Can We Adapt to Change?

End of June:  cosmos blooming, zinnia seedlings popping up; week-old chicks trying out their new wings; leeks mostly harvested; some peaches rescued from the squirrels; picking my biggest crop of Gravenstein apples to make canned apples for the winter; first batch of borsch in freezer; making pickles today from my own cukes, onions, and peppers.  Back in March?  A strange, unpredictable spring, and yet...

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The Telling that Changes Everything XI. March 4, 2012

We have it all: the numbing, merciless cold

and the beneficent sun rays rousing all the

juices of spring–animal, vegetable, human.

Will I lose my peaches because sun has 

lured them into early bloom time and

a hoarfrost lurks around the corner?  Last

night’s rain nurtures the new roots of leeks

and onion plants, brings insects and

earthworms to the surface where the hens 

scratch and pounce, feeding on their native

diet.  I pull them chickweed, which is

impervious to frost and relishes both rain

and sun.  I am whole and hale in my aging

time, but I lose companions, like Odysseus

did.  I walk, garden, eat well, create, to stay

lively, but even so my flesh being firm as

I approach seventy-five is a gift, one of

many I’ve had in my lifetime.  To live

long is to lose much, yet I want to live

and do, as Susan says, the best I can.

I am able to write and publish books.  

I am able to see into the souls around

me, even tame them, as the Little Prince

did.  That, too, is a gift I must not abuse.

I carry my years lightly, and yet sorrow 

sits on my heart for all the losses, for the 

lack of wisdom, the inability, in so many

people, even to see what benefits them,

what helps them thrive.  Yet the Great

Mother, our planet home, teaches us

the same lessons over and over.  If we

don’t adapt, if we refuse to cope, if we

become passive and inert, if we say,

“It’s too hard,” we die.  To live well, 

to stay our whole life course and make

our final homeward journey, we have 

only one choice: to pay close attention

to the world within and the world without.

The grain of the universe doesn’t destroy

us unless we let it.

Two Ways of Looking at Things

Judy's figs

***

The Telling that Changes Everything VI.

January 8, 2012

There are two ways of looking at things.

I learned this the hard way.  I had hints.

At the end of The Last Battle, C. S. Lewis

takes the children through a stable and

into the Elysian Fields.*  The dwarves,

right behind them, see only the stable

and not the beautiful meadow.  I look out

my window at my January garden and the

meadow beyond it.  Six months ago it was

vibrant with color, and I picked cukes,

tomatoes, peppers, and later, figs, okra,

beans.  The fruits of that flourishing

beauty lie safely in my freezer or stay

cool in my unheated bedroom where I

sleep under layers of quilts, my wool 

serape on top.  But some see only a

bleak, grey landscape, a scarecrow in 

her blue robe and plastic bag head,

her two-by-four arms held wide to

frighten crows and guard the plenty

that ripened all around her.  In my

mind’s eye, the garden still lives.

Next year I’ll have new fruits to gather,

savor, and lock in boxes against the

winter, cold and grey.  I learned early

that I would be loved and hated.  So

I learn now that my books will stir 

praise and blame.  It shouldn’t surprise

me, since I do what I love and in the

mode it is given to me.  I see by my

visions.  I follow the prompts of

my Deep Self.  I’m more interested

in revealing how love works its

transformations than in being known

to be Kierkegaard’s genius.**  The only

kind of genius I want to be is the one

who knows how to invent in Sartre’s

desperate circumstances.  The one who

can take an unexpected kick in the gut

and place it in the context it deserves,

of short-sightedness.  You see only the 

stable and not the Elysian fields?  It

must mean you’re short-sighted or even

blind.  Procrustean*** beds can only take

you so far.  But I refuse to have my arms 

and legs lopped off so you can fit me

into the box of your choosing.  I’m a 

little more effervescent than that.  I 

didn’t get to this age without learning

how to elude the reductionists who

love to classify, categorize, and box 

you in.  Of course, you’re welcome 

to your opinion, and you may spread 

it around, conceivably do me or my 

books harm.  But I have weapons 

you scarcely imagine.  You write to 

rules and slogans.  I heed the Muse, 

write the books I must write. If you 

read them with an open mind, they 

might change how even you see 

the world.  As for me, I’m on my best 

path, heading in my chosen direction.  

I wish you well on your path.  

Let’s see who dies most satisfied.

* Elysian fields: in Greek mythology, the fields of asphodel (like daffodils) where the good dead go.

** Kierkegaard distinguished between the genius, who writes to show off his genius, and the apostle, who writes for the sake of what he values.  Sartre said: “A genius is one who invents in desperate circumstances.”

*** Procrustes: a giant who forced people into a bed, whether they fitted or not, lopping off limbs as necessary.