A Cathedral and a Hopi Prophecy

A few decades ago we bought a piece of land adjoining ours, a 23 acre parcel oriented north and south in a long rectangle.  Along its east edge runs Spring Creek, straight as an arrow, because years before there was a decree among neighbors to amend the stream for fast and efficient drainage.  There was one holdout, the then-owner of our original 20 acres, who refused to take part. So today the creek has been straightened against its will except for one small segment where it enjoys great purpose as it snakes its way through willows and sedges.  

On the banks of the dredged portion lie piles of spoil from the excavator and remnant oxbows where meanders were forcibly disconnected from the channel. On the spoil mounds the hackberries and sycamores have matured and brambly thickets have formed and mink find den sites. The wounds from the dredge have softened, so today the views up and downstream are rather delightful in spite of prior abuses.

On the western border of the property is a mixed woodland with scattered openings.  It was damaged years ago by grazing cattle, and its healing has been slow.  The wildflowers and understory that typify a deciduous forest have been reluctant to return, but they are returning, struggling as they must against the influence of bush honeysuckle.

Between the recovering woodland on the west and the channeled creek on the east lay nine acres of flat and productive bottomland.  In the woodland a spring bubbles from the ground and skips across the woodland floor a distance before being collected in a riser and carried underground to the creek. 

We used the tillable soil for growing shade and ornamental trees, evergreens and flowering shrubs, to help stock our landscape business.  The land was productive and the plants grew well, but we were haunted by the spring water being funneled away, seemingly wasted. So we sacrificed a few acres of nursery and constructed a pond where the spring could pool and grow fish and wildfowl and offer us a swimming hole before passing through onto the creek.

A half lifetime later we sold the business but not the land, and the “north 20” was left to its own devices. Unbeknownst to us there were plans, established centuries ago, to build a grand cathedral on the site, and now construction had commenced in earnest. There were no architectural drawings, no committees, no fundraisers or budgets, only steadfast development. Already, a choir of birds appeared and were holding dawn rehearsals. And a mixture of plants, goldenrod and brambles and elms and oaks, began occupying the cathedral.  New members showed up unannounced and were welcomed, as the congregation was open to all. And in its willingness to embrace differences, its diversity, value, and function improved.  The soil was free of disturbance for the first time in a century, and in it a complex communication and hydrologic system began to take shape, one specifically designed for the cathedral’s needs.

The work continues today, with no scheduled completion date. This morning we took a tour to measure progress, raspberry pails in hand. The picking was excellent for a crop requiring no cultivation or pruning, fertilization or irrigation, just picking. We suspect a congregation member brought in the first plants, perhaps a visiting raccoon or a member of the choir, and now the ripening berries invite others to join. Such is the selfless giving within the assembly.

While picking, I was drawn deep into the chambers of the cathedral, in and out of shadows, over obstacles, through vines and thorny branches. And I found myself in a clearing with not a single recognizable landmark, uncertain of the way out. Inside a mere 23 acres I was momentarily lost, and it was good.  

The cathedral building crews, with their quiet persistence, attention to detail, and an attitude of acceptance toward participants, has made incredible headway, but things are not exactly as they seem. Within all the positive progress is reason for concern. We have seen, over the past 10-15 years, certain species grow increasingly scarce or disappear entirely, despite perfect habitat conditions. Among them, several snakes: the hog nose, black, fox, milk, even the common water snake. All were once seen regularly, but now rarely. Ditto the eastern box turtle. Ditto many of the frogs and toads, grasshoppers and dragonflies, katydids and mantids. 

The arrival of certain species, horned owls or wild turkeys or a family of foxes, are quick to attract attention and give the illusion that a balanced and healthy system is taking shape. But global threats are at work, extinctions are on the rise, diversity is crashing and the ecological heart of the planet is at risk. To say it will get worse is not negativity, it’s reality. To say we can save ourselves might be true, but will we?  

