This is What Democracy Looks Like

                Last Saturday, I, along with 100,000 other folks, put on rain gear and headed for downtown Portland for the 4^th largest march in the country. Five of us started in Corvallis, parked in Milwaukee,  picked up another, and took the light rail into town.  It was packed, but peaceful. While we stood, pushed in like sardines, waiting for the march to start, an elderly woman, clearly stunned by the crowds, needed to leave. She was moved, hand to hand, arm to arm, through the crowd; people reached out for her as she swayed and guided her on, towards, I hope, the waiting EMTs. We moved, chanting “This is what democracy looks like,” through Portland, waving signs and smiling at the police who monitored the route. They smiled back.  After the march, we went out for dinner and rode home through the dark night, singing along to Carol King’s “You’ve got a Friend.”  

                Mass marches of like-minded folk are a part of democracy, it is true. But they are only the beginning. For the rest of the week, I wondered what democracy actually looks like on a daily basis.  Because, really, democracy is hard work. It involves a lot of meetings, documents, and moving of chairs.

                On Sunday, we gathered to plan a large seed order; my way to save on shipping and split packages of seeds. Everyone brought lists and catalogs, and we tossed varieties around for an hour or so. Then, spouses joined in and we broke out the potluck dinner.  Served on terra cotta colored plates, the deep green kale salad and golden dal looked lovely.  Democracy is growing community, though plants and food.

                On Monday, I gathered with fellow League of Women Voters to meet with the city’s community planning director. We are considering our April event and wanted to see how it would mesh with work the city is considering.  We are in a land use planning crisis, being reactive rather than proactive, and are working to change that. For an hour and a half, we talked land use code and development. Democracy is about meetings, searching for common ground.

                On Tuesday, I was home to make dinner. I chopped up a squash from the back yard and some onions from a local farm and roasted them in the oven. With a huge green salad and a bit of rice, we were fed. We’ve been eating only local, seasonal food for so long now that we really don’t miss the old ways. By doing so, we support our local farmers, who are also active in the politics of our city and county.  Democracy starts at home.

                Wednesday was another home night. I spent some time listening to “Democracy Now” on the radio, a program I love because it discuses a few topics at length, for 20 minutes to the full hour, rather than in three minute segments. It allows me to consider several viewpoints—all to the left of center, to be fair—and gain a more nuanced perspective on the news. We also read The Economist and The New Yorker every week, as well as the local paper. Democracy is about staying informed, but also about focusing on just a few subjects. We cannot know everything.  But we can learn who to ask.

  

              On Thursday, I had a Budget Commission meeting. We were given an overview of the forecast for the next few years—not too bad for three, then PERS will kick in and it is bleak. We need new revenue or to cut services in the coming years. This is hard. Do we set aside money for the “rainy day” that we know is coming or fund a summer festival?  Is there any way we can tax the non-profits that dominate our economic landscape? We barely scratched the surface here and I was merely a new observer at the table while the commissioners who had asked these questions for years batted around the first volley. Democracy is about volunteering to serve your community, year after year.

                On Friday, I came full circle and walked downtown at five for the peace vigil held by Veterans for Peace. They have been standing in front of the courthouse every day since 9-11.  It is the longest vigil in the country. I spent time there before the Iraq war, when the number of protesters lined the block every day, but I have not been down in years. Now it is a small group, but welcoming. Standing for an hour while the sun goes down and people drive by on their way home to dinner is a peaceful act, meditative. Sometimes people chat, sometimes they are quiet. Some have signs. Friday night, we were visited by a man from India who had moved here as a young man because he loved America’s values. He taught engineering at OSU for years and he was very concerned for the state of our country. He moved down the line, telling everyone his story, one by one. When he moved on, three guys in “Canner” garb—heavy grubby coats, big bags, dirty boots—stopped by. “Ask me how cold it was a few nights ago,” one demanded, a grin on his face.  “How cold was it?” “So cold that when I took these out, they were still chattering,” he proclaimed, waving his dentures around. We all laughed. “Peace wins!” he shouted as he picked up his bike to move on.

