Sunday, December 28, 2014

Cardamom


It may seem strange, in the middle of winter, to be writing about an herb, especially a tropical one.  But this is the time of year when I always enjoy a cup of cardamom tea, and cardamom is also appropriate for the season of cold and ’flu.  Elettaria cardamomum, also known as green or white cardamom, is one of the two types of “cardamom” used as a spice in Indian and other South Asian cooking (the other is black cardamom, Amomum subulatum).  Both are members of the ginger family, but green cardamom is the herb I am discussing here.  Its seeds are used as a medicine as well as a flavoring spice. 
     Cardamom tastes cool, fresh, slightly sweet and peppery, and makes a wonderful flavoring ingredient for everything from curries, chutneys, pulses and rice to kulfi (a kind of ice cream).  (Cardamom kulfi is a great party treat and simple recipes for it can be found on the internet.  Even though I usually don’t do dairy these days, I love it!)  It also makes a great tea.  Because cardamom can be quite expensive, it is commonly used as a flavoring in black tea, or mixed with other spices and black tea in chai, but I like it alone as well.  It is important to buy cardamom seeds still in their papery pods, and only take them out when you are planning to use them (you can even leave them in the pods when you cook with them).  They should be stored in an airtight jar, otherwise they will lose their flavor after a while, even if they are still in their pods.  A couple of fingers-full of seeds crumbled to powder can make a good tea, and you will definitely get your money’s worth in taste if you keep them fresh.
     Medicinally, cardamom is approved by Commission E for treating colds, bronchitis, sore throat, coughs, and fevers.  Cardamom has virustatic properties, and the monoterpene essential oils found in it are antibacterial and antimycotic.  Cardamom is also used for gallbladder and liver complaints because of its cholagogic properties, but it can actually aggravate certain gallbladder and liver problems as well.  I would only recommend it be used by someone with liver or gallbladder problems under the supervision of a trained herbalist or other medical specialist familiar with its use in inducing bile flow.  It is also used traditionally for digestive problems.
     So if you’re feeling a cold coming on, or you just want a tasty hot beverage, make yourself a fragrant cup of cardamom tea on a frosty winter night.

Saturday, December 13, 2014

Brevity

I bought a lovely little book today, at a fair, from Gene Keller, musician, poet, performer extraordinaire.  He was selling these gorgeous little books of his, a collection of poems entitled Brevity.  Each book was hand-made out of lovely paper; each one unique, beautifully-crafted, and perfect.  The typeface was artistic and bold and strong, and the poems were wonderful--deep, honest, full of peace and joy.   Holding the little book in my hands, reading the poems slowly and meditatively, I was continually struck by their freshness, a quality so rare in writing today; youthful words of a poet grown old.  There was so much in the whole aesthetic experience: the physical beauty of the book, the clarity and song in the words, the wonderful person of Gene, and the whole history he embodies here in El Paso.  There was more in the book than just what the words said.  There was music and laughter under enormous stars and a mystical crescent moon, love and friendship, the search for deep and enduring truths, devotion to color and beauty, enchantment and mischief; a place of doves and glorious sun; a whole world of magical possibilities.


Friday, December 12, 2014

Dia de la Virgen de Guadalupe



Cuix amo nican nica nimonantzin? Cuix amo nocehuallotitlan, necauhyotitlan in tica? Cuix amo nehuatl innimopaccayeliz? Cuix amo nocuixanco nomamalhuazco in tica? Cuix oc itla in motech moneoui?

¿No estoy aquí yo, que soy tu madre? ¿No estas bajo mi sombra y resguardo? ¿No soy yo la fuente de tu alegría? ¿No estas en el hueco de mi manto, en el cruce de mis brazos? ¿Tienes necesidad de alguna otra cosa?

Am I not here, I, who am your mother? Are you not under my shadow and protection? Am I not the source of your joy? Are you not in the hollow of my mantle, in the crossing of my arms? Is there anything else that you need?                          --Nican Mopohua c. 1556

Friday, November 14, 2014

The Servant is Not Greater Than the Master

We know next to nothing about Homer, Shakespeare, and Molière, to take a few of so many, many, examples.  And yet we know Odysseus, Hamlet, and Tartuffe so well that they have become "types" we can immediately recognize.  In Hermann Hesse's Die Morgenlandfahrt, the protagonist H. H. learns the great lesson that fictional characters are, in fact, more real than their creators.  And that the one must diminish as the other grows.  That is the ideal.  The law of service, embodied in our willingness to do the task of creating a work of art, regardless of whether our personality or even our name remains attached to it.  Because, in the end, it is not ourselves or even our readers that we serve, but the work itself.  We have no right to demand fame or fortune or even recognition for our work.  The opportunity to do the work is all the payment that is due to us.  To understand this is liberation and joy, but it is also the best, perhaps even the only, means to assure that we will always do our finest work, freed from the burden of praise or censure, the burden of both failure and success.

