Seeding up at the Turning

Seeding up at the Turning

The forest is bursting with berries, blue lily beads are just one of a multitude of seeds…Astonishing pearl bells adorn mounds of shining wintergreen that shimmer across the forest floor. Soon those berries will blush, bead up, cry scarlet. Three leaved trillium wear peaked red caps. Deep orange bunchberry clusters surprise the unwary -who is expecting this bountiful feast on a woodland floor? Partridgeberry beads are lime green except for those from last year. Soon too these will be adorned in flaming berries that will last all winter… I’m waiting for the cucumber plants to show their colors. Lemon lime whirls catch the slightest breeze. Cattails, and milkweed pods are sending puffs of cotton on the wings of the slightest breeze. Bull frogs call from the rushes; fish intent on the next meal, break the surface of the beaver pond creating a ripple that spreads across the still waters circles upon circles widening into blue glass. Blue headed vireos, red eyed vireos and the hermit thrush sing from green bowers hidden from sight. Hemlock cones have dropped their black microscopic eyes under each parent carrying the knowledge that kin will look after their own. Acorns are dropping a bit too early; their caps still green, but some creature will have a feast, or the microbes will devour these seeds enriching the soil for next year’s sprouting.

Seeding up…. Thousands of years ago women began gathering forest bounty – always asking for permission they took only what they needed. That the forest will return the favor is a given – gratitude the exchange – Seed Saving is an ancient practice that women originally learned from dreams, animals, and the trees that were their neighbors. At that time all were kin….

This year I collect hemlock seeds, the beaked hazelnuts that edge the forest are ripening – almost ready to split…I rattle wild columbine spires releasing the seeds, collect salmon rose hips for a nourishing tea… scatter wild poppy seeds. I am still waiting for elderberry to grace the ditches with deep purple berries. The birds and I keep an eye on ripening clusters and share the bounty between us.

My cultivated garden takes care of itself these days…. Planting vegetables gives me no pleasure – too many years of work, giving to others – too much work that restricted my freedom to come and go. The forest floor is medicine now. Appreciation of every gift grieved or given never goes unnoticed…but it is the joy of watching each plant offer its prayer for the future that keeps me returning … home.

My ritual is simple….

I write down and bury what I need to release under a beloved hemlock tree and bless us all with clear spring waters… Giving thanks for LIFE.

(After completion the river is flooded by blackbirds… nature is always listening)

This Turning
of the Wheel
brings both 
Light and Dark
golden light
creates patterns
on knotted floors
Hemlocks 
beech, pines
are still

Not one branch

beckoning.
Never mute
 arboreal lives
are ancient
their language
Mystery

their patience
their patterns
of being
slip through
my body…
Untangled
Unheard by most
 I am listening…
Measuring my life
against Beings

who survived
five extinctions
I see a particle of dust
falling to ground
Becoming earthbound.
Perhaps through trees
I can glimpse
Pure light
See star showers
before they
Catch fire
catapult through

deep time
Billions of
Miles separate…
Is it even possible
that one star might reach me?
I am fragile
An aging leaf
rattling,
in the wind
When fall arrives
will I shrivel too?
Disappearing into
 winter white?
Alone except for fright
with change the only constant
the river flows
beneath my feet
leaving behind
broken
dreams
Lifetimes
Lost before
My time.

Birds sing on….

Mystic Musings in Late July

Intolerable temperatures, the air dripping with humidity, unable to sweat, my body catches fire. My aging mind shuts down.

How to find hope in the ruins, not just personally but all around me in dying leaves rife with holes or chewed to bits in late July, flowers shriveling under a merciless sun. A solitary frog croaks from somewhere inside a garden gone wild. Silver swords create an impenetrable bower protecting toads and frogs from within. The scent of bittersweet butterfly weed draws in flaming orange fritillaries, monarchs, bees, a silvery white butterfly with two spots on her wings. A few spikes of scarlet bee balm burst. Flames erupt, crimson, salmon, lemony lilies and golden nasturtiums seduce with sweet nectar. Hummingbirds hover, chirping madly between these and red mint…my breathing is labored – shallow – my body waterlogged and swollen.  Together the dogs and I doze lazily, our bodies aching for relief… a chorus of cicadas sing on, impervious to sweltering heat.  A nubbly mole brown toad sits on a damp granite stone, peering in at me with bulging eyes etched in gold… “Be still” he intones. “Patience”.

leopard frog intones the same remarks

A horned caterpillar inches its way up the porch window – furry – an ebony stripe on his back, a tail of dragon thorns. An amber orange head carrying four lemony protrusions on his back… Amazing that any living creature moves at all!

