Web of Life

Saturday, March 21st, another day of social distancing and volunteer isolation is ending as COVID-19 unfolds. The sun is casting a yellow hue on the buildings across the street as the sun sets. Somebody just picked up a take out order from the partially closed Indian restaurant. Take out only. Traffic on the once busy Monroe Street is reduced to a trickle.

COVID-19 reveals our vulnerability while underscoring how we are all interconnected regardless of race, gender, class, and nation.  In fact, as Chief Seattle (1786 – June 7, 1866), a prominent Suquamish and Duwamish chief, points out all things are connected.  We are enmeshed into a web of life.

"This we know: All things are connected

like the blood that unites us.

We did not weave the web of life,

We are merely a strand in it.

Whatever we do to the web, we do to ourselves." 


Prospect Gardens are just one strand in the web of life. This little strand is connected to others along the Southwest Path.  Perry, a neighbor, likes to refer to this interconnected web as "shared habitat."  Perry lives along the Path, about a ten minute walk west of Prospect Gardens. This poster is on a tree next to the Path and in the backyard of Perry's house. Perry made and tacked it to the tree when he and others waged a losing campaign against lights along the Path during the Fall of 2012.

"Shared habitat" captures the spirit of Chief Seattle. The poster shows a Great Horned Owl, which I once saw along the Path.  Perry reports that because of the installed lights the Great Horned has moved further into neighborhoods bordering the Path. Perry says that he still hears the Great Horned Owls but they no longer nest along the Path.

 Perry, during the winter of 2012, captured how Great Horned Owls stash prey and use food to attract mates. They mate for life, but are solitary except for mating season. This frozen mouse is about 5 feet above the ground.

Sharp-shinned hawks also share habitat along the SW Path. Here's one looking like a Buddha. A few years ago as I was walking home from work, one swooped passed me and caught a small bird in mid-flight. Follow this link for
 a little drama Perry caught between a Sharp-shinned Hawk and a squirrel . A window will open and afterwards close the tab to return.

This Red Tail, common in North America, is another strand in the web of life. They soar above open fields, slowly turning circles on their broad, rounded wings. You’ll see them atop telephone poles eyes fixed on the ground to catch the movements of a vole or a rabbit. Last summer a young Red Tail flew overhead as I was on the Path. After landing in the tree, the youth kept calling its parent with its high pitched screech.

Thanks Perry for these two pictures and the video clip. You are a keen observer.

Joining the Red Tail Hawk in the web of life along the Southwest Path are the Turkey Vultures. Janice, a friend, photographed this majestic soaring bird. They return each year and roost in the pines just off the path near the Path entrance into the Nakoma neighborhood. The Vultures are just passing through. Maybe they are on their way to Devil's Lake near Baraboo, where they will spend the summer months gracefully soaring in the air currents over the lake and the bluffs..

Last week I witnessed seven vultures as they soared over the pines. You too, can share the joy by: going to Janice's video.  A window will open and then close the tab to return.

Another bird in our shared habitat is the Sand Hill Crane.
Here's one I encountered last summer near Lake Wingra. These solitary birds seem to be adjusting to human beings. They nest in the nearby UW Arboretum. Last week, during my walk, at least six flew overhead calling to each other, announcing their return and telling me that spring is here. They make a distinctive croaking sound.

Cardinals, Blue Jays, Goldfinches, Robins and other birds live near or visit the Path.  During April, Spring Warblers linger in thickets along a stream just off the Path. Here's the tiny Ruby-Crowned Kinglet. They are fast-moving birds. If you’re watching a flock of Warblers, you might see one dart into view and keep moving through the foliage, almost too fast for you to keep up.

As you walk or bike along the Path, and if attentive, you will hear the tap-taping of wood peckers such as this Downy Wood Pecker. Yellow-bellied Sapsuckers and Northern Flickers may also be heard. Another great picture, Perry.



Animals share the habitat bordering the Path and we are connected to them in the web of life. Here's a deer and a data point for a study led  by Professor David Drake from the Department of Forest and Wildlife Ecology. He and Sheryl Hursh, a PhD candidate, are studying mammal diversity and mammal size (large and small). Their study is part of the Urban Wildlife Information Network. Twenty-three USA cities and one in Canada participate in the study. I met both, on different occasions, during my walks on the Path.They expect to offer suggestions about managing wildlife in a mid-sized city and how urban planning decisions may affect wildlife patterns.

