The Fourth of March

 It is currently 63 degrees with clear blue skies here at Bear Path Cottage. I just spent a few minutes outside, taking pictures in the gardens and making plans for working this afternoon. Sometime in the last three days, the forsythias all went from buds to blooms, and that little hedge of yellow is a cheery sight!

In early April of 2019, we were waiting to close on the purchase of the Cottage. I was still recovering from my knee replacement surgeries, and Rhodes and my eldest daughter, Katie, constructed a little greenhouse on the deck at the Mountain. She took clippings from the humongous forsythia growing on the Mountain for 20 years and then started 30 forsythia slips for me. To my surprise and great happiness, those survived my care in the greenhouse and have thrived growing on the northeast corner of the Cottage proper, where my father-in-law helped me plant them. Every bright yellow blooming branch will always be a reminder that it is okay to ask for help when you need it and okay to accept help when it is offered. 

The other early yellow bloom in the garden has been shining bright for a few days. In 2022, my sweet friend Wendy sent me a box of daffodil bulbs she had dug up from her gardens. I planted them between the Juneberry trees near the road edge, and for the last two years, they have been bright lights of love and happiness, and some of the earliest blooms of Spring. 

I love having this garden reminder of my dear friend. I think of them as "Wendy's daffs". They stir memories of happy times, good conversations, and hopes of seeing each other again. Wendy's love of her home, gardens, cooking, and family is nothing short of phenomenal and helped me believe that my own dreams of home could come true. (If you read this, dear ladybug, that hippy you're married to ain't so bad either! So much love to you both!)

Spring always wakes the extra deep layers of hope within me. New growth and life are stirring, and old growth is stronger for having come through the winter. Over the next couple of weeks I'll be spending a lot of time outside, talking with the land spirits and observing the way water, air, and light are moving over the land. I don't have any new projects planned for this year, but I need to stay in tune with this tiny ecosystem so I can continue to support it. 

We lift each other up every day. And on the most challenging days, through the darkest times, we offer each other safe space and understanding. This is how love wins. 

This is how we save the world. 

The sweetest thing I saw in the garden this morning was a pair of Mourning Doves. They were walking around together, probably looking for nesting sites. They didn't pay much attention to my presence, other than to walk in the opposite direction from me once they saw me. One had the biggest coral pink blaze on its shoulder that I've ever seen on a dove. So beautiful. I love that they feel safe here. 

I love that I feel safe here, and that I have the opportunity to share portions of this magic with my friends. 

Peace, and much love from Bearpath Cottage.

This is How the World Goes Round

This is How the World Goes Round 

I didn’t want to walk this morning.
But the swallows are flying over the water
and I needed to see the way their wings flutter,
the way their bodies shudder and stutter
until the moment they dive and become pure grace.

I didn’t want to walk this morning.
But a fish broke the surface near the edge of the lake
and the ripples are spreading,
changing the world without making a sound
and I needed to see the new pattern so I can find my way.

I didn’t want to walk this morning.
But a blue heron is flying overhead,
great wings stretched wide, great legs dangling behind,
going from one place to another without telling anyone where or why
and I wanted to wish him an excellent journey.

I didn’t want to walk this morning,
but the river is rushing along next to the path,
gems glistening and glimmering on her gown.
She’s singing a ballad, still drunk and happy from last night’s rain,
and I wanted to hear the story in her song.

I didn’t want to walk this morning,
but there woven between tall stalks of lambs quarter
a spiderweb shimmers in the sun,
here one moment and gone the next
and I must learn that ancient magic.

There’s a black snake slithering among the rocks
on the edge of the path, body twisting and curving as it moves.
The red-winged blackbirds are falling from the sky,
darting to the ground, trilling their songs.
Geese and ducks sail, turtles amble along,
and this is how the world goes round.

I didn’t want to walk this morning
but the bees are in the lavender, buzzing and humming
in ways that I am certain weave all of creation together
and I simply have to know their secrets. 

(c) Sheri Barker
June 2023 

 

 

 

Here Comes the Sun - a Celebration of Science and Nature

This memory from December 2019 has been on my mind for the last few days. I know the extra challenges that isolation amidst the pandemic and other social issues are adding to my life this year. I can't help but wonder how many people are struggling to connect with something, anything, any piece of hope or happiness they can find. 

I originally shared this story to highlight how simple it can be to let someone else feel like they matter. A year later, when so many are walking a tight-rope, I am sharing it again for that same reason, and perhaps as a reminder that there is at least one seasonal option for a celebration that has nothing to do with faith or religion. 

December 2019

I stopped at a chain pharmacy store to pick up a few things tonight. I usually avoid new to me places, but I’ve driven by this one 13,000 times since we moved, there weren’t any cars in the parking lot, and I needed two specific items and some chocolate. Don’t judge.

I was browsing the holiday stuff aisle, amazed at how much crap we consume in the name of giving, when a voice said, “Can I help you find something?”

I looked up and almost walked out of the store when I saw the female clerk standing there. She was one of the far too many women who look like my Beth did towards the end of her life. Sometimes seeing those shades of my daughter is a total system shock, much like going into cold water for a swim.

I paused to catch my breath, then answered, "No, thank you, I’m just looking."

She said something about holiday shopping that I couldn't quite hear, and then she quickly walked away.

When I was ready to check out, that clerk was at the counter. I was determined not to even look at or chat with her, but you know I can't do that. I cannot treat people as if they are invisible. Once again, she said something about the holidays and then said, “Not everybody wants to celebrate them. Not everyone can.”

I responded with something like, you know it’s okay if you don’t. Somehow, that removed the wall between us, and while I was standing there at the checkout, she poured her heart out.

She isn’t a Christian and doesn’t believe in Christmas. Her daughter is 18 this year, and they won’t ever do Christmas again. It’s too hard, just too painful, and it costs too much, and, and, and.

And.

I just listened as she talked. She obviously needed to vent, and why not let her? Why not hold space for and share space with someone else’s daughter? The last thing she said in her recitation of pain and unhappiness was that she likes some of the pretty decorations, but there isn’t anything for her to celebrate.

I said, "Well, you know, the Sun is coming back. I think that’s worth celebrating."

“What do you mean?” she asked. 

