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“If there is magic on this planet, it is contained in water” – Loren Eisley

A few years ago, I took my first trip to California and the Pacific Ocean with my family.  It was actually in 2011, which is maybe more than a few by most counts, but when you get up in years you try to convince yourself that the trip you took way back when was just a few years ago.  It slows the aging process.  It took me almost 52 years to reach the Pacific, agreeably more than a few by any count.  Lewis and Clark got there quicker and they didn’t have the luxury of planes, trains, or automobiles.  It was still the sublimest of moments to finally cast my gaze on the Pacific for the first time.  The feeling of awe was the same one I experience whenever I am in the presence of water, whether in California, Indiana, Michigan, or elsewhere.

I have always been drawn to the sights and sounds of water.  It is like a magnet that attracts me to to it, even if only for a moment.  I am a frequent traveler on Lowell Road where it crosses the Driftwood River and I never fail to cast a glance as the river flows south towards Columbus.  The Great Lakes have been a part of my life since childhood and they have never fail to attract me to their shores.  There were backpacking trips into the Appalachian Mountains, when I was rocked to sleep in my tent by the sound of the water cascading over granite boulders in a mountain stream.  I treasure my moments on Isle Royale, sitting quietly watching the waves crash on the rocky shoreline, imbibing of a well-deserved whiskey after a hard day on the trail.  Even a quiet stream in Brown County State Park has the same allure.

There is a deep peace that I find in its presence and I am quite content to pause awhile and listen to the trickle of a small woodland creek, the rhythm of the waves on a beach, or the sound of a mountain stream.  There is something more splendid about a sunset or sunrise over water.  Even the wind-driven ripples on a lake or pond can, for me, be hypnotic.  These bodies of water are to me like a songbird, their beauty to be beheld and unique music savored.

While in California, we drove out to Point Reyes north of San Francisco, traveling across a remarkable landscape where broad vistas beckoned to us as we made our way towards the coast.  There were open expanses of wind-swept plain and rocky shoreline, trees bent by the relentless Pacific winds, and wildflowers waving their flags in the spring bluster.  We gazed upon the Pacific Ocean crashing into the rocks below Point Reyes Lighthouse and at South Point Reyes Beach, my daughter and I dipped our feet in the ocean.  It was for me a baptism into the grandeur of this beautiful expanse of water.

Awed by the Pacific, I was reminded of that quiet stream in Brown County State Park, the Great Lakes, the Driftwood River, and more.  Each stream, each body of water is a source of nourishment for my soul and solace from the hustle and bustle of my 21st century life.

“We are slow to realize water, – the beauty and magic of it.  It is interestingly strange to us forever.  Immortal water, alive even in the superficies, restlessly heaving now and tossing me and my boat, and sparkling with life.” – Henry David Thoreau

South Pt. Reyes Beach, California

Strahl Lake, Brown County State Park

Driftwood River, Columbus

Woodland Pond, Brown County State Park

Is heelsplitter the name of a muscle in your foot or is it a mussel?  How about triceps, wartyback, deltoids, monkeyface, biceps, pocketbook, quadriceps, papershell, tibialis, pigtoe, gluteus maximus, sheepnose, sartorius, catspaw, trapezius, lilliput, soleus, or mucket?  Can you pick the mussels from the muscles?

Chances are you might be much more familiar with the names of your muscles than with these freshwater mussels.  Don’t be disappointed if you don’t know much about mussels.  They spend their lives partially or wholly buried in permanent bodies of water.  The vast majority are found in streams while some are found in ponds or lakes.

So what is a mussel?  Mussels are bi-valve mollusks with elongated shells and are cousins to the squid, octopus, nautilus, snail, and slug.  They are an important source of food for fish, raccoons, muskrats, otters, turtles, and waterfowl.  Some may refer to the generic term clam when they find a shell on the river bank or happen across a live mussel.  Although both are bi-valve mollusks, the clam and mussel are of different species.  So a clam is not a mussel and a mussel is not a clam.

A mussel possesses an incurrent siphon and an excurrent siphon.  To obtain food, it draws water through the incurrent siphon where it filters out microscopic plant and animal material suspended in the water.  Waste is then discharged through the excurrent siphon.

Most freshwater mussel species are of separate sexes.  The male releases sperm into the water which enters the female through the incurrent siphon where the eggs are fertilized.  The fertilized eggs develop into an intermediate larval stage (called glochidia) and are stored in the female’s gills. In spring or summer, the glochidia are expelled and seek out a host to parasitize.  Depending on the species of mussel the glochidia are either internal parasites or external parasites.  The host is usually a fish and the glochidia form cysts on either the gills or fins of their host.

