Tag: nature

AI Makes Me Angry. A Gloomy Rant

On a visit to my daughter in Los Angeles, she summoned a car with an app on her phone. Laughing, we belted ourselves into the back seat per instructions of the automated voice. Driverless, we pulled off to our destination, front seat empty, steering wheel moving on its own. 

After a few more rides like this one, I became confident in the robotic car — even a little blase like it’s a normal thing to trust a robot to drive. When in a neighborhood not serviced by Waymo – the driver-less car company — I was even disappointed to be driven by a human. It felt tedious to chit chat with the Lyft driver rather than continue gabbing freely with my daughter with the music of our choice playing. I also thought about when she might be out late partying. Surely she’d be safer in one of these robot-cars than driving with (most often) a strange man from Lyft. I also imagined myself older and no longer able to drive. How helpful a robotic car would be.  

Strange maybe, that I embraced this AI driven car since I was horrified when I was still working and my boss said we should use ChatGPT to write our emails. Honestly, they weren’t bad but it just felt morally wrong and I only did it a few times. And now that I know how terrible AI is for the environment, it makes me mad. I get that AI can and is used positively in the world. There are so many cases of vital surgeries and advances in medicine credited to it. The possibilities for good are many. And I don’t include writing corporate sales emails as good.

The question is, at what cost? For a start, entire communities are being gobbled up by data centers. And then — what about art? What about nature and the health of our planet? What about the soul? What about the future of our children and many adults now too lazy and increasingly incapable of using their brains for simple tasks, emails, decisions? Are we doomed?

These days, AI worries and terrifying developments and predictions of world destruction within the decade are constant news. Perhaps the horse is already out of the gate. Still, enough outrage might produce at least some controls. But I am skeptical. Everyone seems numb. Too few of us take to the streets for anything. 

I confess that my anger about AI started percolating when I felt its impact personally. No, not because there’s a data center in my neighborhood (yet!) nor because my water is being swallowed up by noisy machinery. (yet!) I started to feel uneasy and then mad a few months ago when views on my personal blog hit crazy-high numbers that didn’t make sense. Readers went from single digits a day (higher on days I published something new) to 50 or more a day – for months. At first I was pleased to see this growing following but something seemed off. 

I cannot see who is looking at or reading my blog, only what countries they are from and what posts they are reading. Or scanning. The USA of course and also UK, Ireland, Japan, Canada – these are places where I have family, friends and followers. Now, they are regularly from China and views are almost hourly with no comments. Yesterday, 48 views. For awhile, there were also as many from the United States but I guess they finished harvesting. Maybe silent secret admirers but more likely, my site was being scoured for language and information for AI. I don’t know how all that works (do any of us?) but that’s what I figured. I am now hesitant to post anything. I feel watched by the wrong entities. I don’t wish to feed the machines.

That’s my completely selfish and personal reaction to this terrifying new reality in already dark times. The world has been too slowly becoming aware of what’s been creeping up on us. Artificial Intelligence that’s faster and maybe smarter than us. What might go wrong? 

There are so many important, crucial reasons we should be rising up and rejecting the mind numbing infiltration of AI. First of all, it’s brought to you by the worst humans alive. The same tech bros profiting off the caging and deportation of our brothers and sisters. The same tech bros who wage wars for personal profit and control. Who have rigged the system so thoroughly that they get away without paying taxes and convince too many in the population that it is others – our poorest and most insecure neighbors – who are taking the crumbs we have – away from us. These are the lies being gobbled up by much of the population. 

Science Fiction and action movies have long depicted the takeover by robots and machines. Of course art always leads the way. Yet we fail to pay attention when fiction becomes more and more our reality.

Around the world, our poor overheating earth is flooding and erupting in violent tremors of warning. Data centers necessary for powering AI are destroying the environment and communities. Many of us are privileged enough to live far enough away, but that won’t last. As we nonchalantly Chat with AI, getting it to plan our trips and answer silly questions to solve basic math problems, write our emails – it seems to be coming for us all. Like a robotic car summoned with an App.