 

Friday, October 3, 2014

St. Francis and the Wolf



On this beautiful Feast of St. Francis, I think of how relevant the story of St. Francis and the wolf of Gubbio is for us today, in a world torn by war and hatred.  For the people of Gubbio, the wolf is not just a ruthless killer, he is even worse than that.  In their eyes he is irrational.  He has no personhood.  He is simply the adversary.  He has no conscience and can’t be reasoned with—he is beyond conversion, beyond redemption.  He is an inhuman monster.  Is this not the way that we, as individuals and nations, always depict our enemies?  We can hate them without guilt because they are not persons in our eyes, because we believe them to be invincibly evil (and ourselves the champions of good), which gives us the certainty that the only solution is to destroy them, brutally and without remorse.  But Francis courageously seeks out the wolf, boldly confronts him face-to-face, armed only with love and the hope of reconciliation, and calls him “brother.”  He begins by recognizing the personhood of Brother Wolf.  He enlightens him, aware that in order to do so he must begin with an understanding of who the wolf is—where the wolf is “coming from”—his hunger, his loneliness.  And then he helps the wolf to recognize a path to transformation, to the adoption of a new way of living.  He shows him the way to a new mode of being with others.  He brokers a peace between the wolf and the people of Gubbio.  So perfect is the peace he creates between the people and the wolf that they end up neighbors and friends.  They come to love and care about each other.  That is the power of active non-violence, its power to conquer fear and hatred, if one is simply courageous enough to call the snarling, bloodthirsty enemy “brother” or “sister,” and to make peace, not by destroying that enemy, but by the redemptive, the transformative, power of love.  Each of us, and most especially our leaders, the ones who give the orders to kill on a mass scale, must follow the path that Francis took—for no other path can succeed—if we truly want our cities and our world to live in peace and safety, and if we truly desire a world where we will live like brothers and sisters.

Tuesday, September 30, 2014

After the Rains


The air above Dunn Park, swimming with dragonflies, under the tall Chinese elms.  And the hill above it, the reservior hill, that rocky andesite outcrop, is greener than I can ever remember seeing it, carpeted with wildflowers, ephemerals, drought evaders.  The gift of the September rains.






Tuesday, September 23, 2014

America and Its Allies: Shoot First, Think Later

So, ISIS brutally beheads innocent civilians.  In response, President Obama and his European bullies blow the heads off innocent civilians with bombs and missiles.  Both sides claim they are fighting evil.  But in reality, both are doing evil.  The fact that we have learned nothing from the failures in Iraq and Afghanistan, that we are now willing to make common cause with Assad and the Iranians, that we are giving arms to factions in Iraq that were our ‘enemies’ in the last round, guaranteeing a hundred more years of instability and hatred, shows what little moral consideration has gone into the decision to plunge us into another war.  Clearly, Obama is guided more by fears of a Democratic Party defeat in November than any reasonable ethical, strategic, or even military considerations.  The fact that we created this situation by our invasion of Iraq (again, with our sycophantic allies, especially the U.K.), and by our long, desultory involvement in the civil war that followed, is never even mentioned by the cheerleading, colluding press. The parallels to Vietnam are so obvious to anyone who knows anything about twentieth-century history.  Why are our leaders so morally bankrupt?  President Obama expressed his sorrow and outrage on national TV after the Sandy Hook massacre, and rightly so.  But what about the hundreds of children killed by drone strikes, by our training and arming of rogue armies around the world to fight our proxy wars; what about the children killed in the ongoing conflicts we started in Afghanistan and Iraq, and that we are now escalating there and in Syria.  Despite all the rhetoric about “smart bombs,” civilian casualties as a percentage of total casualties keep rising in each successive war the U.S. wages [Ahlstrom, C. and K.-A. Nordquist (1991). Casualties of conflict: report for the world campaign for the protection of victims of war. Uppsala, Department of Peace and Conflict Research, Uppsala University].  Bombing of civilians is simply murder carried out without our having to see it close up, My Lai executed from the air.

Wednesday, August 27, 2014

Feast of St. Monica


Every parent is Monica, completely devoted to giving our children everything good, consumed with devotion to them, and yet sometimes driving them crazy with that very desire to protect and manage them.  Children, please be patient with your parents!  And parents, please be patient with your children.  It’s so hard to strike a balance between “being there” unconditionally for our children and being overbearing.  (For Libby and I, and for our children, all of this is made more complicated and crazy by their overwhelming health care needs, and because we are all so stubborn and intelligent and intense.)  But the fact that this very struggle is what made Monica a saint—and how would you have liked being St. Augustine’s mother?—is both inspiring and consoling to me.  Pray for us parents, and for our own parents and our children, Saint Monica!

Thursday, August 21, 2014

Sunday


"You want to know what I am, do you?  Bull, you are a man of science. Grub in the roots of those trees and find out the truth about them. Syme, you are a poet. Stare at those morning clouds. But I tell you this, that you will have found out the truth of the last tree and the top-most cloud before the truth about me. You will understand the sea, and I shall be still a riddle; you shall know what the stars are, and not know what I am. Since the beginning of the world all men have hunted me like a wolf—kings and sages, and poets and lawgivers, all the churches, and all the philosophies. But I have never been caught yet, and the skies will fall in the time I turn to bay. I have given them a good run for their money, and I will now."  

