Happiness is the Sound of Buzzing Bees

There were at least half a dozen "potato pollinators" in these lupins when I took this picture last night. So that's good news because we love bumblebees. 

The gardens are planted which means we're into evening watering now, and the black flies are vicious this year. I'm afraid to see how big the mosquitoes are! But we're really windy this year so I'm not sure how my raised beds are going to fare; they get lots of sun but it turns out, I forgot to account for the wind tunnel that is our backyard. Fourteen years and I still don't have the hang of this gardening thing. Oh, well, as long as the salsa garden produces the ingredients to make salsa, I can live without the lettuce. 

It's been awhile since I've posted here because since June 2, I've been working full-time providing literacy support to students in Grades Primary through Three. What a great job, although when one of your three part-time job suddenly goes to part-time hours, there's a lot of juggling that happens. My brain has to operate in three different ways. 

Added onto that is editing essays for the book coming out next April, keeping up with my Thanatology course, and planting gardens -- it's been a really busy spring. 

What bothered me most about the past three weeks was that my creative juices dried up. I've been writing poetry this year and I wrote only one poem in all that time, and it was a way of dealing with a friend's family tragedy -- I couldn't have not written that poem if I'd tried. 

So that teaching job has wrapped up and my church work is down to two Sundays -- and now I'm anticipating my summer off. I know the two months of summer will fly by and I won't feel like I'm getting anything done but the plan is for writing, weeding, and reading. I don't want to touch any of my non-fiction books; I just want to enjoy fiction, fiction, fiction for two months. 

Fiction and flowers. 

Bee balm and bumblebees.

My chair in the gazebo. 

Strawberry jam and salsa. 

The perfect plan for summer in Nova Scotia. 

Words Are Not Enough

I couldn't sleep last night. I tossed and turned. I don't feel guilty for being the descendent of white immigrants (my family arrived after the settlers took over the land) but I'm tired of being shocked and horrified and frustrated by what we put the Indigenous peoples through, and continue to put them through. Hundreds of years and through generations of abuse and suffering, denigration and dehumanization. I don't get it - how anyone could treat other human beings, let alone children, the way we've treated the Indigenous people. And to call them savages? Their spirituality is beautiful and enviable. Those of us who feel spirit in nature can absolutely relate to Native spirituality.

It's hard to be a member of a church, to be a Christian, and know these atrocities were committed by members of the Catholic, Anglican, United and Presbyterian churches. Here's what radio personality Charles Adler of Vancouver said, "The church's mission was to 'take the Indian' out of the children. It seems they took the Christ out of Christian." 

Do you know the federal government is involved in litigation against the survivors of the residential schools? Likely to deny them all the compensation they deserve. Generations of government-and-church sanctioned trauma and you want to nickel-and-dime them? 

I don't write about this -- I tend to listen and learn, and I don't want to say the wrong thing, I keep my privileged white mouth shut; I also don't know what to DO that will make a difference. I mean, the Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women issue -- that's horrific too. But governments and government agencies ignore the truth, ignore the details, and refuse to change. That's the problem. The System simply won't budge. 

And it kept me awake last night. Where is the fairness? Where is the kindness and mercy and justice? 

I don't write about this but on Saturday, the following poem shouted to be written so I did what I do now: I opened a blank document, placed my fingers on the keyboard, and let it flow out of me. When I posted it to my Facebook page, fresh and rough, I encouraged those with more understanding of the issue to correct or suggest changes, but no one did. It was shared 27 times. 

UNDOCUMENTED CHILDREN

(after the discovery of the remains of children

buried in a forgotten grave

at the former residential school in Kamloops, BC)

An Indigenous woman challenged,   

“Imagine finding the bodies of 215 children

buried in the yard at your local elementary school”

and the collective white mind replied, 

“But that wouldn’t happen.”

Exactly. 

We cannot imagine 

We don’t know what it’s like

We are afraid of the truth 

So we deny

we ignore

we mute 

we refuse to let the grief and rage

of those who tell their stories

of abuse and terror and suffering

that are beyond our imaginations

infiltrate our minds

and bleed into our hearts

just as their life bled from them 

In a burial register

the name, age, gender, cause of death, 

dates of death and burial

and the location of burial

are written

on a single line

Those Indigenous children

forcibly – legally – 

removed

from their families

from their homes

from their land and their culture

turned over to the collective white mind

whose job it was to transform them

by any means

into … what, exactly? 

