Hidden inside lush darkness live things too precious for the harsh light.
This is our time to rejoice in the slack tide of the year wheel’s revolution.
Our future possibilities growing unseen, cradled in the Abyss
Like seeds encased in frozen earth, safe, dreaming of the sun in their dark womb, we wait.
I remember planing our first garden at this house, I was looking at a pack of asparagus seed and reading the fine print saw that it would take a whole year to get actual asparagus. “Who needs that?!” I thought. I was blinded by the quick turn around of annuals, but things have changed. I have come to appreciate the patient nature of a perennial plants and truly love the fact that they come back year after year, timing their emergence with the receding snow without me having to do anything.
After I had our daughter and began life as a stay at home mom, I had time to expand the perennial beds around the house. I bought a few different types of lilies to add to the ones already here. Many of the lilies that came with the house started to divide and I begun rearranging and relocating. My favorite, is what I believe to be a High Tea lily tree, they are about 10 feet tall with abundant fragrant flowers that I look forward to every July.Read More
This summer we’ve spent a lot of time in the woods. Every mushroom our daughter sees, she tells me to “take a picture” so I do. The abundant rain this year has made so many little mushroom scenes its hard to get through the woods without stopping every few feet. What a change from last year!Read More
What grows within that fence of bones? Motherwort, with its thorny flowers towering above Jack-in-the-pulpit’s striped hood. Perhaps she has Poison ivy in the window box and thistle lining the walk. I imagine her garden full of plants that enforce their sovereignty, without fail. Like Baba herself.Read More
This summer will be 9 years since we bought this property. We, the world, and this little bit of land have changed a lot since then. When we bought this little house it sat in a sea of perfect lawn, it was the quintessential little Maine ‘camp’.
I was cleaning out our secretary recently, and I came upon the original MLS listing sheet for the property. The description reads “NOTHING TO DO BUT sit back and this sunny home…” (caps are not mine) We interpreted that as a challenge, and haven’t stopped ‘doing’ things since. In most cases, what we have done is the opposite of the New England esthetic in our quest to turn a lake house into a homestead. In keeping with some East Coast traditions, we started by making a rock circle in the backyard. Where we were married that fall.Read More
I have always found lichens fascinating. From the start, nothing is what it appears. They grow in a myriad of different structures and forms, all over the world. Lichens are not plants, instead it is a symbiotic relationship between alga and fungi. The fungi offers the structure of the lichen and the algae photosynthesizes the sun to provide food.
Here in Maine, they are some of the only green things to wildcraft during the winter. Lichens should not be gathered off of trees, I like to go around after storms and gather from downed branches or just wait for them to blow along my path like tiny eastern tumbleweeds. Most lichens are incredibly slow growing, so it is important to harvest respectfully.
Lichens have many uses, and ID can be difficult since there are so many variations. Some are powerful medicine, others can be used as dyes and they are all beautiful. There are a few that are poisonous, including Letharia Vulpina or wolf lichen. Bright, almost neon green, it can be used as a dye and was once used to poison wolves. One of the most widespread and medicinal lichens is Usnea, sometimes called Old Man’s Beard. Usnea comes in many different lengths, colors and formations, but there are a few things that are very specific to Usnea that I use when identifying it.Read More
I have been tracking elder plants in my area over the last few years. A lot of the time I visit them, just to say “hi”, and I would be lying if I said that this behavior was pandemic related. It’s been like this for a while now. Out of the dozens of patches and plants I watch, only a handful of them will be harvested. Last year was a sad one on the elder front, we had a drought in Maine and New Hampshire and these water loving plants suffered mightily.
Adding to the problems faced by these amazing beings, is that they are slow growing and incredibly fragile. The woody structures are hollow and snap like dry twigs even during the high season when they are full of life. I bet in southern parts of the country they grown much quicker, but harsh New England winters make that difficult. They love having “wet feet” and this affinity for water means they often grow on the side of the road in runoff ditches and are subject to mowing in the summer and plow damage in the winter. Even a head high bush can be mowed to the ground with ease. Every August I find myself mourning my friends, destroyed and torn asunder along with the grasses and brush. Erasing years of hard earned growth in seconds.
In a natural situation this breakage is a means of propagation but it seems that when assisted by man this possibility fades. When they are mowed the branches are chipped and damaged too much to come back and damage by plows happens at a time of year when the broken bits will die before spring.