PS – A trick when you’re doing a search is to type -AI in search bar and you won’t get AI answer.

What Did I DO? My Summer Report

Unlike winter’s long dreary hold, summer always seems to fly by. The end of the season no longer includes back-to-school energy with all the excitement and stress. In those days, summer break was always a mixed bag so I wasn’t always sad to see the end of it. When my daughter was young, it could be challenging to figure out affordable camps and care that covered life as a single working mom with a limited amount of time off from work.

Now I look back on the hot months of this year where nothing and nobody but me decided on my schedule and think: what did I do again? A question I often field from others now that I no longer work is: What do you do now? I should make notes because the days and weeks look blurry when I look back. I like to think that’s because I live in the present rather than fret about the past or the future. Thinking that makes me feel more evolved rather than doddery and old.

The season of summer seems to have changed a bit. Or maybe it’s me. But doesn’t the earth feel warmer and the blaze of the sun almost unbearable? I can’t imagine actually sunbathing. Or maybe it is another sign of my age that I shy away from being out in the scorching heat. Like a farmer, I wake early and step into the garden with my tea to assess the growth or, like the other day, the damage. The joy I felt in a recently planted redbud tree seedling was swallowed by the heartbreak of finding it almost snapped in half, its heart shaped leaves and tender branches eaten by rabbit or ground hog, I suspect. Ever-the-optimist I wrapped the damage with medical tape and placed netting around it to ward off any more critters. Time will tell but it may be too late. I’ll let you know. 

In other garden news, I transplanted a fig tree I’ve had in a pot for years with nary a fig to show for it. I celebrated every leaf because new growth was so sparse. What was I doing wrong? Along with the never blossoming pomegranate tree and all the house plants, I always moved the fig inside with the frost. This summer, I liberated fig from its beautiful but now obviously too small pot and put it into the ground. It almost said ‘ah!’ in relief. Fig is now thriving. I can no longer count the leaves and new sprouts are appearing besides the lone stem I’d babied for years. It just wanted out, to literally spread its roots. No figs yet but it’s looking more hopeful. That’s all I need – a little hope. 

The serviceberry tree freebie I received as part of a greening program in my city has grown a few feet since it was planted last summer. I miss the shade of the oak tree I had to take down last year. My handyman split and chopped it to perfect size and burning it kept me warm all last winter. I have a bit left and will once again thank each log before loading it into the stove. 

While I miss the oak I welcome the serviceberry and the sunny space I now have for a perennial garden. Flowers never grew out front before but now there’s plenty of light. There was only a small patch of daylillies, iris and ivy growing around the bird bath and in winter, the bird feeder. This summer I marked out a larger space using oak branches, smothered the grass with newspaper, soil and wood chips and planted more flowering shrubs and plants. Like everything else I do, it’s a little slapdash and improvised as I tackle it in sections, but it’s looking good.

This is some of what I did this summer. 

And I did my laundry and dried it on the clothesline. Washing in summer is one of my favorite things and again, like a farmer, I watch the weather to time it right. I haul the basket of wet clothes out of the basement to the porch from where I peg each sheet and shirt to swing in the breeze and sun. With these shorter days I must start earlier to capture the heat of the day. Yes, my electric bill is low.

The passing of all the seasons for me is now primarily aligned with nature so I follow the light, flowers, and plants of the season. I’m sad to see summer go but glad to reclaim the mid-day hours as it cools off again. And so the planet spins and time passes.

Missing the Cicadas

Have you noticed the absence of cicadas this year? I’ve found a few mummified bug-body casings but have missed their crazy, almost hysterical noise. Where are they? The grind of these summer insects is like a summer soundtrack to me. It seems like their volume increases with the heat of the sun. But this year, while there have been plenty of blazing days, other than an occasional cicada buzz, it’s been silent. Nothing like the raucousness of past summers. Are they missing everywhere? I walk at the beach, visit other friends’ yards and don’t hear them. I guess summer will be closing out without a choral farewell.

