A shaded lamp and a waving blind,
And the beat of a clock from a distant floor:
On this scene enter—winged, horned, and spined—
A longlegs, a moth, and a dumbledore;
While 'mid my page there idly stands
A sleepy fly, that rubs its hands...
Thus meet we five, in this still place,
At this point of time, at this point in space.
—My guests besmear my new-penned line,
Or bang at the lamp and fall supine.
"God's humblest, they!" I muse. Yet why?
They know Earth-secrets that know not I.~Thomas Hardy "An August Midnight"
There are so many more of them than us. Yes, insects appear where we don’t expect them, they sting and bite and crawl and fly in our mouths and are generally annoying. But without God’s humblest knowing the secrets of the inner workings of the soil, the pollinator and the blossom, we’d have no fruit, no seeds, no earth as we know it.
Even more humble are our microscopic live-in neighbors — the biome of our skin and gut affecting, managing and raising havoc with our internal chemistry and physiology in ways we are only beginning to understand.
God created us all, each and every one, from the turning and cycles of smallest of atoms and microbes to the expanding swirl of galaxies far beyond us.
Perhaps the humblest of all, found smack-dab in the middle of this astounding creation, would be us: the intended Imago Dei.
Two legs not six or eight, two eyes not many, no wings with which we might fly away, no antennae, no stinger.
Just us with our one fragile and loving heart.
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The horse bears me along, like grace, making me better than what I am, and what I think or say or see is whole in these moments, is neither small nor broken. Who then is better made to say be well, be glad,
or who to long that we, as one, might course over the entire valley, over all valleys, as a bird in a great embrace of flight, who presses against her breast, in grief and tenderness, the whole weeping body of the world? ~Linda McCarriston from “Riding Out At Evening”
We all need to remember transcendent moments in our lives, those brief times when all was well, our worries left behind in the dust.
Wounds healed, hearts full, senses filled with wonder, feeling whole rather than broken.
The summer evening rides of my younger years were just such a time: lifted by such powerful grace and transported to another time and place. It can feel like flying but mostly it feels like an embrace, one creature with another, exploring the world together.
All these years later, I am held fast by the memories and in remembering, I weep.
Surely, someday, heaven will be something like this.
Sure on this shining night Of star made shadows round, Kindness must watch for me This side the ground. The late year lies down the north. All is healed, all is health. High summer holds the earth. Hearts all whole. Sure on this shining night I weep for wonder wand’ring far alone Of shadows on the stars. ~James Agee
More photos like this in a new book from Barnstorming, available to order here:
…I’m taking the day off. Quiet as a feather. I hardly move though really I’m traveling a terrific distance.
Stillness. One of the doors into the temple. ~Mary Oliver from “Today” from A Thousand Mornings
Some days warrant stillness. On this Sabbath day of rest, seek to be quiet as a feather, silently in place, listening.
Maybe, hear each other again. Surely, hear the Word of God.
A funny thing about feathers: alone, each one is merely fluff and air. Together — feathers become lift and power, with strength and will to soar beyond the tether of gravity’s pull on our flawed humanity back to dust.
As quiet as a feather, joined and united, one overlapping another, rise above and fly as far as your life and breath can take you.
May peace be still.
Thank you, once again, to the chickens displayed at the NW Washington Fair in Lynden last week, who struggled to be still in their cages for these close-up feather photos….
More Barnstorming photos and poems from Lois Edstrom are available in this book from Barnstorming. Order here:
You can’t say you haven’t been warned: there are creepy crawlies in this post
Things I will never like: 1. Drying off with a cold, damp towel. 2. The feeling of seaweed wrapping around my legs. 3. Anything that was popular in the 70’s. 4. Licorice, yam, or raisins. 5. That high-pitched screech that babies make. 6. Writhing maggots. ~Bill Watterson from It’s A Magical World: A Calvin and Hobbes Collection
A few weeks ago, I had a bit of home-made potato corn chowder left over that I added to our compost bin in our barnyard. It isn’t often that much animal protein makes its way into the bin so when I checked on the compost a few days later, I was amazed to see it teeming with fly maggots in the midst of their Thanksgiving feast. Ordinarily pictures and videos of maggots would not find their way to this blog. People might be looking at this blog while eating their breakfast or lunch and writhing maggots are not something you are expecting to see. My apologies in advance and now is the time to delete delete delete.