Of the dozens of shrubs I track, many are rendered inaccessible by either location or the plants that surround them. Often the road side patches are edged with poison ivy and I don’t dare try and make it through. Two summers ago, I notices a huge elder in the middle of a field close to our house. The field is full of wicked brambles and during the summer harvest, a sea of hip high, tick laden grass fills the spaces between gnarled, sickle throned brambles and poison ivy. I have admired it from afar for a while now.Read More
This quote has been making the internet rounds and while it is a very catchy meme, it has really started to bother me. I like the sentiment, but it confounds the most devastating details of the ‘burning times,’ in many essential ways. Primarily, it implies that those murdered had no family, and that it is only the linage of those who outsmarted persecution, who remain. It erases the generational trauma that these executions created and makes light of the mechanism used to control any who would dare step outside the boundaries of the patriarchy.
This quote is misleading from the start; executions for witchcraft were often by hanging (especially in the US), not burning. It also implies that they were not mothers and grandmothers snuffed out. Those persecuted were not old barren hags who lived alone and apart from the world, perhaps in forest cottages on chicken legs. They were stripped from the arms of loving husbands and children to be taken to the gallows. They left behind daughters and sons, grandchildren, husbands, wives, and siblings.
The burning times were not a culling of outlying populations; it was the public display of the power and authority of the church to deal-out death, at a whim. A reminder that what didn’t fit the mold of the patriarchy would be destroyed physically, and slandered eternally.
As a child, my mother was told that one of our ancestors was executed as a witch in colonial times. This story was a way to invoke a woman unjustly accused, a woman history tried to erase. A person that our family was tasked with remembering for who she was, and not how she died. During the not so ancient times of dial up internet, my mom got really into genealogy. She managed traced our ancestors back to Cambridge in the 1600s and Elizebeth Cogan Holly. After coming to the colonies from England, Samuel Holly died, leaving a parcel of land on the South side of the Charles River to his wife, Elizabeth and son, John Holly. Elizabeth soon remarried John Kendall (a younger man. *gasp!*) and became Elizabeth Holly Kendall. All of this can be easily verified though Samuel’s will, marriage records and land deeds.Read More
Last week, a beloved friend of mine posted a beautiful letter to her mother on the second anniversary of her death. I tried to think exactly how long it had been since my dad passed, and I couldn’t do it.
Was it 2012? Or 2013? What month is it now anyway? Is it seven or eight years gone now?
What a change from years past when, like her, I knew almost down to the minute how long it had been since he died. Then the other day this picture popped up in my “memories”.
His smile, that shirt, his hands, all reminding me of the time before. I have done a lot of writing about his death. The creation of this blog was largely inspired by it. A way for me to write down all the things he was missing, each post an unofficial letter to him about what is going on in my life. Me, reaching out for a hand that wasn’t there anymore. Very often, ten hands reach back to me. Ones I can still hold, and that has been a great comfort and tool throughout this process.Read More
PJ and I are very fortunate to be able to stay home, so we do. During the warm months it was easy to spend the days outside; walking in the woods, playing with the chickens and tending the garden. Winter has given those outdoor activities a time limit before she turns into a toddlercicle. I keep on flashing back to when the boys were this age, and all the cool stuff we would go do during the winter. Trampoline parks, indoor play areas, museums, walking around the mall, movies, etc. New England is well equipped to get active kids through the winter months.
Not this year.
To add insult to injury, she is finally at an age when she would be aware of, and really enjoy these activities. Lockdown happened a month before her second birthday and we are soon coming up on her third. The growth this year is incredible. There is a part of me that is super happy she don’t know what she’s missing but I know how much she would be getting out if it this year, so that has been bittersweet.
The other day it was a balmy 16o and I decided it was time to take a drive, and go to the beach. When we first moved east we settled in Kennebunk for a couple years. I loved living close to the ocean as it has always been a big part of my life.
We had an ice storm the day before gilding everything, it’s breathtaking. I tried to get a couple pictures but they hardly do it justice, but you a least get the idea.
I thought of calling them Swarovski shrubs, prism pines, glass trees, gilded forest, etc. All I know is that it’s sublime, each turn in the road brings about a new vista dripping with light.Read More
With our Christmas money I got us a present, a new set of Global knifes. After over 20 years of professional kitchen work, I have found there is no better kitchen tool than a very sharp knife. Globals are my favorite. All metal, light, perfectly balanced and just right for my smaller hands.