I did a computer search: ‘Where are the cicadas this year 2026’ and turned up all sorts of sites dedicated to cicadas. I love how some humans become obsessed with things like cicadas, study them, maybe they even get a PHD in cicadas. My interest is just a passing one, but I am grateful for dedicated people more obsessed than me who then share their knowledge on sites we can easily access. 

Turns out, cicadas, like locusts, have cycles. Thirteen years for cicadas. The ones I heard this summer are called ‘stragglers’. And even their emergence can be predicted – these ones that miss the schedule and emerge when they’re not supposed to. That’s who I’ve been hearing – stragglers. I love them even more now, those little rebels turning up when they’re not supposed to. By the way, we can report on them to help with mapping. If you’re curious, check out this site: Cicada Safari. This is where I learned that – “Our next major emergence of the periodical cicadas will start in late April and early May 2027, when the 13-year Brood XXII will emerge.”

Like most cicadas, I seem to  have gone underground this summer. I often find myself hiding from the heat and sun. Perhaps because I no longer work so being outdoors is available to me 7 days a week, Yet I don’t feel compelled to get outside, even to kayak. I did not pay for a rack at the beach this year so I am not worried about getting my money’s worth. My plastic boat mostly gathers dust in the garage. Don’t get me wrong – I still love summer and kayaking, I’ve just been lazy and not loving the heat. Do you?

I get up early and do things while it’s cooler. My home and community garden plots appreciate early morning visits and I like how my feet get wet in the morning dew. I also go walking in the evening. It is lovely at the beach. The crowds have mostly cleared out by then. That is except for families so large they need to drag over extra tables. It looks like they’ve been there all day – someone’s napping in a hammock tied between two trees, shivering toddlers swaddled in towels after splashing in the Sound. Always, delicious smelling smoke fills the air from barbecues. They’re still there when the sun is down and the beach lights start to come on. 

I sit on my porch a lot – reading, napping, chatting with friends. The breeze in the front of the house is usually better, but right now, I’m sitting in the back with an umbrella casting shade onto the table where I write. These days I’m barefoot almost all the time, wandering inside and outside the house, the screen door slamming behind me. This afternoon, there are no biting bugs. Not yet – and that seems miraculous. Bees and a few monarch butterflies float by, hovering briefly over the two flowering bushes that frame this little deck. In the distance, I hear the complaint of a bluejay, the yap of a dog along with the constant traffic hum. The highway noise I could do without but otherwise, I like these summer sounds. It’s all kind of perfect. Except for the missing cicadas. I will be listening hard to welcome Brood XXII next year.

How’s your summer been?

Green Days

Rainy days ruined barbecue plans for the holiday weekend but brought on an explosion of green. We needed that rain. From my windows, gaps of space that only a week ago framed a glimpse of houses and yards have filled with fresh shades of green. The leaves have fully emerged. Driving the winding roads in morning rain, where before I could look through the woods at tree trunks and rocks, I now see only green. 

I savored the long spring we experienced this year after the long, tough winter in the Northeast. Cherry, dogwood and other blossoms hung on much longer than without the quick, almost overnight thermostat rise we have become accustomed to in recent years. For us gardeners, when to plant tenders like tomato plants became a gamble. During one odd hot day I did the seasonal switch of clothes and curtains, turning my cozy living room into a lighter, airier space. Then the temperatures dropped again and I was digging out my too hastily packed sweaters. This past cold rainy weekend I thought hard about throwing the last of the firewood on my porch into the cleaned out woodstove. I resisted, instead, using blankets while I watched television. 

The rains have left and the sun is shining and summer has moved in. I’ve mowed the lawn twice so far and the hedge is already growing wild. The first of the peonies grace my table.

