tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6919596764233947802024-03-12T20:28:02.100-05:00Will you land?Mom & Dad had 7 kids. Our activities were not limited to the floor - we used all available space, vertical as well as horizontal. We often heard Mom pleading "will you all please just land?" I'm still trying to figure out whether I want to land, and now Mom likes the way I play.beegirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17723481161726419273noreply@blogger.comBlogger154125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-691959676423394780.post-66836217960688511552023-09-23T17:20:00.003-05:002023-09-23T17:20:47.436-05:00Darkness, darkness, be my pillow<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb9A5320G8chqh295Ygj2Xi1UxtznIP2rh4tQsrhcwAk5KeezARyUzCiIMaioRmjGOVuehjxCgjpIQfAhajWyzpl68F0ihBtytV9K_wyzxb2EbfwAFC7HPIVVozpffkyvS9uymKyTHa2M/s1600/halfmoon.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb9A5320G8chqh295Ygj2Xi1UxtznIP2rh4tQsrhcwAk5KeezARyUzCiIMaioRmjGOVuehjxCgjpIQfAhajWyzpl68F0ihBtytV9K_wyzxb2EbfwAFC7HPIVVozpffkyvS9uymKyTHa2M/s200/halfmoon.jpg" width="200" /></a><b><div><b>This was originally written a long time ago. My nephew is in college now and my niece is headed there next year:</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><i><a href="https://youtu.be/kLVWxuMsiDQ" rel="nofollow">Darkness, darkness, be my pillow</a></i></b><br />
<b><i>Take my head, and let me sleep</i></b><br />
<b><i>In the coolness of your shadow</i></b><br />
<b><i>In the silence of your dream</i></b><br />
-Jesse Colin Young<br />
<br />
A list of just a few things, better when dark, or black:<br />
<br />
<i>Fertile earth</i><br />
<i>Shadow</i><br />
<i>Star-viewing night sky</i><br />
<i>Ebony wood</i><br />
<i>Ink</i><br />
<i>Little black dress</i><br />
<i>Sable</i><br />
<i>Charcoal</i><br />
<i>Judicial robes</i><br />
<i>Black belt</i><br />
<i>Being in the black (financially solvent)</i><br />
<i>Being in the black (in fire suppression, being in a safe zone that is already burned)</i><br />
<i>Limousine</i>s<br /><br />
When I was a little brown-haired child, growing up among the blond crowds in Minnesota, I wanted to be blonde. I fell asleep praying to an indifferent god to turn my hair yellow overnight, to cure a family friends kid who had polio and to keep my family safe. In that order. All around me, I saw messaging that to be blonde, to be lighter, was better. Aesthetically, morally better. The blondes in stories always fared well, angels in religious art were almost universally golden-haired. The slogan "blondes have more fun" was omnipresent, and there was an as yet inexplicable association of dark haired girls with evil, or plainness, and light-haired girls with desirability - in a way that somehow assured survival life's trials.<br />
<br />As an adult, I came to understand that there are powerful cultural biases associated with <a href="http://www.tolerance.org/Hidden-bias" target="_blank">darkness</a>. These biases appear in eastern and western, ancient and modern cultures. Darkness is associated with evil, and to be dark is to be bad. Troubling also is the fact that some subcultures fetishize darkness, co-opting cultural practices that have African origins, or underscoring the association of darkness with evil or danger, like some popular comic-book characters. Dark clothing or dark appearance often is a shorthand way to establish the "bad-boy" or "bad-girl" tropes - alluring but dangerous. <div><br /></div><div>I took this very personally as a kid, and always sought out positive associations with darkness. A grade school classmate I think felt this also - his last name was Brown. Once our class was asked to write a poem about a color. I wrote about brown, all positive things - wet tree bark, fragrant earth, chocolate cake, rugged bear and soft fawn. I remember him ducking his head while I read, embarrassed perhaps to think he may have been singled out by the weird girl in class. Or maybe he hadn't thought about his name that way before and was pleased. But honestly, I wasn't thinking about him - the poem was about my own brown hair.<br />
<br />Lately I have been thinking a lot about brown skin, like my Colombian-born nephew and niece. I don't really know what it is like for my nephew to be concerned about proper behavior if he is stopped by police - but I hate it that for him a traffic stop may mean either life or death, and merely driving poses a risk.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's true that there is something primal about the fear of the dark for animals like us who can be prey. That is an honest, no-fault fear that I understand. It must also be the place where the dark-light bias originates. Humans all over the world beat back the night with artificial light. But in truth, much of that lighting amounts to displays of ego and wealth meant to impress, not protect. It seems to me that humans have overcome the visceral fear of the dark, and it is only situationally legitimate.<br /><div><br /></div><div>
The lyrics above, and these writers' works defy the dark-is-bad trope:<br />
<br />
<blockquote style="border: medium; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: medium; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><i>But when I lean over the chasm of myself - </i></blockquote><blockquote style="border: medium; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><i>it seems</i></blockquote><blockquote style="border: medium; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><i>my God is dark</i></blockquote><blockquote style="border: medium; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><i>and like a web: a hundred roots</i></blockquote><blockquote style="border: medium; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><i>silently drinking.</i></blockquote><blockquote style="border: medium; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><i>This is the ferment I grow out of.</i></blockquote><blockquote style="border: medium; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><i>More I don't know, because my branches </i></blockquote><blockquote style="border: medium; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><i>rest in deep silence, stirred only by the wind.</i></blockquote><blockquote style="border: medium; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;">
Rilke - The Book of a Monastic Life</blockquote></blockquote><p> </p><blockquote style="border: medium; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: medium; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><span style="background-color: antiquewhite; text-align: justify; text-indent: 16px;"><i>To be sure, I am a forest, and a night of dark trees: but he who is not afraid of my darkness, will find banks full of roses under my cypresses.</i></span></blockquote><blockquote style="border: medium; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;">
Nietzsche - Thus Spake Zarathustra</blockquote></blockquote><p> </p><blockquote style="border: medium; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: medium; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><i>In the dark I rest,</i></blockquote><blockquote style="border: medium; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><i>unready for the light which dawns</i></blockquote><blockquote style="border: medium; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><i>day after day, eager to be shared.</i></blockquote><blockquote style="border: medium; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><i>Black silk, shelter me.</i></blockquote><blockquote style="border: medium; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><i>I need </i></blockquote><blockquote style="border: medium; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><i>more of the night before I open</i></blockquote><blockquote style="border: medium; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><i>eyes and heart</i></blockquote><blockquote style="border: medium; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><i>to illumination. I must still </i></blockquote><blockquote style="border: medium; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><i>grow in the dark like a root</i></blockquote><blockquote style="border: medium; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><i>not ready, not ready at all</i></blockquote><blockquote style="border: medium; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;">
Denise Levertov - </blockquote></blockquote><blockquote style="border: medium; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">What would it take to smash this bias? The "Black Lives Matter" and "Dark Skies" movements have momentum and support, but the depth of the bias is evident in the strong pushback each receives. Symbols like the flag of the Confederacy, and statutes erected to honor slavers are coming down. Chipping away at these symbols shows that maybe humans can shift the paradigm.</p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: medium; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"> </p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: medium; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"> </p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: medium; margin: 0px 40px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;"><br /></div></blockquote>
<br /></div></div>beegirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17723481161726419273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-691959676423394780.post-57818759831406591662023-09-23T17:19:00.002-05:002023-09-25T16:21:42.615-05:00Check, check, check<p>Am I hearing all of this right? Check, check, check.</p><p>Can I cross "writing" off my new task sheet, listing the activities, therapies, meditation, exercise and medications? Check, check, check.</p><p>Am I writing again like I did earlier in this blog, nonsensical, stream of consciousness, bare and revealed? Check, check, check.</p><p>Am I spending our retirement money, front-end loading the out flow of funds, trusting that I'll be healthy enough, peaceful enough to endure what ever indignities the passing years confer on me. Check, check, give me the check.</p><p>Am I hearing all of this right? Are my hearing aids working to improve my attentiveness, eliminate the undercurrent of frustration that plagued me unawares for years, pulling into my soundscape at last those elusive bird songs heard by the rest of the crew, by my dead friend Curt who urged me to look into hearing aids, who put his in one of my ears at the Black Forest Inn, bringing tears to my ears, but I didn't take the step until weeks after his premature death. Thank you Curt, and check, check, check. </p><p>My checklist says that for this week, I should write for 30 minutes a day. I have a sliver of time before going out to dinner with friends, so I am fitting in this work. I don't want to stop. I think that is a good sign. I think the clatter is going to drive Carolyn nuts. I will replace this laptop and hope for a quieter keyboard, because I think this is going to be a happy, regular thing. Check, check, check.</p>beegirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17723481161726419273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-691959676423394780.post-82880899916826276822015-04-28T09:54:00.002-05:002015-04-28T09:54:57.782-05:00Not Ready(December 2014) It is likely to hit 50 degrees here in the not-so-frozen North next<br />
