Physalis peruviana

Aramanth with Cape Gooseberry (lower right)

I cannot find the words to express the joy and awe and wonder I feel when I explore the workings of Nature. Sometimes I still can feel the justifiable anger that so plagued my early explorations into herbal remedies; anger that beneficial information on healing plants has been so carefully and diabolically hidden. I rarely waste my time with that these days, because I deeply understand that no iniquity can be perpetrated against me without my consent. If I invite malevolence into my personal sphere of existence, can I then blame those who choose enter? In the Mill of Life, these shadowy entities could be perceived as the abrasive stone upon which the grain of my soul must be ground.  

My spiritual, physical and mental wellbeing is totally and irrevocably my responsibility. I am fortunate to have at my disposal the tools I need to educate myself: a relatively clear mind, a fantastic library and of course, the internet. While most other Baby Boomers are crediting themselves for reading Big Pharma's package inserts for the latest symptom management medications, I study plants. I don't just read, I contemplate as I plant them in my garden or find them in their natural habitat. I have what could be called, an intuitive conversation with the actual plant. It's amazing the number of "accidental plantings" that I have done, even before my herbalist explorations began in earnest.

I planted bloodroot (2002!) long before I understood its healing implications for skin cancer or that it is on the endangered species list. Time and again this strange phenomena has transpired in the Garden of Nemesis. Here's the latest:

I planted Cape Gooseberries because I wanted to grow more fruit for preserves. I picked the berries and froze them. That was no mean feat because they tasted sooo good I wanted to gobble the entire crop fresh. But then I did something entirely crazy. I harvested the leaves for later use. After partially drying them as per usual, I froze a bag and later retrieved them to make a tincture. I did this without really even thinking about it. Imagine my surprise this morning when I stumbled across a major research article about how the leaves of Physalis peruviana has been shown to destroy cancer cells!

In that moment of understanding, something big shifted in my psyche. It felt like the blast of a tsunami that picked me up and carried me, rather flung me, to a new and better place. A surge of joy also came with the wave. As best I can express this tremendous revelation in words might be this:

You mean we have everything we need here? Growing in the dirt? There is no lack? Is health just a matter of brewing a tea or swallowing a tincture or applying a poultice? Could it be this incredibly simple? Is it that all I have to do is listen to the still, small voice inside as it whispers the secrets of Nature? Can I lie in the grass and watch the clouds instead of having parts and pieces of my body removed and/or poisoned by doctors practicing on me? It can't be so! But it is. It is.

Rites of Passage/Seasons

Jan 2008

Usually when we speak of “rites of passage,” it refers to the transition from adolescence to adulthood. Just as a garden experiences its seasons, so must we transition from one form to another. It has been my experience that in our society, many of us have bypassed this passage in favor of perpetual puberty. The publicity-seeking, narrow-hipped, long-legged, skinny models of perfection and grownup little boys paid well to play with a ball are symbolic of a culture where youth is adulated. Let us take a moment to peer inside the soul of the adulators.

The adulators are those who renounce their own lives in favor of acting as spectators of others who seem to be participating in the “real” game of life. These live to watch others and perhaps imagine they are someone else. They are more than just the groupies, the sycophants, the flatterers; they are the sad, silent majority who give up their very lives to rub elbows with the rich and famous, even if it is only in their imaginations. Well, it’s the trendy thing to do.

The Urban Dictionary uses words such as “wannabes” and “fake” in its definition of “trendy”. Maybe within their desire to be trendy are sleeping souls whose true longing is to discover who they really are. I hope so, because where they exist is cold and dark and confusing. Maybe they are getting a little sick of prostituting the self to others. Maybe adulators simply wish to be accepted, as do we all. However, if one has to betray oneself for that acceptance, then it’s a miserable existence.

Is it possible for adulators to escape from this type of slavery and begin to really live? Maybe, but it requires a rite of passage to do so. To enter within this passage, one must be willing to experience the full range of emotions from agony to ecstasy and all points in between. One’s “way of seeing” must change in order to open the floodgates of the truly emotional life. This means that the many forms of sedation must fall by the wayside.

How does modern man sedate himself? Pharmaceuticals, of course. Or televison or alcohol or computer games or pornography. I could list at least a hundred more, but you get the idea. Does this mean that anything that soothes us must be avoided? Of course not. Once the transformation has come about, we naturally find ways to relax that do not dim our awareness; a glass of wine with friends, a hot bath, loving sex, deep breathing. Sometimes the concepts of relaxation and sedation get confused. As long as legitimate anxiety is allowed its voice, neurotic anxiety will not appear begging to be sedated.