We three are rooted to the couch on the porch, opening to the impossible – ever thickening air, heavy like lead. Supine, barely conscious, we wait – suspended animation. The porch is well shaded. I vaguely note the angle of the light spinning gold filaments. It’s late afternoon. The emerald sheen of leafy trees is long gone – faded to dull gray. Oh, the trees barely transpire, too much heat, bug ridden, stress slows them down too. With a third of our insects extinct we have more destructors than ever; not one tree is without its predator. Where are the lady bugs? I hesitate to answer my own question, when I already know its answer. A few more pale ochre leaves drift to the ground without assistance from the slightest breeze. The parched brown grass curls in on itself. Moss loses supple gray green. We are living in the ruins of what was. Extremes rule… Stiffened by so much sitting, I meander into the inferno. Seeding up is nature’s way of dealing with too much heat and not enough water, and I rattle the ripened columbine pods, scattering hope along with black specks, the possibility of new life. Celandine spikes are ready to pop. Where to plant the hazel nuts I collected from the forest edge? I spy my cedar watered by me from a rain barrel. She alone sparkles; her intention to thrive revealed in height and width, her flat needles shining deep green… a seedling only two years ago; she’s become a three-foot tree. Life so tenuous, so precious, seeks only to continue…if only. The tattered remains of a few morning spider webs catch my eye. Just this morning they were spun last night and shimmered laden with crystal dew. Did I imagine it? No. A few drops of precious mineral rich water darken a stone or two. A rumble of thunder, and a torrential downpour sends me scurrying back to the porch to watch silvery sheets creating a lake in the yard – a silvery waterfall that drops the temperature from 85 to 70 degrees in a matter of minutes. And suddenly I am breathing sweet moist air praying for this relief to last until dark and beyond. I throw open each window welcoming in ionized air. Every rain barrel is full to the brim. For this moment in time I am overcome with gratitude as I stand at the window gazing down at a roaring brook, watching the trees lift their leaves and needles to absorb as much rain as they can. Like me, they rejoice.

 We are living in the ruins of what was, but for this moment in time life is beginning again.

Twilight Prayers for July

Owls,
Saw whet
Barred
Spirits of the night
High in the canopy
Hidden from sight
serenade
slippery moon.

Listen!
Messages abound.
Benign Spirits of the forest
interrupt
 Summer’s 
Chaotic pattern
(a destructive human
field that is
Part of the whole)
Embrace, protect,
Cool
Burning coals
quell
Flames
erupting from within –
without.
Harden anguish
into jewels
falling
from the sky.

‘Nice’ is surface varnish 
lacking
substance 
a hole is torn

 in earth’s fabric
truth denied.
Voices loom below
 chaos, rage, incineration…
How does one make sense
out of such fractures?
Crooked mud
a sizzling sun star
I do not know.
Waters no longer flow.
Mute
Where is the rain?
Relief from

 charred remains?

Postscript 1

These two poems address the human chaos I witness around me and also experience within during the hot summer months. They also expose the lies that lay beneath the surface of  “nice” – a place where human betrayal thrives. Nice turns on a dime and whenever I attempt to cut through deceit I am the one blamed. Patriarchy thrives on lies…

__________________________________________________________

Butterfly Wounding

Bittersweet orange

invokes wounding

past torment endured

at the hands of those

who would harm.

Air is lightened,

cleansed by absence

Trees rejoice

Slaughter shifts perspective

 Despair presses Diamond.

Fritillary seeks

 her flower

lover in waiting

Tongue seeking.

