Death Only an Illusion

 

Asparagus... Dead or Alive?

Winter, and the world around me appears lifeless. 

However, that is an illusion. Beneath the surface of the soil roots of perennial plants continue to pulse slowly in their winter's rhythm. They even grow a little. Bulbs and rhizomes of daffodils, crocus, iris and others unhurriedly prepare for their spring appearances. Leafless trees continue their lives within the soil, in their broad roots that reach deep and wide. Even high in the cold air, branches and twigs tentatively form buds that gradually swell.

While annual plants that grow, flower and set seed in a single season are truly dead, they still continue to live, in a fashion. They've scattered seeds -- tiny little plants wrapped in a coat that hide in the darkness of the soil, patiently waiting to sprout when conditions are right, Life.

Grass roots dig deep.

Death at winter is merely an illusion. Roots and seeds thrive.

I find it fascinating that for most plants, especially perennials, at least half of their mass remains unseen, in the roots beneath the surface of the soil, where they survive apparent death. These roots can connect with the roots of other plants, sometimes directly, more often through fungal mycelium that lives in symbiosis with them -- connection and communication.

I believe that humans are the same. Most of what we are exists beneath the surface, our roots, in the realm of spirit -- or whatever you wish to call it -- where we can connect. And even once we no longer exist in the material plain, we continue on in the unseen realm. Our roots remain.

Roots continue to pulse slowly, regardless of appearances... Spirits remain, regardless of appearances.

My family begins the new year looking a little different. My father died in early December, at 100 years and one week old. He took his last breath in the same house, and likely in the same room where he took his first breath. As a final poetic touch, it was also his mother's birthday.

Three of my four siblings, a niece, and a sister-in-law, my mother (of course), and I surrounded his bed. Because my parents always said the rosary before bed each night, Mom insisted that we pray the rosary while he still breathed. So we did. I have not practiced any type of Christianity, in decades, yet I held a rosary and prayed. It was an honor and privilege, a sacred act. Not long after we finished, Dad took his last breath. 

A beautiful, holy moment.

My dad's roots ran deep. Mom was surprised at how many people showed up at the visitation the evening before the funeral. The women who served the post-funeral meal told her that they had never served that many people at a funeral dinner. So many connections. His roots had spread wide; he had scattered many seeds.

Deep roots helped my dad survive and persevere. The Great Depression hit during his adolescence. He later served in the Army during World War II, seeing fierce battle. His best friend was killed next to him. He was nearly executed before being taken to a German prisoner of war camp, where he survived until the end of the war.

He persevered. His roots ran deep.

Once a soldier, always a soldier, it seems. Even though he came home from war to become a farmer/rancher, to marry and raise five children, the war stayed with him in dreams that caused him to scream in the middle of the night. He finally found respite in his 80s by speaking about his experience to students in area middle and high schools, as well as during gatherings of an organization for those who were in service during the Battle of the Bulge.

Even though he had not been a soldier for 80 years, the local American Legion honored him for his birthday, presenting him with several plaques. They honored him again at his funeral, lining the sidewalk to the church with flags and veterans of other wars at attention. At the burial, the U.S. Army Funeral Honors Details gave a 21-gun salute, and the flag that had draped his coffin was ceremoniously folded and given to my mom.

We leave our tracks through life.

When he had his stroke at the end of October, my only prayer was that he live lucidly until his 100th birthday. That prayer was answered. 

Once I notified my husband that Dad had breathed his last, he lit a candle by a photo of Dad. We kept a candle lit, day and night, for more than two weeks. When the last candle died, I felt sad. So I lit another candle for a short time. I needed one more farewell. 

I still feel his presence. His roots ran/run deep. I am like him in many ways, and keep digging my roots deeper. I hope that his spirit within me will inspire the strength to persevere through whatever difficulties come. I have been awed at the way his grandchildren, even my own son, viewed my dad as their hero. His legacy lives on within them, seeds sprouting. 

In a way, I do not feel that my father has died. It seems I have come to know him better in death than I ever did in life, by seeing him through the eyes of others. He continues on, unseen, but not unfelt.

Like the browned and crisped leaves of the purple coneflowers outside my back door, his roots and seeds survive; his death only an illusion.

Final Harvest... Almost

 

Here it is, the last lettuce harvest of the year, cut yesterday afternoon. Plus some arugula, a little dill, and a few stalks of celery.

It was a good run. I planted the lettuce in early September, making two plantings a week or two apart. The bed was draped with row cover and shade cloth to protect it from critters and intense sun. It was still really warm in September. Soaker hoses laid along the rows made it easy to keep the little plantings hydrated through the dry fall.

