MUD

Last night’s rainstorms lead to mud this morning. Two types of mud. The water made the soft soil muddy and since the lightening kept Zane and me restless, I drank coffee first thing. Sipping on muddy water, watching my son play in a mud puddle, I pondered the lesson I was teaching him, or not teaching him. So many parents say, “Stay out of the mud, yuck!” Then we wonder why people grow up to be disrespectful of the earth. If you start out by telling a small child that something is gross and they shouldn’t touch it, you can’t expect them to later learn to love and respect it. So I say, “Splash in the mud, yeah!”

April Storms

       Subconsciously I listen to the thunder and lightening building in my dreams. Then the splashing of the first raindrop wakes the mother in me. It sounds like hail. Sitting up I remember all the loose ends left in the yard: the stroller, rolled down windows, and forgotten toys. I leap out of bed. Flashes of light lead me downstairs, through the new moon’s night. Outside the rain feels cool against my naked skin. The earth is still dry beneath my feet. I move quickly in the darkness, paying attention to my surroundings when the storm’s flashing lights let me see. As I stand up in the back of the truck, I feel the storm building. Like eyes on the back of my neck, I know a lightening bolt is watching me. I stand tall and face the sky, letting raindrops fall on my face. The flash. The boom. Dashing inside, I feel the change. The tension releases and rain falls harder. Again the lightening leads me upstairs and into bed. I lie there listening to the rain, returning as if from a dream, dampened.

Swallow Tails Along the Buffalo

           We drove down an access road that leads to the headwaters of the Buffalo near, just west of Owls' Knob. The Rue Anemone is dotting the forest floor, while redbuds and dogwoods blooms lace the canopy. Ferns are uncoiling, buckeye is flourishing, and the leaves of maples, elms, and sumac are budding. Violets, buttercups, and bellwort speckle the emerging greenery with purple and yellow.
           The clear water glimmers an aqua color only seen in spring, before the algae makes the river appear green. The mild sun and warm winds stir up the butterflies. Yellow Swallow Tails and Zebra Swallow Tails dance and frolic along the shore in swarms. Their flighty wings do not take a moment's rest for the wind keeps them struggling.

           Often in summer, butterflies will dance together or collect upon the stain of a spilled soda. But today they were busy, tracing the waterline, examining the rapids, and visiting every budding leaf and bloom. I sat among them with my camera, but they couldn't wait for technology. They would not be captured in a frame. Such beauty can not be contained.

        

a yellow swallow tail beside the buffalo river

                  

Education and Avatar

I grew up close to the soil, the insects, the animals, and the elements. As we grew together, I learned about them as if they were part of my family; therefore, for all my life I had an ingrained respect for all living things. However, in this age of technology and urbanization we, and especially our children, are being drawn further and further from the earth and its fundamental role in our survival. Most people don’t recognize the beauty in the world all around us, it is so common place, we don’t see its magic.

Tonight I watched the movie Avatar. It reminded me of “Emerald Forest.” (A movie about the rainforest destruction from the 80's.) The message has been told time and time again: don’t destroy the natives, don’t cut down the rain forest, everything is connected! The moral is an environmental one. But no one listens. Avatar takes a different approach, an approach I wasn’t expecting at first. It turns the rain forest into a magical world we can’t help but in awe of and its natives into mystical people who don’t just believe in the forest but rely on it in concrete ways. It transposes the rainforest struggle onto another, unseen, planet.  I find this both encouraging and discouraging. It is encouraging in the sense that some producers will never give up and will face all odds to get their message across. In another sense it is sad that people won’t (and maybe still don’t) get the massage that is right in front of them, so they need it to be glorified into this magical world to appreciate. In the end of Avatar the natives keep their land (though their home-tree has been destroyed). But that is just Hollywood. In real life the natives all die or become civilianized. In real life the rain forest continues to disappear. If there is a mineral which is worth a million dollars a kilogram anywhere in the universe, you bet the greedy will send out troops to bomb every living thing in a thousand light years to get at it. We know the true power of greed.

So what do we do? What should you do? What should I do?   

Personally, I have fought the system. Like “” said, “I fought the law and the law won.” Now I have a new mission. I am a teacher. Education is an investment in the future, educating children gives enlightenment to the next generation. The future is bleak. Yet, our only hope is in the future—in hands of children and the people who educate them. So I work at the Ozark Natural Science Center. On a weekly basis I take 5^th graders into the Ozark wilderness and teach them about nature. Once they understand the glorious world they live in, they might appreciate for what it is. Maybe even respect it. Only through appreciation and respect for the earth can we preserve and save the purity of our planet. I believe the best way to foster these values is through knowledge and familiarity. And as we all know: it is hard to teach an old dog new tricks but a child is like a sponge.

