The Year it All Changed

Here is a new youtube video from TreeSisters.  It is a story being told from the future about this time we find ourselves living in.  Check it out:

And in case wonder how this could have been possible, here is a link to a tedtalk by Willie Smits.  Smits who was born in the Netherlands is a trained forester, microbiologist, conservationist, animal rights activist, wilderness engineer and social entrepreneur.  He has lived in Indonesia since 1985 and is a citizen there.  While doing forest research in Indonesia in 1989 his career was changed when he encountered a baby orangutan who had been discarded in a market and was dying.  This was the beginning of the Borneo Orangutan Survival Foundation which led Smits into the areas of sustainable farming, reforestation and working with the local people to protect the forests.  He has achieved amazing results on a small scale which he feels are reproduceable elsewhere.  He describes it all here:

https://www.ted.com/talks/willie_smits_how_to_restore_a_rainforest

The River Sang Her Story

 Anna could feel the air growing cooler as she followed the sandy forest trail down the hill.  She could hear the river singing long before she could see it.  There were lots of stones in this part of the river and the water rolled and crashed over them, creating a burbling, rushing kind of a sound that was music to her.  The song got louder as she came down the last hill and she could see the sunlight bouncing off of the white water as it danced to its own music, over the stones.

Standing at the edge of the riverbank, she bent over to sprinkle the offering that she made on each visit, to show respect and love.  And then she sang to the river.  She let her voice be strong to match the sound of the water.  Beside her was an old Eastern White Cedar tree, rooted into the river bank.  Some of the purple and orangish roots were out in the open above the river water which had washed away the earth that was once held in their embrace.  The bark was papery soft and warm as she stroked the trunk.  She could smell the warm cedar resin being released into the air and she felt comforted by the familiar scent.  Anna rested her head on the trunk and listened to the birds singing in the forest all around her.  Their song mingled with that of the river, clear, alive and bright.  She hummed along with them and the sound of the cedar which emerged in her imagination, joined in as well.

The music urged her to move and she carefully lowered herself so that she was sitting on the edge of the riverbank.  Not needing to remove her waterproof sandals, she swung her feet into the river and felt its cool water flowing and wrapping around her legs and feet, like caresses.  She wiggled her toes and bent her ankles up and down.  The feeling was one of relief, of letting go.  Anna felt her face muscles move into a smile.

Using the cedar trunk to steady her, she rose to her feet and felt the sand on the bottom of the river supporting her.  She carefully examined the river and its large stones, looking for a path through them where she could walk.  The fast water in the centre of the flow crashed up against the rocks and shot off on both sides.  To the sides of the centre, the water wove around smaller rocks, twisting and turning effortlessly as gravity drew it forward.  But, closer to the riverbank, the water moved quite slowly, sometimes becoming an eddy with spinning twigs and leaves.  That looked to be about her speed.  She looked downstream and saw some fallen logs blocking the side of the river.  She imagined she would be able to step over those.  Best to take a walking stick for support, she thought.  Glancing at the river bank, she saw a fallen cedar branch that looked as though it would do.  Carefully walking through the water, she came to the stick and tried it out.  Perfect.  It even had a little bump at one end to support her thumb. 

The stones on the bottom of the river were smooth from years of flow wearing them down.  Luckily, they were not slimy or slippery due to the speed of the current and she easily stepped on them as she made her way downstream.  When she came to a balsam tree that had recently fallen into the river, she stopped.  She watched how the river current sped up as it hit the trunk and flowed along its length.  Once reaching the clear area, the water joined with the other part of the river, splashing as if giving high fives to an old friend.  Planting her cedar stick, she stepped over the log and found stable footing on the other side.  Lifting the remaining leg, she felt a little dizzy.  She quickly brought it over to the downstream side of the log and put her weight onto it.  Her foot landed on a stone that rocked and down she went, splashing into the river. 

The water felt surprisingly good and she burst out laughing as she sat beside the log, waist deep in the river.  Up ahead, she could see the end of the rapids where the river deepened.  Raising her self up with her stick and the fallen log, she picked her way through the stones until she could feel the water rising on her legs.  Once she was waist deep, she leaned forward and swam, releasing her stick which floated along beside her.  The river had widened and deepened here and therefore slowed.  She could feel the current carrying her forward and she relaxed into it. Coming around a curve, Anna could see a long stretch ahead with no obstacles.  And so, she flipped onto her back and floated feet first.  Looking up she saw Maple leaves floating above her.  The blue sky peeked between the bright green spring leaves and every now and then, a sunbeam broke through a small gap, making her close her eyes.  The sensation was wonderful.  She felt the river embracing her, supporting her, carrying her and she surrendered to it.