The lettuce seemed to take off much more slowly than I anticipated. However, once it started to reach harvestable size it kept us in lettuce, pretty much. As production dwindle, we supplemented with a little lettuce from the store. This last harvest will keep us in lettuce for a couple of weeks, since we recently bought some because we're take a huge salad to share with family tonight.

While this is the last harvest of lettuce, I still have more stuff to pull from the garden.

Yesterday, I dug horseradish, pulling out muddy roots. I soaked off most of the mud in a bucket filled with water, but they still need to be scrubbed. We still have a jar of horseradish sauce made from last year's roots, so I won't need to processed them quickly. Once they're scrubbed and trimmed, they'll keep well in a bag in the refrigerator. 

My sauce recipe: peel and cut up the roots. Put them in the blender with a little water and some cider vinegar. I use two to three tablespoons of vinegar per cup of puree, and just estimate how much vinegar I will use. I don't add the whole amount at first, but add the rest when I can see how much it will make. I do this because my husband doesn't like watery sauce, so I don't add so much water this way. You do need the liquid to get it to blend, though. I always put the blender near our range and turn on the exhaust. fumes from the horseradish are pretty potent. Don't put your face directly over the blender when you open it.

Yesterday I also pulled more purple daikons. These are my favorite radishes. I planted a lot. Maybe too many. We'll see. About one third of them, maybe less, remains in the ground. I will protect them from the coming deep lows -- in the upper teens Fahrenheit -- with heavy blankets. There are just too many to store in the space we have. When the root cellar reaches an acceptable temperature, they can go in there with the sweet potatoes. I read that you can keep them in a root cellar if you wrapped them individually in newspaper, as you do with sweet potatoes. I hope that works. The purple daikons are the fall vegetable I most look forward to.

Thank you for reading my blog. Have great holidays, however you celebrate.

Blessings.

Through the Mist

 

I love morning fog.

Everything shrouded in mist seems extra magical, because you can't quite see clearly. The world seems more quiet.

Are we waiting for something?

As is my habit, I took my morning coffee outside, so I could feel the fresh air on my face, and get a feel for what's going on in the land.

Robins were fluttering around in the large eastern red cedar next to our house. They like to feast on the juniper berries. 

I went to the tree to see what the birds were up to, and saw one robin perfectly framed by branches, a dark silhouette against the gray beyond. A perfect picture.

But I don't carry my camera with me. By the time I went inside and got it, the opportunity was gone. None of the other birds were cooperative subjects. Every time I moved to get a better look, the birds would flutter away.

A missed opportunity. 

Oh, well. Here's a shot of fog droplets hanging from the cedar's leaves. If you zoom in to a droplet, you can see the world upside down. 

Different perspectives are good to have.

Love the Earth

 

Kneel upon the Earth. Touch the Earth with a bare hand. Take off your shoes and dig your toes into warm soil or cool grass.
Lie face down, spread eagle upon the ground, with your heart area in contact with the Earth as much as possible. Hug the Earth. Open your heart to her energy. Relax fully onto, into the Earth.
Feel her embrace you in return.
Feel her with your Heart; with every molecule in your body make a connection.
She supports you, nourishes you.

Say, “Thank you.”
Feel, “Thank you.”

Let the gratitude for her gifts fill you, lift you. Let gratitude flow from you into the Earth.
Speak to the Earth as your dear Mother. See the Earth in Her fullness.
Let your love for her fill you, lift you. Let love flow from you into the Earth, spreading outward, touching all her Children.

Caress the Earth. Love her. Embrace her and feel her holding you fast.
Thank you, Mother.
Now hug a tree.
Thank you.
Dig your bare toes into sun-warmed soil.
Thank you.
Walk barefoot through the garden.
Thank you.

Let every step you take be a prayer to the Earth that holds you.
Pick up some soil and feel it, smell it.
Rub a soft lamb’s ear leaf against your cheek.
Or stick your face into the soft, ferny foliage of a silver mound artemisia, inhaling its sharp, yet earthy fragrance.

 Touch the Earth.
And she will touch you.
Love her and she will love you.
Every step I take, a prayer.
Every step I take, a prayer of gratitude.
Every step I take, every act, a gesture of love. A gesture of Love.
 
Open all of your senses to the mysteries and the magic around you. Feel the Earth’s heartbeat in the soles of your feet, vibrating upward and through you.
Feel the magical, the spiritual energy flowing from and through the Earth, through you.
Open your eyes to the beauty and mystery of the Earth.

Listen to the Earth.
She speaks to you with the vastness of a mountain valley and the tiny voice of a ladybug wandering among the leaves. It is all magical, however ordinary.
Every step, a prayer.
Every step, gratitude.
 
The Earth is my Mother,
I shall not want.

Solstice Greetings

 Lighting the Solstice candle at sunset.

May we all make it safely through the longest night 

And find Joy, Peace and Abundance in the coming Light.