Maebius Musing

Plenty of muses, not so much free time to put thoughts to e-paper…..

I’m happy to report I finally got the .htaccess working properly for this blog, and configured to show the actual topic-subject when you link to pages. Thus, instead of the URLs being simple and harder-to-comprehend things like (../Musing/?p=123) it shows the year, month, and title of the post (such as ../Musing/2008/04/of-april-cleanup-and-recent-posts/?p=100). I know, it’s a little thing, but I got frustrated with the defaults and have gotten it setup finally! Now I’ll have to make sure the post topics are accurate and creative though!
It’s that time of year again when the Everthorn Farm crew swings into action for springtime cleanup, fence fixing, garden digging, and the like. It’s a bit like later winter, early spring for Mrs Maebius (tax season!) but involves a lot more outside work and a lot less hermit-of-the-computer-cave on her part. *grin*

Even my World of Warcraft time has suffered, especially since I share the enjoyment of getting back in the fresh air, having sunlight beyond just-getting-home-from-work, and being able to get my hands dirty a little bit. It’s probably my second favorite time of year, when things have all the potential now that snow is gone, yet the yard is not starting to look overgrown and in need of constant trimming/mowing/upkeep.

The Hops vine is now a solid 17 inches tall, and well on it’s way around the support tree. I took a measurement of it yesterday, so I cna compare actual-length and see how fast the thing shoots up. I can almost literally watch the tip inch upwards if I sit still for a few minutes. It’s that fast! This of course is excellent news for those friends who want a cutting or two later this year. Very encouraging, in that I will probably get my first harvest this summer!

As per usual, the results of the cleanup will be piled high for our annual MayDay party, with traditional ribbon-pole and picnic dinner. Granted, there won’t be any driving of the livestock through the flames, but you can be sure that if the weather holds, I will have significantly shorter/curlier leg-hairs after that particular evening.

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Regarding the recent posts related to food shortages, mindful consumption, and such, those musings have been bouncing around my head quite often this past week. It may be the fact the news is reporting on the riots and starving around the globe. It may be the topical-meme from other communication circles I frequent. Yet, I think the more I think about it, I worry the media attention may not be a good thing. Over-marketed paranoia does not serve a purpose, and while it is important to draw attention to the crisis, I think it’s safe to say we knew it was coming, if we would have stopped to look&listen to the world around us.

Again, I have no clear answers, and refuse to let myself fall into the cycle of pessimistic complaints, or overzealous activism. I know myself, and if I get too worked up about a topic, I will dwell on it and get nothing positive done. Likewise, ignoring the problem won’t make it go away. So, the best option I can see for me, right now, is to keep doing what we are doing.

Plant our garden, and build up the Labyrinth. Clean up the property. Try cutting out a few little things here and there to help pay off the credit cards.

Live. Love. Laugh.

It’s the least, and possibly the best thing, anyone can do, really.

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Inspired, somewhat loosely and somberly by this post, this thought kept bouncing around in my head today for some reason. (note: any sarcasm below is not intended to be directed towards Nettle or anyone else reading this…..consider this post privately cathartic and thought-provoking, not ranting)

Perhaps one underlying cause of a mis-balanced economic, ecologic, and commerce-centric infrastructure is due to overspecialization. In life, very few people want to be sailors; they want to be captains. Why be a soldier when you could aspire to be a general? Why be a slave when you could be a slave owner? Everyone wants to be great, and there simply aren’t enough peasants to go around, so people get frustrated and let their lives fall asleep. I am guilty of having a “great character” complex, so yes, I’m part of the problem.

I won’t pretend to ignore the problems with rising fuel/food prices, shortages, and the spiraling problems that affect not only our country, but the worldwide system. As Nettle mentioned, I too feel a certain fear and sadness that I probably can not do much to help those kids in Haiti who are starving and eating mud. But then I wondered, should I?
Should I rally against the world, selflessly burning my own resources to create some Great Charity which will help re-stabilize the socio-industrial machine? Should I cast off my own greediness and eat only minimal rice and beans so that the 3rd worlders don’t have to export their own meager supplies of grain to my bountiful abode? (a rhetorical question, of course).

Nettle describes her own efforts and lifestyle which certainly aligns with the current trendy ‘green’ lifestyle pushed by the eco-media lately, but I know she does them out of respect and her personal sacred paradigm. These simple efforts may not stop the suffering overseas, even if the entire east coast starts living to the same standards. It might be a start, but I doubt such efforts will resolve those issues within the next few decades, and by that time, Hubbert’s Peak will be a historical news-item, and our own culture will have moved on or pushed away.