While in the cyst, the glochidia change form and begin to resemble mussels.  They then break free of the cyst and drop to the stream or lake bottom to begin independent lives.  The period of attachment lasts from 1 to 25 weeks depending on a variety of factors including the host, location of attachment and water temperature.  Mussels are long-lived with some reported to have survived over 100 years.

Unfortunately, many are endangered and others have been extirpated.  According to the 2010 Wildlife Diversity Report published by the Indiana Department of Natural Resources, freshwater mussels are the most endangered group of animals in Indiana.  Historically, 77 species were found in the state.  Of these, 19 are completely gone or no longer producing.  Currently, there are 24 species in Indiana listed as state or federally endangered or of special concern.

Threats to the state’s mussel population include overharvesting, pesticides, herbicides, and other chemicals, run-off, siltation, poor land management practices, and competition from exotic species such as the zebra mussel.  Quite a number of foes are arrayed against our mussels.

So let’s put our muscles to work and protect our mussels.  Support clean-up efforts, wise land management practices, and protection of our streams and lakes.

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A few more of the common names of our freshwater muscles…

Spectacle case • Washboard • Pistolgrip • Winged Mapleleaf • Rabbits Foot • Fatmucket
Pimpleback • Threeridge • Wabash Pig-toe • Ebonyshell • Rayed bean • Elephant-ear
Spike • Pondhorn Floater • Elktoe • Rock-pocketbook • Kidneyshell • Bleufer • Fanshell Purple wartyback • Butterfly • Hickorynut • Deertoe • Fawnsfoot • Fat Pocketbook
Higgins eye • Snuffbox • Ring Pink • Pyramid pigtoe • Rainbow • Creeper • PeeWee

 

Purple Warty Back Muscle

Source: Field Guide to Freshwater Mussels of the Midwest, Cummings, Kevin S. and Christine A. Meyer, Illinois Natural History Survey, 1992. 

 

 

 

 

There is no escape from the fact that we live in a world of noise.  It is with us wherever we go.  As I type these words, the TV spews the latest gibberish, the dishwasher drones, the furnace bellows, the clock tic-toc’s on the wall, and the refrigerator hums.  I walk outside and hear the piercing sound of a siren, the hum of the street lamp, a distant train whistle, and the noise of traffic on the road.  Even at night, the relative silence can be interrupted by a barking dog or jet flying overhead.  Early morning can bring some respite from this cacophony as the birds awaken and begin to sing, but this too gives way to the perpetual hum of civilization.  Nature seems 1,000 miles away at times as we face a day full of more of these distractions.

Noise is just one of the things that separate us from a deeper communion with nature.  The smells and sites of our lives also sever this connection; cars lined up at the drive-through windows of the fast food restaurants spewing out their smelly exhaust, trash on the playground at our local school, a pile of cigarette butts left on the ground at an intersection, or pet waste on the people trail.  The detritus of the urban environment is, for me, the antithesis of what I experience in nature.

One must work hard in an urban environment to tune out the distractions that attack our senses.  It is often easy to be overwhelmed.   My backyard and garden or the local parks can offer some refuge but even this can be a challenge.  Simply retreating to one’s house is often insufficient.  For these reasons, I have always sought the solace of the woods, of wild places, where I am exposed to as few man-made interruptions as possible.  The “noise” of nature is so profoundly different from that of human beings.

When I am out in nature, I rely on each of my senses to feed my perception of the moment.  I refer to it as, “Hiking with all 5”.  Taste, sight, touch, smell and sound help me become more acutely aware of my surroundings.  I am able to connect physicallly and spiritually with where I am and be totally separated from the dust of the other world.  Each perception, each thought gathered with my senses, connects me to the moment and with nature.

More often than not, I find solace in Brown County State Park near Nashville, Indiana.  I have been visiting the park since I was a child, my parents taking me and my siblings here often to camp, hike and picnic.  A mere 25 minute drive from home, its 16,000 acres offer ample opportunity to escape and commune with nature.   Nessmuk, in the book Woodcraft, summed up perfectly what Brown County State Park has meant to me –

“Wherefore, let us be thankful that there are still thousands of cool, green
nooks beside crystal springs, where the weary soul may hide for a time, away from the debts, duns and deviltries and a while commune with nature…”

Recently, I took another sojourn there and had these thoughts (continued below)…

Turning off Highway 46, I pass through the north entrance of the park and drive through the covered bridge over Salt Creek.  After passing through, it is as if I have entered another world and I am suddenly put at ease.  In spite of the cold, I roll down my window and take in the sounds and smells as I drive the park road towards my destination.  As I gaze into the woods and ravines my mind is flooded with the memories of the wonderful times I have spent here.  I park at Strahl Lake, where not another vehicle is in sight.  I open the door to the sound of water falling over the lake’s spillway; the sound of water in the wild, whether a falls or rippling creek has a profound soothing effect on me.  Birds dance through the trees singing their songs.

