In the spring, at the end of the day, you should smell like dirt. — Margaret Atwood
On the solar system’s schedule of arrivals and departures, spring always rolls in right on time in the maturity of March, conveyed precisely to its eternally recurring equinox by the clockwork of physics. Real spring — that is, the spring we feel and experience as sentient beings living on earth — comes and goes in a more haphazard way, following a timetable of random weather patterns perceived and parsed by our human emotional responses to change. Spring, as we know it, is a caprice — a sudden and unaccountable change of mood and orientation.
First, it is an April thing. The “spring” of March in the latitudes of New England is all mockery and broken promises seasoned with snow squalls. Here, the vernal equinox is conceptual, not consequential.
My earliest introduction to cause and effect was put this way: April showers bring May flowers. But between the showers and the flowers, spring arises ephemerally, carrying our mood aloft right along with it. Continue reading
“Earthrise” – Bill Anders, NASA
The first time I saw the “Earthrise” photo, taken by the Apollo 8 flight engineer Bill Anders from moon orbit on Christmas Eve 1968, I remember thinking how like a snow globe the earth appeared. Our planet’s sphere was in a gibbous phase and appeared to be a dome floating in the void beyond the moon’s barren horizon.
The idea of three humans slung snugly in the gravitational embrace of the moon shook up our globe on that Christmas 47 years ago. The photo caused us to confront a view of ourselves from the other side of the sky and to acknowledge our confinement in a small living bubble of blue and white.
Now, nearly half a century later on the eve of another rare Christmas – one with a full moon on its horizon – my appreciation of the sky as a beautiful and shimmering envelope for my life, and all earthly lives, endures.
American black bear (Ursus americanus).
New England’s woodlands stand naked now with all their fine summer attire strewn across the forest floor by an October fatigued by its own flamboyance hurrying off to bed. Darkness arrives early and lingers late to cloak the scene, the prudish emissary of a cold, dispassionate winter on its way. At the margins of the day, dawn and dusk throw up a cool blue scrim that blurs perceptions and blends shadows with substance. So when we venture out to the barn to deliver the day’s recycling or to retrieve wood for the evening’s fire, we set our awareness to high-gain, and we carry a big stick. We worry about bears.
Kate and I added this particular worry several weeks ago to our householders’ list of dreads, which also includes window sill rot, throaty complaints from the oil burner, and an insomniac munching mouse in the walls of the bedroom. It was placed at the top of the list after an evening trip to the barn was interrupted by the arrival of a young bear in the curving driveway there. Continue reading
We live upon a spinning top perched upon the twirling lariat of a great cowboy riding in circles. Yet none of us feels particularly dizzy. But how our heads do spin!
In case you didn’t notice, the sun slipped into the Southern Hemisphere on Wednesday to deliver the blessings of spring and then summer to all things living below the equatorial belt. Those of us left in the bending light of its wake must now bank wood in our sheds, stock soup in our freezers, and books in our Kindles and shelves for the coming months of darkening and decrease.
For planets like ours that rotate on an axis tilted relative to its path around the sun, our heliocentric orbit is an endless Hokey Pokey dance of hemispheric leanings in and out. And for living things that have evolved on earth over the past 3.5 billion years, that really is what it’s all about. Continue reading
Rabbits showed up at our place for the first time this summer from I don’t know where.
We live at an intersection, not just of two roads but of fields, forest, and suburban lawns. We’ve had all kinds of wildlife pass through over the years, from tiny toads to cruising coyotes.
(I don’t count the bear that inhabits the shadows of my peripheral vision on nighttime trips to the compost bin out under the spruces. It keeps its distance, evanescent, a dark nearly imperceptible id. I’m hoping it stays that way and doesn’t coalesce into one of the real bears that have moved into this area. Until it does, I will keep it off the visitors’ list.)
The newcomer rabbits turned up first at the far edge of the yard, darting in and out of the unruly grape vines that overwhelmed a rhododendron there, moving like shy but curious children, who venture only so far from their cover in the pleats of mother’s skirt. Continue reading