So Many Decembers

so many Decembers

I long for snow

for some sign

that the season is 

more than sticks of brown 

against grey skies

today, a gift

bright blue overhead

cumulous clouds floating by

sparkles everywhere

as snow continues to fall

 

Bear Tracks & Gratitude

When I visit my sister, down in New Jersey, we make sure to take a nice long walk together. It was late afternoon when we found our way to the trail on this snowy and cold December day. "Let's go to the second bridge," she suggested, and I agreed. 

We walked along, talking about our lives. Fresh from our uncle's funeral, we reminisced about our childhood, when our families gathered to celebrate the holidays. The length of time between then and now took our breath away. We walked in silence for a while.

Reaching the second bridge, I saw tracks in the snow. Bear tracks. Sue went on ahead of me, while I stood over the tracks, taking pictures and marveling that only a short time ago, a bear had walked this very path! 

The encounter got me to wondering about all the creatures who walk along the same paths as we, of whom we never see any sign. I thought about our responsibility for those hidden neighbors, to ensure the waters run clear and the winds blow fresh. To ensure that there is freedom and space for the wild ones who prefer to keep their distance.

I also contemplated the uplift my heart feels whenever I see a sign that some rare (or common) creature has passed this way. The gift of knowing that we share this place, this earth, with those who are so different from us, and yet who are also, in some unique ways, so similar.

Gratitude filled me up, and buoyed my spirit as Sue and I, and her faithful dog, Nik turned back toward home.

Rain after Drought

It has been a long, dry autumn here

leaves crunching underfoot

even more pronounced than usual

missing the usual scent

of rich earthy-leafy goodness,

"my" stream dry as a bone

even after a few earlier storms

But I am hopeful today

We woke to rain -

torrents - they would say

two inches an hour

a record of some sort

winds, too

It feels like relief to me

despite almost losing power

and needing to put off my morning walk

so I don't get soaked to the bone

I long to go outside

smell the earth waking up

feel the air ozone-fresh

see the stream flowing

experience something moving 

in me, as well

breaking the drought

 

 

Make Way for Ducklings

 

I counted the ducklings again this morning. Despite the possibility of heart-plummeting disappointment, I can't help myself. Every time the Muscovy mother duck wanders into view I stop whatever I am doing and count the ducklings as they scurry to catch up to their mama. Although their mama is not what I could call conventionally attractive, the ducklings sure are, with their brown and yellow markings and fluff ball looks. 

When they hatched a few weeks ago there were thirteen adorable little ones. This morning there are ten. Their numbers have been holding strong at ten for several days now, which I count as a good omen. Last year, their numbers went from a solid dozen down to two remaining ducklings by the time they were ready to go off on their own. They do live in the wilds of this suburban environment where birds of prey and unwitting humans also roam. This morning I saw them in the lawn near the lagoon, but other days I have seen them basking in a puddle in the middle of our parking lot - a far less safe place for them to wash up.

My friend and I saw them searching for tasty morsels amidst the foliage surrounding the pool a few weeks ago, and while we thought they were pretty darn cute, I have overheard other folks comment on their presence in far less complimentary ways. One evening a duckling fell into the pool and had to be rescued by a by-passer with the pool's skimming net. Suffice it to say that it makes me nervous when the ducklings so blatantly avail themselves of the condo features meant for human enjoyment.

A few years ago a wildlife specialist was hired to capture the whole bunch, mama and ducklings, in order to relocate them further from human habitation, but that ploy obviously did not have a lasting effect. And this year, no one seems to be making noises to do the same, or perhaps I am just not privy to those conversations.

These ducklings are such a sign of the season, a sign of Spring and a sign of hope. Easter cards and decorations celebrate their hopeful cuteness. It breaks my heart a little, when my headcount shows that another duckling is missing, but I can't seem to stop myself. I feel like I am one of their protectors, somehow. When I count them, I send blessings to them, along with prayers that they make their way safely through another round of the sun. It is the least I can do, in gratitude for their presence, for their perseverance in the face of the enormous odds stacked against them in this environment that is becoming increasingly inhospitable to all forms of life. Their perseverance, their presence, is just the sign of hope I was looking for today.

Beach Cleaning as a Heart Practice

MacArthur State Park is one of our favorite beaches to spend time at while we are in Florida. There is an estuary to explore in kayaks, where we see all kinds of birds flying overhead or hidden in the mangroves around the shoreline. There is a boardwalk across the estuary, and finally, an expansive sandy beach where we can sit or walk for hours undisturbed. 

