I adore the smell of fresh-picked tomatoes, their aroma a heady mix of sweetening juices and green vines. Each morning now, after I hang the bird feeders and release the geese for the day, I pick fresh tomatoes ... zucchini ... green beans. The tomatoes reward me with a brief, fleeting scent of aliveness. I raise the fruit to my nose and suck in the smell. It lingers briefly, staining my fingers with freshness.
Ironically, I seldom eat raw tomatoes (I’m allergic). One or two a season is enough for me. But I love to harvest, clean, pare, and cook the wide variety of fruits and vegetables that hang, plump and lovely, from the vine.
Yesterday’s day-long chef duties produced summer tomato soup, spaghetti sauce, kale-walnut pesto (from Farmer John’s cookbook, “The Real Dirt on Vegetables”), and the beginnings of a vegetable stir-fry. There is a deep sense of accomplishment in picking and preparing vegetables planted with your own hands and harvested through the ache of your own back. And, as we all know, the flavor is exquisite, unlike anything found in the fresh produce department at the local grocery store.
One of my t’ai chi chih students, a substitute teacher in Washburn, WI, told me a story last year about the transformative effects of growing your own food. Many Washburn High School students, she said, regularly left school grounds to head downtown for lunch at local restaurants. Then the school started growing its own garden. Each class was assigned specific vegetables to nurture to maturity. Now students eat lunch in the cafeteria. In no small way—perhaps in a life-changing way—they remain at school to savor the fruits of their labors.
I was reminded of this story when I read “Food for the Soul” in the September 2009 issue of Reader’s Digest. It tells the tale of Liz Neumark, a caterer in New York City, who created the Sylvia Center, a program designed to help city kids experience unprocessed, wholesome food from seedling to simple summer soup.
Neumark invites school children to her organic farm in upstate New York to collect eggs from the chickens, repot seedlings, pick vegetables, and then sample a collaborative cooking effort. The program is named after her youngest daughter who died from a weakened blood vessel in her brain at age six and it’s meant to show kids where real food comes from and how it tastes straight out of the earth.
Her hope is that when children plant, weed, harvest, and cook their own food they will be inspired to make different food choices. And her efforts are being rewarded ... last year a young girl who participated in Silvia Center saw a zucchini at the market and asked her mother to buy it, promising, “I’m going to make you breakfast in bed tomorrow.”
As I sat out on my deck last evening, dusk settling upon me, knife in hand, cutting board in my lap, and a wide circle of vegetables around me, I remembered my mother. I may have been unimpressed watching her sit in her lawn chair snapping beans when I was a child, but I can envision her clearly now. My memories of her pride in her garden and the many hours spent weeding, harvesting, canning, and freezing linger.... These days we share the same chair.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Three Cups of Tea
There are books—and even better, people—that inspire hope in the world. Greg Mortenson is one such person. His 2006 book, Three Cups of Tea, co-authored with David Oliver Relin, flew me from continent to continent and trekked me up and down mountainous terrain as I followed in his footsteps. A New York Times bestseller, Three Cups is the amazing real-life adventure of a modern-day mountaineer cum humanitarian.
In 1993 Mortenson climbed the world’s second highest mountain, K2 in Pakistan. He failed to reach its summit. Sliding down the slopes of that failure, though, he began to build a life of service that scatters schools—rather than bombs—across the remote mountainsides of Pakistan and Afghanistan.
It’s been a decade and a half since Mortenson stumbled into Korphe, a small Pakistani village, on his way down K2. There Korphe’s chief, Haji Ali, his family, and the community welcomed and befriended Mortenson, nursing him back to health.
During his recovery Mortenson witnessed the dedication with which the children of Korphe labored to learn, using sticks to draw in the dirt while kneeling on frosty ground. His new-found friendships elicited a promise: Mortenson would return to Pakistan to build a school for Korphe’s children.
Little did he know that this commitment would set him on a tireless journey to build buildings and establish connections with people and places too-often feared and misunderstood by Americans halfway around the globe. Thankfully, this book draws a more colorful, compassionate, and complete portrait of the people who inhabit this remote region of the world.
Back in California, Mortenson’s follow-up efforts at fundraising were ineffective and inept. But he was committed to his goal. He saved money from his part-time job as an ER nurse and slept in his car or a rented storage space. An old IBM Selectric typewriter at a local copy shop was his first office and, five hundred eighty letters later, Mortenson received one decent-sized check, enough to begin his project.
