All around me the maple trees are beginning to push their formulated sap and sugary antifreeze up their veins. It happens when the day time temperatures rise above 32F and night-time temperatures fall back below. Light and length of day cause this awakening of spring. When this begins to happen, like a few days back, when the moist air of a coming storm wanders through the trees, the smell of budding scents the air. It is a subtle perfume, very noticeably different from the decaying autumn death smell of earlier winter storms, or the cold precise arctic midwinter storms. Maple sugar has been one of my primary foods over this life’s span. The tree could be a Goddess with a siren call the way I use its sugar on my pancakes and fry bread. There’s nothing more satisfying than a good nap after the sugar drop, a result from the sugar high, so I have learned to use maple as an inducement to relaxation much the same way people crave turkey for its tryptophan. The feeling of wellbeing is a very tempting comfort corner of human existence.
Now that I have been through the experience as described in the last blog back on the trail, I am left to wonder what I can possibly do for a “living,” or essentially an income, now that it seems plain the days poking about remodel and new construction jobs may be gone forever, falls and other accidents beginning to mark my once resilient and work hardened body. And with my re-established contact with the Power Greater than Myself, I witness my internal egotistical musings like “It’s a good thing I cultivated my mind at the same time as my body, la la la la la.” Truth comes smelling as spring on the storm, I have no idea what the heck I will do to get back to where I once began. My strengthened faith reviews the last two years of unemployment, or more properly, out of business, and I see that while I have lived on the edge of the meanest poverty, those same friends who quickly showed up for my near miss, have also helped keep me one step above sleeping in a tent in a snow drift. (Okay, I admit, it would be a little trailer and a truck camper.) That has been easy to recompense with chores and repairs, but even at the best of barter calculations my income has dropped below $4000 each of the last two years. Don’t try that at home! I see this as one of my Aumakua tests. There were some powerful souls in my family tree. I’ve been tested hard with these issues, as anyone else going through them, and there are different shades of progression of the crumble.
A very large man, in both directions up and across, was begging “for the homeless,” outside of Whole Foods Market yesterday. Rather than share my story I just waived him off with a “I’m homeless, too.” And I wonder about that. My New York Aumakua lived in logs, bark, and litter. In the north country even to this day people pile litter or hay bales around their houses. When Llan S. and I remodelled the old chicken coop–his service-to-others gift to my homelessness– we used plywood (modern bark), glue (pitch), and fiberglass litter fill. As we worked, I stayed in my tent and then my truck camper until December 1st. I was doing “scientific experiments” with my survival skills and doing with what I had left after the flicking picking out of control losses of California. This morning when I was where I go when my unihipili (low self), goes to meditate on yesterday’s breakfast, I thought about how the vision of a slow crumble could frustrate the likes of Dereck Jensen, Carolyn Baker, and James Howard Kunstler, all who have expected a great crash–I mean Dimitri Orlov must be breathless awaiting–the end could take a very long time. You can ask my former spouse, I thought the crash was coming 40 years ago! And it keeps hanging on, hanging on, as if the World’s Collective Aumakua wants to give us every opportunity to pass our tests to be nice to one another, to be and do good.
Maple trees can be pushed to hard. There is a size to sap volume need that if it is exceeded, the tree can be killed. I find it interesting that no one talking Green is talking about living within the means, those folks who talk about within means are those of my friends and some writers I have witnessed above, who know that the Tree of Life can be killed by taking out too much of its Mana. When an article gets published in Britain that the topsoil will be gone in 60 years, that demonstrates mining, not farming. If you want to “know” farming, check out Joe Saladin in Virginia. Green does not go with industrialism. The Revolution, the American Civil War, the subterfuge of “science” over family farming wisdom, all are part of the struggle of Agrarian versus Industrialism as humanity strove toward modernity. Modernity was a late 19th century model that laid the scientific thinking of the 20th century. The struggles in wars and politics going on now relate to control by Monsanto industrialism over the lands of peasant family farmer wisdom. Industrial mining of the soil depends on gasoline and diesel to work long tracts of land free of individual borders. Continuing doom foreshadows the oil markets with depletion. If it’s not an issue, why is there a tax deduction for depletion? The summation of the industrial-agraian dialectic is that modernity’s invention by people at the end of the 19th century to grow perfectly failed forests like on Martha’s Vineyard, and spawned a group of pseudo intellectuals believing they had the wisdom to lead the people in a One World Government they labelled the New World Order. The Titanic isn’t broke yet, but I can hear the strain below me now. The seed of Postmodernity was sown at the end of the 20th century, what kind of fruit will that represent?
The problem is not Global Warming, that’s a fluctuatable relativity. The problem is Global Mining. Humus captures carbon dioxide. Properly composted, humus also holds nitrogen (ammonia), and methane is not produced. Our best friends, microbes, flourish in compost. It’s probiotics for the soil. Global Changes have been well under way for years now. Do you expect a solar and planetary system to respond like you want it to? Do you expect to have the same summer weather for each of your Martha’s Vineyard vacations? Do you want to know how much rain and cool we had in 1969 after the harbor froze over during the winter? Or do you just want to be in with the in crowd? Science is a nonstop affair. I’ve seen the simulation graphs about weather out of control, and it is easy to see the reality has already left the “Global Warming” band. There’s nothing I can do about it, I have neither money, nor are my 40 years of observations socially worthy of consideration by the religion most high science. Right now I am in a heightened spiritual state, probably from the seven steps I slid down last month whacking each of my seven chakras. A moment of wake up, get this down, the weather changes. In a few months it will be summer, at least if Yellowstone doesn’t go biblical on us. My falls and hospitalization more and more look like preparation and testing for something–truly exciting to live through– about to come. At least I can see the timing for sugaring is still intact.