Exactly. 

Even though their spirits resisted

they died or they survived

and they reconciled themselves

to living 

inside the collective white mind

where they were not

worth the ink 

for writing a line in a book

as a record of their existence

where they are not

worth the effort 

of signing on lines  

in recognition of their persistence 

the truth

is not written in ink

but in blood

and dirt

~ by Sara Jewell

 May 29, 2021

 

A Rhubarb Garden - Finally!

 

You may look at this photo of four rhubarb plants growing alongside a garage,

and you may think,

BOOOORRRRIIIING. 

Also: the grass needs trimming. 

And why the flimsy chicken wire fence? To keep the chickens out, of course. 

But I assure you -- this is a very exciting photo!
For two reasons:

1) I have finally -- FINALLY - established a rhubarb patch. After 14 freakin' years in Nova Scotia. I know it's not up to the local standards, I mean, seriously 4 plants? For a proper rural rhubarb patch, there should be at least twenty plants and it should take up a huge amount of space. 

Whatever. Considering I've been trying to establish any kind of rhurbarb patch for six years, I'm calling this a win. 

2) There is HERITAGE rhubarb in that patch. That's what's making my patch a patch, in fact. My two plants, put here last year, were joined a few weeks ago by two plants from my mother-in-law's patch at the home place (what Dwayne calls his family's home on the farm). I'd been meaning to get some rhubarb plants from down at the farm, in order to have some "family rhubarb" growing -- proper thing. But my sister-in-law's big patch was already too mature -- long-established, it grows quickly in the spring -- but Joan remembered that our mother-in-law had a few plants along a shed. She said the plants never took

but I tell you,

they took off when they landed in my garden. 

Normally, a plant has to get rooted and acclimated to a new spot; it may not grow well after transplant. 

Not the "Mary Mattinson Heritage Rhubarb"! They are the plants on the far right and the far left and they are growing faster than the two plants I've been carting around the property since 2015. My original plants grow well, no worries; I get lots of fruit from them. But Mary's rhubarb? Now that's true sturdy country rhubarb there, folks. 

So my small patch -- which may expand as the summer progresses, if I get the urge to dig more garden -- is growing well and making me very happy. 

First we brought "Dad's couch" up from the home place, and now we have "Mom's rhubarb". I love legacies. I love keeping the memories alive, the stories flowing, and the love fertilizing my life with Dwayne. 

I'll stop now. That metaphor might get out of control! 

In Praise of the Potato Pollinator

 

I've been writing a lot of poetry this year. Apparently, once I stopped writing articles and columns, a vein of creative writing opened up. Interesting... and enjoyable. 

It means that every ponder, every phrase, every word has the potential to form a poem. Like the following, formed just as the dog and I were a couple of hundred metres from home at the end of our walk this morning. 

It started with a title -- In Praise of Bumblebees -- followed by the first line -- Dear Bumble --

By the time I fed the pets and sat down with my first cup of coffee, the poem's opening lines had wandered off but I just started writing. Normally, my poetry is spiritual, and serious, so it was nice to write something fun. 

I don't have a photo of a bumblebee at a dandelion but this photo of mine, of the fireweed in late August, shows the bumblebee in flight which is very cool. 

IN PRAISE OF THE POTATO POLLINATOR
 
Dear bumblebee
dear large body
dear small wings
dear mystery
 
how you fly
how you lift
what looks bulky and cumbersome
with those papyrean wings
paper and weight
 
as if there is a lightness
inside you
a sense of divine purpose
that levitates you and propels you
forward
into the flowering world
even though that flight
seems impossible
 
It is a miracle
every day
commonplace
ordinary
yet so
extra ordinary
 
for you
king of the dandelions
fuzzy lion of all the flying insects
you
are the great agricultural pollinator
the one who gives us
tomatoes and peppers
blueberries and strawberries
 
the only one who pollinates potatoes
 
without you
dear bumblebee
dear flying mystery masterpiece
dear miracle
 
we would not have
French-fried potatoes
 
So we thank you
dear bumblebee
for the miracle of
turning potatoes
into
fries

~ Sara Jewell  

Rainy Day in Rural Nova Scotia

 

Absolutely nothing makes me happier than a rainy day. Yesterday's sunshine had me twitching to plant gardens, but I know better -- our clay ground is still too cold -- yet the whole time I was inside working, I felt guilty that I wasn't outside planting. 