I offered her a brief explanation of the Winter Solstice and Yule, that the days will be getting longer again, and that it’s just science and a love of sunshine and warmer days. No belief system is necessary.

She was silent while she finished ringing up my purchases. After I paid and she handed me the receipt, she smiled at me and said, “I think my daughter would like that idea. I’m going to see if she’ll help me look it up.”

Then she smiled an even bigger smile and wished me happy holidays.

Of course, she has no idea that I’ve seen that smile before. Of course, she has no idea that she brought a bit of unexpected brightness to my day, to replace the unexpected sadness.

I hope I brought the same to hers. 

Please choose kindness when you are able. Be the Sun.

And oh - Sing this with feeling. 

https://youtu.be/KQetemT1sWc

Daily Practices

I have been working on re-establishing some daily practices. I had overwhelmed myself by trying to establish new routines for my entire day, and since my brain just isn't wired that way anymore, that attempt was a colossal disaster. 

So I backed off. I forgave myself for my perceived failure. I regrouped and reconsidered, and decided to try a more gentle approach, going in toes first instead of diving headlong. 

I found something new that interested me - setting a trail camera on our property to keep an eye on wildlife activity. Then I set the alarm on my phone to remind myself to go and change out the SD card. The alarm has a distinctive sound, a clip from John Denver's song "Wild Montana Skies." https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8RRgIP-0pHk It is not a sound I can ignore, and I haven't been ignoring it for about two months now. Every night I change the card, regardless of the weather, or how tired I am or if I have a dozen other things to do. There are no excuses for not completing the task. The lure of a new thing, the alarm reminder, and determination helped me establish that new daily practice. 

At the beginning of August, I found another new thing that interested me. The first foggy morning reminded me of the lore that says that there will be a snowfall in winter for every foggy morning in August. Every year I am reminded of that lore, and every year I say I'm going to keep track, but I never do until this year. I have taped an index card right next to my keyboard on my desk, and it is divided into two columns: August Fog and Winter Snowfalls. Every morning I make a hash mark on the index card if there was fog. Today is August 21st, and so far, we have had 16 foggy mornings here at Bear Path Cottage. Another daily practice in place. 

Somewhere in the foggy morning check, I decided to add my daily walkabout and outside morning meditation back to my practices. Because I already have to get up and get outside to tend the chickens, this was a logical next step. 

There are other daily practices I have reintroduced or created anew. Meditation. Ritual. Writing. It was easier to build off the first one in place than to implement them all at once. A key to my success in maintaining these daily practices is to allow myself some flexibility with time. That flexibility keeps me from feeling like the day is ruined if I don't have Practice A done by a certain time. I have reclaimed my ability to roll with the flow. 

This morning as I sat for meditation, the sky opened up, and a soft rain started to fall. I stayed where I was, under the juniper boughs, undisturbed. I knew that when I went back inside, I would fix a cup of tea and carry it to my desk. I would sit down to mark the fog record, and then I would begin writing. The tea would warm the chill from the rain, and the daily practices would continue to bring comfort and stability in difficult times. They contribute to maintaining a sense of being grounded and centered in a tempestuous world. I am grateful for the circumstances that allowed me to recognize the need to rebuild my daily routines and the life experiences that have taught me how to do so.

Today's tea: Catskill Mountain Tea Company's Winter Cherry

A Glimpse of the Magic at Bear Path Cottage

Time spent out of doors yesterday was a gift from the first mist-filled moment of the day. The slightly cooler temperature and the quality of light were a taste of early Autumn. My body and spirit welcomed the change and the promise of days to come. 

In the early afternoon, I took my flower basket and went to the front gardens to tend to the patch of orange and yellow calendula. I sat on the ground in the curve at the southern edge of the garden, deadheading blooms that had gotten past me, harvesting the good ones. The spicy-sweet scent of the blooms filled the air. My fingers became sticky from the resin in the green bracts of the calendula flowers. The sun was warm on my back and a pleasant breeze was blowing through. I was content. 

Then I heard my husband call my name. I was so immersed in my work I hadn't noticed him approach the nearby garden arch.

"Sheri," he said in the quiet voice that he uses for only the most amazing announcements.
"There is a bear in a field across the street." 

The tone of his voice pulled me to my feet. I looked towards the neighbors' house because it is the site of frequent bear activity. Rhodes saw the direction I was looking and said, "No, over here. In the empty lot, under the trees."

Together we walked to our North fence line, looking for movement or the shadow that is not a shadow. We have hunted bears together for years, but never before at the Cottage. I should have felt thrilled or excited, but instead, I felt as though I were moving towards a holy moment. I knew I was approaching a great mystery. 

Just as I reached the fence, the far upper branches of the apple tree in the empty lot began to shake, and I saw a not-so-tiny black shadow figure playing on the branches. Then I saw another shadow in the same tree, and a third moving in the space between the apple tree and the nearby crepe myrtle. I thought this must be the mother and two cubs who passed through our orchard not too long ago. I smiled, delighted to see them. 

Then she moved. She sat up out of the tall grass, eyes bright, mouth slightly open. I could see her snout moving as she sniffed the air.  I could see her teeth. She was huge; probably 300 pounds of dangerous muscle and beauty, and I couldn't take my eyes off her face. Her coat and the area around her eyes glistened black where the sunlight touched it, but her snout was a soft brownish-tan. Fascinating. Gloriously beautiful. Mesmerizing. 

Then she moved again, and the spell was momentarily broken. I realized I was looking at the momma bear with three cubs, and she was checking to see what they were up to. I had been so focused on her that I hadn't heard the ruckus the cubs were making as they played. They were climbing up and then tumbling out of the apple tree, calling back and forth to each other with voices that sounded like baby goats talking.  One of them would scamper off to murdalize* some saplings, then come bounding back to tackle a sibling. 

Round and round they went, while their momma rested beneath the apple tree, 30 yards away from me. We were separated by two fences, a road, tall grass and brush, and that distance, and I could still feel the power of her presence. 

I know she could smell and hear us, but she did not seem to think we were a threat to her babies or to her. Had she given any indication that our presence disturbed her, we would have moved away. That is the golden rule of wildlife encounters, and we do not break that rule. 