Mortenson’s initial promise to the people of Korphe soon metamorphosed into a full-bore, full-time effort to build schools in other villages in Pakistan and, later, Afghanistan. As Mortenson became familiar with the cultural terrain he recognized a widespread need for balanced education for all youngsters, especially girls. They were the ones, he believed, who could effect long-lasting, self-sustaining change. His good-spirited, humble, and respectful ways quickly won the allegiance of a majority of the local people even as fatwas (authoritarian rulings by Islamic scholars) were issued against him.
Once Mortenson committed himself to ascend this new peak toward right livelihood nothing could stop him. Initially beset by corrupt local businessmen, he subsequently survived a kidnapping, had tea with members of the Taliban and, later, refused to evacuate the region in spite of insistent recommendations by the American consulate post-9/11.
Mortenson’s kindness and compassion, and his willingness to submerge himself in diverse cultures and languages, sprung out of an early childhood in Africa. His family relocated from Minnesota to Tanzania in 1958—when Greg was just three months old—in order for his father to serve as a Lutheran missionary there.
While his father built a school and hospital on the slopes of Mount Kilimanjaro Greg attended an international school that included twenty-eight different nationalities. He and his classmates celebrated holidays that ranged from Hanukkah to Christmas, Diwali to the Feast of Id. Quite likely these childhood experiences—played out in the midst of various cultures, languages, and skin colors—helped him to realize early on that we are one people who desire to live in peace with one another.
His solo school-building efforts eventually expanded into a nonprofit organization known as the Central Asia Institute (CAI). CAI’s mission stands in sharp contrast to the work of another American agency identified by the same letters in slightly different order … the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) which conducts its own shadowy business in Central Asia.
In the book’s introduction co-author Relin admits that he was one among many who were drawn to the CAI’s work through its scope and the magnitude of Mortenson’s personality. Relin words are worth quoting here:
"The more time I spent watching Mortenson work, the more convinced I became that I was in the presence of someone extraordinary….
"Though he would never say so himself, he has single-handedly changed the lives of tens of thousands of children, and independently won more hearts and minds than all the official American propaganda flooding the region.
"So this is a confession: Rather than simply reporting on his progress, I want to see Greg Mortenson succeed. I wish him success because he is fighting the war on terror the way I think it should be conducted…. Mortenson goes to war with the root causes of terror every time he offers a student a chance to receive a balanced education, rather than attend an extremist madrassa (school).
"If we Americans are to learn from our mistakes, from the flailing, ineffective way we, as a nation, conducted our war on terror after the attacks of 9/11, and from the way we have failed to make our case to the great moderate mass of peace-loving people at the heart of the Muslim world, we need to listen to Greg Mortenson. I did, and it has been one of the most rewarding experiences of my life."
Mortenson and Relin tell an incredible tale that crosses countries and cultures widely divergent from our own. Their book is a testament to the power of one man’s promise to promote peace one school at a time. By its end we believe that a more educated world will create a more loving and accepting one … a better place for all of us.
For more information on the Central Asia Institute visit their website at: http://www.ikat.org/. There you will find a full listing of Mortenson’s speaking schedule throughout the U.S. See, also, http://www.threecupsoftea.com/ to order your personal copy of this well-written, inspiring, and phenomenal real-life adventure story. It will open your soul to the heart-rending challenges and choices faced by the people of Pakistan and Afghanistan whose lives are torn and battered by the harsh reign of the Taliban.
This book is like a titanium bracelet … strong, (filled with) light, and incredibly resilient. I highly recommend it.
In 1993 Mortenson climbed the world’s second highest mountain, K2 in Pakistan. He failed to reach its summit. Sliding down the slopes of that failure, though, he began to build a life of service that scatters schools—rather than bombs—across the remote mountainsides of Pakistan and Afghanistan.
It’s been a decade and a half since Mortenson stumbled into Korphe, a small Pakistani village, on his way down K2. There Korphe’s chief, Haji Ali, his family, and the community welcomed and befriended Mortenson, nursing him back to health.
During his recovery Mortenson witnessed the dedication with which the children of Korphe labored to learn, using sticks to draw in the dirt while kneeling on frosty ground. His new-found friendships elicited a promise: Mortenson would return to Pakistan to build a school for Korphe’s children.