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week. That is good for the installation of the french doors in our dining room, and my cousin’s repair of our outdoor grounded outlet, and replacement of floodlights. That is bad for my bees. <br />
<br />
Normally at this point, they would be nicely encased in a robe of snow. That prevents the considerable heat inside from dissipating to the outside. Their need for food is less when they are crammed into a ball, not moving much. When it warms up inside the hive, they get more active and move around more, eating. It means there will be less food in the cold weather when they really need it. Winters like this, they starve.<br />
<br />
I took no honey off them this year, wanting them to live through the winter, so I have done all I can. When I open them up next week, I may find them to be aggressive and to have “broken cluster.” They are good bees, and I’d like to have them make it.<br />
<br />
I’m not ready to lose my first backyard hive to winter. I already lost one this Spring, possibly because they swarmed, possibly because they drifted. Possibly because they were poisoned. This summer I saw unmistakable signs of pesticide poisoning in bees returning to the hive - or rather trying to. They convulse on hard cool surfaces before dying. Surfaces like concrete, and pavers. <br />
<br />
Also, not ready to lose my new-found cousin. Spouse to my third cousin, he was a fisherman from Unalaska, and continues to be a vital presence in the lives of all who love him. He is one of those forces who clearly only inhabits a physical form, and is not altered by what ever condition that physical form may be subjected to. <br />
<br />
<i>I never finished this post. All sorts of things sloughed off my plate while we waited for Vern to live his last moments. Bills, yarn, work, artifacts - many things went missing in the weeks before he died. I am still recovering them from hidden places. His widow has moved on and away, living the life she put on hold for so long, under the sea. I come away with a freezer full of venison, a remote connection to a kindred spirit with whom I share blood and spirit though not a life. Some one who propels my thoughts about inheritance in eugenic directions that makes me uncomfortable, or perhaps simply more comfortable with supernatural explanations of a few threads of commonality.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>But mostly I am left with a self-absorbed fascination with her - is this what my life would have been without the moderating influence of my life? </i><br />
<br />beegirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17723481161726419273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-691959676423394780.post-7996500838165705242014-01-24T21:32:00.001-06:002014-01-24T21:32:58.991-06:00Rapists Do Not Wear SnowshoesVortex be damned, I went out skiing tonight. It has warmed up quite a bit, but we are headed towards another cold snap in two days, and I have spent the last 7 standing at my desk, stressing out about work. I needed this, particularly after my platelet donation went badly last Saturday, and I ended up with a sore, bruised arm that hasn’t served me well since. But last night I caved and took some Advil, which braked the pain, and I woke with a better outlook on my capabilities. Long stressful day of working on a couple transactions my clients want to close next week. I have pushed off as much administrative work to other firms and my client as possible, and now the remaining drudgery falls to me. So while tomorrow I’ll be scrivening again, tonight I was skiing.<br />
<br />
Layers of wool, and synthetics and silk, and I trekked down to the lake. I tried skiing around the edge tonight - I would normally strike out into the middle first thing, but I resisted, and followed the less windy edge for a quarter of the circumference, then headed in to ski the Roberts Bird Sanctuary. It’s only a half moon, but the clouds were low enough to catch al the city lights and make it bright as a full moon night. No lights in the sanctuary, but I could see well enough. It has been a long time since I was out at night like this. I have gotten more fearful, and Lake Harriet is quieter in general than Lake Calhoun, where I am used to walking. I’ll have to get comfortable with Lake Harriet again, particularly those long portions of he path that are far down from the road and dark. But tonight all was bright, and I could see that snowshoers had passed through before me in the fresh snow. I wondered if I should be concerned about passing through the Sanctuary, which was not likely to be heavily trafficked tonight. Dog walkers and runners were keeping to the lake, where the walking path is plowed. I wondered who else might be out at this time of night, going through the Sanctuary, and decided that it would be other people like me. People who wanted to seethe scrawl of snow etching along the tree branches, and listen to the wind toss the high up branches of the cottonwoods, from the quite stillness below. <br />
<br />
The tree branches snapped against each other like a crowd listening to slow jazz, and occasional squeaks of tortured wood reminded me of an anguished sax. The snow in the Sanctuary was drier and I could glide much better than on the lakeside, but once I got out, the snow was wetter, sticker. I learned that in sticky snow, I should ski wider, to guard against a fall. I had the center of the lake to myself. Stopping there, I looked up and felt vertiginous - there are a broad gap in the clouds, and a might night blue sky was rich and deep - the moving scudding clouds in the south, and the trailing layers of clouds moving in resembled reef contours falling away into inky darkness. It looked like a sea-shelf, and I felt ready to fall down along the face of it - or dive.beegirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17723481161726419273noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-691959676423394780.post-15916384478067635772014-01-17T08:24:00.001-06:002014-01-17T08:38:34.928-06:00Since you’ve been gone…..All that’s left is a band of gold. I’m singing that song in my head to the bygone bees of the last 10+ years since I started beekeeping. When I started back then, a lot of old timers were getting out. It wasn’t the same, they said. I chalked it up to old-timer resistance to change. They didn’t like all the chemicals, and honey harvests were poor. I didn’t know what they were talking about - in my first year beekeeping, I harvested 240 pounds from two first-year colonies with enough left over to successfully overwinter both hives. I didn’t use chemicals on my bees, never have since and never will. <br />
<br />
It was never so fine again. I came to understand what was different over the years, witnessing greater pest and disease loads, vanishing forage and heart-breaking contortions of bees dying en masse. On the plus side, I’ve seen the resurgence of urban agriculture, including bee-keeping. I’m pleased to begin writing about my efforts to establish bee hives at our new home just East of Lake Harriet, a neighborhood where people are gardening, GHOs court boisterously at night, and coyotes and bunnies share the streets with dog walkers, skiers, bikers and school children.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wedding Photo: Dancing with Dad</td></tr>
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And that band of gold? Well, after 28 years as a couple, Carolyn and I got married this year, a happier occurrence than the song would indicate. But the band of gold I’m thinking of as I write this post is the circle of pollen left in the crown of a composite ray-flower, with too few pollinators left to harvest it. I’m a little sheepish to admit it, but one of the reasons I am excited about out new house is the giant old crabapple in the front yard, and the oddly pollarded lindens all along the side of the house. Bee trees galore. I hope to have two hives, if the neighbors all allow. Our backyard neighbors have a highly allergic family member, but will gladly consent anyway. That bodes well for the others, I hope.<br />
<br />
A friend sent me a link to a great article about how Australian researchers are using technology to study the problems plaguing bees. It was great for the research description as well as for the fun of seeing technology employed with such delicacy and skill:<br />
<br />
http://qz.com/167730<br />
<br />
So there is hope, even though in China people are conscripted to go out into the fields and hand-pollinate crops with small brushes because the pollinators are too few. Sadly, some think this is an improvement, because they do a better job than the insects.<br />
<br />
http://www.npr.org/blogs/krulwich/2013/12/04/248795791/how-important-is-a-bee<br />
<br />beegirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17723481161726419273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-691959676423394780.post-62565594223850434072011-01-23T13:59:00.000-06:002011-01-23T13:59:20.211-06:00Freaky and Flaky and SpaceyI wonder if maybe the whole process of individuation isn't so much more difficult now than when I was trying to "find myself." <br />
<br />
All the black-clad, hyper sexual, vampirish, cupcaking baking polymaths out there are texting, posting, blogging, publishing, so that every black-clad, hyper sexual cupcake baking polymath can publicize her uniqueness across multiple media. The Unique are legion, legion, legion. <br />
<br />
When I was doing my black Victorian mourning-dress lesbian beach-waltzing blackberry jam-making law school schtick, I really was the only one I knew. Even in Portland. But I don't kid myself that there weren't others who were driving down many of the same roads, even if none of them ended up with me at the U-Catch-Em Trout Farm. Or following the Red Ridge Runner with me off the mountain after post holing through the mossy faux floor of the old growth forest. I just didn't know about the others like me because in those days were were isolated and technologically mute.<br />