Putting on my pack, I grip the hiking staff made by my grandfather, put the leather strap around my wrist, and walk across the road.  I am immediately struck by how my feet feel as I leave the parking lot and hard pavement and begin to walk on pure earth.  I cross a small stream, dry now, and feel the sandstone gravel give way beneath my boots.  Ascending a short hill into a pine grove, I am immediately struck by its peacefulness.  My footsteps are silent on the soft bed of pine needles, with the only sound the rush of the winter wind through the pine branches.  The sound and smell in this grove immediately put me at peace.

Occasionally, I feel the bite of a briar as I wind my way down the game path.  I know by the feel of a few of the thorns on my legs and arms that they will serve as a reminder of my time here.  Soon enough, I find the trail that will take me further on my journey.  I can smell the decaying leaves of the maple, birch and oak trees and taste the smell of their tannins in my mouth.   I pick up an occasional leaf and feel its texture in my hand.  I pass a beech tree and feel its smooth bark and then the rough bark of the oak.  I see the shagbark hickory with its telltale skin.

I pause at a woodland pond and lean against a red oak, its bark comfortable against my back.  I pour a cup of coffee, watch the sunrise, and snack on a little salami and cheese.  I hear a crow cawing in the distance, the chickadees and titmice sing their songs in the branches above me, the drum of a woodpecker sounds in the distance.  The smell of my fresh coffee is like incense in a holy place.

Somewhat reluctantly, I arise to continue on my journey, but as I do my communion with nature deepens.  The sound of my footsteps are more profound, the smell of the woods more crisp, things on the woodland floor more vivid, each sound more intense, the touch of nature tender in my fingertips.  I lose track of time, but my senses remain fully aware of where I am and the joy of being here; they have not betrayed me.  Soon enough, I will leave these woods and return to the world, but I will always know that I was truly in a holy place.

 

Often, I think about how the waters of the East Fork of the White River that flow through Columbus, Indiana are, in the end, connected to the whole world.  Suddenly places such as Rio de Janeiro, Shanghai, Alexandria, Portsmouth, LeHavre, or Sydney, don’t seem that far away. This realization came to me in grade school when I saw the short movie, Paddle-to-the-Sea, based on Holling C. Holling’s book by the same name.  In the story, a young boy in the Nipigong country north of Lake Superior carves a small wooden canoe and releases it in a nearby creek.  The movie follows its travels through the Great Lakes and into the St. Lawrence River where it eventually ends up in the hands of a lighthouse keeper on the coast of Newfoundland.

The East Fork is formed at Mill Race Park in Columbus at the confluence of the Driftwood and Flat Rock Rivers.  One of the most significant river systems in southern Indiana, it continues its meandering ways as it flows on south and west.  It passes by small rural communities such as Sparksville, Ft.Ritner, Hindostan, Buddha, Williams, and Shoals.  It flows by natural features such as Jug Rock, Old Mans Nose, and Devils Elbow.  Countless rivers, streams, and creeks feed into the river along its way, draining thousands of square miles of the Hoosier state before it meets with the West Fork northeast of Petersburg in Gibson County. Now the White River, it eventually joins the Wabash across from Mt. Carmel, Illinois.

My point here is that we are not isolated from the local, regional and global impacts of our activities because the waters of the East Fork, or any river for that matter, leave our sight.  What we put on our yards, down our drains, on our agricultural lands, or what comes out of our industrial and municipal facilities cannot simply be shrugged off.  We don’t even have to live near a river to have an impact.  Water is life and disregard for its health is detrimental to present and future generations.  So whether the waters of the East Fork are flowing by Buddha or past Devils Elbow or lapping up on a distant shore, the river carries our legacy.  We must always remain mindful of this and work hard to leave our neighbors downstream with a healthy river to enjoy.