But that does not mean the little things like buying local are useless.

It is the overspecialization of industry that makes the little local lifestyles like Nettles stand out and appear somewhat “puny”. Why grow a few tomato plants, a few corn stalks, a row of beans, and the like, when for far less personal investment, and with far greater efficiency, we can dedicate one large farm to beans, many fields to corn, and the like.

Problems like disease and natural disasters aside, monoculture makes real Economic sense in the short term! Even on a local level, my in-laws have a big garden which raises foodstuffs that are not found in my own personal garden. We share the bounty and are both enriched by it. It’s easy to extrapolate this outward to today’s mega-farms.

Yet, there crosses a point where the ‘mega’, becomes a mega headache. Even so, we humans still build and build, and build up each thing until it becomes top-heavy. I’m just as guilty of it.

Business, almost by definition, finds a niche and needs to grow until the niche is the standard. You either grow and expand, or you fail. Yet why should it be failure? Does everyoneneed to be the biggest best and baddest in the neighborhood? Human nature seems to say yes.
In the medical industry, this effect is being felt.

The AODA’s archdruid reported on this very topic, and it finally clicked with me. And his words are stated far better than my own ranting ones. Go read it if you want. I’ll wait….

But I wonder, what’s wrong with being a peasant? What’s wrong with a bit of humbleness? If we work in some little things every so often, our lives become simpler, and do not really require the existence of overspecialized industry. Walmarts would vanish (Doubt that will ever happen though).

This may sound like a plea for humanity to regress to a pre-industrial world, and in a sense it is…but I would hope it to be an intelligent regress. Having your own garden is a bit of work, true, and it is much easier to go shopping than it is to go weeding. I won’t deny that fact.

Yet, at least on out own tiny scale, the little changes add up. Being humble helps that person, personally. It may not feed the starving kids in Africa ( or elsewhere, since the shortages are felt in the US now), but making similar changes in my life might feed Me.

When it comes down to it, affecting ME is really the only thing I can do with assured success. I can help myself, and hope my own efforts offset the global gestalt so that one other kid gets to eat tomorrow. Maybe being humble, helps.

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((pictures to come once camera USB is unearthed)) One picture and movie uploaded…

Nothing too deep this month, at least that could be put into words easily. Suffice it to say this was one wonderful set of days.

This weekend, and this entire last week, was the sort of gorgeous summery weather that idyllic paradises are made from. A sunny, slightly breezy 75f by day, and just-chilly-enough-for-blanket-with-windows-open by night. Absolutely divine.

We had conscripted “The teens” over the weekend, and managed to get some seriously labor-intensive projects cleared up around the property. Yards raked, trash cleaned from fences, and the sort of general spring-cleaning required once the snows vanish and the weeds are low enough to see the accumulated gunk. Most impressively, some random piles of rusty metal and the ancient barbed-wire that had been taking up space for the last few years was dug up, hauled into view, or snipped into managable chunks and ready for the scrap-collector to pick up sometime this week. With these chores done, sections of yard and the lower walls of some outbuildings are now reclaimed for grass, glowers, and general aesthetic improvement! Go Team Everthorn!

Of course, no yard cleanup can be complete without a proper bonfire to dispose of the myriad twigs, branched, and (in our case) rotten and winter-felled tree trunks. (insert movie here).

The teen from a prior post has gotten noticably less angsty, though still seems to harbor some pretty deep anger issues. However, discussions were mentioned in passing, re-spoken casually around other conversations, and eventually were rewarded with a similarly curt-yet-sincere acknowledgement that he heard and understood my concerns. (a more direct statement resulted in a reflexive ‘wall’ being tossed up and sulking derailment of topics. The less direct yet periodic reminders seemed more effective. Typical teen boy-speak, that I remember all too well and used to my advantage. *wink*

All in all, the bonfire and related chilling out watching embers and random chatter did wonders for my own spirit. The full moon rose yellow and mist-covered, the talk turned to esoteric musings, (and the grudgingly acceptance-reply from teen) and was a great way to ease into evening, even as our bones started to stiffen up from the unusually laborious work that day.

Sunday morning, the fire still smoldered, the last scraps of wood and leaves were heaped up and re-ignited themselves, and we all relaxed and enjoyed the new improved scenery.

