Well, here it is, 2009. If I sound less than enthused, it’s for two reasons: first, I’ve never bought into the whole super-hyped concept of New Years favored by some. Yes, it’s a clean slate, a new beginning. Sort of. It’s also very much a continuation of patterns and trends begun the year before, and usually a very long while before that.
And that’s the second reason I’m not jumping with joy over the advent of 2009: it brings a lot of baggage with it from 2008. So in lieu of a bunch of resolutions I might not be able to keep anyway, I’d like to offer a series of hopes – or maybe prayers – for 2009.
That India and Pakistan are able to overcome their deep-seated historical differences and unite against terrorism in the region: both al-Qaida and Taliban on Pakistan’s western border, and home-grown terrorists threatening peace in both countries and across their common border.
That the long cycle of violence between Israel and the Palestinians, particularly Hamas, may likewise be broken. This endless, grinding pattern of grievance, destruction, and death does neither side any good, and places the whole region at risk of a wider struggle.
That we are able to keep our disagreements with Russia and China civil and civilized. Neither of these large, populous nations is a superpower of the first rank at this point, but both are what used to be called “Great Powers,” and wield considerable influence in the world, as well as considerable military power. We cannot expect their interests and ours to coincide perfectly, but the more we are able to find commonality of interest, the better for all parties concerned.
That we are able, as a society, to view the twin specters of global warming and peak oil as one problem – petrochemical dependency – and not two, and find alternatives to our oil addiction that do not try to “solve” one of these in a way which exacerbates the other.
That we finally learn, once and for all, that the economy and the environment is not an either-or proposition. And furthermore, that we need to consider the impact of all of our doings in terms of what some call the triple bottom line: the economical, environmental, and social consequences of our actions, also known as “people, planet, profit.” Lacking any of these, true sustainability is impossible.
That we have the sense to repeal or dramatically alter “No Child Left Behind” to de-emphasize standardized testing, and re-emphasize authentic learning, and creative teaching. And that, in contrast, “No Child Left Inside” becomes more than a slogan, but an integral part of our educational tool-box. Study after study has shown that authentic outdoor experiences have myriad benefits for children. Apparently, our mothers’ admonition to “go outside and play” had more benefits than getting us out of her hair.
And finally, that our new president is given the chance to show what he can do before everyone starts jumping down his throat. I did not vote for Obama; I had and have my doubts about his readiness for such high office. But he’s the choice of a majority of the people, and he deserves both respect and support. Being president is a thankless job in the best of times, and the challenges facing this one are nearly mind-boggling. It will take all of us, working together, to meet them.
But haven’t we met challenges before? Yes, we have. Americans thrive on challenge, and have proven over and over again our ability to rise – sometime belatedly, sometimes grudgingly, but with a remarkable track record of success – to meet them. And that does give me hope for the future, in this year of grace 2009. Happy New Year!
Showing posts with label Seasonal. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Seasonal. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 06, 2009
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Column: Summer Reflections
As the wheel of the year turns from the Winter Solstice, December 21st, to Candlemas, February 2nd, there is an old axiom that “as the light lengthens, so the cold strengthens.” And in fact, the period between Christmas and Groundhog Day is often the coldest and snowiest of the year. In fact, the cold and snow sometimes extends right up to the Vernal Equinox, on March 21st.
If there were a similar axiom for this time of year, it might go “as the dark lengthens, so the heat strengthens.”
We are just past the Summer Solstice, the longest day and shortest night of the year. From now on each day will be just a little bit shorter, and each night a little bit longer, than the last. It’ll be barely noticeable at first, but within a few weeks we’ll be noticing, regretfully, that it’s not staying light quite as late as it was before.
That does not mean that the intensity of summer heat will lessen along with the light. It will eventually, of course, but we are now facing the hottest part of the year: “High Summer,” or the “Dog Days,” as some call them. From the Summer Solstice until at least Lammas (“Loaf-Mass,” the old harvest festival on August 1st), and perhaps until the Autumnal Equinox on September 21st, we can look forward to days, weeks or months of hot, hazy, and humid weather.
Nonetheless, this is a wonderful time of the year in many respects. Traditionally it’s a time for vacations, a word stemming from the so-called “Gilded Age,” when Vanderbilts, DuPonts, and other wealthy families literally “vacated” cities for the healthier climate of exclusive mountain or coastal retreats. With the advent of the Automotive Age, ordinary families could join the pilgrimage, and the Great American Vacation was born.
Present fuel costs may keep more people closer to home this year, and in years to come, but that’s not all bad: there are many places and events worth visiting here in our home state of Maryland, in fact right here in Carroll County. It’s even possible that some families may focus more on being families, and doing things together, rather than just going places.
And of course, this is the most fruitful time of the year, when fresh vegetables, fruits, and berries abound at farmers markets and roadside stands. What would late spring and early summer have been without strawberries and asparagus? But now we can look forward to locally-grown tomatoes, corn, and beans, yellow and zucchini squash, plus peppers and eggplant for those who like them, along with cantelopes and watermelons, cherries and peaches, red raspberries and plump blackberries, and much more.
And if the heat and humidity gets you down, be of good hope! It won’t be that long until the first Canadian cold fronts sweep through the area, bringing crystal blue skies and crisp nights, and the markets will be replete with apples and pumpkins, Indian corn and colorful gourds.
But that’s for the future. The wheel of the year keeps turning, ever-varied, eternally interesting. Best not to look too far ahead: better to simply enjoy what this turn of the year brings. Although the seasons may come back around, each moment in time is unique, and once gone, it can never be recaptured.
If there were a similar axiom for this time of year, it might go “as the dark lengthens, so the heat strengthens.”
We are just past the Summer Solstice, the longest day and shortest night of the year. From now on each day will be just a little bit shorter, and each night a little bit longer, than the last. It’ll be barely noticeable at first, but within a few weeks we’ll be noticing, regretfully, that it’s not staying light quite as late as it was before.
That does not mean that the intensity of summer heat will lessen along with the light. It will eventually, of course, but we are now facing the hottest part of the year: “High Summer,” or the “Dog Days,” as some call them. From the Summer Solstice until at least Lammas (“Loaf-Mass,” the old harvest festival on August 1st), and perhaps until the Autumnal Equinox on September 21st, we can look forward to days, weeks or months of hot, hazy, and humid weather.