Storms can alter the shape and scale of beaches overnight, and one day we were shocked to see MacArthur Beach littered with all kinds of debris thanks to an overnight storm. The wind was still blowing when my daughters and I walked down to take a closer look. We saw the remains of someone's freshly built dock - the wooden planks and stairs, although scattered many feet apart, were still raw and freshly treated. A small boat, mostly made of foam and plastic, lay half buried in the sand. We sat for a while on a piece of lumber, and watched the crashing waves as the wind continued to blow strong and steady.

It was too windy to sit for long that day, but the next Gary and I returned and picked up a bucket and trash grabber that were stacked near the entrance to the beach. Walking up the beach that day we each collected a bucket full of plastic bottle caps, bags and fragments well on their way to becoming microplastics that cause so much harm in the worlds oceans. There were ropes and sharp bits of glass and wood, as well as a syringe that definitely gave me pause, walking barefoot as I usually do when I am there.

Since that day, when we go to the beach I often grab a bucket and add litter pick up to my relaxing beach walks. This practice helps me to feel that I am contributing in a positive way to keeping the environment I care about in better shape. It also slows me down. 

I am a person who has spent most of her life hurrying from one place or activity to another, taking very little time to reflect or pause between. How ironic that something that feeds into my need to keep myself occupied and feeling like I am accomplishing something worthwhile is also teaching me about the value of its opposite! It is important to learn how to simply BE, how to slow down to the speed of life. I know this intellectually, but find it difficult to actually practice it. Now, thanks to my desire to contribute by picking up litter, I am reaping the benefit of actually taking time to notice my surroundings, down to the smallest fragment of plastic or shell or seaweed or stone.

The discernment process of determining the difference between trash and treasure is serving me well as I allow myself the time to discern what is next in my life. I am not very patient, least of all with myself, but this is helping, and it enables me to do some good while I wait.

 

Floods

Vermont was in the national news recently due to the abundance of rain that has drenched our state. Roads, bridges, farms and homes have been damaged by the floods. In some cases they have been washed away. 

When the storms were just beginning, I had an appointment in a town that is about an hour north of my home. Listening to the weather reports and reports of the damage suffered by towns not too far from us, I was worried about making the drive. But I decided to go ahead, taking care to pay attention to any advice my smart phone or the Vermont Public reports might offer.

Gary and I drove north, through some pretty intense rain. The tire track lines in the roads were heavy with water, but not really overflowing. In fact, when we arrived at our destination, the rain was light and didn't even require an umbrella. Even so, we decided to keep our errands to the necessary, and headed home as soon as those were complete. The drive home was a little less rainy, but reports of road closures became the litany that accompanied us for the entire ride home.

We arrived home safely, somewhat shaken by the experience and especially by the reports that we heard of so much destruction. Several days of rain resulting in worse flooding than back when Irene hit Vermont, left us and our garden soggy, but fine.

Almost a week later, Gary and I were back in Middlebury, in the evening. We were drawn to the bridge right in the middle of town that goes over the Otter Creek. The water was high. It was forceful as it pushed against an island of trees that are usually not right in the middle of the flow. I took the picture above, sort of as a reality check, reminding me of the strength of those waters. Also reminding me of the fact that despite humankind's technological advancements, we are still subject to the very primal forces of nature.

My heart goes out to those whose lives and livelihoods have been upended by the recent floods. Any one of us could be in their shoes in the blink of an eye. Life is such a tenuous gift. We do well to live each day fully, and to support one another with kindness and healing acts of generosity.

 

Where Stewardship & Ownership Meet

 I am getting ready to preach for the first time since I retired last year. The scriptures focus on Creation, which usually makes me smile. But just yesterday the Supreme Court pulled EPA protections away from wetlands, leaving room for the erosion of over 50 years worth of careful stewardship of these precarious and precious places. The wetlands are the spaces that absorb excess waters when extreme rains come, they protect the integrity and clarity of lakes, rivers, and oceans by filtering sediment and toxins.

The case that brought this to the Court's attention has to do with the concept of “ownership” of land. Some folks bought land, for a pretty penny, and they want to do what they choose with it. On the surface that sounds perfectly understandable, but if we rush to defend "ownership" we often do so by casting the idea of "stewardship" into the shadows.

