Salmon Cabin

thinking in images

When I first started this blog I wrote something every day, then that slowly evolved to once a week. Now it appears I'm at once month! I initially started slowing down the pace because other aspects of my life were becoming more demanding. But lately my blog silence has been simply because words haven't felt like the right means of communication and self-expression. (Even writing this post now feels forced and awkward.)

For the last few months I've found myself thinking (and living) in images. Photos are flowing and words feel stuck. I first noticed this in one of my September posts titled, "no words today." Since then, I've been spending more time on the Flickr account I set up to support this blog than on the blog itself. And by looking at the 50+ recent images in my photostream I see that I actually have been blogging--it's just been photographically.

Like all things, I don't expect this situation will be permanent. It's just part of the ebb and flow of creativity and life. But for now I think I'll be swimming in the sea of images...until I come back to the land of words again.

And who knows what the new year will bring?

Wishing everyone courage, compassion, tolerance, determination and serenity. May you do your greatest good in 2010!

the first sunrise

I recently realized my children had never seen the sun rise. Of course they are always up early enough (!) but from our house we can't see the horizon. So earlier this week we planned a sunrise expedition--a speedy early departure from home and hot cocoas in the car as we drove in the dark to a good vantage point. It was wonderful to see their surprise and amazement as the sky went through the spectrum of colors. Afterward we went to a local "greasy spoon" for breakfast and then off to school. It was a special and adventurous way to start the day, and a good reminder about the importance of taking time to celebrate the simple joys in life.

Later when I got back to my desk I read the quote of the day that I get by email from Gratefulness.org. It said:

"May the sun bring you new energy by day, may the moon softly restore you by night, may the rain wash away your worries, may the breeze blow new strength into your being." --Apache Blessing

I've been carrying those words and the feeling from the sunrise morning with me and now I'm passing them along. Celebrate a sunrise the next chance you have!

silently growing

"The trees, the flowers, the plants grow in silence. The stars, the sun, the moon move in silence. Silence gives us a new perspective." ---Blessed Mother Teresa

no words today

reflecting on the autumnal equinox

Anyone who gardens or farms tends to have a pretty close relationship with the seasons. Besides planning when things are going in and out of the earth, there is also cyclical reflection--thinking back (and studying) the same time in prior years. At the end of the season you can always find growers saying things like "Last year was a bad year for tomatoes. Much better crop this year." 

Sometimes this historical reference provides useful information for the future, like when you see how doing something differently (a change of fertilizer or method of irrigating) produces better or worse results. But even when the changes from year to year are beyond human control and can't be planned for or addressed in any way--like crazy weather or other "acts of God"--gardeners take note anyway. Somehow it still feels worthwhile and important to think about what happened and try to reach some kind of understanding. You might not be able to learn from the experience in an overtly practical or tactical way (for instance, knowing that an unexpected storm wiped out all the blossoms on your fruit trees won't give you any advantage should it happen again) but at least you will acquire more wisdom and knowledge.

As always, I find the lessons I learn in the garden apply to life in general. Sometimes we experience things we can learn from in a practical way ("now that I see what happened I can do things differently next time...") but other times the lessons are more abstract and philosophical. Even when things happen that we could never have prepared for or when there's really "nothing to be done about it" there's still an opportunity for reflection and gaining insight.

Today's autumnal equinox is a turning point I feel both in the garden and in my life. As the season changes I think back to everything I grew this summer and how it compares to last summer's crops. I also compare what I'm planting in my winter garden to what I planted last year. I think about what worked and what didn't work.

At the same time I also reflect on what was happening in my life at this time last year. The autumnal equinox stands out as an iconic moment because I remember how happy and immensely hopeful I felt about my future at that time. The memory is particularly poignant because shortly afterward I had some bitter disappointments in my personal life that made me realize so many of my plans and dreams--the seeds I had been sowing for a long time--would never be reaped.

So now one year later, after going through a lot of sadness and loss, when I think back to the autumnal equinox there's a dark silhouette somewhat obscuring that brighter time. Even though some might say there's no practical benefit from reflecting on these old wounds, I still feel compelled to think about them. I guess it's my unswerving attachment to the Socratic principle that "“The unexamined life is not worth living.” Like the farmer who can't change the storm but still wants to understand what it did to her crops, I feel the need to have some sense of where I am in the universe and how all the elements of my life fit together, even when it's difficult and painful.

