On the second day of fog, she goes to meet it sits on the broad root of a broken down apple tree, remembers being a child in such fog, searching for fairy houses. She hears movement in the grass, keeps very still while the veil of haze rises to treetops bronzed by the burn of the sun. Slowly horses and deer appear all around her, they graze close together, nosing fallen apples, until she forgets this is still a fallen world. ~Lonnie Hull DuPont, “On the Second Day of Fog” from She Calls the Moon by Its Name
When despair for the world grows in me and I wake in the night at the least sound in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be, I go and lie down where the wood drake rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds. I come into the peace of wild things who do not tax their lives with forethought of grief. I come into the presence of still water. And I feel above me the day-blind stars waiting with their light. For a time I rest in the grace of the world, and am free. ~Wendell Berry “The Peace of Wild Things“
When our grandchildren come to visit, I watch as yet another generation rediscovers the mystery of what we know about the joys and sorrows of this fallen but redeemed world.
I am reminded there is light beyond the fearsome darkness, there is peace amid the chaos, there is a smile behind the tears, there is stillness within the noisiness there is rest despite the restlessness, there is grace – ah, there is grace as inevitably the old gives way to the new.
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I tell you folks, all politics is applesauce. ~Will Rogers
Applesauce-making is one of my more satisfying domestic activities. Peeling and coring apples can be tedious, as there are always plenty of bad spots to cut out. Though uncommon in our organic orchard, there is the occasional wiggling worm to find and dispose of before cooking.
Our late summer transparent apples make a creamy tart sauce smooth to the tongue. With all the careful preparation before cooking, all blemishes are removed, with any extra unwanted wormy protein deposited in the compost bucket along with mountains of peel, cores and seeds.
If only our two main political parties would pick and prepare their presumptive nominees with as much concern and care…
Would that we could similarly pare out, peel off, dispose in the compost all the political flyers flooding our mailbox, the robo-call telephone messages asking for donations, the radio, TV and internet ads that burden us all until we crack and break under the weight. Most of the election fruit ends up rotting on the tree, turning us all to mush in the process. I’m weary just thinking about the millions of dollars spent in advertising these two (as yet) unofficial presidential candidates that could be used for far greater good and benefit for the citizenry.
Now we have a televised debate where one candidate is clearly incapable of providing coherent answers and the other, a convicted felon who spouts lies that go unchallenged as a result. It is clear now the whole kettle of sauce is spoiled. We could cook it all day long and there still are worms waving in the air, rotten cores festering, scabby peels floating on top, with the bottom scalding with the heat of the cook stove.
Our political parties have profoundly failed the American people by propping up candidates unworthy of the office. I pray for a day when we can set our differences aside and raise up leaders who can do so as well. We must blend together our diverse flavors and characteristics for the good of all. Then, “applesauce” politics won’t simply be a mixture of nonsense and BS, as Will Rogers implies, but something actually nourishing for a flourishing future.
That’ll be the day…
There are men running governments who shouldn’t be allowed to play with matches. ~Will Rogers
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The year Dylan’s mother died I picked sprays of apple blossom, wound its pink, off-white shades in raffia for you to take to him.
Every year it’s out I think of us, the children, how apples bring the tree so low, until they thud to the lawn, drumming the end
of summer. The blossom was heavy when Dylan’s mother was dying – old wood doing its best again – and he, like you, was so young. ~Jackie Wills “Apple Blossom”
I can see, through the rifts of the apple-boughs, The delicate blue of the sky, And the changing clouds with their marvellous tints That drift so lazily by. And strange, sweet thoughts sing through my brain, And Heaven, it seemeth near; Oh, is it not a rare, sweet time, The blossoming time of the year? ~Horatio Alger, Jr. from “Apple Blossoms”
Is there anything in Spring so fair As apple blossoms falling through the air?
When from a hill there comes a sudden breeze That blows freshly through all the orchard trees.
The petals drop in clouds of pink and white, Noiseless like snow and shining in the light.