What is legitimate anxiety? Anything that bothers or worries us should be examined closely, not shooed away with sedation. Before we “treat” any physical ailment, we should scrutinize its origins. Our psyche/soul seeks to communicate with our conscious mind and if we aren’t paying attention, it will materialize as pain or discomfort in our bodies. Why do I have this sore throat?

Maybe my throat hurts because Aunt Ethel came to visit today and I remember the time when I was a child and she severely beat me for expressing my opinion. Now when I see her, I unconsciously shut down my power of speech. I resolve that the next time she visits I will tell her how I feel. Bingo, sore throat gone. Try it, it works. A side benefit to this might be a deepening of my relationship with Aunt Ethel. Or she might go away and stay away. Either way, it’s okay.

Either way, I’m left a little lighter for listening to the still, small voice within me. Sometimes this heaviness we feel is due to small burdens easily shed. Other times, it’s a big one, one packed with a painful emotional charge. Maybe confronting the more powerful demons will risk severing long-term relationships. This is when we must step back and consider if we can “live without” a particular person or persons.

So many human relationships are parasitic. For me, I would rather be alone than suffer a parasite, a leech that leaves me drained. Honesty is truly the best policy. Plastic may last a long time in the landfill, but it should not be the operative word used to describe relationships. Anyone who wishes a deep relationship with me must be willing to lay it all on the line, as must I. As each layer of my real self is exposed to the light of day, a small rite of passage has been accomplished and an opening into ecstasy made possible.

A rite of passage refers to the transition from adolescence to adulthood. It’s a real challenge to reach maturation in our society. We are programmed to believe we can make our dreams come true simply be rubbing up against what we want, that there is no price to be paid for happiness and contentment. Just as there is the manifestation of seasons in the garden, so are there rites of passage, should we choose to accept the challenge.   

May 2012

July 2012

October 2011

 

 

 

 

Coping With Darkness

The garden is getting drowsy. Soon it will sleep under a blanket of snow. The soil has been augmented with whatever organic material at hand and little critters such as earwigs and earthworms are still rather close to the surface, eating and excreting. The garter snakes are already snoozing. The squirrels are busy digging holes in the lawn to bury winter eats. The cats are getting fat and furry. Most of the birds in The Garden of Nemesis are regulars who will entertain us at the feeders all winter. It is dark.

BIRDS NEST TREE IN "ONE TREE GARDEN"

 It is the darkness, the lack of sunlight, that places the burden of lethargy upon my body. My metabolism slows down and I crave fats and sugar to convert to fat. I want hot chocolate. I want to sleep, to hibernate. That’s fine for the young, but for us older folks, to stop, even temporarily, is to seize up. I must retrieve my yoga mat. And get out my sculpting materials and tools. 

 I only sculpt in the dark of winter. When the days get longer again and the snow melts and I can see that the tulips and daffodils are sending up shoots through the soil, I begin to wrap up that particular type of art. Usually by this time in the spring I have the bedding plants underway, and their care is all-consuming. For a small donation, my friends contract with me to start their future gardens. My little gas range holds cookie sheets filled with germinating seeds. After they poke through the soil, they’re moved to the enclosed porch to sunbathe. I’ve discovered that starting plants inside is as much an art as sculpting; an art that takes dedication and finesse.

The little seedlings are much like human infants in they can’t always tell you what they need, you must anticipate their requirements. If they are too wet or too dry, or don’t get enough light, they may end up in the compost. Not only that, but one must also plan far ahead for the exact plants that may be needed. I always end up donating leftovers to the neighborhood food bank. I have been known to crowd in a few of these babies that were not in my original plan. This year it was celery and cucumbers.

The first two bush cucumber plants I set out early sickened and died. On the other hand, the two latecomers I had reluctantly stuck in a corner produced bushels of cukes, which were spread around the neighborhood for salads, pickling and juicing. I even froze Ziplocks filled with the blended nectar of cukes. I retrieved a bag the other day and used its contents in a slushy apple drink. Just thinking of the miracle of germination and nurturing those small green sprigs of life, well, it lifts my spirits in the dark days of winter.

Food for Thought: Conversations with Your Gut

According to researchers of “mental illness,” We the People of the United States are swimming in a vast and deep lake of depression and other mental “disorders”. Some call it an epidemic and blame psychiatric drugs. Some say it’s a full-blown “rebellion” against modern life and its dictates. Others claim it’s linked to genetically modified food and nutritional deficiencies. I’ve even read that the bombardment of radio and other invisible waves affect our brains. It may be that we are getting clobbered from multiple sources. Even to a layman such as me, it’s obvious the world is going bonkers.