Nonetheless, this is a wonderful time of the year in many respects. Traditionally it’s a time for vacations, a word stemming from the so-called “Gilded Age,” when Vanderbilts, DuPonts, and other wealthy families literally “vacated” cities for the healthier climate of exclusive mountain or coastal retreats. With the advent of the Automotive Age, ordinary families could join the pilgrimage, and the Great American Vacation was born.
Present fuel costs may keep more people closer to home this year, and in years to come, but that’s not all bad: there are many places and events worth visiting here in our home state of Maryland, in fact right here in Carroll County. It’s even possible that some families may focus more on being families, and doing things together, rather than just going places.
And of course, this is the most fruitful time of the year, when fresh vegetables, fruits, and berries abound at farmers markets and roadside stands. What would late spring and early summer have been without strawberries and asparagus? But now we can look forward to locally-grown tomatoes, corn, and beans, yellow and zucchini squash, plus peppers and eggplant for those who like them, along with cantelopes and watermelons, cherries and peaches, red raspberries and plump blackberries, and much more.
And if the heat and humidity gets you down, be of good hope! It won’t be that long until the first Canadian cold fronts sweep through the area, bringing crystal blue skies and crisp nights, and the markets will be replete with apples and pumpkins, Indian corn and colorful gourds.
But that’s for the future. The wheel of the year keeps turning, ever-varied, eternally interesting. Best not to look too far ahead: better to simply enjoy what this turn of the year brings. Although the seasons may come back around, each moment in time is unique, and once gone, it can never be recaptured.
Thursday, June 07, 2007
Fresh, local produce sure sign of Summer
The recent warmth and humidity we've been experiencing make it clear that spring is edging into summer. But for many of us, there are other indicators, too. One is the changing hue of the green leaves, from the lacey light-green of spring to the darker, more solid-appearing greens of summer.
As we move toward the Summer Solstice on June 21st, the quality of light is changing, too: the sun riding ever higher in the sky, the days lasting just a bit longer, and the nights a bit shorter. The birds are in full song, even the laggards having made their yearly pilgrimage along the migration routes. The scent of wild roses and honeysuckle perfumes the air with a magical fragrance.
But perhaps most wondrous of all, fresh local produce is beginning to appear. As many know, I work on a farm called Spoutwood in Glen Rock, PA, which offers weekly bags of produce to shareholders. But even though our distribution season will not begin for another week or so, the gardens are already starting to produce greens, radishes, asparagus, and more.
Spoutwood is a community supported agriculture project (CSA), in which shareholders pay a set fee up front in exchange for 22 weeks of produce. But there are many others, including a number here in Carroll County. Lists of local CSA farms can be found at http://www.sare.org/csa/index.htm and http://www.localharvest.org/csa/, among other sites.
Not everyone will sign up for a CSA, however, and even those of us who do often find that we want one or two veggies that didn't come in the box or bag this week. Or, we may want more of something than our CSA share provided. For those folks, or anyone else looking for a taste of summer, fresh and local, farmers markets cannot be beat.
Not all farmers markets are created equal, however. Some, like the Farmers Market at the Ag Center in Westminster, combine a heavy complement of crafts with their produce-selling farmers. In some ways, this has filled in -- at least seasonally -- the void left by the departure of the Pennsylvania Dutch Market. Some markets allow their vendors to "buy in" produce from off the farm, or even out of state: just because it's at a stall in a farmers market does not necessarily mean the farmer grew it.
Others, however, are proud of their status as "producers only" farmers markets. As the name indicates, these markets require their farmer-vendors to sell only what they grow on their own farms, or if they are providing a value-added product (such as bread or preserves) to have made it themselves, often with at least some proportion of local ingredients.
The Downtown Westminster Farmers Market is one such producer-only farmers market. In addition to offering fruits, vegetables, breads, and even meats, this market offers the assurance that everything available for sale was grown, raised, or made on the farm or in the kitchen of the vendor.
Says Jackie Miller, market manager,
"There are many different things that people are concerned about when it comes to their food. Some are vegetarians, some want organic, some want to preserve the environment and conserve fossil fuels by eating locally, and some simply want the freshest, best quality produce available. Customers looking for chemical-free products can walk up to the farmer and talk with him or her about their growing methods. Furthermore, you are supporting your local economy by shopping at producer-only markets. We feel that this label is of utmost importance in keeping the integrity of our market."
This is not to say that other models for farmers markets are bad or incorrect. But for the assurance that what you buy is both impeccably local and impeccably fresh, it's hard to beat the knowledge that it's been picked in the farmer's own garden that very morning.
This is just a sampling of the many sources for fresh produce available this summer, including of course roadside farmstands, and even your neighbor's garden -- or if you're feeling ambitious, your own. Despite suburban encroachment, Carroll County retains a strong agricultural component, and there's no time like summer to take advantage of it.
Buying food locally -- becoming a "localvore" -- is good for the environment, good for farmers, good for local communities, and good for the eater of that delicious, fresh, local food. Be it garden or farmstand, CSA or famer's market, find your favorite source and enjoy summer's bounty. Bon appetit!
As we move toward the Summer Solstice on June 21st, the quality of light is changing, too: the sun riding ever higher in the sky, the days lasting just a bit longer, and the nights a bit shorter. The birds are in full song, even the laggards having made their yearly pilgrimage along the migration routes. The scent of wild roses and honeysuckle perfumes the air with a magical fragrance.
But perhaps most wondrous of all, fresh local produce is beginning to appear. As many know, I work on a farm called Spoutwood in Glen Rock, PA, which offers weekly bags of produce to shareholders. But even though our distribution season will not begin for another week or so, the gardens are already starting to produce greens, radishes, asparagus, and more.
Spoutwood is a community supported agriculture project (CSA), in which shareholders pay a set fee up front in exchange for 22 weeks of produce. But there are many others, including a number here in Carroll County. Lists of local CSA farms can be found at http://www.sare.org/csa/index.htm and http://www.localharvest.org/csa/, among other sites.
