Fault Lines and Solace

In my last entry I reflected on regaining balance.  Now balance is even more difficult because coping with COVID-19 pandemic has merged with tumultuous forces unleashed by the death of George Floyd and other Black Americans.  Singed in my mind is this Black man faced down on the pavement with the knee of a white policeman on his neck calling out "I can't breathe."  After nearly nine minutes and calling out for his mother, George dies as three other policemen stand by. A tidal wave of protest against police brutality and racial injustice amidst the pandemic swept across the country and continues.

This poem by Robert Walsh gives me solace as I once again seek balance in mind and body. 

 Fault Line

.
Did you ever think there might be a fault line
passing underneath your living room:
A place in which your life is lived in meeting
and in separating, wondering
and telling, unaware that just beneath
you is the unseen seam of great plates
that strain through time? And that your life,
already spilling over the brim, could be invaded,
sent off in a new direction, turned
aside by forces you were warned about
but not prepared for? Shelves could be spilled out,
the level floor set at an angle in
some seconds' shaking. You would have to take
your losses, do whatever must be done
next.
.
When the great plates slip
and the earth shivers and the flaw is seen
to lie in what you trusted most, look not
to more solidity, to weighty slabs
of concrete poured or strength of cantilevered
beam to save the fractured order. Trust
more the tensile strands of love that bend
and stretch to hold you in the web of life
that’s often torn but always healing. There’s
your strength. The shifting plates, the restive earth,
your room, your precious life, they all proceed

from love, the ground on which we walk together.

As I cope with the fault lines and the now "fractured order" tending Prospect Gardens  along with my neighbors and Ann, my wife, also provides solace because I feel the "tensile strands of love" while experiencing the "web of life."  Plus tending the Gardens gives me hope that there will be another spring, summer and fall.  A few days ago I planted wild geraniums that hopefully will survive and bloom during the spring of 2021. That same day I finished planting another new bed of prairie plants, some that will bloom next year.  A final example of hope is a pussy willow shrub donated anonymously that I found near the Fox Avenue stairs.  A note was attached. I planted it in anticipation that the shrub will bloom next spring while understanding that there are no guarantees.

This season because of  the need for social distancing and Dane County guidelines, we don't have the monthly community work sessions. Instead individuals are working on their own. If there are two or more working, each are in different sections of the Garden. Here's Ann N. properly attired.

Volunteers are now members of the Google Group, "Prospect Garden Caretakers." Through this online group we communicate with each other while completing tasks that I describe. Sometimes I include a video of the targeted area. So far this "social distancing" gardening is working. However, I miss the camaraderie of working together.

If you are in Madison and wish to join the Caretakers, please contact me at jblasczyk13@gmail.com. Your work will be greatly appreciated.

It's been a busy season. Here's Dorrie, in late April, retouching the mural. Dorrie, with the assistance of a West High School student, designed and installed the mural nine years ago. I wonder what the student is now doing?  Thanks Dorrie. She redid the bike mural on the concrete slab last season.

As Dorrie worked on the mural, Ann B., Laura and I, wearing our masks, transferred the Garden's wheelbarrow, hoses and tools from Laura's basement to Hanna's garage, which is closer to the Gardens. Thanks Hanna for providing your garage.  For about four years, we stored the gardening stuff in a shed located within the bike right-away next to Ernie's and Jeanne's lot. They sold their home late last fall and we temporarily stored the gardening stuff in Laura's basement. The shed, covered with lead paint and falling apart, was no longer an option. Last week the shed was torn down.

 

Clearing out and then mulching the raspberry patch was the first actual gardening task of the season. Ann R. and her husband, Mark, did the mulching after Bob and his wife, Jane, did most of the weeding. An unknown person had already cut back the raspberries canes, which was exactly what they needed. Thank you Ann R., Mark, Bob and Jane. Also thank you Ann B., Laura, Ann N., Ruth, Joyce, Loren, Amy and Amy's son Koen for volunteering. All this generosity of your time and work is greatly appreciated.

