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.