Word Play

I love anagrams.  You know, where you take a word, scramble the letters, and come up with another word?  Most of the times, there’s something poetic about the juxtaposition of two words that seem to be unrelated except for the accident of their having the same letters in various combinations.

VILE, EVIL, LIVE–that’s a simple trio, but isn’t there a funny little magic to it?  Why is it so satisfying?  Those first two are similar, and then *poof* you neutralize them with the third.  It’s sort of like a good haiku: Here’s an idea, here’s a similar idea, here’s a little bit of a surprise.

Just a vowel-step away, you have LOVE, VOLE, and that’s just cute.  And you can play a little with that because EVOL is the beginning of evolution, so there’s a whole new way to start a poem. . .

I’ve always been attached to the SANTA, SATAN acronym, because it feels sort of iconoclastic in a naughty schoolchild sort of way.

And I love the little ones that can just be twisted and turned inside out in all sorts of ways, RATS, STAR, ARTS, TARS, for example.

In longer words, I have a particular love of the ones that switch just a letter or two in the middle.  PRENATAL, PARENTAL, PATERNAL.  The first gives way to the other two.  I have slightly uncomfortable associations with the word paternal because it’s so close to paternalistic, but my own pater is a really amazing and wonderful person, so that redeems the word.  What I find really super-satisfying in this one is that prenatal makes use of a prefix, so it significantly reduces the possibility that they’re actually related in some obscure ancient Latin or Indo-European language.  Of course, it switches more letters than the others, so maybe it loses elegance points.

The next set does have some root relationship, but only in their prefix and ending.  CONSERVATION, CONVERSATION.  And we really do need to make sure that we’re having that particular conservation in these days, eh?  I had to pause before I typed that word to make sure I was getting the right one of the two.  Conserve, Converse.  Verse, Serve.  I should probably be less lazy and look up those roots.

I went to an Anti-GMO rally the other day and carried a sign I had made.  It reads: “Label GMOS: Our Food is Sacred.”  At one point during the rally, it hit me that an uncareful reader might think that I think our food is actually frightened of what is being done to it in labs.  Hmm.  SACRED, SCARED.  Are they opposites?  Not really, but they do sort of throw each other into relief.

(This last one feels like it wants to be a whole post itself, or a poem.  It’s what got me settling these words into the computer this morning.  Instead of a piece of inspiration, though, today you get a little glimpse of the classroom part of my brain.)

I wonder if there’s a term for this sort of anagram, the kind that just switches a couple letters in the middle, sort of like an internal Spoonerism.  I’m looking for others for my collection, if you have any to suggest.

 

Gratitude List:
1.  Lost is found
2.  Playing with words
3,  Sourdough bread (I have no Off button for sourdough bread, and may end up eating the whole loaf before my family wakes up this morning.)
4.  That marvelous Afghani supper my mom made for us last night.  (Hmmm. Perhaps I’ll stop with the sourdough bread and eat some of that for breakfast instead.)
5.   Feathers

May we walk in Beauty.

Mushrooms

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Today we praise mushrooms,
whose dreams alone we see,
the fruiting body, the stalk,
the periscope eye
sneaking a peek above earth.

Here’s to mycelium, to messages,
to the network threading beneath us,
hyphae, like delicate fairy hair,
highways of information, of connection.
Sprawling communities of fungi
lurking unseen beneath our blind feet,
silently doing their work.

Here’s to twinkling spores that glimmer
and drift through a single shaft
of sunlight on the woods floor,
to the tender gills which carry the spores,
to the wanton gift.

A blessing on the unseen,
the not-there but suddenly appearing,
the wisdom of the fungus,
of rot, of humus, of mold,
of breaking it down.
Gratitude List:
1.  The creative force of children
2.  Mushrooms popping up everywhere
3.  Sunshine, blue sky
4.  Wren
5.  Listening

May we walk in Beauty!

My March Against Monsanto Speech

My friend Michelle asked whether I would be posting my speech from the March Against Monsanto, so I am going to post it here.

