Thursday, July 3, 2014


The above re-enactment from Colonial Williamsburg, where Patrick Henry, in the House of Burgesses, cried: 
"Give me Liberty, or give me Death!"

(Psst: Fourth of July in the garden, added below fife & drum of 3. July.)

A brief kindred-spirit wave across oceans and continents!  Brief wave, as I'm deep into writing organic farm stories for the upcoming book... 

Tomorrow comes 4th of July in a strange year: a cognitive dissonance celebration of Independence from 18th century throne-tyranny, with rah-rah teleprompter remarks from the current throne on the Potomac. Potemkin Village, Inc. 

While worldwide, 

...and the rockets red glare,
the bombs bursting in air...

Am haunted by the fife & drum Fourth of July rendition in the film, "The Great Escape", set in a Nazi prisoner of war camp. There American and RAF officers plot inconvenience to their captors, while burrowing, they hope, to freedom.

I read The Ugly American growing up, not an easy read. Now ugliness turns America into a Brown Shirt concentration of Nutsi powah.

Meanwhile,  among saner environs, a friend sent me a quiet gift today. He mentioned that on a camping trip, he and his wife tried to invite a young woman to their campfire supper. Her car was packed to the gills; she looked distraught.

She declined. Turning her back, she could not get a fire started; struggled to open a tin of stew manually, without an electric can opener! Finally gained entry and ate cold stew. 

We seem to have misplaced some skill sets!
I thanked him for their awareness of an apparently displaced person, frightened and alone. His reply, brought a gush of tears to my eyes: 

'Every January, the first thing I write in my daily diary is "Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers. For by this, some have entertained angels without knowing it." Heb 13:2'

Happy Independence Day to us all, however we find it. 

Fourth of July: Puttering in the garden before the sun rose over the mountains, with freedom to do so, got me to thinking about the general fear-meme since iconic towers imploded into their footprint.

Rigidity is one response to fear; bring on the control-freak clowns. On a small, irritating scale, neighborhoods in condo-land and suburbia impose sameness of grass and shrubbery, and punish vegetable and flower growers. Yes, we've lost our minds!

It's wilder where I live, with attendant surprises. Last night a bear tried to climb the bird feeder piñon by balancing one hind paw in my hanging basket begonia!

I had forgotten to bring in the feeder last night, an oops on my part. This was a new inventive attempt by the bear, as I've made easy access awkward by lugging over large unsteady rock below the feeder, and hanging the feeder as high as this tall person can reach.

In the boonies, it's stressed that pet and bird food, human food are not left out overnight or bears become a nuisance or dangerous. Wildlife folks spend part of every summer relocating errant bears.

While murmuring apology to the lavish begonia and removing squashed bits, I had to laugh, at a little wild freedom on the Fourth of July. Bears were here first. May they be here when we're gone.

Blue Ridge Mountains, 
Book III: 
Wayfaring Traveler,
end of summer!! 

Wednesday, June 25, 2014

Simpler Life
Man with a sunhat pulled low was heading to the the town library, riding a burro! Couldn't tell if he was coming in to town on errands or embarked on a journey into wild quietude. He was leading a pack burro.

It wasn't possible to stop even in small town traffic, and then I could barely stop my imagination. Would love to have talked to him.

I got to thinking about simplicity, voluntary or otherwise. Homelessness is already simplifying life for a large demographic in our make-believe economy, and events from our blindside may be moving haunches offstage.

Let's not get into tedious "doom-porn." Or TV fantasy-land, gorping on take-out pizza, fried something-like-chicken, super-size coke, etc. Or Type A frantic-life in the fast lane. 

All caricatures, and one by one, we come out of ensnarement.

We sense that governments are not entirely truthful, and the till clangs near empty. What simple things can we do in advance of sudden ohmigawd's?

Little bit here, little bit there, until and if we start down the fireman's chute. I was thinking about when I left Maine, heading out homeless, and all I left behind.

It was sleet and bitter wind time. A yard sale was not going to happen. One of the ten thousand things I gave away to friends was a really nice Bosch mixer: dough hook et al. It's in a good home now with great cook.

Moi, I've used a wire whisk and a wooden spoon in the four years since. I fantasize every now and then about a hand-crank class-act mixer, with a cautious eye to the energy grid, but I'm doing fine.

