Garlic. Cooked milk. Two natural items I've always thought would make great glue. Now that I'm living much closer to the Earth, I'm discovering more really sticky stuff.
Like duck poop.
Okay, this probably isn't the most gracious of subjects, but it fascinates me. Earth wastes nothing, so the tail end (so to speak) of food processing is no less important than the gorgeous greens and corn that begin it. Ducks produce high-nitrogen fertilizer, and are quite efficient about making sure it's applied usefully. For one thing, there is quite a bit of it. For another, it's applied in liquid form and then solidifies on its own. For a third, it's sticky as all get-out. This is great for the Earth, assuring abundant and fairly even addition of nitrogen to the soil.
It's not so great for shoes, though, which is probably why all the duck books suggest changing foot attire when entering the duck pen. Not realizing all the implications of duck doo-doo, I ignored the books and learned about this the hard way. Please take my word for it: getting the soles of your shoes free of this amazingly clingy stuff takes quite awhile. And while you're doing it, you probably won't care at all how much the Earth enjoys receiving all this nitrogen-rich help.
But it gave me a lot of time to think about sticky stuff. It seems that "poop" of all kinds attaches itself to us like glue. Wanting to hang on a lot of stuff we don't need now, and probably never did. Knowing good and well that being angry or judgmental or pouty or a drama queen will get us nowhere fast, but we still do it. Thinking our own ideas and plans should be listened to and followed by everyone else. Always.
This might be what Jesus was talking about when he told the young man he had to let go of everything before he could be really free. Some of our sticky stuff can be quite useful to others, once we get unstuck from it. A lot of it should just be abandoned.
Either way, getting the duck poop of life off your soul can be hard work. It's really sticky stuff.
Saturday, August 13, 2005
Saturday, August 06, 2005
Fire in the Sky
My office/"cell" has a west window, but I have to be in a rather contorted position to see much besides another side of the house and the little chapel. Purely by accident, I was in that contorted position tonight, and was stunned to see a little slice of this sunset in progress. I tore down the stairs, grabbing the camera on my way.
Once in a while the sun, the western clouds and pure chance combine to reflect our local star's fire back to my eye; all the variables are exactly tuned to this kind of display. When it happens I seem to have trouble breathing.
I just can't imagine any purpose for this spectacular show other than to awe and silence us. As far as I can tell, humans are the only creatures who even notice such a thing, and if we're at all conscious, we stop whatever we are doing and stare, transfixed. We dare not look away; within minutes the light will go out and we'll be left with a burning memory that we aren't completely sure really happened quite the way we remember it.
If we are indeed the only creature aware of this prodigal beauty, we should be responsible and respectful enough to celebrate — yes, to praise — the astonishing glory of our Earth, and to do so for all her living systems.
We should do this, just because we can.
Saturday, July 30, 2005
Star singing
We all worked hard yesterday. Of course we all work hard every day, but some days have a special quality about them. I don't know what causes or triggers it, but we seem to move through the hours like a single dancer, whirling about to a piece of music no one can hear but everyone feels. On those days we absorb bad news (like the death of our large freezer) with facility and grace, a few wisecracks, and a brainstorm session about how to use the body as an underground root "cellar".
Some days are just crammed full of grace.
A sense of celebration and joy takes hold. Yesterday, when our little spot on Earth finally rolled away from the sun, we made guacamole (with the season's first garden tomatoes) and tortilla chips, and sat on the patio to watch the evening sky show. Soon one of our summer guest/helpers brought out the guitar and a singing session got underway.
Crickets and tree frogs provided the shruti note for our voices, and song became a blessing to the night, soaring out over our little Bluestone Farm. Gospel laments, folk song, show tunes — braided with jokes and memories — drawing us ever more deeply into each other's lives, filling us with peace that we carry into a troubled world.
By the time we called it a night, the sky was dotted with the light from galaxies light-centuries away from us. All that vastness and mystery, singing its own melody, gift of the Master Singer.
The Universe is a song-strong place.
Some days are just crammed full of grace.
A sense of celebration and joy takes hold. Yesterday, when our little spot on Earth finally rolled away from the sun, we made guacamole (with the season's first garden tomatoes) and tortilla chips, and sat on the patio to watch the evening sky show. Soon one of our summer guest/helpers brought out the guitar and a singing session got underway.
Crickets and tree frogs provided the shruti note for our voices, and song became a blessing to the night, soaring out over our little Bluestone Farm. Gospel laments, folk song, show tunes — braided with jokes and memories — drawing us ever more deeply into each other's lives, filling us with peace that we carry into a troubled world.
By the time we called it a night, the sky was dotted with the light from galaxies light-centuries away from us. All that vastness and mystery, singing its own melody, gift of the Master Singer.
The Universe is a song-strong place.