Coyotes also inhabit the Path corridor.  Follow this link to see one in Perry's backyard   Fox, possums and of course, squirrels and chipmunks reside in the Path corridor.

Prospect Gardens and other prairies along the Path are sanctuaries for small animals and insects and notably Monarch Butterflies. The Dudgeon Monroe Prairie at the intersection of the Path and Odana is a stop for hundreds of butterflies as they migrate and make their way to California and Mexico.  Here's one. Some also check out Prospect Gardens.

Bees, under threat from pesticides and disease, find solace in the Prairies. This one is harvesting nectar from Prospect Garden's Monarada, commonly know as Bee Balm. The decreasing bee population underscores Chief Settle's message and in particular "Whatever we do to the web, we do to ourselves."  Harm to these important pollinators has serious ramifications on our food supply. 

The decrease in bees is so troublesome that robotic bees are being tested in almond orchards near Esparto, in the Capay Valley region of central California. Our faith in technology is boundless. For more information see this NPR article.

I end this entry about a few sentient beings who share our web of life with a Mary Oliver poem. Chief Seattle would agree with her message.

Sleeping in the Forest

I thought the earth remembered me,

she took me back so tenderly,

arranging her dark skirts, her pockets

full of lichens and seeds.

I slept as never before, a stone on the river bed,

nothing between me and the white fire of the stars

but my thoughts, and they floated light as moths

among the branches of the perfect trees.

All night I heard the small kingdoms

breathing around me, the insects,

and the birds who do their work in the darkness.

All night I rose and fell, as if in water,

grappling with a luminous doom. By morning

I had vanished at least a dozen times

into something better.

from Sleeping In The Forest by Mary Oliver

© Mary Oliver

 

Winter, Memories and Stillness

During last weekend's six inch snowfall, Ann and I settled in and watched as the snow swirled past the large windows of our apartment. Ann commented once again that it felt like being in a snow globe. Yes indeed. Very pleasant and comfortable.

The snow piled up on our deck and nearly buried the Buddha. His snow cap has already disappeared.

I no longer shovel snow since selling our home near Prospect Gardens. Yet, Billy Collins' poem still moves me because his words confirm the majesty and the spiritual nature of winter.

Shoveling Snow With the Buddha

In the usual iconography of the temple or the local Wok

you would never see him doing such a thing,

tossing the dry snow over a mountain

of his bare, round shoulder,

his hair tied in a knot,

a model of concentration.

Sitting is more his speed, if that is the word

for what he does, or does not do.

Even the season is wrong for him.

In all his manifestations, is it not warm or slightly humid?

Is this not implied by his serene expression,

that smile so wide it wraps itself around the waist of the universe?

But here we are, working our way down the driveway,

one shovelful at a time.

We toss the light powder into the clear air.

We feel the cold mist on our faces.

And with every heave we disappear

and become lost to each other in these sudden clouds of our own making,

these fountain-bursts of snow.

This is so much better than a sermon in church,

I say out loud, but Buddha keeps on shoveling.

This is the true religion, the religion of snow,

and sunlight and winter geese barking in the sky,

I say, but he is too busy to hear me.

He has thrown himself into shoveling snow

as if it were the purpose of existence,

as if the sign of a perfect life were a clear driveway

you could back the car down easily

and drive off into the vanities of the world

with a broken heater fan and a song on the radio.

All morning long we work side by side,

me with my commentary

and he inside his generous pocket of silence,

until the hour is nearly noon

and the snow is piled high all around us; then, I hear him speak.

After this, he asks,

can we go inside and play cards?

Certainly, I reply, and I will heat some milk

and bring cups of hot chocolate to the table

while you shuffle the deck.

and our boots stand dripping by the door.

Aaah, says the Buddha, lifting his eyes

and leaning for a moment on his shovel

before he drives the thin blade again

deep into the glittering white snow."

If you quickly pass on foot through Prospect Gardens on a wintry day or ride by on one of those popular fat-tire bicycles, you might consider the scenery rather ordinary and bland. A slower pass through, as I  recently did, reveals the majesty and beauty of prairie plants that have gone to seed. As Collins' poem suggests, when fully experiencing the moment, the ordinary often becomes an extraordinary experience; e.g., shoveling snow with the Buddha. 

Here are a few pictures from Prospect Gardens with quotes about winter. They show the beauty of the fading prairie plants, suggest the stillness of winter, and hint at the impermanence of life itself.    