A recent Hopi prophecy says we are no longer living in the eleventh hour, but The Hour:

“There is a river flowing now very fast. It is so great and swift that there are those who will be afraid. They will try to hold on to the shore. They will feel they are being torn apart and will suffer greatly. Know the river has its destination. The elders say we must let go of the shore, push off into the middle of the river, keep our eyes open, and our heads above the water.

And I say, see who is in there with you and celebrate. At this time in history, we are to take nothing personally, least of all ourselves. For the moment that we do, our spiritual growth and journey come to a halt.

The time of the lone wolf is over. Gather yourselves! Banish the word ’struggle’ from your attitude and your vocabulary. All that we do now must be done in a sacred manner and in celebration. We are the ones we’ve been waiting for.”

Some of us live in denial of environmental threats or feel helpless to do anything, a position requiring no actual study or consideration. Others believe technology will provide solutions and our consumptive economy will go on clicking, which passes the burden of finding a remedy onto a select few engineers and tech wizards. Some who study the threats are anxious and depressed and filled with hopelessness, which beyond being unhealthy, challenges a genuine joy and zest for life. 

A Hopi elder recites the prophecy, smiles at his people and says, “This could be a good time!”  His invitation requires a conscious effort to choose the way we prepare and react to environmental calamity. It means learning to recognize and anticipate our own survival behaviors and putting in their place a generous and compassionate spirit that thrives in community and relationship. 

It’s heavy stuff for me.  My gut reaction is to head to the North 20 and pick raspberries and leave my concerns under a tangle of brambles. I’d rather be at peace with my lower animal self and focus on tending the garden and filling the root cellar and doing practical and wholesome things because I enjoy using less and being self-sufficient, but not because I’m preparing for a painful and difficult time. An attitude of celebration will take some work. 

Teddy Roosevelt said, “Do what you can, with what you have, where you are.”  He was addressing troops during the Spanish American war, but they are solid words for today.  The Hopi elders would agree. 

Their Destiny is Ours

Spring’s big bang has melded to summer and the riverwalk path is smudged with mulberries.  Motherwort blooms, the sweet fragrance of wild grape hangs in the woodland.  In late evening Canada geese gather in the pond near the house, motionless, bellies full. They’ve cropped the grass around the pond as short as a putting green and for the past hour have been dabbling duckweed.  The air is heavy and has a summer stillness as the geese settle in for the night. A wood thrush sings a final song. Bullfrogs begin their serenade.  

After dark we run a bat survey for the DNR. We drive a 20 mile specified route and the Anabat computer picks up chatter from about a dozen feeding bats.  The number is low, but not surprising in the big ag country we survey. No habitat, no bats. We see few insects in our headlights. There will be more later in the season, we say, as new generations are born. But insect numbers are not what they were a decade or two ago, which is true of too many wild things. 

We’ve come off a week of drenching rains and now it’s hot. Dangerously hot. Further west the drought deepens and fires rage. In the far north, tundra burns.

Volatile herbicides from area crop fields curl the leaves on our garden tomatoes, burn the tips of other veggies, defoliate some of our flowering shrubs.  The chemical companies call it “drift”, and it happens even when application protocols are followed to a T.  It’s an Achilles heel for operators, who can be held liable for damage, but a risk justified for the sake of weed free fields.  

In exchange for geese on the pond we have a manure speckled patio and annual flowers nipped to the ground by foraging fowl. In exchange for the efficiencies in an industrialized food system we have chemical drift, degradation of soils and water, massive destruction of habitats, dead zones in the oceans.  In exchange for an endless stream of conveniences and comforts made possible by fossil fuels we pollute our environment, modify our climate, and keep landfills humming.  Everything has a price. 

The Cornell ornithology lab developed an app to aid in bird identification. Among its features is a sound ID, which uses a smartphone to match songs with birds.  On our walks, the app typically picks up a half dozen or more songbirds at any given time, and without it we might never know we were passing a prothonotary warbler or northern parula or warbling vireo.  

