything from the teeniest pin feathers to impressive wing- and tail-tips are scattered around the yard and in the duck houses. Looks like a major pillow fight happens daily out there. All three ducks wander about with little feathers hanging on by a thread and bigger ones hanging off their bodies every which way.

It never occurred to me that some (all?) birds need to change clothes every year or so, and that it takes a humongous effort to do it.

I pick up the least damaged feathers and look at them carefully. The big female feathers are half brown and half blue-green-gold, separated by a deep burgundy quill. On one side of their body the shiny part is on the right side of the feather; on the other side of the body, it's on the left. The feathers arc in opposite directions, too. The base of every feather begins with about 1/2" of boa-like wisps, soft and fluffy shafts that curl and float in every direction. Then, suddenly, perfectly formed shafts "glue" themselves to each other and form the part of the feather we recognize as "feather".

Hunh. Never noticed that before.

I've also discovered that each duck has an extensive feather inventory—from 1/2" to 10" long, each an exactly formed feather, from boa-fluff to tip. Needless to say, no two feathers are exactly alike. Makes you wonder how a duck looks coherent, doesn't it?

But if we were to take such a careful look at any creature, whether bird, mammal, insect, rock or brussels sprout, we'd discover similar characteristics. Now that is amazing. All our pieces-parts are quite individual and completely unique, yet when viewed as a whole, a bird is percieved as a bird, not as a conglomeration of a few thousand feathers; a lion is a lion, not a bunch of different kinds of hair and nails and teeth; a mountain is a mountain, not a scree field here, a schist out-cropping there ...

Think about it. Doesn't that just make your jaw drop in wonder?

When the conditions are right

We have cold frames in the garden again this year. Two of them seem prone to creating incredible works of art. When all the conditions are just right, frost forms on the glass. This is just one of the beautiful images that appeared this winter.

What season is it, anyway?

I'm sitting here, 10:30 at night, scratching a mosquito bite. I know that sounds prosaic, but when you're munched on by a "skeeto" in early March, that's a bit odd. After all, there's still snow on the ground (OK it's just a dab, but it's there); we were shoveling more than two feet of snow just a month ago, and as of yesterday we only went outside bundled up like ten-year-olds out for a day of January sledding. So what was that little bomber doing awake at this time of year?

And s/he wasn't alone in early rising. I sent a small troup of slab ants to their greater reward in the kitchen this afternoon, along with a good-sized spider (which I'm loathe to kill; but she wouldn't have fared too well outside, either). Just because it was unseasonably warm today (an amazing 70°), that's no reason for insects to jump the gun and haul themselves out of hiding and into the world at large. It's not a very workable plan. Come Tuesday and the return of respectable March weather, they'll pay a dear price for their premature appearance.

This is sugaring season, when temperatures usually run below freezing overnight and into the low 40's during the day. Those are the ideal conditions for our maple trees' sap to roar up from the rich Earth, zooming skyward through the sapwood in the morning, then reversing direction and falling back to Earth at night. The sun plays a big role, too. When the high branches sense the sun's climb up from the southern sky, they holler down to the roots that it's time to draw up the lifeblood, stirring the tree's first yawns and stretches from a long winter's nap.

It's possible that this little warm spell might trigger the maple tree's full awakening; when a tree leaves dormancy, buds will begin to appear. During that phase, the sap changes from crystal clear to a brown-ish yellow. It's no longer ideal for making syrup, taking on a darker color and a "buddiness" to the taste. And that's when we cease our busy sugaring operation, finishing off whatever sap is in storage, labeling the last of the bottles, washing the pans one last time ...

We're all on a cusp. It's not exactly winter. But it's not exactly spring, either. Should I sleep or get up? Stop making syrup or keep going? Make buds? Crawl out of whatever hidey-hole protects a brave little mosquito and venture into the daylight? We don't know. None of us. We just make our decisions as we go, some great, some dangerous, some ridiculous, some brilliant.