Not everyone will sign up for a CSA, however, and even those of us who do often find that we want one or two veggies that didn't come in the box or bag this week. Or, we may want more of something than our CSA share provided. For those folks, or anyone else looking for a taste of summer, fresh and local, farmers markets cannot be beat.
Not all farmers markets are created equal, however. Some, like the Farmers Market at the Ag Center in Westminster, combine a heavy complement of crafts with their produce-selling farmers. In some ways, this has filled in -- at least seasonally -- the void left by the departure of the Pennsylvania Dutch Market. Some markets allow their vendors to "buy in" produce from off the farm, or even out of state: just because it's at a stall in a farmers market does not necessarily mean the farmer grew it.
Others, however, are proud of their status as "producers only" farmers markets. As the name indicates, these markets require their farmer-vendors to sell only what they grow on their own farms, or if they are providing a value-added product (such as bread or preserves) to have made it themselves, often with at least some proportion of local ingredients.
The Downtown Westminster Farmers Market is one such producer-only farmers market. In addition to offering fruits, vegetables, breads, and even meats, this market offers the assurance that everything available for sale was grown, raised, or made on the farm or in the kitchen of the vendor.
Says Jackie Miller, market manager,
"There are many different things that people are concerned about when it comes to their food. Some are vegetarians, some want organic, some want to preserve the environment and conserve fossil fuels by eating locally, and some simply want the freshest, best quality produce available. Customers looking for chemical-free products can walk up to the farmer and talk with him or her about their growing methods. Furthermore, you are supporting your local economy by shopping at producer-only markets. We feel that this label is of utmost importance in keeping the integrity of our market."
This is not to say that other models for farmers markets are bad or incorrect. But for the assurance that what you buy is both impeccably local and impeccably fresh, it's hard to beat the knowledge that it's been picked in the farmer's own garden that very morning.
This is just a sampling of the many sources for fresh produce available this summer, including of course roadside farmstands, and even your neighbor's garden -- or if you're feeling ambitious, your own. Despite suburban encroachment, Carroll County retains a strong agricultural component, and there's no time like summer to take advantage of it.
Buying food locally -- becoming a "localvore" -- is good for the environment, good for farmers, good for local communities, and good for the eater of that delicious, fresh, local food. Be it garden or farmstand, CSA or famer's market, find your favorite source and enjoy summer's bounty. Bon appetit!
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Remembering fallen heroes on Memorial Day
Yesterday we observed the national Memorial Day holiday. Observed by custom, over recent decades, on the last Monday of May, it yields a long weekend for the traditional (if unoffical) first weekend of summer. As such, it forms the backdrop for picnics, backyard barbecues, and trips to the beach, the lake, or the mountains.
All of this is well and good. The older I get, the shorter summer seems to become, and I am all for squeezing every ounce of gusto out of it that we can manage. I'm always up for a trip to the mountains, a session of grilling and partaking of potluck picnic fare, or exploring some waterfront location.
But it's important, I think, that we don't let these enjoyable observations of the beginning of summer obscure for us the deeper significance of Memorial Day, or Decoration Day as it was originally called. Though the precise date and location of its origin are unknown, it clearly dates back to the Civil War. As the website www.usmemorialday.org notes, it is "likely that… every planned or spontaneous gathering of people to honor the war dead in the 1860's tapped into the general human need to honor our dead."
Memorial Day was officially first proclaimed by Union General John Logan, commander of the Grand Army of the Republic, and first observed on May 30, 1868. It is very much in keeping with the tenor of the day that, even at that early date, flowers were laid on the graves of Union and Confederate soldiers alike.
The first state to officially recognize the holiday was New York, in 1873. By 1890, again according to the website, it was recognized by all northern states, although perhaps understandably, the states of the former Confederacy resisted the trend, honoring their dead on separate days. World War One, however, brought the country together in many ways. One of those was making Memorial Day no longer about honoring the dead of the Civil War, but honoring all American servicemen (and later women) who had died fighting for their country.
The wearing of red poppies originated in the famous World War One poem, "In Flanders Fields." In 1915, Moina Mitchell was inspired by this to compose her own brief poem: "We cherish too, the Poppy red / That grows on fields where valor led, / It seems to signal to the skies / That blood of heroes never dies." She thus conceived the idea of wearing red poppies to honor those Americans fallen in battle.
At a time when more than 3,400 Americans have died in the fighting in Iraq, and hundreds more in Afghanistan, it is appropriate to pause amidst our understandable celebrations of the coming of summer to recall, for a moment, just why we commemorate this day. Westminster and some of the other municipalities of Carroll County are better at this than much of the country, it seems, honoring both the day and our fallen heroes with a parade and, often, further observances at the local cemetery.
Nonetheless I tend to agree with the views expressed on www.memorialday.com, that "Traditional observance of Memorial day has diminished over the years. Many Americans nowadays have forgotten the meaning and traditions of Memorial Day... What is needed is a full return to the original day of observance. Set aside one day out of the year for the nation to get together to remember, reflect and honor those who have given their all in service to their country."
How best to do this? Move the observation of Memorial Day back to its original date, May 30th, on whatever day that might fall. Making it an excuse for a 3-day vacation, some justly hold, undercuts the very meaning of the day, which is all about sacrifice and gratitude for that sacrifice. Without the valor and selflessness, even unto death, of those honored on this day, the U.S. would not be a nation, and neither we nor much of the rest of the world would enjoy the freedoms we so often take for granted.
In the words of General Logan, in his order proclaiming the day in 1868, "Let no vandalism of avarice or neglect, no ravages of time testify to the present or to the coming generations that we have forgotten as a people the cost of a free and undivided republic." May we not forget. May we never forget. Tomorrow marks the traditional Memorial Day, May 30th. Let us truly, and gratefully, remember.
All of this is well and good. The older I get, the shorter summer seems to become, and I am all for squeezing every ounce of gusto out of it that we can manage. I'm always up for a trip to the mountains, a session of grilling and partaking of potluck picnic fare, or exploring some waterfront location.
