A few days later, a different beach (Crane's), unseasonable warm and windless, walking through deep, soft dunes and admiring craggy trees and the utter blue of the ocean
Feb 20, 2010
Valentine
Blustery day on Nahant - clouds rolling in, air salty, birds wheeling overhead
A few days later, a different beach (Crane's), unseasonable warm and windless, walking through deep, soft dunes and admiring craggy trees and the utter blue of the ocean
A few days later, a different beach (Crane's), unseasonable warm and windless, walking through deep, soft dunes and admiring craggy trees and the utter blue of the ocean
Feb 7, 2010
home-made bagels and hummus
Step 1. Make, rise and cut dough. It looks just like regular bread dough, but it's a little denser, and it contains a bit of honey.
Step 2. Shape dough in to a bagel shape.
Step 3. Put bagels in boiling, sugared water.
Step 4. Flip bagels.
Step 5. Drain bagels on towel.
Step 6. Put toppings on bagels!
Step 7. Bake bagels! First one side, then the other.
Step 8. Make delicious hummus.
Step 9. Make delicious sandwich. (Too bad we couldn't grow the veggies, too!)
Step 2. Shape dough in to a bagel shape.
Step 3. Put bagels in boiling, sugared water.
Step 4. Flip bagels.
Step 5. Drain bagels on towel.
Step 6. Put toppings on bagels!
Step 7. Bake bagels! First one side, then the other.
Step 8. Make delicious hummus.
Step 9. Make delicious sandwich. (Too bad we couldn't grow the veggies, too!)
exiting the cycle
When we moved in to our apartment, we didn't own much. Or rather, we owned a lot, but not enough. It was sort of depressing, actually. We had boxes of clothes, books and music, school papers, art supplies and projects, sentimental odds and ends, and electronics that filled a large sedan - but no pots or pans, cutlery, plates or bowls, bed, mattress, couch, chairs, table, kitchen tools, shelves, bedding, dressers, towels, sheets, lamps... In short, we had almost none of the items required to live on our own. It made me feel rather guilty at first, owning so many boxes of books of THINGS and still needing more. In fact, for our first few days in our apartment, we sat on the hardwood floor and read books, ate peanut butter sandwiches made elsewhere, and purchased only one thing: a roll of toilet paper. And for the first few months, every time I walked out of the kitchen and left the stove, pans and tools unused, I felt terrible - a whole room full of useful things was being wasted. No two people need a kitchen entirely to themselves.
You see, coming from co-op life, we had shared almost everything for 4 years. Every chair, pan, and screwdriver was used nearly constantly by a community of 30 people. This made a lot of sense. We had everything we needed, and despite every item being shared, there was rarely a shortage of anything. Something about not personally owning so many possessions was freeing - I could easily account for everything I owned, and if necessary, I could pick it all up at once. Keeping track of possessions is actually stressful, and we had been free from that stress.
But it's not possible to live in a student co-op forever, and so we had to move on. With both of us headed for full-time graduate school, we needed a way to live that was relatively easy and convenient, so extreme living situations were out of the question. But neither were we enthusiastic about jumping in to the consumer world. We knew we were about to buy a lot of things - more things than either of us had ever bought or even owned. It was unavoidable, even as we did our best to look for second-hand goods, especially given our personal standards for construction materials (no formaldehyde, no pressed wood, no toxic stains or varnishes, etc) We were wary of joining the ranks of people who buy what is cheapest and most convenient, throw things away when they inevitably break, and buy new and better things as consumer culture dictates as soon as they are able. It looked like a trap, and we didn't want to get caught. We wanted a better way.
So we agonized over what to buy. We created spreadsheets and webpages. Whiteboards and scraps of paper were covered with ideas. We consulted relatives and friends. We searched the internet for weeks. In the end, we came up with a list of purchases that we thought would be sufficient, comfortable, and ethical. In our final spreadsheet, every item was accompanied by an explanation of why we needed it and how we would acquire it, even things like kitchen knives and sheets. A few items were given to us as gifts. Many we bought second hand from other people in the Boston area. For the rest, we found small retailers specializing in ethically and/or organically produced goods. Many were in the Northeast, and some were even within Boston. We didn't buy any "starter" items - only things we hoped to be able to keep forever. Although not everybody has the luxury of being able to make such purchases, it is far less expensive than one might think, when you carefully consider which purchases are actually necessary.
