The Light of God in our lives

 

                Last week was Mark’s brother David’s wedding anniversary. He created a very sweet post about how much he loved his wife and how he saw the light of God when he looked at her. After reading his post, I took a piece of toast with blackberry jam into Mark, who was trapped for hours in an online training for work. “Do you see the light of God when you look at me?’ I asked. He looked a bit startled. “When you are bringing me toast, you are my goddess,” he replied. We laughed. I made a quick sketch of the toast scene.

        

        The next day, Mark brought out a full wheelbarrow of perfectly processed organic compost for the berry plants. The big blue barrow sat in the back garden, glowing with holiness. I drew it. And then, we were off. Where do we see the light of God in our daily lives? Well, one night it was a tray of roasted cauliflower; the next, Indian Woman beans slowly cooking in our avocado green crockpot. We saw the light of God in the collard leaves as big as my head one afternoon. And then, one morning I was in the shed, bringing out my bike when Mr. Beezhold, the rabbit, darted in. His mouth was full of dried grass clippings and he was clearly looking for a quiet place to enjoy his snack. (He loves the shed, even after being locked in numerous times.) I laughed at him. He settled into a corner.

                This morning, I woke up hard.  Still tired, a little pollen-y, with a bit of a headache from not drinking enough water the day before, I checked my email—nothing—and then the news. The combination of the results of the debate the night before, along with several major Supreme Court decisions did not help my mood. Tired, grumpy, fretting, I climbed into the Ark. Mark and I had planned to hike up Mary’s Peak this morning, using the Conner’s Camp trail.  We drove west, along the winding roads, climbing the flank of our home mountain and parked. I stomped down the trail, still thinking about the news. What if the convention threw out Biden? It is, after all, in Chicago this year for the first time since 1968. And we know what happened then. With the ruling on homelessness, would the city manager feel empowered to clear the camps even more frequently? What if a fire started in the tree farm?  The trail climbed. I fretted. Mark tried to change my mood by pointing out the Phantom Orchid right before we crossed the logging road. Failed. He talked about the new greens. Failed. I climbed past the Dragon’s Maw—a rotting log filled with Riverteeth, barely pausing. I leaned into the climb, listening to my footsteps and breathing, both pounding.

      

          And then we hit the gallery forest section of the trail where mature Doug Firs surround us, with ferns and small white flowers and Salal and Oregon Grape and Vine Maple as the understory. They reach high into the sky and there is space between the trunks to catch glimpses of the Willamette Valley—and, today, the Cascade mountains. My steps and breathing fell into alignment and my mind grew quiet.  Slowly, I stopped fretting. We paused to study a downed tree, spongy and damp, covered in small rows of mushrooms the same color as the bark. Across the path, another section of the log held the same mushrooms. At the top, three tiny Doug fir seedlings, not more than three months old, sent their roots into the old body of this tree.  As we moved upward, as always, the wildflowers changed in their familiar ways and we said hello to our old friends. The rock gardens were spectacular—deep purple penstemon next to flaming red Indian Paintbrush, Blue Gillia and white phlox, deep golden Oregon Sunshine all lined to the rocks. When we turned West, we saw the Pacific ocean in the distance. East and all of the big peaks from the Cascades rose in majesty. And, for this long-lapsed catholic turned Transcendentalist, was, truly, the Light of God in my life.

Dumpster Diving

 

                I am a confirmed Dumpster Diver. Always have been. My desire to buy used clothes, wear things out, and haul things from the trash drove my mother—who grew up on the edge of the Great Depression—crazy. She loved the new, stylish, bright white and red, crisp and sharp. I’ve always been drawn to the fuzzy. I’ve hauled brooms and mops, laundry baskets, crock pots and afghans, books and papers, dishes and props for my classroom from trash piles. I even found a door years ago for a friend’s house.  Even now, when we do not need anything, I peer into the dumpsters as we walk by. Because you never know.

                At school, I survey the trash cans. I claim it is because I want to know what is being thrown out so that we can talk about systems to reduce waste. Are students throwing out compostable food? Recyclable paper? Dutch Bros. plastic cups? What dominates these days?  Spoiler alert: plastic cups and wrappers.  Setting up a food composting station will probably not profoundly reduce our trash piles. However, kids also throw out cans with deposits on them (we collect cans for Green Club snacks). They leave behind whole pieces of fruit the rabbit or chickens will gladly eat.  I haul it all out.  After a long winter of trash picking, I had a dream that I was pulling white binders out of the trash, exclaiming that they were still good and could be used again. I hate binders; if we made no more, ever, there would be enough for civilization to continue for a hundred years.

                Today,  Mark and I were out for a walk on campus, warming up on a cool morning. We strolled past dumpsters outside of one of the campus dorms. I peered in. Mostly plastic trash. The next, however, was different. A beautiful laundry basket peeked out. Drawn over, I looked in. Men’s clothing. Nice pants, white shirt, grey hoodie…all new, all clean. Two pairs of popular shoes. Workout t shirts that were pristine. What the heck! Men’s clothes, especially in good condition, are notoriously hard to come by and always in demand in the shelter system. I grabbed a clean trash bag and hauled it all out. Feeling a bit like Santa Claus, I carried the bag home. It will be at Vina Moses in the next few days.