When I first began working in the Garden of Nemesis in 2001, I noticed people walking down the street talking to what appeared to be—themselves. Nowadays they have cell phones or headsets embedded in their ears but nonetheless, are still conversing.  I honestly can’t see the difference.

The truth is there is a lot of pain and suffering going on. I, too, once endured the depression malady; I was in my early forties before it became clear I had had this chronic condition ever since I could remember. It was so chronic that I considered it my “normal” state of mind. Alcohol and other self-medications had once helped, but by my late thirties it became clear that what I was using to treat my condition had themselves become a problem. It was time for a lifestyle change.

This huge change began to work its magic when I stopped self-medicating and got into psychotherapy and AA. Really, it was a good thing I could not see into the future, because things got much worse before they started to get better. I alternated between crying jags and frantic rages for the first sober year. Many details of my childhood began to surface and I began to perceive just how screwed up my thinking had been. In the second year of my sobriety, I experienced my first moment of bliss while driving my old pickup truck on a Mississippi back road. Perhaps I had had this experience as a child, because it seemed vaguely familiar.

After that first glimpse of joy, I began to realize I had truly been “out of my mind” and my body for most of my past. I knew in my gut, in my “second brain,” that even though others may have caused my childhood damage, I alone was responsible to facilitate my own healing.

Children have the amazing capacity to lock away fears and demons into the dark recesses of the mind, otherwise they may not be able to survive the growing-up process. As an adult, it was up to me to deal with these fears and demons, otherwise my soul could not reach anything close to maturation. I reached out for help during this process and miraculously attracted just the right people who could help me. Some were professionals; others were those who had had similar experiences.

During the many years of my therapy, several doctors tried their best to get me to take medication. I believed, and still do, that in my case, chemistry had failed to bring adequate results and I needed to simply unlock the horrific and repulsive memories and allow myself to feel their true impact; then, and only then, would I be free of the daily, albeit unconscious, forays into the nightmare that was my childhood. My instincts were right.

One of the many transformations that occurred during this healing period was that I began to listen to my gut, my instincts. Amazingly, this ability still existed within me even though it had been suppressed and squashed for decades. It wasn’t until recently that I began to ponder the notion that gut feelings come from the same area as where I digest my food. Is there a link? Is consumed food communicating to my mind and body as it passes through?

Where and how had that animal on my plate been birthed and raised? Had that apple faced the sun naked or covered with toxins? What non-food substances had been added to that box or can? What kind of genes had been transferred into that fruit/vegetable seed before it was planted? Most importantly, is digestion more than a chemical process? Is some form of consciousness being communicated to my being as I digest this “food”?

It’s clear by the commercials on television that Americans are having digestive problems. Is there a relationship between the food that causes heartburn, acid reflux, constipation, diarrhea and colon cancer to—what? mental problems? If the gut is the seat of our instincts, our second brain, then what are all these non-food additives and GMOs doing to our thinking processes?

Richard Alan Miller has helped to educate me regarding the relationship of my gut and the food I eat. His research has yielded information that is not for the faint-hearted. If one is not open to changing one’s belief paradigm, this brilliant man’s material should be avoided. He has opened my mind to the possibility of “conversations” happening between myself and my gut. I am ever becoming aware of this ongoing communication between my Self and the sun, the plants, animals and even so-called inanimate rocks and soil.

Every day as I work or play in my garden, I have conversations with my environment. I am but a small link in the incredible Chain of Life. Each of us is as important as any other of the individual parts, and we all make up the whole; a whole linked not just in the physical, but in mind and spirit. Just as I am clearly conscious of my own suffering, I am aware of the pain of others. However, pain and suffering are not meant to be a way of life.

Pain gets our attention, points out that a problem exists; pain is an opportunity to make corrections. I’m sorry to say that nothing and no one can “fix” us from the outside. It’s an inside job. The buck stops here. Yes, the world is going bonkers and looking for cures in all the wrong places.

Surprise Lily

The garden this year has been bathed in cool Canadian air. It’s a lovely reprieve for us humans. Plant maturation, however, is a little behind schedule. The Surprise Lilies, usually blooming in July, have finally raised their exquisite heads. 

Let me explain first that these beauties are called by many names: Magic Lily, Naked Lady, Resurrection Lily and my favorite, Surprise! Their foliage, which looks a lot like the daffodil, appears in the early spring and then dies back. In July, as if by magic, up comes her naked stem, resurrected from its underground sepulcher. Her delicate pink or white bloom enjoys the sun for only a few days before she retreats back into her underground bulb, leaving witnesses stunned by a profound symbolism.