And, ye reader of my Blog, lest you fear I not explain the Hops part of this topic, when we cleaned up around the gardens, I discovered under the leaves my hops vine was already pushing up and was already about 6-7 inches long, fully prickled and sprouting tiny green leaves across the dirt. I adjusted the vine to reach the twine guideline, and it seemed to grow another inch by Monday morning. Fresh beer here we come!!

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(warning: A Looooong glimpse!)

Last weekend (April 12-13th) my son and I went on a trip to the 4-hour-away-now hunting cabin I used to frequent when I was younger. My dad, brother-in-law and his son, and some of the old “hunter gang” were there, plus a few kids I had not seen before. We had a fun time! *** -No Girls Allowed- ***

In talking with everyone, we realized I was last at this cabin around the age of 15 or 16, which is around half a life ago! The other man there, my age, had two kids with him, and while we were never really that close (being simply sons of our father’s friends) it was nice to reconnect on a mutually understood ‘weekend campfriend’ level and discuss random life events and swap parenting stories.

There were 6 younger boys there, ranging in age from 3-14 with all but the teen being under 9 yrs old. They had fun catching salamanders, having adventures in/on/around the broken down pickup in the side yard, and a few impromptu ball-and-bat games that bore no resemblance to anything World Series. The older men, in addition to the three of us 30-somethings, were the three “grandpas” and the group rounded out with “Uncle Bud” who was father to one of the older grandparents there. Bud was fully blind, and had the timeless manner of a different way of life. He was spry in his steps, slow and warmth in his wisdom, and quick with the wit of a practiced cynic.

We joked to him, after catching enough salamanders to feed a third world country, that his rocks on the trails were all overturned, so he should be careful, yet a quick hike to the nearby spring still saw him shuffle with remarkable spryness that defied his years and lack of eyesight. He KNEW that cabin and the woods around it. He may not have viewed it clearly for years, but it was his land, not by property deeds, but in spirit. (Having visited the property for more years than even my own father was alive, this could, I suppose, be expected)

The weather was perfect, with a bit of cool drizzle the evening we arrived, yet cleared up and sunny for Saturday. While I am not really into the hunter-mindset, it was with a fond nostalgia that I watched most of the others go through shell after shell of ammunition. No soda can or plastic water-laden bottle was safe from the .22 rifles. A box of orange clay-disks soared and shattered above the field in a flurry of shotgun pellets. Even yours truly, who has not fired-off anything remotely boom-sticky, took 20-gauge to shoulder and blasted 3 out of 4 clay skeets.

And those flying targets felt good. The shotgun rested tight; the bead steady as I swung towards the sailing clay; and a gentle tug on the trigger. #BOOM# missed the first, then three more broke apart like I had been doing this for years. Pull…aim…Boom. Reload. Pull…aim…Boom. Pottery fragments flew apart. It felt magical.

There was the not-quite-as-fun moments, like breaking up the inevitable child-argument (anyone with young kids knows that playtime sometimes requires adult intervention). There was the late night, sleeping in the room full of military barrack-bunks surrounded by either snoring old men, or wrigging dream-held kids and listening for the ‘THUD’ of gravity finding one outside the cots. There was the alternately cool and over-hot of the woodstove that made dressing a delicate dance of t-shirts and wool undergarments (often within hours of each other). And yes, there was the diet of crackers, soda, and grilled meat for meals (with the standard meat and eggs for breakfast). By sunday night, I wanted something green and leafy. *grin*

Still, even with the ‘challenges’ of camping, it is part and parcel of the experience. Such weekend outings need the minor bumps to make the entirety of the days a wonderful blessing to have attended. It felt deeply -fun- to be with the guys and just do whatever. They shot their guns. I tried a few shots myself. We hiked through the woods, drank directly from the spring, and cooked marshmallows over the coals. We slept in the next morning, and feasted on hearty sustaining camp-food. It felt magical.

And thinking back, as I did my daily meditations today, I realized it was magical.

Perhaps it was reconnecting to the primal hunter mindset. Yet, in some sense, the same thing happens when I visit the old Zen-porch crowd. In that group, no guns are blasted against cans, yet the bond is the same. It goes beyond words and eases into a comfortable silence watching some movie or game. And even in that group, I am blessed that the women are liberal-minded enough that any wise-cracks about their gender, or other male-centric topics (such as gastric processes) are accepted and retort-worthy in their own right.

This past weekend was, to glance quickly at it, a bunch of guys just hanging out at the woodland cabin. To glance closer, it perhaps was a bunch of guys attempting to connect with some primal hunter mentality. As I think a bit deeper on the weekend, it was more powerful, and yet more simple. We bunch of guys hung out at the woodland cabin.