East Fork of the White River looking south

Driftwood (left) and Flat Rock Rivers meet at Mill Race Park

The game trail leading into the pine grove lets me know I am on the right path.  I am greeted by the sound of the wind blowing through a large stand of white pines.  My footsteps are silenced by the carpet of pine needles.  I often stand in this grove and feel as if I am in a cathedral, hushed and silent except for this divine wind.  Brambles act as sentries as I make my way on through the woods.   I soon cross a ravine where siltstones from the Mississippian age lie exposed.  The sedimentary rocks at my feet were laid down millions of years ago when the area was a vast inland sea.

The small clearing I seek is not far from where I parked my vehicle.  In fact, it is not that far from the nearest road.  But when I reach it, it feels like I am miles into the woods.  It is here that I find my Leaning Tree.  The tree, a northern red oak, stands in this small clearing west of the Knobstone Escarpment in Brown County State Park.  This species of oak is long-lived and its acorns provide nourishment to a variety of wildlife.  The clearing, sitting on high ground, was likely the site of an old homestead or it may have been cleared by the Civilian Conservation Corp during the development of the park in the 1930’s.  Sometime in the past an acorn sprouted on this spot and grew into the Leaning Tree.

Standing stately and erect in this small clearing, the Leaning Tree provides me with a place to rest.  Leaning against its trunk, I stare off to the east and watch the sun rise above the woods and the clouds float by against a bright blue morning sky.  The small pond in the clearing mirrors the sun and clouds while the tadpoles, water striders, and whirligig beetles go about their business.  The clearing is carpeted by a variety of mosses and little bluestem grass, a tulip poplar lies in front of me and sassafras and cedar trees dot the clearing.  A spring azure butterfly floats above the ground.  Ants scurry along at my feet.  Surrounded by deciduous woods on all sides, I feel as if I am anchored safely on this island amidst a vast sea of trees.

Here, I enter another time and place.  I see my surroundings in more vivid detail.  The fresh earth, decaying leaves, cedar trees, wildflowers, each one gives off its distinct aroma.  In the early dawn hours, the birds awaken and their songs soon fill my ears with music.  The blue jay, chickadee, titmouse, nuthatch, and crow add their voices to the dawn.  The far off call of a wild turkey, the howl of a coyote, the hoot of a great horned owl, and the wind through the trees add to this wonderful song.  Even my coffee tastes better here, its taste and aroma enhanced by this place.  My senses are enriched in so many ways.  Taste, touch, sound, smell, and sight carry me away on my sojourn from the man-made world.

This oak, perhaps my age, bares similar signs but remains sturdy and strong.  Its rough bark and knurled branches always a welcome sight.  I have watched it sprout new growth in the spring and become full of leaves in the summer months.  I have seen its leaves turn red in fall and drop gracefully to the ground. I have heard the late fall winds whistle through its branches soon giving way to the cold breath of winter.  Through these cycles of time it has remained sturdy and provided me a resting place during my sojourns here.

In many ways, I am like the tree.  For a little while, I take root here and let the rest of life hurtle on its way.  I put the breaks on the speed of life and take the time to stop and listen.  Time becomes inconsequential.  I am able to contemplate things that are only flashes of thought during my daily grind.  I count my own growth rings and think about those yet to come.  This tree and clearing are a gift of nature, a cathedral of contemplation where the ground is my pew and the sky is the altar.  Here I mine deeper thoughts and follow new veins into regions of my mind yet unexplored.

There is so much in this place, the flora, fauna, and its place in geologic and modern history.  But it is also a place where the dust of the world is blown off my shoulders.  I am rooted deeply in the earth here but my spirit soars to higher places.  It is the character of this place, the rhythms of my life, and my coming and going that give it meaning.  It is a place where I will always return for I have taken root here and when I am away I get homesick for my Leaning Tree.

You see them soaring on the thermals rising above the earth with broad, dark wings extending into fingertips.  Circling above as if looking for something…which in fact is what they are doing, looking for carrion, the dead of our world.  Probably characterized more than any other bird species, you have seen them in many cartoons and comic strips, such as Gary Larson’s Far Side.  I am talking about the turkey vulture (Cathartes aura) or as it is commonly called, the “buzzard.”

This bird won’t be winning any beauty contests, its head has no feathers instead it is just wrinkled skin; the better for it to reach inside a piece of carrion and pluck out a tasty morsel.  No sense in getting one’s “hair” messed up.

I have seen the turkey vulture in a number of settings.  Needless to say, it is a very adaptable bird.  I just recently passed two feeding on a road-kill squirrel on CR 200N.  I have seen them in farm fields, large numbers perched on power line stanchions, and more recently on the roof of a local church.  I am sure you have your own stories.