                                                                             --G. K. Chesterton, The Man Who Was Thursday

Thursday, July 31, 2014

We Write from the Archives of Memory

I’ve been working a lot on a new novel recently, and there is actually very little I want to say about it except to note that I have found myself immersed in memories of the El Paso of my childhood, of L.A. and San Francisco, of people and events long past.  It is wonderful, but at the same time, all those memories must compete with the present, which is full, so full, of its own tasks and people and experiences.  Those things belonging to the present also enter into the story sometimes, though they must go through the filter of the past in which the story is set.  And yet, there is so much that will never find its place in this story, or any other.  They are parts of me, of my experience, that will remain hidden and as a result will perhaps go unexamined; never be fully understood.  Every one of us, if we just pay attention, is witness to a constant stream of wonder. 

     The other day I thought about the first time I fell in love.  When I was six, and in the first grade, I fell for one of my classmates, a short-haired, freckled, red-faced girl who wore pink dresses and pink bows in her short, tidy hair.  I would stare at her instead of paying attention to the teacher (I had already checked out by the first grade and would be a terrible student throughout what was left of my mercifully truncated formal education).  Each time her eyes met mine, I literally felt as if my heart and my head were going to explode.  Terrifying, that a six-year-old could feel that kind of passion!  The following year, she would chase me around the playground at school, calling me “honey” and “darling” and trying to kiss me (I suspect she was imitating the way she saw lovers behave on television, as I did not have the impression that her parents were very demonstrative toward each other).  I would run from her and complain to the teacher and other adults, but I was secretly delighted.  Because it wasn’t just about loving anymore, it was about being loved.  I also have a most vivid memory of a field day at a park that we participated in with the rest of our class a couple of years later.  By this time, we were both getting to an age where—at least at that time—boys and girls tended not to mingle. On a grassy lawn in a secluded section of the park, she ran up and tackled me, in an ostensibly playful manner.  We wrestled about rather innocently, but when we separated, hot and sweating and covered with newly-mown grass, I could tell by her expression that she now hated me—for what I will never know—but something had affected the way she felt about me: a slight, perhaps, or possibly something I had done to make her jealous, or because I had somehow changed, or because we had simply entered a new stage of life, but what was certain was that we were finished; as friends, as playmates, as associates, and as puppy lovers, forever.  The following year her parents enrolled her in a highly respected all-girl private school, and I never saw her in person again.  Years later, one of my sisters went to the same high school as she did, and I learned that she was a popular and diligent student, involved in all sorts of extra-curricular activities and held up as an example by the school administration.  She died tragically in an accident a few years later while living in England.  Some years ago, I found a seven-year-old's drawing she had given to me with the inscription, “I love you, Chalres,” among papers that my mother had saved from my childhood.  I really don’t know what the significance of all of this might be to the person I am now, but I’m sure that it somehow played a role in making me who I am.  The compulsion to write, in large part, comes from the power experience has over us; from the need to process and preserve and share our experiences.  And even the smallest experience encompasses this magic, this power.  I think of the house I walked by this evening that has a Christmas tree up year-round, and that seems to be filled with very social residents—or at least serious tipplers.  And that apartment down the street, where the residents have installed green light bulbs in every socket, so that the whole place swims in a murky jade ether.  What does all of this mean, and why would I want to share it?  I don’t have an answer.  But I share it with you, anyway.  And if you’ve read this far, I hope you don’t feel that I’ve wasted your time.

Wednesday, July 2, 2014

July 2-Hermann Hesse's Birthday


Und ich begann auch zu verstehen, daß das Leid und die Enttäuschungen und die Schwermut nicht da sind, um uns verdrossen und wertlos und würdelos zu machen, sondern um uns zu reifen und zu verklären.

I began to understand that suffering and disappointment and sadness do not exist to vex us or make us feel worthless or deprive us of our dignity, but to mature and transfigure us.
                                                                                  --Hermann Hesse Peter Camenzind                                                                      

Saturday, June 21, 2014

Osha Root


I remember back when I worked in a fair trade store and we sold osha root from a Native American producer group.  The fragrance of osha root, perfumy, earthy, slightly sweet and pungent as a rare incense, would overpower me whenever I opened one of the mason jars where it was stored.  In the midst of so many other wonderful scents: smudge sticks, incense, sheshem wood, palm leaf and kaisa grass baskets, oils, resins, pine needle and beargrass Tarahumara baskets, dream pillows and handmade paper, the pungent aroma of osha root would seduce me like a rare flower.  Osha, truly a queen among herbs!  As a tea or infusion or tincture, osha root is comfort for the sick.  One of the names given to it is bear root, because Native peoples observed that bears would seek it out when they were ill.  Osha root is used to treat colds, ’flu, and other respiratory infections, as well as gastrointestinal disturbances and sore throat.  Though it tastes a little strong (a bit like fresh parsnips to me), it is also somehow wonderfully soothing.  It is not safe for use during pregnancy.  The root is used both fresh and dry.