We trade hours of field study for the luxury of pressing a button and having a bird identified, and in so doing we support the extraction of “blood minerals” our smartphones require. Few of us think about the cheap labor used to assemble our phones, or the likelihood they’ll someday join a mountain of toxin-oozing gadgetry discarded by a society that fails to embrace a cradle to cradle mentality.  Most of us don’t consider the data centers “in the cloud” consuming massive amounts of energy to process information so we can have the collective knowledge of the world at our fingertips and say, with no field work or study invested , “that’s the voice of a great crested flycatcher.”  

Early in the month I was mowing in the south field, collecting mulch for the garden, and nearly ran over a fawn not more than a day or two old. At the last moment it leapt up on uncertain legs and stumbled to safety among the brambles.  I found it later, bedded down, chin flat to the ground, watchful eyes locked on me.  

Written in those eyes was a 10,000 year history of an herbivore crucial to apex predators and critical in providing food, clothing, and tools for indigenous tribes and European settlers.  Its predecessors survived a massive population decline resulting from habitat destruction and market hunting that reduced their numbers to no more than 500,000.  Today their population has rebounded, 30 million strong, because we wanted them back. 

In the fawn’s eyes lay a question: What value do we give less loved species whose welfare rests on the whims of our land use practices and policies?  Despite a recent history of appreciation and protections for things wild, we still treat the natural world much like a modified version of Jenga, removing individual pieces as the tower draws closer to collapse. Fully functioning ecosystems rely on bats and birds and insects and countless others to provide ecological services essential to us. We control their destinies, and they will determine ours. 

May, and the Soil That Feeds Us

May rolled in with a palette of vibrant colors and kicked a reluctant spring into high gear.  The cold wind carrying the threat of frost retreated north and in its place came a balmy southern breeze that urged a bazillion seeds to sprout and swollen buds to explode with leaf and flower.  The marsh celebrated with blooms on red twig dogwood, the woodlot with wild hyacinth, and the thrush filled the late afternoon with a flute-like song, confirming that May had arrived.  

Early in the month, the incubating goose in the flower box grew fidgety and within hours she was surrounded by seven downy goslings.  Ten days later the total had grown to 42 as other area nests hatched. It all proved more than the parents could handle as members of one brood joined another, and while distraught ganders fought for order the chaos continued, and families were split up.  After several days of commotion and fussing there seems an intentional goose community has formed.  Broods have consolidated into a couple of herds and are under the watchful eyes of 2 to 6 tending adults. Parents take shifts in chaperoning but still squabble among themselves over proper care of offspring. The youngsters, though, are in hog heaven and growing by the day.

About 50 years ago I saw an old timer with a grizzled face sitting on a wooden bench outside a general store. As I was passing we made small talk about weather and the coming of May and the season of morel mushrooms. He said, “The time to hunt mushrooms is when oak leaves are the size of squirrel ears.”  I’ve tested the theory over decades and found it quite accurate, especially applicable to the big, meaty yellows.  

It’s been a great mushroom year for some and good enough for us. We enjoy them for any meal but particularly breakfast, sautéed in butter and served up with eggs and toast. Delectable. There are some things better left as seasonal treats and a mess of meaty morels is among them.  If they were available from the market year round they would be good, but appreciated less.  Rhubarb pie, likewise, is best reserved for the month of May, strawberry shortcake for June, fresh corn on the cob for July.  Some treats are better left seasonal. 

There are photos this morning from the Dakotas showing massive dark walls of dust engulfing homes and communities, eerily reminiscent of the Dust Bowl era. Also this week was an article published in The Guardian by George Monbiot on life in the soil. “As diverse as a rainforest or a coral reef…yet we scarcely know it.”  