Little did he know that this commitment would set him on a tireless journey to build buildings and establish connections with people and places too-often feared and misunderstood by Americans halfway around the globe. Thankfully, this book draws a more colorful, compassionate, and complete portrait of the people who inhabit this remote region of the world.
Back in California, Mortenson’s follow-up efforts at fundraising were ineffective and inept. But he was committed to his goal. He saved money from his part-time job as an ER nurse and slept in his car or a rented storage space. An old IBM Selectric typewriter at a local copy shop was his first office and, five hundred eighty letters later, Mortenson received one decent-sized check, enough to begin his project.
Mortenson’s initial promise to the people of Korphe soon metamorphosed into a full-bore, full-time effort to build schools in other villages in Pakistan and, later, Afghanistan. As Mortenson became familiar with the cultural terrain he recognized a widespread need for balanced education for all youngsters, especially girls. They were the ones, he believed, who could effect long-lasting, self-sustaining change. His good-spirited, humble, and respectful ways quickly won the allegiance of a majority of the local people even as fatwas (authoritarian rulings by Islamic scholars) were issued against him.
Once Mortenson committed himself to ascend this new peak toward right livelihood nothing could stop him. Initially beset by corrupt local businessmen, he subsequently survived a kidnapping, had tea with members of the Taliban and, later, refused to evacuate the region in spite of insistent recommendations by the American consulate post-9/11.
Mortenson’s kindness and compassion, and his willingness to submerge himself in diverse cultures and languages, sprung out of an early childhood in Africa. His family relocated from Minnesota to Tanzania in 1958—when Greg was just three months old—in order for his father to serve as a Lutheran missionary there.
While his father built a school and hospital on the slopes of Mount Kilimanjaro Greg attended an international school that included twenty-eight different nationalities. He and his classmates celebrated holidays that ranged from Hanukkah to Christmas, Diwali to the Feast of Id. Quite likely these childhood experiences—played out in the midst of various cultures, languages, and skin colors—helped him to realize early on that we are one people who desire to live in peace with one another.
His solo school-building efforts eventually expanded into a nonprofit organization known as the Central Asia Institute (CAI). CAI’s mission stands in sharp contrast to the work of another American agency identified by the same letters in slightly different order … the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) which conducts its own shadowy business in Central Asia.
In the book’s introduction co-author Relin admits that he was one among many who were drawn to the CAI’s work through its scope and the magnitude of Mortenson’s personality. Relin words are worth quoting here:
"The more time I spent watching Mortenson work, the more convinced I became that I was in the presence of someone extraordinary….
"Though he would never say so himself, he has single-handedly changed the lives of tens of thousands of children, and independently won more hearts and minds than all the official American propaganda flooding the region.
"So this is a confession: Rather than simply reporting on his progress, I want to see Greg Mortenson succeed. I wish him success because he is fighting the war on terror the way I think it should be conducted…. Mortenson goes to war with the root causes of terror every time he offers a student a chance to receive a balanced education, rather than attend an extremist madrassa (school).
"If we Americans are to learn from our mistakes, from the flailing, ineffective way we, as a nation, conducted our war on terror after the attacks of 9/11, and from the way we have failed to make our case to the great moderate mass of peace-loving people at the heart of the Muslim world, we need to listen to Greg Mortenson. I did, and it has been one of the most rewarding experiences of my life."
Mortenson and Relin tell an incredible tale that crosses countries and cultures widely divergent from our own. Their book is a testament to the power of one man’s promise to promote peace one school at a time. By its end we believe that a more educated world will create a more loving and accepting one … a better place for all of us.
For more information on the Central Asia Institute visit their website at: http://www.ikat.org/. There you will find a full listing of Mortenson’s speaking schedule throughout the U.S. See, also, http://www.threecupsoftea.com/ to order your personal copy of this well-written, inspiring, and phenomenal real-life adventure story. It will open your soul to the heart-rending challenges and choices faced by the people of Pakistan and Afghanistan whose lives are torn and battered by the harsh reign of the Taliban.
This book is like a titanium bracelet … strong, (filled with) light, and incredibly resilient. I highly recommend it.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
The First Twitter
Before twitter.com there was the first, the truest, the most natural twitter. It was issued by ruby-throated hummingbirds as they soared toward their feeders.