<br />
Whatever will today's children do to differentiate themselves from their parents' generation? I mean, just consider <a href="http://www.burningman.com/whatisburningman/">Burning Man</a>. Lots and lots of unique... Right out there in in the open.<br />
<br />
It occurs to me that being unique isn't really the point any more, perhaps? Maybe what is wanted is a flotilla of zombies, a cadre of vampires, a flock of footballers or just to be special to some one who matters, after all. Maybe I don't get it. Maybe I never did. Maybe the tribe's the thing. And who says different is that good? Camouflage evolved for good reason. This donning of splendid plumage by those of a certain age or life-stage reflects an evolutionary development, too. Like a red-assed ape or booming prairie chicken.<br />
<br />
Maybe the counter culture trend I'm missing is the birth of community values in the US. We have always prided ourselves on being rugged individualists, and link human rights with individual rights. Another world views value well-being at the communal level. Nothing could be more threatening and rebellious in this country than that. Spittle-flecked epithets of "Socialist" were hurled with Thor-like force in the last presidential election. The same critique is leveled at attempts to extend medical services in as equitable a fashion to all. The critics fall back on the notion that each individual should be responsible only for herself and any one else she chooses to support. They want to roll back any social contract that suggests otherwise. They won't succeed. The writing is on the wall. United we stand, baby. Each freaky zombie one of us.beegirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17723481161726419273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-691959676423394780.post-47566206448039677842010-10-07T09:28:00.000-05:002010-10-07T09:28:29.585-05:00Power and Prayer<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtIFUPzWOdSHvIil9gfsna77QNsweTL-ftRwemiO3k_efc1ugvIr6yphgma-RmuUqty9A0J_IepEiAzST_L35mK32DtOxlrjeiEHDelrjbLzQ1Pkj-ehjMSiTcdVQkF2kr8aWwyqc1vZ8/s1600/snake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtIFUPzWOdSHvIil9gfsna77QNsweTL-ftRwemiO3k_efc1ugvIr6yphgma-RmuUqty9A0J_IepEiAzST_L35mK32DtOxlrjeiEHDelrjbLzQ1Pkj-ehjMSiTcdVQkF2kr8aWwyqc1vZ8/s320/snake.jpg" width="320" /></a>I have been thinking about how I talk to god. How I talk to the god I do not believe in. How people in general talk to their gods. Not the gods of everyday life. Not the celebrities, the material goods, not the revered state of victimhood or or self-righteous sanctity, not the stupor of power. Prayers to the god who creates, destroys, blesses, bestows, deprives, defends, reconciles, reproves, loves and despises - that's what I mean. The parental god, the prime mover god, the all knowing and mysterious, magisterial god.<br />
<br />
When god and I are on good terms, we communicate conversationally. I talk about my day, and in return a breeze combs through my hair, or an an old lady laughs a ribald cackle. When we are not on good terms, I remain petulantly silent, and in return my soul turns black as mushrooms left too long in plastic in the refrigerator.<br />
<br />
Prayer is a natural impulse. Ask any atheist who has been bungee-jumping or had a really great orgasm. We naturally call out to god in our moments of greatest fear and greatest bliss. In forgetting ourselves, we immediately connect with god.<br />
<br />
That was the magic of Zen meditation for me, I think. In an effort to erase the self, to quiet all thoughts and by recognizing them obtaining the power to release them all, I found myself approaching the great blank ineffability of god. <br />
<br />
I'm a person who enjoys creating lists. I strive for completeness, symmetry and accuracy making my lists. One that I have been contemplating lately is a list of the reason people pray. This subject was a topic of my grade school religious training in Catholic schools, and a snippet I particularly treasure. The school girl's list of 5 ways to pray was in the abbreviated language of a child's mind, while still being satisfying to her soul. I was touched, early on, by the power of prayer. <br />
<br />
People pray to petition for something. It may be to beg something for one's self or for others. The prayer may be for grace, for health, for stuff, for an emotional need such as love or revenge. The big ask might be for life itself. But the greatest petition to me, is the one that asks for acceptance - "thy will be done." Prayers for acceptance recognize that we are deluded in believing we have control over much of anything besides our own conduct and our own thoughts. The primary gift of this prayer is humility.<br />
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Prayer in thanksgiving enables us to be grateful. It reminds us we are not alone, that even if we doubt the presence of deity in the universe, that we are dependent upon the planet and other beings for our coming into being and for our continued existence. The great gift of this prayer is satiety.<br />
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Prayers for forgiveness are also asking for something - for release from the pain of guilt. This prayer asks for repair of conscience and a return to our own state of wholeness and communion with the world we have wronged. This prayer has immense power to transform who we are when paired with reparations. The penance given in the confessional booths in my childhood never felt like a sentence to me - I enjoyed the cadence of the Our Father and the Hail Mary, and repeating them over and over was a joy. What was painful was the preparation for confession, the process of contemplating my shortcomings. It also caused me to make an effort to view myself with honesty. Prayer of expiation and the sacrament of Penance and Reconciliation is one of the things the Catholic church gets right. People need a chance to be forgiven for and to forgive the worst expressions of our humanity. Done right, the sacrament can help us along this path, and enable us to evolve into better people over time. This prayer gives the gift of clarity.<br />
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People pray bodily as well. Acts of prayer shape our lives, create patterns and flow. Small things give substance to the framework of family, faith, nation, world, and self that comprise our existence. We can drape that framework with acts of love, creativity and hope. We can also choose to drape that framework with contempt, numbness and doom. Our choices in how to act reflect how we perceive the world - what it is like to be who we are. Prayers in the form of acts of love are reflections of how the best of us experience god, how we continue to bring this benevolent god into the world. These prayers gift us with peace.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE6joYGD52i4-Tmev7d3qbLjQZvTlOGLf5I-2heZG43ZjRsbo0Z_XjQJbUzzBNkz8dqs6Di_ksKEzPMuC2tyKJMxQU8wW4ms3C2c7ea4SISlPfmRt-C7WFLykcWLCtR1Y3kzD7L8UM3gk/s1600/view.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE6joYGD52i4-Tmev7d3qbLjQZvTlOGLf5I-2heZG43ZjRsbo0Z_XjQJbUzzBNkz8dqs6Di_ksKEzPMuC2tyKJMxQU8wW4ms3C2c7ea4SISlPfmRt-C7WFLykcWLCtR1Y3kzD7L8UM3gk/s400/view.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>The fifth form of prayer I learned about as a child is one less often practiced - prayers of praise. The act of praise arises from a sense of wonder and awe. It is the paralysis that grips us when we see the first ultrasound of the baby in our bodies, or the shaft of light cutting through a storm cloud to illuminate the backs of brilliant white swans crossing over a steel blue lake. Praisesong is the tears that escape our eyes when we hear the forgotten lullaby sung in a voice not our mother's but recognizable nonetheless. Praisesong is the crash and gasp and sweat of sex celebrating our corporal form. It is Walt Whitman's poetry. Praise both reflects our world view and shapes it. It is different from thanksgiving in that prayers of thanks recognize the benefits we have received. Praise magnifies the glory of creation that is indifferent to us, amplifying what is most magnificent in front of us and behind us, to the right of us to the left of us, above us and below us. The gift of this prayer is joy.<br />
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There is a sixth kind of prayer I wasn't taught about as a Catholic schoolgirl, but which is present in the bible. It is the WTF<br />
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Lately, my devout parents sit in a dark, small room watching a 54 inch TV. One of the things they watch is a program that bills itself as news, but which is populated by pale people shouting and yelling histrionically. I know what they say because my father shouts it at me over lunch. I realize later, remembering him bouncing up and down in his chair and jabbing his finger in my face over and over, that outrage is the only exercise he gets anymore. In this way, I can be grateful for the program, but I am still afraid for his heart.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>I fear for the hearts of all the people who absorb the ill-will and anxiety those left- and right- leaning entertainers spew. This form of entertainment is like watching lions tear Christians apart. You get to identify with the crowd of watchers, and distance yourself from the victims. But then that becomes your world. One where there are enemies lurking everywhere and you are never safe. Producing, participating in and watching the smug insipid liberal tripe and the paranoid heartless conservative garbage is the opposite of prayer - it is damning. It is a catastrophic failure to revel in the beautiful diversity of our common humanity, and to feel strengthened by our obligation as sentient beings to care for the planet and all its inhabitants. It is a failure to ask, to atone, to act, to be grateful, to notice that which is praiseworthy and to question.<br />
