This was the second weekend of boiling our collection of maple sap into syrup. Last year we lived in downtown Bethel where people walked by and if we were sitting out by the boil, they would come into the maple vapors and chat. This is our first farming event up here on Intervale Road. People drive by fast and aren't as likely to notice our process or take the time to stop. Last week, I got a call from our old neighbor Bill wondering if it was Maple Sunday at our place as it was Maple Sunday for the entire state. Of course, I told him but noone had stopped by...he was calling to see if he could come and sit by the boil and chat. Sweet. Just as I told him that I miss the spontaneous visits of friends downtown, the doorbell rang. John and Marilyn had come by to check out the process. They pulled in followed by Stephen who had made a trip to the dump and moments later Bill arrived. No sooner said than done....again we had a circle of maple celebrants spontaneously pop in. There is something about the ritual of maple-syrup making that marks the new year of growing after the winter of mountain recreation. The magic of the mistlike vapors, the sweet aroma rising into the air and the cultivation of nature's sweetness...it's healing and slow and we sit watching, eating peanuts, skimming the nitre froth and adding sap as the fire turns this run of tree juice into one of the worlds great flavors.
This Sunday after ending rituals at Sunday River...The Annual Perfect Turn Prom and Gary's annual corned beef for St. Patty's Day party...we invited our friends over for a Maple Food Fest.
Stephen religiously attended to the boil and collecting of sap while entertaining the appearance of friends who come by to check out the syrup making. I am working only weekends and though unable to collect and spend the time sitting, I still have my jobs. I do all the collecting and sterilizing of jars and we work together to seal and fill the jars with our finished syrup. Sunday I left work early. Who wants to learn to ski when it's pouring rain at the end of the season anyway. I had maple plans...we learned years ago that dropping eggs into the boil has the effect of clarifying the syrup...so for apetizers we enjoyed farm fresh eggs from Jill and Pete's hens. Anita and Ricky brought some salmon and we put our pieces of fish together in a maple/ginger/garlic marinade to cook on the barbeque and serve with baby yams and a big field green salad. For desert we had French Vanilla ice cream with warm syrup drizzled over it and an aperitif of dark rum mixed with warm syrup. WOW. Talk about buzzing on the sweetness of the season.We were a circle of celebrants celebrating the cycle of seasons by honoring the gift of the Sugar Maple available for only about 3 weeks in late March and early april. We never know how much we'll get but this year we were ready for the first run and so far it has been a banner year with a net result of a gallon of syrup for about 33 gallons of sap.
The sap is the blood of the tree. The product and process of making syrup was a gift of knowledge from our indiginous peoples...a kind sharing of knowledge that exemplifies life in harmony with the wild green things of planet Earth. The New Moon is passed and the time for planting some seeds is at hand. I wonder what I can do to give back a gift in kind for the Maples'
sweet syrup or the Native American's gift of wisdom. I ask...and on my e-mail I have an invitation I share with you. The Crow Creek reservation in South Dakota reports that Native Americans living in abject poverty are having their lights and heat turned off by the big power companies and in shutting down their power for non-payment of bills they are putting the population of children and elders at risk. As you anticipate your planting season, please consider sending some seeds for zones 3-4 to Crow Creek Community Garden...C/O Lisa Lengkeek..530 S. St. John...Fort Thompson SD 57339 or write to day.of.dignity@gmail.com. We can support these impoverished folks with the same gift they offered to incoming immigrants centuries ago...the green growing gift of seeds. Happy Planting and count one more ring in the tree of life.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Timid Spring
March came in with a snowstorm and yesterday it was a nippy windchill of zero. There are redpolls, goldfinch, chickadees, titmice and nuthatches at the feeders. The ravens, crows and blue jays prefer the food mix I set up back for the deer. They are all raucus and calling out some yearning for warmth...sun and sex would be my guess. Stephen has set 22 taps and we had our first boil this weekend. The early run has given us nearly 2 gallons of syrup. We are the sweet suckers...human proboscis, sipping the nectars of the trees. Must be the inner hummingbird stirring in the southern hemisphere making ready for the journey north. My energy has changed over the past few days. There is a buzzing...a sense of newness that seems to be awakening inside me. I dreamed last night that an Indian elephant came running down the hill from the woods as I was calling out Susannah, Susannah...she seemed to be on a walkabout away from her handler and she was wearing a red square fabric head covering with fringe and glittering mirrors. She was so vivid as was my voice calling out for her...and when I opened my eyes, there were six deer at the edge of the woods. The wild contrast of the strong inner elephant to the reality of the six hungry deer so timid and gentle, inner to outer...winter to spring.