The two, Butterfly

and Weed lay eggs

 One will be dead in weeks

Blazing blooms live on

Seeds of the Future

held firm by roots

an abundance of nourishment

Gifted from below.

monarch

 Postscript 2

Every summer I wait for the Great Spangled Fritillary.. first the painted ladies come, admirals follow and then the swallowtails. This year viceroys made an appearance and of course, as the insect icon everyone has eyes on, monarchs will be arriving shortly, although in how many numbers we don’t know. Saving one species without saving the forests and meadows won’t work, but most don’t recognize this truth. We seem stuck in the think globally act locally meme, so outdated now. Acting globally means saving the forests streams and meadows that we destroy every single day so any species can survive…

Meanwhile I’ll take the Fritillaries that roam through the forest as I do. In our own ways we both seek out sweet nectar from wildflower meadows, water from streams, protection from trees…. 

Finally arriving here when butterfly weed blooms I am enthralled and can spend hours watching these butterflies drinking their fill and wondering what they may be saying to one another as they gather in communion sharing precious food…. 

great Spangled Fritillaries

A Meditation on Life.

I am also struck by butterflies arriving as a favorite summer insect, particularly those monarchs who now adorn wall paintings as they once were scratched on the walls of prisons no child would survive.

A holocaust is occurring as I write – Too many species are disappearing before we even know they exist. Beneficial insects have vanished throughout the world at an alarming rate; one third of the root of our food chain is gone… (conservative estimate)

 Insects, animals, trees, the rest of nature, and women….our rights to exist are at risk. Is  annihilation the goal?

When I engage with the fritillaries I sense the fragility of all life, feel my own losses keenly, mourn the women who betray and are betrayed, while praying for those I love to get what they need.

Death of one kind or the other seems to be on the horizon everywhere. But the fritillaries gathering “at the well of life” show me how to live.

Great Spangled Fritillary

Butterfly Wounding

Bittersweet orange

conjures wounding

past torment endured

at the hands of those

who would harm.

Air is lightened,

cleansed by unholy absence

Trees rejoice

Slaughter shifts perspective

 Despair presses Diamond

Fritillary seeks

 her flower

lover in waiting

Tongue seeking.

The two, Butterfly

and Weed lay eggs

 One will be dead in weeks

Blazing blooms live on

Seeds of the Future

held firm by roots

an abundance of nourishment

Gifted from below.

 Postscript:

Every summer I wait for the Great Spangled Fritillary.. first the painted ladies come, admirals follow and then the swallowtails. This year viceroys made an appearance and of course, as the insect icon everyone has eyes on, monarchs will be arriving shortly, although in how many numbers we don’t know. Saving one species without saving the forests and meadows won’t work, but most don’t recognize this truth. We seem stuck in the think globally act locally meme, so outdated now. Acting globally means saving the forests streams and meadows that we destroy every single day so any species can survive…

Meanwhile I’ll take the fritillaries that roam through the forest as I do. In our own ways we both seek out sweet nectar from wildflower meadows, water from streams, protection from trees…. 

fritillaries love milkweed balls too!

Finally arriving here when milkweed and butterfly weed bloom I am enthralled and can spend hours watching these butterflies drinking their fill and wondering what they may be saying to one another as they gather is community sharing precious food…. A Meditation on Life.

I am also struck by butterflies arriving as a favorite summer insect, particularly those monarchs who now adorn wall paintings as they once were scratched on the walls of prisons no child would survive.

A holocaust is occurring as I write – Too many species are disappearing before we even know they exist. Beneficial insects have vanished throughout the world at an alarming rate; one third of the root of our food chain is gone… (conservative estimate)

 Insects animals nature and women….our right to exist is at risk –  women have no control over who uses her body. This right has been taken away by men. Annihilation the goal?

When I commune with the fritillaries I sense the fragility of all life, feel my own losses keenly, mourn the women who betray, and pray for those I love to get what they need.

Death of one kind or the other seems to be on the horizon everywhere.