I lost track of time while watching her and the cubs. What an indescribably amazing gift, to be able to observe them so clearly. We used to spend days adventuring in places like Cades Cove, hoping to have such encounters. And here it was, happening right at home. Neither the cubs nor momma bear were ever still. She would recline, then sit back up, looking around and sniffing the air. 

At one point I moved just as Rhodes spoke to me, and she turned to look directly at us again. Our eyes met for an instant. Two momma bears, acknowledging each other from worlds apart. For this momma bear, the mystery was deepened. I don't believe the connection meant as much to her. 

Not long after that, she stood up and stretched. Her cubs had wandered off and were squawling, and she was ready to go and find them. I watched as she ambled away, seemingly in no hurry.

She was magnificent. 

I was blessed. 

*Acknowledgment to the good folks at Appalachian Bear Rescue for coining the word, "murdalize" to describe how cubs treat saplings. You can learn more about ABR's important work here: https://appalachianbearrescue.org/

My Personal Almanac

There has been a feeling of detachment hovering around me lately, of disconnection and a low, abiding sorrow seemingly outside the scope of the world as seen through the lenses of the impact of the pandemic, isolation, and civil unrest. I haven't been able to pinpoint the source of these feelings,  and not for a lack of trying. I've just been missing something and I'm not quite sure what it is.

Two days ago I received a package from my favorite tea business, Catskill Mountain Tea Company, with seven different blends of tea. Rootbeer, Thorne Valley, Autumn Leaves, Golden Sunrise, Winter Cherry, Rip van Winkle, and Serenity Valley. The names themselves are delicious, and the scents overwhelmed me in a happy way as soon as I opened the shipping box. Sassafras, lemon, rose, ashwagandha, jasmine, just to name a few. I opened each bag and tin so I could take a good whiff of each tea and decide which I wanted to try first. As I did that I finally identified what I have been missing.

As much as I am a homebody, I also love to be on the go, adventuring with my love. I am used to noticing and marking the passing of the seasons by what I see blooming in gardens and fields as we drive along. The seasonal views and the bloom cycles of the native wildflowers of the Blue Ridge Parkway are part of my personal almanac, and I feel somewhat adrift for not seeing them.

I miss roadside produce stands and their hand-lettered signs that tell me what they have in stock, and thereby knowing what is in season. I even miss thinking things like, "It's too early for peaches here, those can't be local." I miss thinking nothing of driving down to South Carolina to find peaches, then driving home with the car filled with the intoxicatingly sweet scent of luscious, juicy goodness. I miss going on an unplanned day-trip around this area, seeking berries and corn and green beans and knowing that we could stop whenever we felt like it for a meal or a drink in a local diner. I miss seeing a large bloom of honeysuckle and parking nearby to breathe in that heady scent and harvest a few blooms to taste the nectar.

I miss wandering through farmers markets, taking in the vibrant colors and aromas, marking the seasons by what is available, what looks healthy, what smells fresh and good. I miss asking the growers and makers about their products. I miss coming home with a basket full of goodness.

I am surrounded by gardens here at the Cottage, but I am in the early stages of knowing the seasons here because they are quite different than they were in the shadows of Mount Pisgah. When I moved from upstate New York to the mountains of North Carolina it took time for my body and spirit to adjust to the differences in how and when the seasons presented, and I was able to do that by paying attention to the sensory clues that nature makes available.

Now that I know what I've been missing, I will work on finding a way to adapt.

Going Green, Gone Solar

About 750 years ago I was a little kid living in a small town in upstate New York. It was actually the only city in a rural county, surrounded by dairy and farm land, and from my youthful perspective not the kind of place where progressive thinking was a common thing. Yet somebody was progressive enough to install a solar energy system on a little house near the high school, and before I knew anything about anything I was enchanted by the thought of the Sun keeping a home warm. Solar energy became part of my eventual dream for a little cottage. 

Fast forward centuries later, and Rhodes and I bought a little house last year that clearly had the potential for becoming our combined dream home, and the house that needed some work became Bear Path Cottage. 

As a couple we are committed to going green as much as we can. We aren't ever going to win any awards for being environmental heroes, but we do our best to reduce our negative impact on the environment, and to reduce our carbon footprint. The green changes we have made to the outside of the property are the most visually evident ones; adding gardens and planting trees and other things to attract and sustain pollinators as well as make our family a little more food independent is a big deal to us. If we don't beat the birds, raccoons, and bears to the berries every year, well, that's just part of the gardening game in the mountains and they are just some of the neighbors we can share our harvest with. 

Some additional changes we made were replacing the electric tank water heater with a gas tankless system, replacing old windows with more energy efficient ones, and when we decided to add a parking space for my father-in-law's entrance to the house we opted for a permeable parking system. That choice was inspired by (though it looks nothing like)  the amazing parking system that we saw when we visited The Wild Center in Tupper Lake, NY. (https://www.wildcenter.org/thrive-together/sustainable-building/our-green-facility/) Those water penetrable paver lots made such an impression on us we carried the thought of them with us for four years. Thanks, Wild Center!

We had long discussed and agreed that we wanted to implement solar options if we bought a house where it was suitable. The long roof side of Bear Path Cottage is directly south facing and is basically a solar dream. After we closed on the house I attempted to research reputable local solar companies, but it is not easy to find information about that. The regional electric company was also no help, and there is actually a great deal of misinformation on the internet. We decided to put that project on the back burner until we could find more information. 

We had just started talking about it again when I saw that a former colleague is working as a sales rep for a solar company. I chatted with her a bit, did some research on the company, and then she came to meet with us to discuss the process. We were excited by the options presented to us, and couldn't wait to get started.

In February of this year a crew installed the solar panels on our roof. I admit it was a little disconcerting to listen to people drill holes in the less than a year old Cottage roof, but the work crew was professional, our rep was on top of everything, and in half a day's time we had the bones of the system in place. 

Duke Energy seemed to drag their feet on their end of things that had to happen to get the system running, and then the arrival of a pandemic and the related shut downs also slowed things down a bit. No worries - we are patient people. After more paperwork, and more emails, and the installation of the net meter, we were finally ready to power up. 

Four days ago Rhodes followed careful instructions from the solar company and flipped the switches that officially turned Bear Path Cottage into a generating facility, complete with a net meter and a solar photovoltaic generating system. But what do these $5 words even mean? 