This time may be hard to navigate, but it's also loaded with wonder and surprise. Everything is hovering between the was and the will-be, death and new life. Maybe we should call this in-between time "sprinter". Or maybe we should call it Lent.

Bruno, the King of Melrose

A few times a year we are blessed with a vist from a little four-legged God-spark named Bruno—a cuddly black dynamo (otherwise known as a Pug) of affection and entertainment. He sits respectfully in his own chapel seat throughout offices and Mass, and when we leave he bounces along he path beside me as we return to the house.

Because his head is only about a foot off the floor, he prefers laps, chairs and beds to the isolation of the floor. He doesn't enjoy the company of ankles as much as that of hands and arms and faces ... and the occasional peek at the dinner table when he can arrange it. Right now he's snuggled in the crook of my arm as I type this, snoring softly. This is a little too early for him, so he's finishing up on last night's beauty sleep.

He's a charming creature of routine, yet he is quite tolerant when things don't go exactly as he planned. Early with breakfast? Late with the afternoon walk? No problem. The only exception to his amazing adaptability is the evening treat, which is timed roughly in the middle of meditation. He is usually snuggled in my lap, sound asleep, when his internal snack-alarm goes off. His little eyes pop open, he jumps down and runs to the table where I keep ... not the snacks, but the cleaning pads used to keep the folds of his nose healthy. The drill is clean the nose, eat the treat, and he knows it. The nose routine is only every other day though, and in his usual display of flexibility, he gladly forgoes that part, as long as that tasty sausage thing gets into his mouth. Mmmmm.

He and Simon are quite the pair: large taupe racer and mini black snugglebug. Simon's still not quite sure if Bruno is safe, so, Beta dog that he is, Simon gives way to Bruno. The seven-pound King rules over a seventy-five pound dog. But he is a gracious sovereign, and other than taking over Simon's huge bed, Bruno pretty much ignores the Big Brown Dog.

As you can probably tell, Bruno captivated my heart long ago. I spoil him rotten, preferring him on my lap whenever possible. I'm great with food control; I know how easily humans can harm their animal companions with love in the form of food—that's how we treat ourselves, after all. But when it comes to petting, holding and all-around loving, I have no control.

There is something wildly alluring about the unconditional love manifested in many of our non-human friends. Wouldn't life be grand if we two-leggeds treated each other with the same kind of "stringless" affection?

Western Sunrise

I was trying to capture the Earth's shadow this morning; it was a perfect sunrise for it. I knew the shadow would have disappeared by the time I made it outside with the camera, so this is what I saw from my window. The shadow is the faintly darker, grayish area just at the horizon to the left of the chapel roof. OK, you'll just have to trust me. It was there.

This was one of those rare mornings when the western sunrise sky is more striking than the eastern. I sat in my rocking chair, watching the sky change as our side of the Earth rolled toward the sun behind me.

Watching the sunrise toward the west is actually watching the night fade away. When the atmospheric conditions are just right, the last little bit of departing night I can see is the changing angle of Earth's shadow. It becomes more obvious and darker for a few moments, and then the new-day light chases it over the horizon and out of sight.

For eons we've referred to the Earth's spinning journey as the "activity" of the sun — sunrise and sunset. This is not only logical — it does appear that the sun travels around us and not the other way around — but it is our wonderful, life-giving local star that is the source and sustenance of all Earth life. On the other hand, I love the idea of using language to reawaken a sense of awe and wonder about our amazing planetary home. So how about these: nightset and nightrise. Or maybe Earthdrop and Earthroll.

Hmmm. Well, it was a thought. 

And the beat goes on

The pear tree isn't the only storm casualty on the farm, though these remnants of a horse chestnut were created several years ago. But the Earth's wisdom in using absolutely everything is wonderfully obvious here. The "dead" piece of trunk is home to millions of little creatures and plants, some working to transform the wood into soil — and they'll get the job done, too, never mind how long it takes from a human point of view.

