bluebirds

 It's interesting to observe the changes in the world distilled into the activities taking place in my own back yard. When I'm eating breakfast and looking out the window, the first thing I see is the bluebird house.

Wintertime bluebird activity has changed over the years. Used to be said activity was nil. There weren't any bluebirds here in the winter. You might start to see some around the end of February as spring approached. A few years ago I remember Ellen mentioning that she saw them all year round during the winter that she lived here. Now I see them maybe once a week. and it's not just one or two, it's five or six, and they're hanging around the birdhouse in the morning for awhile, and then I don't see them again for days. I've learned that they look for dry cavities, like bluebird houses, in which they can roost during the winter months. I think that's what they're doing.

I came across a great article yesterday. The gist of it was that the range of eastern bluebirds is moving northward. That they are becoming more prevalent in places like Maine, and their numbers are dropping in places like the Mid-Atlantic states.

Here it is: https://maineaudubon.org/news/bluebirds-in-winter/

They attributed the change to a number of factors, but, surprisingly,  didn't mention climate change. I'm not a scientist, but I feel that is a major factor.

My neighbor is my age, and has lived in the area his whole life. He says that when he was a kid, you didn't see animals like great blue herons or opossums. It was too cold for them here. Now they are very common, like ticks. Unfortunately, as some animals appear in the area, others depart. I don't hear the wood thrush singing in the back the way I used to. The moose population is diminishing, and even the sugar maples are stressed by the warming conditions. It's sad to see.

 

 

 Another one taken at the same time. I'm thinking I either took these at Lake Placid or between Claremont NH and Windsor Vt.

alpenglow

Driving into town to pick up the truck at the mechanic's shop at sunset. Full moon, the "Cold" moon rising over the Green Mountains. Alpenglow shining off snow covered peaks.

Segue into the blue hour.

What color is snow anyway?

hydrology

 Days of rain and temperatures in the 50's turned our winter wonderland into this:

Was talking with my mechanic at his place the other day. The discussion turned to some work he had done last summer, grading his parking area so that water would run off, and not collect in a muddy mess near his garage. It's amazing how much training one acquires in hydrology when living in a place like this. And if you acquire an advanced degree in hydrology over the years, you also need to minor in subjects like: roof rake, generator, sand, salt, wood stove, and sump pump. 

A few years ago, after Hurricane Irene, Vermont governor Peter Shumlin was talking with New Jersey governor Chris Christie. Shumlin asked Christie how it was going, and he said cleanup was progressing very slowly. Christie asked how things were moving in Vermont. Shumlin said cleanup was very brisk. He said that was  because half of the Vermont population owned a pickup truck and a chain saw.

Merry Christmas!

I am going to notice the lights of the earth, the sun and the moon and the stars, the lights of our candles as we march, the lights with which spring teases us, the light that is already present.

Anne Lamott

Page a day calendar on gratitude

I wonder

 Coming back from early morning grocery shopping, the planet Venus shining brightly in the southeast. Retracing my steps when returning from the ash pile, noticed the blue color of the snow at the bottom of the tracks I had made. I remember seeing this before.

 Why is that? Science IQ.com says, "Generally, snow and ice present us with a uniformly white face. This is because most all of the visible light striking the snow or ice surface is reflected back without any particular preference for a single color within the visible spectrum. As this light travels into the snow or ice, the ice grains scatter a large amount of light. If the light is to travel over any distance, it must survive many such scattering events, that is it must keep scattering and not be absorbed.

The observer sees the light coming back from the rear surface layers after it has been scattered or bounced off other snow grains only a few times and it still appears white. However, the absorption is preferential. More red light is absorbed compared to blue... Typical examples are poking a hole in the snow and looking down into the hole to see blue light or the blue color...

In simplest terms, think of the ice or snow layer as a filter. If it is only a centimeter thick, all the light makes it through, but if it is a meter thick, mostly blue light makes it through."

Oh.

