Tatters And Rust

Day 106: A little visual metaphor for you here, icons of America tattered, torn and rusted out. I can just hear the owner of the truck or his salesman/representative saying, "It runs great!" (gods forbid that I should ever let that word slip from my lips again). Whatever direction I go when I leave home, I see similar testaments to greatness. Some stand in the midst of clearcut, their campaign signs faded by what few glimmers of light pierce the Pacific Northwestern gloom. Others lean against ramshackle outbuildings and piles of trash, proudly proclaiming the lifestyles of the rightist occupants. Greatness shall be delivered unto them! Or so they foolishly believe.

Now that I am on the road to recovery, it occurs to me that I should document the glory of Great America in photographs of heaps of litter, big-ass trucks with plastic testicles hanging from their bumpers, gun-toting Walmart shoppers, vagrants and homeless folk. Who needs wildflowers and clean air when the earth is ours to frack and strip-mine? Who cares what we trample, who we hurt as long as we get more, get it all? I am the singer Crow in Sandburg's poem, crying "Caw, caw" to the rats and lizards. We are the greatest nation that ever ... WAS.

Four Preludes on Playthings of the Wind
    ~Carl Sandburg

"The past is a bucket of ashes"

1

THE WOMAN named Tomorrow
sits with a hairpin in her teeth
and takes her time
and does her hair the way she wants it
and fastens at last the last braid and coil
and puts the hairpin where it belongs
and turns and drawls: "Well, what of it?
My grandmother, Yesterday, is gone.
What of it? Let the dead be dead.

2

The doors were cedar
and the panels strips of gold
and the girls were golden girls
and the panels read and the girls chanted:
We are the greatest city,
The greatest nation:
nothing like us ever was.

The doors are twisted on broken hinges.
Sheets of rain swish through on the wind
where the golden girls ran and the panels read:
We are the greatest city,
the greatest nation,
nothing like us ever was.

3

It has happened before.
Strong men put up a city and got
a nation together,
And paid singers to sing and women
to warble: We are the greatest city,
the greatest nation,
nothing like us ever was.

And while the singers sang
and the strong men listened
and paid the singers well
and felt good about it all,
there were rats and lizards who listened
...and the only listeners left now
...are...the rats...and the lizards.

And there are black crows
crying, "Caw, caw,"
bringing mud and sticks
building a nest
over the words carved
on the doors where the panels were cedar
and the strips on the panels were gold
and the golden girls came singing:
We are the greatest city,
the greatest nation:
nothing like us ever was.

The only singers now are crows crying, "Caw, caw,"
And the sheets of rain whine in the wind and doorways
And the only listeners now are...the rats...and the lizards.

4

The feet of the rats
scribble on the door sills:
the hieroglyphs of the rat footprints
chatter the pedigrees of the rats
and babble of the blood
and gabble of the breed
of the grandfathers and the great-grandfathers
of the rats.

And the wind shifts
and the dust on a door sill shifts
and even the writing of the rat footprints
tells us nothing, nothing at all
about the greatest city, the greatest nation
where the strong men listened
and the women warbled: Nothing like us ever was.

Turkey T'angks!

Day 41: Today we should be thankful for the things which enrich our lives.

I'm thankful for my lichens.
I'm thankful for the rain.
I'm thankful for my friends
And this mountainous terrain.
I'm thankful for my kitties,
I'm thankful for the flowers.
I'm thankful for the crafts
Which occupy the hours.
I'm thankful for my health,
Dance to keep me perky,
But most of all, today
I'm glad I'm not a turkey.

Move over, Shakespeare. You don't stand a snowball's chance.

Spring Has Sprung

Day 158: There are probably as many versions of this poem as there are those of us who learned it as children. Interchangeable words include "has/is," "riz/ris," "boidies/daisies/posies." It was taught to me by my mother as

Spring has sprung,
The grass is riz,
I wonder where
The daisies is?

The author, despite what you may have heard, was neither ee cummings or Ogden Nash, but one of the most prolific writers ever known, Ann O'Nymous. Her career spans centuries, and she continues to entertain us with new material even today.