"The hard soil and four months of snow make the inhabitants of the northern temperate zone wiser and abler than his fellow who enjoys the fixed smile of the tropics. "

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Definitely true about Wisconsinites. Don't you agree? We are a hardy species.

"I prefer winter and fall, when you feel the bone structure of the landscape--the loneliness of it, the dead feeling of winter. Something waits beneath it, the whole story doesn't show. "

Andrew Wyeth

"In seed time learn, in harvest teach, in winter enjoy."

William Blake

"If we had no winter, the spring would not be so pleasant: if we did not sometimes taste of adversity, prosperity would not be so welcome."

Anne Bradstreet

"I wonder if the snow loves the trees and fields, that it kisses them so gently? And then it covers them up snug, you know, with a white quilt; and perhaps it says, "go to sleep, darlings, till the summer comes again."

Lewis Carroll

Life now is very different from my childhood and teenage years.  You may recall that I was born on a family farm near Pulaski, WI and worked on the farm until my Mother sold it in 1962. I was a senior in high school. 

Here's me as a 13 year old. It's September and a turning point in my life. The one room school with all grades had recently closed. No more walking to school. Instead, caught the bus at the end of our long driveway to the Pulaski Elementary School and joined Mrs. Parker's seventh grade class. 

We drove ourselves to Pulaski starting a year later and continued throughout my high school years. The driver would be an older sister or brother with a newly acquired license. My turn came when I was sixteen. 

Driving made it easier to first do chores and then get to school on time. We would all pile into the car; used and never new.  My Mother was reimbursed, providing extra money to a tight budget.  Even though my Mother was illiterate, she knew about such programs. She was well informed, relying on the radio, neighbors and her church lady friends  

I weighted 90 pounds. I recall someone saying that I was so thin that if I stood sideways, I couldn't be seen. I bought my hat at the July parish picnic, a church social event we always attended. I had money in my pocket, not much, from picking and selling pickles with my brothers and sisters. 

During the summer my Mother washed clothes on the porch. I assisted her; using a wringer washing machine and two tubs for a double rinse. And of course, the lawn was always cut, initially with a push mower and then a gasoline engine with a blue-green deck. 

Winter time could be harsh and yet quite pleasant. Here's my sister Angie after a heavy March 1959 snowstorm. She obviously enjoyed scaling the large snow drift which was higher than the machine shed. 

The long dead-end road from our farm to the main highway was drafted closed. After several days of being stranded, we heard the roar of the mammoth snowplow as it slowly made its way towards our farm.  No easy task as the plow pushed its way into the farm yard.

We were in Pulaski in the early phase of another major snow storm. Maybe at church. Returning home, we parked the car at the end of our dead- end road where it intersected with the main highway. Mother was planning ahead. The car would be available if needed before our driveway was cleared.  The highway was always cleared well before our driveway. We made our way home as the wind picked up and the snow began to fall harder. 

I still recall how a deep silence and a feeling of comfortable solitude followed once the howling storm winds subsided. Now it's harder to experience deep silence in our noisy world of cell phones, bleeping emails, twenty-four hour news cycles, and unwanted music in shopping malls. During the mid-January meditation retreat at Holy Wisdom Monastery, I felt deep silence, especially on my walks through the snow covered prairies. Throughout the nearly three day retreat we also practiced "noble silence." We did not talk except during occasional question and answer periods, a group interview with the teacher and a short small group discussion. Eating in silence was most enjoyable.      
My brother Lou's favorite winter story involves my sister Theresa and her driving to Stations of the Cross on Wednesday evening. This every Wednesday night Lenten ritual commemorated Christ's crucifixion. We all climbed into the car after evening chores. Theresa slowly drove the slippery six miles in the dark night heading to our large Catholic church. On the way, she hit a slippery patch and flew into the ditch. A neighbor pulled us out and we eventually made it to the packed church.  

I still hear the deep baritone voice of Father Bernadine, flanked by two alter boys in red and white gowns, making their way through the fourteen stations. Father Bernadine gave stirring sermons. He was known for his blunt speech, especially when he thought parishioners were not financially giving enough. In fact, the exact amount each family gave was stated in an annual report. My Mother never commented on this public disclosure. I don't know what she gave while guessing we didn't meet Father Bernadine's threshold.  


