Wet October Night
Indian summer is a long ago dream now, as the wood stove creaks and sighs in the background of my warm rooms. The last of the tomatoes simmers into sauce on it's surface, the perfect dual use for the wood gathered all spring and summer. The grapes have been stemmed, crushed, pressed and safely tucked away into their next phase. Many gallons of wine red and white are finding natural yeast, and already taste like wine after 2 weeks of nothing but this air. One batch of Pinot Noir jelly sits on the counter, slowly thickening into it's jell.
The jams of cherry, strawberry and plum have a new shelf, under the green beans, applesauce, over the pickles, tomatio sauce and potatoes. The second most comforting thing next to a woodstove is a full larder. It's just a used bookcase we found at a little Lafayette thrift store for 20.00, but it holds the winter's goodies and lots of work in a nice arrangement rather like a gallery of food behind glass.
October.
Soon we will celebrate the Day of the Dead. Harvest time and the light change makes us think of our mortality it would seem. We approach winter with all the best intentions, and yet our own unknown expiration date is always there somewhere, and we think of those who have gone before, hoping they will light the way for us, because love is the thing which survives death.
Here I wash the floors, scrub the sinks, hang the laundry by the woodstove - ah- it serves three functions tonight.
The air outside is almost tropical, the drops of rain huge and random. I watch the progress of Hurricane Sandy 3000 miles away, and wonder if there is any relation to our rain storm, maybe they are second cousins once removed? There is poetic justice in the concept that a big storm is interrupting the presidential election campaigns. I wish the common people, the workers who make the rich rich, I wish them to be high and dry. As for the rich, if global warming sends a flood into their luxury, there is some justice in that. (Not that I wish it at all. In Catholic School I learned that is a sin, and I think it still is wrong, to wish misfortune upon others, even cretins who are insensitive and speak leisurely of rape.)
On this peaceful night the air is inky black, no moon shines, the middle of autumn. It becomes time to vote, and to harvest walnuts for Christmas fruitcake. It becomes time to stand back quietly and notice the work of busy months past. We become what we reap, what we sow, as the light decreases slowly toward solstice.
Sunday, October 28, 2012
Friday, October 19, 2012
Flowing Free
The Elwha River is now flowing free for the first time in 80 years. I went to see it with my own eyes. As I walked over the hills of accumulated silt which was the bottom of Lake Aldwell, I thought of Monica, my Elwha friend. She, who told me that Elwha means "deep voiced people", and that the legendary Elwha King Salmon was gone since the damns were built.
I have not seen or heard from Monica for many years. I moved away from that valley below Mt. Olympus, and only now return to visit in the hills above where my brother has made his home for more than 30 years.
We walked the new river bed together, and words did not come for the feeling of seeing a river literally 'breathing' after being strangled in the hands of profiteers who knew or cared nothing about the connection to life salmon has been for thousands of years to the natives of this land.
Now fish have become a political issue. If you have noticed the price rising into brackets where only the rich can afford fresh local fish like halibut, cod and salmon. Fish used to be s staple food for those living near water. Now it is a luxury.
May the salmon come back to the reaches above the Elwha, 22,000 acres of pristine habitat protected by Olympic National Park. The Elwha have a salmon coming home song, and they are singing it now with hope.
I have not seen or heard from Monica for many years. I moved away from that valley below Mt. Olympus, and only now return to visit in the hills above where my brother has made his home for more than 30 years.
We walked the new river bed together, and words did not come for the feeling of seeing a river literally 'breathing' after being strangled in the hands of profiteers who knew or cared nothing about the connection to life salmon has been for thousands of years to the natives of this land.
Now fish have become a political issue. If you have noticed the price rising into brackets where only the rich can afford fresh local fish like halibut, cod and salmon. Fish used to be s staple food for those living near water. Now it is a luxury.
May the salmon come back to the reaches above the Elwha, 22,000 acres of pristine habitat protected by Olympic National Park. The Elwha have a salmon coming home song, and they are singing it now with hope.
Saturday, October 13, 2012
Buying Magic
Buying Magic
"The swans, they were so pretty,
on the little lake...
How did they get the swans?"
I say " You can buy swans." She says, " You CAN?"
Like swans are magical, they should only appear
from the etheral whims of fairy tale themes.
Because really,
you should not
be able to buy magic.