Orchid Fever

I was fortunate to grow up in the woods and spring was always associated with seeking out orchids and other wildflowers on my grandparent’s property. My mother, a skilled gardener was the person who taught me that if for one reason or another if an orchid had to be moved there was a complex protocol involved with no guarantees of survival. She believed that wildflowers knew just where and how to grow and that habitat was critical.

Once we found some bog orchids that had been exposed to the sun because the trees above them had died. I helped her move about a dozen to a more habitable environment. As a child I didn’t realize that moving orchids was so tricky, or that some were rare. Amazingly, my mother’s transplants all survived. Today orchids like all wildflowers are at risk and in some states it is illegal to move them at all. 

However this doesn’t stop people from trying, and most do not know about the complex relationship between the orchid and the mycorrhizal relationship of the underground highway. Consequently, orchids that are moved rarely last more than a year or two.

When I first moved to this area wild lady slipper orchids grew on the Gore road, and when it became obvious that they would be destroyed by a widening road and heavy traffic pollution I dug and transplanted orchids near other wild ones on this property. They survived. 

More recently I have lost some lady slippers to deer who love to eat their tasty flowers and leaves. When bears roamed here they munched them down too! Some orchids disappeared. But I trusted the forest to take care of her own, and after a number of years my lady slippers returned – just in the last couple of years a number of pink/white lady slippers have popped up in the same places others used to grow. 

Like my mother, I believe that it is critical to allow nature to make decisions about where a plant will thrive, and so I do not interfere, and except for the one time survival transplanting (did the same with trillium and arbutus) I spend my time trying to discover these beauties in wild places.

 It takes years for orchids to bloom and the circumstances must be just right, so patience is a necessity. When the first yellow slipper orchid appeared on this property I was thrilled. Now I have three, along with a plethora of pink and white lady slippers.

Because I spend a lot of time in the woods elsewhere I have discovered hundreds of lady slippers and a number of fringed orchids; most are lady’s tresses.

Still, I have to admit that one of my absolutely favorite orchids is the common rose pogonia, a sphagnum loving favorite. I have none growing here but they are easily spotted in June on the Gore road or on the pond where I spent part of the day yesterday.

hybridized white pogonia

While teaching at University I received a grant to study medicinal plants in the Amazon and spent part of three summers doing research with local shamans and healers. It was during this period that I discovered that the Amazon was a hot spot for tropical orchids. Most orchid species come from this area – or did – until the rape of the forest began. In my free time, my guide and I would seek out these wonders, none of which I had ever seen before. Local guides scale trees with ease and so I met orchids I couldn’t even imagine existed. Each, of course had its niche high in the canopy, and although I photographed some of these beauties, they were always respectfully returned to their homes unscathed. 

After my three – year apprenticeship was finished I began to grow commercial orchids here at home but over time the work of caring for up to 75 orchids became somewhat overwhelming. 

When I moved to New Mexico for four winters I gave away my orchid collection, and did not regret it. Now I have closed a circle and have returned to the beginning – taking to the woods as I did as a child seeking out our orchid and wildflower treasures never knowing just what I will find. This year has been the best orchid year I have ever had, and I am aware that there are some species that will bloom  well into August.

In Maine we have approximately 48 species of wild orchids and some freely hybridize with others.

Our pink and white lady slippers are the most common. Most have gone by now, but the yellow lady slipper can still be found blooming as well as the purple fringed orchid. And there are others to come that are easy to miss because of size or scarcity in a particular area.

We are fortunate to have as many wild orchids as we do and it is a challenge to find some of them! If you are so inclined it is not too late to take to the forest to look for orchids. Do your research first so you have an idea of what  species you are searching for. Enjoy the flowers and take time to examine this complex group carefully. Most have only one pollinator. An example is the lady slipper orchid that is pollinated by bumblebees. But please, please, do not attempt to remove these plants from their homes or pick their flowers.

The Ugly Neighbor; the Power of Evil

I was gone when the U-Haul moved out.

be-heading and mutilation

 For almost 19 years Ugly neighbor lied, manipulated, tried to steal land, stole my young balsam trees, ignored covenants on our deeds and most recently started to set off explosives.