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My spiritual life these days is like the daisy-petal pulling divination - I believe, I believe not, I believe, I believe not. It would be a comfort to be able to believe. The one constant has been my prayer life. I don't consciously think god is listening - if god there be. Prayer just wells up in its various forms and I let it, and I examine what prayers I come up with to learn what they say about my state. I am uncomfortable writing that I pray, because it gives the impression that I am religious or spiritual when I am neither particularly, at this point. I may as well write that I am human, and my thoughts, acts and words are leading me along some path of realization, that may or may not lead to heaven, if heaven there be.beegirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17723481161726419273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-691959676423394780.post-74987548616219808882010-02-15T06:47:00.001-06:002010-02-15T06:47:33.037-06:00TestThis is a test.beegirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17723481161726419273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-691959676423394780.post-89776797653785872522010-02-02T10:20:00.002-06:002010-02-02T10:58:46.990-06:00Re entryWe are back. We repeatedly hold the cat up to our ears, listening for the ocean. Her purring will suffice. I just found a CD of Pacific Northwest ocean sounds - it too will suffice. We will go to Florida in March for the ocean there, and it will remind us of the sentiment we found on the Hawaiian islands. Sentiment chipped in volcanic rock by ancients, pictures of their inner lives. Sentiments etched in the sand by sea birds, shore birds, turtles and surfer girls. Sentiments brushed across the firmament in washes of silver and bronze at the end and start of days. Reflections of our faces in eyes moist with rain or something like it.<br /><br />I have returned to fiction. Reading it. I am reading too many magazines that are no longer inspiring me. My inner life is lonely. I picked up a book recommended by my dear cousin Liz. The book was at first tedious, pretentious - a bit like me and my inner life - the book bloomed and I found myself lying late in bed this morning to finish it, relishing the language and glad of the writer's ability to voice the sentiments I have been unable to.<br /><br />I am watching soft snowfall. The flakes vary in size from black oiler sunflower seeds to millet seeds, and are perfectly white and blue and gray. They remind me of the randomness of the crows at Loring Park coming in to roost at dusk, but those forms are black and the sky struggling against a rising moon. The sky this morning is a light leaden sky resisting the sun. All the snowflakes and the crows resisting gravitation. The larger flakes almost look ridiculous, wafting around with such substantial girth. They seem improbable, and I cannot look away, until Carolyn enters to say good bye.<br /><br />Goldfinches just outside are eating from the feeder affixed to the window. Several of them have startling lemon patches at the coverts and throat. They all eat with jubilence and conviviality. I would have expected desperation with all the snow cover, but they seem pleased to share, until I tilt nearer to see them better and they scatter like the snowflakes.<br /><br />Now a downy woodpecker has taken their place and is gorging, the tiny tip of its bill fitting easiliy and precisely into the small aperature meant for thistle estraction. Hers is a deft exercise, while the goldfinces are a little more brutish, stabbing at the opening in such a way that they sometimes miss altogether and strike the plastic tube or the metal guard around the opening.<br /><br />There is always striving and acceptance of what comes, instead of what what expected. My heart is full these days with gifts of unexpected pleasures - a book, fat snowflakes, excellent chestnut flour chocolate chip muffins, a love, and more work. <br /><br />This blog was originally intended to be a place where I could freely scrawl my thoughts. I find that as people have found it and read, I am inhibited. Although I am grateful for the compliments, I am also missing my unselfconscious times with this site. So it will go dark public view in a week or so. I'll continue to write here or elsewhere, but for myself again. Thanks for reading.beegirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17723481161726419273noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-691959676423394780.post-59832729823298718692009-12-22T08:08:00.005-06:002009-12-22T08:48:03.226-06:00Happily Anticipating<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLuWzAGZvwdNGv3m_j7Yohhdh1m1QoUyyIS6BexsofYYWKne0VnTm7L8eHio1rOKjoPH7E_jwDq-69VXb-lqK61mwTCpiaeabL1YsHfpWEu2sbQuSBDYR-QPX-uuMeEXoDoNU14eihB28/s1600-h/happy-face_1388940f.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 220px; height: 293px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLuWzAGZvwdNGv3m_j7Yohhdh1m1QoUyyIS6BexsofYYWKne0VnTm7L8eHio1rOKjoPH7E_jwDq-69VXb-lqK61mwTCpiaeabL1YsHfpWEu2sbQuSBDYR-QPX-uuMeEXoDoNU14eihB28/s400/happy-face_1388940f.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418062343399449282" border="0" /></a> Photo: CATERS <br /><br />Scientists think this endangered Hawaiian spider, which has the scientific name <span style="font-style: italic;">Theridion grallator</span> and is harmless to humans, has evolved the patterns to confuse predators.<br /><br />In preparation for our trip to Hawaii, Carolyn asked me to do a spider search, so her arachnophobia can be at least minimally grounded in reality. We were not disappointed - neither she for her purposes, nor me for mine, which is to enjoy as much native Hawaiian flora and fauna as possible. We learned that the cane spider (<span style="font-style: italic;">Heteropoda venatoria</span>) spans 3 to 4 inches - the size of a tuna can. <br /><br />Preparations for our trip continue - research into vulcanology, feather cape construction, astronomy, air tours of the islands (copter, plane and glider - screw the zip-line, I want to fly), places to eat great food, snorkel and hike; birds, horseback riding, locations of bookstores in case of rain, cultural and art museums, ikebana, hula and surfing instruction and agricultural tours. We have been enjoying having conversations with people about their favorite Hawaii moments - horseback riding, impromptu concerts on the beach, gliders, flower fields and colorful sands necklacing luridly blue ocean swells. We have been also preparing by listening to cheesy slack-key, ancient tribal chants and modern Hawaiian carols from the 1800's. We have a modest appreciation of Hawaiian history, both ancient and modern, and are up to speed on the current condition of government and business on the islands. We monitor the waves and weather and lava flows. We are thoroughly obnoxious at every holiday party we attend, and should send out advance warnings not to ask us about our upcoming trip.<br /><br />Repeatedly I am warned that we may not want to come back. That impulse may develop, but we have beloved family and friends here, and unless we can take them all with us, we aren't likely to give in to the impulse. It is inconceivable that we should voluntarily exile ourselves, even to paradise. Today, we anticipate a thick blanket of snow falling over the next few days, and skiing in Wirth Park, across the street from us. We anticipate the joy of a beloved house guest arriving tomorrow, and dinner with old friends, newly rediscovered. We have already enjoyed a wealth of moments with family and friends, and look forward to many more in the next several days. We are fortunate beyond measure and grateful for it all.beegirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17723481161726419273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-691959676423394780.post-75931298221398846692009-11-20T16:04:00.003-06:002009-11-20T16:10:10.820-06:00Things That Happen to Us That We Do Not Ask ForNOTE: None of the disasters mentioned below happened recently, or to anyone I love, but did happen to people I know.<br /><br />You can be living a righteous life and then - bam - everything changes utterly for the worse.<br /><br />You can be kind and reverent, and then all the ugliness of some one's dark nightmare can come to rest at your doorstep.<br /><br />You can be minding your p's and q's, your own business, and the store and then an intrusion of unimaginable dimensions intrudes.<br /><br />You can be standing on the bridge over the Mississippi bottomlands in the hours before midnight on New Year's Eve, your wife and children in the car behind you, the headlights shining, having gotten out of the car to be a Good Samaritan to the car that just pulled off the road, in distress, and then you can find yourself pitched off the bridge when a car rams your car, the one with your wife and kids in it, and that is the last thing you know, because you are off the bridge, falling to your death. If you had survived, you would know that your family is as fine as they could be seeing you pushed over the guardrail by the front of the car, illuminated by the headlights, that they would all be traumatized and desperately sad, but that they would survive, and in time, thrive.<br /><br />You can be driving you brand new van, towing a trailer full of your worldly goods, while you wife and baby daughter wait for you at home, and a car whose driving is fleeing police can hit your van and send you cartwheeling and jack-knifing down the highway, slamming into traffic, into concrete medians, into metal guardrails, into unconsciousness, thinking oh no I cannot die, I have a wife and baby daughter.<br /><br />You can be doing everything, everything exactly right, living as your god, exactly as your god, wants you to live, and then life happens. <br /><br />Why does it matter what we do? My father once said to me that if you don't believe in heaven and hell, then none of it [life] makes any sense. I have come to believe that what he meant was not that being a good person only made sense if there was a heavenly reward, but that he dearly longs to see his mother again, who died (he was a perfectly ordinary and perfectly good child of 3) from a simple infection following a 1931 brain surgery.<br /><br />It matters what we do, because of love. Because of that love that takes us by surprise, that washes over us and swells our hearts. That love that wets our eyes when we watch our beloved walking toward us in a perfectly ordinary way, but the breeze catches her hair a little bit, a puff of air, the breath of some god perhaps, reminding us we are dust, she is dust, all we see is dust. So fragile, so vulnerable, so majestic and fine, this world, this eternity constructed of dust. <br /><br />Because of the love that fills our chests when we see the country's flag illuminated in the night, when we see a mass of diverse humanity gathered in Mecca to pray together in the name of love, when we see an individual fishing food from a dumpster, when we touch the soft, nickle-plated surface of the doorknob that our grandfather touched, he who died before we were born.<br /><br />It matters what we do because of the love that comes on us from somewhere else, unbidden. Perhaps we cannot know why people suffer, people who are good and kind, because there is no reason, or because our existence is too short for us to see a big enough picture. But what I do know is that when I act out of love I feel clarity, entrainment, serenity.