"The swans, they were so pretty,
on the little lake...
How did they get the swans?"
I say " You can buy swans." She says, " You CAN?"
Like swans are magical, they should only appear
from the etheral whims of fairy tale themes.
Because really,
you should not
be able to buy magic.
Friday, September 21, 2012
Autumn Equinox 2012
Today the rains came, temperatures dropped into sweater territory. Right on cue the curtain fell on summer. How does the cosmos know how to do that so precisely?
A pile of red tomatoes is heaped on my kitchen counter. Some are split from the rain and quickly saved into a slowly simmering sauce. The smell of that sauce is fall, the night comes along inky dark. My African music on Pandora radio comforts what is left of the day.
It is with great and earnest idealism that I find these days those in the public sphere who comport themselves with the greatest dignity and integrity are those with whom I align my allegiances. How about that for some 19th Century language? A tip-toe around the subject of politics, that dire and dangerous territory where my country is drawing the lines of divisive ideologies deeper, bolder, more dramatic every day.
How I miss the educated, idealist Kennedy types who used to hold more sway on the national stage. They had money, but they were also fiercely dedicated to causes which uplifted all, like the Peace Corps. This morning I was fortunate to have 3 emails from a young acquaintance who is just beginning his Peace Corps teaching assignment in Guana, Africa. Jakob writes of the images, the cultural differences, the food, the land, the kids, and the way his experiences are shaping him as a person. I find myself reading his words, being there in spirit, with a village of people living simply and being generous and respectful to the new American English teacher, who left the country where the streets are paved with gold, to live in a meager cabin with few amenities. Jakob is looking for the world, and he is finding it. John F. Kennedy began that program. How I miss him, and his brothers!
Later on I watch a video of Edward Kennedy's predecessor hammer on a Harvard Law professor who is running against him for the Senate seat in Massachusetts. This white, male WASPy cretin took the first 10 minutes of a televised debate to attack his opponent on the subject of her Native American heritage, and how he alleges she was hired only because of Affirmative Action to her Harvard position. Was he diverting, quickly and desperately, from any comment or connection to the pathetic and embarrassing candidate his own party is running for President of this "great land"?
I miss the Kennedy idealism, the football on the beach, the wind swept hair, the little kids everywhere, the great speeches with phrases like "Ask not, what your country can do for you...." The eloquence, the obvious culture and decorum, the humility, the humanity, the chiseled handsome looks which bespoke of outdoor pursuits, and an open mind.
I miss the years of my own youth where I believed in an evolving world, where education and civic duty would save us from ourselves. It is hard to be in this new world, not brave, but full of bravado. The seven deadly sins come back full force, despite The Bible being carried about like a gun.
A pile of red tomatoes is heaped on my kitchen counter. Some are split from the rain and quickly saved into a slowly simmering sauce. The smell of that sauce is fall, the night comes along inky dark. My African music on Pandora radio comforts what is left of the day.
It is with great and earnest idealism that I find these days those in the public sphere who comport themselves with the greatest dignity and integrity are those with whom I align my allegiances. How about that for some 19th Century language? A tip-toe around the subject of politics, that dire and dangerous territory where my country is drawing the lines of divisive ideologies deeper, bolder, more dramatic every day.
How I miss the educated, idealist Kennedy types who used to hold more sway on the national stage. They had money, but they were also fiercely dedicated to causes which uplifted all, like the Peace Corps. This morning I was fortunate to have 3 emails from a young acquaintance who is just beginning his Peace Corps teaching assignment in Guana, Africa. Jakob writes of the images, the cultural differences, the food, the land, the kids, and the way his experiences are shaping him as a person. I find myself reading his words, being there in spirit, with a village of people living simply and being generous and respectful to the new American English teacher, who left the country where the streets are paved with gold, to live in a meager cabin with few amenities. Jakob is looking for the world, and he is finding it. John F. Kennedy began that program. How I miss him, and his brothers!
Later on I watch a video of Edward Kennedy's predecessor hammer on a Harvard Law professor who is running against him for the Senate seat in Massachusetts. This white, male WASPy cretin took the first 10 minutes of a televised debate to attack his opponent on the subject of her Native American heritage, and how he alleges she was hired only because of Affirmative Action to her Harvard position. Was he diverting, quickly and desperately, from any comment or connection to the pathetic and embarrassing candidate his own party is running for President of this "great land"?