Hopefully, we will have a good raspberry crop. Passersby, such as grandparents and their grandchildren, will once again stop and be nourished while enjoying themselves and the Gardens.  I am sure sharing raspberries strengthens, to quote from the poem, the "tensile strands of love" between grandparents and their grandchildren.  

The two cherry trees, planted several years ago, look healthy and are now mature. An abundant crop for both birds and humans looks promising.

The notorious and tenacious Bishops Weed (BW) continues to be our collective challenge. Almost all volunteers have worked on the BW invasion. Here's the terraced section on the Regent side that required total rejuvenation. Thank you Maddie, from City Engineering, and Nate, a neighbor, for the new plants. Special thanks to Marsha and Jim for donating and applying the mulch. Marsha also weeded the Peg Arnold memorial garden and with the assistance of Jim mulched the area. This section now looks spectacular.

Our efforts to address Bishops Weed reminds me of  Carl Sandburg's poem "Weeds."

From the time of the early radishes

To the time of the standing corn

Sleepy Henry Hackerman hoes.

There are laws in the village against weeds.

The law says a weed is wrong and shall be killed.

The weeds say life is a white and lovely thing

And the weeds come on and on in irresistible regiments.

Sleepy Henry Hackerman hoes; and the village law uttering a ban on weeds is unchangeable law. 

By no means are the volunteers or me a "Sleepy Henry Hackerman".  But nevertheless, Bishops Weed "come on and on in irresistible regiments" while we enforce the unchangeable law.  Bishops Weed, unfortunately for us spreads rapidly through seeds and deep roots. You could say it is a repeat offender or at least a clever adversary.  

While planting the terrace, Barb, a friend, passed by on her bike. She stopped, pulled down her face mask to exchange greetings. My mask is around my neck. When the bike path is crowded or when talking with a neighbor, I slip into the mask. She took the picture and shared it with this lovely poem by Mary Oliver.  Her poem notices and celebrates nature. Thanks Barb. 

This World

I would like to write a poem about the world that has in it
nothing fancy.
But it seems impossible.
Whatever the subject, the morning sun
glimmers it.
The tulip feels the heat and flaps its petals open and becomes a star.
The ants bore into the peony bud and there is a dark
pinprick well of sweetness.
As for the stones on the beach, forget it.
Each one could be set in gold.
So I tried with my eyes shut, but of course the birds
were singing.
And the aspen trees were shaking the sweetest music
out of their leaves.
And that was followed by, guess what, a momentous and
beautiful silence
as comes to all of us, in little earfuls, if we’re not too
hurried to hear it.
As for spiders, how the dew hangs in their webs
even if they say nothing, or seem to say nothing.
So fancy is the world, who knows, maybe they sing.
So fancy is the world, who knows, maybe the stars sing too,
and the ants, and the peonies, and the warm stones,
so happy to be where they are, on the beach, instead of being
locked up in gold.

Golden Alexander 

Lilacs 

In the spirit of Mary Oliver I share pictures of a few plants from Prospect Gardens.  They contribute to our "fancy world" and are "happy to be where they are."  May we too savor moments of happiness during these unsettling times.  

Daisies and Spider Wort

Jack-in-the-Pulpit 

Pink Spider Wort 

May Apple 

Gardening is a solace for many others throughout the nation during these tense times. Many state guidelines, including Wisconsin's, classified greenhouses as essential businesses. A June 9th segment on PBS' NewsHour featured notable Dutch garden designer Piet Oudolf and how he finds solace in his magnificent gardens. Reporter Jeffrey Brown said that plant sales at greenhouses are now at an all time high. Klien's on East Washington was sure busy when Ann and I, with masks on, ventured out on May 22nd and bought plants for the six pots on our deck.

Piet Oudolf designed New York City's High Line Gardens located along abandoned railroad tracks. See High Line  for more information about these spectacular urban gardens. When I dream about the future of prairie gardens along the Southwest Path (also following abandoned rails), I envision a High Line landscape rather than separate gardens.

