Peas & Joy 06/17/2010
 Peas in the pod leave us no choice. It’s time to sit on the porch, bowl in lap, for the highly inefficient process of shelling. Inefficient because the armload of peas harvested this afternoon, once shelled, results in a tiny bowl of fresh peas. It’s a lot easier to buy a bag of frozen peas. Even the organic ones aren’t very expensive. But buying them would cancel the many joys of home grown peas. First is the early planting when it seems spring will never stay in northern Ohio. Then there’s carefree growth as peas sprout with eager abandon, climbing anything they can find and blooming for weeks with shy seashell-like flowers. And then harvest. We get two plantings if we’re conscientious about it, so that means months of peas. But the excuse to sit on the porch listening to birdsong and shelling peas is my favorite reason. Each pod cracked open releases a fresh scent. Each row of peas lined up is a reminder that our lives hinge on nature’s miracles, the kind we too often forget. Shelling peas keeps my hands busy and my mind unencumbered. That’s time for contemplation. In our too often rushed and media-narrated lives, more time to shell peas on a porch might be just the peaceful interlude we all need. Tonight we’re eating fresh peas, raw and still brimming with the nutrients that sun and soil have given them. Wishing you peas and joy.  Setting a Place for Kindness 11/28/2009
 Years ago my friend Liz described a dream of walking into an expansive dining room set with plates and bowls of amazing artistry. She realized each one was unique and compelling, but there was something more. As she looked closer it occurred to her that each place was specific to an individual. She wandered from place setting to place setting marveling at the color, design and shape of each plate and cup while seeking her own place at the table. If I recall correctly, she woke before finding that place. She also woke with the gift of wonderment. Here were some questions that dream evoked. Do we all have a place at the table? Are we aware of the nourishment we give and receive? How do we honor these vessels, our bodies, which take in life’s sustenance? We may answer those questions for ourselves in our own ways, but the answers are more complicated for people who struggle with unemployment, illness and family crises. Those who have made it their life's work to set tables around the world with hand made ceramics both beautiful and useful are Steve and Debra Bures, of Bures Pottery in Peninsula, Ohio. But their concerns extend to wider issues of sustenance. Last year they challenged artists to face down hunger by starting Cups of Kindness.This art show and sale benefits The Akron-Canton Foodbank In its first year 150 pieces of artwork were donated by both local and national artists. The logo, photography, site design and hosting---all donated. Publicity came from bloggers and local press. Thus far, Cups of Kindness has raised enough money to purchase 28,000 meals through the Akron-Canton Foodbank. It’s time again. This year’s show will open Saturday, December 5th, 10 to 2, at the Elements Gallery (home to the Bures Pottery studio) and across the street at the Peninsula Art Academy. The show will continue through January 10, 2010. Check Cups of Kindness for details about online purchases and other ways to help. And enjoy Debra Bure’s blog, From Skilled Hands. She's one of those people who finds an extra helping of beauty and meaning in what others might see as an ordinary serving of life. . Muir's Philosophy 10/26/2009
 "As long as I live I'll hear the birds & the winds & the waterfalls sing. I'll interpret the rocks & learn the language of flood & storm & avalanche. I'll make the acquaintance of the wild gardens & the glaciers & get as near to the heart of this world as I can. As so I did. I sauntered about from rock to rock, from grove to grove, from stream to stream. Whenever I met a new plant I would sit down beside it, hear what it had to tell, make its acquaintance for a minute or a day. I asked the boulders where they had been & whether they were going. And where night found me there I camped. I took no more heed to save time or to make haste then did the trees or the stars. This is true freedom. A good practical sort of immortality." John Muir Learning From Elder Farmers 10/10/2009
