No News Today

I’ll not listen to the news this morning.  Instead, I’ll pull up Jay Ungar with his smooth fiddle rendering some Asheton Farewell and Margaret’s Waltz.  There's a soft rain falling on a cool and gray dawn, an October day that feels like November.  There is fresh hot coffee, dough rising, an oven warming.  In 500 degree heat the bread will split and its insides will spew out and make a ragged loaf with a blackened crust and chewy crumb.  Within an hour the entire house will smell of artisan bread seasoned with garlic, onion and sesame. 

A fire in the wood stove sounds nice and will feel even better.  The first fire of the season is a celebration of a grand event, another ancient cycle of reproduction completed, the threshold for days filled with rest and dormancy.

I saw a photograph this week of a heavy snow falling on a town softened by street lamps.  It looked to be one of those three inch an hour events, where within moments of beginning there is a muffling of sound and the air has a smell and taste of snow.  It comes with a relentless urge to bundle up and walk to no place in particular.  And whatever angst we have towards difficult travel and clearing walkways and adjusting planned activities is set aside for a moment of quiet appreciation, for unsurpassed peace and beauty in a landscape transformed, blanketed in white, insulated and put to sleep. The photograph makes me wish we lived in a Great Lakes snow belt where such events are more assured. 

Recently we watched a David Attenborough documentary entitled “A Life On Our Planet”.  In it, Attenborough reflects on some of the incredible experiences from his 93 years of observing the natural world, highlighting the changes wrought on this planet by humans.  True to the Attenborough reputation, the film is exceptional.  He points to wild diversity as the key to our continued existence and offers solutions to address an ecological crisis currently underway.

Yesterday we took a break from garden clearing and sowing cover crops and hopped in the car for a leaf drive.  The colors are superb this year, by our recollection the best in a decade or more.  We found ourselves in unfamiliar territory, on the rim of the Eel River basin in the next county.  The road snaked through an area forested on both sides and the maples and sassafras were afire with such brilliant reds and glowing oranges they appeared to emit their own light.  And the hickory and walnut and locust, which so often display a mix of faded tones, were blazing yellow.  There were pawpaws in the understory, yet to be influenced by seasonal cues, and their summer green added contrast and variety to a pallet of exceptional color.

I thought about Attenborough and the need for diversity and a rewilding of a portion of the planet, thought about how extensive forests ranged across our state and country and world a mere two centuries ago, and how quickly they would reclaim their former area if given half a chance.  That action would lock into place countless tons of carbon to help stabilize the climate and in the process allow species diversity to flourish.  Attenborough says it’s actually doable, but it will take a change in our diets to include less meat, and grants or other incentives to persuade landowners to transition their acreage to a higher purpose. 

I need a break from endless political noise.  Take me to a quiet place, Jay Ungar, and I’ll sit near the stove with warm bread and a steaming cup. I'll think about seasonal change, a bountiful garden put to rest, a forest ablaze in color, a heavy snowfall.  I'll think about the immensity of time and the forces that have allowed life on earth to evolve and flourish; about Attenborough, his wisdom born of experience, his heartfelt concern for all species, the solutions that are within our grasp.  None of this is news, but it’s all I need today.

Knowing What We Know

It's breezy and cool this morning, and there are changes in the trees lining spring creek. The rich greens of summer are fading to dull yellow. Scattered leaves of walnut, tulip, and river birch have begun to litter the ground.  Here and there are rogue blazes of red, on the sassafras and sumac, on the Virginia creeper climbing the bole of a sycamore.  There is a crunch and smell and feel of fall. The crickets are singing almost incessantly, and squirrels are cutting on hickory and bur oak. Summer is fizzling.

And 2020 is waning.  Its most tumultuous days might still lie in wait for election results or an earthquake or a declaration of war.  We don't know. Certainties are few compared to beliefs and opinions.  We don't know what caused the death of hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions of songbirds recently in the southwest.  It might have been a lack of food, a weather event, the influence of wildfires, or a combination of all.  But the birds are dead, and their demise will add to the 29 percent decline in the total number of songbirds over the past 50 years.  Twenty nine percent equates to three billion birds, or the loss of 1.5 per second over the past five decades.

Blue jays are fussing at the yard edge with an alarm call not easily ignored.  Perhaps a predator is lurking, a coyote or fox, and the jays have foiled its hopes of a surprise attack.  A cottontail a short distance away pauses mid-bite, its senses on high alert. 

I read a report yesterday describing the certainty of mass migrations of people in the very near future, within our own borders, as areas of the south and west become unlivable from the effects of climate change. Intolerable heat, a lack of water, crop failures and wildfires will gang up to force permanent evacuation.  Where the migrants land will wreak havoc on the infrastructure of municipalities. Ironically, in the years leading to this exodus there has been a great influx of residents to these same areas. Few are taking the news seriously. Yet.

We can be blindly and stubbornly unwilling to listen and accept facts. A cottontail whole heartedly considers the jay’s alarm, while a good portion of us choose to deny obvious warnings. We've seen droughts and floods, fires, heat waves, and each had their end.  “It’ll start getting cooler, you just watch.”

It's the first of October, and aside from an occasional day where a blue sky is painted white with smoke, all seems well in the Midwest.  Fall approaches, grain harvest is underway, early season hunters take to the field, leaf color maps light up.  We awake to crisp, invigorating mornings, feel a spring in our step, remember better years, and are spurred by an attitude of optimism.  We look to the future with expectations born decades ago. We are hell bent for normality, as if we don't know what we know.