True to form, within the first week of ownership I whacked off the whole side of my index finger. It was my fault for trying to go quickly in-between toddler demands, while using a serrated utility knife, I knew glances slightly to the left, to cut a butternut squash. It was operator error entirely. There was a lot of blood. I had cut it clean off and applying pressure was excruciating. The only thing worse was when the bandage shifted at all, rubbing against the rawness there, plus any sideways pressure shifted the clot and caused more bleeding. I needed a way to stop the bleeding before my daughter got up to anything else.
What could I do?
I look at this little creature and I see myself.
My face, eyes and hair, all copied in this little elf.
It stops my breath and I plead “please, little one- don’t be like me.”
Then we walk in the wood, she grabs my basket and takes the lead.
I remember she is made of so much more,
The thirteen mothers that came before.
Her father’s people guide her too,
A long and noble queue.
The woods stop their spin
I am grateful for the company we’re in.
She is not looking at my footsteps to see where to go.
And that is all I need to know.
Most days during this pandemic, I start by calling my mom and telling her all the things her granddaughter did to me the day before. More often than not, she laughs at me without remorse. After she regains her composure, she tells me I should write about PJ’s antics. Toddler shenanigans have delayed those efforts but I have been piecing this post together bit by bit.Read More
Right before COVID took over our lives, my Oma made a huge decision. At 94, she realized that it was no longer the best idea to live alone in her home without help. After carefully weighing all her options she made the very practical decision to move to a live-in community and sell her home of over 60 years.Read More
I have worked in restaurants my whole life. Till the little monster was born almost two years ago, my life revolved around executing meal services. Front and back, top to bottom. I have held every position possible in the industry from dishwasher to department manager. Service culture is a universe in and of itself; with its own language, practices, traditions and philosophies.Read More
Last year, at the first herbal apprenticeship class, we each drew a card from a plant tarot deck. I drew Elder. A plant of wisdom, magic and powerful medicine. I was aware of its existence, but had very little experience with it. I vowed to change that, and dubbed last year my year of Elder.Read More
Hope is the splint we use to bind and tie, all the things broken by the weight of a lie.
It is feeling of relief that kindness brings, when we realize the giant is here to help fix our tattered wing.
Hope is being cradled through worst moments of our lives, with the assurance that action and time will make it right.Read More
Valentine’s Day is often associated with freshly cut long stem roses. The redder, softer and more fragrant the better- as if that is the only incarnation of a rose that could represent love. A soft, fresh, fragrant specimen picked before it has properly bloomed, separated from it’s roots and stripped of all it’s thorns.Read More
What was the step too far? Where have we gone so wrong?! At what time did we lose sight of that essential thing that kept us in balance with everything else? Was it when we stopped roaming with the seasons and started cultivating fields? When we settled into towns and then cities? Was it the arrogance of proclaiming ourselves better than all the other beings on this earth? What would living in line with our nature even look like in modern times?! Braiding Sweetgrass really flushed out these questions, systematically untangling the roots of the tree that is ‘modern man’ and explored how we can once again participate in the Honorable Harvest.Read More
*I wrote this a while back. It has taken this long to edit and post. All accounts of the gardens and sheep are not current 🙂
Adjusting to having a daughter has been surreal and overwhelming in every way possible.
There is anxiety that at any second I could make a mistake that might result in her being injured or worse. Pair that, with the change of going from working a high stress job with a three-hour daily commute to being at home for days on end. I went from talking to dozens of people every day to having only the company of the critters much of the time. It’s not totally horrible or unpleasant just, very different. All while healing from the corporal aftermath of pregnancy and birth. (Which IS mostly horrible and unpleasant.)
I judge a “good” day to be one where I keep the baby and other animals alive. A “great” day is one where I mange to keep the animals out of the gardens so the plants aren’t murdered by two and four-legged assailants. We (by which I mean my husband) have just started a new sheep pen, so of course the sheep have figured out how to get out of their old pen and have taken to escaping in turns and wreaking havoc on the less secure gardens.
Sometimes, I get to clean the house or eat (but not both.) Any attempts at art, writing and (let’s be honest) bathing; are so far down the list of “things to do when the baby is not clamped to my boob” they might as well not even be on it but… as this writing proves it CAN happen.
*Insert sinking feeling the sheep have gotten out again and go check the pen.*
Ok, they are still in.Read More
I hope this letter reaches you. My warden/guard/fellow prisoner will no doubt try to intercept this correspondence. (To date- she has postponed it’s creation by a week, using nothing more than dirty diapers and grunts of discontent.) She will stop at nothing to make sure that my access to the outside world is limited. On the bright side, she can’t read- so even if she does get a hold of this there’s not much she can do about it.