To some extent, the shock of owning so many things has worn off over the last several months. I no longer feel guilty when I leave the kitchen unused. But sometimes, I try to call that feeling back... even though we tried our best to make long-lasting, ethical choices, it's all too easy to get used to owning so many things, and I *know* it isn't necessary. Someday, I hope we'll be able to share more of our things, generate more of our own energy, and live more lightly in all ways.
You see, coming from co-op life, we had shared almost everything for 4 years. Every chair, pan, and screwdriver was used nearly constantly by a community of 30 people. This made a lot of sense. We had everything we needed, and despite every item being shared, there was rarely a shortage of anything. Something about not personally owning so many possessions was freeing - I could easily account for everything I owned, and if necessary, I could pick it all up at once. Keeping track of possessions is actually stressful, and we had been free from that stress.
But it's not possible to live in a student co-op forever, and so we had to move on. With both of us headed for full-time graduate school, we needed a way to live that was relatively easy and convenient, so extreme living situations were out of the question. But neither were we enthusiastic about jumping in to the consumer world. We knew we were about to buy a lot of things - more things than either of us had ever bought or even owned. It was unavoidable, even as we did our best to look for second-hand goods, especially given our personal standards for construction materials (no formaldehyde, no pressed wood, no toxic stains or varnishes, etc) We were wary of joining the ranks of people who buy what is cheapest and most convenient, throw things away when they inevitably break, and buy new and better things as consumer culture dictates as soon as they are able. It looked like a trap, and we didn't want to get caught. We wanted a better way.
So we agonized over what to buy. We created spreadsheets and webpages. Whiteboards and scraps of paper were covered with ideas. We consulted relatives and friends. We searched the internet for weeks. In the end, we came up with a list of purchases that we thought would be sufficient, comfortable, and ethical. In our final spreadsheet, every item was accompanied by an explanation of why we needed it and how we would acquire it, even things like kitchen knives and sheets. A few items were given to us as gifts. Many we bought second hand from other people in the Boston area. For the rest, we found small retailers specializing in ethically and/or organically produced goods. Many were in the Northeast, and some were even within Boston. We didn't buy any "starter" items - only things we hoped to be able to keep forever. Although not everybody has the luxury of being able to make such purchases, it is far less expensive than one might think, when you carefully consider which purchases are actually necessary.
To some extent, the shock of owning so many things has worn off over the last several months. I no longer feel guilty when I leave the kitchen unused. But sometimes, I try to call that feeling back... even though we tried our best to make long-lasting, ethical choices, it's all too easy to get used to owning so many things, and I *know* it isn't necessary. Someday, I hope we'll be able to share more of our things, generate more of our own energy, and live more lightly in all ways.
Jun 15, 2009
chestnut farms open barn
This weekend, a crew from pika headed over to Chestnut Farms, the farm from which pika buys meat, via a CSA.
About 6 months ago, after some serious research, I signed pika up to receive 40 pounds of meat every month from the farm. Given that I'm a very committed vegetarian, this may seem like a strange move. But since I live in a house of 30 people, about 50% of whom eat meat, and since we're a co-op, my housebill is used, in part, to purchase meat. Because of that, and because of my concern for animal welfare everywhere, regardless of whether or not I make any financial contribution, it made sense to try to work out a system that both made the omnivores happy and addressed some of my concerns.
Chestnut Farms was recommended to me by some old friends, and looking at their website and speaking to the owner on the phone convinced me it was a good farm. But I still wanted to see it for myself, and I felt I had some responsiblity to make sure that the deal I got pika in to was a really good one. It was somewhat sad to be there, knowing that all the animals I was playing with would end up butchered and shrink-wrapped in a big freezer in the basement. But that's the way things really are, and even for me and other vegetarians, I think it's important to see.