I love this time of year. My whole body relaxes, even though my chores have increased. Besides the lawn to mow, the hedge to clip, there are an abundance of weeds to pull. Summer furniture to retrieve from the garage. While I write this inside, soon, most of my life will be lived outside – puttering in the garden or sitting on the back or front porch. 

I have a good life. I am cognizant that the number of green springs I will get to see is not infinite and because of my age, almost countable. Maybe 20? That’s if I’m lucky. And I mean that from both sides. I’m not interested in living forever and 87 sounds like more than enough to me right about now. Thus, the greening of spring is glorious to watch. The softening of branches of a wood where all winter long there have only been angles and earth colors. Then comes the rains followed by heat, blue sky and sun and SHAZAM! like magic – summer greens are dense. And comforting – like being enveloped in a fertile embrace. 

I check my gardens regularly for new sprouts. At home I have planted flower seeds in dirt patches hoping they’re not appealing to my resident rabbits, squirrels and at least one – likely more, voracious groundhog. In my community garden plot up on the hill in the city I live in, I planted leeks between the autumn sowed garlic. I separated the tiny strands clustered together in a clump in a small pot, and carefully placed each one in a deep hole I’d dug between the garlic stalks. And then I watered them. One doesn’t fill the holes with dirt following planting, you just let the dirt find its way around each shoot as you water. 

Another plot is full of lettuce I planted in early April while the days were still bitter. I can see the welcoming splotches of green as I trudge across the field to my plot. I’ll pick some leaves for a salad later, maybe some to share with friends. And so this season of bountiful green begins.

Still Time – A Beach Sunset

5:30 PM at the beach. There is a small sailboat hugging the distant shore. It’s going out while most boats head back in under a cloudy sky on this late Saturday afternoon. A patch of sea grass is all I can see of the sandbar where I kayak to. The tide is moving out and in a few hours, I know the sandy spit will emerge again.

I am sitting on a beach chair. I rarely do this – sit in a spot on this beach alone – at least not on a chair I’ve brought with the intention to sit. I usually come to kayak or walk, never just to sit. When I walk, I will pause and look out at the water, pick up a stone or shell I drop after a few steps. Today I am on a patch of sand where people regularly sit – often the same people in the same spots. They set up their chairs to read and roast in the sun away from lifeguards and families. It’s not a place to swim as sea grass blocks access to the water. 

A string of small waves is rolling in caused by the speeding motorboats heading home. Perhaps these boaters are hungry for dinner after a day spent on the water. This is what I imagine. Otherwise, the water is calm and I think about kayaking. It’s tempting. My kayak is on the nearby rack and my paddle and life jacket are in the car. I love being on the water although I’m a lazy paddler. I don’t go far. Mostly just to that sandbar not currently visible. It should emerge in another few hours, a small stretch of sand where the oystercatchers hang out. I like to sit and swim there.  

I took a walk before setting out my chair. I walk at this beach often.There are many serious walkers intent on achieving their steps. I am a little like that but I also come here to dream and stare at the horizon and take deep breaths. Before sitting, I walked past where my kayak sits on a rack, then out onto the pier where fishermen lean with their rods and beers. I usually stop for a few minutes at the end of the pier to look down at the water and out at the stretch of Long Island blocking the Atlantic. 

I pass the playground. I spent countless hours here watching my daughter climb the ropes, the slides and the wooden boat replica with bells to ring and a wheel to turn. She’s 30 now and lives across the country. I walk through the tree-lined path where we once celebrated her birthday with her middle school pals. Rob and I cooked on the crusty grill there.The kids wandered off down the beach away from us chaperones. Molly remembers it as one of her best birthday parties and we did nothing but cook hot dogs and hamburgers and let them be wild. 

I walked across the beach to be closer to the water lapping the shore. I come across multiple horseshoe crab carcasses upside down – legs up and still. I flip them over to make sure they’re dead. One afternoon I walked this shoreline and came upon over a dozen of these prehistoric looking creatures upside down with legs flailing. I flipped them over as I went along and watched as they moved their armored bodies back into the waves. Today, none of them moved.