Planting a garden, a tomato in a pot, herbs on the windowsill can be empowering and feed your family with food to spare.

Am sipping a cool glass of homemade kombucha (a once a week task) with a splash of local organic apple juice, and ginger. It's cheap and more delicious than anything on a supermarket shelf. See "Kitchen Probiotics" at:

I think, I hope, we'll shift from waiting to be entertained, to choosing life, life as adventure. Burro-back, bicycle or sitting on a bench watching people, sea gulls or pigeons. Feeling our own haunches, and the arc of the seasons.

It's just an extraordinary time to be alive. 

Blue Ridge Mountains, 
Book III: 
Wayfaring Traveler,
end of summer!! 

Friday, June 20, 2014

Solstice & Earth-Whisperers

"Dominion over all the earth" has had a very long run, but centuries of dominance may not have evolved as felicitous meme. Dominators tend to rise to the top, like pond scum.

Gaining control, within such a mind-warp, is ALL, followed closely by the bottom-feeding of bottomless greed. 

Greed is peculiar, a great aching void, which has no understanding of earth's abundance, stewardship within cycles. Winner takes all, being the only game on a dominator planet.

Humble service just looks like easy mark to sociopaths; that would be one descriptor, the furor of evil might be another. And yea, mind control, terror-inducement and never-ending, profiteering war. 

Let there be no peace on earth, and let it begin with none.

We're at the turning of the year, the celebration of summer fecundity in the Northern Hemisphere, and hope of summer downunder. An ancient lineage still numinous, of solstice fire on mountain tops, the high holy places, and in the remaining solitudes of earth. 

The dominator meme finds us at a particular moment in the human drama. It feels like watershed; it feels alarmingly seismic, volcanic, with roaring of wind. 

We live a turning of earth changes, endings of forces which deform life, among those many who envision life anew.

Bronco-busting comes to mind, the savaging of mustang wildness into submission to human and saddle. The breaking of will to gain control. 

A "horse-whisperer" entered the maelstrom of bronco-busting, as though from within a still pool, earning trust, conjoining gentleness with the wild, and sustaining that integrity.

Many earth-whispers are not in agreement with agendas which do harm, which violate our humanity and our island home... we travelers of  cosmos and creation.

"Hidden archeology" has long fascinated me: artifacts in deep layers of stone and coal, millions of years old, which suggest civilizations of spiritual and technological prowess preceding the hubris of our own. Cultures from whom we might learn.

Did Atlantis exist? Plato thought so, and oral traditions and apparent submerged ruins are evocative of a lost continent, perhaps lost to hubris.

The term "hidden" refers to the veiling or obscuring of information which does not fit the dominant perception.

I once had a very interesting friend, intelligent, impassioned about his viewpoint and impervious to others. Difficult, in short, but still interesting. 

I am by no means learned in world theologies; he felt empowered to exert authority based on literal interpretation of the Bible, especially the Sturm und Drang of the Old Testament. I listened with curiosity; he was all but a force of nature!  

My friend of unswerving conviction assured me that the human experience since expulsion from the Garden (of Eden) could be measured by counting the "begats" of the Old Testament times the number twenty, roundabout a generation. 

By that reckoning, humans have lived here several thousand years, time enough to achieve mayhem, with no apparent willingness to learn from the remnants of ancient indigenous peoples. 

How little we know of ancient time:

We learn by doing, and generations to come may learn un-doing of harm, and the insight and mercy of healing.

At the Solstice, the veil thins, a Dream-time, a quietude of earth-whisperers, those who walk on beaches, sit on boulders, or town park benches, gardeners, volunteers, the watchers and the do-ers.

An intermezzo somehow, from life as soap opera, a whispering of Beatitudes.

Whale Rider of the Tide 
Call to Adventure 
Next up, Blue Ridge Mountains, 
Book III: 
Farm Stories & Recipes

Sunday, June 8, 2014

Green Pastures

Clouds black and roiling as I went to bed, with gusts of rain and the added frisson of a tornado watch and thunder booming down the valley.

This focused the mind. I checked location of beeswax candles and matches, filled water jugs as the temperature suddenly dropped and down comforter went back on the bed. 
At 3:30am, all quiet, I slipped outside to check on things, and as  Granddaddy used to say, "saw a thang"... Moon setting deep orange to the west, lightning pulsing over the peaks and stars blazing out.