As one of these stunned witnesses, I’m left to contemplate once again, my relationship to the wonderful planet upon which I live. My mind wanders over old territory such as seasons and cycles, symbolism, fractal geometry and the Doctrine of Signatures. I always end up back at the conclusion that no science can fully explain the beauty and wonder of the innate intelligence that inhabits the plants and animals of Earth. Surely the designed must mimic the Designer.

The Surprise Lily reminds me that there is no such thing as death. Then why the appearance of something that is not “real”? Our world is jam-packed with façades superimposed upon true reality; some are created by man, some by “gods”. Could it be for the edification of those who witness such? How can one such as me discern the real from the mirage?

Can my physical senses alone distinguish truth from fiction?  I think not, although it is through these senses I am given tantalizing clues to the unseen, occult world. For example, I will always get stress head or tummy aches whenever I expose myself to others caught up in discordant circular reasoning, which I guess is not reasoning at all. These lost souls are trying very hard to understand their topic, but can never do so as long as they cling to their archaic belief systems. They are hopelessly trapped in an endless loop.

This begs the question: why do I occasionally still try to relate to lost souls? Why do I sometimes attempt fruitlessly to merge or harmonize with others who are still ensnared in popular lies? The answer is a mixed bag: I get the bright idea I can help them somehow--to find their way into the light or my ego tells me they need the truth and I have it to give or I want to “fit in,” to belong somewhere. The problem is I always end up grinding my teeth, for I can no longer relate to mechanical mind-slaves who are intent on preserving the status quo. Their cacophonous vibration is alien and exasperating.

What a rant! The bottom line is this: the Surprise Lily patiently awaits and within her naked beauty is the very simple answer. We must merely pause and allow her wisdom to enter the deepest recesses of our being. We must ask profound questions as we gently slip from the chains that bind us to old ideas and concepts. This, my friends, is the true meaning of resurrection.

Gardening and the Art of Creation

In the quiet of an early morning in the garden, I sometimes contemplate the miracle of simply being a creature upon the living body of Mother Earth. As I look into the face of a daylily or run my fingers over the soft spike of a liatris, I think of past adventures and how I arrived at this profound contentment. 

In the late 1970’s, a friend lent me a book called Seth Speaks by Jane Roberts. That was where I first came across the concept that I create my own reality. Having been raised in the usual morass of “victim mentality,” it blew my mind. Surely all that befell me was thrust upon me by an outside force. Surely I would not choose all the bad “luck” that seemed to follow me like a hungry, homeless dog. Surely I was a victim of circumstances. It just couldn’t be true! Besides, if I create my own reality, that must mean that I, and I alone, am responsible for my present situation. It was a burden I could hardly bear.

As I read the remainder of the “Seth” series, the idea that I was creating my own reality continually boiled and roiled. I began to notice, always after the fact, that it must be so. I did unscientific experiments in my own life. That was very challenging, because it involved NON thinking about a problem, worry or dilemma. For example: paying the rent or the electric bill. When I didn’t think about where the money would come from, when I instead focused on and in the moment, the bills were somehow met. 

This new methodology flew in the face of all I had been taught. I was supposed to worry. I was supposed to plot and plan. I was supposed to clearly outline exactly how I would accomplish what seemed to be impossible tasks. My original programming for this type of existence naturally involved living outside of the moment, outside of the NOW. Thus, I had to re-train my mental processes to, at least temporarily, “forget”. I must set both the past and the future aside and instead focus my attention on the very moment in which I live. It all has to do with where I put my attention.

The universe presumes my attention is on what I want and kindly provides me with more of the same. If we fully understood this dynamic, we would never do anything so foolish as to declare a war on terror—unless, of course, our objective is to create more terror. This same principle applies to the increasing of everything I think I oppose. This is why you’ll never see me marching down the road with a placard saying, “Stop Killing Babies” or “Stop Eating Fast Food”. This type of mostly well-intentioned behavior relates to what I call the “Do Gooder Syndrome”. 

Do-Gooders collect money for the American Cancer Society, an organization that knows damn well a cure for cancer already exists, but love their jobs too much to tell the truth. Do-Gooders donate canned goods to help feed the hungry instead of offering to teach the hungry how to grow their own fresh food. Do-Gooders “help” and sometimes this help is causing more pain than leaving others alone to find their own truth. I prefer to express my generosity spontaneously, in the moment, and then promptly forget it.

Getting back to attention…Because we have yet to understand our power of creation and who we really are, we perpetually put our attention on denial instead of affirmation. This results in the universe serving up an extra helping of what we thought we didn’t want. Some of us practice the art of affirmation as a tool for changing our reality; we can affirm until we are blue in the face and it may still fail. Unless our identity has also been altered to accommodate what we affirm, the universe has no option but to fulfill the real, though hidden, desires. Until we understand the role that our attention and sense of identity play in creation, our affirmation track record will remain mystifyingly hit-and-miss.