Three days ago, I decided I would get some writing done! I was going to pen (type) beautiful pros about motherhood, growth, life and other profound stuff. Things did not go as planned. I thought I could accomplish this feat because Ry is home and could therefore take care of the little snapping turtle, while I roam free. FREE I tell you!!!. I sat down to the keyboard and heard the sheep blatting. My sleep deprived brain thought: “I should use my new found morning mobility go feed the outside animals really quick, then come back in a write. I will be a hero!”
That’s where things went sideways.
I mentioned in my last post that skunks have been getting into the chicken coop and causing all sorts of issues. I can say skunks plural, because we have already caught and relocated three this year. We drive them miles and miles away, so it is not the same skunk multiple times. My husband has been taking their mug shots as well, in order to make sure we are not dealing with just one super smart skunk, equipped with GPS and a quad. Last year, we caught four before the summer was out and this morning it appears that we tied that record, and it’s not even July.
Seriously, what the heck is this?! Are we on some sort of skunk grocery map of the area?
I don’t know how it happened, but May is almost over. Shoot, it might BE over by the time I hit ‘publish’ (I have been working on this post for a couple days). Somewhere in-between midnight feedings and dirty diapers a whole month slipped through our fingers. Ry went back to work yesterday. I can’t articulate how grateful I am he got paternity leave at all. It was amazing to have the time to figure out what our home life looks like now. He also put in almost all the gardens for the summer, including an expansion of the garden outside the front door.
It might not look like much from the deck, but up close you can see the beginning of popcorn on the ridges and black beans in the valleys. We decided last year that these crops are friends.
We planted two cherry trees and two pear trees in honor of Persephone’s first spring to add to our apple trees in the big yard.
We even got a few flowers on the apple trees this year.
The only things I got around to planting were bulbs, some of which we won’t see this summer. Others have already come out to play!
Child birth is often touted as the most pain a person can experience and I can’t say that I disagree. I can say that it is a fortunate thing the body has no capacity to remember that pain. I remember it happened and that it was excruciating but I cannot call back the exact nature of the pain and that is FINE with me!
I went into labor early Friday morning April 27th. My sister is an amazing Photo Journalist and she was there to document the whole thing. I had contemplated a home brith, but given that the nearest hospital is almost a hour away I opted for a hospital birth. On my mom’s side the past 9 births over two generations have all resulted in C-sections, most of the emergency type. For my own birth; my parents and aunt went to the hospital and were told to go home. Upon their return, almost a day later the nurse couldn’t find my heartbeat. They had to give my mom general anesthesia to get me out. With my sister, our mom had another emergency C-section but this time only got local anesthetic. Again, after 22 hours of labor. I decided an hour is too far to go if there are complications. I am glad I made that decision.
At my scheduled Dr. appointment the day before I was 3 cm dilated but other than that not really bothered by my condition.
I had gone to bed with cramps and a feeling different than the now familiar sensations of pregnancy.
The dogs knew something was different even though I was still in denial.
My husband just made fun of me, par for the course in that regard.
When I woke up early the next morning, it was a whole new ball game. Ry had to leave for work before 6 am and my mom was on a red eye from California set to arrive around 11am in Maine. By 7 am I could honestly call the sensations contractions though they were not that bad, yet. When my mom walked through the door 4 hours later I was ready to get to the hospital. May poor mother had to get right back in the car, she was such a trooper!
On the way to the hospital the contractions had gotten so bad that I was unable to talk through them. All I could do was breath as they came at ever shortening intervals. Halfway to the hospital I had a revelation as the timing closed to 3 minutes. Hesitantly, I asked my mom “are these going to continue to get closer and closer together till there is no time between them?!”
The look she gave me said it all. This was not going to be a good time.
This week proved once again (and still) how awesome the boys are. I am officially 8 3/4 months pregnant and in this state it could be a real drain to have two rambunctious kids running round for ten days, but true to form the boys were more of a joy than ever. Sure, they are loud and have more energy than a bunny on red bull, but it is tempered with kindness, love and a superseding impulse to help. Lord knows there is a lot around here that we desperately needed to get done so their efforts were appreciated.