Here's one of my favorite and rare pictures of family members enjoying winter. This picture, taken during the winter of 1940-41, surfaced about five years ago during a family reunion, held after Ann and I finished the family research project.  

On the sled is my oldest sister, Jenny. Pulling the sled is her new husband, Roman. They eloped and were married in Waukegan, IL on October 14, 1940.  The couple lived on our farm for a short while.

The boy swinging the broom is another older brother Leo, who died on January 11th, 2018 at the age of 85. During the 1950s, and after living in Milwaukee, Leo returned to and remained near Atlanta with his Georgia born wife, Kathy, and his two oldest sons.  I reconnected with Leo and his family before his death in part because of the family research project.  I recently sent nearly three hours of taped interviews with Leo to his son, Vincent. Vincent, his three sons and a great nephew and his son, visited during early December 2018. Family ties were strengthened along with the creation of deep life long memories.

The second boy to the right of Jenny is my brother Mike. This last year, Mike defied odds and survived a serious lower digestive tract operation. He is now a rather healthy 89 year old and will be 90 in April. The other boys in the picture are the Rudnicks and sons of my Grandma Julia's bother, Peter. Julia and Peter had a very close relationship.


The 1940's picture now evokes some sadness on my part as I consider the passage of time. Here's Jenny in her later years. With her death at 93 on April 6th, 2017, a key linkage to my past vanished. Jenny was the family historian. Interviewing her for the family research project was such a pleasure. Jenny's family stories were often confirmed by what I learned through Ancestry.com and other sources.

Jenny and Roman, who died in 1991, were married for 51 years. Jenny was deeply religious, resilient, kind and courageous. I miss her as well as Leo.

Perhaps I have wandered too afar into family history. Winter combined with my own aging are contributing factors. I end with Mary Oliver's words about stillness, which we can tap into regardless of the season.

TODAY

"Today I’m flying low and I’m

not saying a word.

I’m letting all the voodoos of ambition sleep.

"The world goes on as it must,

the bees in the garden rumbling a little,

the fish leaping, the gnats getting eaten.

And so forth.

"But I’m taking the day off.

Quiet as a feather.

I hardly move though really I’m traveling

a terrific distance.

"Stillness. One of the doors

into the temple."

~ Mary Oliver

     

Old Shed, Reminiscing and Gratitude

This old shed, bordering Prospect Gardens, has sheltered the Garden's tools since we sold our nearby home nearly four years ago. It's perched on public land adjacent to Ernie and Jeanne's former home. Ernie and Jeanne sold the house last November. They moved to an independent living retirement community.

Ernie built the shed for storing wood used to heat their home which they purchased in November 1976.  According to Ernie, "back then my back was strong & shoulders were up to hefting & swinging a 10 lb splitting ax."  I will miss Ernie's and Jeanne's presence in the neighborhood and those pleasant chats with Ernie when we met along the Southwest Path.

Katie and her husband purchased the home and will be moving in, along with their three children, in the spring.  I met Katie and after some pleasant chit-chat we turned our attention to the old shed.  We decided that the dilapidated shed, covered with lead paint, must be removed. So sometime in the near future the old shed will be history. It's replacement will be a new metal shed. In the meantime, tools, hoses and a wheelbarrow are in Laura's basement. Thank you Laura, for providing this temporary shelter.

The old shed and the Holiday season caused me to reminisce about past Holiday seasons. Here's the decorated sanctuary of Pulaski's Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary (BVM) church. BVM was once the world headquarters of the Franciscan Order. Besides the large Gothic church, the complex once included a monastery, a print shop and a farm.

The poor quality of the picture masks the beauty of the tall evergreen trees covered with  lights and shimmering tinsels. The Liss brothers, owners of a gas station across from BVM, would acquire and put up the trees. Others would help put on the lights and hang the tinsel. The Liss family also had a gas delivery service. Ed, one of the brothers, delivered gas to our family farm, about six miles south of Pulaski.

My family faithfully attended BVM, including midnight mass on Christmas Eve. We would pile into our car; always bought used. When I was a preteen, an older brother or sister, still in their teens and newly licensed, would be the driver.  My Mother and seven of her children still at home would be jammed into the car and all bundled up against the bitter cold. With great anticipation we made our way through the dark night. Chores were done and now it was time to celebrate Christmas Mass.