A few years ago we visited a biodynamic farm in Northern California.  The crops were terraced along a mountain slope in soil chocked full of stone. This particular farm operated without inputs from livestock or other sources, no manure or fertilizers ever added.  Instead, crops were intensely managed and rotated, so when one crop used an excessive amount of a particular nutrient, the crop that followed helped restore it.  In biodynamic farming, the soil and the quality of the product is the central objective, not the farming itself.  “We focus on growing carbon,” our guide, Jes, told us, “to give soil microbes what they need to do their job.”  That job, Monbiot points out, is to make cements out of carbon that are used to stick mineral particles together, creating pores and passages for water, oxygen and nutrients.  

In a teaspoon of soil lives a billion bacteria that feed on the sugars and complex compounds provided by the plant.  In exchange, the bacteria break down organic matter and allow essential nutrients to be available to the plant.  It is a highly evolved system where particular chemicals alert specific bacteria that provide the exact nutrient the plant needs. 

My wife and I have been growing food organically for 20-odd years, with the only inputs being mulch used to control weeds, and compost from garden and kitchen waste.  We’ve been impressed by the garden’s productivity, year after year.  Each spring we till in the winter's cover crop to incorporate organic matter, which is good, but the practice also disrupts fungal networks and established ecological communities in the soil, which is not good.  Yet we continue because the results we get are most satisfactory.  It’s a human tendency to stick with what works, but it can be a curse when it leads to a refusal to accept change. 

There are nearly eight billion people on the planet that need to eat.  To satisfy the projected world population in 30 years we will need 50 percent more grain than grown today, which will require 146 percent more irrigation water if traditional farming methods continue.  The water does not exist.

Ninety nine percent of the foods we eat are grown in soil, which explains why 80 percent of the deforestation in the past century has been for the sake of agriculture. And it continues today. “Farming is the world’s greatest cause of habitat destruction... and the global extinction crisis,” according to Monbiot.  “Of the 28,000 species known to be at imminent risk of extinction, 24,000 are threatened by farming.”  Around half of all grain is used to support the livestock industry, so the problem is not a lack of farmable land, the problem is what we choose to eat. 

It’s spring, and the season for planting is underway. A barrage of chemically concocted insecticides, herbicides, and fertilizers are being applied to over 250 million acres in the U.S., supporting practices farmers trust and chemical and seed companies love. But the methods are destroying soils and fueling a long list of woes affecting our health and environment. Our own Department of Agriculture recommends eating organic foods and supporting non traditional farming operations that use fewer chemical inputs. The writing on the wall is clear, but when impending disasters unfold slowly they struggle to gain the remedial action deserved, particularly when tradition and corporate profits support the status quo.  

It’s May and early seasonal crops are reaching their prime. Below our feet lies a baffling orchestra of life, intricately connected, not fully understood, poorly treated.  The thrush sings, flowers bloom, another season of growth is underway, and the soil that sustains it all begs attention. 

An Antidote for a Reluctant Spring

Dinner tonight starts with a nice big diced onion dropped in a skillet of piping hot butter and olive oil. It’s followed by chopped celery, sweet peppers, broccoli and cauliflower, celery, carrots, sliced mushrooms, cooked brown rice, soy sauce, a pound of canned venison, a smidge of brown sugar, a dash of salt. We’re following a recipe in the way we hike through unfamiliar territory using a map as a general reference.  

March slipped out unnoticed, leaving us mired in a string of cold days with blustery winds and rain. Spring is coming but has taken a hiatus. 

Geese are incubating. There is one sitting on a nest in a flower pot on the dock. The other day the old dog ambled down the boardwalk and was crossing the dock when the gander appeared from nowhere with obvious purpose, mouth open, red tongue wagging. It bit the dog mid-body while thrashing her with strong wings. The dog spun and snapped, then cowered and slunk away, baffled by the experience. She has since become highly respectful of geese and we now have to escort her around the pond while she avoids eye contact with the watchful gander. 