The week got off to a cold start with snow and ice blanketing the ground once again but it ended with sunshine and thawed ground! That is a big deal in Maine. We were able to drive fence posts and expand the front yard for the dogs to the other side of the rock wall. The husky as been endlessly pleased with her new territory.
The chickens have forgotten why they have a fence in the first place and have been flying the coop and roaming the yard.
I see the ground!
Before I moved to New England, this would have seemed like a very odd statement indeed, but now it is an event to be celebrated. Most of the snow in the yard had gone liquid and returned to the land from whence it came. Daily activities around the homestead have also changed and since I am homebound; waiting for the impending arrival of our daughter, I have actually had time to focus on spring activities, instead of trying futilely to fit them in-between full-time work and weekend boys.
We were late for sapping but still managed to get a decent supply of syrup from our land. The sap is still running but now has gone bitter as it tends to do at the end of the season.
We did get a bunch of grade A syrup before it turned and that is better than nothing!
I extracted MORE honey from the empty hives and we got the unfortunate news from one of our neighbors that the field across the street from us has been using industrial amounts of Round-Up on his feed corn every year. Since corn is a grass, the bees collect pollen from it (to make bee bread) but not nectar. This is the main staple of food through the winter months for the colony. I’m not too worried about the honey I have pulled but it explains why both hives collapsed or swarmed yet again.
Here we were, for years thinking it was something we did when in reality 300 yards from the house there was a poisoned field of death. In light of this new knowledge we have stopped apiary plans for now since we cannot control our little buzzers and so bringing more into the area would only perpetuate the problem. It was sad news indeed, just another reminder that we are all apart of the web of life and the decisions people make for themselves are not isolated to their own harvest.
As the light retuned to our days, I got busy with processing eggs from the ladies.
When I got backed up I turned them into little temporary planters for the millions of spider plant babies our house plants have seen fit to produce.
I used the lazy vinegar method I discovered a few years back.
I cannot wait for all the indoor plants to be outside again! I might be the only one who cares though.
It doesn’t help that my husband can grow anything, anywhere. I mean, we have an eight foot banana tree in the boys room! That’s just silly. I have tried to explain that we live in Maine but he just shrugs and keeps on planting.
Since I am no longer spending 70+ hours away from the house each week, I have had ample time for projects and basic chores. The first weekend the boys walked in the door and the oldest looked around and marveled “It’s SO clean!”
Amazing what one can do when not working full time, managing scores of people and driving three plus hours a day- on the days we don’t have to drive four hours round trip to get or return the boys to and from Massachusetts.
I do miss seeing Mt. Washington up close daily.
But something tells me it will be around when I have time to visit it again. Easter this year I had time to come up with a very difficult Easter puzzle for the boys’ hunt.
It involved invisible ink and dirty tricks.
When paired with their Dad’s advanced egg hiding; the whole thing took three hours. They had asked for it so I didn’t feel too bad and in the end they were rewarded with spring bulbs, gardening equipment, homemade maple candies and chocolate eggs molded using real ones.
We have had time for walks to the top with the sheep. Lulu is in bad need of a hair cut and will be shorn as soon as this baby arrives. Daisy has started to shed and I am collecting her hair for lanolin extraction soon.
The flock is doing well. Though the new Guineafowl are as suspicious of me as the old ones, even though they too were raised from day old chicks.
The long and short of it, is that life has gone on around the homestead. The impending arrival of a new baby has added to the list of things to get ready. But all, in all, it has been nice to have so much other stuff to keep me distracted as I wait.
Soon enough I will have a new critter to worry about, life will continue to change and that is about as good as anyone can hope for. As we go into this new chapter of our lives I am cautiously optimistic about all of it.
Thank you for taking your time to read this scattered recap, there has been a lot to report but I have allowed myself time during each day to rest. This has been an important lesson in not driving myself too hard as everyone keeps on reminding me my decisions effect more than myself right now. I have allowed myself time to sit on the couch, take naps and just be. Each one of these pictures could have been a post unto itself but look how much time I saved us both!
Be well and happy spring!
I am expecting my first biological child this spring. We had been trying for many years. Just when I had decided it was not in the cards and turned my attention to enjoying all the advantages that came with my step children getting older, we find ourselves on the verge of the decent back into dippers and juice boxes.
I had accepted the benefits that part time parenting of older kids offers. They can make their own meals, say “please” and “thank you” with no prompting, we can watch more grown up movies and TV shows, they are funny, smart awesome people and I can actually let them play outside without constant hawk like supervision (for the most part.) I have written many times before just how much I love having them around and that has not changed in the least.