<br /><br />Love. Devotion. Surrender. Act out of love. Do it devotedly. Surrender to the consequences.beegirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17723481161726419273noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-691959676423394780.post-38714239805821042592009-09-24T07:51:00.003-05:002009-09-24T08:01:20.472-05:0055 Years1 bottle Mionetto sparkling wine<br />2 amusee bouche<br />1 small frisee salad<br />2 crab appetizers<br />3 glasses of Oyster Bay New Zealand Wine<br />1 bowl of chowder<br />1 lobster tail<br />1 stuffed sole<br />1 cup of tea<br />1 special occasion dessert<br /><br />My parents recently celebrated their 55th wedding anniversary. I found out where they were going for dinner, snuck in and arranged for them to have champagne on their arrival. I also made arrangements to take care of the check, which they learned at the end of the meal when the server handed them the anniversary card I left at the restaurant. Cost - a small car payment. My Mom's delighted, tipsy phone call that evening to say thank you, and my dad calling me naughty at brunch the next morning - priceless.beegirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17723481161726419273noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-691959676423394780.post-6408775054386537772009-09-02T21:50:00.004-05:002009-09-02T22:40:36.168-05:00LuminousAfter a couple of months fretting about what this pain in my belly may be, I have an answer, opined by three physicians. <br /><br />You have pain, they say, of unknown origin.<br /><br />I'm sorry not to be grateful for the benefit of their collective wisdom, but I really was hoping for something more like "you have a little adhesion from your appendectomy, and here are some helpful ways to help bust it loose."<br /><br />Or, "those fibroids are messing up your insides something awful, but fortunately now we can remove them and leave you organs intact - outpatient."<br /><br />Instead, they said that I probably have over-active nerves. I am relieved. I am not ill, I have no disease process causing this. I feel like I've been told I am imagining the pain, or that I am a wee bit hysterical. Neither is true.<br /><br />Strange how much more tolerable pain becomes when I know it is not the result of a disease process. I have mythic pain tolerance abilities. Walked on a broken ankle for 8 months, endured a perforated, gangrenous appendix for two. OK. Mythic and stupid. That's why I was very thoroughly checked out this time, to save my loved ones the anxiety that can come with caring for me.<br /><br />What I also learned, is that I have three small, golf-ball sized fibroids. Nothing to worry about. Except that I really don't want to feel like Patty Berg's golf bag. Oh, and my ovaries and uterus are shrunken - perfectly normal for some one at my stage of life. Good thing my self-esteem isn't tied up in the size of my sex organs.<br /><br />So, now free from the fear of ruptures, implosions, perforations and other possible consequences of exercise, I am back out walking. <br /><br />Tonight, striding along Wirth Lake, my attention was gripped by the rose-colored moon. The cast was golden, so that it resembled in my imagination the battle-metal of the armor in Beowulf's great hall, made from gold tinged with red iron. The orb in the sky lit my path, and also lit up the dozens and dozens of autumn mushrooms in the woods. My favorites are the puffballs, shining brightly in the moonlight, looking, well, moon-like - both kinds. Or breasty. Or like a bald man and a baby touching foreheads, since in one pair I saw, one puffball was much smaller than the other.<br /><br />It has been weeks and weeks since I walked in these woods, or in the wildflower garden. Thinking back to the Spring, when the hills' contours were visible, I am overwhelmed by the emergence of all the vegetation - all this biomass, built from sun, water, and nutrients from the soil. From what blueprint, what recipe, what spell or formula? What intention or what indulgence allows them to be? These blooms, these reeds, these fledgling birds eating seed from my feeders - they all appear from nowhere it seems. Yet I know better. They are wrought from strands of my heart, tears of my eyes and lightness of my being. We are, in very real ways, all made of the same stuff.<br /><br />Same as that moon up there. Same as those mushrooms down there.beegirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17723481161726419273noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-691959676423394780.post-43624231363832783462009-08-08T15:52:00.003-05:002009-08-08T16:28:42.743-05:00HuevocideI don't know what it is, but I keep killing things lately.<br /><br />Carolyn's dad just had heart surgery this week. He is doing well. I was leaving the parking ramp at the hospital, and noticed that on some ledges between floors, there were sprays of pigeon-deterrent spikes. Actually, first I noticed the pigeon poop everywhere. Then I noticed the spikes. Between levels 3 and 2, I noticed that some pigeon had figured out how to drop a couple of eggs between the spikes. <br /><br />I don't care for pigeons. Three human diseases are known to be associated with pigeon droppings: <a href="http://www.nyc.gov/html/doh/html/epi/epi-pigeon.shtml">histoplasmosis, cryptococcosis, and psittacosis.</a><br /><br />They displace native birds.<br /><br />People mistake them for doves. And I like doves.<br /><br />Any way, I arched my hand and arm over the spikes, and picked up the eggs one by one. At first, I thought the perfectly white foot-ball shaped eggs may have been plastic - dummy eggs that would discourage pigeons from laying their own. But I tapped one on a railing and it cracked lightly.<br /><br />I paused and considered what to do with them. I couldn't imagine how a pigeon would be able to hatch them, there among the spikes, and if they did, there would be two more sky-rats in St. Paul.<br /><br />So I opened the flap on a nearby trash container, and slipped them in.<br /><br />Killing things. Killed my queen, a few weeks ago, and am still feeling the death-crunch in my fingers. Granted, these pigeon eggs were not yet creatures, and I don't care for the creatures they were to become, but it was still killing. It bothers me that it wasn't that difficult for me to do. I normally don't like killing even the Asian Lady Beetles that clog my vacuum, bite painfully and stink up a room when they die. <br /><br />I'm reading Karen Armstrong's history of Buddhism. With all the killing I've done lately, I'm going to be on the wheel a long time, and my next life will probably be a NYC pigeon, if the Buddhists are right. I'm hoping that there is still a chance at redemption, and that I'll recognize the chance for it when it comes. <br /><br />Maybe nurturing thousands of bees will help. I feel Buddha-like when I am with my bees. My ego vanishes. I become their instrument, the sun streams through me, and the wind catches up my hair and arms and moves me like I am a marionette. There have been times when the bees and I have not been at peace. I think it is because I forgot to be mindful of them when I was with them. Christopher Reeve, the actor who was paralyzed in a horse-riding accident, said that the reason the accident happened was because he became distracted, and for an instant became at two with the horse while going over a jump. It was important to him that people realize (1) it was an accident and (2) that it wasn't his horse's fault, but his own.<br /><br />So it is with the bees. Some times I know the conditions aren't right for working the bees - the air pressure is wrong, or they are agitated from a night fighting off skunks. But I have to go ahead anyway, because it is a long drive to get there and some things just have to be done when they have to be done. And I pay for it with accidentally crushed bees and stings. Those are not my favorite days in the beeyard.<br /><br />Atonement cancelled out by brusk movements, by ungracious beekeeping, by killing. I don't know if there is a cosmic wheel, or a cosmic balance, in which our deeds are weighed. I suspect that pigeons following their nature would be well treated by such a device. Does my human nature include killing? And if so, will I be treated well by the device, or will I be faulted for failing to rise above my nature?beegirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17723481161726419273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-691959676423394780.post-5247156781629386512009-07-23T08:29:00.003-05:002009-07-23T08:32:01.979-05:00Asperatus over St. Paul<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOK7fROQm848dVfcqwPvME5XzFqMdqZL-ITKd1NOzS6qs7ZKKu_gXgMlg-Ph3rs1SSA_0nYF6PkU3ibjCCk_xxiwuYhnJxfEUcMv4ESdDlT5iB8ZinWqZD0bKi3U5pc1DxiQ2sfzJVH54/s1600-h/DSC00354.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOK7fROQm848dVfcqwPvME5XzFqMdqZL-ITKd1NOzS6qs7ZKKu_gXgMlg-Ph3rs1SSA_0nYF6PkU3ibjCCk_xxiwuYhnJxfEUcMv4ESdDlT5iB8ZinWqZD0bKi3U5pc1DxiQ2sfzJVH54/s400/DSC00354.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361647465732517282" /></a><br />I'm going to start using the new name for this class of clouds, because it just is so fitting, and I love a good word.beegirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17723481161726419273noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-691959676423394780.post-85414724740751978732009-07-22T21:38:00.002-05:002009-07-22T22:11:30.329-05:00Rehearsing RegicideI am sad to say, that the gallant little crew of bees that I installed in an observation hive on our screen porch have not thrived there. They raised up some scant replacements for themselves, built a little burr comb, but their queen stopped laying eggs, and she aimlessly wanders over the face of the comb. The workers themselves haven't the heart to replace her as they might otherwise do, in a fulsome colony. And so she must die. And I must kill her.<br /><br />She must die because I am going to bring the colony to the beeyard tomorrow morning, and join them to the feral colony that has taken up in my unused equipment. I am bringing a friend with me, new to beekeeping, and if all goes as planned, she will have a good introduction to some uncommonly practiced methods.<br /><br />I have been fretting over what I must do. Kill the queen. I have killed a few workers intentionally, when they have gotten inside my veil. I have accidentally killed bees, too. I feel regret over all of them. Now I must dispatch a queen who was probably not well-mated to begin with - a failing of the breeder - not hers.