But it's important, I think, that we don't let these enjoyable observations of the beginning of summer obscure for us the deeper significance of Memorial Day, or Decoration Day as it was originally called. Though the precise date and location of its origin are unknown, it clearly dates back to the Civil War. As the website www.usmemorialday.org notes, it is "likely that… every planned or spontaneous gathering of people to honor the war dead in the 1860's tapped into the general human need to honor our dead."
Memorial Day was officially first proclaimed by Union General John Logan, commander of the Grand Army of the Republic, and first observed on May 30, 1868. It is very much in keeping with the tenor of the day that, even at that early date, flowers were laid on the graves of Union and Confederate soldiers alike.
The first state to officially recognize the holiday was New York, in 1873. By 1890, again according to the website, it was recognized by all northern states, although perhaps understandably, the states of the former Confederacy resisted the trend, honoring their dead on separate days. World War One, however, brought the country together in many ways. One of those was making Memorial Day no longer about honoring the dead of the Civil War, but honoring all American servicemen (and later women) who had died fighting for their country.
The wearing of red poppies originated in the famous World War One poem, "In Flanders Fields." In 1915, Moina Mitchell was inspired by this to compose her own brief poem: "We cherish too, the Poppy red / That grows on fields where valor led, / It seems to signal to the skies / That blood of heroes never dies." She thus conceived the idea of wearing red poppies to honor those Americans fallen in battle.
At a time when more than 3,400 Americans have died in the fighting in Iraq, and hundreds more in Afghanistan, it is appropriate to pause amidst our understandable celebrations of the coming of summer to recall, for a moment, just why we commemorate this day. Westminster and some of the other municipalities of Carroll County are better at this than much of the country, it seems, honoring both the day and our fallen heroes with a parade and, often, further observances at the local cemetery.
Nonetheless I tend to agree with the views expressed on www.memorialday.com, that "Traditional observance of Memorial day has diminished over the years. Many Americans nowadays have forgotten the meaning and traditions of Memorial Day... What is needed is a full return to the original day of observance. Set aside one day out of the year for the nation to get together to remember, reflect and honor those who have given their all in service to their country."
How best to do this? Move the observation of Memorial Day back to its original date, May 30th, on whatever day that might fall. Making it an excuse for a 3-day vacation, some justly hold, undercuts the very meaning of the day, which is all about sacrifice and gratitude for that sacrifice. Without the valor and selflessness, even unto death, of those honored on this day, the U.S. would not be a nation, and neither we nor much of the rest of the world would enjoy the freedoms we so often take for granted.
In the words of General Logan, in his order proclaiming the day in 1868, "Let no vandalism of avarice or neglect, no ravages of time testify to the present or to the coming generations that we have forgotten as a people the cost of a free and undivided republic." May we not forget. May we never forget. Tomorrow marks the traditional Memorial Day, May 30th. Let us truly, and gratefully, remember.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
2007 Fairie Festival at Spoutwood Farm
Please note: there are many spellings of fairie/fairy/faery, but "fairie" is how Spoutwood has chosen to spell it, so that is the form I have used throughout.
----------
On the first weekend of May, I attended a most remarkable event. Nestled into a peaceful corner of York County, PA, near the borough of Glen Rock, is Spoutwood Farm. Most of the year it quietly produces fresh, organic-quality vegetables from its community supported agriculture gardens, honey from its hives, and grapes for a local vintner. It also hosts educational programs related to sustainable agriculture, simple living, and the environment.
Once a year, however, this sleepy farm is transformed. Like Brigadoon coming out of the mists, it becomes the site of the annual May Day Fairie Festival. The Fairie Festival was the brainchild of Rob and Lucy Wood, owners of Spoutwood, and began 16 years ago as a party for 100 friends. Last year, 2006, some 12,000 people came through the gates over the three days the Festival ran, and this year, the number was closer to 15,000. Patrons came from as far away as Japan, and performers from as far as Scotland.
Why do they come? To "celebrate the beginning of spring and the return of the nature spirits to the warm world," according to the professionally-produced program. It is a participatory celebration of the spirit of nature and of the springtime, and judging by the expressions of joy and wonder on the faces of patrons both young and old, the enchantment runs deep.
To be sure, the Fairie Festival is not for everyone. I think the reality is that what one sees in the Fairie Festival is, to a large degree, based on what one brings to it. If you bring a desire for order, structure, and normalcy, as society understands these, you may be disappointed. If you're looking for creativity, freedom of spirit, and openness to difference, change, and transformation, you'll find it, in vast and indeed bewildering variety. For some, it can be an experience of sensory overload -- even, perhaps, intimidation.
Yet the spirit of the Fairie Festival is a spirit of whimsy, play, and celebration of the mythic imagination. Fairies, sprites, and pixies, dryads and Green Men, brownies, gnomes, and elves, and maybe even a sleepy dragon are among the mythical creatures found represented there, by performers, presenters, and patrons alike. Fairie wings and pixie dust abound, along with Maypole dances, the throbbing rhythms of drums, the skirl of bagpipes, the haunting melodies of Celtic music, and the driving beat of world fusion.
Music and dancing is in many ways the heart of this embodiment of the Fairie Realms here on earth: a celebration of the growing light and warmth of spring, the re-emergence of the life of trees and flowers, plants and animals -- and the re-awakening of human beings, too, as we throw off our winter torpor and embrace the springtime pulses that flow in our veins. In the drums and penny-whistles, bagpipes, fiddles, and guitars, the human spirit soars and leaps with the spirit of the season.
Food and drink (of the non-alcoholic variety) abound as well, as do rows of booths where merchants sell their fairie-themed, and usually hand-made, wares. Whether your taste is for ceramics or leather goods, jewelry or wood-carving, decorative ironwork, textiles or other visual arts, you can find it among the stalls on Frodo's Hill, Glimmer Place, Rainbow Court, or elsewhere throughout this temporary fairie village.
The Fairie Festival is about more than merriment and mythical imagination, however, important though those are. It is also about reawakening a sense of wonder and appreciation towards nature. Fairies, after all, are generally conceived as spirits of nature, of the elements -- earth, air, fire and water -- and of the Earth herself. While evoking the "Otherworld" of the Fairie Realms, the Festival also seeks to evoke love, respect, and care for this world, in all its imperilled beauty and wonder.