Making beautiful an old stone wall, Scattering a rich fragrance as they fall.
There is nothing I know of to compare With apple blossoms falling through the air. ~Henry Adams Parker “Apple Blossoms”
The rain eases long enough to allow blades of grass to stand back up expectant, refreshed yet unsuspecting, primed for the mower’s next cutting swath.
Clusters of pink tinged blossoms sway in response to my mower’s pass. Apple buds bulge on ancient branches in promise of fruit caressed by honeybees’ tickling legs.
Though I bow low beneath the swollen blooms, I’m still caught by snagging branches; showers from hidden raindrop reservoirs collected within blushing petal cups.
My face is anointed by perfumed apple tears.
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The roofs are shining from the rain, The sparrows twitter as they fly, And with a windy April grace The little clouds go by.
Yet the back yards are bare and brown With only one unchanging tree– I could not be so sure of Spring Save that it sings in me. – Sara Teasdale, “April”
The snow piles in dark places are gone. Pools by the railroad tracks shine clear. The gravel of all shallow places shines. A white pigeon reels and somersaults.
Frogs plutter and squdge-and frogs beat the air with a recurring thin steel sliver of melody. Crows go in fives and tens; they march their black feathers past a blue pool; they celebrate an old festival. A spider is trying his webs, a pink bug sits on my hand washing his forelegs. I might ask: Who are these people? ~Carl Sandburg from “Just Before April Came”
And so Spring asks:
Who are these people?
Here we are, closing in on mid-April and our weather continues to be unpredictable. I am not so sure of Spring.
Yet it sings in me. Yes it sings.
The calendar does not lie, nor does my nose. The pollen counts are rising despite the rains and as I step outside in early dawn, I can catch the slightest fragrance of just-opening cherry and apple blossoms in the orchard. Within a week there will be sweet perfume in the air everywhere and the fruit trees become clothed in white puffy clouds of blossom before bursting full into green.
In defiance of the calendar, our oak trees cling stubbornly to their brown bedraggled fall leaves as if ashamed to ever appear naked, even for a week. In May they will go straight from brown to green without a moment of bare knobby branches.
Even so, it sings in me. Yes it sings.
A morning bird symphony tunes up ever earlier including the “scree” and chatter from bald eagles high up in the fir trees surrounding our house. Nesting has begun despite the wet and cold and wind because their nest is the secure home that calls them back, again and again, year after year.
Like them, it sings in me. Yes it sings.
I rise opening like a bud, I dress my nakedness to cover up my knobbiness, I wander about outside exulting in the free concert, I manage to do chores despite the distractions — this routine of mine which is so unchanging through the calendar days becomes glorious gift and privilege.
Hopefulness sings in me in Spring. Yes it sings.
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My sorrow’s flower was so small a joy It took a winter seeing to see it as such. Numb, unsteady, stunned at all the evidence Of winter’s blind imperative to destroy, I looked up, and saw the bare abundance Of a tree whose every limb was lit and fraught with snow. What I was seeing then I did not quite know But knew that one mite more would have been too much. ~Christian Wiman “After a Storm” from Once in the West: Poems
Though a weak branch strains mightily to bear a summer’s bounty of fruit without breaking, it will sustain the load.
Then comes winter wind and ice storms and a snowflake becomes the mite too much.
Even so, a painful pruning is endured, when even the strongest limbs are trimmed back, urged to fearlessly grow on and be more fruitful.
I am the true vine, and my Father is the gardener. He cuts off every branch in me that bears no fruit, while every branch that does bear fruit he prunes so that it will be even more fruitful. John 15: 1-2
This Lenten season I reflect on the words of the 19th century southern spiritual hymn “What Wondrous Love is This”
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This is the season: Cradle of quiet, Trees, waiting, Naked on the hill, Branches entwined Like lovers holding Hands.
Nothing is hidden. A lone leaf quivers On the apple tree. Snow has yet to fall. Waiting, the grass Lies mute.