If we do not make this fundamental shift, we will continue to transmit the same old tired requests to a universe that will dispassionately and lovingly respond with the same old tired and often toxic answers. It’s a fundamental principal, a basic spiritual law: we get what we give. It may or may not occur immediately, but it will happen. Thus, I must fearlessly examine the contents of my own mind and choose to think, do and BE what I really wish.

The Miracle of Gardening

A gardener should, at the very least, take a walk though the garden daily. When the fruit and vegetable harvest starts coming in the flower garden gets a little neglected. It’s always a relief to wash that last pot and duck outside among the blooms for a little deadheading.

Yesterday I cut back yarrow, trimmed spent blooms from the balloon flowers and weeded along the alley. I also checked for potato bugs, watered potted plants, picked up the trash thrown from car windows and inspected the general health of the garden overall. I’ve found that if a gardener catches a problem early it can usually be reversed.

Bee Balm

I have several places where I can stop and sit for a spell. While I’m relaxing, I take in the wonder of Nature and contemplate the immensity of the mind that created such diversity of beauty. I also become more conscious the burden of caring for that creation. The Earth can certainly survive without the benefit of humans, but we cannot physically survive without the Earth.

He next logical thought would be this: why are we so hell bent on destroying the very environment that sustains us? Is it because we’re thoughtless? Is it lack of education? Is it ego, because we think we can do things so much better than the Creator? Is it laziness? Are we spoiled and self-indulgent children that haven’t yet learned responsibility? Do we feel so worthless and ugly that we need to make our surroundings match? Did the devil make us do it?

Maybe it’s a bit of all of the above. My brain is way too small to figure out solutions to such a huge problem. I do know one thing, however. If we don’t wake up soon and take positive action, the Earth that nourishes our bodies and spirits will be unable to provide sustenance. So, what kind of positive action can we take?

It seems best to start where we are. To begin on our own little patch; whether “rented” or “owned,” it makes no difference. Common sense will tell us no one “owns” anything anyway; not land or even our bodies. We come here from the spirit realm and leave after an allotted time. So what is the point? It must be that our thoughts and subsequent actions are important. Important to what? It has to be spiritual growth.

Kitties in the Garden

Spiritual growth must be the answer, the ultimate goal. I am uplifted every time I plant a seed. Seeds are truly miraculous. Within it is the future. I am truly satisfied and fulfilled and joyful when I later consider the plant that came from that seed. I may eat it or simply enjoy its beauty. So many of us have lost that connection to that seed and the dirt in which grows. We’re lost and don’t know how to get back home.

Plant a seed. Plant it in a pot in the window if that’s your only option. Connect up with the gardener down the street, offer your help. See if there’s a community garden close by. Get at least some of your food from a local farmer who doesn’t poison the land. If you have a little sunny spot, grow a tomato plant. Clean up after yourself and others who are asleep and wish them blessings. Share what you grow and come alive to the miracle of life that pulses and vibrates and energizes.

Live.

The Doctrine of Signatures/The Concept of Connectedness

The Doctrine of Signatures was to the Ancients, unmitigated metaphysical and physical reality. Women involved in healing understood that, “as above, so below”. They had a deep understanding of the connectedness of All That Is. If you’re interested in exploring the details of this doctrine, please research on your own as it is much too complicated for this simple blog entry. I would, however, like to briefly address the basic idea of connectedness embedded in the doctrine.

I had an acute understanding of the connectedness of the physical and metaphysical when I was very young. I think most of us who have rediscovered this concept realize we experienced it while lying in the moonlit grass as a child. We not only saw, but felt the movement of the heavenly bodies and the Earth under us. It was a feeling of “rightness”. It was a simple “being” in the moment with All That Is.

I began to lose that connectedness under the stresses of school, with its competitions and comparisons. When I became a teenager I was pulled more and more into the reflection in the mirror as I worried about my value based on physicality. Really, I began to be an imitation of my true Self, as I didn’t believe the real thing was acceptable. It wasn’t until after menopause that I began to cycle back to the reality of who and what I really am.

I do not exist apart from the Whole. Just as I am aware of the maple tree or the lily or the robin or the limestone rocks in my garden, they are aware of me. The wasp and I communicate, not necessarily in words. Words are superfluous. It’s the language of Love.