How many times have I blundered into wonders just by poking nose out the door!

Yesterday, setting out to do errands on a day with time-flex, a yard sale sign caught my eye. The route grew convoluted, many turns toward the mountains, and the road rose to meet me alright, dust and gravel.

Creatively lost, I did find the sale, of lovely things way over-priced, still imagining a bull market in everything, and counting on arrival of the "greater fool." 

Which in the larger scheme of cycles and surprises, may be us.

The Rockies run north-south, I would aim wherever and find my way back. Spectacular cumulus clouds were massing up behind the peaks, for once, sans chemtrails, just startling deep blue.

I followed lanes through agricultural land and first cutting hay looks ready and very fine. Rural and away from the traveled roads, a land of old barns and adobe homes and acequias for irrigation flowing down from the mountain springs.

Last year many parts of the US had no cutting of hay, just crushing drought, farmland repossessed and scrawny livestock sold.

Pasture grass makes hay and feeds farm life. Unlike yard sale do-dads, green fields mean wealth. 

Whale Rider of the Tide
Call to Adventure
Next up, Book III:
Farm Stories & Recipes

Saturday, May 31, 2014

Wildlife & Gardens, Life Altogether

Am sad, about the recklessness of greed-mongers and their enablers, on the wind-blown promontory of Cassandra-efforts. Helloooo out there in CNN-land.

Let's visit the wild world and gardens for a bit...

The baby rabbit has been good about just nibbling wild herbs. It's hanging out under the woodpile. I was standing near its entrance a couple days ago as it skittered across the mesa and stopped a foot from my foot. Twitched its nose; went still. 

I hummed a little; let my eyes go sleepy; thanked it for eating the wildings, and foregoing sweet peas and tender lettuce.

Meanwhile, I have not been idle, edging garden beds and big pots with wabbit- and deer-repelling nasturtiums, whose flowers are yum and startling in salads.

The deer posed another order of magnitude. During the winter, my neighbor thought it would be fun to attract mule deer in close to the house, in order to astonish and delight his big city nephews.

He set out alfalfa and corn. The deer came. My neighbor enjoyed it so much, he continued feeding them. The deer came to regard the neighborhood as easy pickings. I harrumphed, and went on about my business.

Until the early morning I met deer in my raised bed, and roared. They leaped out of sight, leaving hoof prints through newly seeded rows.

I went to town for stakes (through the heart!) and fishing line, in order to erect a make-believe fence. An old Mainer had made the suggestion for the white-tailed deer infestation in my old home on the island. 

Humans had exterminated all deer predators, thus protecting toy poodles and kittens, and creating a deer population explosion. Deer filled the forests with Lyme disease ticks and periodically over-browsed and sickened.

Here in the Rockies, predators still exist, though few wolves. But I had to deal with the "trained" deer of the neighborhood.

The fence is simply three tiers of fishing line stretched between the stakes or poles. The deer don't see it; bump against it, and leap back.

A new deer-training: it has been activated, once. I found a post bent inward and fishing line flapping in the breeze but no deer incursion. Would all solutions be so gratifyingly simple.

Here is the news which set my heart grieving. I have been warning about Fukushima as a planetary disaster since the morning after the earthquake and tsunami. Complicit news-mouths assure the world that several "China Syndromes" are yesterday's news:

Which set me to remembering the insanity of above-ground nukular testing, whoopee, new toys---and test sirens in schools---little children told to huddle under their desks, safe from the fungal-form cloud.

Thursday, May 22, 2014

In Praise of the Improbable; Wayfarer's Farm

Spellbound, I stop loading the car to look West. First light just slanting over the Eastern mountain peaks, and amazing red bulbosities catch the light and rise.

Hot air balloons!! It must be chilly down there by the river, and what an outrageous premise altogether: climbing into a small wicker basket with flames above shooting up into hollow fruit-like silk.

First attempts must have drawn howls of derision. And yet brilliant balloons soared above Paris, and in the mind of Jules Verne, Around the World in Eighty Days!

Watching the flight above the Gorge, I thought about journeys, of dog sleds racing to the poles, machetes (piranhas and mosquitoes!) hacking a path to ancient temples in the jungle.

I thought of soul-shaking journeys, some splendid, some doomed, but a stretch, an itch, a soaring of the imagination. As I toodled into town on errands...