The church would be packed; standing room only. Lights would be turned off just before mass began; the church shimmering from the lights of the tinseled tall evergreen trees. Shortly, thereafter a large contingent of brown robed monks moved into the decorated sanctuary, while singing in Latin a Christmas hymn.  My young spirit soared as I felt the sense of community.

Earlier that evening my Mother prepared a special meatless meal.  On each of our plates would be an oplatki or wafer. We took turns passing our oplatki, broke off a piece and exchanged blessings.

Once as a teenager I went to the monastery to purchase the oplatki. I opened the heavy entrance door after ringing the bell. I can still sense the rush of hot air as I went down the hall to a cashier-like opening. A monk appeared and cheerfully sold me the oplatki. As I walked away, I heard the noise of the printing presses.

This ancient and sacred Polish tradition of sharing oplatki is still practiced. In 1989 when Emily was five, Ann, Emily and I shared oplatki. I still have the colorful envelope. The front of the envelope shows a wealthy Polish family of ten sharing oplatki.  All are dressed in their finest Polish clothes. It looks like they lived during the late 19th century. The family was more wealthy than mine. Polish art work hangs on all four walls of their dinning room. The family sits around a dinning room table on comfortable chairs. Our table was a long harvest table with two chairs for the adults and homemade benches for the kids.

 Another anticipated Holiday event was the community Christmas program at Polandi, the one room school I attended. Here's me and my three brothers in front of the stage's curtain. Can you guess which one is me? I'm next to my older brother Tom, then it's Lou and Ernie.

Preparations began right after Thanksgiving. Everybody had a singing part or a role in a short play.  Tom was a star of of most programs. His rendition of Silent Night still reverberates through my mind, along with the sustained applause from the audience packed into the one room school house. Tom still sings in his church's choir.

My sister Angie and her friend, Theresa, spent hours painting Christmas scenes on the large east facing windows. I was reminded of their artful skills as I passed the windows of our neighborhood book store, pictured here.

Hotel Red, at the corner of Regent and Monroe, also has large red and white ornaments painted on their front windows. I often stop at Hotel Red on my walks and rest awhile. The virtual burning logs on two televisions are slightly jarring. Oh well, the second decade of the 21st century is fast arriving.

I also reminisced about Emily's childhood.  Here's her first 1984 Christmas. We lived in Andover, MA. She is just over a month old. My sweet mother-in-law Ethel was with us.

Ethel's homemade Christmas cookies were always a hit. She made at least fifteen different kinds, sharing them with friends and family members. She often stayed with us from Christmas day to early January, after we moved to Madison in August 1986.

We would drive back from Milwaukee after having Christmas eve dinner with my brother-in-law Chuck, Kathy, his wife, and Steven and Andrea, their children. Ethel came with a tin of her cookies and with a fruit cake from the Sisters of Mount Mary in Milwaukee. The fruit cake was always the last to be eaten. Then Ethel would jokingly say that it was time to go home since the cookies and fruit cake were gone.

Emily visited Mr. and Mrs. Santa Claus at the Hilldale Mall, which was enclosed then. I think the year is 1986. The Clauses slowly walked the long hallway connecting stores and gently approached and greeted children. No loud "Ho-Hos" were proclaimed. Emily found this routine less threatening than standing in line to crawl into Santa's lap. We sometimes forget that a big beaded man can be rather menacing to a child.

Here's one of my favorite childhood pictures of Emily from 1987. Her exuberance about the Holiday is obvious as she stands next to a plywood Santa.

Santa, made by Ann's Uncle Joe, is still with us. When Ann was a child, Santa was on the roof of their home, latched to the chimney. Now he has a corner in our apartment.

Below is Emily's beloved Sugar who lived to be 18 years old. I often refer to Sugar as Emily's sibling. Both grew up together. It's 1994 and Emily is ten years old. Sugar was Emily's constant companion who played with her and her friends. Emily sometimes put Sugar in her doll carriage along with her other dolls. Sugar would tolerate it for awhile.

If Sugar needed anything she never bothered Emily. She came to Ann or me. Sugar usually sneezed when she needed to go outdoors. Now an ornament with her picture is on our Christmas tree.

I have more memories of  Holidays with Emily, including recent ones. Emily now lives in Oakland. She has found her tribe, enjoys her friends and her work at Ancestry.com in San Francisco. Her forty-five minute BART commute is tolerable.

We visited Emily this last November and a week before Thanksgiving. We prepared and shared a Thanksgiving meal. The five days of sunshine with temperatures in the mid-60s were a special gift.

