News and Opinion from Sisters, Oregon
News and Opinion from Sisters, Oregon
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Real Soup Enter, the Mouse Winter enfolds us. We have stopped resisting the ices, the frozen wood stacks, foggy night driving, snows, of all descriptions. We carry gloves with us. We glory in the warm days. We have adjusted. All winter systems are in place, including assessing road conditions by how slick the porch is, gazing at the thermometer in a vaguely competitive manner, wondering who, among your friends is the coldest. Who has to work the hardest to be warm becomes winter's odd emblem of the pioneer spirit. On cold... Full story
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On the storm's reflection relocate in serving joy Sometimes it is lovely to not be adding to one's life log of adventures. On a dark, moonless night when the wind suddenly spikes up and blows great washy clouds of blue snow down the roof, lit by a stray lamp burning somewhere - blue definitely - a lucky, safe, enclosed feeling settles on the observer who is pleasantly not struggling over the mountain pass in a marginal Volkswagen with holes in the floor and bald tires. Who is also not arriving somewhere, claw-fingered, steame... Full story
On Indian Summer The lakes are so quiet. The sun sits glimmering on the beaded surface like a flock of stray and lazy stars. The beaches are enormous, full of stumps and old logs and the smooth sand that usually lies under deep water and fishermen. The high meadows are brown with brittle grasses; the creeks are silent and rocky in their crooked beds. Glaciers residing in mountain shade are diminished and dirty. Rabbit bushes along the roadside have puffed up and exploded standing soft and wooly now, dulled and benign. We are... Full story
On temperance There are certain seasonal changes that occur so resoundingly, so abruptly and unequivocally that it seems to my visual mind that there is a cloaked messenger standing on the horizon somewhere near, applying a soft striker to an enormous sun shaped gong. Then again, perhaps it is just my alarm clock, grimly set for the orderly routine of very early rise and hopefully reasonable bed time. School has started. Summer ended with that first dark, dream-twisting buzz, bringing all the sleepers hurtling, collectively,... Full story
On the Renewal of Dancing Life is odd. A mixture. A puzzle. A quirk in the great void. Looking out at the winter sky where the stunning moon and speckling stars hang in the cold with no returning gaze, one's heart can fill with unnerving speculations. Are we paying close enough attention, we might ask ourselves? Are we absorbing the silence, taking it in, saving it for our hours of need? Have we spent enough time contemplating the edge of the universe and our relationship to it, or the concept that the resolution of... Full story
On the Attitude of Gratitude The year is getting old. Summer colors have muted into the soft blue-grey and gold of the high desert; the winds are still warm, but their purpose is evident: they are working to coax and draw the cold down over us from its haven in the north. Soon they will pull it down the mountains like teams of excited horses, lunging with their heavy cargo of frost and snow stretching out behind them for all the months until April. Part of the cycle, respondents to the altering mood of the sun, we begin to... Full story
On the Harvest The seasonal drift has begun. High summer is waning and deep in the brain we respond to the nuance of Autumn filtering into the morning air. We wake up to cold cheeks and we want new slippers. We consider baking biscuits again. Our internal clocks monitor the daylight slipping sooner and sooner into dusk. We contemplate soup and bread and good red wine. We want more sleep. We might just get to the mending. We find ourselves in a new tension, seeking out all the errant wool socks, cast asunder in June and still... Full story
On the emblems of summer Wildflowers, the ones which have agreed to move into my garden - it looks like home, most likely - are blooming in confusion everywhere. The cooling, welcome afternoon breeze goes silver across the sagebrush, and the domestic greens fill with warm soft gold tones of the tended garden. I like watering things. Standing in the yard with the rain in my hand, communing with leaves and blooms. It is like paying homage to the wondrous slow rush of summertime. Everything is popping up and out, expanding... Full story
On coming down The first red dawn marks the equinox. I have baked one final batch of cookies at this hour, in a lit kitchen with the long dry radio news as my company. Taking breaks has long been a moral issue in my mind. But in late morning there is a pocket of time to drag cold cafe au lait and a notebook to the porch and then to sit and invite the warming sun in through my pores to my tired heart and I do it. The eyelids mercifully cover the eyes, whose surfaces feel textured, riddled with pollen and road dust. Just this f... Full story
On grit and grace Rain has a way of putting things at a distance. With a netting of grey clouds around the house, enclosing it with a soft textured music and welcome sensations of humidity and relaxed air pressure, giving a lovely backdrop to the early flowers and green, I like to think of the sky endlessly falling softly into the yard, pattering onto the fields and into all the mouthy roots below the surface. Breaking through this easy tender storm, come fine, delicate strands of sunlight. Golden. Clean. With the clarity of... Full story
On Moving into Blue Sky We move in circles. Orbits. Little closed and semi-closed systems that wander about among similar entities, seeking to intersect in different ways. Inheriting these revolutionary tendencies from our host, the sun, itself but a flicker in the vast universe, we spin internally with atoms, with mixed symmetries of breath, blood, protein, and electricity as we spiral down out of the past. Waltzing along the familiar paths in our homes, in the workplace, through the landscape, we tend to pivot and return,... Full story
On the need for crocuses Blazing off into the sagebrush where patches of brave new grass are poking through the earth, slick and spikey, looking trimmed and oiled like a trendy new hairstyle. I place my feet slowly, every step considered. Cotyledons of the monkey flower huddle together near protective warming stones. They scout the tone and timbre above ground with their little grey ears. I'm alone, so I can greet them. An advance guard of brilliant mosses have appeared in odd places; they are safe with me. The wind carries... Full story