     Osha (Ligusticum porteri) is found in the mountain areas of the American Southwest, as well as the mountains of northern Mexico.  It is generally found in rich, partially-shaded soils.  It has been very seriously overharvested in the wild, as it is difficult (some would say nearly impossible) to artificially cultivate.  Though not considered endangered, it is definitely threatened in many areas.  Some commercial interests have cleaned out whole ranges.  It is important to obtain osha root from small, environmentally-conscious sources; or if harvesting in the wild, care must be used to leave plenty behind.  It is against the law to harvest osha on some public or tribal lands, so know what the law is before you harvest.  Actually, osha foraging is a matter best left to those who are experienced at it, as it is very easy to mistake poisonous water hemlock for osha (a mistake that you’ll make, as they say, only once).  There are some good books and sites on the internet that explain how to tell these two plants apart, but a knowledgeable herbalist is your best bet if you have any doubts.  And remember, always ask about the harvesting methods that suppliers use, and if you have any doubt about whether their emphasis is on sustainability when they harvest this sacred plant, just say no.  

Sunday, June 8, 2014

Rouault’s Autumn ou Nazareth

I am moved by Georges Rouault’s Autumn ou Nazareth (1948) as by few other paintings.  Jesus stands in a serene, dreamy, radiant--yet slightly melancholy--little French village with a group of women and children.  The landscape surrounding them seems timeless: old trees, soft hills, water, all under a warm late afternoon sun.  There is so much serenity, so much of eternity and peace, in the colors, the images, the Expressionist brushwork.  Rouault gave us this work.  Rouault, who could paint human misery like no other, whose Miserere et Guerre was one of the most powerful artistic outcries against war, injustice, and the hard-heartedness of the bourgeoisie ever created.  Autumn ou Nazareth inspires me to remember that in the midst of daily hardships, especially those associated with caring for our children, and all our other endless domestic responsibilities, in the midst of the inevitable loss of family and friends, in the midst of the frustrations and difficulties of living in a society whose economy is based on greed and individual self-interest instead of cooperation and caring for one another, we can find (and fashion among ourselves, amongst our brother and sisters of the whole human family) the glowing serenity and beauty that is at the heart of life and of the journey to the East.  I stand looking out at Sunset Heights and the great jade elms of Dunn Park on the near horizon, and the blue mountains weathered by wind and rain and by the magician Time rising in the distance, with the crows laughing and finches singing overhead in the ash and crab apple and orange and peach trees, and children shouting and playing in the morning's bright absterging sunlight, and I know that Rouault’s Autumn ou Nazareth is everywhere.

Monday, June 2, 2014

Saturday Afternoon Part Two


August traced with a touch the black spiral that is the primordial and universal symbol of the sun.  It was painted on the searing days that always ended in rain, a coil with a tiny barb on its end like the scorpion’s tail.  White peaches were almost (or perhaps already) ripe, and the grapes were turning dark, slowly shifting from the ghostly tea color that was the chrysalis of their successful development in the searing mist of San Carlos to a rich royal magenta, imago for must.  The hands and hearts that had planted the vines and trees, those daughters of Helios, beset, yearning, were now old women, invisible as the Samaritan, bent and burnt by the years.  No golden cormorant rises out of the water, but the parrots and bee-eaters, caracaras and kites, all cloud and hunt and fill the arboreal atmosphere of palms, ceibas, parasitic vines and orchids—the continuously encroaching jungle.  The confinement of August has passed, as all labor does, and soon the rains will begin to thin.  Only the newborn will see the month for what it is, a cycle that begins with the uncoiling of life itself.  The white hawk carries meat and skin to its young.

This passage begins the excerpt from my novel, Before the Rains, found in the latest issue of The Mayo Review.  (Yes, I finally received a contributor’s copy!)  It is exceptionally satisfying to see at least a little portion of this book I have worked on for over a decade finally in print.  I really couldn’t be happier with how well the story, “Saturday Afternoon,” made up of two separate but related vignettes in the book, actually reads.  Hopefully, the rest of the book will someday (soon!) see the light of day as well.



Monday, May 26, 2014

North Franklin Mountains

Here are some photos from a hike that we took in the North Franklin Mountains.






I am so grateful for the mountains built of rock laid down over measureless ages that go all the way back to the Precambrian age (1.25 billion years ago), the hardy shrubs and flowers and ocotillo, the little cloud that hovered overhead providing shade like Jonah's gourd plant, and for Libby.



Saturday, May 24, 2014

Amado Nervo

(August 27, 1870 – May 24, 1919)



Mi alma exiliada aún idealiza
los pequeños muros blancos,
pan fresco, empapada en caliza,
tus ojos, murmullos de Tlaloc;
la lluvia eso simboliza
la paz, querido Nervo, la paz--
que la hora espiritualiza.

Saturday, May 17, 2014

Saturday Afternoon

I was intending to post about a story of mine that came out in a journal late last month, an excerpt from a novel I have been working on for over a decade.  I wanted to write something about finally seeing a small part of this colossal, extended project in print.  Unfortunately, I never received a contributor’s copy, or an answer to my email enquiries. (I did see the cover online, with my name among the contributors, so I’m assuming that it did get issued.)  I even sent a check for additional copies, but the check hasn’t been cashed.  I’ll still write something if I ever actually see a copy of the (print-only) journal.  I do understand that the staff are graduate students and may be graduating about this time.  So they are certainly entitled to have other things on their minds! 