                Peace wins. Democracy wins. But not by huge marches, although they have their place. But by daily acts of community, repeated over and over, by those who show up. 

Winter Weather

                It’s cold.

                Every few years, weather patterns shift and cold air rushes into the valley, reminding us that we are pretty darn far north. The sky clears so that we can see just how low the sun is in the sky; at this time of year, it barely clears my neighbor’s two story house.  Without the blanket of cloud cover, all of our heat rushes away.

                The light is beautiful. One morning, I walked to work in early rose-gold sun that danced off of the ponderosa pines which line the baseball field and lit up the dusting of snow on the hills around town. Evergreens and snow at dawn—it doesn’t get much better. The next morning, snow swirled around our houses, covering everything, including the Christmas lights, with a dusting of white frost. When the sun came out in the afternoon, it was blinding.

                We’ve had to do some serious snugging down against the cold. I covered all of the garden beds with plastic sheeting and wrapped a spare piece around the wheelbarrow of strawberry plants. In the greenhouse, we pulled all of the plants close together on the ground and covered them with remay cloth. I wrapped the beehive in two layers of frost protection blanketing, leaving just a small opening for them to come in and out.  We also emptied the larder, which vents to the outside, into the basement so that the onions and squashes would not freeze.  Finally, we plugged the fireplace again, although we will take it out for Twelfth Night on Friday.

                When it is this cold (below 20 degrees), the chickens are not happy outside overnight. After dark, we pull on boots and wool hats and march out to the coop. Mark reaches in and captures one chicken, I pick up the other, and we settle their wings close to their bodies under our arms. Mark heads for the house first. I stand outside for another moment, holding the warm and sleepy chicken close, and glance up to the sky. High about, Orion carves his way across the sky and a quarter moon lights the yard. Once inside, we settle them on a log perch, over newspaper, and shut off the lights. They will spend the night down there, protected from the deep cold, until morning, when I release them into the back yard to cluck and shake their wings free once more. It is good to know that we are all settled into our little homestead on these bitter nights.

Year Ends Goals

Every year, we set goals on Solstice evening—and then evaluate what we learned and accomplished this year.  Some years are more impressive than others. This was a good year; I had achievable, practical goals, and I wrote them in the front of my notebook so that I remembered what they were through the year.  What a concept!

Goal One: Common Good Knitting. AKA working my way through the backlog of yarn in the closet. I figured that if I knit twelve projects from the big green bag, it would shrink significantly. It did. I made two sweater vests, which took up the bulk of the yarn, as well as hats, mittens, socks, and several potholders.  I also sorted out about ten skeins that I was never going to use and sent them onto other homes. The bag is not empty, but it is much smaller.

Goal Two: Track the solar panels and the garden weekly. I also accomplished this one. Mark created a little spreadsheet to track production and usage every week and we posted it as well. I had no idea, really, what an impact a cloudy day can have on your year’s production! However, we should just break even in March, when the solar cycle begins again. We are now neutral in electrical use.  The garden records are a little more spotty because I lost track of the week of the year several times.  It was still better than last year.

Goal Three:  No big projects.  We were very successful here. No projects beyond rebuilding three garden beds in March happened this year. This means we still do not have solid benches for the picnic table.

Goal Four: Greens this winter. I am getting there. There’s a pizza’s worth of arugula and a few kale leaves out there right now, along with some solid old collards which we will eat with Black Eyed Peas on New Year’s Day. There are also a couple of small cabbages which show some serious frost damage.  There’s still a lot of work to do on this goal, like getting the January King cabbages planted earlier so that they have some heft going into the fall. Next year.

Next year’s goals?

1.       Work life balance—I’ve got a busy year ahead.

2.       Cabbage at Candlemas, 2018.

3.       Deal with: couch, woodstove, benches, windows, and greenhouse.

4.       Continue working with the season extenders, like my beautiful hoops.

And, yes, they are written in the front of my notebook.