For starters, it does not mean that we are off the electric grid, and it does not mean we can make money from the electricity generated by our solar panels. Duke Energy doesn't like either of those things, and does not allow them to happen. 

However, it does mean that we are now offsetting our electric bills with renewable energy produced through the solar panels/generating system installed at the Cottage. This is how our solar company explains our system: "After solar panels are installed on your home you begin producing power. Any excess power your home doesn’t use will be sent back to your utility company. Your electric meter will run backwards. You will feed excess energy to the utility company during the day and then receive it back during the nighttime, at no cost."

It also means that some time down the road when solar batteries became an affordable option we will be able to store any excess energy produced by our generating system and then potentially go off grid. Additionally, we will still pay Duke Energy for whatever usage we have over and above what the Cottage produces. 

In less than four whole days the system has produced 58 kilowatt hours of electricity, and yesterday produced nearly 25 kWh. According to Duke Energy, we used 773 kWh in the last billing cycle of 31 days, which averages out to slightly less than 25 kWh per day. Translation: overall we are breaking even with output and usage, so are successfully reducing our use of fossil fuels and our carbon emissions. That's a good feeling, and another part of the dream coming true.

Dear hometown person from the 1970's who installed a solar energy system: someone noticed, and it made a difference. Thank you. 

Note: No photos, because the electric system bits are boring, and the panels blend so well with our roof that they are difficult to distinguish from the angle from which I could take a photo. So, here's a photo of the view from the Eagle's Nest at The Wild Center. 

Finding Grace

Today I wrote to a friend that I have been trying to find some grace in every day.

I am tired. Somedays I am exhausted, even beyond the normal fatigue I deal with because of some health issues, or the physical fatigue that comes from working outside as much as I am able, and I think that this is normal during this difficult time. The pandemic and the political climate in this country, on top of everything else going wrong in this world, can be overwhelming. So I make myself slow down, I make myself see, I make myself hear, I make myself feel, and by doing that, I find grace, which in turn gives me hope and some sense of peace in this Upside Down.

Yesterday morning I was busy moving wagon loads of plant debris from the raised bed in the front yard to the compost pile out back. Its a bit of a walk and on my second trip back I sat down on Blueberry Hill to rest. The sun was warm on my face and there was a light breeze blowing. I closed my eyes for a while and did a quiet meditation, then I opened my arms and let that wind move through me, carrying away all that was negative.

When I opened my eyes again the day seemed a little brighter. I heard the low cooing of a Mourning Dove in the loblolly pine branches above me, and I turned my eyes to see if I could find the bird. A pair of them had been nesting in another tree in our front garden, but had abandoned that nest after a wind storm. I was hoping to find their new home space, but they both moved in and out of the high-up branches and then flew away.

Movement on the ground caught my eye and I saw a female American Robin doing a funny little walk/run across the driveway, moving towards where I was sitting. She would stop and look at me, then run a little more. She eventually went up the hill past me and I watched until she caught a worm then flew up into the tree over my head. And lo, there it was. This year's nest in the loblolly pine. The minute she stepped close to it two little heads on two scrawny necks popped up out of the nest, and those little mouths were wide open, ready for their elevenses.

The Sun was lined up so perfectly behind that nest, behind that branch, that in that moment the babies were completely backlit. The light actually shone through their beaks, illuminating them and making them appear transluscent. It reminded me of last Autumn when the rising Sun shone through the sunflowers blooming in our front garden; the whole scene was so magical that I held my breath, not wanting it to end.

Then their mom moved to feed them, and in the next instant she was fluffing her wings and settling down over her babies in the nest. Take whatever message you want to take from that moment, from that image, but I was just so overwhelmed by love that I cried.

I sat there under the tree for a while longer, musing about that moment of grace and about the way the Wheel turns. Moments pass, days go by, the year moves on, but I am often gifted with reminders of how everything is connected. Sunflowers and baby birds kissed by the same Sun. Friends who share music that makes them dance, or laugh, or cry, or worship. Art that makes people smile or sigh. Garden talk and critter pictures; despair and hope; loss and love.

There is grace in every bit of it, and I am blessed.

One Mississippi...Two Mississippi...

I am awake in the wee hours of the morning, summoned by the noise and power of the first real thunderstorm of the season rolling through the river valley in which I live. Without even thinking about it, I find myself counting the intervals between each flash of lightning and burst of thunder, and my mind is flooded with memories of comforting and empowering my children in the dark and stormy nights of their tender years. 

The helper is a simple meditation and sleep ritual that I never realized was either one of those things until now. The children would call to me or come to me in the dark, frightened by the storm, and we would wind up snuggled together, sometimes just one of them and me, sometimes all of us snuggled together on the couch. In the lull after a boomer I would ask "Are you ready? Let's watch now," and they would very nearly hold their breath, waiting for the night sky to light up. When it did, we would count outloud together: One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi. 

BOOM! The thunder would come, and they would jump, but their eager minds were already busy watching for the next flash to cross the sky. As they grew older those lulls between flash and boom were often filled with questions about different kinds of lightning, how storms move, or what animals do during storms. They each went through a phase when they just had to spell out the word, Mississippi, in the sing-song rhyming chants so many of us know from childhood, and I remember a night one of the girls dissolved into giggles because she was missing her top front teeth and couldn't say the word. 

I would gently encourage them to hush, to watch, to listen, to quiet their breathing so they could hear. They learned that they could tell when the storm was drawing closer and when it was moving away. The lull between boom and flash would lengthen, their fear would settle, their breathing would slow, and eventually they would not so much fall back to sleep as to be carried there by the peace of the lull and the sound of the rain. 

Sometimes when it storms now, I wonder if they remember. 

The boomers have passed through now, and the sound of the rain is hypnotic and sweet. My gardens are being watered, and I am going to wrap myself in gratitude and allow the rain to lullaby me back to sleep. 