Suddenly, a Blue Jay’s sharp cry startled her and she opened her eyes.  There were Hemlock and Cedar branches overhead now and she could feel the river speeding up.  Flipping over onto her stomach she brought her legs down and felt for the bottom.  Standing up, she looked downriver.  She could hear a low roar ahead but couldn’t see anything.  Returning to the water, she did the breast stroke along with the river which was speeding up even more.  She swam over to the river bank and stood up, holding a cedar trunk for balance.  Carefully climbing out, Anna noticed the spongy feel of the forest floor covered with rust coloured cedar needles.  She became aware of the roots under her feet and the fungal communication networks that connected them.  She imagined, all the messages darting through the network and bugs and animals that lived underground all going about their business as she strode along their roof.  That made her walk more softly, more respectfully on the earth.

The roaring sound grew louder and it wasn’t long before she came to a small waterfall.  The air was warm and so she sat on the edge of the bank and watched the water cascading over the larger boulders.  She knew that this brought air into the water for the fish.  She watched some of the water spray up into a mist, bringing water to the air.  The relationship of water and air was ancient and graceful. 

Her mind jumped to a picture of people going over rapids and waterfalls in kayaks and canoes.  That was not for her though.  She had had enough excitement in her life.  She knew what it was to have the proverbial rug pulled out from under her feet, to have secrets revealed that tore apart her safety, her trust.  She knew about loss and falling.  She knew about struggling to keep her head above water. Somehow, she was never quite sure how or why, she had come through the rapids and waterfalls in her life.  The river of her life had carried her around the rocks and boulders and brought her once again into calm waters. 

River rafters talk about finding the through line in a rapid, the way that will carry you safely through danger.  They say that staring at the obstacles will lead you to collide with them.  Anna had learned that the hard way.  She had collided with people who felt hard like rocks, unmoving, unwilling to compromise.  She had wasted energy doing that, but she had learned. Her through line was her children she supposed.  She had made it through because they needed a mother, an intact mother so that they could grow up safely.  But they no longer needed her for survival.  Occasionally for advice or a little help, but they were capable and resilient adults. 

When they all left home, she had to find another through line and she chose taking care of her elderly father but as he needed more care and now lived in an nursing home, her tasks became less.  What was her through line now?  Why was her river still flowing if she wasn’t needed by others?  Could it be that the river was flowing just for her now?  Could the through line be the one she chose for herself?

Picking her way along the river bank, she came to the bottom of the waterfall.  The river widened once again and curving like a giant serpent,  it disappeared out of sight.  Anna stepped into the water and made her way to the centre once again.  The water was up to her armpits here and she easily pushed off and did a slow breast stroke with the current.  She liked the feeling of being carried forward, of relaxing into the lazy pull of this dance partner.

As the river brought her around the curve, she noticed a tributary entering the flow of her river. The water in this new stream was dark brown and a fascinating pattern of light and dark was created as the two waters mingled.  She brought herself into a crouch and let her hands move through the intersection area of the two rivers.  The patterns played over her hands in a kind of living piece of art and she stayed there, mesmerized by the fluidity of the creations, appearing and disappearing before appearing once again.

Here, the river widened once again, making space for both streams of water.  When her curiosity was satisfied to some degree, she leaned into the river once again and floated like a frog with an occasional stroke of her arms.  Up ahead, she saw a small island in the middle of the river.  It was covered in grass. Putting her feet down once again, she climbed onto the tiny piece of land.  There, she noticed the heart-shaped leaves of violets.  They were in full bloom, purple and yellow.  She picked one leaf and a flower, examining its tiny perfection.  Knowing that these were indeed edible and a good source of vitamin C, she popped them in her mouth and savoured the wild flavour with her eyes closed. 

When she opened her eyes again, she noticed a small Painted Turtle basking at the far end of the little island.  The sunlight highlighted the red markings on the outer rim of its dark green shell.  The turtle was using the sunlight to get enough energy to digest the food it had eaten earlier.  Anna thought about basking, soaking up energy to feed her own body and realized that that was what she had been doing with the river.  She had been soaking in the energy of the current and the trees, birds, insects, animals and plants, charging her batteries so to speak.  She made a silent offering to the turtle and then quietly slipped back into the stream.

