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.

silvery

 Cold and sunny days. Silvery drops of snow melt falling from the roof. Speaking of silver, the water in streams and ponds takes on a metallic, silvery sheen this time of year. I don't know why. It might have something to do with the colors in the surrounding foliage.

Later in the year, when snow covers the ground, the color of the water becomes black in small streams, like the eye of a shark.

the real world

 Back in the world, the real world. Walking on a snowy and windy day. Sticks and branches down along dirt roads. Sound of the snowplow for the first time this year. Wind roaring through the trees, flapping the flag in the front yard, ringing the wind chimes on a neighbor's front porch. Snow stinging cheeks, nose and eyes.

Ours is not the task of fixing the entire world at once, but of stretching out to mend the part of the world that is within our reach.

Clarissa Pinkola Estes

Page a day calendar on gratitude

Freedom!

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G3onnJuBS18

 

gettyimages

Tolling for the searching ones on their speechless seeking trail

For the lonesome-hearted lovers with too personal a tale

And for each unharmful, gentle soul misplaced inside a jail

And we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing.

Chimes of Freedom

Bob Dylan

snow

 Nothing changes the landscape as much as the first snowfall of the year.