     Oh well.  Instead, I am posting a couple of pictures of the Hueco Mountains, where Libby and the dogs and I went hiking today.



Wednesday, April 23, 2014

Magical Idealism

Cinderella and Pinocchio have no idea they are in a fairy tale.  How much better for them if they did.


That is the essence of Novalis' Magical Idealism: to be aware of the power of the magic; to be conscious of the fact that every moment of our life is a fairy tale.

Friday, April 11, 2014

Sustainability in the Desert: Looking to the Ancestors


The German philosopher Paul K. Feyerabend, who was very interested in non-Western approaches to science, wrote in his book Against Method:

People survived millennia before Western science arose; to do this they had to know their surroundings . . . Several thousand Cuahuila Indians never exhausted the resources of a desert region in Southern California, in which today only a handful of white families continue to subsist.  They lived in a land of plenty, for in this apparently barren territory, they were familiar with no less than sixty kinds of edible plants and twenty-eight others with narcotic, stimulant or medical properties. (Paul K. Feyerabend, Against Method, New York, 1988, p. 3).

     In the same way, groups of people lived in our area (the Chihuahuan Desert) for many thousands of years, and before Europeans arrived they lived primarily off the resources available to them locally.  The native peoples of this region had contact with other peoples throughout the Americas, especially those of Mexico and Central America, but those contacts primarily consisted of sharing ideas, beliefs, and luxury goods such as shells, bird feathers, copper bells, and pottery.  Because the people of the Americas never developed the wheel or draft animals for transportation, the sharing of goods along trade routes was primarily carried out by pochtecas, traders who only brought what they could carry, typically small items.  This meant that subsistence goods like food, cotton clothing, or building materials were not transported over long distances by traders.  People depended on their local environment for what was necessary for the basics of life.
     The environment surrounding us here is considered harsh; that is what “desert” means.  The words used to describe it: barren, dry, rocky, are all ways of saying that we live in a land seemingly without abundance.  My neighbors and I are able to live in this land because we have access to goods produced elsewhere--the food we eat, the electricity we use, the clothes we wear, are all made somewhere else.  Even if we use local solar energy, the panels that allow us to do so are made elsewhere, with coal from Pennsylvania, perhaps, silica from Canada, and rare earth minerals from China.  The car we drive, or bike we pedal, comes from elsewhere.  The medicines we take come from far away.  It is almost impossible to imagine what would happen if tomorrow El Paso was suddenly cut off from the rest of the world.
     I’m not a primitivist.  I don’t think we can or want to cut ourselves off from the rest of the world and try and live solely off the local environment.  But I don’t think it’s a bad thing to realize that people of this desert once did just that, and to look at some of the ways they survived by working with the local environment instead of against it.
     It is well-known that native peoples often have a profound respect for the land. The Lakota saying, Mitakuye Oyasin, “We are all related,” sums up the idea that people and the natural world are bound together.  In her novel Ceremony, the Laguna Pueblo author Leslie Marmon Silko depicts a scene where an old medicine man, Ku’oosh, tells the returning war veteran Tayo:

     “But you know, Grandson, this world is fragile.”

     The narrator goes on to say:

     The word he chose to express “fragile” was filled with the intricacies of a continuing process, and with a strength inherent in spider webs woven across paths through sand hills where the early morning sun becomes entangled in each filament of web . . . That was the responsibility that went with being human, old Ku’oosh said.  (Leslie Marmon Silko, Ceremony, New York, 1977). 