Never lose a holy curiosity

Albert Einstein

Page a day calendar on gratitude

snow

 Light snow this morning. Yesterday was the winter solstice. Winter has officially begun. Yesterday I took a bucket full of ash from the wood stove, and dumped it in the usual area in the  back about 50 yards from the house. The snow is still very deep, and it took me a surprisingly long time to walk to that spot. I couldn't help but think about the deer and the other animals and how difficult it must be for many of them at this time. 

For other beings, the deep snow is welcome.

Fortunately, for the deer anyway, temperatures are supposed to moderate, and the snow pack will diminish.

 

A meadow mouse, startled by my approach, darts damply across the skunk track. Why is he abroad in daylight? Probably because he feels grieved about the thaw. Today his maze of secret tunnels, laboriously chewed through the matted grass under the snow, are tunnels no more, but only paths exposed to public view and ridicule. Indeed the thawing sun has mocked the basic premises of the microtine economic system!

The mouse is a sober citizen who knows that grass grows in order that mice may store it as underground haystacks, and that snow falls in order that mice may build subways from stack to stack: supply, demand, and transport all neatly organized. To the mouse, snow means freedom from want and fear.

A rough-legged hawk comes sailing over the meadow ahead. Now he stops, hovers like a kingfisher, and then drops like a feathered bomb into the marsh. He does not rise again, so I am sure he has caught, and is now eating, some worried mouse-engineer who could not wait until night to inspect the damage to his well-ordered world.

The rough-leg has no opinion why grass grows, but he is well aware that snow melts in order that hawks may again catch mice. He came down out of the Arctic in the hope of thaws, for to him a thaw means freedom from want and fear. 

January

A Sand County Almanac

Aldo Leopold

The days after

 The deep snow pack and clear skies make cold morning temperatures, 14 below the other morning.Single flakes of snow floating around in the air, reflecting the sunlight like diamond dust. I wish I could have gotten a good photo of it.

Raking the snow off the roof. During this process caught sight of a hawk, high in the blue sky overhead.

 

Large dogs and small children playing in the snow.

 

  Spotted the conjunction of Jupiter and Saturn one evening. Be sure to take a look at it over the next few nights.

Sky and Telescope

l'heure bleu

 A snow covered landscape along with clear skies combine to produce an amazing scene before dawn and after sunset. 

 The French call this l'heure bleu, the blue hour. 

buried

 We have lived here on the other side of the creek for 40 years. Last night when I went to bed the forecast called for 2-5 inches of snow. We woke up to this.

That is a car. I can only remember one other time when the overnight forecast called for inches and we ended up with feet. I couldn't open the doors this morning to shovel, too much snow. I had to climb up into the attic and exit out the garage door. 

The temperature was in the teens this morning so fortunately the snow is very light and fluffy. Allyn is very excited. She is making Christmas cookies now and planning to go out skiing in the afternoon.

plow

 Rumble of the town plow on Kahle Road for the first time of the season. The snow plow becomes central to our lives in the winter much in the same way that the wood stove does. We are the only house on this road, and the plow bisects our property and turns around in our lane. It seems that the driver changes almost every year, and they negotiate the job with varying levels of skill. In the spring we often have a lot of landscaping to do as we try to put the patches of sod back in the appropriate places and remove the piles of gravel from the lawn. The last couple of years I have put up markers along the sides of the lane to help guide the drivers. Last year it worked out pretty well.

decorations

 Holiday decorations appearing in town.

And inside

Some decorations are elegant, most of them are kind of tacky.

 It really doesn't matter. They help preserve the past by bringing them into the present.

 

mother of pearl

 Back from sesshin. Steel cut oats and coffee, and the clanking and sighing of the wood stove. Crunch of snow underfoot when heading out to get the paper. Crows in the sky overhead also making their morning rounds. Sun on snow, clouds and sky.

Blues and greens, yellows and oranges, all embedded in whiteness; like mother of pearl.

Happy Birthday Pip!