Therefore: a trigger warning. Don’t scroll down further if you would rather avoid seeing (and hearing) creepy crawly things.
My first medical exposure to maggots came while examining the leg and foot wounds of the homeless folks I helped care for when training in an inner city emergency room. Peeling off old ragged stockings and socks would often reveal more than dirty feet – in fact, the maggots may have been somewhat beneficial in those cases yet we were quick to dispose of them.
Maggots are, in fact, fascinating creatures with potential therapeutic value, notwithstanding their gross-out factor. This week in a brief Atlantic article found here, there is a summary of a recent study in France comparing typical surgical debridement of venous ulcers of the skin with maggot therapy. Maggots were faster in cleaning the wounds but didn’t enhance eventual healing any more than traditional surgical care. There wasn’t a difference in the discomfort level as long as the patient didn’t know which therapy was being used. For those who had been randomly assigned to maggot therapy in one study, an astounding 89% said they would opt for the insects over surgeons if faced with needing wound care in the future.
I’m not sure what that says about surgeons, but it is a great compliment to maggot larvae!
Here is a formal cross-referenced evidence-based summary from UptoDate.com about wound treatment with biologic methods:
Biologic — An additional method of wound debridement uses the larvae of the Australian sheep blow fly (Lucilia [Phaenicia] cuprina) or green bottle fly (Lucilia [Phaenicia] sericata, Medical Maggots) [42,43]. Maggot therapy can be used as a bridge between debridement procedures, or for debridement of chronic wounds when surgical debridement is not available or cannot be performed . Maggot therapy may also reduce the duration of antibiotic therapy in some patients .
Maggot therapy has been used in the treatment of pressure ulcers [45,46], chronic venous ulceration [47-50], diabetic ulcers [42,51], and other acute and chronic wounds . The larvae secrete proteolytic enzymes that liquefy necrotic tissue, which is subsequently ingested while leaving healthy tissue intact. Basic and clinical research suggests that maggot therapy has additional benefits, including antimicrobial action and stimulation of wound healing [43,47,53,54]. However, randomized trials have not found consistent reductions in the time to wound healing compared with standard wound therapy (eg, debridement, hydrogel, moist dressings) [55,56]. Maggot therapy appears to be at least equivalent to hydrogel in terms of cost [56,57].
Dressing changes include the application of a perimeter dressing and a cover dressing of mesh (chiffon) that helps direct the larvae into the wound and limits their migration (movie 1). Larvae are generally changed every 48 to 72 hours. One study that evaluated maggot therapy in chronic venous wounds found no advantage to continuing maggot therapy beyond one week . Patients were randomly assigned to maggot therapy (n = 58) or conventional treatment (n = 61). The difference in the slough percentage was significantly increased in the maggot therapy group compared with the control groups at day 8 (67 versus 55 percent), but not at 15 or 30 days.
The larvae can also be applied within a prefabricated “biobag”, commercially available outside the United States, that facilitates application and dressing change [58-61]. Randomized trials comparing “free range” with “biobag”-contained larvae in the debridement of wounds have not been performed.
A main disadvantage of maggot therapy relates to negative perceptions aboutits use by patients and staff. One concern among patients is the possibility that the larvae can escape the dressing, although this rarely occurs. Although one study identified that approximately 50 percent of patients indicated they would prefer conventional wound therapy over maggot therapy, 89 percent of the patients randomly assigned to maggot therapy said they would undergo larval treatment again . Perceived pain or discomfort with the dressings associated with maggot therapy may limit its use in approximately 20 percent of patients.
The STARZ show Outlander (a show and series of books by scientist Diana Gabaldon I thoroughly enjoy) used real maggots in the fifth season of the show when in 18th century America, wife (and surgeon) Claire successfully treats her husband Jamie’s snakebite wound with the larvae. Actress Caitriona Balfe describes her co-starring maggots in this brief video:
So there are still things to learn about medical therapies we used in the past which have been sidelined or forgotten in our push for modern treatment modalities. The days of leeches and maggots may not be over after all.