Gary and I live on land that is in part shared space. We are part of a community of 6 homeowners who each "own" 10 acres and share in the care and stewardship of about 80 acres of orchard, meadow and woodland. When the community was conceived, nearly 50 years ago, the original participants had a loosely defined desire to protect the land and hold it in reserve for future generations. About 20 years ago we placed a good bit of the land into the Vermont Land Use program, agreeing not to develop the land and to care for it in special ways in exchange for a reduction in taxes.

We have interpreted this responsibility in different ways over the years, and for the most part, have been able to agree on what that looks like - mowing the meadow after the Bobolinks and Savannah Sparrows have fledged, cutting trees in the wood lot so as to increase habitat and mast for creatures and also to encourage the growth of healthy trees. Our orchard has presented a challenge, however. It turns out there are a wide variety of approaches to managing an old orchard, and divergent views of what we are working toward with said management.

All of this contributes to my asking, "so, what is good stewardship? What does it look like to take care of an orchard, a meadow, a woodland or a wetland? How much should we be interfering with the natural course of events, and for whom are we managing the land, anyway?" My ready answer is that we are taking care of the land for future generations, but does this mean our children and grandchildren or does it mean the people who will be here seven generations and more from now? 

I would hope that this is the same thing, but recent discussions have proven me wrong, or at least out of synch with the perspectives of some of my friends and neighbors. As I reread the creation story in Genesis, I became aware that my perspective has been shaped by this scripture and how the environmental movement interprets stewardship. It has been shaped by the Indigenous perspective that says the land does not belong to us, but rather we belong to the land. In this vein, I have to put aside my personal needs and desires and bow to the needs of the earth and all of the living beings who depend on her, not just us humans.

It is difficult for us to give up the personal perspective. It is difficult for us to let go of the notion of ownership and all of the rights and privileges this entails. It is difficult to move from a place of bending the land to our wishes and instead, putting ourselves in service to the land, but this is what is needed. It is necessary to do this in order to ensure that there is a sustainable future for any of us.

Diverting Conversation

Today my husband, Gary, and I drove to the end of Spruce Knob Road so we could take a walk on different section of it than we usually do. We parked in a small pull-off across from a field that had recently been hayed. Round bales lay in a haphazard fashion, and an old tractor was parked on the edge of the field near the road. Over the expanse, clouds, puffy and white piled up on top of one another and seemed to be constructed with an eye to setting off the deep blue of the sky. It was a beautiful August afternoon.

When we walk we are often torn between having a deep discussion about something that is on our minds or being quiet so that we can better take in our surroundings. Today felt like a day for silence to me. The beauty of the sky and the fields, the trees in their full summer greenery and the occasional bird flitting by demanded all of my attention.

After we had walked for a while, we came to a stream which had hardly any water. It was unusual to see it so dry, and Gary commented on the news he had read. "Some of the major rivers in Europe are drying up, and out in the Western US they are talking about diverting the Mississippi river to supply water to the drought-stricken Southwest."

I didn't really want to talk about it. Honestly, I didn't want to think about it either. I couldn't help remembering Mary Evelyn Tucker's comment nearly 20 years ago now at a Yale symposium I attended on climate change and the church. She said something to the effect that, if we didn't preach about climate change and encourage our churches to do something make a difference now, then we would be forced to talk about it soon enough because the results of it would become evident and catastrophic.

Well, things do feel pretty catastrophic, and despite the beauty of my surroundings, anxiety zips through my mind. I know there are many small things I can do to help ease the situation, and I do as many of them as I can manage. But I also know that real change will only happen when good, environmentally responsible decisions are made at the national and international levels. 

This means we need leaders who understand the issues and are willing to do what is right, despite the political fallout. This means helping our leaders find their way back to values like honesty, integrity and working for the good of all people and all inhabitants of the earth. It can be discouraging, to see how wealthy businesses and individuals continue to pursue financial gain rather than looking to do what is right for the whole. 

People ask me, "How can we deal with the frustration? How are we supposed to handle the anxiety and the stress all of this brings to our lives?" For me the answer lies in spending time in the natural world every day, even if I am just sitting on my porch for a little while. It means breathing in the air and paying attention to whatever is there - birds flying across my line of vision or a bee buzzing around my lunch, a lush garden of flowers or weeds poking up out of the sidewalk, clouds rolling up from the distant hills or a a trickling stream, my cat pushing at my hand for attention. 

Breathing in, I take in the freshness, the reality of this moment in time. Breathing out, I release the things that trouble me. I do this as long as it takes, until I feel a bit calmer, a little more prepared for my day. And then I stand up and put my hands and my heart toward whatever is next, whatever is needed of me.