 Happy Birthday to a wonderful daughter, wife and mother!

season of shadows

 Yesterday I took a rare drive on a rare sunny day. At one point I noticed long shadows of trees extending from one side of the road to the other. It looked like it was about an hour before sunset when it was actually about one o'clock in the afternoon. I couldn't believe it. I turned around and noticed the sun hanging very low in the sky in the southwest. If it was summer time, it would have indeed been about an hour before sunset. It just brought home to me how short and dark the days are this time of year, even on a sunny day. It's not much comfort but in a couple of weeks the days will start to get longer again.

warm to cold

 The change of seasons is not subtle in Vermont. That's what makes it possible to write a blog like this. Most of the changes noted refer to the natural world, but the changing seasons are also reflected in the human world and its activities. When you stop to think about them, there are quite a few, some stark, some subtle.

As the days and weeks change from warm to cold, the winter clothes come down from the attic, and the summer clothes head up. As the patio furniture heads to the attic, the wood rack comes down as the comforting warmth of the wood stove becomes central to our lives.

Cotton sheets on the bed give way to flannel sheets. Winter tires go on, summer tires come off. In my car the ice scraper comes out of the back seat and finds a more accessible spot in the front. In the summer, one parks in the shade, in the winter in the sun, facing south. When I first moved here, I learned to park my car such that I could get at the battery with jumper cables during the winter. In the summer, I park it any old way.

not so long ago

 I'm paraphrasing here, but Picasso was once asked why he had so many paintings of the same bowl of fruit. He responded by saying that it was never the same bowl of fruit.

For months now, Allyn and I have been taking the "same" walk around the block except it's never the same walk. Recently I walked past this common nightshade that has put on its Holiday decorations. 

 

I remember when these berries were the flowers of summer, not so long ago.

 

 

hunting season

 Most of you know that we live out in the sticks. It has its challenges, but is mostly wonderful. The worst time of the year just ended, the two weeks of the deer hunting season. My levels of agitation and paranoia rise greatly during this period of time. I'm so happy and relieved that it's over for another season.

About a week ago I looked out the window in the kitchen and saw a herd of about 10 deer walking across the back field. They were heading to a field on our property that has a number of wild apple trees. They were being led by a doe that was walking about 20 yards ahead of the others. Most of the deer displayed varying states of attention, some of the young ones were actually playing, but not the lead doe. She was totally focused on her environment, looking for signs of danger. Animals like deer desire life and fear death at least as much as we do. The image of their plight was with me during the entirety of the hunting season. Actually they reminded me of essential workers during this period of Covid-19. Essential workers don't really have any great options. Regardless of their personal circumstances, they can't afford to shelter in place. They need to go out into the world and work to sustain their lives and the lives of their families despite the risks involved.

Jim Fawns Pexels

This whole question of hunting, of killing, is a difficult one when you stop and examine it. The First Commandment says: Thou Shalt Not Kill. In Buddhism, the First Cardinal Precept says: I resolve not to kill but to cherish all life. In these two statements, there are no explanations, and there is no equivocation. What do they mean? How are we to make sense of them in relation to our actions in our lives? We need to eat in order to live, and that means that some things need to die in order for us to exist. What then, are we supposed to do?

 

The words of Ernest Hemingway are somewhat instructive. He said "if it's necessary it's moral, and if it's unnecessary it's immoral." I can survive and thrive quite nicely on a vegetarian diet. Does that mean that eating meat is immoral on some level? Is hunting immoral? In many areas, the predators that used to help maintain healthy levels of the deer population have disappeared. It's my understanding that without any kinds of control, deer populations can reach levels that deplete sources of food for all the deer in an area. Then all the deer suffer and many more of them perish. I think this is a reality that has to be taken into consideration when grappling with the ethical questions involved in hunting.

 

There aren't any easy answers, but it seems to me that people need to come to grips with these questions. How do we make our way in a world in which many of the world's major religions seem to prohibit the taking of another life. How we answer these questions should inform our actions in the world around us, especially in relation to the natural world and its creatures.  