This dog has always had a propensity for killing things with fur, but never shown interest in birds. She has lived her years in close proximity to geese, always in peace, so is bewildered by their sudden aggression towards her.  I attempt psychoanalysis, suggesting she consider the dozens of animals she’s terrorized over the years, but my logic has no influence and she walks away indignant, head low. 

The people of Ukraine, who a few weeks ago were going about daily routines without incident, suddenly are recipients of an unjustified and unprovoked attack. Unlike the old dog, they aren’t dwelling in self pity, but standing their ground, fighting back with valor and determination. The world watches, throwing sanctions at the aggressor, stepping gingerly in an attempt to avoid a larger conflict. Reports of slaughter and torture and war crimes filter in, and we wonder what Russian soldiers have been fed to so detest their neighbors (including some of their countrymen), that they resort to brutality and sport killing. 

Last night we watched Jojo Rabbit, a 2019 movie about a 10 year old German boy during the last Great War.  He pledges his allegiance to Hitler, but things get complicated when he learns his mother is hiding a young Jewish girl in the attic. It’s a story about the power of brainwashing, love, the lunacy of war, all applicable today. 

Billy Strings came across the Bose this morning:

“While chunks the size of Delaware

Are falling off the poles

Our heads are buried in the sand

Our leaders dug the hole

Like junkies hooked on fossil fuel

Headin' for withdrawal

How long until there's nothing left at all?”

Back in the kitchen the flavors meld in the skillet. I slap a lid on the dish and slide it in the oven for final processing. After 30 minutes it’s ready, and is dipped steaming onto plates alongside liberally buttered slices of fresh baked bread. It’s a great success, highly delectable, better than anticipated.  It’s an ointment, a ray of warm sun on a gloomy spring day. 

The Good Shines Through

Today we had our first 70 degree day of the year. It came on a southern breeze under a blue sky flecked with cottony clouds. The soil was cold but the breeze ignored it and brushed everything in its path with a tropical balm. Two days ago the pond was covered with skim ice but there was no evidence of such nonsense today. 

For months the turtles were asleep in the cold, dark mud, but some ancient cue stirred them and they awoke and lined up on the cottonwood log at the pond edge, necks outstretched, basking in radiant heat. Just as suddenly, the spring peepers were among the cattails near shore, peeping as they do when in search of mates. They have no time to waste. The season of renewal has begun!

The pond has a single small island, highly favored by nesting Canada geese. Competition for it commences even while the pond is locked in ice. The victors have long been declared, and today they loiter about the island looking victorious and confident while remaining geese squabble over less preferred sites, those more susceptible to flooding and predation.  

On the deck at the edge of the pond there are two flower boxes, each about two foot square and tall. One has been claimed by a desperate goose. She has lined it with the prickly stems from a nearby juniper and deposited a single egg. She will continue this routine, laying an egg a day, until she has a suitable clutch, then will begin her 28 day incubation.  It is likely the deck and surrounding area will be staunchly defended by the gander and we will be forced elsewhere for afternoon drinks. 

The first 70 degree day spreads magic over the landscape. Turfgrass greens before our eyes. Silver maple buds burst into delicate flower. Skunk cabbage appears in the marshes. Daffodils leap from dormancy.  It’s a day to refresh and regroup as we take in some of the harsh realities in the news. 

Antarctica should be undergoing rapid cooling as the continent moves into winter, but this week temperatures there were 70 degrees above normal. At the opposite pole, where summer is just getting underway, it was 50 degrees above average. This is news that has climate scientists scrambling. They’re using words like “historic”, “unprecedented”, “dramatic”, and “remarkably bad.”

A couple new reports published in indystar.com say Indiana is one of the most polluted of states and its waterways are the dirtiest in the nation. A study done by the Environmental Integrity Project, a nonprofit focused on enforcement of environmental laws, uses the word “impaired,” to describe 25,000 miles of rivers and streams that fail to meet standards for recreation, fish consumption, aquatic life and drinking water.  According to the report, 99 percent of Indiana’s reservoirs and lakes used for drinking water are likewise impaired.  The primary source of contaminants is agricultural runoff. 