 The sight of Ron’s farm is like a quiet blessing. I wait for my first glimpse of it over the rise of a hill each time I take the dogs for a walk down our street. The house and several outbuildings are in shambles, but that’s because Ron puts his energy into keeping his small dairy farm going. His herd of around fifty Ayrshire, Holstein, Guernsey and Brown Swiss graze on pasture so that the grasses sway in the wind. Many of the old fence posts surrounding the fields are wire-wrapped osage orange and hickory trunks, since farmers a few generations ago knew these durable woods would serve while alive and long after. Ron puts his cows out on pasture each spring by a calculation that remains a mystery to me, something to do with phases of the moon. He adheres to other timeworn methods that aren’t fancy enough to be termed eco-friendly or green. For example, Ron drives his old car back to the hayfield before it’s time to cut. He walks through the field handpicking weeds that aren’t good for his cows. He doesn’t confine his cows year round, dose them with production-boosting hormones or follow any other agricultural trends. Ron’s back is bent; his face is weathered and creased into a permanent smile. Already he looks like his father, Herb, who died a few years ago, probably already in his nineties. We asked Herb’s advice back when we first started farming. Herb told us he’d walked over to see our cows a few times, meaning he’d hiking through fields and woods to reassure himself that all was well. How many of us can still benefit from the benevolent instinct of a neighboring farmer? How many are lucky enough to learn from examples of those who are deeply rooted, as Lisa Hamilton’s wonderful new book Deeply Rooted is aptly named? Dairy farms all over the country are selling cows, selling land and going out of business. The price they are being paid is about the same as it was in the 1970’s, although feed and fuel is much higher. Government aid under consideration for small farms is steered to prompt farmers into selling cows, meaning even more milk will come from huge confinement agricultural operations. Losing small farms also means that the wisdom of farmers like Ron will be left behind at an ever faster pace. This includes specific wisdom about the land and wider wisdom about ways to live. Authentic connection to the land is so easily crushed beneath the weight of society’s pressing demand for immediate gratification and quick profits. But then, much is lost. As Pierre Teilhard de Chardin said, “This palpable world, which we are used to treating with the boredom and disrespect with which we habitually regard places with no sacred association, is a holy place." Perhaps most obviously, common sense is lost. Small farms are actually more efficient. The Institute for Food and Development Policy amassed the available data from every country to compare productivity of smaller farms versus larger farms (total output of agricultural products per unit area -- per acre or hectare.) Their research showed that smaller farms are anywhere from 200 to 1,000 percent more productive. Ron’s son-in-law and grandson help on the farm, but his family talks to him about getting out of the business. They know he’s losing money. Ron says that he watched his father go through hard times and he learned that the way you stay farming is to hang on. So he’s hanging on. Ron’s rootedness to his farm and his land is part of who he is, like the farmer Gene Logsdon describes:“…he is a last member of an ancient tribe—the genuine traditional farmers who committed themselves lovingly to a piece of land and husbanded it from generation to generation, carrying in their memories a lifetime of their own experiences and that of their fathers and grandfathers on that land.” So today I will walk in his direction, grateful for Ron’s farm. I’ll pay attention to the sight of cows resting in tall grass and the sound of a slack board on the house creaking in the breeze, hoping perhaps each thing we look upon with love somehow is more likely to endure. Crosspo The Beauty of Repurposing 08/26/2009
"Repurposing" is a strangely awkward word. Our ancestors didn't need a name for the frugal and often creative uses they found to reuse objects. My grandfather set a door across file cabinets for a work table. When making repairs he did calculations on an old piece of cardboard. Then he fished used screws and bolts from neatly labeled tin cans, chose from coiled loops of wire and string hanging from hooks, and proceeded using tools his own father once used. My grandmother was a talented seamstress who reworked clothes until they were no longer functional, then took off the buttons and used the fabric for anything from hooked rugs to dust clothes. She made do with everything she came across, from leftovers to plant cuttings. My parents carried on in the same way, although by the sixties and seventies such traditions were regarded as eccentric, even bizarre. They tore junk mail into notepaper, saved wrapping paper to rewrap, used bread bags and even foil over and over. When our hot water tank had to be replaced my father kept the old one in the garage. He cut metal from it for years to use in various projects. These tactics were a source of