God's in his Heaven, All's right with the world

God's in his Heaven, All's right with the world

The year's at the spring,

And day's at the morn;

Morning's at seven:

The hill-side's dew-pearl'd;

The lark's on the wing;

The snail's on the thorn:

God's in his Heaven---

All's right with the world!

from Pippa's Song by Robert Browning

How beautiful our weather has been after such a long and dreary winter. Everyone has been about the business of readying life for the coming of summer.  This happy groundhog was caught tidying up his hole while I saw glimpses of another close by. There will be lots of groundhogs this summer with huge appetites for the vegetables in my garden.

When I looked out of the window this morning, I discovered that one of the poles holding our bird feeders was bent nearly to the ground.  It looks like our black bear is out of hibernation too.
                                                                                                                                                                


The fox squirrels are delighted that the sunflower seeds are so easy to reach.

The faint white splotches are giant snowflakes, winter's reminder that it lingers long in these mountains.

On Sunday, my husband and I took a walk through the woods to look for signs of spring.  The nights are still very cold here, and there's little new growth.  We found round lobed hepatica leaves and soon there will be delicate, lavender flowers. Farther up the mountain, patches of snow remain while the green mosses give a preview of the warm, growing season ahead.
                                                         

A locust tree supports a burl.  Why these bumps develop on tree trunks is a bit of a mystery.  While many believe they occur in response to an injury or an invasion by a plant pathogen, no specific cause has been determined.  Because of the unusual grain patterns created by these growths, they are a woodworker's delight. 

The morning sun warms the cozy home of a chipmunk.

These are the remnants of an old road that once went from the gap between the mountains and travelled downward to ford the river below.  It was named for the Seneca Indians whose trail passed through the area going from upper New York to deep into Georgia. My Dad once told me that when he was a boy, the mailman would leave the mail in their box which was located at the point where the gap began. In the spring, when he had baby chicks to deliver, the mailman would tie his horse to the post and walk a quarter of a mile, over to my grandfather's house to deliver his delicate package.
    Today, the road disappears just ahead under the fill of a four lane highway. Below it, there is bulldozing as someone prepares what looks to be another campground.  With the city water coming to serve all of those who, unlike the old-timers, built their houses for the view rather than near a water source, over-development looms ominously.  The local road that replaced this old one in 1931 was also known as the Seneca Pike.  It  has now been renamed after a nearby tourist attraction

After savoring each wonderful moment and being renewed by the warmth and beauty of the walk, we arrived home to hear the welcome "quacking" of the wood frogs happily mating in our daughter's small molded pond. The frogs with bandit faces testify that spring is here.

Winter Yesterday, Spring Today

 Today, I made my first trip to the garden. I have been viewing its snowy blanket for many weeks now, but with most of snow melted, little bits of green are appearing. My first stop was beside one of the Lenten roses (H. orientalis) which never fail to have blossoms hidden beneath the deepest snow.

Our area is so cold and snowy that the "Christmas rose" (H. niger) usually makes its appearance alongside the Lenten rose.(H. orientalis).   When I looked for it, there it was beneath the apple tree with ivory buds ready to open. While the hellebore is not a native plant, it adds such a cheerfulness to the winter garden with its hardy green leaves and its promise that new life can occur even in the coldest, dreariest, and most desolate of times.  As a cancer survivor, I especially appreciate this symbolism.

This was the view on February 26, just 19 days ago.

How amazing is this beautiful earth with its gardens

patterned by nature!  No matter what the season

the wonder of it all never ceases.

A Hint of Approaching Spring

Every morning when I awake, I look out my bedroom window. In the summer, I enjoy each tiny bit of color as my garden shares its blooms. In winter, I stand amazed by the fluttering of wings as birds delight at the feeders. Today held a reminder that winter will not last forever. Red Winged Blackbirds had stopped on their way to their summer homes and were waiting for their turn at our wildlife restaurant. They dotted the apple tree like black ornaments on a child's Easter egg tree.

Then the most amazing thing happened. While enjoying my cup of coffee, I saw a red fox making its way along a trail created in the snow by deer. It boldly came towards our house and walked on down our driveway to the road. This is the first fox I've seen in many years. Poor management of the deer herd to appease the tourism industry has changed the plant life in our woods. The prevailing species are now ferns and invasives like barberry; plants that deer find unpalatable. This in turn caused habitat destruction for many of the smaller animals upon which the fox preys. The result has been a greatly diminished number of foxes.

Mining the Mountains

In the distance, a mountain's fate remains in jeopardy while the mining company begins the process by logging before the blasting.


A PERSPECTIVE ON MOUNTAINTOP REMOVAL
Today a blast shot out and saddened all who heard.
Nature screamed and vomited pain
While a blood-mist dirt sprayed skyward.
Like a violent rape, a wound exposed, ugliness for all to see
With life destroyed and beauty gone
A tortured death, a mountain’s long decay.

How sad, what a shame you say!
This shouldn’t have happened.
Why do “those people” do such horrible things?
On a happy note, I enjoyed the widened road today,
The new four-lane that sped me on my way
Through mountains beautiful beneath the sky.

To you, I reply that all participate in the orgy, all create the death.
Concrete and asphalt, granite counter tops,
A driveway for house with mountain view,
Elaborate stone work, a show of affluence,
Create the rape, continue the need
For flesh severed from mountain loins.

We Are the People of Appalachia

We are the people of Appalachia. We are made strong by harsh winters and softened by the sight of flowers dotted with butterflies, and uplifted by birds that fly across the sky. In a sense, we are Appalachia. We have a special unity with the soil, the life, and the very breath of these living mountains. While our bodies were forming within our mothers, our souls were springing forth from the beauty all around us. We have a oneness and joy in our being and a melding of spirit with our world. We experience a kinship with nature that a person existing in a man-made reality can rarely comprehend.

As children, the woods called to us with its coolness and moist fragrance. It held the delights of deer disappearing among the trees, glimpses of a fleeing fox, and the welcome beauty of a spring ephemeral. We explored colorful little mushrooms with umbrellas catching dew, and salamanders hiding beneath odd-shaped rocks. We watched in wonder as baby frogs with bandit faces emerged from vernal pools while the azure sat blue upon the cohosh. In autumn we savored the beautiful leaves as they fell gently to the ground creating a special woodland fragrance that only an October day can yield. As life lay dormant, we heard the chilling voice of the winter wind while trees with uplifted arms shivered in the cold. Life whispered all around us with secrets too deep to understand.

Our wisdom lies not in having tokens from the plastic world, for we are rich beyond our knowledge. We see instead the beauty of nature presented before our eyes. Make no mistake, we are learned in a special way, one that we share with generations of those who have known the same sensuousness, the same enchanting call of nature. We have a wisdom that strangers from synthetic places, strangers with smog filled eyes and damaged hearing and senses never developed cannot experience. We are strong, we are softened, and we are uplifted for we are the people of Appalachia.

In memory of my dad and grandfather

Fighting Cancer Is a Lonely Journey

Fighting cancer is a lonely journey that can only be understood by those dealing with the over-shadowing ogre of death. We push the monster away, consciously denying its existence, but it is still there. No matter what one’s age, there is a strong longing for life, for just one more adventure, one more sun-stroked day washed with the fragrance of a growing earth. Moments shared with loved ones are beyond the realm of “treasures” and become a merging of mind, heart and spirit. Life becomes defined by moments which take flight like giant snowflakes, softly landing as flower petals drifting to earth. I yearn for spring with its cool promise of new life, and its delicate beauty laced with sprinkles of color.