She felt that she must be getting close to the mouth of the river by now because the water slowed down, and got deeper and wider.  The trees were more spaced out now and she could sense civilization, such a funny word, approaching.  Feeling a little sad, she swam over to the river bank and held onto a sweeper, a fallen tree that was partially hidden by the water.  Leaning against the sunken trunk, she could feel the flow of the river pushing her forward, but the tree held her firm.  She felt a reluctance to rejoin people and cars and homes and the general hubbub of life.  She was happy here in the forest, in the river, with her wild self.  She wasn’t ready to put on the masks of civility, there was that word again, checking her actions.  She longed to bring her wild self home, to be free to explore and learn.

It was then that she heard, “Who who who who.  Who who who who who.”   She looked up into the trees and saw a huge Barred Owl sitting on an Oak branch.  She called back to the owl, using the cadence of “who cooks for you?  Who cooks for you all?”  The owl replied once again.   Anna, stared up at its big dark eyes and yellow beak.  The owl returned her stare silently.  Anna knew that the owl was an ancient symbol of wisdom and the ability to see things that others can’t see.  She also knew that some people saw the owl as a harbinger of death and that hearing or seeing an owl was a warning of some change that was going to occur.  Some people even believed that the owl brought the spirit of deceased loved ones.

Somehow though for Anna, there in the river, propped up against a tree, the owl was a fellow traveller, moving through the forest.  She admired the owl’s ability to fly silently because of its soft feathers.  She liked to move through the world quietly as well, trying not to be noticed.  She closed her eyes and imagined that she could fly just like the owl.  In her imagination, she opened her long wings and flapped a few times, then glided through the tree branches.  She was amazed at how sharp her sight had become and she saw small animals darting about on the forest floor.  Squirrels froze in their places as she flew past.  She loved the feel of the air being pushed downwards by her wide wings and how graceful she felt.  She saw a tall White Pine ahead and lifted herself higher to reach the top.  Using her wings to slow her flight, she put her talons forward and landed on an upper branch.  From there, she could turn her head, almost all the way around and survey the forest.  At the edge of the trees, she could pick out cars moving along and the river flowing under a bridge and then into the big lake.  She noticed that the sun was getting close to the horizon and that the sky was turning pink.  It was time to go home.  Opening her wings once again, she lifted off of the branch and then swooped gracefully, silently down through the trees, pumping her wings every now and then.  Up ahead, she saw her woman self still resting in the river.  She landed on the Oak tree and closed her eyes.  When she opened them again, she was aware that she was getting cold, there in the water.  It was definitely time to go home. 

Anna looked up into the Oak tree but found only branches.  The owl was gone.  She made her way around the sweeper and swam strongly now downstream.  In a few minutes, she came to a grassy yard and a house.  Climbing up the little ladder onto the dock, she emerged back into the land of people once again.  Trying to make herself presentable, she squeezed the water out of her dress and ran her fingers through her hair.  Something was stuck in the tangles of her hair and she felt around to free it.  Bringing it to her face, she saw that it was an owl feather, barred with brown and white stripes.  Its outer edges were uneven.  Smiling, she popped the feather into her pocket and strode to the door of the house.  Hoping to use a phone to get a ride home, she put a smile on her face before knocking.  But it wasn’t a mask.  She was not returning to a role or a socially appropriate persona.  No.  She now knew that she could swim in the river of her life and she knew how to fly.

 

Trees Breathing Birds

We returned to the place where it had happened last year.  We knew exactly where it was, on the trail between Coldwater and Fesserton, at the edge of the bridge that crosses a little river headed for Matchedash Bay, the eastern most part of Georgian Bay. We knew the general time of year: fall and the general time of day: just before sunset but that was it.  We had talked about trying to see it again but had no definite plans.

Then at supper time one day last week, it popped into my head.  Today, is the day that we should go.  And so, we did.  We parked the car at the Trail lot in Coldwater and started walking west past the Snowmobile Trail and the farmers fields, out into marsh land, until we came to the bridge.  We stopped and looked up, waiting.  It was only a few seconds before we saw them.  Blackbirds.  All kinds of blackbirds; Red-winged, Starlings, Grackles and others.  They flock together at this time of year before migrating south for the winter.  At sunset, they fly out into the marsh in Matchedash Bay to spend the night in the cattails.

They flew fairly low over our heads in numbers small enough to count.  I lay down on a big cement block so I didn’t have to crank my neck and get vertigo.  From this vantage point, I could watch them fly over me with the blue sky and fluffy clouds as a background.  I could almost feel the line that they seemed to carve through the air, in my own tired, work-weary body.  It felt like a clearing, a lightening of the dense energy that surrounded me, like being combed with feathers.  I was content to lie there experiencing this gentle presence but my partner noticed that they were all flying to a group of tall bare trees up ahead and he could hear them singing.