This blog is about me becoming more comfortable in my writer’s skin, about not being snarky and rude to myself about what I write, so I will not be the Teacher with The Red Pen telling you what I think is wrong with this piece.  It’s not bad, really.  Some of it is pretty good, I think.  It’s just that as I wrote it, it didn’t feel inspired.  It didn’t feel world-changing or earth-shaking.  That’s okay with me.  I was happy with how it fit into the story of the day, how it hopefully helped people there to make a connection with a farmer.  I think this piece was sort of like a good friend during the speeches, fitting into the group and helping the others to shine because of its presence there.  I’m going to post it here in its “speech-y” format.

Here it is:

Being a farmer is hard work.  You’re never quite finished with anything, and you live constantly with the feeling of having left something undone, some weed patch unmowed, some carrot field unweeded, some bean bed unpicked.  It’s rewarding, too, especially when your customers rave about the produce, or tell stories about how their children who used to be picky about vegetables will eat yours, because they know Farmer Jon, and they love the farm.  And that is satisfying to hear, to know that the chemical-free, GMO-free produce we raise is nourishing the bodies of growing children.

I am not here to demonize my colleagues, conventional farmers who are using the methods they believe to be the most efficient, the most effective, to make a living, to feed their families and their own customers.  I believe we need to bring them in gently as allies, asking at the farm stands and stores where we buy our potatoes or sweet corn:  “Is this genetically engineered?”  I think we need to raise awareness, let local farmers know that we’re interested in food that has not been tampered with, that there is a market ready and waiting for the pure stuff.

And we need to go to the source of the problem, which is what today is about.  We need to let the Corporate-Industrial-Food complex know that we are paying attention, that we demand our right to know what is in the food that we eat.  This system relies on the public to support it by consuming the things that it produces.  In this case, food.

Here are some of the things that concern me about Monsanto and the other giants of the Corporate-Industrial-Food Complex:
–The science that Monsanto uses to claim that its GE seed is safe is all paid for by Monsanto itself.  We the public are supposed to trust Monsanto’s own paid scientists.  When Monsanto-outsiders have been able to smuggle seed past Monsanto’s rigorously guarded contracts, studies have shown adverse effects to laboratory animals that alarmingly contradict Monsanto’s “science.”
There are some proponents of GE agriculture who want to label anti-GMO advocates as anti-science.  In reality, I would say that it is Monsanto that is anti-science–that closely guarding its own scientific data within its walls without outside peer review or trials that extend over time–that is anti-science.  Surely food security in the US would demand that many scientific trials by scientists unrelated to the company take place.
–Food security is compromised.  No longer a real understand of conflict of interest in politics:
Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas has been a Monsanto attorney
FDA administrator Michael Taylor is a former Monsanto lobbyist
US Sec’y of Ag Tom Vilsack a leading advocate for Monsanto and for agricultural biotechnology
USDA’s chief of National Institute of Food and Ag Roger Beachy is former president of
Monsanto’s non-profit Danforth Plant Science Center
Many others. . .
–GE crops have already contaminated “pure” seed crops.  Beets and chard in the Willamette Valley in Oregon, corn, soy and canola in the Midwest, even old varieties of corn in the highlands of Mexico, wheat and alfalfa from supposedly test-only crops.
–Monsanto modifies soy and corn to be resistant to its own pesticides, meaning that farmers who buy the pairing of seed and pesticide can spray their crops with impunity.  Instead of decreasing pesticide use, as Monsanto has claimed, use of Monsanto’s  Roundup has actually risen.  Glyphosate, the active chemical in Roundup, has recently been fingered as one of the possible causes of Colony Collapse in honeybee populations.
–Monsanto says it wants to feed the world through the use of biotechnology and genetically modified seeds.  Instead, Monsanto’s highly priced seeds have not significantly increased yields, resisted droughts or increased nutrition, nor have they improved soil conditions.  Instead farmers around the world now find themselves saddled with expensive contracts for GE seeds and their matching pesticides, unable to save seeds for coming years, and the health of their soil depleted.  This is a social justice issue.  My heart breaks when I hear of the alarming rate of farmer suicides in India–people who have given up hope after continued failure of cotton crops planted with Monsanto seed plunged them into hopeless debt.  Monsanto controls 95% of cotton seed market.