At first, I thought it was sad that there will be such a large age gap between the new addition and her older half brothers but the first time I fell asleep in the middle of the day and woke up to them eating a lunch they made themselves- I realized the error of my ways. They are kind and understanding about the process I am going through. They cut me slack when I am exhausted and don’t want to run around or make them an elaborate meal. I don’t have to do any of the basics for them and they are extremely helpful with anything I need to get done.
Have never known a manicure or file.
They are bitten rather than clipped.
They have been painted less times than there are fingers to paint.
In many places they are more scar than skin.
The fingers on the right appear to have been badly broken long ago, though they never were.
They often spend their days covered in food, blood or dirt.
Lovingly touching things that make others cringe.
They are not spectacular for how they look but for what they do.
They have created meals that nourish and astound, providing me an income for my modest household.
They have made many things of beauty that fill my house and life.
They have healed and comforted the beings I love.
They are strong and can hold fast when I need them to.
I hope they have given more than they have taken from this world.
Because through helping others they have made me whole.
They have become more than the sum of their parts and I believe that they are truly beautiful.
I am grateful to have such tremendous alleys at the tips of my fingers.
Today, I am beyond thankful for the simple gift of my hands.
What would you do if you were is 1930’s Germany witnessing the rise of Hitler? Would you realize that something was very wrong with the trajectory of the leadership? What would you do about it?
Before the current era in politics this was a purely hypothetical question that now seems to have become painfully relevant. It was the question that inspired Stanley Milgram to conduct his experiments on obedience in the 1960’s. His hypothesis was that there was something about the German people that made them more likely to carry out such atrocities. He tested the hypothesis:
“How far would people obey orders given from an authority figure, under circumstances that contradicted their beliefs?”
To his horror; he proved that all it took for most people to shock someone they have never met into unconisness and beyond, over arbitrary nonsensical questions- is a man in a lab coat who says he “will take the responsibility.” I could write about the procedures used in the experiment but I think this short video says it all:
Many of my paintings or attempts at art, never reach final draft status as the stacks of unfinished watercolors on my bookshelves can attest to. Awhile ago I painted The Eye of Horus on canvas with acrylics. It was a rough draft as so many paintings are. I put it on our mantle and it sat there literally staring at me for years. I like working with acrylic paint because if I mess up I have chance to wait and try again. Watercolors are much less forgiving. I love the challenge of working in watercolor and ink.
Sometimes it is nice to use the more forgiving mediums, like acrylic. They offer the chance to play, mess up and try again. Attempts with watercolor and ink are often a slow process filled with second-guesses and anxiety. One wrong brush stoke and they will be added to the stack of rejects. With acrylics I am fearless. I can try things that may not work, admit my wrongs and do it over. This can mean starting over from the very beginning, keeping only a faint outline. It is a nice change. A couple weeks ago I got back to the eye. My family asked what I was doing. They asked “why?” it wasn’t done and I the only thing I could think of was “because it can be better.” They had just assumed it was on the mantel because it was done, when it was really on display to remind me I needed to get back to it at some point.
I like the process that comes with these attempts at beauty. The reward of doing something for its own sake. The Eye of Horus has special meaning and so I thought it only right to try and do it justice. Also known as the “Eye of Ra” or the “all seeing eye.” Each aspect of the symbol are representative of the 6 senses: smell, sight, thought, hearing, taste and touch. (It should be noted that I took some artistic license with the classical proportions of the elements in the repaint.)
This is the way it was left for a very long time. When I took it up again I realized I would have to rework the form entirely for me to like it. This process of acknowledging my shortcomings is daunting and empowering in equal measure. Like any basic transformation it is hard not to hold to the progress that has been made, even in the realization I am headed down a path I don’t want to follow to the end. I took a deep breath got out the white and began the reconstruction.
For my husband and me, a spoon full of honey does more than just help “the medicine go down” often the honey is the medicine. For colds and coughs we combine it with summer tinctures or it’s eaten with pineapple (Pineapples contain an enzyme called bromelain that has anti-inflammatory properties that help reduce the irritation at the backs of our tongues and in our voice boxes.)
For cold symptoms that persist I add raw ginger, which is a beast to swallow without the honey but works wonders. I also make a tea with raw ginger, lemon, orange and honey. I was raised on homeopathic and eastern medicine, on this topic I have always said “taste bad, work good.” The honey goes along way to mitigating the harsh tastes.