Yule preperations

                The world called a snow day for us today, although, really, in the Willamette Valley it’s more like an ice and sleet day. Not much accumulation, but really bad roads. Not what you want a bunch of sixteen year olds driving on at seven thirty in the morning. When school is cancelled, Mark stays home, too. He was not raised in the lands of ice and snow and cannot drive in it.  We are taking the day to prepare for Yule, that pause in our lives that happens between the beginning of Winter Break and Twelfth Night.

                First, we cleaned the house and washed mountains of laundry, some of which went through the driers down the road at the Laundromat. Clean sheets. We even got the blankets aired before the sleet started.  I vacuumed dust bunnies from the cozy room while Mark purged the fridge. We set up the platform for the tree, brought down the boxes, and arranged the mantelpiece. I fixed the outdoor lights.  Mark chopped up some wood. We even bought the tree in full daylight, carried it home, and put it in the basement to melt and dry. Mark packed and shipped the presents to have to travel to Tennessee. Cards are in the mail. We need to make a cake, some cookies, and some stolen, but those are later, more pleasing, projects. The work is done.

                Tomorrow, when school is done, Yule begins. We will take long walks in the woods every day. Being outside, even in our dim northern light, makes a huge difference in our health and mood. We will have fires at night, English muffins for tea, and hearty soups for dinner. We will sleep until the sun comes up around eight, buried in piles of blankets, with Lucy stretched out beside me, head on my pillow. We will read, write, stare into space. Mark will work probability problems, his latest obsession. The world will pause. Nothing is growing—there is no light. Deep down in the dark, though, roots dig deep. In space, the planet shifts and turns towards the sun. When Yule is over, the light will be coming back.

Pumpkin Scones

2c of flour

1 c oats

1 T of sugar

1 T BP

1 t cinnamon

1 t nutmeg

1 t ginger

6 T butter

3/4 c mashed pumpkin

2  T milk

1 egg

Mix dry. Crumble butter in. Add wet. Knead lightly. Roll into a circle and cut into wedges. Bake in 400 degree oven until done. 

Winter Days

Cold rain falls, almost sleet, almost snow. Bare branches trace the sky.  The clouds have settled over the hills; the valley is enclosed in winter.  Across the street, in early morning, one house glows from one string of Christmas bulbs along the roofline. A bicyclist hunches against the damp and pedals quickly down the street.  Inside, beans reach for the light against the glass panes, spider plants tumble off of the light shelf, strings of white fairy lights brighten the seats near the chilly windows.  The Christmas cactus blooms. Art covers the walls. Students make tea, clutch the warm mugs in their hands.  We gather together to read, to write, to think, to share ideas.

It’s been a busy week. I’ve been to three meetings related to the coming council season, done some CEA work, sent a few emails about the political scene. At the same time, every time I fall behind on sleep, the cold that settled in my sinuses a month ago sends my head spinning;  I spent half of the freezing rain day on the couch, knitting my final stash- reducing project for the year, trying to steady my inner ears.  This time of year is all about looking both ways, trying to embrace the change of season, the moving into the dark times, while not just hiding out for two months.

On Saturday, the sun came out for the morning. I rose at six thirty to roll out the Lucia Day buns while Mark made quarts of cocoa. We gathered oranges, a sheet of still warm rolls, and our heavy sweater to head out to Bald Hill. Light sparkled on the twigs and the grass as we walked towards the open framed barn. For once, the candle remained lit, a tiny light against the dawn. We hug mugs of cocoa, munch Lucia Day buns, watch the dog chase a stick, talk quietly. After an hour, we wander towards the woods, climb the hills, bask in the sun at the top. We can see the entire valley below. So lovely. A few people peel oranges, bright in the morning sun. The sun will come back again.