Monday, July 25, 2005
Of Ducks and Wasps
Petra is still hanging in there; she's a tough little bird, all right. We added two more Muscovies in the meantime; Basil (another blue) and Macrina (same coloring as Petra, though "Mac" is larger). I suspect both of the new ducks are females, but I'm basing that on their sound production alone. Probably not a sure-fire gender predictor. Bernie seems to have plucked the ends of Basil's wings clean, behavior not uncommon among ducks getting acquainted. Seems unnecessarily rude to me, but I'm not a duck.
It has been about ten days since B and Mac arrived, so I think the Pecking Wars are over and, though Bernie is a control freak about the pools and feeding trough, all four are getting along. Petra is decidedly smaller than the rest, and the loss of sight on one side hampers her foraging. But Bernie has taken a bit of a shine to her, and that may be enough to keep her going. We hope so.
A few months ago I mentioned having been stung by a yellow jacket; yep, the one who was rude enough to fly up my skirt. That encounter left me with a doctor bill, an EpiPen, and some scary information on how dangerous both a sting and the treatment could be. Just what an already sting-phobic soul needs. Today I got to check out my theory that my "allergic" reaction was due to the chemicals sprayed into the nest rather than to the venom. If I had trouble breathing this time I would inject the epinephrine, eat a bit of crow, and head for the nearest emergency room.
Here's how it happened: I decided to tackle the side of the house that fronts the driveway. This area has been growing without human intervention for years, and was in bad need of a haircut. Actually, what it really needs is radical surgery. By 7:00 AM I was half-way though a major trim job on a rhododendron. Forty-five minutes later I was putting a second rhody out of its misery when I dragged a large branch through an overgrown azalea, which was next on my Extreme Landscape Makeover list.
What I didn't know was that a large colony of bald-faced hornets (which are also called white-faced wasps, but which are neither hornet nor wasp, but an aerial yellow jacket) had taken up residence in the azalea. I also didn't know, but found out fast, that bald-faced hornet workers are fierce protectors of their paper nests. I was fortunate that I was only stung once — these guys are really serious about keeping bothersome intruders away. I ran for the ice (which I highly recommend to quell the immediate pain of the sting), and decided to wait out the reaction before I grabbed the EpiPen. Gadgets like that scare me.
Sure enough, my reaction was classically "normal local", and there was no indication of any systemic involvement. Gosh, I love to be right. Of course, "normal local" for a bald-faced hornet is ugly enough. I still have ice on it to keep the swelling down, it itches like crazy (thank you, God, for Benadryl), hurts to touch (or scratch), and is a fashionable shade of pink.
In spite of all that, I went back out to work for a few more hours. I stayed away from working on that rhody, the azalea, and an andromeda on the other side of the azalea. But I did spend some time watching the activity around that nest. The hornets quickly went back to their own normal behavior, zooming in and out of the nest as they foraged for food and wood to increase the nest size. As long as I didn't disturb the nest, they left me completely alone.
It made me think about my reaction to the raccoons who made the murderous assault on our ducks. I was angry for days; I even enjoyed seeing raccoon pelts hanging in a cabin at Connor Prairie (Indiana), a sight that would normally have pulled at my heart. But once my bald-faced neighbors knew I was no longer a threat to their home, they forgot me entirely. One non-fatal sting and it was back to business as usual for the hornets.
I used to think of yellow jackets, hornets and wasps as being intentionally vicious, capable of harboring a grudge and willing to pursue something several gazillion times its own size just to get even. [Ahem ... just a little anthropomorphism there.] Non-human critters are rarely mean for mean's sake. Attacks are almost always undertaken in service of survival and abandoned as soon as the threat is gone.
I think we humans still have a lot to learn.
It has been about ten days since B and Mac arrived, so I think the Pecking Wars are over and, though Bernie is a control freak about the pools and feeding trough, all four are getting along. Petra is decidedly smaller than the rest, and the loss of sight on one side hampers her foraging. But Bernie has taken a bit of a shine to her, and that may be enough to keep her going. We hope so.
llllll
A few months ago I mentioned having been stung by a yellow jacket; yep, the one who was rude enough to fly up my skirt. That encounter left me with a doctor bill, an EpiPen, and some scary information on how dangerous both a sting and the treatment could be. Just what an already sting-phobic soul needs. Today I got to check out my theory that my "allergic" reaction was due to the chemicals sprayed into the nest rather than to the venom. If I had trouble breathing this time I would inject the epinephrine, eat a bit of crow, and head for the nearest emergency room.
Here's how it happened: I decided to tackle the side of the house that fronts the driveway. This area has been growing without human intervention for years, and was in bad need of a haircut. Actually, what it really needs is radical surgery. By 7:00 AM I was half-way though a major trim job on a rhododendron. Forty-five minutes later I was putting a second rhody out of its misery when I dragged a large branch through an overgrown azalea, which was next on my Extreme Landscape Makeover list.