It could be death but Isn’t. Yet. Wings Quicken serrated air As nuthatch, junco, Chickadee flit from Tree to tree, oblivious To the hawk circling Overhead, waiting, Like the grass, for what Comes next.
And it will come, To all of us—there’s No exception— But if that frightens You, hold it like A stone beneath The tongue until Fear softens, and You realize that Nothing is ever lost But is, instead, Transformed as one Door opens to another, As even now light Lifts the shadows, And, out of sight, Sap, wakeful, whispers In the apple tree. ~Sarah Rossiter “Winter”
The soul’s sap quivers. There is no earth smell Or smell of living thing.
We shall not cease from exploration And the end of all our exploring Will be to arrive where we started And know the place for the first time. Through the unknown, unremembered gate When the last of earth left to discover Is that which was the beginning;
And all shall be well and All manner of thing shall be well… ~T.S. Eliot – lines from “Little Gidding”in the Four Quartets
In the eternal “already, but not yet” my wintry soul struggles to find its footing. I can feel stuck in ice, immobile and numb. I wait impatiently for a wakening thaw, a whisper of the internal movement caught between frozen and melting. My soul’s sap smells the coming spring. I tremble, anticipating a bloom that will not fade. It may not happen quite yet, but I know it is coming.
This Lenten season will reflect on the words of the 19th century southern spiritual hymn “What Wondrous Love is This”
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O lovely apple! beautifully and completely rotten hardly a contour marred–
perhaps a little shrivelled at the top but that aside perfect in every detail! O lovely
apple! what a deep and suffusing brown mantles that unspoiled surface! No one
has moved you since I placed you on the porch rail a month ago to ripen.
No one. No one! ~William Carlos Williams “Perfection”
When a newspaper posed the question, “What’s Wrong with the World?” the Catholic thinker G. K. Chesterton reputedly wrote a brief letter in response:
“Dear Sirs: I am. Sincerely Yours, G. K. Chesterton.“
That is the attitude of someone who has grasped the message of Jesus. ~Timothy Keller, The Prodigal God
I am what’s wrong with the world and so are you.
Not one of us escapes the rottenness that lies not-so-deep beneath our shiny surface. We are full of wormholes, inviting the worms of the world to eat us alive.
One look at the news headlines of the day is enough mar the most perfect surface. No one moves to save us from our over-ripening fate; we sit untouched, withering and shriveling.
We are the problem and the problem is us.
We need rescue by a Savior who is the one good apple among a barrel of contagiously bad apples. We are so tainted, it takes Someone who truly is Perfect to transform us from the inside out, from worm-holes back to wholeness and on to holiness.
May we fall to our knees, grateful, that Christ, who is the Leader of all in His Kingdom, will grant us a grace and sanctuary and perfection we emphatically don’t deserve.
May He retrieve us before the worms (or the hornets) do. We are in this together.
We have met the enemy and he is us. ~Walt Kelly (in the words of Pogo)
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The juncture of twig and branch, scarred with lichen, is a gate we might enter, singing. ~Jane Kenyon from “Things” from Collected Poems
Who’s this –alone with stone and sea? It’s just the lowly Lichen We: the alga I, the fungus me; together, blooming quietly. What do we share–we two together? A brave indifference to the weather. A slow but steady growing pace. Resemblance to both mud and lace. As we now, so we shall be (if air clear and water free): the proud but lowly Lichen We, cemented for eternity. ~Joyce Sidman “The Lichen We” from Ubiquitous
All these years I overlooked them in the racket of the rest, this symbiotic splash of plant and fungus feeding on rock, on sun, a little moisture, air — tiny acid-factories dissolving salt from living rocks and eating them.
Here they are, blooming! Trail rock, talus and scree, all dusted with it: rust, ivory, brilliant yellow-green, and cliffs like murals!
Huge panels streaked and patched, quietly with shooting-stars and lupine at the base. Closer, with the glass, a city of cups!