The war in Ukraine promises major disruptions in food supply and acute food insecurity for many around the globe. One agency predicts that food will be taken from the hungry to feed the starving.  Around here our grocery shelves are still amply stocked, but that is not guaranteed. I buy organic flour by special order in 50 pound bags. My supplier tells me it may not be available, and to expect a price increase of up to 30 percent if it is. 

Then there is inflation and economic inequality and an assault on voting rights and a lot of people wanting their old lives back while even more are desperate to start new ones. And watching it all are too many elected officials who represent their donors but not their districts and are less effective at compromise than a family of monkeys. 

Earlier today I watched a proud young man with his two talented daughters perform with violins before a small group in Maine, and it was incredibly good and inspiring and sad all at once.  And Amelia is back in the news. The seven year old Ukrainian recently broke the world’s collective heart when she sang “Let It Go” in a bunker while awaiting escape from her war torn city. Now she’s safe in Poland, singing the Ukraine national anthem to a crowd of thousands, and breaking hearts again. 

It’s 70 degrees and we’re planting onions and peas and spring greens and in the time it took to write this the crocus and Scilla popped from the ground and are in full bloom. Just now a bluebird sang.  In spite of all that’s wrong, the good shines through. It always does. 

 

Amelia

This morning the March sky is particularly blue, washed clean and polished, looking like it does high in the Sierras. The mercury hovers around freezing but the sun carries a notable warmth and a certainty of spring.  The wood ducks and hooded mergansers are on the pond, the drakes dressed to the nines, waiting patiently on their mates who are preoccupied, inspecting nest boxes.  The mourning doves and cardinals and redwings are singing, the fall planted garlic pushes green spears through winter mulch, and everywhere are indicators that winter is losing its grip and a season of renewal is at hand.

Oil prices are up, pretty significantly, and might go higher. The people complaining least are those that rely on mass transit or ride bicycles or own electric cars.  Several factors are at play, pushing the price up, among them a stone faced authoritarian in Moscow trying to take hold of a neighboring democratic country.  He’s using a propaganda machine to convince his country that his actions are justified, but many of his people, and much of the remaining world, see it differently.  

In our own country we remain divided, with each side accusing the other of behaviors and policies that threaten democracy and run counter to the constitution and our way of life. On both sides are caring people who ultimately want many of the same things but disagree miserably on how to get them. 

It’s spring in Ukraine, a season marked by mud, mixed precipitation, and blustery winds. With longer day lengths a period of growth and production is initiated regardless of how comfortable the weather feels. But it’s doubtful, this year, that Ukrainians will enjoy the season.  They have other matters to tend to.  

I saw a video of a group of Ukrainians huddled in a bunker trying to find relative shelter from an advancing Russian army. Among them was a young girl, Amelia, maybe 8 years old, and on cue from someone she began singing a Disney tune from the movie “Frozen.”  The people in the shelter fell silent as a voice as sweet as honey and the epitome of innocence filled the room:

Let it go, let it go

I am one with the wind and sky

Let it go, let it go

You’ll never see me cry

Here I stand and here I stay

Let the storm rage on

A couple weeks ago we watched a documentary entitled Living in the Time of Dying. We found it a refreshingly honest review of an impending environmental disaster that will not be avoided but can yet be prepared for. Being ready doesn’t sidestep discomfort or great sadness or assure survival, but it puts us in a better mental place where we can take satisfaction in never giving up and choosing to be at our best while accepting the inevitable. 

And so another war is launched. It garners the world’s attention and fuel costs soar and there are shouts for more drilling amid shouts for green energy and a little girl sings through it all with a voice as pure as a newly opened hyacinth. And we live on in a time of dying with the March sun notably warmer, carrying the certainty of spring. 