So that’s the problem.  What about solution?
–Even for those of us who are trying to make fresh local fruits and vegetables the main part of our diet, most of us still buy things like flour and sugar and grains and other staples at supermarkets.  We have a right to know if those food products are genetically engineered.  Urge requirement to LABEL.  At least 64 countries have laws requiring the labeling of Genetically Engineered foods.  When people say this movement is shrill and anti-science, I say, Are these 64 countries all shrill, all ignorant of current science?
–Don’t buy into the Corporate-Industrial-Food Complex whenever possible.
Eat locally grown food.
Support farmers who refuse to buy GE seed.
When buying processed and boxed foods, try to buy from companies that voluntarily label non-GE foods.
Cook for yourself.
Learn to savor the flavor of real, unprocessed, food eaten in season.
Save seeds.  Share and exchange them.
Don’t try to do it all at once–if you go home today convinced that you need to forage for your supper and can this winter’s tomato sauce by November 1st, you’re liable to give up in despair.  Make one change today.  Practice it, make it part of your routine.  Then make another change and another.

And Grow something.  Turn your yard into an edible landscape bit by bit.  Or grow a cherry tomato plant beside your back door, or plant some parsley in pots on you windowsill, or a couple lettuces.

After today, let’s all call ourselves farmers, people with a direct connection–in some form–to the Earth which provides our nourishment.  Let’s be eaters, rebels against that culture that instead would label us consumers, and would study our consuming habits in order to better market to our consumption patterns.  And because I believe in the power of poetry, I offer you the words of farmer-poet-philosopher-wiseman Wendell Berry.  I propose a

Manifesto: The Mad Farmer’s Liberation Front

Love the quick profit, the annual raise,
vacation with pay. Want more
of everything ready-made. Be afraid
to know your neighbors and to die.
And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery
any more. Your mind will be punched in a card
and shut away in a little drawer.
When they want you to buy something
they will call you. When they want you
to die for profit they will let you know.

So, friends, every day do something
that won’t compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.
Denounce the government and embrace
the flag. Hope to live in that free
republic for which it stands.
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man
has not encountered he has not destroyed.

Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millennium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.
Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.

Put your faith in the two inches of humus
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.
Listen to carrion – put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come.
Expect the end of the world. Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts.
So long as women do not go cheap
for power, please women more than men.
Ask yourself: Will this satisfy
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep
of a woman near to giving birth?

Go with your love to the fields.
Lie down in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.
As soon as the generals and the politicos
can predict the motions of your mind,
lose it. Leave it as a sign
to mark the false trail, the way
you didn’t go. Be like the fox
who makes more tracks than necessary,
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.

Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front” from The Country of Marriage, copyright © 1973 by Wendell Berry

 

Before

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Before we wandered these hills, other feet stood on the rocks, walked these woods, heard the way the breezes played through the poplars, watched the sun shoot its borning rays down into the hollows.

Before the parking lots and asphalt roads.  Before the houses and the malls, like a million million mushrooms gathered in every valley and on every hilltop. Before the tearing machines, the industrial fumes, the buzz and rumble of commerce.

Before the barbarians came, before the savages appeared with their guns, with hearts of stone seeking halls of gold.

This is not a new story, but somehow we keep missing the point, keep calling the wrong ones the savages, keep stepping up to the bench of divine justice, lawyers defending the mass murderer.  Before the first (or not the first) one sailed the ocean blue, before him, yes, there was war here.  Yes, sometimes there was famine and disease.

But before the big boats began to appear here, there were functioning and thriving societies here.  Families in villages and longhouses, in townsful of people.  There was hunting and fishing and foraging.  There was knowledge and wisdom.  There were councils and songs, dances and dreamings.  There was art and society, law and leisure.