A particular theme of the last few years has been zero-waste, and while that ideal has yet to be fully realized in practice, the Festival generates far less waste than any event of comparable size I've ever intended. In part this is because of a policy that requires food vendors to offer serving containers and flatware, even cups, made of recyclable paper or compostable corn, soy, and potato-derived materials. Nearly everything that could be waste is compostable, recyclable, or both.
"The fairie and May Day themes," the festival brochure continues, "go back to ancient times in almost all cultures, especially to the Celts of the British Isles who had a festival on the first day of May called Beltane. It was a time of great rejoicing at the return of the earth's abundance in spring and the impending bounty of summer. The Celts celebrated the spirits of nature by honoring not only the plants that they could see and smell but also the unseen beings of the fairie realms."
So, on the first weekend of May each year, do the thousands of people who pass the portals of Spoutwood Farm for this mythical, mystical rite of spring.
----------
On the first weekend of May, I attended a most remarkable event. Nestled into a peaceful corner of York County, PA, near the borough of Glen Rock, is Spoutwood Farm. Most of the year it quietly produces fresh, organic-quality vegetables from its community supported agriculture gardens, honey from its hives, and grapes for a local vintner. It also hosts educational programs related to sustainable agriculture, simple living, and the environment.
Once a year, however, this sleepy farm is transformed. Like Brigadoon coming out of the mists, it becomes the site of the annual May Day Fairie Festival. The Fairie Festival was the brainchild of Rob and Lucy Wood, owners of Spoutwood, and began 16 years ago as a party for 100 friends. Last year, 2006, some 12,000 people came through the gates over the three days the Festival ran, and this year, the number was closer to 15,000. Patrons came from as far away as Japan, and performers from as far as Scotland.
Why do they come? To "celebrate the beginning of spring and the return of the nature spirits to the warm world," according to the professionally-produced program. It is a participatory celebration of the spirit of nature and of the springtime, and judging by the expressions of joy and wonder on the faces of patrons both young and old, the enchantment runs deep.
To be sure, the Fairie Festival is not for everyone. I think the reality is that what one sees in the Fairie Festival is, to a large degree, based on what one brings to it. If you bring a desire for order, structure, and normalcy, as society understands these, you may be disappointed. If you're looking for creativity, freedom of spirit, and openness to difference, change, and transformation, you'll find it, in vast and indeed bewildering variety. For some, it can be an experience of sensory overload -- even, perhaps, intimidation.
Yet the spirit of the Fairie Festival is a spirit of whimsy, play, and celebration of the mythic imagination. Fairies, sprites, and pixies, dryads and Green Men, brownies, gnomes, and elves, and maybe even a sleepy dragon are among the mythical creatures found represented there, by performers, presenters, and patrons alike. Fairie wings and pixie dust abound, along with Maypole dances, the throbbing rhythms of drums, the skirl of bagpipes, the haunting melodies of Celtic music, and the driving beat of world fusion.
Music and dancing is in many ways the heart of this embodiment of the Fairie Realms here on earth: a celebration of the growing light and warmth of spring, the re-emergence of the life of trees and flowers, plants and animals -- and the re-awakening of human beings, too, as we throw off our winter torpor and embrace the springtime pulses that flow in our veins. In the drums and penny-whistles, bagpipes, fiddles, and guitars, the human spirit soars and leaps with the spirit of the season.
Food and drink (of the non-alcoholic variety) abound as well, as do rows of booths where merchants sell their fairie-themed, and usually hand-made, wares. Whether your taste is for ceramics or leather goods, jewelry or wood-carving, decorative ironwork, textiles or other visual arts, you can find it among the stalls on Frodo's Hill, Glimmer Place, Rainbow Court, or elsewhere throughout this temporary fairie village.
The Fairie Festival is about more than merriment and mythical imagination, however, important though those are. It is also about reawakening a sense of wonder and appreciation towards nature. Fairies, after all, are generally conceived as spirits of nature, of the elements -- earth, air, fire and water -- and of the Earth herself. While evoking the "Otherworld" of the Fairie Realms, the Festival also seeks to evoke love, respect, and care for this world, in all its imperilled beauty and wonder.
A particular theme of the last few years has been zero-waste, and while that ideal has yet to be fully realized in practice, the Festival generates far less waste than any event of comparable size I've ever intended. In part this is because of a policy that requires food vendors to offer serving containers and flatware, even cups, made of recyclable paper or compostable corn, soy, and potato-derived materials. Nearly everything that could be waste is compostable, recyclable, or both.
"The fairie and May Day themes," the festival brochure continues, "go back to ancient times in almost all cultures, especially to the Celts of the British Isles who had a festival on the first day of May called Beltane. It was a time of great rejoicing at the return of the earth's abundance in spring and the impending bounty of summer. The Celts celebrated the spirits of nature by honoring not only the plants that they could see and smell but also the unseen beings of the fairie realms."
So, on the first weekend of May each year, do the thousands of people who pass the portals of Spoutwood Farm for this mythical, mystical rite of spring.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Mothers Day reflections
By the time you read this, it will be over: my first Mothers Day without my mother. As regular readers of this column will recall, my mom, Jean E. Harbold, died at the end of February this year, after a long and valiant fight against a range of increasingly debilitating ailments. To slightly paraphrase St. Paul, she fought the good fight, and she finished the race.
Since my father died in 1999, I am now, along with my brothers, an adult orphan. And since I do not have a wife or family of my own, and lived with my mother as her companion and caregiver in the final years of her life, the loss is particularly acute.
The combination of choosing to focus on good memories, and throwing myself wholesale into my work, has helped to blunt the pain to some degree, but it recurs at odd times. And of course, seeing the ads and cards and all the panoply of commercial and sentimental marketing of Mothers Day just makes me remember how much I wish I had my mother back to buy a card for, take out to dinner, hug, and tell her I love her.
I think it's wonderful to have a Mothers Day to remember our mothers once a year. But I am sometimes concerned that all too often, we take our mothers for granted the rest of the year. Remembering them becomes something to be fit in around the essentials of life, rather than being one of those essentials. And that's a shame. Mothers deserve better.