Frances and I are inundated by this twitter-mania everyday. As young’uns ready themselves for their southern migration (they vacate our yard shortly after Labor Day) they engage in nearly continuous battles for food. The ravine on the south side of our house brims with jewel weed, a hummingbird favorite. But it’s the hummingbird feeder outside our patio door that attracts the most rambunctious crowd.
Currently four to six birds share this feeder. It’s dominated by one male. He perches on a dead branch conveniently close to the food source. As other hummers swoop near, he dives toward the feeder with a rush of twittering. Though his “words” are hard to interpret, his intent is not. I imagine his message as follows: “Hey, dude. Get out!” “U move it!” “Ur out of ur area little miss.” “Are U lost? This is mine. Mine! MINE!”
The other bird swoops, chattering, away. Then our dominant male perches on the metal curlicue above the feeder and twitters on: “Stay away!” “Beat it!” “Get a clue, sweet♥s.” “This is MY breakfast,lunch,dinner,snack,snack,snack!” “2 bad for u.”
Of course, he’s not the only one given to self-expression. Other hummingbirds seated on nearby branches, perched atop fragile flowers, or hovering mid-air argue back: “You’ll get yours, buster.” “LOL, man.” “Oh yeah? U wait!”
Not a tweeter or twitterer myself, I listen with interest to the challenges and short bursts of conversation that surround me. Then there’s a brief pause. A welcome silence. Suddenly the dive-bombing reconvenes … along with the twittering. The hummer who stays behind twitters. The hummer who flies away twitters. They both twitter mid-flight as they careen past our observation posts, two lawn chairs positioned on the deck slightly below and to the side of the aforementioned battleground.
You may accuse me of anthropomorphizing the interactions of my tiny friends. It doesn't matter. I enjoy these birdie twitters. These excited bursts of conversation will soon, all too soon, be gone for another year. And, truth be told, human tweets--140 characters or less--don't undo me like the twitters of my feathered friends! I think it's the tone of voice, rather than the words, that makes all the difference!
Frances and I are inundated by this twitter-mania everyday. As young’uns ready themselves for their southern migration (they vacate our yard shortly after Labor Day) they engage in nearly continuous battles for food. The ravine on the south side of our house brims with jewel weed, a hummingbird favorite. But it’s the hummingbird feeder outside our patio door that attracts the most rambunctious crowd.
Currently four to six birds share this feeder. It’s dominated by one male. He perches on a dead branch conveniently close to the food source. As other hummers swoop near, he dives toward the feeder with a rush of twittering. Though his “words” are hard to interpret, his intent is not. I imagine his message as follows: “Hey, dude. Get out!” “U move it!” “Ur out of ur area little miss.” “Are U lost? This is mine. Mine! MINE!”
The other bird swoops, chattering, away. Then our dominant male perches on the metal curlicue above the feeder and twitters on: “Stay away!” “Beat it!” “Get a clue, sweet♥s.” “This is MY breakfast,lunch,dinner,snack,snack,snack!” “2 bad for u.”
Of course, he’s not the only one given to self-expression. Other hummingbirds seated on nearby branches, perched atop fragile flowers, or hovering mid-air argue back: “You’ll get yours, buster.” “LOL, man.” “Oh yeah? U wait!”
Not a tweeter or twitterer myself, I listen with interest to the challenges and short bursts of conversation that surround me. Then there’s a brief pause. A welcome silence. Suddenly the dive-bombing reconvenes … along with the twittering. The hummer who stays behind twitters. The hummer who flies away twitters. They both twitter mid-flight as they careen past our observation posts, two lawn chairs positioned on the deck slightly below and to the side of the aforementioned battleground.
You may accuse me of anthropomorphizing the interactions of my tiny friends. It doesn't matter. I enjoy these birdie twitters. These excited bursts of conversation will soon, all too soon, be gone for another year. And, truth be told, human tweets--140 characters or less--don't undo me like the twitters of my feathered friends! I think it's the tone of voice, rather than the words, that makes all the difference!
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Tree Hugger? That's me....
What is a tree hugger?
I am. That’s the short answer.
Of course, in this complicated world “tree hugger” is often uttered with contempt. This beautiful, positive concept has evolved into a derogatory term slung at people concerned about the future of the earth.