While I find solace in tending Prospect Gardens, escape from feeling the fault lines of the pandemic and from the brutal death of George Floyd is impossible. Both now mean we have a "fractured order."  Returning to the so called "normal", which we hear so often in the media, as the poem "Fault Lines" suggests is also impossible. Instead we must summon courage to accept our "losses" and  strengthen the "tensile strands of love that bend and stretch to hold" us within "the web of life that’s often torn but always healing."  To me this now means intentionally and vigorously addressing inequality, poverty and our long history of racial injustice. 

A first small step we can all take is heeding this message on the boarded up window of a Monroe Street Business: Listen.  This includes voices we may not like to hear and asking us to look deeply into our own beliefs, attitudes and how our society perpetuates inequalities and racism. 

May you experience solace and peace during these times of worldwide suffering.   

Regaining Balance

As COVID-19 continues I’m aware of my different perceptions of time. My last entry was March 21st. On one level this feels like yesterday. Yet this last month feels like time has dragged on and I am lost in a time machine that has gone a muck. Still on another level, I know that we are experiencing what Buddhism refers to as impermanence; that is, what we consider reality is always constantly changing from moment to moment and this unpredictability is a reality of life. It is our minds that want a constant and a "new normal."

During this pandemic at times I want a constant or at least some sense of balance. I am like those referred to in Sharon's McDonald's poem "A Prayer for the Dazed." 

For those whose "check engine" light just flashed;
For those recently deposited, trembly-legged, from a roller-coaster;
For those who forgot their lines as they entered, stage right;
For those poised tensely like a deer in the headlights;
For those badly jet-lagged who fumble for their passport;
For those just awakening not sure of their name;
For those who sat near as a loved one died a "good" death;
Oh God, we pray, repeat yourself:
Vouchsafe again and again the law of gravity;
Reiterate that day follows night and crocuses follow icicles;
Push the tides endlessly like a rocking cradle
Until we can recognize the rhythm of our own breath;
Until we can blink and regain our balance;
Until our hearts beat steadily again

Regaining balance is a challenge during this COVID-19 pandemic. A recent visit to Prospect Gardens to check out the emerging spring helped me to regain balance, at least for the time of my visit. Here's what I discovered.

These white Hyacinths greeted me and I rejoiced. They were a gift and after the blooms faded, I put the three bulbs in a closet. Last fall I planted them: Hyacinths followed darkness and the icicles of winter.

The McDonald poem says to recognize the law of gravity. Tending Prospect Gardens also teaches respecting the laws of nature and to abide what Lao Tzu said: "Nature does not hurry, yet everything is accomplished."

The history of this Forsythia confirms Lao Tzu's observation.  It was planted eleven years ago and hardly bloomed until this year. Now it's in full bloom in the midst of a pandemic. Beauty in nature co-existing with society-wide dread of COVID. A balanced contradiction.

I did nothing to encourage the Forsythia in overcoming its own daze. It's a mystery about how and why that happened. May this Forsythia grace the Gardens as the years unfold. Meanwhile this year's blossoms broadcast that spring is here.

Another mystery and a special delight are Daffodils, one of my favorite flowers. Somehow bulbs found their way into the Gardens. Maybe a squirrel dug up bulbs from a neighbor's yard, brought them over, buried and forgot them.

Seeing the Daffodils again reminds me of my year (1975) in Monmouth, Oregon. I was attending Oregon College of Education completing Oregon's special education certification. On a spring day when the rains stopped I drove out into the country in my trusted 1950 Ford, which I named "Fred Ford".  Actually Fred Ford at times was not to be trusted, but I never worried about it. Occasionally, at a stop light his engine would cut out for a few minutes. I would patiently wait and after a brief rest, Fred Ford would be ready to move again.

On that particular day in the country, Fred Ford purred along. Once I got out of Monmouth, which didn't take long because it's a small town, fields full of Daffodils greeted me. Such delight on an overcast Oregon day. The memory is still fresh in my mind.