<br /><br />Several days ago, I was at my parents' house, working in their garden. They had told me a story earlier about their 87 year-old neighbor who has been lurking around their climbing shrub roses on the parking lot-side of the back fence, toting a pop bottle. They watched him pick something off the roses, place it in the pop bottle and cover the opening with his thumb. He did this over and over. They finally asked him what he was doing - "collecting <a href="http://www.aphis.usda.gov/plant_health/plant_pest_info/jb/index.shtml">Japanese Beetles</a>" was the explanation. He abhors them to a degree that he will pick them off the neighbors' roses. They were on the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Potentilla">potentilla</a> as well, which makes sense since it too is a member of the family Rosaceae.<br /><br />So here am I, weeding my parents' garden, and dead-heading the roses - my dad's tea roses, shrub roses and floribundas. I found Japanese Beetles, stacked in sex-mad oblivion, and easy marks, beneath the innocent and virginal pink petals of my father's flowers. I, too, trapped them in a bottle.<br /><br />But, sensing an opportunity, I placed several on the walkway, and with a spent blossom, crushed them on the pavement. I felt the <a href="http://www.biology-online.org/dictionary/Chitinous">chitinous</a> crunch as the shells cracked. I imagined it was my queen. Crushing Japanese Beetles is a useful act. Crushing my queen will be merely necessary act, done to rid the world of her unique scent, so the workers attached to her can forget her, and cleave to their new queen. I will have no pleasure from it, and dread the time tomorrow when I must follow through.beegirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17723481161726419273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-691959676423394780.post-1691153834682509772009-07-09T08:44:00.004-05:002009-09-24T07:05:37.363-05:00More from the beeyard<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjScbHXj5QTq4-ZEG7__r3hMZC8l9l6HnFjb_CQFLadJjQqOAk8fVCl-P1dS2LOHg4a4hFWe2v6LjL-Mup7Yvp0Nq1NJTvSq-FVsqnSMpkb076RUUv2eBpE8OKtowzqo8CGhTwXyf4DDeU/s1600-h/cows.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjScbHXj5QTq4-ZEG7__r3hMZC8l9l6HnFjb_CQFLadJjQqOAk8fVCl-P1dS2LOHg4a4hFWe2v6LjL-Mup7Yvp0Nq1NJTvSq-FVsqnSMpkb076RUUv2eBpE8OKtowzqo8CGhTwXyf4DDeU/s400/cows.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356460565555069490" /></a><br />Getting to the beeyard has been a challenge. We were in Ely, Mn for a week, and when I got back I had an extremely challenging and time-consuming project for work. So it was long past when I had hoped to get back to check on the small cluster of bees I left there after my last visit. <br /><br />Yesterday I finally made it back, and found that the little crew was still there, limping along, not thriving as I had recklessly hoped. I absorbed the sight of a skinny queen, a neglible brood area and closed them up again. Then I got to work sorting through the equipment I have stored at the site, looking for more AFB.<br /><br />I created a stack of boxes with frame that had no drawn comb on them, and set out creating another stack with drawn comb. At the start of a season, putting frames with bare foundation on them makes sense - the nectar flow isn't on, and the bees can focus on building comb without diverting them from honey-making. When the nectar flow is on - like now - a beekeeper will give the bees drawn comb, so all they have to do is spruce it up a bit, and start loading the cells. No time to waste! <br /><br />I had finished going through the boxes and had a few more frames to add to the stack of contaminated frames I had created on my last visit. That stack is on the edge of the beeyard, in the bright sun. I circled around to the sunny side, where I would have room to work, and noticed that there was some activity along the seam where two boxes didn't quite come together. I had thought I sealed up the stack, not wanting robber-bees to spread the AFB to other beekeepers before I had a chance to scrape the frames and burn the spore-bearing wax. <br /><br />But here was clear evidence had I had failed, and my heart sank. I swore loudly. I didn't swear much before I started beekeeper. I had a lovely store of words that served me well in any situation. But, beekeeping has presented me with situations that left me speechless, either with frustration or awe. So I've had to become creative. The swearing comes in at the frustrating times.<br /><br />In situations of awe, I have learned to allow prayer to well up. And that is what happened next. I opened the top of the stack, and there were thousands and thousands of bees, milling around, lined up along the edges of the frames looking up at me. This hive had been occupied by a swarm. They were either feral bees or a swarm from some other beekeeper's yard. In either case, it was my great fortune. Blessed bees. Bees, beloved. My gratitude materialized in tender words for the bees, for myself, for the beautiful day, spoken out loud, drawing in the cattle in the adjacent alley pasture. I offered them red clover and bird's foot trefoil so they could be happy, too.<br /><br />I figured the bees had chosen the contaminated boxes, so they must know what they were doing. However, sitting in my car, ready to drive down to the farmhouse for a visit, I considered an alternative - that the bees had few options with so many fewer natural cavities available - that the bees may have made a mistake. I considered that when I examined the colony, I saw a dwarfed brood area.<br /><br />Back to the beeyard, this time wearing a veil and gloves. When I first arrived at the beeyard, before I found my gifted bees, I had set up a bait-hive hoping to catch just such a swarm. Now, I began the work of transferring the bees from the diseased boxes to the fresh, clean frames. It was easiest and quickest to rap the edge of the frame along the top of the clean hive, dislodging the bees and dropping them into the new hive. On just the second frame I pulled, I saw the queen. The biggest queen I've even seen. She was about 1.5 inches and a dark gold - almost brown. She dropped into the clean boxes easily. As the bees mounted up, some of them boiled out the openings at the front and started fanning queen pheromone into the surrounding air, so that forging bees returning to the beeyard where the hive is. <br /><br />The new hive is located just a few feet from the old one, with the opening facing the same direction as the old one, as well. This is important because I wanted to take advantage of an occurence in beekeeping called "drift." When hives are adjacent to them, bees sometimes will join adjoining hives, even though the hive doesn't contain the scent of their own queen. Beekeepers note that the populations of hives in rows of hives that are spaced too closely will change over a season as forging bees drift to the hive at the end of the row. As I thought this through, something occurred to me - I was trying to catch the drifting bees - "catch my drift." Could beekeeping be the origin for this expression?beegirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17723481161726419273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-691959676423394780.post-75254707649122573352009-06-19T20:05:00.002-05:002009-06-19T20:19:10.112-05:00AsperatusNew stars are discovered, and new species of algae - why not new cloud formations? <a href="http://cloudappreciationsociety.org/june-09/">Asperatus</a> is the name proposed by the Cloud Appreciation Society for clouds that look oceanic and roughed-up.beegirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17723481161726419273noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-691959676423394780.post-56189087944757853662009-06-17T19:17:00.003-05:002009-06-17T19:22:20.445-05:00InspirationI am so moved and inspired by the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3er0fleyg6A">tremendous courage</a> of the people of Iran.beegirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17723481161726419273noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-691959676423394780.post-24915720952124883342009-06-14T21:52:00.002-05:002009-06-14T22:02:13.073-05:00Day 5Some of the bees have graduated to field bee status - they are bringing in pollen - possibly bird's foot trefoil. I don't see it being packed anywhere, though. The nurse bees are likely using it all as it comes in. The bees are really eating down the capped comb. I'm glad nectar is coming in too. I'll have to figure out how to manipulate the frames without losing a lot of bees. I'm guessing I will have one day when the bees will be trapped outside of the observation hive on the closed porch, and Carolyn will not be happy.<br /><br />I'm so on edge about the health of this little colony. I have a twinge of anxiety every time I look at the brood patch, and see the tail ends of so many bees - it looks like a colony that died of starvation. But it is only the back end of the nurse bees feeding larvae. I'll know soon whether the AFB contaminated this comb, these bees. <br /><br />The nights are still a little chilly, so I'm going to bring them in for a couple nights more, to give the brood the best chance of emerging as early as possible.<br /><br />The queen looks like she would really like to lay more eggs - probing around incessantly. But she must know that the eggs would be wasted because there just aren't enough nurse bees to cover the brood and keep it warm. As the days and nights get warmer, she'll be able to expand the brood area slightly.beegirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17723481161726419273noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-691959676423394780.post-41954164363231997332009-06-12T20:34:00.002-05:002009-06-12T20:57:14.343-05:00Cannibalism and NursemaidsI was away from the house for about 5 hours today, and even so, I watched the bees in the observation hive on about 6 separate occasions for an hours total. Really, I was meant to live with bees. I spent a good hour at Home Depot last night selecting the tubing that would feel best on their feet, the plumbing joint that would work best to link the tubing to the hive, and new clips to keep the glass sides steady on the hive. I spent an hour, imagining my feet as bee feet and imagining what surface (copper - foam - plastic - pvc) would give best grip and feel best. Next thing, I'll be knitting them little layettes for the brood.<br /><br />The bees were placed in the observation hive on Wednesday morning at the farm. The queen immediately started laying eggs on the left hand side of the top frame, then moved over to the right and began laying eggs again, this time amidst the workers. The workers quickly positioned themselves over the cells with eggs in them. <br /><br />It hasn't mattered so much before exactly what the life cycle of the bee was - there has always been time and enough bees for a decent start. This time, with the tiny little cluster, it matters a lot. So in the middle of the night last night, I got up, went on-line and did a little research. <br /><br />It seems that when the bees have no protein stored in the hive (in the form of pollen), the queen will lay sacrificial eggs meant to be cannibalized by workers to make food for the developing brood. Nice. That must have been what the queen was doing laying eggs in an isolated part of the frame.