The sun is breaking through a schmear of clouds. The sky below, a lemony yellow, readying for sunset. The days are shorter. While today had the warmth of a summer day, the sense of autumn prevails. I can see it in the light, the quality of the air. There’s always a poignancy to the season changes, isn’t there? I love summer and don’t like being cold but I am sure if I lived in a warmer climate I would miss these changes I have lived with all my life. I am happy to visit my daughter in California during winter to get my fix of humming birds and year-round flowers. But there’s something that balances me in these changes in light, leaves, temperature – the temporary freezing of the earth. I take none of it for granted anymore and feel challenged to meet the seasons. Even in winter I come here to this shoreline, bundled up against the winds to follow the tides and sunsets through the season.

Just beyond a small boat house is an event space and I can hear the sounds of a wedding and the couple, Mr. and Mrs. Quinn, being introduced. Now, as if on cue from my thoughts, a guitar/vocalist begins to sing a Carole King song: Winter, Spring, Summer or Fall – all you’ve got to do is call and I’ll be there. 

I look out at the water. There’s a kayaker next to the grass near my still submerged sandbar. They are not paddling, just floating. Like I do. Hypnotized by the movement of the grass, I relax as the boat lifts and lowers, rocking gently. I cannot see from here but I imagine the kayaker doing what I do: I let my hands fall alongside the boat and into the water, still warm from summer. Are they letting the tide bring them back to shore? I watch and see they are drifting, pushed away from the gently waving grasses of our sandbar. Not paddling. I recognize the sweetness of giving it over to nature, waiting until the last moments of the sun’s light before returning to shore.There is still time.

Nature. And Not Nature.

I was watering the garden on a recent morning, staring out into space with hose in hand. From the corner of my eye I registered my neighbor’s dog moving around their yard. I was looking through the picket fence that divides our property so I saw only bits of his golden coat between the slats. I wondered why he wasn’t barking at me like he usually does. He’s a good size dog. I went back to aiming the hose at the garden.

When I glanced up again, a small set of antlers was floating over the top of the fence. Just little horns. And then he lifted his head, looked over at me with minimal interest before jumping the fence into my yard. It was he who I’d seen — not a dog.

Young buck stepped across the wood chips under the peach trees, nibbling at the weeds before leisurely continuing on to the side of my house. I dashed inside, grabbed my phone and quietly went out the front door, hoping to capture a photo or video. I know deer are common in many neighborhoods around here but not in my fairly urban one so this encounter felt magical.

Creatures have been showing up in my yard a lot this summer. Another recent day, while washing my dishes and gazing out the window over the sink, I saw a good size coyote saunter through the side yard. A little alarming but all are welcome. Especially now that I don’t have a little dog to worry about.

The regulars are also still here including an abundance of chipmunks and squirrels and of course, birds. And the groundhog. I say ‘the’ because this year I have only seen one. And it is not the one I remember from last year. Likely, there isn’t just one but I pretend there’s one so I don’t feel overwhelmed. But truth is, there are holes galore around here and that makes me think there are groundhogs-galore too. 

There are rabbits. More of them than groundhogs, I’m sure. I’m fond of bunnies, especially when they are babies. This year the little ones seem particularly fearless, continuing to nibble the grass even as they see me approach. That’s what happened a few days ago when I went out to pick some zinnias. I greeted the little guy: “Hello, little bunny! You’re quite the brave one, aren’t you?” I unhooked the gate to the rickety fence of the garden where the zinnias are.

(A sibling?)

As I bent over to snip my flowers, a whoosh-whoosh caused me to turn. Flying away was a bird of prey – one with feather leggings and a very large wing span. It had swooped in just behind me, only a few feet away. Yes: brave bunny had been spotted and snatched. Little squeaks faded into the distance as the massive bird flew across the rooftops with its meal.