I miss the Kennedy idealism, the football on the beach, the wind swept hair, the little kids everywhere, the great speeches with phrases like "Ask not, what your country can do for you...." The eloquence, the obvious culture and decorum, the humility, the humanity, the chiseled handsome looks which bespoke of outdoor pursuits, and an open mind.
I miss the years of my own youth where I believed in an evolving world, where education and civic duty would save us from ourselves. It is hard to be in this new world, not brave, but full of bravado. The seven deadly sins come back full force, despite The Bible being carried about like a gun.
Saturday, September 15, 2012
Dry/Seco
Here in the 'Pacific Northwet' we are into a month at least of dryness. Painting jobs are made easier, and the grass finally stops growing. The plants not watered have become brown stalks. There is a preponderance of the color 'gold' in our landscape.
In early summer we heard of heat waves in every other part of our country. Heat waves over a hundred degrees, where the new plants had no chance to take hold. Friends in the East coast complained to us here in the Northwest of the discomfort with the extreme unrelenting heat as though they knew how cool we were, (literally and figuratively). Our early summers are so cold, sometimes it feels impossible that a summer will ever come, and then, strangely, after the 4th of July something shifts. It gets warm and the garden vegetables begin to suddenly grow in noticeable spurts.
Even though the ground is too dry to dig anything out or in, the gophers manage to root around, creating the piles which signal their habitat. The moles go for the only places one waters, like the black-eyed susan flowers I guard and nurse every year. A mole hole rises exactly in the middle of my beautiful plant. It is hard to like 'wildlife' when I see that....
I mowed the weeds today, the little yellow flowers that are everywhere and go to seed. Even mowed weeds look OK. Last night there were coyotes howling and all the animals in the area, cows, dogs, cats etc, were making extra noise. The air is so dry, the fir trees are giving off that mountain air pine smell - exquisite. In a few weeks this will all be a memory, but for now the night is warm and full of stars. The breezes blow into open windows warm even in the dark. We pretend we live in a different climate zone, briefly.
In early summer we heard of heat waves in every other part of our country. Heat waves over a hundred degrees, where the new plants had no chance to take hold. Friends in the East coast complained to us here in the Northwest of the discomfort with the extreme unrelenting heat as though they knew how cool we were, (literally and figuratively). Our early summers are so cold, sometimes it feels impossible that a summer will ever come, and then, strangely, after the 4th of July something shifts. It gets warm and the garden vegetables begin to suddenly grow in noticeable spurts.
Even though the ground is too dry to dig anything out or in, the gophers manage to root around, creating the piles which signal their habitat. The moles go for the only places one waters, like the black-eyed susan flowers I guard and nurse every year. A mole hole rises exactly in the middle of my beautiful plant. It is hard to like 'wildlife' when I see that....
I mowed the weeds today, the little yellow flowers that are everywhere and go to seed. Even mowed weeds look OK. Last night there were coyotes howling and all the animals in the area, cows, dogs, cats etc, were making extra noise. The air is so dry, the fir trees are giving off that mountain air pine smell - exquisite. In a few weeks this will all be a memory, but for now the night is warm and full of stars. The breezes blow into open windows warm even in the dark. We pretend we live in a different climate zone, briefly.
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
Indian Summer
Today there is a prevailing east wind, the grass is dry and crackly, summer is winding down. Plants like foxglove and feverfew are sending out little flowers, their last gasp. Plants that produce huge amounts of seed are spreading themselves cleverly as I clip the dried stems and haul them out and away, but not before they drop a hundred little seeds as hardy as the winter is long, seeds which, if not found by the birds will bring lots more of their species into the lawn, the beds, and even the cracks between the pavement.
A human with a strong spirit is like a wild daisy, or a poppy in the dry, shorter days just before the equinox. The spirit sends out seeds, flowers, seizing the moment before winter sets in. How do we keep our spirits strong and feisty? How do we stand up like the last lemon yellow calendula flower against the hot dry winds of oppression and inequity?
Everyone seems to have some way to do it, everyone who survives. Swami Kriyananda spoke last Sunday of "not wanting". How do we live, thrive, create and love without wanting? It must be somewhere in the dichotomy of Eckart Tolle's statement, "Don't look for peace." We free ourselves from desire, and the incessant search for illusive ideals, and then... be.