Overall, I was very impressed with Chestnut Farms. The cows and sheep frolicked in large pastures, the calves were not separated from their mothers, the pigs had a huge mud pit and field to play in (except for the pregnant sows, who each had their own "spa pen" in which to give birth), the chickens lived in a very large pen, in which sat a full-size school bus, converted in to a chicken-coop-on-wheels... It looked pretty idyllic. The owner, Kim Denney, took a great deal of time to explain how the animals are raised and handled, and the many steps that the farm takes to take care of the land properly and ensure that the animals are happy. She was unfazed and unoffended by the fact that 3 out of the 5 pikans visiting the farm were actually vegetarian.
The adult sows live in a very large pen that is partially a field and partially a large puddle/mud pit. All of the pigs were hanging out in the mud pit looking very happy. Pigs like mud because they don't sweat, so the must have mud on them in order to keep cool. The sows were actually remarkably friendly and gentle - they came right over to say hello to me, and they made all kinds of noise when petted and spoken to.
The rooster, crowing.
The sheep were the least entertaining of all the animals. They lived in a nice big field, didn't like people very much, and ran away when we tried to get close.
The chickens live in this large pen. Their nesting boxes are in the school bus, which actually still works - the farm drives it to a new location every now and then so the chickens don't mess up the land too much. (There are actually 2 school buses, each in its own pen.) Some of the chickens had been debeaked, but not all of them. This concerned me, so I asked about it, and it turns out that normally they don't have debeaked chickens, but they got some recently from a supplier that does debeak. :(
Chestnut Farms didn't used to have goats. All of the ones they have now are male "rescue goats". Male goats are not valued in the dairy industry because, of course, they give no milk, so male kids are usually clubbed to death at birth. Chestnut Farms got their goats from a neighboring goat dairy and they are now being raised for meat. Apparently goat meat is now in demand as people broaden their palettes and learn about ethnic food.
These are the cows in their pasture. They were pretty active, running all over the place. There were lots of babies left in the mix. The rubble in the foreground is from the old abandoned barn that fell apart when the current owners bought the farm - they have rebuilt a very nice, larger barn.
These were the hardest animals for me to visit.... this year's Thanksgiving turkeys (poults). Although nearly all the animals we saw on the farm were destined to be eaten, knowing exactly when nearly all of these birds would be roasted and eaten somehow made it worse. Especially when I got to hold one.
The piglets are really, really adorable. They're pretty shy, but if you stay in their pen for a few minutes they get curious and come over to sniff your hand and nibble on your pants.
Pictures, except for the last picture of the brown piglet (taken by me), by Brian Kardon.
About 6 months ago, after some serious research, I signed pika up to receive 40 pounds of meat every month from the farm. Given that I'm a very committed vegetarian, this may seem like a strange move. But since I live in a house of 30 people, about 50% of whom eat meat, and since we're a co-op, my housebill is used, in part, to purchase meat. Because of that, and because of my concern for animal welfare everywhere, regardless of whether or not I make any financial contribution, it made sense to try to work out a system that both made the omnivores happy and addressed some of my concerns.
Chestnut Farms was recommended to me by some old friends, and looking at their website and speaking to the owner on the phone convinced me it was a good farm. But I still wanted to see it for myself, and I felt I had some responsiblity to make sure that the deal I got pika in to was a really good one. It was somewhat sad to be there, knowing that all the animals I was playing with would end up butchered and shrink-wrapped in a big freezer in the basement. But that's the way things really are, and even for me and other vegetarians, I think it's important to see.
Overall, I was very impressed with Chestnut Farms. The cows and sheep frolicked in large pastures, the calves were not separated from their mothers, the pigs had a huge mud pit and field to play in (except for the pregnant sows, who each had their own "spa pen" in which to give birth), the chickens lived in a very large pen, in which sat a full-size school bus, converted in to a chicken-coop-on-wheels... It looked pretty idyllic. The owner, Kim Denney, took a great deal of time to explain how the animals are raised and handled, and the many steps that the farm takes to take care of the land properly and ensure that the animals are happy. She was unfazed and unoffended by the fact that 3 out of the 5 pikans visiting the farm were actually vegetarian.