Although there are unfortunate exceptions, mothers, as a whole, are wonderful people who are often deeply under-appreciated for all the things they give their children. These gifts start with the gift of life itself, of course. Our mothers bore us for nine months before we ever came into the world, and -- again, in most cases -- were largely responsible for providing us with the sustenance, care, and nurturance we need to survive and thrive thereafter.
I was fortunate, I believe, that my own mother was a full-time, stay-at-home mom. But I am also in awe of the mothers who manage to raise balanced, well-rounded, productive children to adulthood while working, and sometimes without the aid of a husband and father.
Parents in general, but mothers in particular, typically make a huge number of sacrifices for the good of their children: sacrifices of time, energy, and money that often go unnoticed by their beneficiaries, especially during childhood. Later, perhaps, looking back, adult children may realize the scope of the gifts they have been given.
If we are fortunate, we may have the opportunity to pay some of that care back in the care we give to our aging mothers, "pay it forward" by following their examples in the care of our own children, if we have any, or more likely a combination of both. That, at least, is the way the world should work.
So if you are fortunate enough to have a mother, take some time to show her your gratitude for all she has done for you: not just on Mother's Day, but all year. Take the time to truly talk to her, listen to her memories, and tell her how much you care, how much you appreciate her sacrifices and generosity over the years. And if for some reason you don't have a good relationship with your mother, perhaps this is a good time to mend fences.
Above all, be grateful that you have a mother, however imperfect she may be, because the time will come when you do not. How sad if she were to die with things left unsaid, love unexpressed, between you!
And if, like me, you no longer have a mother living, take comfort in the knowledge that you are not alone. Sadly, burying one's parents is inevitable, unless one dies first. Recall the good times. Set aside any that may have been less good. Be grateful for all the gifts your mother gave you, over the years: not just or even primarily material things, but sayings, teachings, stories, hugs, shared memories. If, again like me, you believe that death is not the end, remember that there will be a meeting again.
And to all you moms out there, thank you for all you've done and continue to do for your children. May blessings of health, long life, and joy be yours.
Since my father died in 1999, I am now, along with my brothers, an adult orphan. And since I do not have a wife or family of my own, and lived with my mother as her companion and caregiver in the final years of her life, the loss is particularly acute.
The combination of choosing to focus on good memories, and throwing myself wholesale into my work, has helped to blunt the pain to some degree, but it recurs at odd times. And of course, seeing the ads and cards and all the panoply of commercial and sentimental marketing of Mothers Day just makes me remember how much I wish I had my mother back to buy a card for, take out to dinner, hug, and tell her I love her.
I think it's wonderful to have a Mothers Day to remember our mothers once a year. But I am sometimes concerned that all too often, we take our mothers for granted the rest of the year. Remembering them becomes something to be fit in around the essentials of life, rather than being one of those essentials. And that's a shame. Mothers deserve better.
Although there are unfortunate exceptions, mothers, as a whole, are wonderful people who are often deeply under-appreciated for all the things they give their children. These gifts start with the gift of life itself, of course. Our mothers bore us for nine months before we ever came into the world, and -- again, in most cases -- were largely responsible for providing us with the sustenance, care, and nurturance we need to survive and thrive thereafter.
I was fortunate, I believe, that my own mother was a full-time, stay-at-home mom. But I am also in awe of the mothers who manage to raise balanced, well-rounded, productive children to adulthood while working, and sometimes without the aid of a husband and father.
Parents in general, but mothers in particular, typically make a huge number of sacrifices for the good of their children: sacrifices of time, energy, and money that often go unnoticed by their beneficiaries, especially during childhood. Later, perhaps, looking back, adult children may realize the scope of the gifts they have been given.
If we are fortunate, we may have the opportunity to pay some of that care back in the care we give to our aging mothers, "pay it forward" by following their examples in the care of our own children, if we have any, or more likely a combination of both. That, at least, is the way the world should work.
So if you are fortunate enough to have a mother, take some time to show her your gratitude for all she has done for you: not just on Mother's Day, but all year. Take the time to truly talk to her, listen to her memories, and tell her how much you care, how much you appreciate her sacrifices and generosity over the years. And if for some reason you don't have a good relationship with your mother, perhaps this is a good time to mend fences.
Above all, be grateful that you have a mother, however imperfect she may be, because the time will come when you do not. How sad if she were to die with things left unsaid, love unexpressed, between you!
And if, like me, you no longer have a mother living, take comfort in the knowledge that you are not alone. Sadly, burying one's parents is inevitable, unless one dies first. Recall the good times. Set aside any that may have been less good. Be grateful for all the gifts your mother gave you, over the years: not just or even primarily material things, but sayings, teachings, stories, hugs, shared memories. If, again like me, you believe that death is not the end, remember that there will be a meeting again.
And to all you moms out there, thank you for all you've done and continue to do for your children. May blessings of health, long life, and joy be yours.
Friday, March 30, 2007
Pause to welcome the coming of Spring
Winter was late in arriving this year, but it made up for its tardiness by lingering longer than is often the case. Most conspicuously, it made a liar out of famed groundhog prognosticator Punxatawney Phil, who allegedly failed to see his shadow on February 2nd, thus ensuring an early spring. As the saying goes... "Not!"
But now at last it seems that spring is finally in the air. That air seems softer, moister, and is graced with the song of birds: both the winter birds that have weathered the cold and storms with us, such as the cardinals, chickadees, and downy woodpeckers, and the newer arrivals, such as American robins, who have returned from wherever they take shelter from winter's cold.
It used to be said that robins migrated south, to return again in the spring; more recently, studies have revealed that our local robins, at least, often seek shelter in wetland thickets, where decaying marsh vegetation moderates the ambient temperature, and clumps of brush break the wind. Another good reason these wetlands should be preserved.
Other migrants are on the move, too: although many of the geese we see in this area are residents, meandering from pond to lake to farm field, also visible -- or audible -- are high-flying V's of migratory geese. The great conservationist Aldo Leopold considered these the surest sign of spring, writing, in A Sand County Almanac:
"One swallow does not make a summer, but one skein of geese, cleaving the murk of a March thaw, is the spring. A cardinal, whistling spring to a thaw but later finding himself mistaken, can retrieve his error by resuming his winter silence… But a migrating goose, staking two hundred miles of black night on the chance of finding a hole in the lake, has no easy chance for retreat. His arrival carries the conviction of a prophet who has burned his bridges."