amusement to their children, except when our chores included polishing silver using the soft cloth of tattered men’s briefs or some similarly embarrassing task. As an adult I take a particular delight in repurposing. A wine decanter holds mouthwash in our bathroom and geodes collected by my children are our toothbrush holders. I’ve tucked plants into worn workboots and cracked mixing bowls, made children’s pajamas from their father’s flannel shirt, and take special delight in wrapping presents in something reusable. Here’s a little stuffed guy made from a child’s sweater:  And here are two baby toys made from socks:   After my mother died we were left with many beautiful things, but it wasn't bearable to toss out the broken beautiful things. So I incorporated them into a bit of yard art. My husband and son cut a large piece of iron into the shape of a crescent moon and welded it on a post. Then I made a mosaic on it using broken plates, bits of bright glass, even bisque amputee dolls. Here it is, with two wonder dogs Jedi and Cocoa Bean posing underneath:  Now my husband has made another of his handcrafted sinks out of repurposed materials. He took apart, reglued and recoated an antique kitchen table. Into it he affixed an antique copper candy-making vessel to serve as the sink. A leaf from the table provides a mount for the faucet and the drawer still works. Our friend Rebecca has this for sale in her store, Planet Green Goods which offers locally made products, earth friendly cleaners, organic apparel and more.    It feels good to save sweaters, broken plates and old tables from the landfill. It feels even better to make something from them to serve a new use. Repurposing is liberating. It frees us from the oppression of wanting, opening us to a greater freedom. Journeying god, pitch your tent with mine so that I may not become deterred by hardship, strangeness, doubt. Show me the movement I must make toward a wealth not dependent on possessions, toward a wisdom not based on books, toward a strength not bolstered by might, toward a god not confined to heaven. Help me to find myself as I walk in other's shoes. (Prayer song from Ghana, traditional, translator unknown) A Moment in the Great Turning 04/01/2009
 On the counter where I expected to find space to make soup and cheese there are books and unidentifiable metal objects. As soon as I clear the counter my sons will surely appear, insisting that those parts were arranged in some inscrutable order necessary to fix, reassemble or create something. As I get carrots, cabbage and other ingredients from the refrigerator I notice it happens to contain plastic bags filled with dirt balls called dorodango, part of an ongoing project my kids’ friends. And while I drain the whey off cheese made from this morning’s milking, I look at the new comments written on the wipe-off surface of the world map on our kitchen wall. Everywhere around me are signs of my family’s lively engagement in the moment. Don't be Afraid of the Dark This is a dark time, filled with suffering and uncertainty. Like living cells in a larger body, it is natural that we feel the trauma of our world. So don't be afraid of the anguish you feel, or the anger or fear, for these responses arise from the depth of your caring and the truth of your interconnectedness with all beings. To suffer with is the literal meaning of compassion. Dare to Vision Out of this darkness a new world can arise, not to be constructed by our minds so much as to emerge from our dreams. Even though we cannot see clearly how it's going to turn out, we are still called to let the future into our imagination. We will never be able to build what we have not first cherished in our hearts.. Roll up your Sleeves Many people don't get involved in the Great Turning because there are so many different issues, which seem to compete with each other. Shall I save the whales or help battered children? The truth is that all aspects of the current crisis reflect the same mistake, setting ourselves apart and using others for our gain. So to heal one aspect helps the others to heal as well. Just find what you love to work on and take joy in that. Never try to do it alone. Link up with others; you'll spark each others' ideas and sustain each others' energy.. Act your AgeSince every particle in your body goes back to the first flaring forth of space and time, you're really as old as the universe. So when you are lobbying at your congressperson's office, or visiting your local utility, or testifying at a hearing on nuclear waste, or standing up to protect an old grove of redwoods, you are doing that not out of some personal whim, but in the full authority of your 15 billions years. Thanksgiving Day 11/27/2008
 | Laura
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