The adult sows live in a very large pen that is partially a field and partially a large puddle/mud pit. All of the pigs were hanging out in the mud pit looking very happy. Pigs like mud because they don't sweat, so the must have mud on them in order to keep cool. The sows were actually remarkably friendly and gentle - they came right over to say hello to me, and they made all kinds of noise when petted and spoken to.
The rooster, crowing.
The sheep were the least entertaining of all the animals. They lived in a nice big field, didn't like people very much, and ran away when we tried to get close.
The chickens live in this large pen. Their nesting boxes are in the school bus, which actually still works - the farm drives it to a new location every now and then so the chickens don't mess up the land too much. (There are actually 2 school buses, each in its own pen.) Some of the chickens had been debeaked, but not all of them. This concerned me, so I asked about it, and it turns out that normally they don't have debeaked chickens, but they got some recently from a supplier that does debeak. :(
Chestnut Farms didn't used to have goats. All of the ones they have now are male "rescue goats". Male goats are not valued in the dairy industry because, of course, they give no milk, so male kids are usually clubbed to death at birth. Chestnut Farms got their goats from a neighboring goat dairy and they are now being raised for meat. Apparently goat meat is now in demand as people broaden their palettes and learn about ethnic food.
These are the cows in their pasture. They were pretty active, running all over the place. There were lots of babies left in the mix. The rubble in the foreground is from the old abandoned barn that fell apart when the current owners bought the farm - they have rebuilt a very nice, larger barn.
These were the hardest animals for me to visit.... this year's Thanksgiving turkeys (poults). Although nearly all the animals we saw on the farm were destined to be eaten, knowing exactly when nearly all of these birds would be roasted and eaten somehow made it worse. Especially when I got to hold one.
The piglets are really, really adorable. They're pretty shy, but if you stay in their pen for a few minutes they get curious and come over to sniff your hand and nibble on your pants.Pictures, except for the last picture of the brown piglet (taken by me), by Brian Kardon.
May 19, 2009
summer supper
I love cooking summer dinners for pika. Today we're having watermelon, braised kale with cherry tomatoes, little tiny salt potatoes, and a bean-corn-pepper salad. And lemonade! Perfect :)
May 14, 2009
retreat part 3: i know it when i see it
One of the teachers pointed this out: the mark of a true thing is that when you hear it, you instantly feel as though you've always known. You integrate it in to your consciousness so completely that it's sometimes embarrassing to look back at how you acted previously ("how could I have been so ignorant?"). On the other hand, sometimes you look back and see that if only you had trusted yourself, or had some support in asking the questions you were asking, you might have realized the truth much earlier ("I *was* on to something!").
In some senses, being on retreat - and in specific, hearing the teachers speak - has been much like coming home after years and years away, and suddenly finding that I am once again - or is it for the first time? - not alone with my questions. I've had quite a strong sense for most of my life that the things I stay up late thinking about, not coincidentally things I write about here, are of much less immediacy to many people than they are to me. Fears about whether or not there is a reality? Weird, right? Wanting to live with the emptiness of the world? Utterly insane! But those ARE the very questions that are attended to in the context of a retreat. Mind you, nobody can answer these questions for you, but it hardly seems to matter, as long as the questions are honored...
Reading through this blog after having been in an environment where those questions are so respected, and where I have learned a new vocabulary to describe my experiences, has been quite a trip...
*****
From October, 2007:
A little bit later I realized that actually, I'm fine. The baby mouse was sad, and yes, I do cry about such little things, but that little sadness didn't have to ruin the day. I'm busy and tired, and sometimes I just want to go to sleep, but does that necessarily mean that I'm doing badly? I don't think so. I think I'm ok. Sometimes I get stuck in this strange frame of mind, where "good" is this unattainable state of rest and contentment, with no outstanding responsibilities to speak of. That doesn't happen here at MIT. But that's all right - there are other ways to define "good".
From October, 2007:
And then I suddenly realized I was being totally ridiculous. I spent all afternoon getting freezing cold and soaking wet on purpose, as part of my SCUBA lesson. I can take as many warm showers as I want. I have plenty of clean dry clothes. Was I really all that uncomfortable? Nah. I merely had stopped being aware of my surroundings. I had decided that biking in the rain isn't nice, and so of course it wasn't. Honestly, the rain was actually quite mystical and gentle.