The language of Love is more direct and accurate than any words could ever be. In fact, spoken language can cause misunderstandings. The language of Love cannot ever be misinterpreted. This is why I cannot poison annoying bugs or weeds. I have to find a way that will not injure the Whole, because when I injure the Whole, I injure my Self. It is un-loving to be un-natural.

Don’t get me wrong, I kill the fly that enters my abode. I scald invasive anthills with hot water. I trap and kill wasps and Japanese beetles. I will remove, one way or another, anything that threatens my food source. But I don’t kill indiscriminately or cause permanent damage to my environment. This Mother Earth sustains me, both physically and spiritually and I’m not suicidal.

I might not be suicidal, but someone out there sure is, otherwise Roundup would never have been created. It’s up to us to make choices of which our ancestors never dreamed. Will we wake up in time to make the choice for life? Or will we choose to be separate from the Whole? 

Game of Chance in the Supermarket Casino

Well, now that you’ve experienced the darker side of this writer, a possible future and tincture of wormwood, let’s examine for a moment, the nature of plants.

There’s real plants and what I call fake plants. Sure, they’re all alive, but some more than others. A lot like people. The scripture quote, “You’ll know them by their fruits,” is apropos. Can you tell the difference between a fruit that’s grown on a real plant as opposed to one grown on a fake plant? Have you ever bought a fruit or a vegetable in the supermarket that looks yummy only to get it home and discover it’s but a shadow of the real thing? Out taste buds don’t lie. What happens when we ingest shadows? The best we can hope for is that it doesn’t poison us or alter our DNA.

A huge and ongoing experiment on the human species is taking place right now, and we are the so-called guinea pigs.  It’s no secret that our food is and has been soaked in various chemicals to kill weeds and insects in order to increase profits for corporations large and small. These chemicals have killed not only “bad bugs” and “weeds,” but honeybees and herbs that were formerly used in natural medicines. That’s not the worst of it. Genetically altered foods are being tested on us as I write these words.

When one reads the “ingredients” label on a product there are many omissions. The label will not tell you the soil on which the plants were grown is depleted or if artificial fertilizer such as anhydrous ammonia was added to increase yields. It will not tell you if the crop has had DNA from animals, yes animals, added. Most of us weren’t in that foreign country that grew those “organic” lemons to witness if they are actually free of herbicides and pesticides. It’s a game of Russian roulette and none of us know if the next pull on the trigger will bring the hammer down a loaded chamber.

Some think politics and lobbying will help and they’re out there right now fighting for truth and justice and the American way. Others turn a blind eye and hope for the best for themselves and their families. Then you have the true rebels, those who seek independence from the just-in-time-chemical-laden-genetically-modified game of chance.

Did you know that in three days of no truck deliveries, the supermarket shelves would be bare? The days when grocery stores had backrooms filled with goods are over. Our society depends upon others to deliver our food. What if the truckers go on strike? What if willing drivers can’t get fuel for their rigs? What if a natural or manmade disaster cuts off the supply? Fast forward just one week and imagine the scenario.

The point I’m trying to make is this: what is wrong with the concept of putting our entire survival into the hands of others? Well, you may say, I do it all the time. I trust all of the big corporations including the government, the pharmaceutical business and the medical industry. Well then, I salute your confidence and faith but admit I have none of it. I opt to be as independent as I possibly can.

Nothing in this life is for sure and we gamble every day. We ride in cars and board airplanes. We send our children out to play. But when we know there is a pedophile living next door and the plane has a broken engine and the car has no brakes, we do not deliberately put ourselves in harms way. The evidence is there to be very suspicious of the Supermarket Casino. Buyer beware.

 

Garden Sitting With a Friend

Truly, every visitor to the Garden of Nemesis is a friend. Some are just dearer to my heart than others. What can be better than to sit in the shade listening to the water with a cold drink and inspiring conversation? The traffic out front fades away, along with worries and troubles.

In the summer, women used to sit in the garden and snap the beans and hull the strawberries, letting the breeze lift their hair before moving back to the hot kitchen. They planted, hoed and harvested in a community effort to better feed their families. A visit to a neighbor was a little vacation from their own territory and an extra set of hands was always welcome. Some brought their own jars and took them home full.

What did these women talk about? Husbands and children and grandchildren and kitchen curtains and the best way to “put up” produce and the upcoming barn dance. There were no cell phones ringing or jets overhead. The sky was blue and the air was fresh and the conversation stimulating.

Well, those days may be gone, but we women can still connect if we take the time. Everyone thought that time would be more plentiful if we had automatic dishwashers and store-bought produce, but we were wrong. It’s difficult to find those few minutes to sit with a friend, but the rewards are amazing.  

