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Orchard Blossoms

5 April 2018

The music of the bees alerted me to an early apricot tree suddenly burst into bloom! 

Overhead, red tail hawk was swooping on updraft. Song sparrow sings in the wild plum thicket, and nesting business has begun.

I'd started to feel punch-drunk and less jolly, too much life force gone splat, following world news.

Good to settle one's tusch on the earth and remember we're still part of it.


Mountain Snow
Magical Light

28 March 2018

Three inches of fluffy snow here, and more tonight after a concerningly dry winter. Ominous (I would say, promising) clouds massing N/NW. Very little glimpse of the mountains, hidden away in snow fog.

Am just back from a walk through the woods along the river, with plenty of snow dumped on the walker! Bit of misty sun shone on the cascading water and the veils of fine snow drifting down.

Knowing I'd return to a warm fire and hot spicy chocolate, I could enthuse about sparkling fairy dust. Were I sleeping rough, like more folks than we imagine, beauty of the moment might have been a stretch.

Friends in the South inform me of blooming camellias, forsythia, red bud, dogwood and daffydowndillies. I do remember, but will wait out the high country seasons, grateful for cooler summer.

Much that we've known is giving way, dying to new beginnings. As winter dies in its season and spring returns, tree sap and life rising from the dead.



Cassandras Anonymous
C.A., the new Recovery Program!

3 March 2018

The WayfaringTraveler books are all about storytelling, ancestral, historical, the riveting present moment, and the prescient.

Online articles, wellness info from long experience, and expose's, I wrote at feastandfamine.blogspot

With so much tumultuous change and yes, malfeasance, I'd felt an urgency.

But the Cassandra phase--heart-felt warning or just noise from the battlements--may be concluding. Train's left the station; boat's left the shore.

It's getting real, down & dirty... Jackboots trampling the Bill of Rights. And lots of fact-free shouting, once known as reportage.

Who are we? Do we seek out waymarkers of integrity, or grab the remote, with its mind control patents and obfuscation?

Am hoping we land on our feet.

I write this to cyber-friends on a day of high elevation, lapis skies and cold. Single digit nights ahead. It's too soon for pruning (botanically speaking!) but am already thinking roses, fruit trees, and please, may the frosts be kind.



Communication in the
Google Age

20 Feb. 2018

I wanted to let readers know that Gurgle finally succeeded in blocking this writer from the two "free" blogspot sites. This, after years of interference patterns--messing with stats, temporarily impeding  author-access...

Now it's permanent, and I cannot even let readers there know what caused the sudden cessation of stories and articles. 

Though being blocked did activate my "flea spleech" attitude problem, I've made peace with it. A large body of work is still available to readers in the Cyber-Commons at:
feastandfamine.blogspot.com
wayfaringtraveler.blogspot.com

If you also read books, thank you. If you delve the Wayfaring Traveler books, would you kindly leave a jungle river review?

Meanwhile, reporting from the Rocky Mts and the global asylum, I remain optimistic. It's snowy in the high country. I haul in armloads of piñon, grateful for the woodstove BTU's.

A friend helped me resolve a wrenching uncertainty about giving money to those standing on windy street corners with cardboard signs.  Some of the dollar bills go straight into booze or drugs. 

The friend saves leftovers to share. Give food, she said! I invested in a case of organic pinto beans and hand a tin to those who are clearly sleeping rough under bitter conditions. 

Indoors, flowers bloom: a geranium, paperwhite narcissus, a Meyer lemon. The trellis'd evergreen star jasmine is budding. Days grow longer, though it's still pitch dark when this ex-farmer greets the new day.

In a wider vista, the sun is strange; weather is weird; harvests are not certain. Locally the Food Banks serve the community.

 I hope community gardens become more common. Within living memory, this area was food self-sufficient. The schools are teaching heritage skills and the astonishment of seed planted, sprout tended... leading to the miracle of fresh corn, tomatoes and greens for the family.


Diurnal Black Bear
August 2017

A young black bear apparently didn't get the word about nocturnal feeding.

Sitting at my desk, I look out agog at 12:15 PM:   Three meters away outside the patio doors, the bear starts bending the bird feeder pole to get at sunny seeds.

I pound on the window as the feeder pole lists 20 degrees to starboard.

Ursa glances my way and tilts the hummingbird feeder so syrup pours onto its paw. Licks it up. 

I open the other window and begin bellowing. It ambles through the garden and climbs the north fence onto the road.

This is not your usual gardening season with late snow and frosts, then seven weeks of drought. The last two mornings I've poked my nose out at first light to 35 degrees F.

Late planted tomatoes are bent heavy with green fruit. Which may soon decorate windowsills, to ripen over the following weeks. 

With a few dishes of fried green tomatoes and cream gravy to fortify guests as the nights grow longer and colder.



Music of Bees
April 2017

Wild and honeybees filled a bright snowy morning with their buzzy song. Wet snow had somehow spared the fruit tree blossoms, though not some branches of a huge apricot fruiting for generations.

Birds are doing feeding frenzies over sunflower and thistle seed and suet. I bring the feeders in at night, so as to preserve them from black bears down from their caves and burrows in the higher mountains. Last year a grumpy bear surprised me early, squashed a woven wire fence, tromped a raised bed and bent the wrought iron bird feeder pole at right angle!

Duly noted. Years ago a woman here named the bears and would shoo them from the garden with a broom. Hm. Apparently not annoying a mama bear with cubs nearby, a potentially lethal encounter.

Am maybe not too late shmart; I ponder that proximity to ursine wildness from respectful distance.

More snow is expected, but flower treats are peeking up through the mulch: a Madonna lily, delphiniums, herbs. Am keen to plant pansies.

It may finally be Spring!


Freedom
March 2017

Friends who quietly attend to the introspection time of winter's long nights are reporting pain-release, familial pain. Convoluted enough and where is the Ariadne thread? 

But on a societal level, am wondering about the rage and hysteria being encouraged toward a president-elect who vows to bring down the mafia-like takeover of government.

We're a few generations into broken families, Daddy's gone missing in the welfare state, and in both parents, often divorced,  frenetically holding down high-stress jobs.

Curious fury against an alpha male president-elect. The nation seems to be acting out an almost Borderline sense of abandonment and lash-out.

Snowflakes raised by daycare, by indulgent guilty absent parents and government schools, come to pieces if not rewarded. It's a striking failure of reality check on the spectre of growing up.

This winter an extraordinary Pueblo man died quietly after celebrating his 100th birthday. He was the last local survivor of the Bataan Death March, 

He recovered and became a mentor to tribal younglings and the larger community. He had lost everything but his heart.


Winter Snows Falling
Dec. 2016

Am dreaming of this weekend's "Scottish Christmas" with a piper in full Highland regalia. Amazing Grace, and carols all but shivering one's bone marrow!

Following the arc of seasons to ancient bonfires which welcomed the return of sunlight at Winter Solstice, am startled to realize the gift of Keltic music. 

I hear surf crashing, the wild cry of seagulls, the howl of wolves, bells, harp and dancing! Torchlight is long ago, and we forget it, flicking the light switch, that night time light eluded our ancestors through long cold months. I hope to hear an Irish band on the Solstice, assuming the snowy roads are navigable. And bell-ringers at Christmas as "angels wing their flight o'er all the earth." 

On 19 Dec. Mercury begins its three week danse macabre through cyberspace. Am already having techno-difficulties. Attempt at paragraphs trigger sudden repetitions of text. So will leave with warm wishes to readers all over the world.