"A March morning," he asserts, "is only as drab as he who walks in it without a glance skyward, ear cocked for geese. I once knew an educated lady, banded by Phi Beta Kappa, who told me that she had never heard or seen the geese that twice a year proclaim the revolving seasons to her well-insulated roof. Is education," asked the man known to his loyal graduate students as "The Professor," "possibly a process of trading awareness for something of lesser worth?"
That question resounds through the decades since it was penned, and may well prove fodder for another column. But for now, it is enough to fling open the windows, step out through the door, and open our awareness to the changing season: winter into spring, the wheel of the year turning from the season of darkness, rest, inwardness, and even, yes, death and decay, toward the season of unfolding, opening, blossoming, growth -- rebirth and burgeoning life.
For all our scientific knowledge, the process by which a bulb sends out a shoot that pushes through the earth to become a crocus, daffodil, or tulip, a tree-bud contains the complete essence of the coming season's growth of branch, leaf, and flower, or a seed unfolds to become an herbaceous plant, shrub, or tree, is still something which smacks of mystery and wonder.
Just as mysterious and wonderful are the guidance systems that steer flocks of neo-tropical migrants, our beloved summer songbirds, from their winter haunts in Central and South America to grace our woods and fields, our backyards and even city parks. They are already beginning their journey, and the next month or two will see a veritable explosion of color and birdsong.
The end of winter and the coming of spring may not have quite the impact on us climate-controlled and industrially-fed urbanites and suburbanites that it did on earlier agriculturalists, nomadic herders, or hunter-gatherers. But the tides of spring still flow in all of our blood, if we could but shut off the flood of external stimuli -- traffic, radio, TV, CDs and DVDs, and the internet, among other sources -- that constantly bombard us, quiet the racing of our minds, and open our windows and our senses to the turn of the seasons.
No matter the stresses and pressures of our workaday lives, let's each take a moment, sometime this week, to go outside, stand quietly on the good earth, close our eyes, open our ears and nostrils, and breathe deeply of the essence of spring. I don't doubt that we'll be the better for it.
But now at last it seems that spring is finally in the air. That air seems softer, moister, and is graced with the song of birds: both the winter birds that have weathered the cold and storms with us, such as the cardinals, chickadees, and downy woodpeckers, and the newer arrivals, such as American robins, who have returned from wherever they take shelter from winter's cold.
It used to be said that robins migrated south, to return again in the spring; more recently, studies have revealed that our local robins, at least, often seek shelter in wetland thickets, where decaying marsh vegetation moderates the ambient temperature, and clumps of brush break the wind. Another good reason these wetlands should be preserved.
Other migrants are on the move, too: although many of the geese we see in this area are residents, meandering from pond to lake to farm field, also visible -- or audible -- are high-flying V's of migratory geese. The great conservationist Aldo Leopold considered these the surest sign of spring, writing, in A Sand County Almanac:
"One swallow does not make a summer, but one skein of geese, cleaving the murk of a March thaw, is the spring. A cardinal, whistling spring to a thaw but later finding himself mistaken, can retrieve his error by resuming his winter silence… But a migrating goose, staking two hundred miles of black night on the chance of finding a hole in the lake, has no easy chance for retreat. His arrival carries the conviction of a prophet who has burned his bridges."
"A March morning," he asserts, "is only as drab as he who walks in it without a glance skyward, ear cocked for geese. I once knew an educated lady, banded by Phi Beta Kappa, who told me that she had never heard or seen the geese that twice a year proclaim the revolving seasons to her well-insulated roof. Is education," asked the man known to his loyal graduate students as "The Professor," "possibly a process of trading awareness for something of lesser worth?"
That question resounds through the decades since it was penned, and may well prove fodder for another column. But for now, it is enough to fling open the windows, step out through the door, and open our awareness to the changing season: winter into spring, the wheel of the year turning from the season of darkness, rest, inwardness, and even, yes, death and decay, toward the season of unfolding, opening, blossoming, growth -- rebirth and burgeoning life.
For all our scientific knowledge, the process by which a bulb sends out a shoot that pushes through the earth to become a crocus, daffodil, or tulip, a tree-bud contains the complete essence of the coming season's growth of branch, leaf, and flower, or a seed unfolds to become an herbaceous plant, shrub, or tree, is still something which smacks of mystery and wonder.
Just as mysterious and wonderful are the guidance systems that steer flocks of neo-tropical migrants, our beloved summer songbirds, from their winter haunts in Central and South America to grace our woods and fields, our backyards and even city parks. They are already beginning their journey, and the next month or two will see a veritable explosion of color and birdsong.
The end of winter and the coming of spring may not have quite the impact on us climate-controlled and industrially-fed urbanites and suburbanites that it did on earlier agriculturalists, nomadic herders, or hunter-gatherers. But the tides of spring still flow in all of our blood, if we could but shut off the flood of external stimuli -- traffic, radio, TV, CDs and DVDs, and the internet, among other sources -- that constantly bombard us, quiet the racing of our minds, and open our windows and our senses to the turn of the seasons.
No matter the stresses and pressures of our workaday lives, let's each take a moment, sometime this week, to go outside, stand quietly on the good earth, close our eyes, open our ears and nostrils, and breathe deeply of the essence of spring. I don't doubt that we'll be the better for it.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Of Candlemas and Groundhog Day (Column: 1/30/07)
"February second, Candlemas day: half your wood, and half your hay. Half the winter has passed away, we'll eat our supper by the light of day!"
This old rhyme hearkens back to an earlier time in our nation's history, when our society was mostly rural and agricultural, when we could not simply go to the Wal-Mart or the SuperFresh and buy more of whatever we were running short of: when the seasons, and our preparation for them, could be literally a matter of life or death.