Running Up the Deficit

My wife came across an article saying that 13.5 percent of the 39 million tons of wild caught forage fish is eaten by pets, i.e., dogs and cats, and consumption of these products contributes +/- 64 million tons of CO2-equivalent methane and nitrous oxide to the atmosphere. Americans are the largest group of pet owners in the world, and in countries like China, the popularity of pet ownership is growing. As demand for pet foods containing meat-based protein continues to rise, so does the environmental impact of dogs and cats.  

I sat down with our old dog to explain my concern with this news.  She held eye contact for a moment, then struck the pose she’s inclined to use when she’s heard enough. It’s a profile with her chin up, ears laid back, eyes slightly squinted, and for all the world she reminds me of the Luck Dragon from the movie Never Ending Story. Regal. Learned. She uses it when she feels her vast life experience and wisdom deserves adulation and there’s been enough meaningless talk.  

A friend sent an email describing an event hosted by a hypothetical talking car battery on tour to educate the public about batteries and green energy. I don't know who authored the piece but they did a good job describing what a battery does and how much we rely on them. Batteries are inherently toxic, most cannot be recycled, and the embedded fossil fuels that are tied to them and everything they power is huge. Suffice it to say they are far from perfect and no vehicle has “zero emissions” considering the hydrocarbon energy required in its manufacturing. One of our sons works in green energy and says the problem with current battery technologies is their reliance on old extraction industries which always come with big environmental price tags. 

In spite of it all, a shift towards more electrification seems logical.  The talking battery doesn’t address the long list of problems inherent to fossil fuels and it doesn’t speak out directly against electric vehicles or new technologies; it’s just asking us to consider the environmental costs of manufacturing anything, which is a line item rarely seen on business ledgers. 

Journalist Bill McKibben wrote in The Crucial Years that on January 25th a tropical cyclone hit Madagascar leaving dozens dead and 65000 homeless and almost no one reporting it. Madagascar is ranked the fourth most likely country to be impacted by climate change and drought conditions there have brought the country to the brink of a climate induced famine. The people of the US produce about 125 times more CO2 per capita than the people of Madagascar, a fact worth remembering when drafting immigration policy. The poorest countries are the first to be impacted by a warming climate and we’re largely responsible for the warming. Now what?

Two of our state representatives have introduced a bill that would require businesses to work only with banks that have not divested from fossil fuels. At a time when many banks, as well as universities, the Vatican, trusts, and municipalities have chosen to divest because fossil fuel interests are threatening the earth’s ecological health, Representatives Manning and Soliday are proposing a law which might be hilarious if a joke, but it’s not a joke. 

Every year since 1970, human demands have exceeded what the earth’s biosphere can provide through its capacity for renewal, a phenomenon known as ecological overshoot. Last year, by the end of July we had already reached the mark. Think of it as borrowing more from the bank than can be paid back, and the bank is failing. The good news is we can see the problem and choose our way forward. The bad news is the path is not perfectly clear and while we dink around with options our environmental deficit grows and ecological systems slide further into collapse. 

We’ve created a world where we cannot live without making environmental matters worse, at least in the short term, and there are two responses. One is to shift the focus, to talk about anything else because the problem can’t be as bad as predicted or is too much to process or the whole thing’s a farce anyway. The other is to move ahead with an awareness and willingness to play a supportive role, making it a part of every conversation and action, keeping it front and center. 

Maybe I’ve been misreading the old dog. Maybe her pose is meant to show total exasperation. 

We’re knee deep in a winter weather event that is affecting the entire state and a huge swath of the country.  A powdery snow is approaching 12 inch depth. It’s a big inconvenience for many but incredibly beautiful.  A coyote crossed our lane this morning less than 50 feet from me, gray-brown on a white canvas, walking with a purpose. It turned its head mid-stride and made solid eye contact. In the kitchen there is the smell of rising dough and cinnamon. The wood stove is purring. There are birds at the feeders, fewer than expected given the snowy circumstances. Every available snow plow is on the road and people are digging out so life can return to normal, like it always does. Until it doesn’t.