Yarrow for the Heartache

Walter has insisted that I work at my desk this morning, so here I am. I'm catching up on messages and emails, writing a review, and staring at my journals and my pile of unused journals like maybe I recognize them, but I'm just not sure. You know, like when you see that person in the store or on the train or at the show, and you are wondering if you went to school with them or maybe met them at a business meeting or they might have sat at the table next to you at that restaurant you went to two months ago when we still believed it was safe to dine out.
I have been woefully neglectful of my daily writing practice, and I realized yesterday that it is because I am avoiding writing about COVID-19 and what it is doing to the world. I don't know. Maybe it is triggering the Anne Frank nightmares of my childhood or something. Maybe it is just one too many traumas; one more level down the abyss that this country's current political environment dragged us into. One more monster in the Upside Down.
I am saturating my social media content with garden stuff because that's where the hope grows for me. That is where the distraction lies as well. I'm soaking up all the art and music and nature that other people are sharing because my spirit needs those balms. Who knew that Penguins touring zoos and aquariums could actually warm the human heart?
There are times that I am overwhelmed by everything that is happening, and it usually hits me from out of the blue. I will be sitting on the couch or out in the garden or talking with Rhodes, and all of a sudden I find myself crying. All of a sudden I am aware of the fear and concern I have for the people I love, for my friends, and for my community, both local and world-wide.
My daughter works in a health care practice that is essential. Their office cannot close, and they are affiliated with the local hospital. My mind does not allow me to acknowledge this in every minute of every day but I am all too aware of the number of health care workers who have died from COVID-19 and I am terrified for my child. I keep that fear locked away in a box inside my head because if I didn't I wouldn't be able to function.
I am worried about other people in my family, some as much for the psychological strain caused by unemployment and uncertainty as for the disease itself. My 82 year old father in law lives with us and we have just now managed to convince him to stop going to the grocery store. We have everything we need in this house right now; there is no point in risking his life or our lives for things we might want.
I worry that I can't do enough to help other people at a time when I *should* be helping as much as possible. And then I remind myself, or my husband reminds me, that we are doing the best we can to help those we can help, in all the ways that we can help, and that is all anyone can do.
So, I am silencing my muse because I am afraid of what she has to say. She rebels in my head, gets wild and loud and crazy, and sometimes bursts through the seams so that I hear little bits of what she has to say. But while I am silencing her, I am tuned in with perfection to the Divine all around me, and I have a sneaking suspicion they are passing notes.
A few weeks ago before things went completely topsy turvy, I acquired some plants for the altar we keep for our Beth. I've never grown yarrow, but I've seen it and admired it, and I saw some at the nursery and I just had a sudden knowing. "Get the yarrow," the quiet voice said. "See how beautiful it is? Beth would love this." Then an even quieter voice said "Yarrow for the Heartache. You could write about that."
I got the yarrow, and later that night when I sat down to do some research, I'm fairly certain I heard the quieter voice giggle when I found a dozen articles about the uses of yarrow to comfort the heart.
I'm still musing about how to write about the Yarrow, but here's some free verse that's flowing through my head like water over the rocks in a small creek, catching here, stopping there, turning, skipping along.
Peace out, peeps.

When this is all said and done Will you remember when a stranger bumping into you In the market was an annoyance and not a death threat?

Will you remember the privileged horror
Of the finally undeniable truth that children in your
Neighborhoods go hungry every day?

Will you remember that Margie next door
Baked homemade cornbread for the neighbor girl
Who brought buttermilk home for her?

Or that Kim shared beagle pictures to make us smile
And Star shared recipes and let her cats work the stove
And Karen's cat learned to use the Ipad to watch videos?

Edie who kept her grandbaby and crossed generations to care for those she loves.
Chris who has to love her mother from a distance, and
Others who cannot touch or hug or see their children and grandchildren or friends.

Will you remember those who shared wisdom and
Those who shared words intended to comfort and
Those who reached through the screen to send love?

Those who stood up against injustice and
Those who muddied the waters and
Those who fought for all of us and meant it?

Yo Yo Ma is giving us Songs of Comfort and
So are Garth and Tricia, Paul Simon, Jimmy Fallon,
Gail Gidot, and people who can't carry a tune in a bucket
And my ears are drinking it up.

Sidewalk chalk art is as inspiring and beautiful as the
Free tours of the Met and the Getty and the Tate and
Dear Goddess, please let me keep believing that I will
Tour them for real in the Great Regathering someday.

I am crying for strangers and grieving for families and whole nations
And thinking of the exquisite bouquets my friend Wrex creates
And the love and hope that she effortlessly and magically imbues them with

And I suddenly feel hopeful again, thinking wry thoughts
About how to show love in this Time of Chaos,
And offering Yarrow for the Heartache we are all feeling. 

Magical Monarchs

Rhodes and I share interest in many things, but gardening, in general, is not one of them. He listens when I talk about garden plans (English style cottage garden is the BIG thing on the list!), and offers input when I ask, but pretty much leaves the garden plans to me and my dreams. Well, giving credit where credit is due, he also provides labor and project work, too! 

One of the few exceptions to this state of affairs is our mutual desire to create as much pollinator friendly space on our small property as we possibly can. More specific than that, we have a plan to put in several beds of Milkweed (Asclepias spp.) to hopefully draw Monarch butterflies to our yard.

It might seem a little odd to be talking about butterflies in early Autumn, but this is one of the best times of the year to see Monarch butterflies as their annual migration takes them through this area. We would both be deliriously happy to actually see that event taking place. https://www.blackmountainnews.com/story/life/2019/09/25/events-focus-monarch-butterfly-migration-through-swannanoa-valley/2369940001/?fbclid=IwAR2nmd_tA5k32rQWZhQi4LQsdruK2S-rv8MS2_DaQC6s0ha1PQA0_x_7IHE

I was writing earlier today when Rhodes called to me from his convalescent post in the living room. I swear the man has eagle eyes; he can ID a bird from a hundred yards. Anyway, the front door was open and he had a clear view of the sunflowers in the front garden, and had spotted a single Monarch taking a meal from the sticky-sweet flower heads.

Another magical moment brought to us by the Cottage. I was enchanted and delighted and thought the experience could not possibly be any better, until my new friend flew around to the far side of the flowers, alighted, and opened his wings to be illuminated by sunlight. Stained glass windows have nothing on this natural beauty.

I'm going to sleep tonight counting tiny, fiery, gorgeous butterflies dancing across red and yellow flowers. So long sheep!

Good night, peeps. Sleep sweetly!