Today I will not celebrate the ending of that world.  Today I will mourn for the world that was lost when “first contact” was made.  I will walk in the woods with my children.  I will forage for something to make into tea or supper.  I will stand on these stones with my feet and re-member what stories I can.

Gratitude List:
1.  The ancestors.  Of me.  Of this land.
2.  Telling the truth
3.  Re-wilding
4.  New dreamings
5.  Robins in the bosque

May we walk in Beauty.

Do Something That Won’t Compute

“So, friends,” says Wendell Berry in The Mad Farmer Liberation Front, “every day do something / that won’t compute.”

The politicos and the war-mongers and the marketing gurus and the ad execs and the creators of glitzy trash and junk, they all think they’ve got us figured out.  They think they know what we want.  We’re the consumers, and they’re going to give us something to consume, whether it be a genetically engineered piece of sweet junk filled with high fructose corn syrup, a mindless screen diversion or a satisfying show of martial power.  And if we’re the consumers in the equation, they’re the ones who are raking in the dough.  At an ever-increasing, alarming rate of speed.

Every day, let’s choose to do something that doesn’t fit that model.  Let’s be the Makers, the Creators, the Designers of our own health, happiness, well-being.  The Crafters of our own delicious world.  Let’s make our own entertainment, be responsible for our own health, learn to love the taste of real unprocessed food, design our own lives according to our own stories.

“As soon as the generals and the politicos / can predict the motions of your mind,” says Wendell Berry, “lose it. Leave it as a sign / to mark the false trail, the way / you didn’t go. Be like the fox / who makes more tracks than necessary,
some in the wrong direction. / Practice resurrection.”

Gratitude List:
1.  A little sun and blue sky yesterday.  A day without rain.
2.  The bright and earnest energy of the activists at the anti-GMO rally.
3.  Natasha’s spot-on speech from the rally: Kill the Beast
4.  Stuffed shells
5.  Snuggles

May we walk in Beauty.

Rally

The children are up and bouncing around upstairs.  My speech is ready for the Anti-GMO rally in Lancaster today.  Today brings shareholders to the farm to pick up their weekly produce, good coffee shared with friends, bits of clean-up from yesterday’s flooding.

Gratitude List:
1.  Water.  There always seems to be too little or too much, but really, we have what we need.  So yesterday’s flood reminds me of flow, and of letting go.
2.  Rallying for a cause
3.  Warm slippers
4.  Healthy, nourishing food
5.  Coffee

May we walk in Beauty.

Growing Up

Listen for the songs
of the thousand grandmothers
who sing in your blood
whose voices echo in halls
of wakening memory.

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Gratitude List:
1.  That sunset.  Magenta and true orange, indigo and aquamarine.  The sunset-washed clouds were like wispy versions of mammatus clouds.
2.  Volunteer Fire Department.  Our local FDs are all staffed by volunteers.  These people are amazing.  We had a ride last night in a fire engine at the Wrightsville FD Open House.  It was like being inside the Tardis–bigger on the inside.
3.  Aging.  Looking at some photos of myself yesterday, I noticed how my face is showing my age, and I was happy about that.  Something about seeing pictures of myself in my late teens and early twenties makes me a little uncomfortable–I seem so raw and unripe and unseasoned.  Yesterday I realized that I feel comfortable in my skin–creaky knees and achy back and marks of age–in ways that I don’t think I ever have before.  I am incredibly grateful for that.  I just might start calling myself a grown-up pretty soon.
4.  Rain.
5.  Giving myself permission.

May we walk in Beauty.

Haiku and Tanka

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I am snuggling a boy and a cat in my lap at the moment: benefits of a cool morning.   Makes typing a challenge, though.

Here are a couple poems that walked into my head yesterday.  The first is a tanka, inspired by my friend Mara.  I thought the second was going to be a tanka, too, but while I was waiting for the last two lines to emerge, I realized it was already a haiku.

 

TANKA
See there! In your palm
are the rivers of story,
of constellations,
dragonfly wings, the pathways
of the heart: love, grief, desire.