Six months after moving in here this guy cut down my trees and built a bridge over the brook on my land. It never occurred to me that he did it. Oh, I wasn’t accustomed to this sophisticated level of manipulation. When I approached Ugly neighbor (alias ‘nice guy’ with a fake halloween pumpkin smile) to tell him what I believed someone else had done, I discovered he built the bridge; he cut down my trees. Stunned, it barely registered when he said “I did it for you.” WHAT??? 

Accustomed to the old fashioned ‘respect your neighbor policy’ I had no frame of reference for the hell that was coming my way.

The plot thickened. Determined to get along with these folks (he had a wife) I agreed to have the road plowed by a guy who just never got around to keeping my driveway open for two years. Then something happened – did this guy go to jail? Lose his license? Don’t remember. 

In the meantime behind my back Ugly neighbor had contacted someone else to plow, never told me and I got a bill. Furious, I wrote the company informing them I had no idea what this man had done and was not going to comply because of the way this situation had been handled. Instead I called reputable folks that I already knew to plow. Problem solved.

By now I was getting it. These neighbors were poisoned apples, but I attempted a few more times to open the doors of communication between us, if only to diffuse tension and put an end to their stupid silent treatment. 

The last time I spoke with Ugly neighbor was in 2012 when I approached him in the spirit of reconciliation once again. That conversation I recall vividly. I told him that we didn’t even have to like each other but that we shared physical boundaries and could at the very least be civil to one another. Ugly neighbor’s response was that “once he liked me, but because I had betrayed him three times he no longer did”. WHAT? This sounded like some kind of bad fairy tale – three times betrayed by? Certainly not by me. Pure projection on his part. Another reversal and crazymaker.

More years of silence. And then Ugly neighbor retired and that first spring he beheaded every single tree that bordered the road we shared. Trees stripped and bleeding, crowns hacked off, limbs mangled beyond recognition. All the poor birds that were nesting lost their homes and I was flooded with terrified avian immigrants. Who knows how many birds were lost.

 Every person that came down this road witnessed the carnage and said “this guy must be crazy” or something to that effect.

 Why, some asked? I shook my head in confusion. I didn’t know.

 When the truth finally seeped in I was initially shocked. All this hatred was directed at me. This man knew how much I loved trees and of course, as a coward, this was how he visibly enacted his ongoing revenge (meanwhile he was stealing young trees from my land and planting them on his property). The landscape around his house looked tidy; it wasn’t until someone came down the road that the frightening wall of carnage became evident. Of course, as a naturalist I knew in time nature would heal what she could. Since 2016 the trees are returning, some still struggling, but most are doing their best to emerge from out of the monstrous piles, the wall of chaos and slash. 

When I realized Ugly neighbor’s hatred was out of control I had no choice except to turn away. Not engaging, or making useless attempts to reason with a crazy person seemed my only recourse and I took it. 

I know this sounds naive but until I met Ugly neighbor I believed that “evil” was a human construction and not actually REAL. Now I had finally learned a terrible lesson.

 Evil thrives in some people, and in these ever darkening times when hatred and revenge have become ‘normalized’ getting the message that evil was REAL and ever present as a reality was a truth I needed to embrace.

The abuse didn’t cease. Ugly neighbor plus used my land as their winter playground while I spent time in New Mexico during a period of four years. During that time he cut down more trees on my property. I was forced to set up cameras to document Ugly neighbor’s behavior, so now I have an abundance of proof.

The final insult came when Ugly neighbor put his place up for sale advertising that he had five plus acres (almost an acre more) when our deeds state he owns 4.8 acres. So whose land was he claiming? Why, mine, of course. He also attempted to appropriate some of my long term abutting neighbor’s land, by putting up ‘No Trespassing’ signs on his property too! My good neighbor and I since re – marked our boundaries.

Last night when walking up the road with my two little dogs I thought about the difficult lesson that I had been forced to learn – and could actually feel a sense of gratitude.

Recovering Red Pine will stand out as a beacon of hope….

 In the stillness of the evening light I spoke to the trees; I had witnessed their mutilation and slaughter, now I sensed their relief. 