In spite of the lack of beauty, they really do serve a very valuable purpose.  They are the dog under the dining room table so to speak, nature’s vacuum cleaner.  What is left on the road or in the field is cleaned up.  Hiking recently in Brown County State Park, I found the remains of a deer carcass off the trail.  The dance of the vultures had clearly occurred and bones had been stripped clean, a very efficient process from all appearances.

One of only two avian scavengers in the eastern United States, its body is from 26 to 27 inches long with a maximum wingspan of six feet.  Up close the small, naked, red head gives the adult bird away.  The head of the immature turkey vulture is blackish in color.  Note the two toned wings when looking up at this bird as it soars in search of its next meal.   The turkey vulture is present throughout the United States, southern Canada, and Mexico.  It can be found year around in part of southern Indiana and migrates as far south as Mexico in winter.

In southern Indiana, the turkey vulture’s territory overlaps with that of the black vulture (Coragyps atratus). Initially difficult to differentiate, the black vulture is smaller in size, black in color and with a gray head in adults. Also, when seen from below the black vulture has a whitish patch towards its wingtip.

Possessing a keen sense of smell, the turkey vulture can detect dead and decaying animals even in wooded settings.  They feed exclusively on carrion from as small as a mouse to as large as a deer.   In fact, it may be the increase in the white-tail deer population that has led to the rising population of turkey vultures.  More deer means more road-kill and, consequently, more carrion.  They are site feeders and regurgitate food later for their young.  Because they feed on carrion, their feet and talons are small and weak.

The turkey vulture lays its eggs in remote areas generally inaccessible to predators.  This may include cliffs, hollow logs, caves, or dense shrubbery.  The female typically lays two eggs.  There is little or no nest with the eggs often being laid on bare ground.  The young are carefully concealed to avoid predators since they are fed carrion.

So, the turkey vulture may not be the most beautiful bird in Indiana, but it may be one of the most useful.  Keep your eyes peeled to the sky above.  Searching from above for food, they wait for mother nature to drop a morsel from the dinner table.  You can be sure they will be ready to snatch it up before the family dog.

 

Okay, full-throated honesty.  This is a rough time of the year for me, and for that matter, in my life.  Compounding things is the fact that I am unemployed, wondering what lies ahead for me and my family.  My depression is often profound; despair is the bogey that visits me too often.  My bed seems so comforting in the morning but then becomes cloying.  I awake and the house seems inviting but then closes in around me.  I want company but then grow weary of it.  I create distractions and try to force my mind to look into the future.  I must, the present can be a nightmare.  But then the future turns into its own nightmare.

But I am confident that I will defeat this demon and I will persevere.  Why am I confident of the outcome?  I have nature, the companion of whom I have never grown weary.  Through nature I am able to process these emotions and understand a deeper more spiritual meaning in my daily existence.  When I let my mind and body escape to nature, whether a walk in the woods or a late night stroll down snow covered streets, I separate from the present and enter a realm most pleasing to body and soul; I enter the holiest of holies, my sanctum sanctorum. I am at once the earth and my mind soars above.  I am one with God and with his creation.  My flesh and blood are in nature and my soul takes flight.  It is these moments I live and strive for because they allow me to overcome the earthly moments and the weight of my struggles day to day.

So I went out Sunday morning to Brown County State Park to worship with five fellow parishioners.  I didn’t ask their faith; I simply asked if they could stand single digit temperatures.  The congregation was small, just six worshippers, all were in the appropriate dress for church.  We immediately saw signs of coyote, tracks and scat abundant.  They must have been to early service as we were a little late to hear their morning chorus.

The woods were lovely with the fresh blanket of snow.  The cold created beautiful ice formations on many of the remaining plant stems.  We started from the nature center since the loop road down to Strahl Lake was closed due to the weather.  We descended the short mile to Strahl Valley and the lake by the same name.  A frozen expanse, the lake was covered by a beautiful white carpet.  There was still some overflow and the spillway created a beautiful ice formation.  The trees above the spillway were thick with rime ice created by the moisture rising from the creek below.

We wound our way around the lake and then up to the nature center where we enjoyed watching the birds at the viewing station.  Cardinals, nuthatches, chickadees, titmice, downy and hairy woodpeckers, doves and more entertained us.  Each and every moment of this experience reminding me that nature truly has my back.