And now for video, complete with little maggotty sound effects — scroll down
Maggots in our compost bin – enjoying corn and potato chowder leftovers
A new book from Barnstorming is available to order here
No speed of wind or water rushing by But you have speed far greater. You can climb Back up a stream of radiance to the sky, And back through history up the stream of time. And you were given this swiftness, not for haste Nor chiefly that you may go where you will, But in the rush of everything to waste, That you may have the power of standing still- Off any still or moving thing you say. Two such as you with such a master speed Cannot be parted nor be swept away From one another once you are agreed That life is only life forevermore Together wing to wing and oar to oar ~Robert Frost “Master Speed”
All at once I saw what looked like a Martian spaceship whirling towards me in the air. It flashed borrowed light like a propeller. Its forward motion greatly outran its fall. As I watched, transfixed, it rose, just before it would have touched a thistle, and hovered pirouetting in one spot, then twirled on and finally came to rest. I found it in the grass; it was a maple key, a single winged seed from a pair. Hullo. I threw it into the wind and it flew off again, bristling with animate purpose, not like a thing dropped or windblown, pushed by the witless winds of convection currents hauling round the world’s rondure where they must, but like a creature muscled and vigorous, or a creature spread thin to that other wind, the wind of the spirit which bloweth where it listeth, lighting, and raising up, and easing down. O maple key, I thought, I must confess I thought, o welcome, cheers.
And the bell under my ribs rang a true note, a flourish as of blended horns, clarion, sweet, and making a long dim sense I will try at length to explain. Flung is too harsh a word for the rush of the world. Blown is more like it, but blown by a generous, unending breath. That breath never ceases to kindle, exuberant, abandoned; frayed splinters spatter in every direction and burgeon into flame. And now when I sway to a fitful wind, alone and listing, I will think, maple key. When I see a photograph of earth from space, the planet so startlingly painterly and hung, I will think, maple key. When I shake your hand or meet your eyes I will think, two maple keys. If I am a maple key falling, at least I can twirl. ~Annie Dillard from Pilgrim at Tinker Creek
(Happy birthday to Annie today — her 76th !)
I think a lot about wings — particularly when I’m sitting belted in a seat looking out at them bouncing in turbulence, marveling at how they keep hundreds of people and an entire aircraft miles above ground.
Wings, no matter what they belong to, are marvelous structures that combine strength and lift and lightness and expanse and mobility, with the ability to rise up and ease back to earth.
And so ideally I am blown rather than flung through my fitful windy days, rising and falling as those thin veined wings guide me, twirling, swirling as I fall, oh so slowly, to settle, planted.
In Sleeping Beauty’s castle the clock strikes one hundred years and the girl in the tower returns to the world. So do the servants in the kitchen, who don’t even rub their eyes. The cook’s right hand, lifted an exact century ago, completes its downward arc to the kitchen boy’s left ear; the boy’s tensed vocal cords finally let go the trapped, enduring whimper, and the fly, arrested mid-plunge above the strawberry pie, fulfills its abiding mission and dives into the sweet, red glaze.
As a child I had a book with a picture of that scene. I was too young to notice how fear persists, and how the anger that causes fear persists, that its trajectory can’t be changed or broken, only interrupted. My attention was on the fly; that this slight body with its transparent wings and lifespan of one human day still craved its particular share of sweetness, a century later. ~Lisel Mueller “Immortality” from Alive Together
Little fly, Thy summer’s play My thoughtless hand Has brushed away.
Am not I A fly like thee? Or art not thou A man like me?
For I dance And drink and sing, Till some blind hand Shall brush my wing.
If thought is life And strength and breath, And the want Of thought is death,
Then am I A happy fly, If I live, Or if I die. ~William Blake “The Fly”
I heard a Fly buzz – when I died – The Stillness in the Room Was like the Stillness in the Air – Between the Heaves of Storm –…. ~Emily Dickinson
A fly made the news this past week. It became more important than the issues being discussed in the room in which it buzzed and landed. Maybe it has come to symbolize our helplessness in the face of our anger toward one another, which has become just another way for our fear to express itself.
There is nothing more humbling than a wayward fly buzzing in the room or landing uninvited on my head. No matter whether I live in a slum or a castle, a fly will find its way to me, just because it can. I must learn to coexist with what I can’t control; this is no time for frustration nor fear nor anger to raise my hand, ready to kill the offender.