However, this is just what I am doing. Of course, it can not be your path, for we can not all walk the exactly same path. You must (and many of you already have) find your own path. You have to do something.

I just hope that you are conscious of the situation we face.

I hope you recognize the beauty of the earth.

I hope you realize we all are dependent upon it!

Blooming

Flowers bloom and wilt quickly; fleeting reminders of our mortality. Yet, unlike animals, I am able to capture such beauty in a frame. I am even able to share it with you, despite time and space. It is no wonder that some tribal people were terrified of cameras and thought that it stole the soul. Perhaps it does steal something from the world, by preserving the temporary and making the unique ordinary.  

There was a time when words were all we had. When only an artist could share a picture to tell those thousands of words. But now with thousands of pictures that image shares less words. And there is less to say. Old books spend pages describing what the reader has never seen. Now novels are brief, blunt, and fast pace. There is no need to describe what can be googled. I have no reason to elaborate upon the bowing head of the Trout Lilly. How her splotchy leaves flutter like fish in the wind. Because the picture says it for me, it is even blurry from the movement.  

Things are always changing, like the seasons, like the wilting daffodils. I can not deny my love for photography even if I am stealing a piece of something precious from nature. I am also sharing and creating a dynamic with you that could never exist without technology. So like nature, I am adapting to the changes of time: my pictures are multiplying and my words are becoming more concise.

A Restless Winter Past

The daffodils are in full bloom, signaling the arrival of spring. The frogs are singing at dawn and dusk. Birds are migrating by the flocks; every morning the song changes. The other night, the toads migrated by the dozens. I had to tiptoe through the darkness so I wouldn’t step one. And a found a salamander emerging from hibernation. So much is happening I can not find the time to write about it on this blog.  

Spring is the season of rebirth. And human almost completely miss out of the process. Unlike all the other animals and plants in seasonal places, we refuse to let the winter stop us. When the sun leaves the sky and the days are too short, we change time itself to better suit our needs; or is it just the needs of employers who have eight-hour-workday employees. If the temperature drops and all logic tells us to stay in bed or close to the fire, we still press on, with heaters blasting.

While the bears slow their heart rate and metabolism so that they seem nearly dead, we set our alarm clocks and wake before dawn. Under our scurrying feet, frogs use a chemical in their blood to keep their hibernating body from freezing solid. We have learned to overcome evolution and adaptation with technology. Instead of striving for generations to grow thicker skin, we learn in a single lifetime to make coats. (And that is better until for some reason we can not find the resources to make any more coats.)

So when the warm winds of spring arrive, the rest of the world comes alive. The frogs defrost and rise to the surface of ponds to sing mating songs. Bears emerge from dens in search of food once again. And we reset time, continuing as usual. For the past week, the full moon has pulled me down into a bed during the day and kept me up late. It’s unusually heavy gravitational pull is throwing my internal clock off even after humanities artificially messed with my external clocks.

In short, spring is here and I do not feel rested. But with such radiant beauty outside, I can not find the time to explain myself anymore. Besides, what are you doing reading blogs on the internet, go watch the world outside unfold and let it recharge you, for the long days of summer are on their way.  

Breaking Ground

           Zane and I worked in the garden yesterday. The soil was softened by February's freezes and not too wet. The moist dirt is still dark with manure and compost added months ago. Last year I learned that manure will "burn" new plants if it is added too soon before planting. So this spring I have let the soil rest and will plant in it without adding anything to the already enriched soil.

          Once the garden bed had been turned by my large shovel and then Zane's smaller shovel, I planted a few early spring vegetables: Kale, Collards, Spinach, and (my favorite) Snap Peas. These plants can endure the frozen nights of March. In fact, my Kale almost made it through the winter but was getting stringy.

           After digging in the dirt, Zane found a mud puddle. I let him stomp in it, since earth is earth to him. He pointed to the ground and asked, "Dat?" I told him, "Mud!" He smiled joyfully and proclaimed, "Mud!" These are important moments. If anything can connect his heart to the earth, it is pure earth.

The First Iris of Spring

The old oak tree

I grew up swinging from the limb on an old oak tree in our yard. I loved that tree. 