I stood in shock, zinnias in hand, I searched the lawn but I knew it was gone. I was heartbroken. Yet this is nature. I know that. And I love birds of prey – not just little bunnies. (I only wish it had taken a chipmunk or squirrel. Is that terrible?) Surely bunny’s mother would be looking for it? 

Can you imagine? Someone just swooping in and taking your loved one as they’re going about their business? This is what predators do. This is what’s happening now, every day to (mostly brown people) in our community. The hawks’ behavior makes sense. What these masked thugs are obediently doing does not make sense. Not to me.

I will never forget nor forgive the evil of what is being done to our neighbors, our brothers and sisters. I hope you feel the same. We must support and protect each other. Suggestions welcome.

Early Morning After a Summer Storm

The rain blew in at night with fierce winds, dramatic thunder and lightning. It moved through fast but enough rain fell meaning no need to water the garden. Last night, after a particularly violent gust, I heard a noise and peered out every window looking for downed branches or toppled furniture but saw nothing. This morning, while the kettle boils for my tea, I walk the yard to look for damage. I see that the garage door popped open. Maybe that was the noise I heard. I’ve been lazy, keeping it closed by laying the weight of a rock against the door rather than wrestle with the ancient lock from inside. There’s not much to steal in there but still, I’ll make more of an effort now.

Around the back of the house, a potted fern has toppled. I set it right. The air is cool. The oppressive heat and humidity of recent days has lifted. I see my neighbor Ken through the fence. He is sweeping up the water from around the kids’ play area. I’m fond of this young family. I call out a greeting and we chat. He tells me the electricity went out for about 10 minutes. Mine did not. Their house is a little higher up and must be on a different line, he says. I promise that later, I’ll retrieve and toss back the ball that landed in my weedy yard. He’s taken to sending me photos of my garden with circles drawn around where the most recent ball has landed. These make me laugh. They are welcome to walk through the gate and retrieve it but it’s better I do it since it entails ducking under low-lying peach and pear branches through ankle high plants. I’ll put on boots and spray for ticks. 

I go back inside and make my tea and rather than my usual ritual of going back upstairs to sit on my bed and read and write, I go back out on the porch. I straighten the cushions and hang the plants back up from where I put them on the ground last night to catch the rain. The sun is low enough that it’s still shady on the glider where I sit to watch the morning and drink my tea. A slight breeze is blowing and feels delicious on my bare arms and legs. A firefly moves across the porch, slowly floating mid-air like a lazy helicopter. Almost daily, I find one around my kitchen sink, seemingly lost. I scoop them up and move them outside. Maybe this is one of those kitchen-displaced bugs, lurking from days ago. I wonder — isn’t it time for them to sleep and recharge so they can glow later? 

I look up at the branches of the Norway maples. A group of four remain as my only shade in the front yard. I miss the oak tree cut down a few months ago because it was dying. The house feels naked now, fully exposed to the full morning light.The stump and logs rest in the corner of the yard waiting for my missing handy man to come with his splitter. I make a mental note to text him again. A few birds are flitting between branches overhead and I shield my eyes from the sun to try and get a better look at them. I think they are likely Robins, perhaps the ones born on my porch only weeks ago.

While I’m gazing up at the branches I notice that the leaves on these trees are sparser and smaller than usual this year. I worry, are these trees dying too? The leaves on the Mulberry tree growing next to the garage are also less dense this year although the berries are abundant. Are my trees also mourning the missing oak? Swallowing the last of my tea I think yes — they yearn for and miss their yard companion of decades. I know a little about this yearning but I trust they, like I, will carry on and bloom brilliantly again for years to come. Now they are mourning and I understand as I too still search for shade no longer there.