Twenty One Days of Action

                On Halloween, I pulled a Tarot card to see what the next six weeks would bring: The World, reversed. It is usually a joyous card and, even reversed, the worst translation of it is “stagnation.”  A few days later, the election hit, Mark’s cold lodged in my sinuses, and I stagnated.  The weather did not help; it has been a remarkably dark and wet autumn. All I wanted to do was go to work (it is easier, as a teacher, to power through work rather than dealing with the repercussions), come home, nap, and sit by a fire with a cat. Stagnate.

                About a week ago, I woke up and looked around. It was still raining, but I went for a walk. I can’t stagnate forever, I told myself. I have council trainings to attend, people to talk with, cookies to bake, backyards to clean up….and an election to react to. The next day, Jill Stein announced a recount effort.  I know it will not change the outcome, but action makes us all feel better. To paraphrase T.H. White in The Once and Future King the best thing to do when you are feeling sad is to learn something—or do something. There are about 21 days to the Solstice, when the world tips towards the light once more, I thought. I will take some small political action every day for 21 days.

                What counts? Clearly, any day I have council training or meeting I have met the requirement. Small donations count. Thank you letters count (we love our national Representative, Peter Defazio), emails of concern about political appointments count. Even a serious conversation with someone I do not usually talk politics with could count. What does not count? Signing an on-line petition. Ranting on social media. Talking with Mark.  Anything I would do any day.

                Action so far:

·         Donated to the recount

·         Emailed the president about Standing Rock—and the governor of North Dakota

·         Council training on legal issues

·         Thank you note to Defazio

·         CEA work at school

·         Pre- council meeting

·         Email Oregon senators about the proposed Secretary of Education

I will say, it is still rainy and cold outside. The fire and a cat still look tempting. I am still massaging my forehead to move the stagnated fluids along. But I am moving. Taking small actions every day has made me feel better about the future. And then, there is Corvallis—where women will be the majority on city council for the first time.

Candles in Dark Times

                When I was little, the best part of the Christmas decorations, even better than the tree, were the window candles. My mother placed one in every window (with the cords adjusted to fit to every outlet) and one of my jobs was to wander the house as the darkness came down, turning them on. I loved looking out through the frosty glass at the cold dark yard right before I tightened the yellow-orange bulb and cast a warm glow on the window and throughout the room. I paused after each, thinking about light and dark, before moving on. At night, the golden light was comforting; I believed my mother when she told me that Santa Claus was checking on the neatness of my bedroom and spent hours huddled under the blankets so he could not see me.  The candles helped.

                When I left home, I bought my own window candles. I changed out the bulbs to a more sophisticated white, but still wandered through my small apartments, turning the candles on in December. The lights were especially beautiful in the houses that lacked good heat because of the frost on the window panes.  I loved driving through small New England towns where all of the houses which lined the commons were window lit with candles. Square, proud Federal houses with white lights against the snow is a haunting image. Home, they said. We have been home for hundreds of years. You are safe here.  Years later, I lived with a Jewish roommate. We celebrated Hanukkah and lit his menorah every evening, then placed it in the front window, where it’s light shone into the darkness. Candle light in the window grew in significance in my mind. 

The Pacific Northwest does not use the window candles and our tiny house only has two front windows, one of which will hold the tree when Yule begins.  But, as nights grow darker, I am drawn to lighting a candle in the evening, before I begin dinner. Like washing my hands, it creates a line between times of day. When the candle is lit, it is time to draw inward, chop an onion, turn off the news, and make dinner, creating, every night, home. Sometimes I leave the candle on the table, but I often move it to the bench by the front window, where the light reaches out to our dark and busy street.

                I have read that the window candles signified a Catholic house in Ireland, a signal to the priests forced underground that a family was seeking his blessing, and that the Irish brought the idea to the United States. That would explain the geographic distribution of the decoration.  I have also read that they were a beacon for travelers on Christmas Eve, that there was a meal and warm fire within. And I like that idea. As we move into dark times, small gestures, like a window candle, become more significant. Ours says that our house is a safe place—that if you are in trouble, you can knock on the door.  I like to imagine streets, like the old Commons on New England, where there are candles in every window.