Inner Teacher

Valerian is a forerunner of Valium. It’s the original, created by Mother Nature and manufactured in her laboratory. Because its constituents spring from the natural world, it is in a sense, native to the body; the plant and the human are related on an organic level.

In recent years I have been growing Valerian and making a concoction from its root. A half an eyedropper of the tincture produces a subtle relaxation that will lead any insomniac into a gentle sleep. There are no side effects. I thank my Inner Teacher for leading me to this knowledge and healing.

I am not a scientist or a chemist. My knowledge of herbs is difficult to express, because it exists on an intuitive level, a level beyond mere words. I perceive the magical, the mystical value of plant medicine, rather than the technical and commercial. I deeply understand the relationship of physicality with the spiritual.

This intuitive communication is primitive and has largely been lost. The great teachers of this message have been silenced, their traditions murdered, their significance ridiculed. Why, you may ask. Think about it. Who or what can control a population that knows how to heal itself? The key to control is suppressing independence and instead promoting dependence.

When I get sick I have only to allow a plant to teach me health. Plants grown and handled by others, no matter how organically or carefully, can never render medicine specific to my DNA structure. Ingrained in my little plot of land are the intimate details of my physical and spiritual being.

I can pick a wild herb down by the creek a mile or two away and it still knows me. After all, it drew me to it for a reason. The purpose of plants is to benefit animals and vice versa. Some plants need to be trimmed for their own survival. Seeds need to be scattered. It’s a fantastic cycle of life and death and each of us is related. If humans cannot connect with this, if they cannot sense their place in the grand scheme of things, not only are their bodies sick, but even their spiritual development is stunted.

Our natural world has been sorely abused. I admit I have contributed to this. I still do in many ways. But as I learn, I get better. I am still becoming. I mourn the fact that I had no human teacher to show me the way; I may have come to this place of understanding early on instead of in my sixties. However, I am grateful to the Inner Teacher, which we all possess but rarely hear. I am listening now.   

On Keeping a Garden Journal

I started to keep a little garden journal in 2002. It was a pretty book with a cottage on the cover and I jotted a few notes about the veggies. I bought a similar journal in 2003, but it was becoming evident I didn’t have enough space to write what I felt was important. By 2006 I was using the journals for reference and it was obvious my system needed revising, as each book had to be thumbed through to get to the month I was looking for.

I decided to use three-ring binders, one for each month, with the pages in plastic protectors so I could add pages as needed. I combined Oct/Nov/Dec and Jan/Feb/March. Aside from that, each month has its own notebook. Now when I make entries in June, for example, I have at my fingertips every June since 2006.

In my garden journal, I began to add details such as fence, pergola or porch building and repairs and painting, trips we took and visits from friends and family. I also record any event that impacts my thoughts and feelings and philosophical notions as they come into my consciousness.

Now I have a record of not just the weather, new plants, planting and harvesting and personal and world events, but my inner landscape. I can easily see where I have grown and developed alongside the Garden of Nemesis. I like it because it is my record and if I don’t want to add a comma or form a complete sentence I don’t have to. It’s usually abbreviated and sometimes almost illegible. Sure, I could write and print out my entries via the computer, but for some reason it’s more personal to scribble them.

These journals may someday be a puzzle for my children or grandchildren to piece together to maybe get to know a side of their ancestor they never suspected existed.

Rain, Rain, Go Away

I want to go outside and play in the garden, but the cold and rain continue. I’m happy the drought is over, my new transplants have “taken” and seeds have germinated, but I’m getting cabin fever. We had two days of glorious weather earlier in the week that I mostly spent conducting business that couldn’t wait. The moment I escaped the square buildings and set foot in the garden, the skies opened up.

I’ve been known to garden in slicker and Wellingtons, but I really hate the cold. If we make it to 70 degrees these days, it’s a miracle. I guess I’ll have to trudge up to the attic for a cleaning and purging session. Where does all that junk come from? I really make an effort to either give away or toss the excess, but it still builds up.

My mother saved broken things, which used to drive me crazy. She knew she hoarded, but couldn’t help herself. When she knew she was dying from terminal cancer, she invited me into her closets, drawers and medicine cabinet. Given the circumstances, I bit my tongue as I tossed out old coffee makers and ten-year-old prescriptions. I’m more like her than I care to admit!

Simply Being

Gardening, unlike so much in our modern world, is not instant gratification; it requires patience for a satisfying result. In the fall, we plant tulips, daffodils and other spring bulbs and must use our imaginations to envision what it may look like when they bloom. When we plant a small tree or a shrub, we must visualize what it will shade when it’s full grown. Unfortunately, that’s too much for many of us. We want to go to the garden center and spend on annuals that mostly bloom all summer and die with the frost. Philosophically speaking, what’s wrong with this picture?