It was something I had not done for a long time, and is sadly missing in a lot of mundane life in today’s culture. I begin to see a hint of why the AODA’s current leader frequently talks about fraternal organizations. There was a sense of deep connection between everyone there. Something unspoken, and brushed off as “girly-talk” if even dared to be mentioned by one of the kids. Yet it was there.

Thirteen men and boys, together in one place for two days. Four generations from varied backgrounds, and two states, sleeping within feet of one-another, sharing the same table, and vowing-without-saying to leave politics, religion, and our outside lives behind for a day. To just enjoy the weekend and Be.

I loved it.

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Well, in case you needed to calculate it yourself…

((19*t+u-w-(u-(u+8)\25)+1)\3)+15)mod30)+(32+2*x+2*y-(19*t+u-w- (u-(u+8)\25)+1)\3)+15)mod30)-z)mod7)-7*(t+11*(19*t+u-w(u- (u+8)\25)+1)\3)+15)mod30)+22*(32+2*x+2*y-(19*t+u-w-(u- (u+8)\25)+1)\3)+15)mod30)-g)mod7)+114)\31

Happy Easter!

also, for you non-anglo-christian inclined readers, if ye be reading:

Happy Purim (Jewish holiday)

Narouz (Persian New Year)

Eid Milad an Nabi, (Happy Birthday Prophet Muhammad)

Small Holi, (Hindu Festival of Colours)

Magha Puja ( Buddhist “Fourfold Assembly” day)

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In more muse-worthy discussion, spring is officially here in my neck of the woods..er… field?

Every year in March, I start fretting about our garden, and watching outside to see if the nearby farms are ready to start preemptive plowing. I feel like winter is going away, and we need to get outside and do stuff, plant stuff! Yet I know that in early (and late) March, there is still a good chance of snow, and late April is really when things get in the ground around here. In fact, as I type this, mere hours away from our big Weekend involving guests at the house, dining at a huge annual buffet, and egg-hunts, it is below freezing and snow is accumulating on the cars again. I’ll have to de-ice the doors before driving home from work!

I’ve attributed this early anxiety to my being raised farther south than where I live now, and the general climate being slightly ‘off-schedule‘, compared to my fondest childhood memories. (Perhaps my friend Nettle has similar experience, having migrated south to the Big City?) Where I grew up, it really was time to start serious browsing of seed catalogs, and the big amish farms started, if not full plowing, then getting the equipment hitched up and tightened. Within one or two weeks, things will be blooming down there. Around upstate New York now, the trees are only considering the possibility of budding out.

Lately though, in the past few years, started to drift away from specific date-centric celebrations of seasons (with the exception of solstices, equinoxes, and birthdays, etc). More and more, I am building a set of internal correspondences for general seasonality and celebration. The subtly spiritual side of being in-tune with the world around me has taken it’s cues from the local area, rather than the printed dates on my desk. Most notably felt was this past Imbolc, where the feeling of coming spring remained aloof and distant in the midst of our wintery weather.

As a timely example, I can say with authority (at least to my own heart) that spring has arrived. Not because this ball of rock oribting the sun has swung around to a certain point. Not because of the clock on my computer reading off dates similar to 03/21/xx. I know it is spring because of the geese.

This past week, I have seen flocks of waterfowl across the sky in growing numbers. It’s hard to picture, but perhaps even more geese than crows are visible on my evening drives home. Yesterday, I looked out at our pond to see four Branta Canadensis floating around! To me, that is a stronger sign than any easter-themed flowers, eggs, and chocolate.

Going solely on the calendar, especially in terms of Easter celebrations, which tend to fluctuate all across the month of April, seems a tad bit silly as a measuring stick. For the rest of the country, and probably a more useful truism in the European climate which helped create the iconic imagery for these festivals, this time of year is reflected in the return of nature’s growth.

Perhaps this observation is a result of being more in-tune with the place. I’ve lived here, going on a decade now. (Wow, has it really been that long?!!) I’m starting to get used to the changing seasons in a way that is meaningful to my innermost mind. Logically, I still cling to the habitual time-frames I grew up with, and habits die hard. Beyond that though, I think that the semi-conscious thought of marking local signs like our pond-dwellers to the seasons is my brain’s way of re-connecting without having to break up those old habits.

For whatever reason, it’s working, so I won’t dig too deeply into the reasons, other than to acknowledge the observation and enjoy it. Spring is here. The geese came home.

What a great worm moon!

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