So, we walked on down the trail and the sound of Red-Winged Blackbirds cheerful trill, the sharp calls of Grackles and Starlings got louder and louder as we approached the trees.  More and more birds were landing on them and they began to look like black leaves on the bare branches silhouetted against the sun that was now low in the sky.  We sat on the edge of a second bridge and hung our legs over the stagnant marsh water, bright green with duck weed.  The smell of the water in the cooling, moist air brought back memories of other marsh visits.  The serenade of thousands of voices was exciting and bright as we sat quietly absorbing the celebration.

Then suddenly, everything went dead silent.  My gaze rose and sharpened.   Something was happening.  I was completely in the moment and alert, when a huge flock rose from the trees, a silent cloud of black flapping.  The flockcloud aptly name a murmuration swirled and turned elegantly in the cool air, creating a whooshing sound as it went over us.  It took our breath away.  Literally. When the murmuration appeared, we quietly gasped and then held our breath, as if our bodies instinctively recognized the sacredness of the spectacle.  As if, even the sound of breath escaping our mouths would disrupt the majesty of that moment.  I felt my body lighten and lift slightly as the flock ascended, as the hundreds of birds moved as one, as if my heart also took flight with them.  Perhaps it did.  Perhaps the vibration of beings behaving as one resonated with my true human nature, the truth of humans being herd animals, a flock species, not lone wolves, not leopards.

It was over in a few seconds and then we both smiled at our good fortune, at the gift that had just been given, at somehow being called out by the marsh at the right time of year, at the right time of day to witness this yearly ritual of flocking.  The singing began again and we watched small numbers of birds arrive and leave.  As they left, it looked to my mystical eyes as though the tree was exhaling them in a puff of spotted smoke and then breathing more birds in, like treelungs breathing birds in and out.

After a few more minutes, suddenly, they went silent again.  I knew what this meant and I scanned the sky around the trees.  Once again, a big murmuration rose silently, swirled and twisted and then went off towards the cattails.  The silence had now become the signal to pay attention.  How did they all know it was time to rise?  How did they all know to stop singing?  What was their signal?   Or was it a group mind that just knew?

Finally, the sun went down and it started to get cold.  We couldn’t believe that there were still birds left in the trees, but there were.  We could hear them singing.  We had to get back to the car before it got dark so we reluctantly walked away, looking over our shoulders from time to time to catch last glimpses.

A few days later, following our Thanksgiving meal, my partner suggested going back to the same spot one more time.  The sun was very low in the sky as we walked briskly to the bridge.  Birds were already flying over our head as we got closer and we realized that we were arriving "later" than last time.  We could see the steady stream of birds crossing the path before we got there.  It was like a river of flowing birds, in a fairly narrow stream, all heading towards the open marsh.  They were impossible to count, so numerous were they.  The spectacle was nothing like the previous time only a few days earlier. 

 We stood and watched for around an hour.  Some birds landed in the trees to rest which seemed to jettison others off into the air.  Once again, the trees seemed in inhale birds and then exhale them.  The singing was excited and alive.  We had never seen so many birds in one flock before.  Thousands and thousands passed over our heads and the word a million seemed to be the only apt descriptor.  It reminded me of a river as they flowed by, or a big highway at rush hour, so steady was the stream.  But, we are used to those and think nothing of them -- endless water, endless traffic.  Endless birds though, that was new to us.  

It got darker and colder and the flock got thinner.  Warm tea and pumpkin pie began to beckon to us and we reluctantly headed back to the car, looking over our shoulder every now and then.  Joyful abundance, the generosity of nature, feathered beings who put aside the rivalries of mating and nesting season to join together for safety, a miracle, a thanksgiving gift to remind us to be thankful to Earth and then again, nothing to do with we humans whatsoever, relations, teachers.  All of these now live in my consciousness, all of these are part of my story, our story. 

The Fire Colours of Fall

 

Red and yellow and orange.  October’s colours comfort us as the green of spring and summer transitions.  It may be the end of the warm weather, but it is hard not to be warmed by the fire colours all around us.  Colours feed me.  They are food for my spirit.

And so, after a long workday, I rewarded myself by buying pumpkins at a farmer’s road side stand.  Payment was by the honour system and I spent a few minutes calculating how many different sized pumpkins I could get for my twenty dollar bill that has been in my wallet since the pandemic started.  After doing the mental math that reminded me of elementary school word problems, I chose a large eight dollar pumpkin and four three dollar pie pumpkins.  It felt good to support a local farmer.  It felt good to hold all that orange food.  I was renewing my relationship with pumpkins as I do every October.  After Hallowe’en, I will cook the big pumpkin and freeze the soft flesh in one cup amounts to be used in pumpkin muffins all winter.  And I will make pumpkin pies from the small ones.  Despite the world being turned on its head, I can still feed myself with my orange relations.