So today as we turn into autumn I take the opportunity to look backwards to where I've been (in the garden and in life) but also forward to the path that lies ahead.

(Note: Photo above taken on the trail from Chimney Rock in Point Reyes National Seashore.)

limoncello and the lunar eclipse

I've written before about my relationship with full moons, whether in the garden or just in my own head. But tonight is a special full moon because it's also a lunar eclipse (the final of this season's three eclipses).

According to Stephanie Gailing at Planetary Apothecary this is a period when things come to fruition. It's the time to let go of something that is outworn--a possession, a habit, or a relationship that doesn’t serve your highest good. She says that during this event we have the ability to perceive our own unique gifts and qualities in a way that helps us close one chapter of our lives so that another one (which will more gracefully align with our heart’s desires) can emerge. Oddly enough, I had a very clear awareness of exactly that just yesterday before even reading her write-up. Apparently very fitting words for me right now.

So while musing on Stephanie's insights and waiting to see the moon this evening, I decided to sit in my garden and have my first sampling of the limoncello I made this spring. It was the perfect fresh (and strong!) taste to accompany thoughts of a new chapter in my life.

Then I watched a beautiful moon rise up through the clouds. Since the eclipse happened earlier in the evening I wasn't able to witness it but I definitely felt it. A magical sky for a meaningful transition.

 

living in the moment

"Live in the present. Do the things that need to be done. Do all the good you can each day. The future will unfold."  --Peace Pilgrim

Those were the first words I read today and I wanted to pass them along. I've mentioned before that I subscribe to a daily inspirational Word for the Day from A Network for Grateful Living. The above was today's quote. Even if the message is something we all know, it's amazing how much we (well, at least I) need to be regularly reminded of it. I couldn't have started the day with better marching orders.

And as for the photo above...after months of effort I've finally completed my newest addition to the garden--a small pond. I'll be writing more about this in days to come, but in the meantime I just wanted to share a moment of the serenity.

happy accidents

Recently a blogger who I enjoy reading (Hank Shaw of Hunter Gardener Angler Cook) wrote a post about success and failure in the garden. It's something all gardeners, no matter how experienced, can relate to. Every season there's some crop that does amazingly well right next to something else that's a complete disaster. Whether it's because of the weather, pests, or simply "operator error" it seems that no one is immune from the fate of nature.

This year I've already had my share of disappointments and things not going as planned. A big part of this was due to my wheat-growing experiment which dramatically delayed the planting of most of my summer crops. That caused a domino effect--in order to not fall too far behind I started some seeds (like my beans) inside. Unfortunately they got so mature and root bound before the wheat was done I ended up giving them away to my friend Amy for her garden.

Then I started another batch which didn't germinate well. When I finally was able to harvest the wheat, I planted the new scrawnier bean seedlings but in a few days they were completely decimated by pests (not sure what yet, but my current guess is earwigs.)

Beans have got to be one of the most foolproof crops to grow in the garden (usually my kids are the ones to plant them!) so it's hard to believe that I'm now nursing half-dead plants and hoping for the best. (Also set out beer traps tonight to see if it's earwigs or not.)

But for every mind-boggling disaster there are also many gifts. Sometimes they even come together. Another mishap this season was my zinnias. Again, one of the easiest flowers you can possibly grow but it just goes to show--no matter how experienced you are you can't get cocky with Mother Nature. I started a whole flat of these inside but for some reason none of the seeds germinated (I have no idea why.) By the time I accepted the failure it was really too late to start over, so I resigned myself to not having my annual zinnia patch this year.

Then this past weekend I was out in the garden weeding my gravel pathways (which are getting filled with thistles and other unwanted plants) when I noticed some small familiar leaf shapes among them--was it? Could it be? Yes, zinnias! They had obviously self-sowed from last year. The more I looked, the more I found. I was able to uproot and successfully transplant 32 zinnias from the gravel to the flower beds. Hurrah!

Another happy accident is the photo at the top. All winter I had what I thought was an enormous weed growing right by my front door. I kept letting it grow, partially because I was too lazy to deal with it and also because I was curious to see exactly how big it would get and what it would turn into. Being much more of a vegetable gardener than a floral expert, I had no idea this "weed" was a volunteer Hollyhock! Imagine my surprise and delight when it burst forth with these tall stalks of beautiful yellow flowers. It looks stunning against my brown house and seems like it was intentionally planted. Many thanks to the bird or the breeze that carried the seed.