These Siberian Squill have also found their way into Prospect Gardens and to my delight. There were none a few years ago. I marvel how these early signs of spring spread on their own. They seemed to be more abundant this year and are lasting longer, perhaps because of the cool spring weather.

Siberian Squill is a favorite spring flowers of Emily, my daughter, who now lives in Oakland, California. I sent her a text with a picture of a large patch of Siberian Squill from along Edgewood Drive in Vilas Park.

The Bay area was one of the first areas to shelter-in. Ann and I were relieved when Emily began working from home on March 11th. Normally, she commutes daily on the Bart into San Francisco for her job with Ancestry.com.

 This small patch of Red Trillium has also returned for another season and is worth celebrating. Trillium, unlike Siberian Squill, take their time spreading. A few years ago, this patch was much smaller; four or five plants. I still recall being happy when I first discovered them.

Their foul smell flowers attracts carrion flies that act as pollinators. Early herbalists used this plant to treat gangrene, since, according to the Doctrine of Signatures, plants were used to cure the ailments they resembled.

I would like white Trillium in the Gardens which I had in the backyard of our former home. Maybe they too will mysteriously show up on their own. Or, a neighbor will offer some, as has happened with other plants in the past. I'm more selective today but I definitely will accept white Trillium.   

 Grasses are reappearing which confirms what L.M. Montgomery said about spring: "That is one good thing about this world ... There are always sure to be more springs."

I transplanted this one from the Glenway Prairie and Wildflower Areas. I volunteered at the Glenway during the first year of its development and before Prospect Gardens.  That was when I met Sandy, Glenway's crew chief, who encouraged me to develop areas near the Prospect Avenue intersection. Development began about two years later.

Now with shelter-at-home extended through May 26th, some kind of plan for tending the Gardens is needed. The usual once a month community work sessions are impossible.   Most likely, as in the past, a solution will emerge and the needs of the Garden will once again be met. Gardening is always an unpredictable journey. I will try to stay balanced as this COVID phase continues to unfold.

 The Hostas are once again poking their way through dead and decaying leaves. We didn't anticipate or want these common perennials along with native prairie plants when we first laid out plans for Prospect Gardens.

A few neighbors offered Hostas or they were left on a neighbor's curb and I hated the thought of them going into the landfill. So now we have a shade garden with Hostas, Jack-in-Pulpits, Jacob's Ladders and several different kinds of ferns, all donated or salvaged.

In short, we started with a plan that favored an unfolding development rather than strict adherence to a plan. Perhaps this approach reflects the Garden's early origins. Before we began intentionally developing Prospect Gardens in 2010, Ernie, a neighbor, and I followed a "Guerrilla Gardening" approach; meaning we would slowly reclaim areas without any plan.  Guerrilla Gardening is a world wide movement. I have a book about it; a gift from my daughter, Emily. For more information see https://www.guerrillagardening.org/ggtips.html.


Pictured here is My Grandmother Julia with Jenny, her  oldest Grandchild. Jenny made her first Holy Communion. I am guessing that Jenny is about thirteen. Catholics made their First Communion in their early teens. So the date is most likely 1937.

Grandma Julia was an avid gardener, but she was not a guerrilla gardener. Planning began early in spring and about this time of the year, the garden plot along our driveway would be renewed.

Tony, my older brother, tells the story of how he rode and guided the white and black spotted horse while Grandma held down and maneuvered the hand held cultivator. She was a strong women who also worked out in the fields. While small in stature, according to family stories, she outworked any man on any day.

Jenny told the story how she, as a teenager, and Grandma Julia made hay with my Dad during a hot summer; "He was sweating bullets."  Mowed hay was loaded on a wagon using a hay loader and brought to the barn. Jenny and Grandma moved the hay in the hot barn loft after a large bunch of hay was released from hay forks that ran along a rail in the peak of the loft. Empty, the forks returned to the wagon on the barn floor and Dad placed them around another punch of hay.