At home, I lugged the big pumpkin to the end of the driveway and placed it in front of the tiny corn plants that grew there in the summer.  Then, I balanced two pie pumpkins beside it for artistic flair.  Perhaps the colour will warm other people in its glow.

Last Wednesday was Orange Shirt Day .  Started by Phyllis Webstad this day is designed to educate people and promote awareness in Canada about the Indian Residential school system and the impact it had on Indigenous communities.  Many schools have adopted this day and the kids wear orange shirts to school on that day.  I wore my shirt to work and had a few conversations with people about this issue. 

Every Child Matters is the slogan for Orange Shirt Day

After arranging my pumpkins, I decided to hang my shirt above them from the Cedar tree.  The shirt reads, “Every Child Matters”.  The two shades of orange against the green Cedar is beautiful.  Hallowe’en or All Hallows Eve is actually a Christian appropriation of the Celtic New Year, Samhain when the curtain between this world and the Otherworld was the thinnest.  That's why we still have children dressed as ghosts and witches wandering the streets, well maybe not this year.  And some of the Christian churches ran the government Indian Residential schools and perpetrated great harm to thousands of children.  There's a lot of history in these orange symbols.  The orange shirt was chosen because Phyllis Webstad’s granny gave her a new orange shirt to go to her new school.  But, when she got there, her shirt was taken away from her and she never saw it again.  You can hear Phyllis tell her story here:  

The next day, we headed north to buy cranberries, those beautiful shiny red jewels that are just now being harvested.  We passed through the Mohawk Territory of Wahta First Nation to get to the cranberry bogs.  At the end of many driveways were the signs for Orange Shirt Day.  I must have sensed that coming when I hung my shirt up earlier. 

These are the signs that I saw at the ends of driveways

The frozen cranberries disappeared months ago from the store where I get my food.  We like to eat them every day in our oatmeal.  And so, I bought lots from the farm store to put in our own freezer for the coming year.  We were no longer in the farming country where I bought the pumpkins.  Now we were on the Canadian Shield where the soil is acidic, boggy, and perfect for cranberries.  After buying fresh, dried, juiced and chocolate covered cranberries, we wandered along the edge of the cranberry bogs and examined the machinery used for harvesting.  The land was filled with people escaping the city on an overcast fall day.  We all feasted our eyes on the red, orange and yellow maple leaves that fluttered down and decorated the earth.  We stocked up for the long winter ahead and we renewed our relationship with cranberries.

The next day, I pulled up the remaining Tomato plants.  There were still some green and orange tomatoes on the vines but I need to get the soil ready to plant garlic soon.  I will go to the beach down the road and harvest washed up water plants to put on the raised bed.  They will add nutrients to the soil and more biomass.  I will dig it in and then in a few weeks, I will renew my relationship with Garlic as I pop each clove into a hole in the earth and cover it up for the winter.  Then I will put more mulch that the lake washes up on top of it.  I won’t see it again until the spring when green shoots will break through the soil and reach for the sun.

As I pulled up the tomato plants and extricated the wire cages, I got a strong whiff of mint.  Looking more closely, I discovered a mint plant that I had pulled up as well.  I took it into the house to dry for tea.  I will collect seeds from my Morning Glory plants soon, full bean pods from the Scarlet Runner Beans to plant next spring and seed pods from the Nasturtiums.  I will store the seeds in paper envelopes until the spring and then I will renew my relationship with these plants as well. 

Morning Glory flower, leaves and seed pods

Scarlet Runner Beans and flowers

Red Nasturiums. green tomaotes
and Maple Leaf

As I took the tomato cages behind the shed to store for the winter, a group of white flowers caught my eye.  I hadn't seen them before. I had bought a White Snakeroot plant last fall from a woman at the Farmers' Market and planted it beside the shed not knowing if it would survive a transplant so late in the season.  This spring, there was no sign of it and I gave up.  It must have come up sometime this summer and flowered at the end of September. What a great surprise to renew my relationship with this little plant that I thought was dead.  I burst out laughing at its tenacity.

White Snakeroot flowering

As we traverse the transition from summer to fall, the bright, fire colours help us.  The delicious harvest makes us thankful and we stop to feel grateful for all our relations, human and more-than-human.  And as our world transitions, those same relations will help us by feeding our bodies, our hearts, our minds and our spirits.  The distractions that used to be normal are now unavailable but the real sustenance is all around waiting to be in relationship with us.