For me it’s ancestral. I grew up around trees. In my childhood I climbed the swaying willow in our side yard, opened my book, and sat for hours, reading and swinging lightly in the breeze. On warm summer evenings my family and I played kick the can, hide and seek, and croquet beneath the sheltering branches of huge bur oaks.
During a recent visit to my family farm I slept in a tent under the shade of those same bur oaks. They were guardians of my sleep; their rustling leaves soothed and comforted me. The previous property owners, my grandparents and parents, are gone but the trees remain. They are, in modern eco-friendly terms, storehouses of carbon and producers of oxygen but they also contain something less measurable … a connection to the generations of family who lived—and continue to live—there. Their deep roots held us to the land. Their knarled branches and glossy leaves sheltered us from the sun.
I currently reside in the middle of a forest and I spend my days—and nights—in the midst of these lovely friends. Trees comfort me, shelter me, and sing to me. They give me stability and roots, protection and peace. I live under the forest canopy … and just like the deer, bear, fox, coyotes, wolves, and song birds who live under this canopy with me, the trees are my home.
What would it be like to believe—and act as if—trees had feelings just as we do? I recently uncovered an article I’d clipped in 1984. It was written by novelist/poet/essayist Alice Walker (“When a Tree Falls…”). Walker wrote that she and a friend visited a national forest to listen to what the Earth was saying. Soon after entering the woods Walker lay down on the path under a grove of trees. As she rested on their roots she felt the trees’ anger. They wanted her to move. Walker began to converse with the trees:
"All my life you have meant a lot to me. I love your grace, your dignity, your serenity, your generosity…. Well, said the trees, before I finished this list, we find you without grace, without dignity, without serenity, and there is no generosity in you either—just ask any tree. You butcher us, you burn us, you grow us only to destroy us. Even when we grow ourselves you kill us, or cut off our limbs. That we are alive and have feelings means nothing to you."
A deep sadness fills my body when I see a logging truck stacked with the thick, dead bodies of fresh-cut trees driving down the highway. Can we human beings change our attitudes toward trees—toward all of nature—in order to consider, as the first inhabitants of this land did, that all living things are our relatives?
A friend said today, “One of the reasons I live in northern Wisconsin is because of the trees. The trees are my family.”
I hug my family members. Do you?
(Thanks for the question, Winky.)
I am. That’s the short answer.
Of course, in this complicated world “tree hugger” is often uttered with contempt. This beautiful, positive concept has evolved into a derogatory term slung at people concerned about the future of the earth.
For me it’s ancestral. I grew up around trees. In my childhood I climbed the swaying willow in our side yard, opened my book, and sat for hours, reading and swinging lightly in the breeze. On warm summer evenings my family and I played kick the can, hide and seek, and croquet beneath the sheltering branches of huge bur oaks.
During a recent visit to my family farm I slept in a tent under the shade of those same bur oaks. They were guardians of my sleep; their rustling leaves soothed and comforted me. The previous property owners, my grandparents and parents, are gone but the trees remain. They are, in modern eco-friendly terms, storehouses of carbon and producers of oxygen but they also contain something less measurable … a connection to the generations of family who lived—and continue to live—there. Their deep roots held us to the land. Their knarled branches and glossy leaves sheltered us from the sun.
I currently reside in the middle of a forest and I spend my days—and nights—in the midst of these lovely friends. Trees comfort me, shelter me, and sing to me. They give me stability and roots, protection and peace. I live under the forest canopy … and just like the deer, bear, fox, coyotes, wolves, and song birds who live under this canopy with me, the trees are my home.
What would it be like to believe—and act as if—trees had feelings just as we do? I recently uncovered an article I’d clipped in 1984. It was written by novelist/poet/essayist Alice Walker (“When a Tree Falls…”). Walker wrote that she and a friend visited a national forest to listen to what the Earth was saying. Soon after entering the woods Walker lay down on the path under a grove of trees. As she rested on their roots she felt the trees’ anger. They wanted her to move. Walker began to converse with the trees:
"All my life you have meant a lot to me. I love your grace, your dignity, your serenity, your generosity…. Well, said the trees, before I finished this list, we find you without grace, without dignity, without serenity, and there is no generosity in you either—just ask any tree. You butcher us, you burn us, you grow us only to destroy us. Even when we grow ourselves you kill us, or cut off our limbs. That we are alive and have feelings means nothing to you."