We had recently run out of our own personal honey stash and so this last spring we got two new nucleases and started keeping bees again after taking last year off. We have not had good luck when it comes to keeping bees. This year kept with that trend and we had both hives swarm and go off within the first two months. They re-queened successfully before they did so even though the populations dropped we still had functioning hives. My husband was even able to find one of them in the middle of the woods, living high up in a hollow tree.
This winter, our track record of poor hive results continued and it would seem that in the fall hive #1 swarmed again, this time in totality. Leaving us with an empty hive, which was sad. We had half of an eight-frame deep box of capped honey, which was not! last week, after confirming that the rest of the hive was indeed vacant we brought it inside to be processed.
Since it was such a small amount I decide to extract the golden treasure without the help of any mechanism. I used the lazy (wo)man’s method of cheese cloth, gravity and time.
Here we are again…
I think everyone has experienced one of those relationships, romantic or otherwise where the same issue comes up over and over again. The same conflict argued round and round with no resolution in sight. Each person believing wholeheartedly that their argument is so inherently virtuous that neither side is willing to give an inch. Even new valid points are seen in old rags and no progress can be made. These relationships are fought from fox holes, both sides entrenched and unmovable.
I feel like this is our nation’s state when it comes to the topic of gun control. My Facebook newsfeed bares this out in meme after meme from both sides. I find myself in no man’s land watching people I love; lob ideological thought bombs toward the other camp only trying to conquer the desolation in-between; no longer listening to reason, only waiting for the chance to fire back.
Meanwhile, children these days have active shooter training from elementary school on. Unlike the nuclear drills of our parents’ generation these drills prepare for sad days that have proven to be inevitable.
The first time I shot a gun capable of killing I was probably seven or eight. It was a big deal. My dad and I met my grandpa at the shooting range and my firearms training began. The first thing I was taught is that you NEVER point a gun at anything you don’t intend to kill. This meant you were ALWAYS aware of where the muzzle was pointed. There were only three options; downrange, up at the sky and down and the ground. Your gun should never point at a human for even a millisecond.
Anytime you picked up a firearm you checked the breach to confirm that it was unloaded no matter who handed it to you or what they told you. All guns are always treated as if they are loaded and live.
The range we went to was policed by military vets, rules were stringently enforced. During cease-fire times all guns had to be made safe (in a rack or on the bench, breaches open) everyone had to step back from the benches and you were no allowed to approach the area during these times for any reason. A safety officer would go down the line and check each gun to verify all were unloaded. Only then was the ‘all clear’ given for you to go forward and check, move or replace your targets. After a trip to the range, each fire arm was taken apart, cleaned, oiled and put back together. These things were nonnegotiable.Read More
I have thought many times before that children are the ultimate measure of time. Their progress is one of the most palpable demonstrations of daily growth. Children change at a rate that is impossible to ignore, as long as you are paying attention.
It is easy to habituate to change, to focus on all the things that don’t matter, to get wrapped up in the daily grind and not take proper time to enjoy the little things that may seem the same everyday even though they are in constant flux.
A few days ago I started a public Instagram account for wickedrural. It was inspired when I wanted to rejoin a photo challenge I participated in years ago and found that my blog friends were not doing one for 2018. In the spirit of challenging myself I needed motivation to take time out of my day, stop and really look at all the things I pass as I rush from one thing to another.
There have been countless times this winter when I see beautiful things on my commute and don’t stop to appreciated them. Taking pictures is my way of tricking myself into to taking that time. Winter means there are no roses to smell but there are never-ending micro cosmos to explore. Often my internal excuse is that the picture could never do the scene justice, that some things cannot be captured digitally but this is a copout. There is no reason I should not or stop and soak in the beauty that surrounds me.
I should not need a photo challenge to motivate me. Unfortunately, I am stubbornly driven by goals; meeting challenges and deadlines. It is one of the reasons I push through my three-hour round trip commute to work, even though it is now that rare my position necessitates me being RIGHT ON TIME. Most of this internal mandate is driven by my commitment to my employees, why should I be flippant about start times when I must insist that they are not?
In the morning I point my car toward Mt. Washington; no more than a thin white strip on the horizon from my house, I end at that the feet of that lovely lady.
*Almost four years ago…*
Yesterday, the internet filled to capacity with pictures and stories both good and bad about Valentines Day. Most of my friends on FB posted pictures of the flowers or gifts that their sweeties had given them. AWWW (truly no sarcasm, I promise) and others posted vents about gifts that were not so well received for one reason or another.