I like to think of Spring as a young fresh maiden, innocent and hopeful playing amongst the fields of flowers and Winter as the lecherous old man wearing dirty white clothes that are threadbare and receding. In my vision, the lecherous, dirty old man wants to grab the young maiden Spring but she will never be had because her strength is growing while his agression wanes. But of course, it's the chase that counts...and as the wheel turns and spring becomes stronger she grows toward summer and her chase begins to seek fruits from her flowers. But of all the seasons here in Maine, Spring steps out timidly...first donning dirt , mud and last falls' leaves. The snow recedes and leaves all manner of debris exposed to light. There is a delight in seeing the ground bare as it is. I realize that I've missed the Earth's subtle colors and texture...her solid matter beneath my unbooted feet. This renewed connection makes me deleriously happy. How can I bear the joy of the full flowering, the moist dark earth ready for planting...the smells of the early tender green shoots and brave crocuses. The emerging pale green and purple shoots remind me of hidden growth beneath my surface and the mystery of what all goes on under the snow and ice of a woman's winter feelings.
I had thought of myself as empty and passionless. Burned out from a frantic work pace and too many people, I feared I lost my vitality. My exhaustion prefaced absolutely everything I attempted to do. All winter I have been happiest to sit in front of the woodstove and read...too tired even to write. The emptiness of my mind...the boys all moved out...the job finished...the move finally accomplished...I felt happy to sit and just be but somehow nipping at my spirits was a sense that somehow by not doing, I was copping out on something else I should be accomplishing. The elephantine pressure of a do do do conciousness that I allowed to enslave my child-wild heart went on a walkabout...and I let it.
The sun in front of the barn is warm as the sap boils and the sweet maple mist rises like a prayer for all life to awaken and nourish itself. Stephen and I sit looking out at the vast expanse of mountain ranges and the frozen ribbon of river in a companionable silence. I inhale great draughts of maple smelling vapors and surrender to the delicious do-nothing enjoyment of the sun warming face and bones. Spring may be timid a she steps cautiously out from behind the white curtain...but taking her time, she is sure to put on a colorful display and deep in her child-wild heart, she knows we are all waiting breathless for her strong clear song of creation. I tell myself again...just because you don't see it, doesn't mean it isn't there. Finally it seems the wisdom of my years assures me that my vitality will return and I have grown faith enough to know that beneath my woman's winter layer of dirty ice and corn snow, sweet tender greens and gentle beginnings begin their journey toward flowering.
I like to think of Spring as a young fresh maiden, innocent and hopeful playing amongst the fields of flowers and Winter as the lecherous old man wearing dirty white clothes that are threadbare and receding. In my vision, the lecherous, dirty old man wants to grab the young maiden Spring but she will never be had because her strength is growing while his agression wanes. But of course, it's the chase that counts...and as the wheel turns and spring becomes stronger she grows toward summer and her chase begins to seek fruits from her flowers. But of all the seasons here in Maine, Spring steps out timidly...first donning dirt , mud and last falls' leaves. The snow recedes and leaves all manner of debris exposed to light. There is a delight in seeing the ground bare as it is. I realize that I've missed the Earth's subtle colors and texture...her solid matter beneath my unbooted feet. This renewed connection makes me deleriously happy. How can I bear the joy of the full flowering, the moist dark earth ready for planting...the smells of the early tender green shoots and brave crocuses. The emerging pale green and purple shoots remind me of hidden growth beneath my surface and the mystery of what all goes on under the snow and ice of a woman's winter feelings.
I had thought of myself as empty and passionless. Burned out from a frantic work pace and too many people, I feared I lost my vitality. My exhaustion prefaced absolutely everything I attempted to do. All winter I have been happiest to sit in front of the woodstove and read...too tired even to write. The emptiness of my mind...the boys all moved out...the job finished...the move finally accomplished...I felt happy to sit and just be but somehow nipping at my spirits was a sense that somehow by not doing, I was copping out on something else I should be accomplishing. The elephantine pressure of a do do do conciousness that I allowed to enslave my child-wild heart went on a walkabout...and I let it.
The sun in front of the barn is warm as the sap boils and the sweet maple mist rises like a prayer for all life to awaken and nourish itself. Stephen and I sit looking out at the vast expanse of mountain ranges and the frozen ribbon of river in a companionable silence. I inhale great draughts of maple smelling vapors and surrender to the delicious do-nothing enjoyment of the sun warming face and bones. Spring may be timid a she steps cautiously out from behind the white curtain...but taking her time, she is sure to put on a colorful display and deep in her child-wild heart, she knows we are all waiting breathless for her strong clear song of creation. I tell myself again...just because you don't see it, doesn't mean it isn't there. Finally it seems the wisdom of my years assures me that my vitality will return and I have grown faith enough to know that beneath my woman's winter layer of dirty ice and corn snow, sweet tender greens and gentle beginnings begin their journey toward flowering.
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