I would leap off the porch; swing out over the driveway, past the staghorn sumac, above the flowering dogwood, until my toes touched the low-hanging hickory branches beyond. I sat, for a moment. Suspended at the pinnacle of the pendulum. Reaching for the sky. The inevitable force of gravity pulled me away from the hickory canopies, the flowering dogwoods, past the staghorn sumac, back over the driveway, and as I leaned backwards as far as I could, my long blond pony tail would lick the roof of the log cabin my father built.

But like all things, the tree died. She stood for years as nothing more than a skeleton, beautiful even after death. It was hard to cut her down, like pulling the plug on my own grandmother.

Finally we felled her. But it wasn't easy. All of the branches that reached for the house had died recently and the far branches were hollow. She wanted to fall on the house.

In those final moments, the tree swung. She swung back, paused, and swung out.

She licked the roof of the log cabin my father built with her long bare branches. She balanced for a moment at the pinnacle of the pendulum. Reaching for the sky one last time. The inevitable force of gravity pulled her away from the cabin. Shadowing the driveway, crushing the staghorn sumac, splintering the flowering dogwood, and breaking those low-hanging hickory branches, she fell. 

For the past two years her massive body has been sprawled across the yard. Her wood is dense and massive. I told myself we would use her wood to build my son a bedroom. I told myself this over and over again even after I stopped believing it would ever happen. But watching her rot pained me. I hated to admit that I might have to watch her decompose in my yard for years to come.

Yesterday, the process of turning a log into a board finally began. Her body will be honored and her beautiful red wood will be used as walls in my son’s room. 

It was a bigger job than any of us imagined. First John chained the tree to his truck and drug it across the yard. Then he and my father rolled it. Trying to roll something this big took all their might. Levers and wedges were used to control the beast. They rolled it up to the ramp of the saw mill. 

Getting it on the saw mill took a while. They tried various tools. They pushed it with the truck and pulled it with a wench. In the end a system of sticks wedged into the ground to keep it from rolling back and a wench with a chain pulling it up got the log onto the mill.  

At last it was time to make the first cut. None of us knew what to expect. The battery had to be jump started and the engine warmed up. The blade drove itself through the wood. Slowly it crawled through the log, cutting a layer.

They were pleasantly surprised at the smoothness of the cut. The red grain was left undamaged and the cut came out perfectly even. 

They quickly set up the machine to make another cut.

It drove itself, but a little pushing helped the process.

          The first board was lovely, wide, symmetrical, and smooth. So useful. You can’t buy something like this, it is priceless. This is a step towards sustainability. We can cut a tree off our land and turn it into wood that can be used for building. It is a small step, but an important one

For me, it is just special to know that the oak tree I loved so dearly growing up will be part of my son's life.

 A board for my son's room from the tree a grew up swinging on. 

Spring Peepers

            The spring peepers began their annual chorus. All night and throughout every foggy or overcast day, they chirp, trill, and croak. Our small Koa ponds (which harbor no fish) are brimming amphibians. Mating frogs float on the surface and climb up the black rubber lining the shores. Lonely males sing to humming females. They float suspended on the water's reflection with arms and legs extended, like a sky diver feeling the sky.

First Flowers of Spring

Yellow Crocus

  Winter's snows were heavy. 

The final storms of February

 left the yard barren. 

But snow melted into spring. 

The first flowers bloomed yesterday, 

even as dirty ice stuck to the shadows.

Golden petals, among dead leaves, vibrant

 like the sun against a grey sky. 

I knelt, smelling the earth. 

I sat my baby's floppy figure 

in this very spot last year. 

Here he saw his first flower.

Contrast

Just days ago almost two feet of snow blanketed the Ozarks and the night's temperatures were in the negative digits. Winter encompassed us. We looked out across the white wonderland with dread. It seemed that winter might trudge on forever. The cold was creeping into our bones and the flu was going around. I was shivering and sweating in bed, unable to move. My muscles cramped, my head throbbed, my lungs ached, and my stomach twisted. Like the snow, my sickness lingered. I cursed the virus and the cold wind it rode in on.

Today the sun is shinning bright; the last remnants of snow have retreated to the untouched shadows on northern slopes. From the wet soil I can see crocus leaves poking up to make their early spring debut. Likewise, my health has returned. My nose is clear and my head is steady. Slowly my appetite is returning. 

Once I live in California, were every day was perfect. There were no seasons, no cold nor hot. And I didn't appreciate it. There was nothing to compare the days to, no contrast. So the perfect days were wasted.  

Therefore, today is extra special to me. It shines brightest in contrast to the recent bad weather and my poor health. Without such contrast, I'd have less appreciation for the simple things. So in retrospect, I thank those terrible winter storms and that awful virus.