Dried Culinary Herbs
Winter CSA Dates
02/13/19, 02/27/19, 03/13/19, 03/27/19, 04/10/19, 04/24/19, 05/08/19, 05/22/19
2019 Week 07, Winter CSA 6 of 12
There were bluebirds sitting on the irrigation risers as I spread the rock dust, and there is now birdsong in the morning before the dawn. Onions are waking in their seedling trays, and I’m having to slap myself for adding another new hot pepper here, or a curious pickling cucumber there. It’s time! The new season is on, and we get to transfer our focus from design to build, and then, later, from build to ride. As always, thank you all for being along for that ride.
See you on the farm,
PS, most tangentially: I can remember the April afternoon when I learned that Gabriel Garcia Marquez had died. It is like that, too, with Mary Oliver. And so we should not let that passing pass without some kind of witnessing.
One of my favorite lines of hers is from a semi-poem — her “Sand Dabs,” which she slipped into her pocket as she walked her Cape Cod beach — and it’s what I heard in my head when I heard that she had gone:
Myself, myself, myself, that darling hut!
How quick it will burn!
(Mary Oliver, ‘Sand Dabs, Five’, Winter Hours)
And then I saw these lines, last week — translated by the most impressive Jane Hirshfield: “The moon in Japanese poetry is always the moon” — and knew that they all were sisters:
Although the wind
blows terribly here,
the moonlight also leaks
between the roof planks
of this ruined house.
(Izumi Shikibu (Japan, 974?-1034?) [translated by Jane Hirshfield with Mariko Aratani])
And saw that the question I was asking, she had already answered:
After I published Women in Praise of the Sacred: 43 Centuries of Spiritual Poetry by Women, people often asked me how the spiritual poetry of women differs from that of men. My answer: more imagery of houses. (The earlier poem here by Izumi Shikibu also uses the image of a house to speak of the experience of self and its boundaries.) To become the authority of one’s own household is no small thing in many women’s lives, even now, and the lives of earlier women poets are almost always marked by some fracturing with the expectations and course of ordinary life. The same is often true for men, of course, especially mystics.
Which is a much too long and digressing way to say:
Thank you, Mary.