Of course (as always) I can't help but take the lessons learned in the garden as life lessons as well. I've recently had to deal with some seriously unpleasant "weeds" in my personal life. But who knows, with time maybe these too will turn into beautiful flowers. Or like the zinnias that failed only to have a second chance by seeds from the past. During dark times it's good to remember that we never know what gifts life has yet to give us.

rue the day!

A few weeks ago when I was reading about beneficial plants to grow for the chickens, one of the suggested herbs was rue (Ruta graveolens) as it has both medicinal and insecticidal properties (for poultry and for people.) Among other things a brew or a powder of the dried leaves is apparently a great way to treat lice.

A few days after reading this I happened to be at a small local nursery and was very surprised to see several small rue plants sitting amidst all the run-of-the-mill herbs. What synchronicity! Rue is hardly a kitchen staple in the US, so it seemed very fluky and fortuitous to find it.

Rue has a fascinating history going back to ancient Rome where it was used as a key ingredient in moretum, a spicy garlic and cheese paste. (Virgil even wrote a poem about it.) I first learned about rue when I lived in Italy where it's used to make some types of grappa (grappa con ruta), and later re-encountered it in Ethiopia where it is used extensively both to flavor coffee as well as in the ubiquitous Ethiopian spice mix, berbere.

After I brought home the four rue plants from the nursery (their entire stock) I was reading about companion planting and discovered that rue is also a good complement for raspberries. More synchronicity as I had five bare root raspberry plants I was just about to plant!

Since there seemed to be a lot of naturally occurring significance around these rue plants I decided to make their presence in my life even more meaningful by planting them on a day that would best befit their name. That is, on a day that I could truly "rue."

In general I try (not always successfully) not to regret things; even various "mistakes" in life always seem to provide opportunities for learning. I also like the Chinese fable about "good" luck and "bad" luck that illustrates how a loss can turn out to be a gain; it's all about perspective.

That said, even in my most sage (yet another herb with a dual meaning!) moments I still have things I can't quite accept in a harmonious way. Can you really find an upside to Hitler? Apartheid? Darfur? And the scores of other senseless tragedies that continue to occur?

On a more personal level I think we all have those (hopefully few) things in our lives we really do regret or lament. Either something of our own doing or something unfortunate that was done to us. The kind of thing that no matter how you look at it, no good seems to come from it.

So...getting back to my rue plants, my thought was that by planting these beneficial herbs on a day that had very negative repercussions in my life, I would be shifting perspective and creating a positive outcome. Conveniently I knew just such a day was coming up today (another synchronous occurrence) so I didn't have to wait long. I must say it felt great to "take back" the day by openly and flagrantly "rueing" it.

Now that I've done this I really appreciate that rue is also known as "the herb of grace." How fitting.

What if everyone started their own personal "rue gardens" to exorcise bad memories?

blossoms of hope

I know that Buddhists believe hope and fear are two sides of the same feeling. As long as there is one, there is always the other. To be free from the grasp of fear you also have to let go of hope. The idea of "cultivating hopelessness" is a strange concept for the Western (especially American) mind, but it really resonates with me. I know from personal experience how easy it is to keep bouncing back and forth between those two states of being. It seems the best way to get out of the futile ping-pong game is to try to take the middle road and relax in the present moment. (Easier said than done, of course.)

But...that all said...when sunny Spring days burst forth with such vigor and promise, I still can't help but be swept up by hopeful feelings! (I tell myself it's okay as long as I'm still appreciating the here and now.) For the past few days I've been marveling at the sculptural blossoms shooting out of my walnut tree. It makes me think back to my December post when the last leaves were falling from the tree. It's very comforting to see nature fulfilling its mission and destiny right on time, without question or doubt.

The sage plant right outside my kitchen door has also erupted in a profusion of blossoms. As pretty as they are on the plant, I keep thinking about what I could make with them. I like cooking with chive blossoms but I've never made anything with sage flowers before. I'm imagining frying them up in brown butter (along with the leaves of course) and serving on some nice homemade ravioli. Mmm, that post might be coming soon.

Oh, and for those who want to read more of the Buddhist perspective on hope and fear, I'd highly recommend Pema Chodron's book, "When Things Fall Apart". (There's also a short excerpt from it here.)