We enjoyed visiting the San Francisco Academy of Science and just hanging out with Emily. The Academy's aquarium, with its walk through passage when you are surrounded by fish, was especially enchanting.  Precious time together.

Christmas 2018 was spent with Emily in Oakland. Here's our little tree and presents. We attended Christmas Eve services at the historic First Unitarian Church near downtown Oakland. The church opened in 1891 and was built using only materials from California. Most notable are the sanctuary's dramatic redwood arches built of first growth redwood harvested from the Oakland/Berkeley hills. Renovation and retrofitting of  the East Wing and one of the halls was completed in 1998. The sanctuary was renovated and retrofitted in 2009.

The next day we, along with Naomi, Emily's roommate, prepared and shared Christmas dinner. They have been friends since middle school. Afterwards we squeezed into Naomi's Fiat and went to Redwood Regional Park on the north side of Oakland. Hugged a few Redwoods.

Two days after Christmas 2018 we flew to Los Angles on our way to Ojai where our long time friends, Darrel and Beth, now live. They picked us up at LAX and took as back for the return trip; a true sign of long term friendship. Darrel and Beth were witnesses at our 1979 Portland courthouse wedding. They were living in Bend, OR at that time.

Emily will not be home for this Christmas.We are planning to visit via "Facetime", another facet of 21st century living. Our 2019 tree is up and decorated. We most likely will attend the 7 o'clock Christmas Eve Contemplative Service at our church, First Unitarian Society. My need for a spiritual community is still strong. Christmas day will be quiet as Ann and I enjoy a peaceful day.

I am filled with gratitude as I look back on these past holidays. In the spirit of this season, I share this poem that I recently received from my friend, Claire. Thank you, Claire. The poem reminds me to be grateful for the Earth and that human beings have many of the same crucial elements for life as  the Earth and the stars. In other words we humans, like all beings, are tiny extensions of Earth and the Universe.

Peace to you and your loved ones.

Prayer for the Great Family

by Gary Snyder

Gratitude to Mother Earth, sailing through night and day—

    and to her soil: rich, rare and sweet 

        in our minds so be it.

Gratitude to Plants, the sun-facing light-changing leaf

    and fine root-hairs; standing still through the wind

    and rain; their dance is in the flowing spiral grain

        in our mind so be it. 

Gratitude to Air, bearing the soaring Swift and the silent

    Owl at dawn. Breath of our song

    clear spirit breeze

        in our minds so be it.

Gratitude to Wild Beings, our brothers, teaching secrets,

    freedoms, and ways; who share with us their milk;

    self-complete, brave, and aware

        in our minds so be it.

Gratitude to Water: clouds, lakes, rivers, glaciers;

    holding or releasing; streaming through all

    our bodies salty seas

        in our minds so be it.

Gratitude to the Sun: blinding pulsing light through

    trunks of trees, through mists, warming caves where

    bears and snakes sleep—he who wakes us—

        in our minds so be it.

Gratitude to the Great Sky

    who holds billions of stars—and goes yet beyond that—

beyond all powers, and thoughts

and yet is within us—

Grandfather Space.

The Mind is his Wife.

      so be it.

                                                        A Mohawk prayer

Transitions and Letting Go

October 29th was a day of transition. I rolled out of bed at about 6:45 a.m. and quietly made my way to the office in the fading darkness. I glanced out the window before doing my Tai Chi routine and meditating. Fresh snow blanketed the deck and this container of petunias. For a few minutes I sat and reflected on how over night autumn transitioned into winter. Carl Sandburg's poem captures the moment.

Autumn Movement

I cried over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts.

The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper sunburned woman, the mother of the year, the taker of seeds.

The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of holes, new beautiful things come in the first spit of snow on the northwest wind, and the old things go, not one lasts.

As the day passed winter slowly transitioned back into autumn. The warm brilliant sun continued melting the snow as I walked in the afternoon under a brilliant blue sky. The contrasting red and white in this picture captures both seasons I experienced and enjoyed during my walk.

I also happened to notice the last of this Fall's raspberries as I passed a patch that spilled over the white picket fence near the sidewalk. The ripe berries caught my attention.

 As I finished enjoying the tart berries and returned to continue my walk,  a flock of migrating Robbins snacking on crab apples on a nearby tree caught my attention. Some were this year's off springs, perhaps on their first passage south.