~sb

The Autumn Equinox - Balance in All Things

I am an intuitive person, and as a writer and a spiritual practitioner I have long embraced that aspect of myself. Intuition carries me to the deepest, most magical, brightest, darkest places of thought and emotion and connection in my life. It connects me to my muses, to my Divines, to the people and places I most love. It is my strongest protection, the internal compass that guides me along paths both troubled and happy.

Somehow, in the past year, I have been living Harry Dresden moments. Somehow, in the past year, some Thing dropped a rock wall between my Spirit/Mind and my Intuition. Somehow, despite the hours of therapy and hours of consult and hours of conversation with friends, I could not see that rock wall. It has been crumbling for a while, and occasionally the light breaks through, but I just didn’t realize that it was there. (Side note to catch you up if you need it: No Dresden spoilers here, if you haven’t read the books yet, but the rock wall dropping Thing in my life was simply the ultimate realization of Grief.)

Not long after I woke this morning, I went out on the porch to greet the rising Sun on this holy day of Mabon, the Autumn Equinox. I closed my eyes and lifted my face to the warm touch of sunlight, relaxing into a soft meditation. When I opened my eyes again the first thing I noticed was the shining little rows of dewdrops lining the porch railing. My eyes moved from there to the row of sunflowers in front of me, and I noticed how brilliant their color is with the morning sun shining through them. I saw the dew glistening on their leaves, and then I noticed the same with the tall standing corn. Those long green leaves were covered with dew, and as my eyes moved up the stalks, I saw dew drops on the tips of the silks, and even on the tassels.

I was simply enjoying this visual nature show at face value, which would have been a marvelous start to my day. Then the bird chorus started their song, singing the Sun into the sky with their rising chorus. My ears woke up then, and I heard the oddest background rhythm; it was the steady plink, plink, plink sound of dripping water. I wondered if the hose was leaking, and as I stood to look over the edge of railing into the South yard, the rain chain caught my attention.

The dew this morning was so heavy that it was pooling in the flower-shaped cups of the rain chain. I sat back down and watched with delight as fat, round droplets of water ran down the copper lines of the chain, catching diamond points of light from the Sun.

It was magical. It was magical and it woke something inside me; it pushed another section of that rock wall over and next thing I knew I was inside getting a bottle to harvest the Equinox dew. I tried catching it out of the copper cups but just couldn’t get it. My eyes wandered back to the broad, smooth surface of the corn stalk leaves, and then the rest of me wandered that way as well, down the steps and around the corner until I was standing in front of the corn. I did manage to get a few drops of dew into the bottle, but I knew in that moment that was not really what I was supposed to be doing and I put the bottle into my pocket.

My feet were on the Earth on this Holy Day. I closed my eyes and grounded myself deeply, until I felt the roots of my being mingling with the roots of the corn, and the roots of the sunflowers, and the roots of the Loblolly Pine standing tall in the yard. I used my hands to gather the dew from the leaves of the corn plant, and as I did that a soft breeze went by. A favorite ritual song played through my mind in that moment, and I smiled. Earth my body…Water my blood…Air my breath and Fire my spirit. The corn tassels are tall above me, so I was looking at the Sun through those waving tresses as I raised my eyes to the light once more. I washed my face in the Mabon dew; not seeking beauty as one does with the May but washing myself with Balance as I move into the introspective time that lies ahead.

Autumn has been my favorite season for as long as I can remember, but in the last years of my daughter’s life every Autumn came with a sense of foreboding. This year the ghost of that dread is finally gone; those shadows laid to rest. This year every leaf that I watch fall will represent a healthy letting go; the normal cycle of life and death, beginnings and endings. I am ready to immerse myself in the work of these darkling days, holding a sense of peace rather than uncertainty.

The harvest continues in earnest; gathering in that which is ripe and full, and storing aspects for the future. The days ahead are a time for introspection and preparation for growth. Take with you what you need and leave behind that which no longer sustains you. It is a fine balance point, methinks, to learn that once we let go of something it still serves a purpose. Food for the fish. Mulch for own personal growth. Leaves on the ground; stalks in the field - it all serves to nourish the body eventually.

Do something you love. Spend time in a favorite place. Try something new. Learn something new. Adventure under the sun. Adventure by the light of the stars. Howl at the moon. Let the Autumn sunlight kiss your face. Create something. Let go of something. Shatter something that no longer adds value to your life. Spend time with people who make you happy. Deepen your relationship with your Divine. Take time to share a meal with others. Share kindness with strangers. Share kindness with yourself.

Be fully present in your life.

I can hear the busy chirping calls of the Golden Finches as they enjoy the harvest of sunflower seeds in the front gardens. Another smile in my day. Time for me to step away from my desk and continue to be present in other areas of my life.

Blessed Mabon, my friends. May you find your blessings equally in the light and darkness on this Autumn Equinox.

The Gone Befores Wall

Wednesday night I found myself home alone for the first time in a while. I puttered around a bit, still working on clearing out the Guest Room, but I finally gave in to the pull of the night and went and sat on the front steps. 

The night-time light is different here in little suburbia than in the forest, of course. The stars don't seem as bright but I can see the clouds without them having to cross the path of the Moon in order to have shape. There are many more human created noises, but the voices of the land and nature speak to me as they have always done. 

Ahhhht. I know I just wrote that, and I don't want to erase it, but I have to amend it to acknowledge that my connection with the Cottage has changed the way I hear those voices. I feel more deeply grounded, more rooted, more connected, and it seems to me that the voices speak more clearly than ever before in any place other than my beloved Adirondacks. I am having the same experience with my connection to my Gone Befores in a way that is somewhat different from the normal change in that connection at this time of year. 

I listened to the night for a while, letting it sink into my bones and my being. As I often do, I talked to the plants and trees, telling them how beautiful they are and how much I admire and appreciate their effort and determination. The sunflowers nodded their heads at me and the leaves of the corn plants whispered softly. I had a conversation with Bear Spirit, acknowledging the turning of the Wheel of the Year towards Autumn, and asking Him to continue to protect and bless us all. I could feel the weight of His presence in the ether around me, and was comforted.

At one point I took a deep breath of night air, then sighed. Without knowing that I was going to do it, I began to lullaby the Cottage and her land. I was a little surprised by the song, but it felt right, and I sang these words that I first learned at Samhain Ritual with Mother Grove. The song is called Hold Me:

Hold me, hold me, never let me go.

