Tending the Fire

Even though we only had one full month this year that we didn't build a fire, I forgot some things about tending one. The weather is chilly cool and rainy, the tamaracs are a painting on the mountainsides and there's a nice white-tail buck stalking the woods surrounding the house. The black bear seems to have moved on and wood must be fed in a consistent manner to keep the house toasty warm.

A consistent manner - hour by hour, day by day.

No, that's not my fire pit, not my gorgeous cast iron dutch oven, but I'd love to cook that way sometime. I fancy myself green witch drawn to cauldrons full of critical ingredients - onions, garlic, potatoes, venison, parsnip, yam, ginger and peppers. And maybe the occasional eye of newt. I sprinkle some leftover or borrowed hope, a glimmer of faith, a forgotten belief in something. My own cast iron skillet goes in the oven to be retrieved an hour or so later with food medicinal in nature, glorious in taste. I feed the fire.

I know I've been silent here for awhile but it was necessary. The inner fires have been raging and have required their own consistent tending. They have left me wrung out, exhausted and mad. I temporarily lost interest in much of anything except my sobriety and getting through the day. It's entirely discomforting to suddenly turn scarlet with flush, break out into an entire body sweat that feels like it's literally steaming out the top of one's head while trying to speak with a customer or a friend or the cat for gods sake. Mini-kundalini volcanoes. I'm reading Derrick Jensen and the words reach me in a deep place that takes time to assimilate: the truth harsh and cold. I have to take breaks from the book, but I'm compelled to continue reading each time I pause and I steel myself and open the pages - telling myself I can keep it at an emotional distance, I can keep from going into the dark place, telling myself it's necessary, it's part of becoming aware. I read chapters aloud to Brent and he hangs on every word. We feed the fire.

I have continued following the Gulf Coast and there continues to be excellent work done there, although don't for a minute think BP or our government have much of anything to do with that - except getting us there in the first place. National Geographic did a cover story, which mostly bored me to tears and the spill has been in the national news again, but the reports come with no real stories of assistance where it's needed most. They do not engage me the way Drew Wheelan with the American Birding Assocation and the bloggers at the Gulf Restoration Network continue to do. These grassroots activists are my heroes and there are pockets of them all over the globe. A friend in South Africa works to slow the same type of destruction to her Delta knowing that it's late late late in the game. We feed the fire.

We can all see what's happening here, can't we? The story will continue to die down as more and more of these disasters take place. I haven't heard much about the Red Sludge lately. They've built a wall, people are returning to their homes. But there's lead in that stuff and it's radioactive and the ground is a sponge. And it's happening in a thousand different ways in a thousand different places that we never hear about and never will.

We must see that any real answers will not come from the established order. Pluto cojunct Ceres asks us to revolutionize our relationship with the food we eat. To offer it respect and good soil, clear sunshine and pristine water. To thank it for the life it gives, whether animal, vegetable or mineral, and to offer something back. The deer are abundant here and their meat is healthy, lean and good. I will let one choose me and honor our pact from the moment I take the shot to the last savory bite. My willingness to participate so intimately with my food is surprising still to me. It is changing me. It is making me better. I don't like the task especially, don't enjoy killing in any way except that that's the way it feels it should be - if I want the meat (and I do) and I intend to eat it (the only reason to hunt in my opinion), I should at least bless it for myelf and recieve the animal's blessing. I'm almost certain it changes the food, making it a bit more nutritious, a bit more delicious, allowing a healing alchemy to take place in the cells. Our plant and animal siblings help feed the fire.

I'd love to hear how you're feeding the fire.

Hard-Ass Work

"Since the media is no longer here, no one is asking the questions, and BP seems to have the run of things. I have been in a deep depression the last two weeks coming to term with the fact that the nation's attention span doesn't seem to allow for any more real reporting about the spill. One of the main problems is that to solve this issue involves confronting our very own personal behaviors and habits, and it makes it a much harder thing to deal with day-in and day-out. We just want it to be rosey and good and for the birds to live happily ever after, and that's not the case."

The above quote is from Drew Wheelan who blogs for the American Birding Association and has been reporting findings from the Gulf that are much different than what you will hear on the evening news. Drew has become one of my heroes, along with most of the other organizations and bloggers I link to. For some reason, though, I was drawn more personally into the experience through Drew's covering it. In the past few months, Drew has awakened to a reality he finds difficult to face. And yet he continues to face it day after day, he continues to consistently report what he finds and try to gain attention, and he's man enough to tell us how dmaned depressing it all is - especially the head-in-the-very-oily-sand attitude of his fellow Americans.

He linked to this site by the Louisiana Environmental Action Network. There is very disturbing video on this site - hundreds of dead birds on Raccoon Island, not necessarily oiled, but definitely killed by something.

I understand Drew's feelings all too well. I continue to experience depression and some anxiety as I learn about the true state of the world, my complicity in that state, and how very late it is in the game. Like Drew, I'm learning about these things in a very short period of time. These intense negative mental states were not new to me. My life-time struggle with alcoholism and mental health issues had wrought similar states in the past. Everyone assumes that awakening is a glorious, spiritual experience usually accompanied by states of bliss and oneness. I beg to differ.

Awakening is hard-ass work; it's mostly not fun at all and the frustration level itself can be paralyzing. But there is something through the other side and for me it's a burgeoning sense of purpose. Every day that I stay sober I beat the odds. Every time that I post about the crime in the Gulf, which is only a symptom of the larger crime being perpetrated, there's a chance the right person will read it. Every plan that I make and implement to live closer to the earth is an opportunity to feel my true place and share how I think such village living is a huge part of the answer to the world's woes.

My wish for Drew, and for anyone else struggling with anguish over our world, is that they find this same sense of purpose. That they know there is no small action now. Everything counts.

When we need comfort around here, we turn to our food. Slow comfort food. One of our favorites is roasted roots, rustic. Here's my favorite version:

Roasted Roots, Rustic

1 sweet potato or yam, sliced

1 yukon gold potato, sliced

1/2 red bell pepper sliced in strips

1/2 yellow or orange bell pepper sliced in strips

1/2 onion sliced however you want it

cloves or garlic, as many as you want, these turn out so yummy and are packed with myriad health benefits along with all the other ingredients

2 tbsp olive oil

1 tbsp coarse ground sea salt

1/2 tbsp ground black pepper

few sprigs of fresh rosemary (optional)

Place ingredients in an oiled cast iron skillet. Drizzle olive oil over all and bake in the oven at 350 degrees for an hour. Eat. Go to heaven.

Thanks, Drew! For all your hard work and commitment. You are not alone.