What I didn't know was that a large colony of bald-faced hornets (which are also called white-faced wasps, but which are neither hornet nor wasp, but an aerial yellow jacket) had taken up residence in the azalea. I also didn't know, but found out fast, that bald-faced hornet workers are fierce protectors of their paper nests. I was fortunate that I was only stung once — these guys are really serious about keeping bothersome intruders away. I ran for the ice (which I highly recommend to quell the immediate pain of the sting), and decided to wait out the reaction before I grabbed the EpiPen. Gadgets like that scare me.
Sure enough, my reaction was classically "normal local", and there was no indication of any systemic involvement. Gosh, I love to be right. Of course, "normal local" for a bald-faced hornet is ugly enough. I still have ice on it to keep the swelling down, it itches like crazy (thank you, God, for Benadryl), hurts to touch (or scratch), and is a fashionable shade of pink.
In spite of all that, I went back out to work for a few more hours. I stayed away from working on that rhody, the azalea, and an andromeda on the other side of the azalea. But I did spend some time watching the activity around that nest. The hornets quickly went back to their own normal behavior, zooming in and out of the nest as they foraged for food and wood to increase the nest size. As long as I didn't disturb the nest, they left me completely alone.
It made me think about my reaction to the raccoons who made the murderous assault on our ducks. I was angry for days; I even enjoyed seeing raccoon pelts hanging in a cabin at Connor Prairie (Indiana), a sight that would normally have pulled at my heart. But once my bald-faced neighbors knew I was no longer a threat to their home, they forgot me entirely. One non-fatal sting and it was back to business as usual for the hornets.
I used to think of yellow jackets, hornets and wasps as being intentionally vicious, capable of harboring a grudge and willing to pursue something several gazillion times its own size just to get even. [Ahem ... just a little anthropomorphism there.] Non-human critters are rarely mean for mean's sake. Attacks are almost always undertaken in service of survival and abandoned as soon as the threat is gone.
I think we humans still have a lot to learn.
Saturday, July 09, 2005
Petra update
Here's the latest Petra update: she will probably lose the sight in one eye, she was covered in scratches and the feathers of one wing were completely stripped. It's rather amazing that she survived the attack — I like to think that Bernie protected her, but I rather suspect she has her own inner toughness. Sr. Lilli Ana often reminds me that an accidental step on a plant will either kill it or toughen it up. Petra may turn out to be one tough bird.
She has spent the last two nights in my room, which smells a little too much like a barnyard right now. I'm playing nature sounds on my computer for her. I suppose this is more for me than for her, but it makes me feel like I'm contributing something to her well-being.
And she is doing well. The eye still looks pretty bad, but she eats and drinks (a very good sign), and she chirps happily, allows us to administer her medications with a minimum of fuss, appreciates our attention and shows interest in what's going on around her. I think she'll make it. Last night she snarfed up a good-sized bug I found in my room. Death for life. Energy exchange.
I spent some time researching raccoons today, trying to find an acceptable place in my heart for them. They are an aggressive, occasionally violent animal, in spite of their rakish, cuddly appearance. They are sort of the cockroach of the mammal world. They give as good as they get, and occasionally go out there and attack just to remind everyone else they are there and a serious life contender. They can cause major headaches for humans, taking houses apart as well as killing ducks. They can muck up a chimney in no time, and are almost impossible to remove. I suspect the next attack will occur in our garden, probably on our tender corn crop.
But this is how the Earth has always worked: competition among species sharpens the senses and the skills and wisdom of all the participants. As Brian Swimme says, be sure to pick a worthy "enemy" if you want to grow and thrive. It will demand your very best. And it will demand your respect, too.
She has spent the last two nights in my room, which smells a little too much like a barnyard right now. I'm playing nature sounds on my computer for her. I suppose this is more for me than for her, but it makes me feel like I'm contributing something to her well-being.
And she is doing well. The eye still looks pretty bad, but she eats and drinks (a very good sign), and she chirps happily, allows us to administer her medications with a minimum of fuss, appreciates our attention and shows interest in what's going on around her. I think she'll make it. Last night she snarfed up a good-sized bug I found in my room. Death for life. Energy exchange.
I spent some time researching raccoons today, trying to find an acceptable place in my heart for them. They are an aggressive, occasionally violent animal, in spite of their rakish, cuddly appearance. They are sort of the cockroach of the mammal world. They give as good as they get, and occasionally go out there and attack just to remind everyone else they are there and a serious life contender. They can cause major headaches for humans, taking houses apart as well as killing ducks. They can muck up a chimney in no time, and are almost impossible to remove. I suspect the next attack will occur in our garden, probably on our tender corn crop.
But this is how the Earth has always worked: competition among species sharpens the senses and the skills and wisdom of all the participants. As Brian Swimme says, be sure to pick a worthy "enemy" if you want to grow and thrive. It will demand your very best. And it will demand your respect, too.
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