This explanation now dispatched, I want to wish my readers a happy Spring via this photo of Coltsfoot, one of our earliest PNW plants to emerge. This specimen is what I formerly would have termed Petasites palmatus, but a quick check of current taxonomy reveals that it has been lumped under P. frigidus as "var. palmatus," the "frigidus" with palmate leaves. (Drat those taxonomists anyway!) Coltsfoot is extremely attractive to one particular species of tiny black-and-white moth (Enchoria lacteata, a geometrid) as well as assorted flies. When the plant is mature, it may stand up to 24" high with leaves the size of dinner plates. While it doesn't have the most pleasant scent or appealing blossoms, it is a sure sign that the more fragrant and beautiful "daisies/posies" are just around the corner.

In Nature's Hands

Day 98: A lesson from a lichen:

I am in your hands, Mother.
You brought me into this world
And you have kept me thus far in your protection.
You have fed me and sheltered me;
You have taught me and guided me;
My heart and eyes have opened because of you.
I am not more or less than what you made me,
And no greater or lesser than any other of your many parts.
The care with which you hold a raindrop
Reminds me to pass my remaining days
In kindness and consideration of all around me,
And not to forget that we,
Human, rock, bird, tree and all,
Are equally your children.

Noel Of Small Birds

Day 54: For as long as I have lived in my present home, it has been my tradition to put up a few decorations on St. Nicholas Day, although I generally wait until somewhat later in the month to put up the tree. The "bird wreath" is always the first to go up. But for one, the birds are all fairly accurate representations of specific species: Blue Jays, a Goldfinch, a Cedar Waxwing, a Red-Headed Woodpecker, Anna's Hummingbird, a White-Breasted Nuthatch, Cardinals, and a Crow, without which any wreath of mine would have seemed incomplete. The one exception is a little pink bird in a nest who arrived at my hospital bedside in a pot of tulips following a surgery many years ago. Of course Blue Jays are not found in the Pacific Northwest, but they were as close as I could get to a Steller's Jay, nor are Cardinals, but they are the bird most often associated with the holiday season.

My tree will also be filled with birds of all shapes and sizes: tiny woodcarvings, flat cutouts, three-dimensional metal figures, faceted faux crystal, blown glass. There are Cockatoos and Crows, Parrots, Cardinals and Grey Jays, fat Chickadees, Owls, and even a pair of farmyard chicks who look like they escaped from someone's Easter basket. Not that I forget very often, but they serve to remind me to keep the feeders filled so that no one goes hungry.

All the birds of winter gather in to find a shelter,
Begging for a bit of food and warmth in the cold weather.
From their homes in barren trees, sparrows go, and chickadees.
Finches search for bright berries, flying back with treasure.
Gifts of Man shall help in need; crumbs of bread and scattered seed.
Thankful small birds all, indeed! Merry to a feather!

Don't forget the little people in your yard. Put out seed and water daily.

Dance The Holly! Dance The Mistletoe!

Day 69: The Solstice finds the Pacific Northwest under a thick layer of dripping cloud, grey in the manner so typical of the area, yet those of us who are governed more by Nature than by the arbitrary structures of clock and calendar feel this turning in our bones. The Light is returning, a lengthening of daylight imperceptible at first, noticeable by those attuned to the change in a week or ten days, obvious to all by mid-January.

It is unsurprising that many mid-winter festivals incorporate illuminations into their observances, whether by candle, sparkling lights or a shining star atop the Christmas tree. For some, light is a metaphor (Christ as "the Light of the world"); for others, it is a physical thing (the flame in the darkness or the sun rising over a specific landmark). It is a theme which joins the hands of one faith with another and another, until all are standing in a great circle, linked by that one commonality. We are brought to unity by Light.

In peace and in harmony, turn your hearts to the Light.
Let it shine on you and within you; be its messenger.
Carry the Light to one and all, and live its beauty as your motto.
Celebrate the Solstice and the returning of the Light.