Anyway, I decided my awareness needed some tinkering.
From September, 2007:
Sometimes I feel like the gain on my internal amplifier (please excuse the EE talk, it's all I've been doing lately) is turned up way too high. Sigh. Sometimes there's nothing to do about Life's Persistent Questions other than curl up in the dark, listen to the rain, and secretly fall asleep with your fingers crossed, hoping that it is possible, and worth the effort, to understand each other.
From September 2007:
And that might just sum up what I love most about the violin, and what makes me so resistant to the idea of super-accessible music making. What else is there these days that actually requires you to meet with a master, one-on-one, and try to do the impossible? What else takes 40 years to get good at? What else connects you with a whole world of other questers who are desperately trying to awaken something that a guy centuries ago imagined?
And is there anything as magical as taking out a funny-shaped, hollow wooden box, drawing some sticky horse-hair across it with everything you've got, and finding, in the end, that somehow you *have* managed to communicate something meaningful to other people?
From September, 2007:
Well, for starters, it does sometimes do exactly what it's supposed to, so score 1. When it's misbehaving, it gets me to slow down and realize that I must sleep, eat well, and take care of myself. Because of it, I now know a jillion things to suggest to anybody who needs help with a stomach problem. I know what it's like to feel stuck in a pit, unable to dig one's way out of the wrong perception that life will never be easy or cheerful again. Because of my stomach, I've learned a lot about the brain and how fear works. Perhaps above all, I've learned that when I see somebody sitting in a meeting looking distracted or unhappy, there are a thousand ways in which just being there, sitting in that chair, could be unimaginably hard for them. Actually, even if somebody doesn't LOOK distracted or unhappy, it still might be hard.
So.... hey buddy. Yeah, you, Stomach. I know you're tryin' hard. I'm getting someplace, I really am. Thanks for all the hard work. You can be quiet now. I'm paying attention.
From March, 2007:
If you really tried, could you stop being stressed? Imagine making a concious decision. Imagine some day, a month from now. You have 2 problem sets and a paper, all in one night. You could either feel horrible about it, stay up until 4 AM with a feeling of anguish because you know you can't do it all before you collapse of exhaustion, or you could stay up until 4 AM, realizing that worrying that you can't do it all won't make you work faster, and get the same amount done. The evening would probably be more pleasant.
And yet when *I* imagine this situation, there's a niggling feeling of guilt. I think I'd actually feel like I was telling the world "I don't care that I can't do this", and I guess I'm afraid to project that image. But it's not true - I do care, I just realize that worrying won't help the cause.
From January, 2008:
Hence I feel inauthentic, not-myself, not-really-who-I-want-to-be. I find myself talking to people and only afterwards realize that what I said was 90% idle chatter (most of which is funny, light-hearted, and kind of pieced together every example I've ever seen of how to be entertaining in social situations) and 10% Real Meaning. It's not that I'm making stuff up, it's just very superficial. I feel as though I'm in a huge crowded swimming pool, and everybody's splashing around and whatnot, and I've got my eyes closed and I keep wincing from all the splashing. It takes so much energy to keep the water out of my eyes and keep treading that I haven't managed to discuss much beyond the metaphorical equivalent of sunblock and potato chips. It's fun for a little while, but too much of it leaves a hollow feeling behind.
A whole post rom April, 2008.
A whole post from August, 2008.
In some senses, being on retreat - and in specific, hearing the teachers speak - has been much like coming home after years and years away, and suddenly finding that I am once again - or is it for the first time? - not alone with my questions. I've had quite a strong sense for most of my life that the things I stay up late thinking about, not coincidentally things I write about here, are of much less immediacy to many people than they are to me. Fears about whether or not there is a reality? Weird, right? Wanting to live with the emptiness of the world? Utterly insane! But those ARE the very questions that are attended to in the context of a retreat. Mind you, nobody can answer these questions for you, but it hardly seems to matter, as long as the questions are honored...
Reading through this blog after having been in an environment where those questions are so respected, and where I have learned a new vocabulary to describe my experiences, has been quite a trip...