Many Robbins scampered away only to return to the feast after I passed.They were not ready to move on. Yet I bet they understand the message meant for us in Walterrean Salley's poem.

Summer's passed already,

October’s nearing the end.

Trees are gently balding-

Leaves riding the wind.

On the great “fall” canvas,

Colors begin to change—

From plush green to red,

Yellow, brown and orange.

The sun will soon hide

As the chill settles in.

Then the cold will roar—

Nipping at the chin.

Unpack the boots and scarves,

The sweaters and the tights;

Prepare to “settle in”

For some long wintry nights.

Late October is also transition time for Prospect Gardens.  During the morning of October 18th, this small crew of Amy, to my left, and Ann R. to my right, along with my wife, Ann prepared the Gardens to "settle in for some long wintry nights."   After two hours we accomplished our goal with a break to enjoy Ann's homemade pumpkin bread. 

Thank you all for your help. Together we shared a beautiful autumn day.

I now wait for more snow to protect the Gardens from the inevitable freezing cold.  A few more sunny autumn days would be appreciated. Another walk in the arboretum or a stroll on  Picnic Point would be pleasant. Perhaps a Babcock ice cream cone?  I would favor a Michael's Custard, but unfortunately the one across from our apartment has permanently closed. Ann and I often lunched at Michael's after working in the Gardens. 

The large "For Lease" sign makes me sad as does the reason why Michael's closed. It's gone because of how immigration laws are now enforced. Owner Michael Dix's spouse, Sergio De La O Hernandez, is an undocumented immigrant in the United States for thirty years.They married in 2015.  Hernandez manged daily operations at the Monroe Street store. Dix sponsored Hernandez for a U.S. visa so Hernandez could obtain legal status in the country. When Hernandez returned to his home country of Mexico last August for a visa interview, he was denied the visa and denied re-entry into the United States.

And so Michael's Custard, a thirty year old Monroe Street fixture, transitions into the unknown, nothing compared to what Michael and Sergio face. Perhaps as this final poem on autumn suggests, letting go and facing the unknown are more of autumn's messages. The author, Rev. David Bumbaugh, is Unitarian Universalist minister who once served a Summit New Jersey congregation. 

Dancing in the Wind

Except for a few stubborn holdouts

the tree outside my window

is bare of leaves.

The wind,

this October morning,

worries those few remaining leaves,

pulling them this way,

twisting them that way,

tugging at them

until, one by one,

exhausted by the ceaseless effort to hang on,

they go dancing with the wind.

As they waltz past my window,

the stubbornness has left them

and they are finally free.

What is it about living things

that we expend so much energy resisting the inevitable,

hanging on to that which is already gone,

hoping to sustain a season

into times that are unseasonable,

clinging to old habits

despite the pain and the discomfort?

Why are we so afraid to dance in the wind?

May you dance in the winds of all seasons. In the meantime, the orange fences, like this one that Ann and I put up last Friday, the 25th, await the snow and winds of winter. As in years past, they will signal city snow removal crews not to push snow into the Gardens. 

This year is the tenth anniversary for the Prospect Gardens. Forty seasons have passed.Winter, the season of solitude, is once again upon us.   

Peace be with you.

   

    

October and Impermanence

October for me is a time when impermanence, a reality of life, is keenly felt and experienced. Changes feel more rapid and constant before the solitude of winter settles in. In particular, I notice darkness rather than light as I do my early morning Tai Chi. Sometimes I remain in bed giving into the comfortable darkness. The flowers on our apartment's deck are now past their prime. The radiant marigolds dried up and are gone. The calibrachoa are facing the same fate. The zinnias are drooping while the blooms on the petunias are fading fast. However, the once diseased geranium, after shedding almost all its leaves, has taken on new life. Lush green leaves have returned and blooms are possible, if there is no early frost.

Impermanence is also evident as Prospect Gardens takes on October's features so well expressed in Wendell Barry's poem.

October 10

Now constantly there is the sound,

quieter than rain, of the leaves falling.

Under their loosening bright

gold, the sycamore limbs

bleach whiter.

Now the only flowers are

beeweed and aster, spray

of their white and lavender

over the brown leaves.

The calling of a crow sounds

loud —a landmark— now that  the life of summer falls

silent, and the nights grow.