Maybe this concept of “instant gardening” has its roots in the belief that it’s desirable to live in a one-season world. Could it be related to our inability to accept life as it truly is, complete with all the seasons? We’re born, we flower and reproduce, we age and finally, we die? The commercial world is certainly ready to help promote this concept, especially in women, ready as it is with cosmetic surgery and anti-wrinkle creams. In fact, little girls are forced to mature early and enter a long period of bloom, resisting Nature’s normal progression. There is a price to be paid for this type of resistance, and it’s not just in the pocketbook.  

Not being able to accept physical aging leaves women with faces frozen in time, unreal and freakish. How much time does it really take in front of the mirror painting a face considered to be acceptable? No, I’d much rather throw my hair into a ponytail, climb into my bibs and grab my hoe. That is a true adventure in contentment; quality time spent gazing into the face of a peony or an iris. I have time to and contemplate who and what I really am and how I fit into the scheme of things.

I am in the autumn of my life, living moment-to-moment in whatever reality presents itself. The future has not manifested and the past, with all its wrong turns and detours is behind me. All I have is this moment. I have relaxed into the perfection of my own rumpled skin.  

The Garden Chair

In 2001, I saw a naturally distressed, green-painted antique chair at a garage sale and happily paid the asking price of five dollars. When we got home, I set it in the garden and it quickly became a favorite perch for our kitten, Baby, to observe the comings and goings in the garden.

The chair has been outside winter and summer all these years. There are numerous screws added in an attempt to hold it together and the green paint has vanished, along with the old seat. Baby doesn’t care that he sits on old and patched wood. He doesn’t mind the list to the left or that his throne has sunk several inches. Thyme and strawberries mix beneath him as he rules his little kingdom.

Baby has grown into an old sovereign, a bit mangy and bedraggled, similar to the chair and his mistress. Still, the three of us slog on together, through the snowy, rainy, sunny seasons of the garden.

Assault by Any Other Name

This weekend was the birthday of my neighbor and casual acquaintance across the alley. She hired a DJ, set up shelters, arranged tables and chairs, prepared the barbeque and warned the neighbors. In fact, she had warned me two weeks ahead of time that it would be a noisy party, since I have been known to ask not only her, but other neighbors, to turn down the volume. I just nodded and wondered at her thinking. Was she telling me to get in the car and leave if I couldn’t handle it? Should I imbibe strong drink? Should I spend the perfect sunny day with my windows closed in the basement wearing ear plugs?

Sure enough, on Saturday morning guests began arriving and the small yard prepared. I was filled with dread for I knew I was about to be assaulted. Psychically assaulted, which for me differs little from a physical attack. Shortly after noon, someone turned on the radio to high volume. About three o’clock, I happened to be standing in my driveway when the noise halted for a few seconds and I shouted over the fence, “Thank you!” False hope arose within me before a new song started. A few moments later, she appeared from the alley, looked at me and said, “I warned you.”

As I struggled to understand her logic, she just looked at me for approval. “It’s my birthday.” I wished her a happy birthday and shrugged. Neither of us got what we wanted. She turned abruptly and went back to the party. I weeded the carrots.

Along about five, the DJ arrived with powerful speakers. He proceeded to communicate via microphone with a group standing no further than a dozen feet away. After careful consideration, I called the police. A few years back, our city’s residents had gotten sick and tired of musical psychic assaults and passed a law forbidding it, complete with hefty fines. Not only was my neighbor risking a mandated court appearance with a potential fine, but her privilege of living in her low-rent government duplex.

To make a long story short, it took six hours of phone calls, two trips by our overworked and understaffed police department and my signing a formal complaint to finally stop the assault. Immediately after I signed the complaint, the cop and I stood on my porch. He explained the fine could be as much as $750 and most judges convict. I knew the hardship this silly woman would have to endure. I backed down.

After I assured the two cops my intentions were not to punch the woman, but try to convince her to turned the music down, we went across the alley and asked for a conference. She agreed. I told her the cop could tear up the complaint or submit it for processing, which did she prefer? It was in that moment that she finally understood and complied. I was exhausted, and I think she was, too.

Is it fair and just to take such measures to protect my person from this type of assault? I believe so. I only have so many summer hours in which to enjoy my urban garden. I can’t do anything about the busy street or the chemicals dropped from the sky. I have been given the tools to protect my psyche from extreme and unnecessary noise, and I will use them to do so. The word will spread through the neighborhood that I mean business and hopefully we will all enjoy a little more peace this summer.