    

            Now, I am wondering—is the university our source for good, used men’s clothes? Are there winter coats in there? How much else is being dumped, for whatever reason, that we don’t know about? How do we divert it from the landfill, into other hands? And what type of society have we created that people, heading off for the summer, toss everything they no longer want, out rather than try and find new homes for it all?

 

 

Teaching-- Working in Circles

 

Last week, one of my seniors popped in to use the microwave and give me her graduation announcement. She was excited about Friday night, which was graduation. “This is a one time deal for us, “she observed. “But you’ll still be here next year. It’s your life.” I agreed—and pointed that, if she fulfilled her plans to become a teacher, it would be her life as well.

                As a person who loves structure and ritual and cycles, teaching is comfortable. The patterns of the year are predictable. September is intense, with new classes and letters of rec; November is chopped up by days off; January and February can be a slog and we are always praying for snow; from Spring Break to Memorial Day is the best work of the year; June is just…done after graduation. I recognize specific times like “The grade I have is not the Grade I want” week, which just passed. We are moving into the week of resignation and relief that we are almost done. There’s also the comfort of moving through the neighborhood, running errands, and bumping into so many old students, now productive members of society.

                But every year is different. The combination of students, classes, and schedule shifts in unpredictable manners and adjustments must be made. This was a quiet year. No big fusses or drama. Lots of work on convincing students that it’s just easier to give in and Read the Book, rather than trying to pretend that you did.  Right now, a lot of acknowledgement of growth and maturity since September. Yes, we are much better. Yes, I see that you are locked in right now. And still, yes, I do know that you just texted your friend to set up a pass date in the hall.  That kind of year.

                The year is winding down. Yearbooks are distributed, Junior take over is tomorrow, the ninth graders are presenting their projects on Tuesday evening.  I have no more thesis based papers to grade; if you missed the memo on thesis, you’ll have to pick it up next year. Summer is coming on. The light is long and clear and clean, with a hint of ocean moisture. Soon, I will shift to summer rituals, which are also both predictable and constantly changing. Life.

May Weekend

 

                It was That Weekend in May. The sun came out after long cold weeks of rain. The grass was long and lush; all of the starts in the greenhouse were bursting in their pots; the spring bulbs were all dying back; the ground is still damp. There was a lot of work to be done. Since Thursday, we have:

1.       Moved the table and benches out.

2.       Taken off the storm windows and stored them in the basement were the windows were.

3.       Mowed the entire yard.

4.       Tracked in a lot of grass clippings.

5.       Trimmed out ¾ of the garden beds.

6.       Cleaned up the front garden of dying bulb foliage—entire garbage can of compost.

7.       Weeded both wheelbarrows of strawberries.

8.       Watered pots.

9.       Prepped, planted, laid down hoses, and attached rabbit fencing for four beds: the summer greens, summer roots, and two beds of tomatoes.

10.   Bumped up extra summer starts.

11.   Given away more tomatoes. (There are still a few left…)

12.   Walked to the market downtown.

13.   Prepared the summer shower.

14.   Cleaned the house.

15.   Did several loads of laundry.

16.   Moved the chickens off of the garden beds and into Summer Quarters, which involves trimming out the fences and clearing the space for the coop to rest.

17.   Brought out the chairs.

18.   Went on a wildflower walk and identified 55 species of flowers in bloom.

19.   Ate my Aunty Marilyn’s macaroni salad for dinner.

Monday, which is a full day of teaching, followed by a staff meeting, dinner, and Budget Commission meeting, should be a breeze in comparison.

 

Painting the Stairwell

 

The basement floor needs to be painted. It was rough when we moved in 25 years ago. Wear and water have made it worse. This summer, I told myself. It’s a big project; lots of stuff needs to be moved, cleaned, cleared out, replaced. Then we had a bout of Revenge Poop at the base of the stairs, and I bought a gallon of grey floor paint. I’ll just paint that small area, I thought. It will keep nasty scents from seeping into the bare cement floor. I cleared away the gallons of house paint and brooms, crowbars, and other tools stashed in the area, washed the floor, and painted. An improvement.

Project creep set in. Maybe I needed to paint the landing, too. That had also seen an occasional “accident” from the cat, which was mad that we were latching her in at night because a bear was wandering through town. After all, I already had the stairs blocked off so that the cat or one of us could not wander down accidently. I washed the landing. Then there were the stairs. They were also rough. And the gate was already up, I was wearing my painting clothes, the brush would need to be washed no matter how big the project….A good coat of paint goes a long way in improving a space.