October is when we prepare Prospect Gardens for the winter.  Cutting and removing wilted plants once blooming reminds me of our impermanence. We leave some plant ripe with seeds to support the cycle of rebirth while anticipating that birds will eat some seeds. There is plenty for everybody.

Here are the volunteers who worked on Saturday morning, September 28th. Jody and me are on the top row with Ann N on my left. Ann and I are attempting to make a "W" symbolizing the UW Badgers who were playing Northwestern. A fan in Badger red is about to descend the steps, one of many that streamed by while we worked. Jody, a fellow Unitarian, is cupping her hands in the shape of a Chalice, one of our few symbols. Laura and Joyce, in the lime green t-shirt, are on the bottom row. Laima, who arrived later, is not pictured.  We are enjoying my wife, Ann's homemade lemon bars while she snaps the picture.

Here's Laura in action. Laura is using her Fiskars hedge sheers, one of the best on the market. Maybe I will put these on my Christmas list in anticipation that since I have been a good gardener all this season and Santa will oblige. On second thought, I may go to Ace Hardware and buy the sheers now since more plants need to be cut and removed.

Ann N. is at it again. Plants and weeds gave way to her energy and will power. While pruning Ann uncovered an abandoned bike leaning against the old weathered picket fence. I will contact the police in the next week or so if the bike is still there. It's a good bike and the flat tire can be easily repaired. Wonder why it was abandoned?

Joyce removing tall Black Eyed Susan and Saw Tooth Daisies. The Day Lilies in the background were also cut back.

Laura, Joyce and Ann. N. are long time Prospect Garden volunteers, often heeding my call for volunteers. Thank you for your dedication, energy and hard work.

Jody, a second year volunteer, pauses and gives a shout out. Sorry Liama, no picture of you this time. Thank you both for your generous gift of time and hard work.

Special thanks goes out to June. June lives near the Prospect Gardens, and introduced herself as she was passing through on her way home. I learned that during the late summer she picks Prospect Gardens' elderberries and makes jam. She offered three jars as gifts that I immediately accepted, and shared with other gardeners. Elderberry jam on top of yogurt is beyond delicious.

Here's a wheelbarrow heaped with plant materials. Laima and Ann B. often picked up and hauled plants to the designated drop site. Thank you Ann B. for your dedication and support.  Your labors are appreciated and your treats are always a hit.

A city crew from the Department of Engineering picked up the plant material on Monday. Thank you Ryan and your crew for your support throughout the ten years of tending the Gardens. Yes, its been a decade since the first shrubs and seeds were planted.

A cleaned out section of the garden now prepared for winter.  The once hidden rocks are now exposed. The remaining green vegetation will disappear as frost and eventually winter settles in. Winter is inevitable within the cycles of life marked with impermanence.

The picket fence in the background and the butterfly house  have weathered with time. More evidence of impermanence.

Here's three pictures of plants that still grace the Gardens. They too will disappear as winter approaches. Their  offsprings will show up next season.

 This tall grass is less visible during the summer when neighboring tall plants obstruct a view. Now the grass is king of the hill, revealing its simple beauty against the blue of the neighbor's birdhouse.

Blooming Asters; the advance-team of Fall and the impending Winter. As Wendell Barry's poem suggests these are one of the last blooming plants of the season. The lavender flowers now nod in the Fall breezes while honeybees visit. Lavender will turn into brown seeds as Fall breezes change into chilly winds. We left some Asters standing so birds can enjoy the seeds.   Bon Appetit! 

Last but not least, the majestic Bottle Gentian with its gem-like blooms. Early in the season I was concerned that they were uprooted by the snowplow that pushed snow up to the Gardens. They survived the trauma to once again show off their beauty and splendor.

I close with this poem from Butch Decatoria who identifies as an Irish-Filipino. Decatoria immigrated from the Philippines, where he was born, to our country in 1981. His father was in the military and his mother was a maid, and they were never married. I share his background to underscore the contributions immigrants make to our county and culture.

Impermanence 

We reside in the monumental

Structures of our own making

These finite moments

We consume

Asleep in boxes

Homes for corpses...

The living in denial

Of the absolute truth

We are pilgrims of

Impermanence...

Flightless Birds perched

On the precipice

Home is for the living

We must let go

Ask the Earth for forgiveness

Thank creation

For each breath

Our very human presence

Our mortal minutes

For Another day

Residing in impermanence.

(Thank Goodness

And Goddess)

Come what may...

Impermanence