A deep sadness fills my body when I see a logging truck stacked with the thick, dead bodies of fresh-cut trees driving down the highway. Can we human beings change our attitudes toward trees—toward all of nature—in order to consider, as the first inhabitants of this land did, that all living things are our relatives?
A friend said today, “One of the reasons I live in northern Wisconsin is because of the trees. The trees are my family.”
I hug my family members. Do you?
(Thanks for the question, Winky.)
Sunday, August 2, 2009
They're Federally Insured ... Aren't They?
Stop at the bank √
farmer’s market √
grocery store √
bakery√
Drop off extra egg cartons √
Etc. √
Etc. √
Etc. √
Despite the mundane errands I checked off on yesterday’s list the day sparkled with fun.
It started at the bank. Saturday banking is drive-through only. I joined the line behind three cars at the window. Two additional cars waited in the adjoining lane. When the car directly in front of me pulled up to window, I watched with interest. The license plate read Mississippi. I was curious, “What type of business did these distant travelers plan to conduct here in beautiful downtown Bayfield, WI?”
I soon found out.
When the cash drawer extended out, the driver said a few words to the person behind the glass and quickly deposited two or three bags of strawberries into the drawer. The drawer closed, disappeared, reemerged, and reopened. Again, the driver dropped in several bags of strawberries. The drawer closed once again. These deposits occurred in quick succession until the drawer stayed closed and the car drove away.
“Wow,” I thought, “That is the most unique bank deposit I have ever seen.”
Pulling up to the window I spoke my thought to the employee on duty who was in juicy-good spirits. The adult daughter of a nearby neighbor, she explained that she didn’t have enough freezer space to store her fresh-picked strawberries. A sister volunteered to keep them frozen for her. Now she’d place them temporarily in the bank freezer until she found time to make strawberry jam.
Later I pulled into the Washburn IGA parking lot. I’d been rushing from point to point, errand to errand. Now I’d settle in for the long haul, probably 45 minutes to an hour of grocery shopping.
As I entered the store and paused to collect my shopping cart I exhaled a long, weary sigh. Another woman stood with her back to me reading a sign. She turned and began to laugh. A former t’ai chi chih student of mine, she reached over and gave me a hug saying, “I’ve been sighing all morning.”
It was a tremendously windy day. I responded, “It feels like the wind just blows it right out of you.” We both laughed.
I told her about the blog I’d published the previous day. I’d written that I feel comfortable talking out loud in the middle of the woods though I’m not willing to do so in the middle of the city. Perhaps my previous day’s writing loosened me up. Maybe I felt that my small town community wouldn’t think less of me for abandoning my polite, introverted, self-contained ways. We laughed our way into the store and sailed with glee down the first grocery aisle.
Now back to those strawberries. Since they were deposited in a bank with FDIC insurance up to $250,000 they’re fully insured now. Aren’t they?
farmer’s market √
grocery store √
bakery√
Drop off extra egg cartons √
Etc. √
Etc. √
Etc. √
Despite the mundane errands I checked off on yesterday’s list the day sparkled with fun.
It started at the bank. Saturday banking is drive-through only. I joined the line behind three cars at the window. Two additional cars waited in the adjoining lane. When the car directly in front of me pulled up to window, I watched with interest. The license plate read Mississippi. I was curious, “What type of business did these distant travelers plan to conduct here in beautiful downtown Bayfield, WI?”
I soon found out.
When the cash drawer extended out, the driver said a few words to the person behind the glass and quickly deposited two or three bags of strawberries into the drawer. The drawer closed, disappeared, reemerged, and reopened. Again, the driver dropped in several bags of strawberries. The drawer closed once again. These deposits occurred in quick succession until the drawer stayed closed and the car drove away.
“Wow,” I thought, “That is the most unique bank deposit I have ever seen.”
Pulling up to the window I spoke my thought to the employee on duty who was in juicy-good spirits. The adult daughter of a nearby neighbor, she explained that she didn’t have enough freezer space to store her fresh-picked strawberries. A sister volunteered to keep them frozen for her. Now she’d place them temporarily in the bank freezer until she found time to make strawberry jam.
Later I pulled into the Washburn IGA parking lot. I’d been rushing from point to point, errand to errand. Now I’d settle in for the long haul, probably 45 minutes to an hour of grocery shopping.