When Lent arrives we will be singing the haunting refrain "In the midst of life, we are in death ... " during Compline, the last, quiet service of the day. And here, right under our noses, the Earth is singing its hopeful counterpoint: "In the midst of death, we are in life ..."

The Ruach of Winter

First it was eight inches of snow falling on top of the last rainstorm-turned-to-ice, then the wind came, and with it a torrential downpour. The car windsheild wiper transmission (wipers have a transmission?) died. Along about the time the wind was kicking into high gear (if car wipers can have a transmission, I guess wind can have gears) Simon caught yet another duck, this time puncturing a leg muscle and instigating a trip to the vet.

The electricity was knocked out by a huge tree falling on the wires just up the road from us. The fence around our emergency generator (which chugged along for eight hours or so when the lights were out and the heat was off) was blown apart. One of the bee boxes was smashed. Most of the maple sugaring buckets and tomato cages "hidden" on the back side of the chapel porch are now scattered in plain sight around the back yard.

It was quite a day.

The old Bartlett pear next to the school was ripped apart — the poor old thing was torn in half in a lightning storm several years ago, leaving three trunks branching from the main tree. One of those was lost this past fall in a heavy rain, and the second went in this latest storm. The final insult occurred at our own hand, as the wonderful folks from SavATree came to remove the lone, lopsided trunk before another storm could send it crashing through the school roof.

During the heaviest part of the rain, we sisters were out with our bow saws and secateurs and a well-worked chain saw to get rid of the big piece of pear tree that landed over the sidewalk and into the driveway before the buses came to pick up the kids. (Can't hold classes with no heat or light. Aw, poor little tykes ... a free day.)

We got along fine, though: a little basement flooding, which we are used to by now (I don't even look any more), a whole lot of mud, and six really happy ducks. Once we finally got the wet jeans peeled off and our hair toweled dry, we lined up our soaked shoes in front of a blazing fire and read and snoozed and chatted.

We've had some strong winds this winter, but this one was fierce. We were lucky; plenty of folks in the area suffered much worse damage and longer power outages than we did.

All of which got me to thinking more deeply about wind. We had just read the scripture passage that reminds us we don't know where the wind comes from — it just blows where it darned well pleases. I know all the scientific explanations about temperatures and invections and air pressures ... but the idea of wind beginning from somewhere is tantalizing. Where would that be?

Wind appears to be alive. It has a voice which can vary from a soft whisper to a whistle to a roar. Though you can't see it, its effect on everything it touches is obvious, and ranges from soothing to devastating. It can wander aimlessly, spin in frantic circles, or sit perfectly still. Wind is ... mysterious and amazing.

And at the end of a wild and scary day, that wind just left. Or died. Or quarked off into another dimension. And in its wake was yet another glorious sunset. I don't know where the wind comes from, and I don't know where it goes. And I don't know why sunsets after a raging storm are so incredibly lovely. But they are.

The Possibility of Carrots

I was the main meal cook yesterday. I usually have a plan, some idea of what I'll be cooking, but yesterday was all last-minute. That's uncomfortable for me. I have to have a mental picture for just about everything that will occur in my future. (Hey, did someone out there just whisper "control freak"?)

Winter cooking is much different than summer cooking when you're trying to eat locally and from your own garden as much as possible. Our gardens, and everyone else's within a several hundred mile radius, are covered in a lot of really heavy, wet snow. That limits the possibilities. The automatic greenhouse window was broken, so the tasty salad greens in there froze. They are coming back, but there weren't enough to feed us yesterday. Hmmm.

There are still some possibilities: the root cellar has potatoes (sweet and otherwise), some squash and turnips. There are canned tomatoes and pickles and chutney. The freezers have tomatoes, zucchini and some basic tomato sauces. We had a great tomato year. The garden itself hides more than you would guess: believe it or not, some of the greens, like kale and collards, just hang on all winter, looking all droopy and frozen, but they are as delicious as ever. Someone read that celery plants can be brought inside at the end of the season, so we tried it — now we have some growing happily in the library. And our dried bean crop was grand, with lots of variety.