     This idea of respect, relationship, an understanding of how fragile the fabric of unity really is, and of the need to guard against destroying what we depend on, was self-evident to the people living here before us.  And even then, the balance was sometimes broken.  But, in a very fundamental way, their way of life was based on a deep awareness that one must live in harmony with nature’s rules if one wishes to survive.
     The first peoples to live in this area were the so-called Paleo-Indians, hunters and gatherers who lived as nomads in caves and other natural shelters and who hunted large game that have since disappeared from this region, megafauna that included bison, giant sloths, camels, and mastodons.  The environment was cool, lush, and wet.  As the last ice age ended and the glaciers receded, this area became much as it is today.  Only remnants of that earlier landscape now remain, as “relict” forests in the high mountains.  The people who followed, referred to as the Archaic peoples, also depended on hunting and gathering, and hunted bighorn sheep, deer, rabbits, pronghorn, and rodents.  We know from the rock art they left behind that they had a deep understanding of the animals they hunted, and a profound, almost supernatural, respect for them.  They also gathered wild foods such as mesquite beans, cactus and yucca fruits, tubers, and seeds.
     Then, around 600 AD, although some put the date earlier, people settled down in permanent villages and began growing corn and other crops.  The abundance of food caused the population to increase, and large settlements developed.  The relative abundance of food meant more leisure time, and artistic output, religion, and ritual all thrived.  Other kinds of material production increased in complexity and skill.  Trade also expanded, and corn and other crops were exchanged for meat and hides with peoples of the great plains.  These Ancestral Pueblo people, who in our region are called by archeologists the Jornada Mogollon, also had a many-sided and respectful understanding of the natural world.  They incorporated complex astronomical calculations and observations into their rituals, at least in part to help them compute the best time to plant crops.  They understood that it was only by living in harmony with the seasons that they could be successful agriculturalists.
     Although agriculture gave them more food security than hunting and gathering alone, which they continued to do in a more limited way, they still knew that they were living in a dry, hot, and relatively sparse environment.  They needed to use the limitations of their environment to their advantage.  Water for agriculture was a constant concern, since irrigation was not practiced in this area and would not have been practical with the unpredictability of the Rio Grande, which frequently overflowed its banks and caused flooding.  Surprisingly, given the scarcity of precipitation, the Jornada Mogollon depended on rainfall for their agriculture.  We know that there might have been more rainfall 500 years ago than there is now, but not a lot more. (Today, the average annual precipitation is 9.71 inches a year.)  How did the  Ancestral Pueblo people do this?  How did they successfully cultivate crops with so little moisture readily available?  We know of a number of “sustainable” strategies that they used, some of which are still used by Pueblo peoples like the Hopi today.  They developed, through selective breeding, drought-hardy varieties of corn, beans, cotton, squash, pumpkins, sunflowers, and other vegetables and grains.  And they planted seeds very deep, sometimes planting grains of corn to a depth of a foot or more to take advantage of moisture found below the drier surface layers of soil that were baked by the sun. They practiced ak-chin (arroyo-mouth) farming, which consisted of planting their crops at the base of ravines coming down off cliffs and hills, where alluvial fans formed, and that received the most concentrated runoff from rainstorms.  In this way, they used the water that was available in the most efficient manner. 
     When we think of the ancient villages of the pueblo peoples, we might think of the great cities of Chaco Canyon or Mesa Verde, tall stone apartment buildings that have survived centuries.  But the Jornada Mogollon of our area lived in pit houses; homes built mostly underground.  These pit houses had the advantage of having walls that were dug into the earth, where it was cooler in the summer and warmer in the winter, the earth itself being a great natural insulator.  No need for air conditioning here!


     Other needs were met using local materials such as cotton and animal skins, which were used for clothing. Local stones were used for grinding corn, and pottery was made from local clay, like the giant storage ollas known as “El Paso ware” (although smaller pots were sometimes acquired through trade), baskets and shoes were made from local yucca fiber, arrows and spears from reeds or sticks, with local chert (a flint-like material) utilized in the making of projectile points. Scrapers, knives, and axes were made of local stone or bone.  Paint for artistic or ceremonial uses came from ground minerals like hematite and limonite (local iron ores), plant juices and seeds, and ground semiprecious stones like turquoise and malachite.  Soap was made from the roots of the yucca, and the agave supplied fiber for rope, needles, and food in a pinch.  The Native peoples knew a whole pharmacopeia of natural medicines obtained from both wild and cultivated plants.


     Today, we continue to live in a desert.  This calls for wise use of the resources available to us, including the development of technologies that work with the environment and help us to preserve it.  The traditional native values of simplicity and respect for nature, of low impact living and seeing all the world as being related to us, can help guide us on our path to a more sustainable lifestyle.


Friday, April 4, 2014

Another Bettina Commemoration


The fourth of April has arrived, bringing more sunny weather for the flowering pomegranates and tomato and pepper plants (yes, spring came so early this year that they are already tall and beginning to flower), and today is also Bettina von Arnim’s 229th birthday.
  
     I was thinking today about Das Leben der Hochgräfin Gritta von Rattenzuhausbeiuns, the wonderful book Bettina wrote with her daughter Gisela von Arnim Grimm, available in English as The Life of High Countess Gritta von Ratsinourhouse (tr. Lisa Ohm, University of Nebraska Press, 1999).  This novella, perhaps best known, and deservedly so, for its feminist and children’s welfare themes, is also a truly captivating story that incorporates and exhibits all the elements that made the entire Kunstmärchen, or “literary fairy-tale” movement in German Romanticism so engaging.

  



      Traditional folktale and mythological elements are combined seamlessly with a complex narrative technique and ambitious poetic, spiritual, psychological, and social themes.  I am always struck by how much the book’s initial scenes, with Gritta living half-starved and neglected in her father’s castle, a victim of his crazy inventions, remind me of the shadowy, grotesque tone of the Gormenghast books--that were written so much later and in a totally different milieu.  There is so much else, too, in this little book: idyllic nature, Middle Eastern folklore, high adventure and silly romance, fairy magic and real-life drama.  The character Wildebeere (Wildberry in the English version) is one of the most enigmatic and uncanny personalities in all of literature, and certainly the most wonderful Wise Woman ever, as she slowly undergoes, through the course of the book, a transformation from a young girl trained in herbalism to a kind of mystical nature spirit (in the process losing most of her human nature).
  