<br /><br />Also, it seems the speed with which the eggs hatch, the larvae grow and pupate is a function of temperature (and feed). The bees huddle over the brood and by vibrating their bodies they keep the temperature between 86 and 95 degrees. The higher the temperature, the quicker the brood will mature. Given that I have about 200 bees right now, some of which have become field bees in the last two days, there are very few bees left to cover and warm the brood. This self-limiting factor that means the population will grow only very slowly at first. <br /><br />The good news is, that I saw the nurse bees feeding larvae today. So the eggs have already hatched - much sooner than might normally take place (in 2.25 days rather than 3). With some bees out foraging, they'll be bringing in pollen, and nectar. If the bees keep up this pace, and I keep bringing the observation hive in at night, the usual 21 day egg to emergence could be cut to as little as 16 days. They share my sense of urgency.<br /><br />What gives me pause is this: the level of planning that the colony has demonstrated took place without apparent consultation, without any drama, and was implemented flawlessly. They came from a hell-hole of a hive, infected with AFB, nosema, wax moths and wetness. Given a safe, clean foundation, they became the best of what bees can be - cooperative, congenial, organized and purposeful. <br /><br />Okay, and cannibals - they became cannibals, too - but it was only a little nibble, just for a little bit.beegirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17723481161726419273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-691959676423394780.post-74055835183302252372009-06-11T06:35:00.004-05:002009-06-11T07:39:02.774-05:00RescueMY visit to the farm yesterday to rescue the bees went better than expected - and worse. The first thing I saw was a dead ram in the farmer's ram pen. I called the farmhouse on my cell - no answer. I called the writer's cell phone - no answer. What to do? The ram was dead. It wasn't getting any deader. It wasn't going to ever get up, shake itself off and toddle over to the fence to make sheep-lips at the ladies. I walked to the beeyard.<br /><br />It was still quiet there. And sad. I began dismantling the hive I knew was vacant, segregating the frames containing signs of American Foul Brood into boxes. The clean frames I put in other boxes and set aside. If I accomplished nothing else, I would secure the contained frames so that AFB couldn't spread to other hives if those bees came to rob out the remaining honey.<br /><br />I really, really don't like the feeling of opening up a hive in June and not seeing bees on the inner cover. I am steeled for it in the Spring, when I may have had winter die-off, but in June, it is (on a much more trivial scale) like looking at the post-2001 NYC skyline. I drilled down to the lowest box and found my valiant little cluster of bees. Placing two frames in the observation hive I brought with me, I began tapping and trapping them on to the frame, beginning with the queen. After most of the bees were on the frames, I closed it up. Within moments, the bees were fanning the queen's scent into the air at the lower entrance. Better still, bees that were flying landed near the top vents and began fanning the scent, which signified that the bees were so gratified to be on clean comb they immediately wanted to assemble all their sisters. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2XrGqd7sgFL3mExj8Z0nWJjk5SPpNBFd3J8DEb7EvzLV-vlB6N6hInn5H1Qv5Wlk2MPqNJQdscHDj-7G12pz7AAW8NPZbydWiR_0-HUXcExWvY5yWbdt3LOZa3XX2s8ytzC-ueH3jayM/s1600-h/Observation+hive+copy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 260px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2XrGqd7sgFL3mExj8Z0nWJjk5SPpNBFd3J8DEb7EvzLV-vlB6N6hInn5H1Qv5Wlk2MPqNJQdscHDj-7G12pz7AAW8NPZbydWiR_0-HUXcExWvY5yWbdt3LOZa3XX2s8ytzC-ueH3jayM/s400/Observation+hive+copy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346032317085044946" border="0" /></a>This photo was taken several years ago - I have about 1/12th as many bees in the observation hive as are shown in this picture. Still, I am hopeful they'll become a productive group that will fill frames with brood that I can insert in the colony still on the farm, strengthening them for the winter. This is unlikely to succeed, but I have to try. It's the only way I'll have bees this summer. I embarrassed myself begging (unsuccessfully) for bees at any price at the hobbyists meeting on Tuesday night. I am on the list to retrieve swarms, but there have been only two calls this year, and neither came to me.<br /><br />Then I turned to the final colony. Again, no greeting at the inner cover. The bees were in the bottom box, but this colony was stronger than I remembered. My plan had been to kill one of the queens and combine the colonies in the observation hive, but my plans changed when I saw the cluster of maybe a thousand bees (still very poor - there should beat least 30,000). After having set up two boxes of clean comb taken from my storage towers, I tapped the bees into the new hive, located not far from the old one, oriented in the same direction. I scored the surface of a frame of full honeycomb and placed it in the upper box so the dripping honey could draw the bees up through the hive. On the entrance platform I pressed a great deal of oozing honeycomb. While I assembled another box of clean comb, I listened to the roaring crowd - they were making the low thrum of gratitude and of relief. Settled into the new, clean hive, they were eating, exploring and cleaning. I closed them up and watched the face of the hive, full of bees eating honey and fanning the queen's scent. The other bees flying around would find their new home in time. <br /><br />It was time to call the writer again at the farmhouse.<br />"Ah, did you have something you wanted to tell me about one of your rams?"<br />I had hoped for "Oh, right, I for got to tell you, one of the rams died last night and we just haven't gotten the 4-wheeler up there to drag him to the pit."<br />But no, lucky me, I got to tell her that the ram was dead. Not the highlight of my day. But just as the silence of the beeyard when I arrived doesn't even qualify as a minor tragedy compared with the events of 9/01 in NYC, DC and PA, my loss of bees (a hobby after all) does not compare to the farmers' loss of this ram. Or the lambs they lost this Spring.<br /><br />I had planned to sell about 200 pounds of honey this summer, but clearly I won't get a honey crop at all, unless the bees die or don't amount to enough to survive the winter. Then, I'll take the honey for myself. That would still only be enough to archive the crop and for household use - barely. Still, there is a chance. I draw inspiration from the farmers, who choose to view the dead ram as a step on their way to shifting their operations to another type of flock. Farmers - they keep standing up after getting knocked down. I can understand that a little, now. On a much more minor scale.beegirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17723481161726419273noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-691959676423394780.post-10791003166844543382009-06-10T06:57:00.004-05:002009-06-10T09:24:14.676-05:00Cotton Snow<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitrx_Fv0vi4JMZ8UluDBGrdVc7k6lyL6_E-vekPq0xON4SlTMQfCmLi_7lzc8P7h-jzT_TjGAvNIFE-iKmjQDMS7LCYVqBGCocW4BBnV0IKy_QC9CYKWRNhqUnIphci62OVzJEqV6miGk/s1600-h/DSC00282.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitrx_Fv0vi4JMZ8UluDBGrdVc7k6lyL6_E-vekPq0xON4SlTMQfCmLi_7lzc8P7h-jzT_TjGAvNIFE-iKmjQDMS7LCYVqBGCocW4BBnV0IKy_QC9CYKWRNhqUnIphci62OVzJEqV6miGk/s400/DSC00282.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345667119835238210" /></a><br />Coming home from the beekeeping meeting last night, I glanced out the door at the patio and saw drifts of cotton snow. The cottonwoods are releasing seed, as they do every year. Great clumps of the frothy seeds waft by our third floor windows all day. Yesterday, the cat spent hours watching them float by. At first, she spasmodically jerked her head around to see them, the way she does when she is watching birds flock to the feeders. Soon, she seemed convinced that the ghostythings were not birds, and seemed to enjoy just watching.<br /><br />Lots of things aren't what they first seem. On Saturday, I went to the beeyard. Many things looked wrong, but most notably, one stack of unused equipment had toppled over beneath the tarp. Also, there was absolutely no activity at all at the mouth of the hives. It was chilly and windy, and threatened rain, but there should also have been bees milling about on the bottom board. There should have been some over achievers out foraging, trying to get in a couple of trips before the rain came. But it was still and silent.<br /><br />I avoided facing what might be happening in the hives by focusing on the overturned boxes. It didn't appear that anything had destroyed comb - perhaps it had just happened within the last day or so. I collected them on a platform in a different location, less tippy, but also not calculated to shade the hives from the afternoon sun. I knew on some level what I would find when I opened the hive, and was responding that way.<br /><br />Opening the first hive, the one that had been strongest, was appalling. Nothing at the inner cover. Nothing in the next three boxes - the supers I had placed on the hive a month ago, counting on a normal late Spring, as well as a deep box that had been reversed with the box below a month ago to encourage expansion of the brood nest upwards. In the final deep, there was a small cluster of bees with no queen. It appeared that the bees had swarmed. Bees swarm to to leave a bad lodging, and the bees swarm to divide when they are too populous for the space. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoTNtABwjry40EViP3G1VDpQ8FGQrDhhSXKQdSe3nqEoKo1OnLvx0kI4z8y_mIs71-X6guea9J0Lr-U1aMqmGXhbbIyfy7k82FZ1Gq9ngCBUzze31gd0P07n8TJtE-3OEKbsHCBoiESHE/s1600-h/DSC00274.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoTNtABwjry40EViP3G1VDpQ8FGQrDhhSXKQdSe3nqEoKo1OnLvx0kI4z8y_mIs71-X6guea9J0Lr-U1aMqmGXhbbIyfy7k82FZ1Gq9ngCBUzze31gd0P07n8TJtE-3OEKbsHCBoiESHE/s400/DSC00274.