On Outdoor Cooking Without walls, floors, windows, doors--ninety degree angles of any sort--without incandescence, electronics and plumbing, life changes. We ease up. We get dirty and don't care. The sky is the ceiling. The earth is the floor. We join the elements and the soul is gratified. We can watch the morning mists arise from the high lakes, white birds ascend from an island into a cloud, water snakes glide across the mirroring surface smoothly avoiding quick handed boys. The children run in circles for the sweet joy... Full story
On the fleeting summer The field is alive with blackbirds. Their shiny heads bob in the tall grasses; short messages telegraph down from the scouts in the treetops reporting on the activities of a non-threatening intruder. The whole blue dome is full of light and birdsong. In the distance, voices of children mingle in, discussing freedom and power. All together it sounds like a message in code. Spontaneous wildflowers have popped up all around my little sitting place since I have been here last. A juvenile osprey pumps on... Full story
On onions Oh, how much mankind is like the variable onion. Imperfect rounds, we are, concentric, enclosing a pure and pearly core. Thick pungent layers of flesh beneath fragile, transparent skins. We are of many families, both wild and domestic, loved and loathed, almost everywhere a factor. We grow, both man and onion, largely underground. We flower, make seeds and multiply. Eventually we will add our bit of flavor to the soup. We have, amongst us those who are fanatical about onions. I have heard otherwise very sensible... Full story
On the reason for rhubarb In the morning, one looks to the sky for certain messages. What socks shall I wear, and how many undies? Will it be the wool beret or the bandanna to wet and drape around one's neck? If I take the risk and wear short sleeves placing my ninny flesh in jeopardy of blisters and burns, will thunder and lightning then converge over my house like Wagner in full scale crisis, sending rain and hail banging onto my dwelling in waves, not droplets, until a flash flood churns through my yard bringing, in its... Full story
On Barbecues It is important to watch the sunset on occasion. It illuminates the mundane and renews the mind with wonder. Grasses, ordinary and green all day, turn gold and mauve and silver in the late slanting light. Glaciers warm to pink; jet streams go iridescent; faces light up to a pearly rose; curly hair becomes a halo. Cobwebs, insect wings, long clusters of pine needles fill with a lively, comforting light. Lingering over an outdoor meal, bound together in the sun's afterglow, we have freely what restaurants,... Full story
On Picnics I love picnics. As a serious picnicker, I keep an old wicker basket packed with plates and napkins, a rustic tablecloth and plastic stemware, ready for the moveable feast. I love the idea of carrying off to the wilds a few simple things, knowing that just leaving the wheel of day-to-day concerns, under the influence of the good fresh air, and in the pocket of a well chosen scene, they will transform into fine and worthy fare. A picnic is called into being for reasons of joy. It is a noble pursuit. It acknowledges... Full story
On the Ascending of Spring, and Asparagus The warmth is real. Proven with greeny sprouts in a curved line under the hose where it snakes across the clearing to the water trough. Confirmed by the trees full of sweet and chatty young birds, discussing nesting, mates, and the local proliferation of cats. People are boldly exposing their soft, winter-pink knees and elbows in the afternoons. And others, those inclined to adopt seasonal uniforms, may be packing wistfully away, their antique wools, those sturdy and constant friends... Full story
On the Measure of Good Fortune The sky is mild and grey, smooth, going into layers in the East like a chalky emulsion of pastels. Our gentle grey cat, the eldest of our identical trio, consents to perch at my shoulder under the lamp and bathe and polish her hind foot with great seriousness, lending purposefulness to the atmosphere. The only present sounds are the intermittent, hushed, hollow, oceanic noises of various self-governing household appliances, the faint, chewing voice of the fire, plus a busy, birdy monologue... Full story
On Commuting the Outback Rushing into town in this out of season Spring, wending my way around the ruts and caverns that make up our road, I am, despite the frost-ferns on the windshield, already spotting the chartreuse and velvet haze of new greenery along the shortcut. By the time I get to the highway, I've caught the mountains and they come flying with me, past the scrim of trees, keeping pace with my car as usual, heading for the spot where they will settle until the time comes for them to frame the sunset and glow under... Full story
On Summer Rain The sky changes. The air goes muggy. Immoderate colors appear in the close heavens. Lavenders, pearly greys, deep mauve, great puffs of magenta stream overhead, flickering and churning, refusing to pose, moving on quickly to the great blue black masses in the east where their shapes compact behind the horizon and build power. The uppermost leaves of the tall poplars I grew from sprigs flash their surprising silver underbellies, iridescent suddenly in the slanted light. The pine trees sing. Black-eyed susans pop... Full story
Real Soup On Blessing the Peace Bakers I tend to declarations, both solemn and practical, ripe for immediate usage. I float like a sea plant, toward the arbitrary and want to attach myself, hoping to have found an ultimate, the grand one perhaps, the final one, the all encompassing. Since I am also prone to the piercing gaze, friendships with renegades, poking inquisitions, long necessary bouts with a personal journal, and quiet defiance in general, I emerge repeatedly from these forays fully grown, clothed, I might add, an i... Full story
Real Soup It is an urgent season. Dawn, so brutal on the weekends, is ushered in with choruses of jubilant bird-city music and a glowing cleft moon. We are on the butterfly circuit. For days, monarchs have been fluttering by, northward, full of insect geography and sun angles and a high sense of purpose. There is fresh dirt in the yard, and a lawn chair positioned beside it. This is where I sit next to my proposed work. Where the tension between ambition and indolence distracts me from both. Truly, I want to loll and bask.... Full story