"As the light lengthens, so the cold strengthens." This is another old saw, the truth of which we have certainly seen this year. With most of December and even the first part of January vernally warm, the recent cold snap has seemed all the more brutal. But really, it's just part of the natural cycle of things: the coldest days of all the year typically fall in late January and early February.
It's no surprise, then, that February second, which we know as Groundhog Day and earlier generations knew as Candlemas, Brigitmas, or earlier yet, Imbolc -- falling as it does halfway between the Winter Solstice and the Vernal Equinox -- was understood as the halfway point of the winter. If, on this day, you have "half your grain and half your hay, you'll make it safely through 'til May," as yet another old proverb put it.
But what's the deal with the groundhog, anyway? Why "Groundhog Day"? I never quite understood that, either, until I listened to naturalist and storyteller Doug Elliott. On his CD, "Groundhogology: Whistle-pigs and World Politics," he explains that the end of January and early February is groundhog mating season. These portly rodents, who have been hibernating since fall, get up, drag themselves out of their dens -- at least the males do -- and go looking for love. That makes them one of the earlier signs of coming spring.
But why, if a groundhog sees his shadow, do we get six more weeks of winter? That is a more complex question, and linked to spiritual and metaphysical speculation. The idea dates, Elliott says, back to ancient bear and badger cults, in pre-Christian Europe. The ancients "didn't so much worship bears and badgers," he says, "as they watched them." And they saw them crawl underground in the fall, and seemingly die. But then, in the spring, they appeared to be reborn, coming out of their dens refreshed and reinvigorated.
The ancients believed, as many primal peoples do to this day, that all animals and not just humans had a spirit or soul. And animals, like humans, had a shadow side. "We all have a shadow," Elliott points out. We all have a "dark side" to our personalities, what the Christian tradition names as sin. But the ancient peoples believed that when we die, that shadow side is washed away, and we are reborn fresh and new.
Thus when a bear or badger -- or a groundhog -- sleeps the sleep of death in hibernation, its shadow-side too is washed away. But if it sees some of that shadow lingering when it comes out of its den, it dives back underground to complete the healing and cleansing process... and we have six more weeks of winter.
Now, you can take this idea or leave it, as suits your preference. But at least it does a better job of explaining the old "groundhog sees his shadow, six more weeks of winter" story than any other I've run across!
The more practical view is that February second is the halfway point between Solstice and Equinox, and thus the halfway point of the deepest cold of winter. We can be reasonably confident of six more weeks of gradually-mellowing winter, no matter what ol' Punxatawney Phil sees and does.
But we can still enjoy eating our supper by the light of day, and it's still a good time to take stock of our lives and our resources. Do we have enough of whatever we need, for the next phase of life's journey? Are there things we can or should lay aside, shadows we need to cast off?
The second of February occurs on Friday of this week. In the days between now and then, why not take some time to take stock of our lives and resources, material and spiritual alike? And whether you celebrate Candlemas, Imbolc, or Groundhog Day, here's wishing you a restful hibernation, and a fruitful awakening.
This old rhyme hearkens back to an earlier time in our nation's history, when our society was mostly rural and agricultural, when we could not simply go to the Wal-Mart or the SuperFresh and buy more of whatever we were running short of: when the seasons, and our preparation for them, could be literally a matter of life or death.
"As the light lengthens, so the cold strengthens." This is another old saw, the truth of which we have certainly seen this year. With most of December and even the first part of January vernally warm, the recent cold snap has seemed all the more brutal. But really, it's just part of the natural cycle of things: the coldest days of all the year typically fall in late January and early February.
It's no surprise, then, that February second, which we know as Groundhog Day and earlier generations knew as Candlemas, Brigitmas, or earlier yet, Imbolc -- falling as it does halfway between the Winter Solstice and the Vernal Equinox -- was understood as the halfway point of the winter. If, on this day, you have "half your grain and half your hay, you'll make it safely through 'til May," as yet another old proverb put it.
But what's the deal with the groundhog, anyway? Why "Groundhog Day"? I never quite understood that, either, until I listened to naturalist and storyteller Doug Elliott. On his CD, "Groundhogology: Whistle-pigs and World Politics," he explains that the end of January and early February is groundhog mating season. These portly rodents, who have been hibernating since fall, get up, drag themselves out of their dens -- at least the males do -- and go looking for love. That makes them one of the earlier signs of coming spring.
But why, if a groundhog sees his shadow, do we get six more weeks of winter? That is a more complex question, and linked to spiritual and metaphysical speculation. The idea dates, Elliott says, back to ancient bear and badger cults, in pre-Christian Europe. The ancients "didn't so much worship bears and badgers," he says, "as they watched them." And they saw them crawl underground in the fall, and seemingly die. But then, in the spring, they appeared to be reborn, coming out of their dens refreshed and reinvigorated.
The ancients believed, as many primal peoples do to this day, that all animals and not just humans had a spirit or soul. And animals, like humans, had a shadow side. "We all have a shadow," Elliott points out. We all have a "dark side" to our personalities, what the Christian tradition names as sin. But the ancient peoples believed that when we die, that shadow side is washed away, and we are reborn fresh and new.
Thus when a bear or badger -- or a groundhog -- sleeps the sleep of death in hibernation, its shadow-side too is washed away. But if it sees some of that shadow lingering when it comes out of its den, it dives back underground to complete the healing and cleansing process... and we have six more weeks of winter.
Now, you can take this idea or leave it, as suits your preference. But at least it does a better job of explaining the old "groundhog sees his shadow, six more weeks of winter" story than any other I've run across!
The more practical view is that February second is the halfway point between Solstice and Equinox, and thus the halfway point of the deepest cold of winter. We can be reasonably confident of six more weeks of gradually-mellowing winter, no matter what ol' Punxatawney Phil sees and does.
But we can still enjoy eating our supper by the light of day, and it's still a good time to take stock of our lives and our resources. Do we have enough of whatever we need, for the next phase of life's journey? Are there things we can or should lay aside, shadows we need to cast off?
The second of February occurs on Friday of this week. In the days between now and then, why not take some time to take stock of our lives and resources, material and spiritual alike? And whether you celebrate Candlemas, Imbolc, or Groundhog Day, here's wishing you a restful hibernation, and a fruitful awakening.
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