Off to the Genesis Farm cookbook (a definite winner). Brazilian Black Bean Soup. Gee, that sounded great, and we had nearly everything: sweet potatoes, tomatoes (for sure), celery, onions, garlic, dried midnight turtle beans and ... carrots. Oops. I dug around in the storage sand in the root cellar, but no luck. Hoping I'd just missed some, I asked Sr. HM. "Oh, sure" she said. "There are some in the garden. I'll get them for you."

Hunh?

I don't know how they accomplish everything, but our farmer sisters managed to add the building of several cold frames to their work last summer. There, under a box covered with six inches of icy snow, a second crop of carrots was growing. Wow.

But here's the really amazing thing. Our first crop was slow in growing (not the best weather for them last season) and the results were a little puny, which is why our root cellar supply was gone by January. But I had asked for four carrots, and sister brought in four of the most gorgeous carrots I've ever seen. Perfectly formed, chunky, beautiful bright orange carrots! Big luscious green tops, too.

With just a wee bit of protection (it is a cold frame, after all — mostly it just keeps the snow and ice off the plants and capitalizes on what weak winter sun is available), you can grow fabulous food in the "dead" of winter. Yes, it's really, really cold. Yes, the sunlight is marginal at best. Yes, we've had nearly two feet of snow already this winter. But hungry bugs and voles are sleeping, so the plants are free to thrive uninterrupted. The result is truly beautiful.

So here's my Earth lesson for today. Just because I think something is impossible or impractical, I'd be wise to remember that the Earth is all about possibility. A little ingenuity and cooperation might transform "no way" into a fabulous lunch. That's worth knowing, isn't it?

Snow and Ice

We are in the middle of the second winter storm of the season, this time with ice and wind thrown in for good measure. A winter ice storm is a mixed blessing; only the strongest limbs on the older trees will survive the weight of the ice, and many of the plants around the farm will receive an early nature-pruning by the time the ice melts.

Nature trims for survival and strength, whereas I planned to prune to my own idea of what the flowers and bushes should look like next year. Humans are never as effective in this process as we think we will be. Ah, well.

But should the sun come out over the next day or so I'll have the trusty digital camera in hand, because that's when the diamond sharpness of ice coating every limb and twig will become unbearably beautiful. Apparently without any effort or design, the Earth will be transformed into a scene more elegant, more fabulous, more thorough than Hollywood or Broadway could ever produce.

Computer technology can appear to compete faborably with nature, but the result would be energy bits of stored data. Amazing in its own way, yes, but for my way of thinking, actually being able to see the shards of sunlight slashing off in every direction with my eyes, to touch the frigid sheath on a twig and have it melt under the warmth of my body ... well there is simply no comparison.

Our computers can create ice storms on demand. Mega agribusiness means we can eat grapefruit and kiwi and bibb lettuce in the middle of a New York winter. We can (at least for now) hop in a car and visit friends a hundred miles away and be back in time for dinner. Yes, our technology allows us to do much that would have been impossible a scant century ago. But the question I think we should be asking is, just because we can do these things, should we be doing them?

Of course much of the fallout of our techno-benefits hurts the Earth. We know that, even if we choose to continue on that destructive path. But it harms us spiritually as well. We are losing the ability to be awed. We have all but forgotten that food is precious and sacred. All we see in an ice storm is a royal pain when we want to drive somewhere. We are forgetting that limits are good and serve us well, not bad restrictions to our every whim.

We are forgetting how to look beneath the surface, beyond the name, of all that surrounds us to the Mystery that is revealed beneath. I think we are in danger of substituting computers and TVs and video games and cars and eighty-hour work weeks and diets and drugs for the lived experience of being human on an amazing planet.

There is time to change all this, but we have to want it first.