Sounds Like Bombs to Me

I’m not a fan of fireworks. I prefer to see the tiny explosions of fireflies lighting up as they dance across my yard. I love the quiet drama of a sunset, purple and orange streaks exploding across the sky. For the thrill of big noise, I’ll take a sometimes terrifying summer thunderstorm. Nature is the boss and her destruction intense –  but she does not intentionally target populations like man does with bombs that, by the way, sound just like fireworks. 

It’s almost 9 PM and I’m on my porch catching the last of this stunning day that was July 4. And boom – the first explosion in the neighborhood is off. Now a smattering of smaller machine gun sounding explosions. For anyone who has heard the real thing – this sucks. I had it easy. I was getting paid to be in a war zone and was able to take breaks and be in Italy or Austria ordering good wine and cappuccinos within hours. I knew people who could not leave, who didn’t want to leave their homes. To become refugees. So they did their best to protect themselves and family while bombs fell. They ventured into the street to get water, food, firewood, running on streets where they knew snipers hid in burnt out buildings ready to arbitrarily shoot them in some sick game. And this was a pre-drone time. I can only imagine how terrifying things are now. I don’t want to imagine either – but here I am – imagining. 

Because I remember these sounds I hear from my front porch – as mortar shells exploding in Bosnia and Croatia. Once on the drive up into the mountains above Sarajevo for a meeting with a braggadocious man (now living in the Hague for war crimes) a tank fired off into the city. Our car was heavy and armored but the force of the explosion lifted the SUV. We made the rest of the drive silently, deafened and wondering about who and what was hit this time. How many injured, how many dead?

Don’t get me wrong – I once enjoyed watching the sky lit by exploding flowers and falling stars shot off on a barge in the distance. I have oohed and ahhed and enjoyed the festive atmosphere of a fireworks display. They are beautiful. But from my porch on a summer night it feels ominous and I think about war.

Sorry to be a downer but that’s my take. And besides, fireworks, especially uncontrolled neighborhood pyrotechnic displays are terrible for wildlife, little kids and pets.  

There’s a brilliant organization around here (https://wildlifeincrisis.org/ ) that rehab every kind of critter. They’ve reported an increase in injured animals being brought in because of fireworks. And the internet is full of people looking for pets that ran off in terror. Our long gone Cairn Terrier Tetley hated them.

Here’s to sparklers!

Peace!

A Robin’s Nest – and my bout of NIMBY

A robin built a nest on my front porch and I’m not thrilled. I know, I know! I feed the birds all winter, keep the bird bath clean and full and yet here I am getting all NIMBY when it comes to sharing my space. I was thrilled to see a local osprey fly off with one of the branches I’d collected from my recently downed oak tree imagining it’s new life as baby bird home. But when my feathered friend chooses my sweet porch to build in, well, I wasn’t happy. A little too close? What kind of hypocrisy is this? I have reflected on and chastised myself for this poor attitude. I don’t offer the following as a defense, simply an explanation.

With the warmer days, I get to expand my living space outside and I’ve been busy cleaning up. The front porch is my favorite spot to drink my tea in the morning, ponder the yard and life. And now, I feel thwarted. I had my chance and confess, I considered removing the nest when I saw the beginnings of grass stuck in the corner space right above the pillar next to where my laundry line begins. I really thought about it.

Momma Robin won. I did not touch the nest. This morning I watched her fly back and forth, beak full of damp leaves or wads of earth and now bits of dropped flotsam litter the area. After depositing her load into the nest, she hops in, shimmying down with a fluff of feathers to make sure it’s just right. Within a few days she’s woven the messy strands of straw into a formidable little home.

Don’t get me wrong – I love birds and respect a nest. I’ll skip whole sections when pruning my privet hedge at the slightest suspicion there’s someone nesting. When cardinals settled in to raise their babies in between the branches of a rose against the breezeway windows, we tiptoed passed for weeks. But this spot is my Grand Central. I am always in and out and live out here as soon as the weather warms. I hang my laundry off the line at least once a week.