*****
From October, 2007:
A little bit later I realized that actually, I'm fine. The baby mouse was sad, and yes, I do cry about such little things, but that little sadness didn't have to ruin the day. I'm busy and tired, and sometimes I just want to go to sleep, but does that necessarily mean that I'm doing badly? I don't think so. I think I'm ok. Sometimes I get stuck in this strange frame of mind, where "good" is this unattainable state of rest and contentment, with no outstanding responsibilities to speak of. That doesn't happen here at MIT. But that's all right - there are other ways to define "good".
From October, 2007:
And then I suddenly realized I was being totally ridiculous. I spent all afternoon getting freezing cold and soaking wet on purpose, as part of my SCUBA lesson. I can take as many warm showers as I want. I have plenty of clean dry clothes. Was I really all that uncomfortable? Nah. I merely had stopped being aware of my surroundings. I had decided that biking in the rain isn't nice, and so of course it wasn't. Honestly, the rain was actually quite mystical and gentle.
Anyway, I decided my awareness needed some tinkering.
From September, 2007:
Sometimes I feel like the gain on my internal amplifier (please excuse the EE talk, it's all I've been doing lately) is turned up way too high. Sigh. Sometimes there's nothing to do about Life's Persistent Questions other than curl up in the dark, listen to the rain, and secretly fall asleep with your fingers crossed, hoping that it is possible, and worth the effort, to understand each other.
From September 2007:
And that might just sum up what I love most about the violin, and what makes me so resistant to the idea of super-accessible music making. What else is there these days that actually requires you to meet with a master, one-on-one, and try to do the impossible? What else takes 40 years to get good at? What else connects you with a whole world of other questers who are desperately trying to awaken something that a guy centuries ago imagined?
And is there anything as magical as taking out a funny-shaped, hollow wooden box, drawing some sticky horse-hair across it with everything you've got, and finding, in the end, that somehow you *have* managed to communicate something meaningful to other people?
From September, 2007:
Well, for starters, it does sometimes do exactly what it's supposed to, so score 1. When it's misbehaving, it gets me to slow down and realize that I must sleep, eat well, and take care of myself. Because of it, I now know a jillion things to suggest to anybody who needs help with a stomach problem. I know what it's like to feel stuck in a pit, unable to dig one's way out of the wrong perception that life will never be easy or cheerful again. Because of my stomach, I've learned a lot about the brain and how fear works. Perhaps above all, I've learned that when I see somebody sitting in a meeting looking distracted or unhappy, there are a thousand ways in which just being there, sitting in that chair, could be unimaginably hard for them. Actually, even if somebody doesn't LOOK distracted or unhappy, it still might be hard.
So.... hey buddy. Yeah, you, Stomach. I know you're tryin' hard. I'm getting someplace, I really am. Thanks for all the hard work. You can be quiet now. I'm paying attention.
From March, 2007:
If you really tried, could you stop being stressed? Imagine making a concious decision. Imagine some day, a month from now. You have 2 problem sets and a paper, all in one night. You could either feel horrible about it, stay up until 4 AM with a feeling of anguish because you know you can't do it all before you collapse of exhaustion, or you could stay up until 4 AM, realizing that worrying that you can't do it all won't make you work faster, and get the same amount done. The evening would probably be more pleasant.
And yet when *I* imagine this situation, there's a niggling feeling of guilt. I think I'd actually feel like I was telling the world "I don't care that I can't do this", and I guess I'm afraid to project that image. But it's not true - I do care, I just realize that worrying won't help the cause.
From January, 2008:
Hence I feel inauthentic, not-myself, not-really-who-I-want-to-be. I find myself talking to people and only afterwards realize that what I said was 90% idle chatter (most of which is funny, light-hearted, and kind of pieced together every example I've ever seen of how to be entertaining in social situations) and 10% Real Meaning. It's not that I'm making stuff up, it's just very superficial. I feel as though I'm in a huge crowded swimming pool, and everybody's splashing around and whatnot, and I've got my eyes closed and I keep wincing from all the splashing. It takes so much energy to keep the water out of my eyes and keep treading that I haven't managed to discuss much beyond the metaphorical equivalent of sunblock and potato chips. It's fun for a little while, but too much of it leaves a hollow feeling behind.
