Tag: Nature

BEING LED BY A PILLAR OF FIRE

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 3 Comments

Quakers love the image of Light. What we observe, though, is not the light itself but rather the objects it reveals, at least within the visible portion of the spectrum. Sources of light – a star, a fire, the flash of a strobe – may be somewhat different, but the lingering afterimage when we close our eyes suggests the perception may be in large part a reaction within ourselves – and not just some intense chemical or physical transformation in the originating body.

This time of year, I begin regarding fire again – we rely on a wood stove to heat part of our house, and the upcoming holidays bring out an array of candles, seriously beginning with the Advent wreath. I’m mesmerized by the flames of a wood fire – the movement of flames and coals takes on its own pathway, no matter what you predict; their flickering dances, and the warmth is, well, captivating, especially in the midnight hours when I come home from the office. Stars, too, are more pronounced in the lengthened nights and sharpened air.

These are reminders, too, of those times in our lives when we’re on fire or given new direction – swept up in new love, the arrival of a baby, religious enthusiasm, a social cause – as well as those times when we sense contentment and comfort. We need both.

In the end, there’s something mysterious about fire, especially. Fire, after all, is a gift to humanity, as endless myths attest. As such, it demands care on our part. I think, too, of the flight of Israelites from captivity in Egypt, how they were responding to a pillar of fire by night and a pillar of cloud by day as they were led into the desert and out of bondage – what a contrast those images offer! Was the cloud dark and stormy, or even glowing from within or against the sun? To be liberated, by following both cooling moisture and drying flames – to be guided toward our true destination, and be comforted along the way. Mind the Light, then, as we go, toward a new Bethlehem, perchance.

GARDEN POSTSCRIPT

~ Jnana Hodson ~ Leave a comment

As our gardening season winds down toward the inevitable killing frost, let me follow up on our experiment using seaweed this year. Quite simply, we had our best results ever, and while determining how much of that to attribute to Neptune’s mulch can be difficult, we are resolved to continue.

It was an unusual summer on many counts, often cooler than usual interspersed with uncommon hot spikes, and the rain was unreliable. What we did appreciate was having far fewer garden slugs than usual – something the seaweed supposedly accomplishes.

As for the weeds, well, morning glory has overrun just about everything. Next year we won’t be so tolerant.

Yes, here we are already, looking forward to next year, even as the Brussels sprouts and kale and carrots and turnips and potatoes and … Well, the harvest is far from finished.

RAT-TAT OSCAR

~ Jnana Hodson ~ Leave a comment

The title of a chapter in Bill Adler Jr.’s Outwitting Squirrels says everything: “Know the Enemy.” (My copy was a Christmas present, one of many squirrel-related items the family wraps and presents me, in their own vein of humor.) While Adler’s focus is on the difficulties squirrels cause bird feeders, including me, the bush-tailed mammals can be a homeowner’ nemesis – “tree-climbing rats,” as one friend insists – causing a number of fires as they gnaw through wiring and insulation. Ditto for the electrical utility.

In combat, however, one side can begin to resemble the other: their actions and thoughts parallel and overlap. A canny devil may even earn respect.

Many of the poems in a series I call Rat-Tat Oscar poems originate in my encounters with squirrels as part of my second marriage – evicting them from the walls of the house, from their raids on the bird feeders and garden, and eventually from the haunts in the barn – and are spurred by my wife’s quip, watching me transport them away in a Have-a-Heart trap, that I was operating a squirrel taxi. They can drive a man to madness or violence.

The poems also draw on annual Christmas letters to friends and family over two-and-a-half decades, turning the encounters to a would-be squirrel’s perspective. Of course, my wife and children will also insist I’m often more than a tad squirrelly.

Surprisingly, there’s not a lot about squirrels in mythology. Maybe the most prominent one is the Norse Ratatoskr, along with a handful of Native American stories. Maybe they had as much trouble making sense of squirrels in the universe as I do.

JOE-PYE WEED

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 3 Comments
The spring after we moved into our house, we bought our Joe-Pye weed at the county Conservation District's annual plant sale, along with the pussy willows and a host of other plantings -- a bargain way to go, if you can. At the time, I thought this was the dumbest name imaginable, though. I mean, we were planting WEEDS? No, my wife said, it was just the name. As for Joe Pye, she said he was an Indian healer. Or maybe he was just somebody who used the plant for healing. Turns out it comes in all sizes, although ours are stunningly tall. When they bloom late in the summer, the wild birds are very happy. And while that makes me very happy, let me admit: after a few seasons, these plants began popping up everywhere, just like weeds.
The spring after we moved into our house, we bought our Joe-Pye weed at the county Conservation District’s annual plant sale, along with the pussy willows and a host of other plantings — a bargain way to go, if you can. At the time, I thought this was the dumbest name imaginable, though. I mean, we were planting WEEDS? No, my wife said, it was just the name. As for Joe Pye, she said he was an Indian healer. Or maybe he was just somebody who used the plant for healing. Turns out it comes in all sizes, although ours are stunningly tall. When they bloom late in the summer, the wild birds are very happy. And while that makes me very happy, let me admit: after a few seasons, these plants began popping up everywhere, just like weeds.