     An essay I wrote about Bettina that appeared in The Copperfield Review (which is, unfortunately, no longer in their archives) included this passage:
  
     As a young woman she was passionately in love with life, with everything beautiful and spiritual, and, like her friend Karoline [von Günderrode], was terrified of being trapped by the limitations that were imposed on her because of her sex.  She married a poet and played the role of wife and mother (to seven children) for many years, often urging her husband to use his creative gifts to the fullest even though she would not have the same opportunity to use hers.
  
    I mention this because it is important to remember that the central theme of Gritta von Ratsinourhouse--the right of girls to achieve their dreams and be protected from all forms of repression and exploitation--was very much a product of Bettina’s own experience with oppression.  Bettina was able to give her daughters a bit of the freedom she was advocating for all women; and this meant, among other things, that Gisela, her daughter and co-author of Gritta von Ratsinourhouse, was able to become a writer and dramatist, and organized a “salon” exclusively for women writers.  Bettina herself, after her husband died at age fifty and her children were grown, also wrote, composed music, and became a champion of social causes and human rights, as well as the friend and confidant of many of the most important social, cultural, and artistic figures of her time.


Thursday, March 20, 2014

Catnip


Charming catnip (Nepeta cataria), which brightens the garden with its delicate purple flowers that butterflies love, and with its bright, wrinkled, triangular leaves, yes, the catnip that cats go crazy for, is also a wonderful medicinal herb for us humans as well.   Catnip has soothing and anxiety-relieving properties and is also a mild sleep aid.  It makes a wonderful tea, although not everybody likes its somewhat minty, slightly oily taste.  Its leaves can be mixed with mint, chamomile, or lemon balm to make a very pleasant calming and relaxing tea.  I sometimes like it all by itself and enjoy the taste with or without a sweetener.  But that’s just me.  I don’t care to drink it every day, although I did for a while last summer, when it looked so fresh and pleasing in the garden.  Usually by the end of the summer it looks a little trampled, after the neighborhood cats have been rolling around it to get “high.”  It dies back to the roots each winter, but always returns with a flourish in the earliest days of spring.

     Like all herbs, it is important to get to know catnip in a careful and respectful way.  A very few people might have a mild allergy to it, and it should be avoided by anyone who is pregnant.  It’s also a good example of "too much is not always a good thing."  A cup or two are fine, but too much can cause stomach upset, which is really strange because in reasonable amounts it actually helps with stomach cramps!

Thursday, March 13, 2014

Early Spring



The stout female mockingbird with an aggressive-looking beak tears into the red tunas on a prickly pear cactus. In a nearby tree, her mate softly sings a happy tune.  There was a year when he sang loudly, night and day, protecting a nest and their home.  Today his song is placid and sentimental, as his mate picks at the rosy, juicy, seed-filled fruit with her curved beak.  I remember Dag Hammarkskjold's words, "The Earthly Paradise, from which we have been excluded by our knowledge."


Friday, February 28, 2014

Preserving Sacred Places

On February 28, 1877, the U.S. Congress passed the February Act of 1877, which officially seized the sacred Black Hills from the Sioux Nation.



The sacred.  That which is set apart, that which reveals, that which puts us in touch with the unknown, with the ancestors, with wisdom, with the Creator.  The sacred: an idea, a teaching, a story, a verse, a ritual, a human person (priest, prophet, healer), an animal, rock, or tree (who are also “persons;” characters, masks, in the drama of life as well), a place (built or natural), a natural or made object.  The term Sacred Place is often used to describe a natural location, a spring, rock formation, mountain, lake, or grove, that has spiritual significance to a people or religion, and that has been set apart for spiritual purposes.  These purposes may include worship, ritual, initiation, “vision-questing,” contemplation, or simply the acknowledgement of divinity manifested, “Numen Inest.”  All of these characteristics may be found in built sacred spaces as well:  the temple, church, mosque, longhouse, kiva, etc.  The “sacred” nature of built sacred space is easily recognized and acknowledged, even by those who don’t share the beliefs of those to whom the structures are sacred, and, as a consequence, the special quality and autonomy of built sacred space is therefore generally respected.  When it comes to natural sacred space, acknowledgement of, and respect for, what a particular place means to those who hold it sacred—its significance to them and its integral place in their worldview and culture—is, by contrast, much harder to obtain from persons and institutions who don’t share those beliefs.  This is especially the case with persons and institutions whose worldviews are colored by a utilitarian and materialist viewpoint concerning the non-human world; and those persons and institutions dominate political and economic thinking in the world today.  Over and over again, we see the endangerment, profanation or destruction of Sacred Places.  In the U.S. alone, there are so many examples, including Bear Lodge, Black Mesa, Yucca Mountain, Medicine Lake Highlands, Mt. Taylor, the San Francisco Peaks, Pu’u Keka’a, Eagle Rock, Mato Paha, the Black Hills, and Petroglyph National Monument, to name just a few.



