A new-to-me video, which I discovered thanks to Root Simple.
So though there is this loss of understanding the value of things, of the meaning of things, and in handwork, in transforming nature we also make something truly unique that we have made with our hands, stitch by stitch, that maybe we have chosen the yarn, we have even spun the yarn — even better, and that we have designed. And when I do that, I feel whole. I feel I am experiencing my inner core because it’s a meditative process. You have to find your way; you have to listen with your whole being. And that is the schooling that we all need today.
Nothing to add here… she says it all.
Now back to my knitting.
I have what is a slightly irrational fear of wild plants, when it comes to eating them or using them medicinally. A bit of fear is healthy of course, because it means I’m not traipsing around town picking bits of plants here and there from the asphalt and the park to put in my salad, without knowing what they are. However, even when I’m with someone who knows beyond any doubt that this or that is nettle, or edible berries, I hesitate. I was on a hike once with my friend Noemi and we stumbled upon a big patch of wild strawberries: she cried Oh goody! and started having at them, while I stood back in horror, expecting her to suddenly clutch at her throat and gasp for air. My fear stems in part from a freelance project I had several years ago, editing a series of books on poisonous plants. I’ve read more anecdotes than one should about Victorian era children dropping dead after gorging themselves on belladonna. But after a moment Noemi turned around and held out a palmful of the tiny red berries, and, feeling like a bit of a whimp, I took them. They were very clearly strawberries, smelled like strawberries, tasted like strawberries (only better), but I nevertheless spent the following two hours feeling every single twinge in my body and thinking it was the beginning of the end.
That, my friends, is no way to live. I don’t want to live in fear, and I don’t want to miss out on all the fun that is to be had hunting for mushrooms, foraging for wild greens and pigging out on strawberries with your friend on a steep mountain trail.
Several years ago I thought about looking into learning plant identification. It seemed so intense and overwhelming. BUT (you must have known there was a but coming), I’m starting to get over it. This is another one of those moments where I am so happy to be doing the sorts of things I’m doing in life. One of the current residents at Utopiana is Belle Benfield, a visual artist who is also an herbalist, and yesterday we had a plant foraging workshop with a local forager named Maurice Hennart leading the way.
My sourdough starter turned one year old at the beginning of April. I can’t calculate the date exactly of course, so I chose the date of what I thought was more or less its birthday the way I celebrated my shelter cat’s birthday on February 2. (By celebrate I mean just saying “Happy birthday cat” and letting her gorge herself on cat treats — I wasn’t the sort of human companion who baked birthday cakes for my cat.) My sourdough starter didn’t get any special treatment, just its usual morning dose of fresh flour and water, but I did sing happy birthday to it as I gave it a stir. Now that’s embarrassing.
I haven’t kept tabs on the number of loaves of bread I’ve made with this starter in its first year of life, but I can guess at something in the two hundreds, and it’s also been split off and shared with a number of friends. Mas got some, as did the people who came to the Trade School classes I did. I gave some to Patti and Bron as well, twice, since they killed the first ones (like I’ve done, many times). Patti also managed to bring some over to the US, by putting a small amount in a travel sized jar in her toiletries bag. TSA was none the wiser. This was a good thing since the authorities generally don’t like cross-border transportation of microbial life. Stefan Tiron (an artist who comes to Utopiana regularly) ran into some issues once when traveling with his nukazuke. The customs agents were suspicious (maybe understandably so) when they unearthed from his belongings a Tupperware of fermenting rice bran and Stefan tried to explain, but it’s nukazuke! They weren’t impressed but eventually he got it through to Geneva, and I wound up getting a bit of it to start my own (which I killed).
Got some bad news a few weeks ago, and since then I’ve been in a weird state in which I alternately fly into ranting rages, or else drop into silence and change the subject. Fluctuating between rage and hiding my sadness, it’s tiring. I haven’t told my own mother nor some of my friends who have an interest in these things because often when we go there in conversation I feel a pang of grief and don’t feel like talking about it. Because not talking about it means it doesn’t exist, right?
No, no one’s sick or dead, but a little patch of urban paradise will be, at some point in the near future. The back story, in brief, is that the plot of land where we have the garden, and Utopiana, is on loan to us from the city, and from the beginning there was the understanding that at some point in an undetermined future it would all be bulldozed to the ground and replaced by a nine-story apartment block and parking lot. That’s how the world spins in this urban planning paradigm — gardeners get the leftover land on loan until something bigger comes along.
I was kidnapped by the Pipers, but luckily I’ve escaped their vegetal grasp and will soon return to regular posting.
In the meantime, check out my knitting progress:
Earth maintained an important garrison on Asteroid Y-3. Now suddenly it was imperiled with a biological impossibility—men becoming plants!
“WELL, Corporal Westerburg,” Doctor Henry Harris said gently, “just why do you think you’re a plant?”
As he spoke, Harris glanced down again at the card on his desk. It was from the Base Commander himself, made out in Cox’s heavy scrawl: Doc, this is the lad I told you about. Talk to him and try to find out how he got this delusion. He’s from the new Garrison, the new check-station on Asteroid Y-3, and we don’t want anything to go wrong there. Especially a silly damn thing like this!
Harris pushed the card aside and stared back up at the youth across the desk from him. The young man seemed ill at ease and appeared to be avoiding answering the question Harris had put to him. Harris frowned. Westerburg was a good-looking chap, actually handsome in his Patrol uniform, a shock of blond hair over one eye. He was tall, almost six feet, a fine healthy lad, just two years out of Training, according to the card. Born in Detroit. Had measles when he was nine. Interested in jet engines, tennis, and girls. Twenty-six years old.
“Well, Corporal Westerburg,” Doctor Harris said again. “Why do you think you’re a plant?”
The Corporal looked up shyly. He cleared his throat. “Sir, I am a plant, I don’t just think so. I’ve been a plant for several days, now.”
“I see.” The Doctor nodded. “You mean that you weren’t always a plant?”
“No, sir. I just became a plant recently.”
“And what were you before you became a plant?”
“Well, sir, I was just like the rest of you.”
I had to move it from its old spot on the bookcase because it was getting too big. We also had no more room for books. For reference, at the last tree house update two months ago our little tree was 62 cm, and it’s now 71 cm, plus its foliage is quite a lot wider and the trunk is turning into a real trunk. I think we’re going to need a bigger pot.