From the look of its teeth the whitetail doe must not have been that old when it died.  There was little decay and all the teeth were present.  Its carcass was fully intact when I first found it in my in-law’s woods over two years ago.  There was no visible sign of trauma although I didn’t turn the body over for a full inspection.  I suspect that a hunter’s bullet found it and it eventually fell on this spot of ground.  I suppose a coyote could have brought it down but its apparent age and vitality made my theory of man as predator the more likely scenario.

All that remains two years later of this once bounding, leaping creature is the skull, a femur, and a few vertebrae and ribs.  What once was flesh and fiber is now just a few bones.  Each trip back to the site over the last two years revealed a different stage of decay of this, our largest permanent resident wild mammal. Although sorry to see such a beautiful creature brought down in its prime, I was able to witness how nature buries its dead.

Perhaps the first undertakers to arrive were coyotes tearing open the carcass to get at the flesh and internal organs.  Circling high overhead the turkey vultures, using their keen eyesight and sense of smell, soon swooped in to join the feast.  The ground turned up around the carcass indicated quite a wake of vultures.  A murder of crows may have also joined in.  Also joining the feast were smaller rodents who gnawed on the exposed bones.  Portions of the carcass were eventually drug off and cached or consumed.

Even before the coyotes and vultures arrived, much smaller creatures discovered the body.  The first were likely the blowflies possibly arriving within minutes of death to deposit their eggs.  Other flesh flies also soon arrived.  Ants were also likely at the carcass during the early stages feeding both on the carcass flesh as well as eggs and young larvae of the first arriving flies.  A variety of beetles also came and went during the decomposition process.  They included rove, carrion, hide, bone, and scarab beetles, to name a few.

The work of all these undertakers was quite effective.  For two years this deer provided sustenance to a forest community.  Its flesh and bones given so other animals could live.  As I glanced up from writing this short piece, I saw a vulture gliding across the sky near where the carcass once laid.  Preparing once again to participate somewhere in the burial of another of nature’s creatures.

 

I am sitting here at my desk now listening to the wind howling outside my window.  I love that sound because it seems to be able to pull the deepest thoughts from my soul.  Earlier this evening I took a walk through the empty snow-covered streets staring at the evening lights shining from the houses, but not a person stirring.  I felt as an interloper or perhaps more like an adventurer braving the snow and cold to soak in the loneliness of a winter storm.  The wind and snow made me hunker down as I made my way through the silent streets, glad I had dressed for the occasion.  My footprints will be gone tomorrow, blown away by the wind, but each step will be with me and will carry me back to my solitary adventure in winter’s domain.

We are in the midst of a winter storm right now that likely will dump about 5 or 6 inches of snow locally, so this may seem to be an odd time to write about gardening.   I walked outside a few minutes ago and the only thing that remains of my garden are the skeletons of the wildflowers that bloomed there last season.  However, my thoughts were propelled towards spring with the arrival of the season’s first garden seed catalog in today’s mail.

Gardening has been part of my life since I was probably six or seven.  It began with my grandfather’s tomato plants and rhubarb in his backyard on Cherry Street, punctuated with trips to my uncle’s farm near Waymansville to pick up a basket of cow manure every growing season.  That always made for a rather stinky ride back into town, but boy did it work wonders on those tomatoes.  I remember tilling up my own spot in our backyard on Chestnut Street when I was 12 and fondly recall the stand of popcorn I grew.  One could say gardening got into my blood at an early age, or maybe it was always there coming alive in yet another generation.

Although I have never had quite the garden that my parents once had, I have enjoyed a garden every season that I have had my own home.  I cannot imagine a spring where I would not be digging in the soil and patiently putting seed and plants in the ground.  To not smell the perfume of fresh soil, herbs, and garden plants; to not feel the seeds of the future in the palm of my hand.  To lose these things would be to give up a bit of my spirit, my connection to the earth.  Gardening is one outward manifestation of my connection to nature.  Whether holding a fresh tomato in my hand or admiring an ox-eye daisy growing in my wildflower garden, each reminds me of the presence of the divine in those things outside that I hold so dear.  There is something refreshing about washing the cares of the day away outside among my vegetables, herbs, and blooming perennials, a touch of nature as close as my backyard.  So as I wait for spring, I will keep the garden catalogs that arrive close at hand as a reminder that hope springs eternal.

“The love of gardening is a seed once sown that never dies.” – Gertrude Jekyll

“The garden suggests that there might be a place where we can meet nature halfway.”  – Michael Pollan

“I like gardening – it’s a place where I find myself when I need to lose myself.”             – Alice Sebold

“If you have a garden and a library, you have everything you need.” – Cicero