The last one

Sshhhhh from rain, pitpitpit from hemlock, bloink from maple, and lastly popp, of falling alder water. Alder drops make slow music. It takes time for fine rain to traverse the scabrous rough surface of alder leaf. The drops aren't as big as maple drops, not enough to splash, but the popp ripples the surface and sends out concentric rings. I close my eyes and listen to the voices of the rain.

The reflecting surface of the pool is textured with their signatures, each one different in pace and resonance. Every drip it seems is changed by its relationship with life, whether it encounters moss or maple or fir bark or my hair. And we think of it as simple rain, as if it were one thing, as if we understood it. I think that moss knows rain better than we do, and so do maples. Maybe there is no such thing as rain; there are only raindrops, each with its own story.

Listening to rain, time disappears. If time is measured by the period between events, alder drip time is different from maple drip. This forest is textured with different kinds of time, as the surface of the pool is dimpled with different kinds of rain. Fir needles fall with the high-frequency hiss of rain, branches fall with the bloink of big drops, and trees fall with a rare but thunderous thud. Rare, unless you measure time like a river. And we think of it as simple time, as if it were one thing, as if we understand it. Maybe there is no such thing as time; there are only moments, each with its own story.

Witness to the Rain

Braiding Sweetgrass

Robin Wall Kimmerer 

Happy Thanksgiving

 If the only prayer you ever say in your entire life is thank you. It will be enough.

Meister Eckhart

rural thermodynamics

 You would think that the last place on earth offering instructions on thermodynamics would be Vermont in November, but you would be wrong. I actually think that because it's cold that we are more sensitive to what little warmth is left. On our morning walk we go through various periods of cold/warmth, and some of those places are relatively consistent.

This section of the road is fairly nondescript, but it is usually one of the warmest spots. It is angled toward the morning sun and is unshaded. Trees on both sides cut down on the wind. It is also a place where we're walking uphill which helps warm us up. Early spring is actually the best times to observe the effects of sun, wind, topography, reflection, etc. as you can easily see the effects on the snow pack.

winter coats

 Days are getting colder and darker. Tee shirts and shorts have given way to wind breaker and long pants on the daily walk. We have recently added wool caps, gloves and neck warmers on those really cold mornings. Even the horses in the neighborhood are putting on their winter coats.

November

November is not a time for flowers, the days short and cold. Heavy clouds drag at my mood, and sleet like a muttered curse propels me indoors--I am reluctant to venture out again. So when the sun breaks  through for that rare yellow day, maybe the last time before the snow falls, I have to go.

Because the woods are quiet this time of year without leaves or birds, the buzz of a bee seems inordinately loud...

Witch Hazel

Braiding Sweetgrass

Robin Wall Kimmerer
 

 

gunmetal blue

 It's interesting to me how the sky, the mountains, and the surrounding countryside take on different looks depending on the time of year. Wondering if the amount and angle of sunlight, or the lack of sunlight factors into this, along with the amount of greenery present. At this time of year, the sky and landscape around here seems to present a gunmetal blue.

 

another

 In the spring after the snow has melted, we often see a fox walking through the field in the back. We see him quite frequently as the spring days lengthen. As the days lengthen, so does the grass until it gets to the point that we are unable to discern the movements of the fox even though we know he it is still out there. In the fall I mow the fields and the fox returns to our lives. I saw it the other day, sauntering along the fence line. I wish I could have gotten a photo. Here's an old one.

It was highly alert and moved with such self confidence. Another example of a living exclamation point!

Where are they now?

 

naming

Most people don't know the names of these relatives; in fact, they hardly ever see them. Names are the way we humans build relationships, not only with each other but with the living world. I'm trying to imagine what it would be like going through life not knowing the names of the plants and animals around you. Given who I am and what I do, I can't know what that's like, but I think it would be a little scary and disorienting--like being lost in a foreign city where you can't read the streets signs. Philosophers call this state of isolation and disconnection "species loneliness"--a deep, unnamed sadness stemming from estrangement from the rest of Creation, from the loss of relationship. As our human dominance of the world has grown, we have become more isolated, more lonely when we can no longer call out to our neighbors. It's no wonder that naming was the first job the Creator gave Nanabozho.