Hold me like the leaves on the ends of the branches.

And when I die let me fly, let me fly

Through the air like the leaves when they're falling.

Hold me, hold me, never let me go.

Hold me like the stars in the sky high above me.

And when I die let me fly, let me fly

Through the sky like the stars when they're falling. 

In our home we have an Ancestor Altar and a Gone Befores wall where we keep photos and mementos of those who have moved on. As I was sitting on the front steps that wall was through the door and directly behind me. While I was singing I could feel the gentle weight of love and power of all those Gone Befores, even those not represented on the wall, as if they were reminding me that they have my back. Reminding me that they are here for me, even now, even if they were not in this lifetime.

Their presence and the night sounds carried me to another song, one that touches my spirit and always brings comfort. It also brings humor and laughter when applied to certain Gone Befores and their insistence on shining through in funny ways. The musicians are Sweet Honey in the Rock, and the song is called Breaths.

Chorus:

Listen more often to things than to beings

Listen more often to things than to beings

'Tis the ancestors' breath when the fire's voice is heard

'Tis the ancestors' breath in the voice of the water.

Those who have died have never, never left

The dead are not under the earth

They are in the rustling trees

They are in the groaning woods

They are in the crying grass,

They are in the moaning rocks

The dead are not under the earth.

CHORUS

Those who have died have never never left.

The dead have a pact with the living.

They are in the woman's breast,

They are in the wailing child

They are with us in our homes.

They are with us in the crowd

The dead have a pact with the living.

CHORUS

You may not know that for many pagan folk this time of year, approaching and even a little after Samhain, is a time for honoring and acknowledging our ancestors. As that day draws closer I will add extra things to the altar; little gifts and treats for the Gone Befores, but for now, it is a place of remembrance, with candles and incense as we feel the need or desire.

When I add someone to the Altar I welcome them into our home. I thank them, and honor them, and then, most importantly, I set boundaries. Did you know you can do that? So many of us struggle with setting boundaries for people when they are alive in this realm, to think that we can do so after they have crossed over to another is rather mind bending. But we can!

My father-in-law gave us a portrait of his grandparents to add to the wall. When I saw it I commented that they looked like nice people. He immediately made a face, and then replied that they were not nice people at all! So, when I put their portrait on the wall I welcomed them, and then I told them that whatever they were like in their lifetime here, I am sure they are better where they are now, and that I expect them to be those better selves if they make themselves known in my home. Otherwise, they will be leaving. 

The work of healing is never easy and has many complex layers. Not so long ago I'd have probably just stared or nodded with that yeah, right look at someone who told me that healing would be somewhat easier if I could work to heal my ancestors too. Now I understand the truth of that concept at many different levels. I won't go into details here, but if you are interested in discussing this please let me know.

I have provided links below to the two songs I referenced so you may listen to them if you would like. Below those links I am going to share with you one more piece of art about the Gone Befores. It is in fact the first poem I read on this subject, and the reason I call my Gone Befores by that name. I found this poem not long after my parents died; Dad first on 9/3/07, then Mom on 3/9/08. I do love the sense of balance in those numbers. 

Tell me - what do you do to honor your Gone Befores, your beloved dead, or those dead who were not so beloved? Are you able and willing to make time and space for them in your here and now? What is honored and remembered, lives.

Peace out, peeps. I'm off to the kitchen to make some gingered honey.

Blessed be.

~Sheri

Listen to Hold Me: http://www.gatheringofcircles.com/songs_we_sing/14%20Hold%20Me.mp3)

Listen to Breaths: https://youtu.be/YwLgxyVjwk4

THE GONE BEFORES by Susa Silvermarie

You think they aren't in the car on either side
holding you upright while you sob and drive and wipe your tears again and sob?
Your grandmother Maria, maybe your mother's first cousin Grace.
Or your two best friends P and C who skedaddled early.

You're revolving like an owl checking the crossroads,
but someone from Before flies singing overhead.
Listen. The Gone Befores have already taken every single step
and made each sweet mistake you think is your exclusive.

You think you could travel anywhere
if they hadn't begotten you here?
You can't even eat breakfast
without someone who loves you hovering,
Over orange juice, listen up, get an inner earful.

Random Musings in the Late Days of Summer

The meeting I had scheduled this morning was cancelled, and I thought I'd use that time to organize my desk and the study. But here I am, pen in hand, so to speak, with my heart and head full of the kind of Random Musings I used to write.

The fog is heavy below the mountains to the south and I am so in tune with the way that Summer is moving towards Autumn that every one of my senses is full to the brim but longing for more. Loose lore around these parts says that every foggy August morning means a day of snow in the Winter. I don't know if there's any truth to that, but I do know that every foggy August morning feels like all of Nature is checking its layers for tucking in against the coming cold and darker days. This is a good feeling.

When Rhodes and I put an offer on the Cottage back in March I had the notion that we'd be completely settled in by June or July. I'd have my morning rituals established, with hot tea and journaling, then writing for a set time. I didn't hope much beyond that because that's all that seemed important. Here I am in August, still figuring out where things go in this house. Still figuring out what material items we can let go of. Still figuring out where I'm going and what I can let go of, too. This is also a good feeling.

The Cottage stands where an old farmhouse once stood, and I am deeply interested in learning the history of this land and the river valley that it is a part of. For the first time outside of the Adirondacks I am putting down roots and that is a powerful, powerful thang.

The corn, sunflowers, and squashes I planted in the rock wall garden are absolutely thriving and I am literally delighted every time I look at them. I love tending to them and seeing them as they are now, but I also have grand daydreams of an Autumn vision of the Cottage with the corn and sunflowers ready for harvest. Being able to hope and dream and see the future - more good feelings.

Hey. You know that friend you haven't heard from in a while? The one who vanished from social media? Send them a message. Go one better, if you have their mailing address, and send a card or a note, old-school. Stop letting "social media" define your connections to people you care about.

Also hey. Morning tea isn't always a steaming cuppa. Today's tea is iced raspberry rose hibiscus, sweetened with honey. I'm still holding onto Summer, actually living every moment, and that is the best feeling of all.

Peace out, peeps. Be shiny!