A human with a strong spirit is like a wild daisy, or a poppy in the dry, shorter days just before the equinox. The spirit sends out seeds, flowers, seizing the moment before winter sets in. How do we keep our spirits strong and feisty? How do we stand up like the last lemon yellow calendula flower against the hot dry winds of oppression and inequity?
Everyone seems to have some way to do it, everyone who survives. Swami Kriyananda spoke last Sunday of "not wanting". How do we live, thrive, create and love without wanting? It must be somewhere in the dichotomy of Eckart Tolle's statement, "Don't look for peace." We free ourselves from desire, and the incessant search for illusive ideals, and then... be.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Sleepless in Bellevue
The beautiful weather of August taunts me as I find myself spending a week as assistant, caregiver, tile fixer, paint crew laison and "chief cook and bottle washer" here in suburbia turned small wealthy city via microsoft.
(My window spell check puts the angry red line under the word 'microsoft')
I went to the local Home Depot, which is probably the closest one to the famed area of downtown Bellevue, and it is busy as a beehive. Outside in the parking lot stand 10-12 Hispanic men waiting for day labor. The contrast is striking between the white population shopping, and this little group at the edges of the economy. As I leave the store with my little tube of silicone caulking, I fantasize about hiring one of them to sit and "platicar" en Espanol for an hour at the nearby Starbucks. An easy 12.00/hour or whatever their going rate is. It seems like a good story, and a great way to get my conversational Spanish up to traveling standards. Maybe I will do it in the winter, when being inside will be a welcome option.
Right now the weather in the Pacific Northwest is just lovely. When I set my Mom up for a massage yesterday, we didn't need extra heaters or blankets. The air was toasty warm naturally. We take it when we can get it.
Mom turns 87 on Friday. We have been having mini birthday events all week, including a cherry pie I made just like the ones she made from our cherries in Salem, OR, where we lived when I was little. It was a different time and place, not like this Bellevue life. Reminiscing is one of my folk's favorite pastimes these days. I totally relate, as I am old enough to love that too. I'm sure my sons have had enough of my stories about how cute they were and what funny things they did with words when they were little. Someday they may understand, as they pile on the years and realize how much there is in the old memory banks. Some precious bits bear pulling out every now and then to look at like the jewelry in safe deposit box.
Later today my sister and I will go through 45+ years of accumulated books, to find homes for them, maybe a little cash too. I'm sure the children's books will bring a little tear of nostalgia, knowing they were read to our little children by their loving grandparents. Some things will never happen again, but we hold their essence in our hearts.
(My window spell check puts the angry red line under the word 'microsoft')
I went to the local Home Depot, which is probably the closest one to the famed area of downtown Bellevue, and it is busy as a beehive. Outside in the parking lot stand 10-12 Hispanic men waiting for day labor. The contrast is striking between the white population shopping, and this little group at the edges of the economy. As I leave the store with my little tube of silicone caulking, I fantasize about hiring one of them to sit and "platicar" en Espanol for an hour at the nearby Starbucks. An easy 12.00/hour or whatever their going rate is. It seems like a good story, and a great way to get my conversational Spanish up to traveling standards. Maybe I will do it in the winter, when being inside will be a welcome option.
Right now the weather in the Pacific Northwest is just lovely. When I set my Mom up for a massage yesterday, we didn't need extra heaters or blankets. The air was toasty warm naturally. We take it when we can get it.
Mom turns 87 on Friday. We have been having mini birthday events all week, including a cherry pie I made just like the ones she made from our cherries in Salem, OR, where we lived when I was little. It was a different time and place, not like this Bellevue life. Reminiscing is one of my folk's favorite pastimes these days. I totally relate, as I am old enough to love that too. I'm sure my sons have had enough of my stories about how cute they were and what funny things they did with words when they were little. Someday they may understand, as they pile on the years and realize how much there is in the old memory banks. Some precious bits bear pulling out every now and then to look at like the jewelry in safe deposit box.
Later today my sister and I will go through 45+ years of accumulated books, to find homes for them, maybe a little cash too. I'm sure the children's books will bring a little tear of nostalgia, knowing they were read to our little children by their loving grandparents. Some things will never happen again, but we hold their essence in our hearts.
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