Rain is much easier. Only one option with rain. Stay inside and write and read! 

I must say, however, about gardening that moving the greenhouse, pictured to the right of the chicken coop, remains the best thing we ever did -- at least in the last ten years. Digging the pond, which you get just get a hint of at the top of the picture, is a close second, especially when the Canada geese hatch out their goslings. 

I'm in and out of the greenhouse now at least twice a day. I'm hardening off the annuals I bought, and talking to the perennials I'm waiting to plant - Lily of the Valley! First time ever. Why do I bother to say, "No more gardens!" There always seems to be a spot that needs plants and flowers, and I'm happy to oblige. 

The greenhouse is a very relaxing space, even as crowded as it is with shelving and bags of soil and planters waiting to be fill. And reams of chicken wire used to keep the chickens out of the gardens! They can scratch a garden bed to death, let me tell you. The greenhouse is warm and quiet and, I don't know why, but soothing. It's just a space, but at the edge of the field, and filled with plants and gardeny things, it feels like a little house of hope of possibilities. 

Let's hope the two sunflower seedlings I dug up from the garden under Mother's balcony feel the same way, and keep growing. 

Ospreys Return

 

Not sure how I feel about two ospreys claiming the nest this year. 

Those of you who are loyal followers of this blog know the last few years have not been kind to the ospreys. Those of you who follow this blog and read my book will know these ospreys have been constant throughout my life in rural Nova Scotia; they claimed the nest the summer after Dwayne and I married. 

The last time babies fledged from this nest was the summer of 2017. In each of the following two years, one of the parents disappeared and the babies perished, as eggs then the following as young birds dying in the nest in the heat of July. The grief from that was excruciating; these birds are like family to us and to see them suffering, and being unable to help, was horrible.  

Also, eagles have moved in across the river so the ospreys may fish elsewhere and someone near us has a fish pond. Did he shoot one or both of our ospreys? (This is illegal; ospreys are protected migratory birds.) 

The eagles also prey on the fledglings; in August of 2015, all three not-yet-flying fledglings were picked off by an eagle. 

Oh my heart.

I never thought I cry at the sight of the ospreys returning to the nest. It was always a moment of relief and joy. They're back! It was good for our hearts; now we are filled with dread. 

Last year, ospreys checked out the nest but did not stay. We thought we were "safe" this year, figured with no babies, there was no one to come back, but this morning, one osprey is sitting on the nest and the other is bringing in sticks. 

We need a summer of the ospreys like the one I wrote about in my book; we need to hear them calling to each other and watch them bringing in fish and celebrate the babies flying. We desperately need to experience the joy of those first ten years with these beloved neighbours. But we are fearful, for them and for ourselves. We need their success this year; we can't handle more tragedy.

Neither can their species.

These aren't great photos. I was using my cell phone because it was handy and I couldn't get close because I didn't want to disturb them. They're not used to us. 

A Poem: COVIDeer

Photo courtesy of  Shaun Whalen - thanks, Shaun! 

COVIDeer

She grazes close to the house

on her own

feeding on the new spring grass

She eats

ears flicking

then picks up her head, looks around

listens

her ears unmoving

She bends again

eats another mouthful

then again

her head comes up and she looks around

a sound spooks her

and she runs across the low end of the field

behind the chicken coop and the shed

but she’s not running fast

just enough

just in case

She pauses along the far side of the yard

where the grass is growing long and green already

bends down to eat

walks forward

stands and looks around 

for the longest time

walks

and eats

and listens

and looks

Her journey is moments

relaxed grazing

to nourish her body

total alertness

to keep herself safe

graceful and watchful

in equal measure

Ears and eyes tuned to the world 

what was that?

do I need to pay attention?

do I need to run?

or stand quietly?

am I safe here?

And I think

she is

us

our pandemic journey is moments

tweets and posts and videos

watching numbers rise and fall

walking alone

staying close to home

but ever vigilant

for danger

listening

observing

do I comment?

or stay quiet?

gracious and malicious

in equal measure

A virus stalks us

hunting us down

in the air

without a sound

Our eyes and ears are tuned to the world

are we safe here?

We are

the deer

~ SJ, April 26, 2021