These hay forks were attached to a thick rope which ran through pulleys. The rope was pulled by a horse down the embankment next to the barn. The loaded hay forks rose into the air and eventually screeched across the rail. Dad tripped it and with a bang the hay fell into the mow. The horse backed up the hill while younger sisters and brothers pulled the rope up the hill and stacked it into a neatly rolled pile.  The process started all over; all day long in the summer heat.

Several decades later (late 1950s) my older brother Tom had my Dad's role. My brother Louie and I took turns driving the tractor pulling the thick rope down the embankment. You had to drive slowly and steady with no jerking. One of us, along with Ernie, my younger brother, pulled the rope back up the hill as the tractor backed up and then the rope was stacked.  A chopper, purchased by Tom and Ma, eventually replaced this way of making hay.

Grandma's huge vegetable garden fed our large family even during winter. We were totally food self-sufficient. Something I think about, our own independent food supply, as I put on my mask and go shopping at Metcalfe's during this pandemic. Yes, being food self-sufficient was hard work, but lack of food never entered our minds or for that matter, concern about not enough toilet paper.

During summer we enjoyed fresh vegetables, watermelon and muskmelons.  During winter, potatoes, pumpkins and squash were in our basement on dirt floored areas. Cabbage made into sauerkraut filled stone crocks taller than me when I was a child. Pickles in old butter churns covered with a plate held down with a stone, stood next to the sauerkraut. My Mother's canned apples from our orchard lined wooden shelves along with cherries and peaches that she purchased. Wood was brought into the basement during late fall to feed the two wood stoves.

Visible from our kitchen windows was Grandma Julia's large flower garden. Her garden included roses, many peonies, gladiolas, iris, and geraniums.

I suspect that Grandma Julia also knew how to regain balance throughout her life. She was born on April 15th, 1882 in Chicago and lived in Polish neighborhoods around a large Catholic Church that still stands today, Saint Stanislaus Kosta. At that time it was the country's largest Catholic Church with 3,000 attending several Sunday masses. The young Julia Rudnick moved with her family to a farm near Pulaski sometime in 1887. On May 16, 1899 seventeen year old Julia married my Grandfather Leo who was thirty-four. My oldest sister Jenny said it was an arranged marriage.

Julia and Leo moved a few miles from the Rudnick farm on forty acres purchased form Julia's father, Jacob, about a month after they were married. This was our home farm. Julia worked with Leo to clear the land. She almost lost her only son and my Father, Anton, from scarlet fever when he was a young child. She experienced the 1918 Influenza pandemic when she was thirty-six, and lived during  two world wars and the Depression.

My father Anton married my Mother Anna on November 14, 1922. They moved in with Grandma Julia and Grandpa Leo. Both grandparents lived with our family until their deaths. My Mother and Julia had a close relationship and worked together as a team. According to family stories, the two very seldom argued and if they did, they quickly made up and gave each other a hug, saying in Polish "everything is all right."

Grandma Julia witnessed the death of her husband on March 10, 1943. His coffin sat in the living room of our four square house. Six years later on March 2, 1949 her forty-nine year old son and my Father died. Until her death on February 15, 1951 she worked along side my older brother Mike in an all out effort to keep the family together and the family farm going. She worked almost to the time she died. I remember her feeding pigs a few days before she died.

So perhaps regaining balance is in my DNA or at least I have Grandma Julia as a prime example.  Incidentally she was kind, generous, and dearly loved all her Grandchildren.

Remembering her and being mindful of spring at Prospect Gardens and elsewhere helps me breath, appreciate beauty and regain a sense of balance during these uncertain times. I end with Mary Oliver's poem that celebrates spring through the eyes of children. May you be safe and healthy.

Children, It's Spring

And this is the lady
Whom everyone loves,
Ms. Violet
in her purple gown

Or, on special occasions,
A dress the color
Of sunlight. She sits
In the mossy weeds and waits

To be noticed.
She loves dampness.
She loves attention.
She loves especially

To be picked by careful fingers,
Young fingers, entranced
By what has happened
To the world.

We, the older ones,
Call in Spring,
And we have been through it
Many times.

But there is still nothing
Like the children bringing home
Such happiness
In their small hands.

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