This morning, I laid down a second coat of paint at the bottom of the steps, and then worked my way up. It’s not easy to paint up stairs—but there’s only one way out of a basement, so there I was, awkwardly perched two boards above the one I was painting. Each time I shifted positions, it looked better. Cared for. Cleaner. Warmer because it’s actually a nice shade of grey paint. As I worked, I thought about other spaces that could use a coat of paint. I was in a Portland restaurant yesterday that I remember as being a bit upscale, over on Hawthorne. It felt battered; there were old table scars on the walls and the bathroom drain screen was loose and rattling around the floor. The place could have used a coat of paint. All of Hawthorne, actually, could use a coat of paint. Like my basement, it has been hard used for 30 years and needs a bit of TLC.

Half an hour later, the first coat was down. I’ll need to come back for the second round and I will wait a few days before I move the furniture and tools back into place, but it looks good. So good that the walls and railing are now appearing a bit battered. But that is a job for this summer.

The Voyage Begun

 

               It is the end of Earth Week and the celebration has felt…underwhelming.  City and school events have been lackluster in engagement. One of my students observed “Well, people have lives to live and places to be” which is true, but makes me worry. How do we convey the urgency of this issue—and others—in a way that empowers people to take action, to take the power that we all hold, collectively, and turn it action at all levels of society? Because we are reading The Things They Carry, by Tim O’Brien, my mind turns to the idea of story.  Stories can save us, he says. Individually and, perhaps, collectively. So this is my Climate Change story for this year.

                The Voyage Begun, by Nancy Bond. Printed in 1981. I must have read it the winter it came out. I remember being chilly and I was often chilly in those years, living on my own, saving money by keeping the heat low. These were the years when the University of New Hampshire sent us home for an extra week of Winter Break because they would save so much money on heating fuel. That break, I spent several days spreading insulation in my mother’s attic. When we were done, the snow stayed on the roof rather than melting away.  One apartment I lived in had a base rate of heating paid by the landlord but we had to chip in if the costs went above a certain amount. I wore my great-grandmother’s shawl as I sat up in the kitchen, typing a paper for class, all winter. My roommate and I had an impressive collection of shared sweaters. Still, it was chilly.

                The novel is set on Cape Cod in the “near future”.  Having spent two winters on the Cape myself, I could relate to the landscape.  The energy crisis of the 1970’s has become permanent. Parts of the Cape are washing away—even though no one was talking about rising seas yet.  All of the summer homes have been abandoned and there are small gangs breaking in and robbing them. The local conservationist is considered a little crazy.   Only the permanent residents remain and they are struggling without the summer incomes. The setting is bleak.  A young man moves to Woods Hole where his father is climbing the administrative ladder; his mother is in deep denial about the level of the crisis and is not happy living so far away from the civilization that she remembers. The book comes together around the idea of community and working together in prickly partnerships that value some old skills, like wood boat building. The plot faded in my mind but the description of the world post energy crisis did not; the Boston Museum of Fine Arts was closed because they could not heat the space. I love the MFA.

                In 1981, we were not facing the climate crisis that we are today. Energy—yes. Jimmy Carter had put solar panels on the roof of the White House and was wearing a sweater, talking about turning down the thermostat. We knew, then, that there were limits on oil. And that, if we changed behavior, we would survive and even thrive.  If we did not, we were looking at a depleted world where more things were closed in winter than the UNH dorms for an extra week.  And this is where my mind returns when I think—when did I first become aware of the problem? This novel, set in a place that I knew and loved, washing into the sea because of our behavior. That is where the voyage began. And yours?

               

 

               

 

Staggered Germination

 

In January, I was reading the Fedco seed catalog—the best for seeds, prices, and entertainment. One of their informative paragraphs talked about the emergence of staggered germination. According to the catalog, plants that have been stressed during the summer months will produce seed that germinates over a longer period of time. Because of climate change, they are seeing this stress response  more often. It can be challenging, they observed, for commercial growers who depend upon consistent germination within a narrow timeframe in order to get their crops in the ground on time—which is also becoming more difficult with climate change. Interesting, I thought.

This April, I have seen this happening in my own greenhouse. I planted all of the tomato seed one afternoon and put both flats on the heating pads. For every variety of tomato, from several distributers, there has been staggered germination. A  little bit is normal; there are often two seedlings of slightly different sizes on one six pack cell. But this year, they were all different sizes. Some were almost trees while their neighbor was just breaking through with all heights in between. And a couple of varieties—the Evil Olive being one—took two weeks longer to germinate than any others. It makes it challenging to bump up the plants. Some pairs are deeply tangled in their roots but big enough for both to survive. Some are not. I popped three Long Keepers out of their six pack and left four behind to develop their roots a little more before the trauma of being repotted. I thought I would be able to consolidate the little ones into one or two six packs, but I couldn’t. They are just taking up precious space.

Even given the chaotic and packed nature of a greenhouse in April, I can’t complain. It will make the tomato give away a little trickier and maybe a week later—does anyone want to come back for the Evil Olive after they have their Sungolds? But my livelihood does not depend upon evenly timed germination.  By August, it won’t matter. I’ll be hauling in tomatoes every day for crockpot sauce. But it gave me something to consider while I worked this morning—both the thousands of way climate change is going to impact us that we do not even begin to understand and also the bit of hope lying within those seeds, as they adapt to a changing world.