OCCASION OF CELEBRATION

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 3 Comments

As I posted in a poem back in April, spotting a hummingbird is an occasion of celebration. They’re so tiny and so fast you’re likely to dismiss one as a dragonfly or as some other large, speedy insect if you’re not paying attention. Sometimes you notice more the irregular angles of their zig-zag flight, the motions no other flyer can manage, rather than the bird itself, and then you start observing closely. And sometimes you just happen to look out when one’s hovering nearby, say at the blooming azalea in front of the bay window.

I hadn’t seen any this year until a few weeks ago, when I glimpsed out from our kitchen and noticed one working its way through our stand of burgundy-color bee balm. I called for my wife to come look, but by the time she came over, it had vanished behind the asparagus, and that was it. You have to be quick. And now those blossoms are gone by.

I’d also remarked that we hadn’t seen all that many goldfinches this summer. Sometimes we seem to have thousands, but these things can go in cycles, so I just figured it was an off year.

And then, late yesterday afternoon, I sat down in the far corner of our yard simply to enjoy a cold beer and regard our garden and house from that perspective. Since this is also the glorious time of year I consider high summer, what I viewed was a culmination of so much that had been building up. Everything was quite green and lush, of course, and the garden was punctuated by the red of tomatoes, the yellows of squashes and peppers, and the incredible purples of eggplants, even before I got to the flowers. As I settled in, after admitting to myself the grass needs to be mowed again, I realized this was dinner rush hour for the birds. Who knows why, but they do seem to eat in spurts, at least when it comes to populating our feeders. And here they were, far more than I could count (after all, they’re constantly flitting from one place to another). Not only that, but many of them were goldfinches, perhaps attracted by our sunflowers that have finally started blooming. Mourning doves landed in the grapevine and wild-rose covered branches of the black walnut tree before looping down to the ground under the main feeder, littered with birdseed as it is. Along the tree I could see just the gray flickers of squirrel tails as they raided the ripe nuts from the branches. In short, it was lovely. And the grass seemed to be just the right depth for many of the smaller birds to go grubbing.

That’s when I caught the distinctive flight of the hummingbird, which then did something I’d never before seen: it actually landed on one of those branches, where it quickly became a camouflaged bump on the distant limb. Soon there were two, and I don’t ever remember seeing two at once. (Well, maybe once in Maine, at a friends’ feeder outside their kitchen slider door?) Still, a first, as far as our yard and garden go.

Minutes later, I spotted one working its way through the zinnias about a dozen feet from me. How meticulously it hovering above a single flower and vacuumed each petal. Next thing I knew, it was gone and then one followed by a second came shooting inches past my head, even as I ducked instinctively. Well, that was the second … and third … time in my life I’ve had to dodge that bullet! They certainly seemed to having fun, as birds and bees are said to do.

It’s been said that meditation may have originated in the art of hunting. That is, in learning to sit very still for extended periods of time and just let the wildlife come to you, if you’re worthy. So I sat very still, the way I would in Quaker meeting for worship or in a half-lotus position on my meditation cushion. Over time, I saw at least four hummingbirds working their way around the yard, swooping from the trees to the Joe Pye weeds, the sunflowers, the zinnias and cosmos, and somewhere behind me, before landing repeatedly in the trees.

All of what was happening could be considered as an epiphany, those special moments when the Holy One appears or becomes manifest in an individual’s life. No, I’m not suggesting that the hummingbirds are divine or even angelic, but this was clearly a reminder of the times and ways we are blessed. You can’t just go looking for it and expect it to happen. You can only be receptive and grateful when it does. You also have to know what you’re seeing and be able to name it, knowing how rare and wonderful it is. Along with the simple pleasures of having everything momentarily perfect. Isn’t that a definition of miracle?

Soon, of course, the hummingbird sightings became fewer and fewer. The ones in the yard were probably already migrating from further north and bulking up for their long flight in a few weeks across the Gulf of Mexico. Their season here is nearly over. The finches, meanwhile, will be around longer before donning their gray traveling cloaks, as one friend says, and then heading south.

On our part, all this was soon followed by our own time for dinner with its fresh sweetcorn, tomatoes, and basil eaten al fresco in the golden rays of the setting sun.

What was I saying about an occasion of celebration? Indeed.

BIRDS AS BYSTANDERS

~ Jnana Hodson ~ Leave a comment

A ring of blue jays is sounding an alarm somewhere close by. Who knows what it is this time.

So I stop typing, get up to look out the window, just in case they’re in view. What I see instead is a grandstand of smaller birds – sparrows, juncos, chickadees – all sitting contentedly on branches and facing the action.

Here we have it: the idle curiosity of us all.

KEEP AN EYE FOR THE TIDE

~ Jnana Hodson ~ Leave a comment

Just about every time we take I-95 south to Boston, a particular experience comes to my mind while crossing the Merrimack River. I look out from the bridge, hoping to see whether the tide’s in or out.

But that’s not how it was when I first moved to New England.

On one warm evening, while driving with a girlfriend along the river just beyond the bend we can see from the bridge, I found a place to pull over. The water was low, with many steppingstones exposed. We couldn’t resist walking way out from shore and back again, but when we turned around, all of the stones where we’d been were now submerged.

It was a close call. As I now know.