In The Footsteps Of Nanabozho: Becoming Indigenous To Place

Braiding Sweetgrass

Robin Wall Kimmerer

warm weather

Another sunny day in the 70's...in November. The bluebirds have returned. I saw about 8 of them hanging around the bluebird house in the back. I always thought they migrated, but I looked it up. Avian Report says that most bluebirds don't migrate. The map I saw indicated that Vermont is considered within their year round territory. Some bluebirds spend the summer in Canada and those are the ones that migrate. Also, there can be situational migrations, when there's a blizzard or cold snap, some of the birds might head south temporarily. 

Awhile ago I mentioned that a branch of the forsythia had blossomed when a cold snap was followed by warm weather. Recently we have noticed the same phenomenon with regard to daffodils in the front yard.

Don't know if you can make this out, these are emerging daffodils! That can't be good. Is anybody else seeing the same kinds of activity? Also the tick population had returned with a vengeance. I think it's due to the same pattern of cold temperatures followed by warm weather.

I'll never know

 
A few weeks ago I mentioned that brush hogging allows one to visit pastures that are seldom seen over the course of the year. Yesterday I was putting up No Hunting signs along the perimeter of our land. Instead of visiting pastures this time, I was deep in the woods. Temperature was in the 70's and I was in a tee shirt for the first time I can ever remember when doing this chore. There is much beauty to be seen.

It is extremely dry here. The vernal pool  doesn't have a drop of water in it as seen from the photo below.

I travel the boundary of our property to put up the signs. In many places I'm following old stone walls.

In some areas the stones haven't moved since when they were put there. How long ago was that? Who built them? I'll never know.

threads of love

 I thought about sending today's post just to family members, but I'll send it to everybody. Yesterday we were doing some work in one of Allyn's gardens. I noticed this pile of rocks.

Allyn spends a lot of time in her gardens; much more than I do. During her daily rounds, she takes the time to save and store the rocks that she finds. There are rock piles scattered everywhere in said gardens. She takes the time to do this because when her grandchildren come to visit, they love to throw rocks into the creek from the bridge that connects Kahle Road to the main road. They are set aside for this that purpose. I initially took this photo as a poignant reminder of our lost summer. No children and grandchildren visiting this year. The rocks are still in their designated piles rather than at the bottom of the Ira creek where they belong.

There's another way to look at this, however. The rock piles are just one of many examples of the threads of love and support with which  Manga (Allyn) connects with her grandchildren. She sends them gift packages to help them celebrate the holidays like Halloween and Easter. She sends them Jib Jabs on their birthdays. Eliza is seven now. She has learned how to call Allyn on her lap top, and she calls Manga almost every day (I will do in a pinch if Allyn is unavailable). The two of them are now and forever connected. Allyn is a part of Eliza and Eliza is a part of Allyn, and this is the case with all of the grandchildren. We are lucky to have them, and they are so fortunate to have such a wonderful grandmother.

But it doesn't stop here. There aren't many advantages to being old, but one of them is the perspective that comes with time. Knowing Allyn's mother, it's not hard to see how Allyn ended up the way she did; hard working, kind, selfless. I never met Allyn's grandmother, but I have a pretty good idea about what she was like. And these threads of love were sewn by the other side of our family as well. My step-mother, Helen, was a saint. She was so busy loving her family that she usually forgot about herself and her own desires. These threads go in the other direction as well. John and Erin fortunately are like their mother, and are wonderful parents, just like their mother was. Where does this blanket of nurturing and caring start? Where does it end?

And I know that our family, fortunate as it is, is not the only one possessing these threads of love. So many of us are lucky to head out each morning to face the world, fortified by the warmth of fibers extending back  countless generations. We are all very fortunate.

All from a pile of rocks.