HAIKU
The now-naked arms
of the walnut tree cradle
the newly-born moon.

Gratitude List:
1.  Autumn birdsong in the hollow
2.  Listening
3.  Constructing my own life
4.  Breakfast
5.  Tiny Poems

May we walk in Beauty.

The Story Roars

When I wake up in the morning, parting the cobweb veil between dream and day-consciousness, I often find that some piece of that world hovers about me as I enter the morning.  A fragment of song.  An image.  A phrase.  The tone of the voice or the name of the person who was speaking my dream-name.  The answer to a question.  The Question itself.

This morning’s phrase: The Story Roars.  I love all the places this can go, the way it opens doors into so many passageways in my life.

There, standing just behind the curtain, is my Muse, reminding me to get to work.  To write, to write, to write.  The story is impatient, roaring to be crafted and written.

One of my current spiritual practices was given to me by a friend, the work of honing my listening.  I want to take up the work of listening, of drawing out people’s stories, of working together to be fully engaged in the stories we are living.  Our stories gather around us, waiting for us to give them voice.

Here is a Roar: My friend Natasha is now almost three weeks into a daily blog, The Year of Black Clothing, in which she chronicles and gives voice to her grief and rage over the destruction of Earth, of each other.   Her story is roaring, finding voice, gaining momentum, gathering other voices.  Her roar–so gentle, so fierce, so pained and so loving–is reverberating, drawing other voices in, creating a wild and hopeful call to Do.  To Be.  To Act.  To live our stories as authentically as we can on this Earth we call Home.  Go now and read her roar.  Add your voice to the story.

 

Gratitude List:
1.  Yesterday I asked my Facebook friends for advice about a parenting question.  I’m uncomfortable with unsolicited advice-giving, and sometimes even asked-for advice can be haughty.  Not so with the amazing people who responded with gentle concern and powerful ideas to my call for help.  I am so deeply blessed by the many circles of community in my life.  So deeply deeply blessed.
2.  Mentors
3.  The Story
4.  The Voice
5.  The Dawn

May we walk in Beauty.

Maintaining Balance

The gypsy wind came rattling through at 4:30 this morning.  It raised gooseflesh on my arms and the hair on the back of my neck tingled.  No more sleep.  No more sleep.  Down the stairs, some quiet reading, a little coffee and then some yoga tree poses.

In six months of regular morning tree poses, my balance has improved considerably.  I’m happy enough in my body, don’t get me wrong, but physical balance has never really been one of my strong points.  It’s a little startling to me that I can get this rather unathletic middle-aged body to pick up a new trick.  And it’s odd to me how place-oriented my balance is.  When I try the poses somewhere other than my kitchen, I teeter and totter and tumble all over the place.

On the internal front, I have been living with a low-grade fury again.  I have allowed this government shut down to throw me off my internal equilibrium.  I can’t seem to maintain balance,  to keep myself upright.  I want to rant and call names and burn bridges.
Somewhere I’ll find the poetry for this, the way to speak the need for justice in this story.  Right now, it’s still a little blind and crazed.  One thing that seems to help me hold my morning tree poses is the mirror in my kitchen.  When I look into my own eyes, my body suddenly remembers its upright nature and I stop thinking about falling.And oh.  I have not been writing gratitude lists.  I have stepped out of my space, walked away from my internal mirror.  How could I expect to keep my balance?  Here, then, is me back in my place, practicing my balance postures:

Gratitude List:
1.  A weekend with thoughtful, hopeful women.  All the grandmothers we carry with us.  Open hearts, open eyes.
2.  Dragonfly
3.  Autumn bird conversations.  Mockingbird is back at it after a summer of quiet.  Screech owl and great horned owl have been calling  even after dawn has brought the day.  Phoebe is moving through again.  Robin hordes have been amassing in the hollow every evening, and they begin the mornings with a deafening chatter.  I have even heard the kingfisher’s fussy chitter along Cabin Creek.
4.  A community of rebels
5.  Morning solitude

May we walk in Beauty.