Postscript: Just now 8:30 AM ( one day after publishing this article) more gunshots erupt from ugly neighbor’s house ( that has been sold…) I not only identified the vehicle but got the license plate number as the truck rolled out of the driveway… one of evil neighbor’s cronies… so on and on it goes. Hatred breeds a form of insanity in these people. The young family – really sweet people who are staying directly next door – a couple of hundred feet away – have three children – all very young who are frightened of guns – ugh.

Nothing matters to these folks except enacting their hatred and revenge. The uglies are reading my blog.. since I don’t ever advertise it this is an interesting side bar – gosh, they have nothing else to do with their empty lives? Of course this article will be published elsewhere..

Postscript:

Last night (July 24) Ugly Neighbor returned.

Today, my “No Trespassing” sign was torn down from a boundary tree on my land.

It had at least six nails in it.

shot full of holes

Same old story.

My conclusion?

He had to have the last word?

Mentally deranged people never give up.

Circle of Fire

• Refuge (before July bombing)

phoebes

A symphony
of phoebe song 
a river of stone
blessed by rain….
 Beech leaves beckon,

 crystal waters soothe

Hemlocks hum
I am part of

all there is…

Powers that harm

live just next door.
Leaning into Presence 

I pray to
trees who mirror

back strength

 beyond my own.

Beneath words
Before words
(once my kind knew…)
 Forest is community
I am recovering lost language
becoming green enough
to sense and feel … 

 Woodland Peace.

 
The Library of the Earth
is a Living Story
waiting to be read
Forests pour
 honeyed senses

golden pollen

over any who listen
blocking

fear or stupidity.

(2) Circle of Fire  (after the bombing)

A circle of fire
returns us to mend what
was broken to begin with 
« People don’t change »
going back to repair
untrustworthy relationships 
built on deceit,

a willingness

to repeat old patterns
is an act

of stupidity.
Just to be
be seen?

Don’t light that Fire! 
Gray green needles

clear muddied mind…

I ask the forest 

“ What must I do?”
 “ Be Still “
Phoebe chimes in. 
“Be Still

Let Body lead.”
Trust Earth

and Hemlock

to Guide.

Little Deer

Is near.

A rich soil
of possibilities 
pulses light
illuminates
  unhallowed dark.
I’m still
oozing with confusion.
I must learn
the kind
of patience

Nature mirrors:
Expect nothing,

Love,
Live in Now.

Circle of Fire (3)

Bombs
Explosives
Splitting
Shattering cells
Mutilated
tender bodies
Trees, birds
Dogs and me
Green Heron too…
Ears and limbs
under assault
from those
who would
annihilate.
They must

 not win…

War bombs
drown out
The Voice of the
Forest who heals.

Do the trees recall

 fireworks
of yore?
Sparklers
that lit up
the night

raining

 flowery fountains –
Below 
a firefly
lit field

held bowls of water. 

  Glowworms.
And my dad
playing with
his children
while others 
looked on…
Disdain?
Is that how I learned
to dismiss
a man 
capable of love?
All I know is that
I did.
It’s too late
to say
I’m sorry,
even while
owning 
what
I learned
at Familial Feet.

Recovering from the Fourth (4)

Phoebe
Sings up
Blue
and Green
Hemlock and pine roots
offer comfort
to exhausted
trees
and bird
children
recovering
from assault…
Sing on
Says Phoebe
And it’s my
job to listen
Sing on…

After – Words. (5)

Refuge,

wrap me

in fragrant branches
Let me feel

 ribbed trunks 

behind me.

Steep gorge below.
Help me to hear

songs beneath words
Take my body –
Throw bird branches
over me
Let me rest –
Just
be a part of what is.
I know we can be cut down
but for now
We stand as One.

We live keening
for what has been lost
And for what may
come…

Seeking always

Acceptance of what is.

These last italisized words are more about me and my struggle to accept what is happening to forests, waters, trees. Nature, I believe, already knows and accepts what is – her perspective is ancient and wise, mine is only a fragment in time….Although grief is part of the whole the message is always the same – live on.