Clumps of mushrooms and where do the plants begin? Why are they doing this? In this big sky and all around me peaks & the melting glaciers, why am I made to kneel and peer at Tiny? ~Lew Welch, “Springtime in the Rockies,Lichen” from Ring of Bone: Collected Poems
Back then, what did I know?
Uptown and downtown. Not north, not south, not you.
When I saw you, later, seaweed reefed in the air, you were grey-green, incomprehensible, old. What you clung to, hung from: old. Trees looking half-dead, stones.
Marriage of fungi and algae, chemists of air, changers of nitrogen-unusable into nitrogen-usable.
Like those nameless ones who kept painting, shaping, engraving, unseen, unread, unremembered. Not caring if they were no good, if they were past it.
Rock wools, water fans, earth scale, mouse ears, dust, ash-of-the-woods. Transformers unvalued, uncounted. Cell by cell, word by word, making a world they could live in. ~Jane Hirshfield from “For the Lichens” from Come, Thief
But what is life to a lichen? Yet its impulse to exist, to be, is every bit as strong as ours — arguably even stronger. If I were told that I had to spend decades being a furry growth on a rock in the woods, I believe I would lose the will to go on. Lichens don’t. Like virtually all living things, they will suffer any hardship, endure any insult, for a moment’s additional existence. Life, in short, just wants to be. ~Bill Bryson from A Short History of Nearly Everything
I’ve lived in the Pacific Northwest for nearly 70 years – this farm for 30 years. The grandeur of the snow-capped mountains to the north and east and the peaceful shore to the west overwhelms everything in between. Autumn after autumn, I’ve walked past these antique apple trees, but had never stopped to really look at the landscape growing on their bare shoulders and arms. There is a whole other ecosystem on each tree, a fairy land of earth bound dryland seaweed, luxuriant in the fall rains, colorful in the winter, hidden behind leaves and fruit in the hot summer. I had never really noticed the varied color and texture all around me.
This is the world of lichen, a mixed up symbiotic cross between algae and fungus, opportunistic enough to thrive on rock faces, but simply ecstatic on absorbent bark.
It hasn’t bothered them not to be noticed as they are busy minding their own business. As poet John McCullough writes in his poem “Lichen”:
It is merely a question of continuous adjustment, of improvising a life.
When I’m far from friends or the easing of a wind against my back, I think of lichen— never and always true to its essence, never and always at home.
Instead of lifting my eyes to the hills and the bay for a visual feast, I need only open the back gate to gaze on this landscape found on the ancient branches in my own back yard.
It’s a rich life of improvisation indeed.
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At times, particularly at night, I’m keenly aware of all the unknowable and uncountable lives happening behind closed doors and curtained windows, each one living their own sacred moment in time.
So many meals being eaten, baths taken, tears shed, stories told, prayers recited, kisses shared.
These moments are the blessings of a quotidian predictability that we try to pass on to our children. In our routines, we may become oblivious to the mysteries happening all around us: innumerable stars shining, fragile moths fluttering and sweetening apples hanging heavy — yet there is mystery within each of us as well.
In the dark of night, despite our weariness: We are remarkably loved and loving. We try our best in difficult times and circumstances. We grieve losses while struggling to survive sorrows. We seek purpose and meaning, despite feeling unworthy.
Each passing moment becomes one to cherish. Each moment mysteriously holy and sweet.
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There is a gold light in certain old paintings That represents a diffusion of sunlight. It is like happiness, when we are happy. It comes from everywhere and from nowhere at once, this light… One day the sickness shall pass from the earth for good. The orchard will bloom; Our work will be seen as strong and clean and good And all that we suffered through having existed Shall be forgotten as though it had never existed. ~Donald Justice – excerpt from Collected Poems
I live where golden hour light is doled out sparingly – we just might get too used to it – where gray clouds tend to mute and muffle the spirit.
So I search for light as if it is buried like treasure.
When gilded light illuminates and glows, when all is immersed and lifted by its radiance, I forget the gray, as if it never was.
So I wait patiently, ready for another such burst of joy coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once. A moment in time to be preserved, not to be forgotten.
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