“It’s the same thing he got me last year!”
“He got his mother something better!”
“How does he not know I hate that type of chocolate?!”
“He only wrote my name on the top the card and nothing else, I’m not dating hallmark!”
I do not envy the male of the species on Valentines Day. First of all, I highly doubt that the modern traditions and practices would have been ratified by a comity of men if there had ever been an opportunity to do so. It seems to have become a day where female expectations often far exceed natural male ability.
Oh sure they can be trained, and the smart ones learn the Valentines day tricks early. But ask yourself; if not acted on my multitudes of women and the media would men choose to cram a year’s worth of affection and expectation in to a 24 hour period.
I think not.
“The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good (wo)men to do nothing.”
The current state of our immigration policy is something I have tried to publicly ignore but like my Planned Parenthood post I feel the discussion has reached critical mass and I can’t sit idle. The discourse seems to be driven by fear and misinformation and an astonishing lack of logic and facts. My attempt here will be based on my first hand experiences and I ask that anyone with a conflicting point of view to read on with an open mind.
I respect that others have different views and experiences but this is mine, that of a woman who grew up in a place dependent on immigrants. I hope to present the argument that you too are dependent or at least the daily beneficiary of these people and that they do not represent a threat to you and yours.
First and foremost, I was born in a place where “immigrants” both legal and illegal make up a huge part of the population and economy. I have put immigrants in quotes because I am from Saint Cross County, just over the hill from Saint Joseph and south of Saint Francisco.
I was born and raised in Santa Cruz County just over the hill from San Jose (now more commonly referred to as the Silicon Valley) and south of San Francisco. These were not places settled by Caucasians who thought it would be a good idea to call them fun names in a different language. They were founded, settled and inhabited by the Spanish Mexicans until the Mexican province of Alta California was taken in the Mexican American war in 1848. California was accepted into the Union in 1850. During this transition it was not as if all the people who lived there were driven back over the border, my county has always contained a large Mexican population. In fact it is the Caucasian that is the most recent immigrant to my home place.Read More
A few weeks ago I was unmotivated to do anything but sit- rendering me voluntarily couch bound. My inability to completely veg-out resulted in my making a baby registry on the ipad. Among the items requested were plain cotton onesies, fabric dye and tuct tape. My sister bought me all three, proving that I might be weird but I am not alone.
I take my cues from nature. I always have. As I get older I find there is no greater source of knowledge and perspective than natural systems and their inhabitants. I don’t include humans as inhabitants of these systems. I believe that we have lived in our own artificial creation for so long, we have lost touch with the basic wisdom and truth that is readily available in the natural world.
This week brought liquid snow, or ‘rain’ as it is more commonly known outside of New England winters. The mounds of snow that had hidden layered months of leaves and detritus melted away reveling a not so beautiful aspect of the season, the dirty things trapped in between the storms.
As I passed drifts of brown road snow reveled by the rain it occurred to me that time is like snow. It separates the nasty bit of our deeds and doings, holds them suspended and away from each other allowing us time to minimize and cover our ugliness. White washing the past in beautiful, glittering, forgetful drifts. It makes it easier to pretend that we are made of the things we say we are during the time in-between our actions and not the actions themselves.
My mom was a school teacher before my sister and I were born. When we were a little older she started a pre-school at our house called Kid’s Garden. (Sara got to attend the first year but I did not. I’m totally over it…obviously because I don’t even have to mention it anymore.) My early life was filled with children’s books, arts and crafts. There is a book I know is one of her favorites, it is one of mine too. It is called Miss Rumphius.
It is a beautiful illustrated story about a little girl named Alice. She grows up in a city by the sea (from the illustrations it is most likely an East Coast city) She helps out in her grandfather’s shop. He is an artist who carves prow figures and statues for ships and stores. In his youth he traveled the world before he settled by the sea, and at night tells her stories of these far off palaces. She declares to him that she too will travel to far off lands and when she is older she will settle down by the sea.
He tells her “that is all well, little Alice… but there is a third thing you must do.”
“What is that?” asked Alice.
“You must do something to make the world more beautiful.”
“All right,” said Alice. But she did not know what that could be.
The story goes; that she grew up and traveled far. On one of her travels she falls off a camel and hurts her back. It is then she decides it is time to find her place by the sea. She settles into a small cottage. It looks like the Maine coast. There are few other places that look like it!