As I entered the store and paused to collect my shopping cart I exhaled a long, weary sigh. Another woman stood with her back to me reading a sign. She turned and began to laugh. A former t’ai chi chih student of mine, she reached over and gave me a hug saying, “I’ve been sighing all morning.”
It was a tremendously windy day. I responded, “It feels like the wind just blows it right out of you.” We both laughed.
I told her about the blog I’d published the previous day. I’d written that I feel comfortable talking out loud in the middle of the woods though I’m not willing to do so in the middle of the city. Perhaps my previous day’s writing loosened me up. Maybe I felt that my small town community wouldn’t think less of me for abandoning my polite, introverted, self-contained ways. We laughed our way into the store and sailed with glee down the first grocery aisle.
Now back to those strawberries. Since they were deposited in a bank with FDIC insurance up to $250,000 they’re fully insured now. Aren’t they?
Friday, July 31, 2009
Bounteous Beauty
“It’s beautiful today. Beautiful! Beautiful! Beautiful!” I say these words aloud to myself—and anyone who’ll listen—as I walk out the patio door to hang the bird feeders. It’s 6:45 a.m., 48 degrees. Sunlight dapples the ground and fills the sky. A slight breeze flickers through the leaves and tosses them lightly....
The middle of the woods is a wonderful dwelling place for an introvert. You can do things like that ... talk to yourself and nature in a loud—sometimes screaming loud—voice. I’d never utter a word in the middle of a city neighborhood but here, where I’m safe in the quiet with 25 acres to surround me, I talk aloud to myself.
I tend to think that my woodland neighbors—birds, bears, wolves, coyotes, squirrels, et al.—listen to my spontaneous comments with appreciation. Words of praise are a welcome event in a neighborhood that grows smaller, its backyards, front yards, side yards gradually dissipating through development and logging operations. Humans wonder why bear or other wild creatures occasionally attack us. Hmmm. How would you react if your bedroom, dining room, or backyard was being taken over by an uninvited stranger? Would you gladly give up your home thinking that you could easily find another house further down the road?
I’m often surprised by the number of people—both locals and tourists—who fear the bear who inhabit these forests. Last week Frances heard a rustling in the woods across the driveway from where she quietly worked. She paused, glanced toward the noise, saw nothing, and resumed her occupation. Soon she heard more rustling. Another glance revealed bear feet (yes, I said bear feet, not bare feet) dangling from a tree across the way. A small bear bounced up and down, struggling to reach higher branches. It appeared to be eating ... something. We investigated the next day and found the tree, berries hanging high overhead.
This morning Frances went for an early morning walk. When she returned, she offered another bear story. This small bear--probably the same one from several weeks ago--was eating berries from the wild raspberry bushes that line our drive. Not aware of Frances’ approach, the bear heard her cough and was gone....
Like I said, “It’s beautiful here. Beautiful. Beautiful. Beautiful.”
The middle of the woods is a wonderful dwelling place for an introvert. You can do things like that ... talk to yourself and nature in a loud—sometimes screaming loud—voice. I’d never utter a word in the middle of a city neighborhood but here, where I’m safe in the quiet with 25 acres to surround me, I talk aloud to myself.
I tend to think that my woodland neighbors—birds, bears, wolves, coyotes, squirrels, et al.—listen to my spontaneous comments with appreciation. Words of praise are a welcome event in a neighborhood that grows smaller, its backyards, front yards, side yards gradually dissipating through development and logging operations. Humans wonder why bear or other wild creatures occasionally attack us. Hmmm. How would you react if your bedroom, dining room, or backyard was being taken over by an uninvited stranger? Would you gladly give up your home thinking that you could easily find another house further down the road?
I’m often surprised by the number of people—both locals and tourists—who fear the bear who inhabit these forests. Last week Frances heard a rustling in the woods across the driveway from where she quietly worked. She paused, glanced toward the noise, saw nothing, and resumed her occupation. Soon she heard more rustling. Another glance revealed bear feet (yes, I said bear feet, not bare feet) dangling from a tree across the way. A small bear bounced up and down, struggling to reach higher branches. It appeared to be eating ... something. We investigated the next day and found the tree, berries hanging high overhead.
This morning Frances went for an early morning walk. When she returned, she offered another bear story. This small bear--probably the same one from several weeks ago--was eating berries from the wild raspberry bushes that line our drive. Not aware of Frances’ approach, the bear heard her cough and was gone....