When I’m feeling bugged, which happens all too often these days, the buzzing may overwhelm my stillness but I won’t let it overwhelm me. I will put down the swatter. I will breathe deeply and admire the ingenuity of such a brief life powered miraculously by two transparent wings.
Nothing approaches a field like me. Hard gallop, hard chest – hooves and mane and flicking tail. My love: I apprehend each flower, each winged body, saturated in a light that burnishes. I would make a burnishing of you, by which I mean a field in flower, by which i mean, a breaching – my hands making an arrow of themselves, rooting the loosened dirt. I would make for you the barest of sounds, wing against wing, there, at the point of articulation. Love, I pound the earth for you. I pound the earth. ~Donika Kelly (2017) “Love Poem: The Centaur” from Bestiary
When Haflingers gallop in the field, it sounds like thunder as their hooves pound the earth. It can be a particularly ominous sound, especially in the middle of the night when the pounding hooves are going past our bedroom window which means only one thing: their field gate or the barn door has been breached. Haflingers are also Houdinis.
Their hooves may hug the ground, treading clover blossoms and blades of grass but I can see invisible wings as I watch them run. Their manes and tails float free even when the rest of their bodies are entirely earth-bound.
I know most of the time I move ponderously over the earth as well leaving my footprints behind. Some days I feel literally tethered to the ground, with no lightness of being whatsoever.
But once I breach the gate, I grow wings. The ground cannot hold me any longer and it rises to meet me as I fly.
It may be hard for an egg to turn into a bird: it would be a jolly sight harder for it to learn to fly while remaining an egg. We are like eggs at present. And you cannot go on indefinitely being just an ordinary, decent egg. We must be hatched or go bad. ~C.S.Lewis from Mere Christianity
There is certain comfort in incubating in the nest, snuggled warm under a fluffy breast, satisfied with the status quo. I tend toward perpetual nesting myself, preferring home to travel, too easily contented with the familiar rather than stretching into uncharted territory.
But eventually the unhatched egg gets the boot, even by its parents. When there are no signs of life, no twitches and wiggles and movement inside, it is doomed to rot.
And we all know nothing is worse than a rotten egg. Nothing.
So it is up to us: we must chip away and crack open our comfy shell, leaving the fragments behind. Feeble, weak and totally dependent on the grace of others to feed and protect us, we are freed of the confinement of the sterility of the commonplace and loosed upon an unsuspecting world.
God does not leave us where we are. We are created to fly, the breath of God beneath our wings.
God sees us as we are, loves us as we are, and accepts us as we are. But by His grace, He does not leave us where we are. ~Tim Keller
Did you too see it, drifting, all night, on the black river? Did you see it in the morning, rising into the silvery air – An armful of white blossoms, A perfect commotion of silk and linen as it leaned into the bondage of its wings; a snowbank, a bank of lilies, Biting the air with its black beak? Did you hear it, fluting and whistling A shrill dark music – like the rain pelting the trees – like a waterfall Knifing down the black ledges? And did you see it, finally, just under the clouds – A white cross Streaming across the sky, its feet Like black leaves, its wings Like the stretching light of the river? And did you feel it, in your heart, how it pertained to everything? And have you too finally figured out what beauty is for? And have you changed your life? ~Mary Oliver from “Swan”
This laboring of ours with all that remains undone, as if still bound to it, is like the lumbering gait of the swan.
And then our dying—releasing ourselves from the very ground on which we stood— is like the way he hesitantly lowers himself
into the water. It gently receives him, and, gladly yielding, flows back beneath him, as wave follows wave, while he, now wholly serene and sure, with regal composure, allows himself to glide. ~Rainer Maria Rilke, “The Swan”
And could it be that I too,
awkward and lumbering through my days
may glide and soar when afloat or aloft.Could it be there is beauty hidden away and within
until I change how I look at life,
how I move in the air that I’m given to breathe
and how I am stretched by the Light that illuminates me?
But now they drift on the still water,
Among what rushes will they build,
By what lake’s edge or pool
Delight men’s eyes when I awake some day
To find they have flown away? ~William Butler Years from “The Wild Swans at Coole”