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345674890492027250" /></a>In the latter instance, the bees will raise another queen to take about half of them to the new location.<br /><br />This hive seemed to have no queen, but at that point, I was too bereft by the loss to notice that neither were there queen cells that would indicate a healthy divide.<br /><br />The other hives were different. And the same. Both of those hives had no activity at the mouth, and neither had any activity at the inner cover, nor until I reached the bottom box. There I found a gravid queen, decent laying patterns, but only a few hundred bees. The colonies were not sustainable. I absorbed this quickly. From the first hive, I gathered the few remaining bees and tapped them into one of the other hives. I pulled the frames of honey I had given the first hive to bring home to harvest. I pulled another frame to bring home to examine to try to determine what had happened. At the time, I noted the eggs laid by the queen (perfectly positioned in the bottom center of the cells) adjacent to eggs laid by workers (multiple eggs laid on the sides of cells, tipping at odds angles and at the edges of the bottom surface). Both are visible in the photo at right.<br /><br />When I left the beeyard, I went down to the farmhouse, and was inconsolable even though Melissa is a great cheer-up person. I felt heartbroken. I said as bad as I felt, I imagined how awful it must have been for her to lose all the lambs she did this Spring. She mentioned that they next door neighbors - city people who don't know about these things - heavily sprayed their yard during the dandelion bloom. There. That explained when there were no mature foragers at my 2 hives that hadn't swarmed. I wasn't happy about it, but I felt I had a plausible explanation. <br /><br />Needing to be alone, I got in my car and started home. I needed a distraction from my troubles and stopped at the MOA. That temple of din and dross. It worked well - the cacophony of sounds and disorienting visual chaos obliterated my funk. I wasn't cheered, but neither was I despondent. Going home, I could at least enjoy an evening out at the movies.<br /><br />Last night, though... What I am about to write is shameful and difficult. It is like admitting to an STD, leprosy and plague. After the beekeepers meeting, I collared Jim to have him look at the frame I brought back. He told me what I didn't want to know. Not only had I lost my bees, but the hive appears to be infected with American Foul Brood, a highly infectious easily spread disease that at one point was every bit as catastrophic to beekeepers as colony collapse disorder. AFB renders your equipment unusable - now I must take at the frames that are infected and dispose of them by burning - it is the only thing that will kill the disease. There is a fire pit on the farm, and I anticipate a brilliant, if not cheerful, bonfire. I'll lose at least $100 of equipment in the blaze. But to do otherwise would be foolish. First, if any other bees come to rob out those hives, they could be infected as well. Second, I can't use those frames again because the next colony would end up dead as well.<br /><br />So $300 of bees is gone, I stand to lose another $100 of equipment, I had to call my mentor and tell him that the equipment I gave him three weeks ago is likely infected, and my beeyard is a deadzone.<br /><br />My pattern of grief is to go deep, immerse myself, look around and see what's what. Then to surface and look back on where I've been, learn from it. Then look around for the good that's come out if it. <br /><br />I am looking around for the good of it this morning. Good things - (1) a bonfire - I love big fires; (2) I know what's wrong and can address it; (3) I can rescue the bees that are left by housing them in an observation hive and if they prosper, I can try to grow them up into a colony that will over winter (unrealistic); (4) I learned about not only the new form of nosema that was the subject of the excellent talk at the beekeepers' meeting, but also about AFB, first-hand; (5) I felt the strength and support of my beekeeper friends, who are so generous and kind; (6) I can keep a hive of clean frames set up on the farm as a swarm trap, and maybe be surprised by a windfall swarm.<br /><br />Grieving over dead bees may seem silly to non-beekeepers. I admit, I feel affection for them. But my emotions stem more from the belief that because I have taken these otherwise wild creatures, hived them, and managed them for my own eventual benefit at honey harvest time - because I have done all that, I am responsible for keeping them safe and well. I feel I have let them down, and it causes me to grieve for them and regret my part in what has happened. It would have been easier to blame the neighbors' ill-timed spraying of their dandelions (after the blooms please, so you don't kill pollinators) and there may be some fault there as well. But the choice to use borrowed equipment I was not wholly confident of - that was my mistake. And the bees suffered for it.<br /><br />Sometimes snow isn't snow, sometimes what you fear turns out even worse, and sometimes there is grace in failure. Being awake enough to take it all in is the hard part.beegirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17723481161726419273noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-691959676423394780.post-43809736078768036712009-06-03T19:18:00.005-05:002009-06-03T20:03:43.408-05:00Father's Day - Birds<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX1ClUkpI0NgS-XWlbJRlFoO5VdcLwdAMPanfGl2z8PjO9fNWkjzAK_XsoSe9sIb81OMe1ht4IpOlaVF2NTB_tvUyR_5ySXupTyhh2oi0_JouJlVlAepuFSssRHWP_jbOdlo6_0NKWWDo/s1600-h/DSC00204.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX1ClUkpI0NgS-XWlbJRlFoO5VdcLwdAMPanfGl2z8PjO9fNWkjzAK_XsoSe9sIb81OMe1ht4IpOlaVF2NTB_tvUyR_5ySXupTyhh2oi0_JouJlVlAepuFSssRHWP_jbOdlo6_0NKWWDo/s400/DSC00204.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343260978130863506" /></a><br />I was looking for a Father's Day card for Dad the other day. The cards were pretty good - I didn't have any difficulty finding several that had appropriate messages and great images. I would have needed only a few moments to get the card, but I noticed something interesting - the bird motif cards far out-numbered the golf motif cards - or any other sport for that matter. <br /><br />But what really grabbed my attention was the type of birds - no raptors, no owls, no ducks. The cards are dominated by familiar, friendly little birds - House Finch, Goldfinch, English Sparrow and Black-capped Chickadees. I'm not sure who the English Sparrow is hanging out with - it's supposed to be his mate I think, but that's not a female English Sparrow. And those loose feathers floating around below them make it look like a shrike just nailed some little tweeter moments before.<br /><br />My dad has started watching birds in his retirement. It's something we connect on, like we used to connect on law when he was still working. <br /><br /><object width="500" height="405"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/0FeyAGn6690&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&border=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/0FeyAGn6690&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="500" height="405"></embed></object> <br />My favorite Father's Day tribute is Groucho Marx's bit about fathers on the Dick Cavett show - of course it's on YouTube. I plan to get my sibs to learn and sing the Tie Song on the 21st. Groucho is right - there isn't enough sentiment about fathers - plenty about mothers. By the way, notice the bird on Groucho's hat.<br /><br />My dad's father raised four children on his own. My dad's mom died when he was 4 and his younger brother was an infant. Two older siblings were old enough to remember losing their mom. That was in the late 20's. At that time, if a man was left with kids following his wife's death, normally the kids were sent to an orphanage, or the family split up the kids and raised them among cousins.<br /><br />When the family announced to my grandfather who was going to take which kid, he shot them down. He said he would raise them. That they were going to grow up knowing their brothers and sister. It was a foolhardy and heroic and sentimental decision, but he raised those kids to be polite, thoughtful, loving, sensitive, generous people. <br /><br />What is so poignant about my grandfather's insistence that his kids grow up knowing their siblings, is that he had left all his siblings behind in Ireland when he immigrated. Two later joined him, and one of those went back home. But he never saw the others, or his parents again. That must have been a deep wound. <br /><br />My dad's family lived in an abandoned mission church that my grandfather remodeled into a kind of home for his little family. Their neighborhood was the poorest of the poor - a mixture of blacks, slovaks, germans, french, swedes - people who couldn't afford to live in the neighborhoods organized by nationality around their churches. My grandfather painted signs - freehand - on commercial vehicles for a living, and couldn't have made much. He was a union man, and helped unionize NSP, where he worked for years. One of his sons would later become a vice-President and lobbyist for that company. Another son, a fire chief, and another a federal judge. His daughter would marry and raise 4 wonderful children, even though she gave up her childhood when she reached 12 to take the place of the housekeepers her father hired to help around the house.<br /><br />So when people talk about how awful it is when single parents raise kids, I count to ten, and tell them about my grandfather - a man I never met, whose tender heart is evident in his sons and grandsons and great-grandsons.beegirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17723481161726419273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-691959676423394780.post-72437220849636064992009-06-01T10:20:00.003-05:002009-06-01T10:31:20.649-05:00Now, Nevada steps up, and Maya gets on boardLast night Nevada did the <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2009/06/01/us/01nevada.html ">right thing</a> and over-rode the governor's veto of the domestic partnership law.<br /><br />The measure still falls far short of conveying all the protections of legal marriage, but is another step on the march toward full equality.<br /><br />And thank you <span style="font-style:italic;"><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2009/05/29/nyregion/29celebrity.html">Maya Angelou</a></span>, for demonstrating that the assumption that people of color do not support equal rights for gay and lesbian people is pure bunk.beegirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17723481161726419273noreply@blogger.com1