Like I said, “It’s beautiful here. Beautiful. Beautiful. Beautiful.”
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Good News Gazette - News at the Speed of Nice!
Another 40 degree start to the day. It’s dark, overcast, shrouded in quiet. “The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep….” (“Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening,” by Robert Frost) Okay, it's not snowing but it IS cool for July 1.
An idea slammed me like thunder this AM. How about a home page posting news reports based on hopeful, upbeat, uplifting people and events? Since my internet connection always boots up the Google News page I’m well aware that the latest news items are typically framed in a trauma/drama mode. Of course, the biggest news is always the worst. Right? As my brother, Brett, says, "Good news doesn't make any money."
Still, wouldn’t it be fun to turn that whole assumption and modus operandi upside down and sideways?
I’m reminded of the magazine “Hope.” It went out of business several years ago and I truly felt lost, without hope. It seemed that the general public didn’t want to read positive, inspirational stories about people who invested themselves in changing the world for the better. Or did "Hope" simply not find the larger market that it needed?
The internet is a potent tool to connect with our world society. Sure, there are plenty of people who, for whatever reason, like to read about disaster. From my own experience I'd venture a guess that there is an addictive quality to focusing on other people's pain and agony. I'm often horrified by the news I read at the same time that it captivates me. Why do I keep reading it? To convince myself that my life isn't so bad after all? To engage in a game of one-upmanship where I always come out on top? To fool myself into thinking that "I would never do anything like that...."?
Hopefully the human race has some desire--even if it's a secret one--to be uplifted, encouraged, and challenged to think about our society from a different perspective. Instead of expecting the worst from people what would it be like to expect the best? Instead of launching ourselves into a canyon of sorrows, what if we rolled in a wildflower-filled meadow of blessings?
Certainly a Good News home page could fill a niche. It would, if nothing else, provide a polar opposite to the doom/gloom crowd of news pages readily available. Still, can people focus on positivity for long? Does it get too boring? Too disconnected from the real world? If we can’t handle the hope and inspiration, we can always surf to the old standards: Google News, MSN, Yahoo et al.
My just-completed Google search for upbeat news sites yielded a page and a half of listings. Hooray! See www.google.com/Top/News/Alternative/Good_News/ for positive news to create a more positive world. I include one link from that list here: Good News Gazette - News at the Speed of Nice!
There is hope after all!
An idea slammed me like thunder this AM. How about a home page posting news reports based on hopeful, upbeat, uplifting people and events? Since my internet connection always boots up the Google News page I’m well aware that the latest news items are typically framed in a trauma/drama mode. Of course, the biggest news is always the worst. Right? As my brother, Brett, says, "Good news doesn't make any money."
Still, wouldn’t it be fun to turn that whole assumption and modus operandi upside down and sideways?
I’m reminded of the magazine “Hope.” It went out of business several years ago and I truly felt lost, without hope. It seemed that the general public didn’t want to read positive, inspirational stories about people who invested themselves in changing the world for the better. Or did "Hope" simply not find the larger market that it needed?
The internet is a potent tool to connect with our world society. Sure, there are plenty of people who, for whatever reason, like to read about disaster. From my own experience I'd venture a guess that there is an addictive quality to focusing on other people's pain and agony. I'm often horrified by the news I read at the same time that it captivates me. Why do I keep reading it? To convince myself that my life isn't so bad after all? To engage in a game of one-upmanship where I always come out on top? To fool myself into thinking that "I would never do anything like that...."?
Hopefully the human race has some desire--even if it's a secret one--to be uplifted, encouraged, and challenged to think about our society from a different perspective. Instead of expecting the worst from people what would it be like to expect the best? Instead of launching ourselves into a canyon of sorrows, what if we rolled in a wildflower-filled meadow of blessings?
Certainly a Good News home page could fill a niche. It would, if nothing else, provide a polar opposite to the doom/gloom crowd of news pages readily available. Still, can people focus on positivity for long? Does it get too boring? Too disconnected from the real world? If we can’t handle the hope and inspiration, we can always surf to the old standards: Google News, MSN, Yahoo et al.
My just-completed Google search for upbeat news sites yielded a page and a half of listings. Hooray! See www.google.com/Top/News/Alternative/Good_News/ for positive news to create a more positive world. I include one link from that list here: Good News Gazette - News at the Speed of Nice!
There is hope after all!
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