I’m not sure how to navigate now. Do I not use the porch? I want her to feel safe and comfortable raising her babies here. I’ll have to figure it out and so will momma Robin. She still takes off when she sees me in the window. So now I’m a little worried I didn’t make her feel welcome.

I looked it up – incubation period is about 2 weeks and another 2 for the babies to move out. Did you know that most bird nests are protected under the Migratory Bird Treaty Act (MBTA)? Don’t tell our current administration about this though – God forbid that any vulnerable living thing be protected. That law will go the way of all the other protective legislature if the emperor gets wind of it.

What an opportunity to recognize and work on myself. I left the nest alone. I obeyed the good law. I’ll love my neighbor. Now I’ll settle in do my best to practice this lesson on living my life with integrity from the best teacher ever: nature.

Support our National Parks.

https://ourparks.org/

Pruning Fruit Trees and Intent

Peach and pear trees in New England should be pruned in late winter while still dormant. The trouble with this schedule is I am also still hibernating. However, I recently managed to brave the cold and tackle my 2 pear and 2 peach trees. I waited until most of the snow melted to avoid injury. Other than the odd branch poking me in the face, I came away unscathed.

Even after giving away cut branches to other hopeful souls willing to gamble on blossoms emerging from sticks, plenty remained. The wattle fence from last year turned out to look a bit ragged but was useful and effective, not only in preventing visitors from stepping off the front deck onto dangerously wobbly steps, but also providing me with kindling all winter. I just burned the last of it and have prepared the new branches to create another natural barrier. Hopefully this one will be pretty as well as practical.

Still to be cut are a few higher branches that require a ladder to get to. Last year it crossed my mind that I’m getting too old to be climbing my trees. This year I intended to enlist a pal to stand by in case I fell while swinging my handy little electric saw around. But who has time for that? I felt safe and stopped at the first glimmer of self-doubt or weariness. I’m stubborn but careful. I did wait for the snow to melt, after all.

I wrote about pruning and making my wattle fence last year (click underlined link above to read) and maybe I will again next year. Maybe the trees and I will both be around. This is a wish and a hope. I think it’s important to send hope out to the universe while also nurturing it in our own hearts.

Pruning is a kind of hope and commitment towards the future. Otherwise everything goes to shit. Cutting off what’s not needed requires attention and care and can’t be done willy-nilly. I’m hanging on to that. Sometimes I feel the darkness encroaching so I look for light. Sometimes that means forcing myself out in the cold to trim my trees.

Amazingly, as hard as last year’s cuts were, more branches grew back even longer. I have 7 foot pieces in my pile. Last year I wrote: “I know that these harsh cuts were necessary if the trees are to thrive.” While true, that sentence now makes me a little uncomfortable. We hear some version of this from the liars as they gut our government. One difference: we don’t hear the word ‘thrive’. They are not interested in us thriving or in some cases, even surviving. These guys are in it only for themselves. They are not doing this for you or me. We are the serfs.

I recognize the importance of cutting back. I am all for getting rid of waste, increasing efficiency and finding fraud but skill and best intentions are required for making cuts. Fraudsters should not be doing that job. These are nefarious men driving us deeper into debt as a country and individuals as they scheme and get richer and richer. It’s obscene. We’d get rid of the deficit and pay for health care, education – basic human rights – if these same creeps would pay even just their fair share of taxes. Nope. That’s not in the cards. We need a new deck of our own.

We cannot give up hope, nor stop speaking up. Make sure your representatives are really representing you and let them know if you think they’re not. It gets easier to make calls and the young people answering the phones are great.

I suggest signing up for daily emails from the link below. Craven is a very smart activist who suggests different simple acts of resistance. It took me less than 5 minutes to make calls working off easy scripts provided in this beautifully titled site: chopwoodcarrywaterdailyactions@substack.com

By the way – the peaches and pears mostly get eaten by the wildlife. It’s nature’s way and there is enough to go around – we need to share.

Keep the faith, make the calls and don’t lose sight of your joy!

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