~sb

The Army of Little Bitty Volunteer Pumpkins

Lemon Honey Thyme Syrup

Awoke from a lovely afternoon nap with a bit of a sore throat and cough, which are probably just allergies. I know this is back to school time for many of  you, which often kicks of germ and and flu season as well, so I thought I'd share this recipe that I've found helpful in the past couple of years. Its for a Lemon Honey Thyme Cough Syrup. Super easy to make, super yummy, and I can pronounce the names of all the ingredients.

There is a kind of mindfulness and stillness in doing this type of work. It eases my spirit and helps me ground my energy.

Yes. I'm sharing another blog page with you. Is that wrong in blogland? I don't know. But I've used this author's recipe, don't see the point in recreating it, and she certainly deserves the credit. :-)

https://www.reformationacres.com/2014/11/lemon-honey-thyme-cough-syrup-recipe.html?fbclid=IwAR2GYeLW2gjRcbzkKHr6xI--aVwU6ZpD_CxtrFqsrEBl6SLPl60wCBNYQnY

Living with Black Bears (Ursus americanus)

Living with Black Bears (Ursus americanus)

Perhaps you didn't realize it was missing, but I have found early morning again. In the post-move haze and fatigue it became too easy to plop down on the couch at 10 pm to "watch a show," and then binge watch into the wee hours. But life moves on. Boxes are emptied. The brain is starting to work a little better. The television is staying off, and the phone is not used in the bedroom. Ta-da! Once again I am waking up with the rising Sun. Of course it helps that I can take a nap during the day if I need one, which only happens once or twice every day. :-) 

I love to watch the birds moving around the back yard in the early morning light. They flit around the pine tree and the yet-unidentified-by-me deciduous trees, and hop along the fence rail and along the ground, always singing and calling out to each other. There is a bunny who makes an appearance every morning now. I think he likes the shelter provided by Beth's altar just as much as the birds and butterflies like the flowers in her garden. 

Every once in a while I see the shambling movement of a Black Bear (Ursus americanus) as it makes its way along the greenway that runs beyond our tree line, about 30 feet from the bedroom window. There is a gap between the ground and the lowest hanging branches that allows me to see just the bottom of Bear legs and feet moving. Describing that visual makes me chuckle, but every time I know there is a Bear out there it makes me catch my breath. 

I have lived in Bear Country for years and have had several encounters with them. I have never ceased to be awed by their power, their beauty, and their intelligence, and when we decided to purchase this home I was thrilled to know that we would still have Bears for neighbors. Not only did our human neighbors confirm this, but the Bears let us know by leaving their, ummm, calling cards in the yard. One friend said to me "Only YOU would be happy to see bear poop!"

I don't feel threatened by the proximity of Bears; what makes me uncomfortable is the habits and behaviors of humans that change Bear behavior or cause Bears to become habituated to humans and human homes as sources of food. Rhodes and I work hard to educate ourselves (and anyone who will listen) about safe and peaceful co-existence in Bear country.

Life at the Cottage means we have gardening and lots of yard maintenance. We decided early on to place a compost pile at the back corner of our property, and I'm surprised at how quickly that pile has grown. Because we know we are living, literally, on a Bear Path, I decided to do some research about whether or not it would be safe to compost food waste.

I found this great piece published by the District of Squamish, and ran it by my favorite Bear people in the universe, the staff at Appalachian Bear Rescue https://appalachianbearrescue.org/ to make sure the suggestions in the Canadian article work for our Bears here in Western North Carolina and Eastern Tennessee. They were kind enough to review the information, and confirmed it as excellent and accurate.

They further emphasize the need to make sure the compost doesn't contain bear attractants and that is must be secured. "A bear's nose is exceptionally sensitive and we must remember they will eat carrion if they come across it."

Check. No meat, fish, or grease in the compost! And our personal decision is to compost fresh vegetable waste, but not fruits, as the sugary smell is just too tempting.

If you live with Bears, please be mindful about how your behavior impacts their lives. Bears who become habituated to humans and human spaces as a source of food often end up being killed. Also, if you live with Bears or just love them as much as I do, you can learn a lot about Bear behavior by following the efforts of Appalachian Bear Rescue on their wesbite or Facebook page. I am willing to bet the escapades of the cubby and yearling residents, and even the curators, will make you smile or laugh at least one time.

http://www.bearsmart.com/docs/Composting-in-Bear-Country-Squamish.pdf?fbclid=IwAR0_QencrdgOLimm5DXLuQGSV8p_u2dIwDlJoF_Dzrr44qABzZBCL_HofoU

Root Vegetables and the Gone Befores

Awake at 5 a.m. from a dream which had waaaaaay too many Gone Befores making guest appearances. I don't know what all their fuss was about, but something's up, people, and it disturbs me to say I have no idea what it is.

Ground yourself today, even more than normal. Take time to gather yourself and get your stuff together before you start the day. Run a systems check on yourself. Do a mental inventory. It might seem like you don't have time for that, but (1) you do; (2) it doesn't take an hour long ritual to make it happen; and (3) you will be glad you did, as it can set the way in which you process and handle everything that comes at you today.

Do it while you are drinking that morning cup of coffee or tea or water. Do it while you are brushing your teeth or making lunches.

I woke from that dream and took a deep, slow breath to center myself. I turned towards Rhodes and briefly thought of snuggling in for more sleep. He's a sweet snuggler :-) and has the body warmth of a fully stoked furnace, so its always a temptation, but there is business about this day that was calling to me.

I went to the kitchen and gathered the root vegetables for tonight's dinner casserole. I also grabbed a knife, the veg peeler, a stainless steel bowl and a cutting board. I was mindful about gathering bits of myself while I did that work, and by the time I sat at the table to start working I was already feeling in tune with myself and with this day. Of course my companion cat was very helpful!

I'm sitting on the couch as I write this, watching the sky lighten to the east over the house where our sweet neighbors Gerald and Linda live. A couple of days ago I'd have just written this in bed (because my desk is still a move-mess!) but Rhodes and I have agreed to stop using electronics in the bedroom. Talk about positive, simple life changes!

And now, I'm going to make a mug of tea, and go sit on the front steps and continue the grounding process while I listen to the birds sing the Sun up, and watch Himself respond to their call.

Good morning, peeps!