     The idea of the sacred as “that which has been set apart for a special purpose” is central to an understanding of the nature of the Sacred Place.  Just as the Eucharistic chalice is set apart for the celebration of mass and would be profaned if used for everyday drinking, so, too, the Sacred Place is dishonored when humans use it for frivolous or detrimental purposes.  The Sacred Place is set apart by history, custom, and tradition as consecrated space.  Therefore, the kind of “secular” uses that endanger Sacred Places worldwide such as mining, timber-cutting, water diversion, and pollution, forms of recreation like rock-climbing, skiing, and ATV use, highway construction and urban sprawl, not only threaten the physical well-being of Sacred Places, the natural order, but also the rights of peoples to hold and practice beliefs and rituals which are related to those places.  A member of the Pawnee people once told me, “The Pawnee were not so economically dependent on the buffalo as other plains peoples before the white man came, but the buffalo was central to our religion.  The death of the buffalo herds meant spiritual death to us.”  Profaning or destroying a Sacred Place denies people the right to their place of worship, and, as such, it denies them their fundamental right to hold and practice their own beliefs and culture.
     In another way, too, it threatens something of great value to every one of us, something that is important even beyond the obvious threat to our own rights that the taking away of other peoples’ rights always entails.  Those of us who personally hold deep spiritual beliefs are able to respect the beliefs of others, but it is also important that people who are skeptical of such beliefs also recognize that traditional religion and spiritualities are the encoding of worldviews, of philosophies, even of sciences.  The beliefs concerning Sacred Places that traditional peoples hold often embody unique insights that embrace medicinal knowledge, psychological treatments and curing practices, means of settling and healing conflicts and of reintegrating transgressors back into society, non-linear concepts of time, ethical principles not based on consumption or wealth-accumulation, deep understanding of the complex relationships between humans and animals, and of the autonomy of the non-human world.   These ideas—and the cosmologies, stories, songs, poetry, and ritual that embody them—are part of the human heritage that we share.  They are intimately bound to their places of origin, the Sacred Places, and the forces that threaten them threaten these precious spiritual legacies as well.



Friday, January 31, 2014

Thomas Merton

Thomas Merton (January 31, 1915 – December 10, 1968)

                    


True encounter with Christ   
liberates something in us,
a power
we did not know we had,
a hope,
a capacity for life,
a resilience,
an ability to bounce back
when we thought
we were completely defeated,
a capacity to grow
and change,
a power
of creative transformation.
 
                        --Thomas Merton, He is Risen

Monday, January 20, 2014

Martin Luther King Day

Of all the forms
of inequality, injustice
in health care is the
most shocking and inhumane
                                                   --Martin Luther King, Jr.

Saturday, January 11, 2014

Mullein


When I was a kid, my friends and I would occasionally find huge stands of common mullein (Verbascum thapsus) out in the sandy desert near our house.  The plants were so tall and full (for an herbaceous desert plant) and grew so fast, and their flowering stocks sometimes developed in such strange, gravity-defying shapes and sizes, that they seemed almost like an extraterrestrial life form.  We were fascinated by their shabby, furry leaves, and the sheer size they reached in the dry basins where they would thrive.  It wasn’t until later that I learned about the medicinal usefulness of those fuzzy, pale green plants.
     Mullein leaves and flowers can be used to make a tea that is good for colds, sore throats, and other respiratory infections.  It has been approved by Commission E for the relief of cough and bronchitis, and I find that even the steam from Mullein tea is soothing.  A tea made from leaves alone is rather tasteless, but the flowers taste slightly sweet and have a mild almond flavor. Historically, the stalks were sometimes dipped in wax or oil and used as torches!

Wednesday, January 1, 2014

International Year of Family Farming

2014 has been proclaimed by the United Nations as the International Year of Family Farming, to highlight the contribution that family farming worldwide makes to food security, biodiversity, sustainability, and the preservation of traditional culture and the environment.  The goals of the organizers of the IYFF and other organizations like the Via Campesina and the World Farmer’s Organization is also to organize and work for the protection of family farms, and for the inputs needed to promote cooperative, ecologically healthy rural communities.  The year provides an opportunity to create greater support for awareness-raising and initiatives by popular organizations that are already addressing issues such as the impact of climate change on small producers, gender equality in rural settings, access to markets, defense of heirloom plant and animal varieties, promotion of non-usurious credit sources and increased access to crop insurance, land and water reform, protection of seasonal laborers, and the need for fair trade instead of so-called “free trade.”


     Small farmers feed billions, help to preserve traditional diets, and are the natural locus for environmentally sustainable development.  Yet family farms and rural communities are under attack worldwide, as more and more agricultural land is devoured by urban expansion; corporate farming attempts to shut small farmers out of markets; governments invest in urban development and neglect rural communities; and water privatization, GMO seeds, and international trade and financial policies make necessary inputs and resources unattainable to more and more farmers.  Family farming must be seen as the centerpiece of a healthy economy, and the empowerment of family farmers an essential tool in fighting unemployment, hunger, malnutrition, and environmental degradation worldwide.


To the memory of farmer Lee Kyung Hae, who gave his life for the cause of small farmers in the struggle against the WTO and the fight against neo-liberal economic policies that kill farmers and destroy rural and small fishing communities.