A whole post rom April, 2008.
A whole post from August, 2008.
retreat part 2: your animal soul
Early morning, pouring rain, chilly. I was up early as usual. There were hundreds of worms on the driveway, escaping a flooded drainage ditch. I was taking them off of the driveway and placing them on higher ground. At first, I was an efficient worm-rescue machine. Moved 'em off the driveway and on to a raised patch of grass. Went back for more.
But then I got curious. The worms looked a bit pale, or perhaps a bit flushed - it's hard to tell with worms. They'd been practically swimming up on the driveway. Maybe, I thought, they are hungry. Or maybe their skin can't stand the open air like this. Maybe they are too weak to get back in to the earth.
So I dug some holes, and tested them out with some feisty-looking worms. No luck. My holes were not up to worm standards. Perhaps worms do not like holes that have been pre-made, lest the holes belong to somebody else. So I roughed up some nice dirt patches, the easier to begin digging, and put the worms in them. No luck. The worms oozed away. I tried covering them with leaves, in case they didn't like light. That didn't help. I was a total failure at worm rescue! It was just like trying to be witty in front of somebody important. There were those worms, staring at me without any eyes at all, forcing me to make excuses about my lack of knowledge about all things dirt.
So, after putting all the worms on high ground, I left. Twenty minutes later, they were all gone. No thanks to me!!
*****
Before dawn, in a tiny little gazebo, in the middle of the woods, I was meditating. It was extraordinarily windy, and there was a huge full moon. I was enjoying the sound of the howling wind when a new sound started up. Huge chunks of bark being ripped off a tree, not too far away. The sound of a powerful breath. A bear! A HUNGRY bear, looking for a snack! And there I was, all alone in the forest. My heart skipped a few beats. I was motionless, exactly like a hare waiting for the perfect opportunity to make a dash for her hole - except there was nowhere to go. I breathed silently. The noise stopped. Minutes passed. I was frozen.
Unexpectedly, my timer went off, indicating the end of my sitting. I opened my eyes. New sunlight was mingling with moonlight. The wind had stopped... and a doe was only a few feet away, eating sprouts calmly by my side, totally unafraid.
Who is the timid animal in the woods, exactly?
But then I got curious. The worms looked a bit pale, or perhaps a bit flushed - it's hard to tell with worms. They'd been practically swimming up on the driveway. Maybe, I thought, they are hungry. Or maybe their skin can't stand the open air like this. Maybe they are too weak to get back in to the earth.
So I dug some holes, and tested them out with some feisty-looking worms. No luck. My holes were not up to worm standards. Perhaps worms do not like holes that have been pre-made, lest the holes belong to somebody else. So I roughed up some nice dirt patches, the easier to begin digging, and put the worms in them. No luck. The worms oozed away. I tried covering them with leaves, in case they didn't like light. That didn't help. I was a total failure at worm rescue! It was just like trying to be witty in front of somebody important. There were those worms, staring at me without any eyes at all, forcing me to make excuses about my lack of knowledge about all things dirt.
So, after putting all the worms on high ground, I left. Twenty minutes later, they were all gone. No thanks to me!!
*****
Before dawn, in a tiny little gazebo, in the middle of the woods, I was meditating. It was extraordinarily windy, and there was a huge full moon. I was enjoying the sound of the howling wind when a new sound started up. Huge chunks of bark being ripped off a tree, not too far away. The sound of a powerful breath. A bear! A HUNGRY bear, looking for a snack! And there I was, all alone in the forest. My heart skipped a few beats. I was motionless, exactly like a hare waiting for the perfect opportunity to make a dash for her hole - except there was nowhere to go. I breathed silently. The noise stopped. Minutes passed. I was frozen.
Unexpectedly, my timer went off, indicating the end of my sitting. I opened my eyes. New sunlight was mingling with moonlight. The wind had stopped... and a doe was only a few feet away, eating sprouts calmly by my side, totally unafraid.
Who is the timid animal in the woods, exactly?
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