"Are you rich and famous?" she asked.

I laughed, and set my shopping basket on the counter.

"No, not rich, but I'm pretty happy."

"But you're famous."

"Um, within a half yard radius!"

I'd come to the gourmet kitchen shop, to replace a French press carafe, which had danced off the top of the fridge.

"What about your second book?" she asked. "Have you done the reading yet?"

"Uh huh, on the Winter Solstice. A professional guy filmed it and put the five generations story on youtube. It's pretty good. Am working on the third book."

"No!! What's it about?"

"Well, I had an organic farm when I was young. And foolish. In the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia, a green pretty land.

"Did it ten years. Some funny stories coming together in the manuscript about adventures with my Appalachian neighbors and with animals, wild ones and the more or less domestic.

"Right now I'm coming up against a don't-want-to-go-there-wall. It's about the power company helicopter."

"What helicopter?"

"Their spraying 2,4-D, along their so-called "right of way" and nearly killing me, is the reason I left the farm.

"But to my heart, it's the least of the stories, and I'm having trouble with it. That farm was beautiful, eventually, and carpe diem incarnate.

"For awhile, I so didn't want to "go there" about the 2,4-D that I thought about chucking the project altogether.

"But I'm having such fun with the other stories. Ready end of this summer, looks like. God willing and the creek don't rise."

She walked with me to the door, while I looked neither to the right or the left into the shop of temptations. She was one of the first people I met in town, warm and welcoming to me, when I crawled out of the tent. And she loves a good story:

"Come to Taos," she grinned, "and bloom!"

Books I & II:
Whale Rider of the Tide
Call to Adventure
Next up:
Farm Stories & Recipes

Thursday, May 15, 2014

Gardeners as Holy Fool

An ancient tribe of optimists, gardeners and farmers mourn the vagaries of weather but show up, flood, fire or frost. They stand vigil at dawn, the life-stewards, and protect what survives. They prepare to replant.

Also realists, they make peace with cutting out deadwood and branch tangles, and with thinning--spindly thickly-sown carrots or orchard fruit too heavy on the branch.

It snowed a startling four inches two days ago, a quasi-blizzard, it being May. I had planted non-tender seed before the weather surprise.

This morning I peeked around the sweet pea trellis, and saw that a French heirloom spinach with long leaves, grand noble, has sprouted and forged to the surface! Great market gardeners, the French, with lovely old varieties.

Seed sprouting is not a given with this wild weather; it's a gift.

Heirloom means I can keep harvesting the outer spinach leaves and then let a few plants go to seed to save for next year. A freedom apparently loathed by sociopaths and Monsanto.

Last autumn, I cut back red Russian kale stalks to ground level and two astonished me by leafing out this spring. They're about to bloom. I'll collect the seed and clear the way for other crop.

While pottering about the green growing world, I suddenly felt aerial presence, and "saw a thang."

A kestrel ten feet overhead, circling on updraft. Peripheral vision spied a baby rabbit scuttling under the wood pile!

A relatively small raptor, a wingspan too slight to elevate my neighbor's fat chickens. Though an eagle could...

While still tenting homeless on my continental journey, I was camping above a deep river canyon. A friend enticed me down a cliff-side, quite steep, and said:

"Pay attention; it's magic. I'll be back in a hour."

A fellow mixed-blood, I trusted her instincts. I clambered down and settled on a basalt ledge under a piñon and went quiet. She had told me a waterfall pours over the cliff in the rainy season...

I heard laughter! Below the cliff in centuries of hollow, bronze-skinned children, their wraiths, were splashing in the pool. Children of a lost people, the Anasazi.

My friend and I had wandered the mesa wild places and found spear points and hide scrapers, and piles of flint chips.

A canyon wren bobbed and sang its liquid song on the ledge, and suddenly flew into hiding.

Everything grew still as a buzzard floated below me on the strong updraft. It croaked suddenly and darted to an outcropping.

A seven foot wingspan drifted and hovered just below me, evening light russet on each feather, a golden eagle.

Close enough to see its talons, beak and frightening eye scanning for prey. It drew in its wings and plummeted out of my line of vision.

It might as well have ripped my heart out of my chest and carried it other-where. The setting sun all but blinded me.
Storyteller's Nook: