Dec. 31, 2014
When I hung the first one up and turned around to leave the narrow garden, a swarm of bushtits landed on the suet cage just in front of me. I stopped and stood like an overgrown garden gnome. A hummingbird swooped in behind me for her second breakfast. The varied thrushes trilled their haunting morning songs to the apple tree as all the little birds found a space for themselves at the swinging table. Before long, they all moved on to the next foraging tree and I walked across to the veggie garden to hang up the other hummingbird feeder.
All around the yard, there are small advancements toward spring, but I have indoor plants to keep me from descending on the garden with seeds just yet. The orchids are showing their faces now. I was given four orchids at the end of September to add to the five already in my bay window, and after re-potting, they all started growing flower stalks. I had hoped to give a few away as gifts, but I am so curious about what they will look like that I have turned into an orchid hoarder. It's a snug fit at their table, but they love each other's company. When I walk past them, I can tell that they are singing. Their music is inaudible, but I sing in a choir and know the feeling of singing together. The air around them hums. Each day there is a new flower opening.
I am learning about patience -- trusting that everything unfolds in its own time and knowing that there are many steps to support life in the interim. When I weary of short days and start chafing for spring, I will think of the wild bees sleeping in my garden. They are the most important seeds in the yard right now and this is the longest rest they will have during their lifetimes. No need to rush them.
All around the yard, there are small advancements toward spring, but I have indoor plants to keep me from descending on the garden with seeds just yet. The orchids are showing their faces now. I was given four orchids at the end of September to add to the five already in my bay window, and after re-potting, they all started growing flower stalks. I had hoped to give a few away as gifts, but I am so curious about what they will look like that I have turned into an orchid hoarder. It's a snug fit at their table, but they love each other's company. When I walk past them, I can tell that they are singing. Their music is inaudible, but I sing in a choir and know the feeling of singing together. The air around them hums. Each day there is a new flower opening.
I am learning about patience -- trusting that everything unfolds in its own time and knowing that there are many steps to support life in the interim. When I weary of short days and start chafing for spring, I will think of the wild bees sleeping in my garden. They are the most important seeds in the yard right now and this is the longest rest they will have during their lifetimes. No need to rush them.
Dec. 14, 2014 How to Handle Corvid Bullies by Juvenal B. Eagle
Dec. 1, 2014
Nov. 16, 2014
Ten days ago, one of my friends succumbed to a wind storm. Considerate to the end, she side-stepped the neighbour's new addition and only blocked half the street. Other trees in the region made more of a fuss, taking out power lines and demolishing a house.
I miss her presence outside, so I'm happy to have found the above photograph from last year. Now I can remember her while I adjust to the new situation. There are a few smaller trees that camouflage the space she left behind. They will grow faster now. Within an hour of her fall, the city crews cut her back from the road. They returned the next morning to clear her away. Except for the dent in the hedge, only a few people would know that anything had happened.
I went to say goodbye to her shortly after she fell and thanked her for being in the world with me. I prayed for healing and love to buffer her as the chainsaws worked. A few days later I was walking through a parking lot just as the afternoon sun was caught and reflected from the leaves of a beautiful tree I'd walked by often but never really noticed. I had to stop and stare.
The next day a different tree shone its beauty at me with the same intensity as some friends and I drove by on our way to choir practice. I do love trees and notice them quite often, but when there is a sudden stronger focus on them than usual it feels as a form of communication takes place. As I was gazing at the second tree I felt a rush of love and appreciation and realized that I was looking at a cottonwood and had been the day before as well. I got the message. There is no need to miss my friend. She is everywhere now.
I miss her presence outside, so I'm happy to have found the above photograph from last year. Now I can remember her while I adjust to the new situation. There are a few smaller trees that camouflage the space she left behind. They will grow faster now. Within an hour of her fall, the city crews cut her back from the road. They returned the next morning to clear her away. Except for the dent in the hedge, only a few people would know that anything had happened.
I went to say goodbye to her shortly after she fell and thanked her for being in the world with me. I prayed for healing and love to buffer her as the chainsaws worked. A few days later I was walking through a parking lot just as the afternoon sun was caught and reflected from the leaves of a beautiful tree I'd walked by often but never really noticed. I had to stop and stare.
The next day a different tree shone its beauty at me with the same intensity as some friends and I drove by on our way to choir practice. I do love trees and notice them quite often, but when there is a sudden stronger focus on them than usual it feels as a form of communication takes place. As I was gazing at the second tree I felt a rush of love and appreciation and realized that I was looking at a cottonwood and had been the day before as well. I got the message. There is no need to miss my friend. She is everywhere now.
Nov. 11, 2014
Oct. 31, 2014
Oct. 26, 2014
Oct. 23, 2014
Sending love, peace and healing to the people and places most in need of them today.
Oct. 21, 2014
Sometimes I get out into the wider world of nature for a change. There are always elements of the small within the infinite.
My psyche resets when I spend a day exploring the outdoors whether as adventurer, fisher, photographer or tourist. In the days following, all my chores become fun again. Life is a game. Many times I forget I am playing.
Two days ago I felt like a kid again. It was the first time I had been so close to any bison, let alone surrounded by a herd of seventy. The lead bull has developed such a taste for alfalfa biscuits he lets people hand-feed him. My mom and I were the only ones in the wagon that day, other than the farmer and his dog.
I love learning about animals from the people who care for them. I always assumed that the bull bison were the most defensive of the herd, but apparently the first ones to respond to any threat are the three year-old females. They have not yet grown into the role of mother, but their protective instincts are sharpening.
If a strange dog comes into the field and starts barking, no matter how spread out the herd is, it is these girls who first approach the danger. If things escalate, then the bulls take notice and put their size and strength into backing up the girls.
I would love to sit quietly for a long time and just observe these creatures. I imagine herds so large that they would take days to move through an area. I wonder about the sound of millions of hooves. I envision planting food in soil deep and rich from years of naturally distributed bison manure (and then I picture the bison demolishing my garden more thoroughly than any deer.)
The destruction of the bison herds and resultant starving out of the First Nations people who depended upon them for survival is one of the foulest crimes against life on my continent. I am grateful to the farmers and conservationists who have brought the bison numbers back up from the late-19th century population of 1091 to roughly 500 000 today. The herd I visited is ethically raised and culled to supply healthy, non-GMO meat to our local market. Because of the life's work of so many people, I am able to see and touch living bison; to launch my daydreams from experience, not just from a drawing, photograph, or description.
Two days ago I felt like a kid again. It was the first time I had been so close to any bison, let alone surrounded by a herd of seventy. The lead bull has developed such a taste for alfalfa biscuits he lets people hand-feed him. My mom and I were the only ones in the wagon that day, other than the farmer and his dog.
I love learning about animals from the people who care for them. I always assumed that the bull bison were the most defensive of the herd, but apparently the first ones to respond to any threat are the three year-old females. They have not yet grown into the role of mother, but their protective instincts are sharpening.
If a strange dog comes into the field and starts barking, no matter how spread out the herd is, it is these girls who first approach the danger. If things escalate, then the bulls take notice and put their size and strength into backing up the girls.
I would love to sit quietly for a long time and just observe these creatures. I imagine herds so large that they would take days to move through an area. I wonder about the sound of millions of hooves. I envision planting food in soil deep and rich from years of naturally distributed bison manure (and then I picture the bison demolishing my garden more thoroughly than any deer.)
The destruction of the bison herds and resultant starving out of the First Nations people who depended upon them for survival is one of the foulest crimes against life on my continent. I am grateful to the farmers and conservationists who have brought the bison numbers back up from the late-19th century population of 1091 to roughly 500 000 today. The herd I visited is ethically raised and culled to supply healthy, non-GMO meat to our local market. Because of the life's work of so many people, I am able to see and touch living bison; to launch my daydreams from experience, not just from a drawing, photograph, or description.
If I had to classify these creatures for the first time, I would call them grizzly cattle. That's why I am not a taxonomist. With that nickname in mind, though, feeding the largest bull was a daunting concept. At some point, those biscuits would run out -- and then what? Well, then he would just search around the grass for any that were dropped and push aside every other bison who was going for them.
His slimy-yet-grabby tongue kept slurping my fingers into his mouth along with the biscuit. All was well, though. He had no upper teeth. Maybe I'll re-think the bear connection. |
Consider all the endangered wildlife on Earth right now. The human population is at seven billion. There are enough of us that if we work toward helping just one life form, whether a rare lichen, a tree, a bumble bee, a tiger or an orangutan, we can improve the chances of their survival. Through them, we will secure our own. There are so many interconnections that our efforts will overlap and improve things for all. Helping nature feels so good that it's easy to get carried away and help ten or fifty thousand life forms. Nurturing life in our own locales makes the most sense, but some places need extra help.
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One day, with good fortune, I will have great great grandchildren. I would like those young people to have a beautiful diversity of plants and creatures with which to share this planet. I hope that, to their generation, expressing love, appreciation and respect for Mother Earth will be as natural as breathing. I hope they will know that their ancestors valued them enough to change.
Oct. 16, 2014
The log in the middle picture has sat at the edge of the fireweed garden for a few years now. It is studded with holes, maybe drilled by woodboring beetles of some sort. Because the cavities are small and close to forage, a few were adopted by digger bees, who filled them with supplies and next year's brood, then capped them off with mud. Dead wood, where it isn't about to fall on anyone, is one of the mainstays of pollinator habitat.
The picture on the right is of part of our yard that was excavated early this spring. People don't often like having bare patches of ground in the middle of the lawn, but if you leave a few areas of poor, dry soil around and resist the urge to mulch them or plant a tree there (the only time you'll hear me recommend that) many species of ground nesting bee will populate your yard and keep your garden producing beautifully.
The picture on the right is of part of our yard that was excavated early this spring. People don't often like having bare patches of ground in the middle of the lawn, but if you leave a few areas of poor, dry soil around and resist the urge to mulch them or plant a tree there (the only time you'll hear me recommend that) many species of ground nesting bee will populate your yard and keep your garden producing beautifully.
Oct. 12, 2014
One of the best ways to honour someone far away, whether they are embodied or in spirit, is to plant something for them and tend it. All the day-to-day love and care that, for whatever reason, you cannot give the person directly can go into one of their favourite plants. It is a way of building living connections in your everyday life. When the plant flowers, or is otherwise at its most glorious, you can take a photograph and send it to your loved one. Or, if your loved one has passed on, you can sit by the plant and envisage him or her sitting with you and enjoying the beauty. Create new shared memories.
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Oct. 9, 2014 A Year in the Life of a Concrete Buddha
October 6, 2014 In Praise of Fireweed
Fireweed is a powerhouse. It sustains a diversity of creatures in the wilderness and the garden. It doesn't give up and loll around doing nothing when the deer snack on it, it just forms flowers lower down on its stalk and feeds any insect that likes nectar. Even its leaves are raw materials for the nests of leafcutter bees. It started flowering at the end of June and there are still several blooms sustaining the hardy late-season bees.
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I am going to add another big patch of these to the yard next year. I love lying on the lawn and watching the play of the wind through the fireweed. Hearing many types of bees working the blossoms in summer helps me to completely relax in the shade beside them. The "weed" designation in its name seems based on its success at growing in uncultivated areas. Though it doesn't deserve to be lumped into the same category as invasive plants such as knotweed or giant hogweed. Sharing garden space with my spring-flowering shrubs, it leaves them plenty of sun as it begins its growth anew each year. Then it gently shades them through the hottest part of the summer. So far it's working for everyone, most of all the bees, who get a steady supply of nectar as the weigela finishes flowering and the fireweed begins.
The Xerces Society for Invertebrate Conservation is teaching farmers in the United States to build pollinator corridors amid their fields. It takes a tremendous amount of work to establish these, but once in place, they sustain a population of wild bees who can work the crops year after year. Wild bees are the most efficient pollinators around and some of the most adversely effected by current agricultural methods. Fireweed doesn't care if it feeds rare bumble bees or domesticated honey bees, though. It just gives and gives. When it finishes flowering, it dries up and the seed pods split open. Downy seeds hop the breeze and seek to establish another feeding post for the life forms that we all depend upon. The dried stalks provide a framework for spiders to build their autumn clean-up webs. Many of their prey are yellow-jacket wasps whose nests have finished and who have nothing better to do than harass us when we're making jam. Spiders and colder nights thin that population pretty quickly.
This plant gives us the true meaning of success: it helps the highest number of beings it possibly can. Year after year, it grows back after winter's sleep, bringing vibrancy to the hottest, driest part of summer. I like to leave its buds to open for the bees, but they are also filled with nutrients and are delicious in salads: another good reason to expand our crop.
Sept. 28, 2014
Sometimes when an opportunity flies by, there is no thought or question, I just reach for it. It was late afternoon in the blueberry garden when this lacewing flew by. It landed on my hand and I found a patch of sunlight so I could try to get a clear picture of it. Here it is, another beautiful natural way to keep the aphid population down to a dull roar. |
Sept. 25, 2014
Sometimes my enthusiasm for the yard reminds me of my Nana's enthusiasm for Coronation Street. I love the shocked sounds of discovery she makes, evoked by plot twists and devious characters. I caught myself making nearly the same sounds when I learned that the tachinid fly that I captured on camera a couple of weeks ago is one of the best biological pest controls around. It parasitizes this variety of moth that I photographed back in June, and only just learned is the adult form of the army worm, which loves to eat grain, but will settle for vegetable crops in a pinch. The connections between seemingly random insects and events are so intriguing. I get a sense of the overall
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pattern at work in my environment. I have a large enough population of the moths to support the flies, who keep caterpillars from eating all our crops and are kept at a reasonably sized population themselves, feeding families of swallows and flycatchers. Oohwah!
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Sept. 24, 2014
Finding a calling can be a life's work. We can follow our curiosity to discover what lights us up. We can observe people who have found their calling. We need not copy their path, just get a sense of their diligence. The work itself is a reward. At best, it brings money, but the primary recognition comes from our own satisfaction of a job well done. Craftsmanship inspires. Honeybees could kick off a pandemic of creativity.
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The Earth needs us to light up from within. She needs us to act on our joys and to grow our light so that it shines into the world. Only then will this façade of society fall away. We will see beauty in one another and work together to clean up the messes caused by our hiding. The true face of life on our planet will sparkle anew.
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Sept. 9, 2014
Sept. 5, 2014
One sign of an early winter -- most of the bumble bees disappear in August. Another sign: the rudbeckia flower and apple tree grow moustaches. There are still one or two queen bumbles feeding around the yard each day, plus a few drones. I suspect many of next year's queens have already mated and tucked themselves into a nice cozy bed of leaf litter. The leaf cutter and honey bees are still kicking around the flower patches, as well as a few hummingbirds. This Anna's isn't wearing a toque yet, so we might be okay for another couple of weeks.
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Sept. 2, 2014
I have rediscovered canning. My whole experience with it was limited to pitting and peeling peaches in my grandparents' farmhouse more than twenty-five years ago. There was a downstairs kitchen, with linoleum floors over cool concrete; perfect for the job. Even there, the temperatures of Okanagan summer reached us. The vat of syrup that Granny was boiling on the stove added its warmth as well as some humidity. The vinyl-coated chairs were always sticky on my legs.
Even so, the atmosphere was wonderful. Stories and laughter floated all around as my cousins, aunts and I worked together. On snowy winter evenings to come, I would walk down to the cool storage room to collect a jar for dessert. All the summer memories would be bottled along with the peaches, waiting to spring out with the first taste. For safety, Gran handled the water bath canning process, so it remained a mystery to me. Until now!
I started by making fig jam, then tried plum. Cucumbers have been spewing forth from the garden and they demand attention. They are not pickling cukes, but homesteaders would have pickled whatever cucumbers showed up in their gardens. I just cut out the biggest seeds before plunking them into the jars. I even made one jar with lemon cucumbers.
My favourite part is taking the jars out of the canning bath. I pop them onto a towel on the counter and just look at them. After a while I wander off into another room to do something else. Just as I forget about them, they call me back with the magical popping sound of lids sealing. I feel as if I've tapped into a well of genetic happiness. Both sides of my family were farmers. They lived across the ocean from one another, with opposing seasons, but late summer always found my grandmothers canning away. This completes the cycle of growing food. This is the beginning of self-sufficiency!
Last night I dreamed that half the brine evaporated from my most beautiful jar of pickles and that I started eating another jar before the flavours had time to settle in. I suppose my dream was telling me to have patience and enjoy the process. I am!
Even so, the atmosphere was wonderful. Stories and laughter floated all around as my cousins, aunts and I worked together. On snowy winter evenings to come, I would walk down to the cool storage room to collect a jar for dessert. All the summer memories would be bottled along with the peaches, waiting to spring out with the first taste. For safety, Gran handled the water bath canning process, so it remained a mystery to me. Until now!
I started by making fig jam, then tried plum. Cucumbers have been spewing forth from the garden and they demand attention. They are not pickling cukes, but homesteaders would have pickled whatever cucumbers showed up in their gardens. I just cut out the biggest seeds before plunking them into the jars. I even made one jar with lemon cucumbers.
My favourite part is taking the jars out of the canning bath. I pop them onto a towel on the counter and just look at them. After a while I wander off into another room to do something else. Just as I forget about them, they call me back with the magical popping sound of lids sealing. I feel as if I've tapped into a well of genetic happiness. Both sides of my family were farmers. They lived across the ocean from one another, with opposing seasons, but late summer always found my grandmothers canning away. This completes the cycle of growing food. This is the beginning of self-sufficiency!
Last night I dreamed that half the brine evaporated from my most beautiful jar of pickles and that I started eating another jar before the flavours had time to settle in. I suppose my dream was telling me to have patience and enjoy the process. I am!
Aug. 27, 2014
Aug. 24, 2014
My parents looked after the garden while I was away for a week, so there are lots of happy plants here. Up north, the weather is already turning toward autumn. It was strange to see my breath in August. I am looking forward to some continued warmth here so that the rest of my tomatoes can ripen. Sauce, soup, and sandwiches are in our future! (And maybe some sleep.) There are still a few bumble bees about, but their numbers have really dropped. My late-season flowers are mostly feeding honey bees, leaf-cutter bees, and wool carder bees. With the drought here, some leaves are starting to fall already. This week, I will start gathering maple leaves to pile around the yard as hibernation habitat for the queen bumble bees. With so much to do, I will have to wait 'til next year to knit them socks.
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Aug. 14, 2014
All I do is create the conditions for growth, and it happens! These photos are just an overview of the gifts from our garden that have graced our table this summer. Well, except for the berries... they rarely see the inside of the house. Their itinerary looks like this: 10 AM Finish ripening.
10:01AM Arrival at YUM. 10:02AM Boarding Flight 123 -- Aircraft: Grabinator Series 300 10:02:03AM Land on Tastebuds and Explode with Flavour. |
Aug. 8, 2014
These photos could be the first few pages of a Kama Sutra for invertebrates. The idea of insects trying to record, for posterity, their many ways of mating makes me smile, but I also find these images quite beautiful. There are some pretty freaky positions, (I'm looking at you, dragonflies!) but this manner of sex is in harmony with all life. It isn't marketing anything or shaming anyone. These little beings are populating next year's garden. I hope they are having a jolly good time at it. There's a kind of "All's right with the world" that good loving brings out in folks (and bugs). Once people are done making the next generation, it's all about the glow.
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Aug. 7, 2014
The picture is blurry, I know. I was shaking when I took it: too much adrenaline from the few minutes prior. Now, obviously, I am not squeamish about insects or arachnids. There are some situations, though, in which calm fails and I freak, strip, and flail about until (a) I get stung (b) I get bitten or (c) I get it off of me.
Twice, I reached a most extreme level of panic. I am still surprised that in both cases, the creatures were safely removed with no harm to me or them. Probably because it keeps working, it's my automatic defense. I just hope the insects have the sense to leave me alone in public.
Six years ago, while sorting a massive pile of laundry in our basement, I saw a wolf spider on my shirt and dusted it off without more than a startle. Then I caught sight of another one as it ran up my sleeve. That required me to yelp and tear off my hoodie, but mostly I held it together. When I leaned down to pick up another piece of clothing, my hair swung in front of my face. Right in front of my eyes, I saw the blurry outline of a huge wolf spider. That was it. I smacked my hair, the spider landed on the carpet and I proceeded to run in a circle around the room, shrieking gibberish. This was a bit upsetting to my son, as he had just entered the room and hadn't seen the lead-up. Eventually, we calmed down. I checked my hoodie thoroughly before putting it back on, then grabbed a jar and card. Catching each spider in turn, I relocated them to the compost pile. The last one barely fit in the wide-mouth mason.
I was fine for a long time after that. Without incident, bees landed on my arm and ladybugs flew onto my hat. I developed a swift but calm dodge that worked well for anything flying at my eyes. Saturday night, all of this was ruined.
After crawling through the cucumber and squash vines, picking dinner, I walked into the kitchen, arms full of fresh food. Just then, I saw something black and yellow high up on my shirt. Buzzing loudly, it had the twitchy gait of a parasitic wasp as it darted toward my eye. Much of the harvest scattered. I started screaming for help because when I automatically tried to strip off my t-shirt, I hauled the wasp-thing even closer.
Amid the blinding expectation of pain, I had one lucid moment. The cucumber still clutched in my left hand was hook-shaped. I managed to flick the creature onto the floor and escaped into the dining room. My alarmed son arrived in time to see it fly off. I caught my breath and gathered up the pattypan squash, still wary of attack. My son spotted the creature in the kitchen window, so I grabbed a jar and an envelope and captured it. Then I released it on the back deck before making my brave retreat.
Once inside the house, it occurred to me to grab my camera. Identification is a great way to prevent this level of fear. After tolerating a couple of shaky shots, the insect flew. I fled. In the photo, I could see the stiff upper wings, so googled "beetle wasp images." It turned out that this was actually a wasp beetle, a gentle pollinator. It had no stinger or killer-mandibles, just a great act. Its wasp-like movement, sound, and colour were all designed to menace predator and farmer alike. Too bad it got the hook partway through its off-Broadway debut. I hope it recovers its confidence. My son's reaction: "So years from now, I will have to tell my therapist that you were never even in danger?"
Twice, I reached a most extreme level of panic. I am still surprised that in both cases, the creatures were safely removed with no harm to me or them. Probably because it keeps working, it's my automatic defense. I just hope the insects have the sense to leave me alone in public.
Six years ago, while sorting a massive pile of laundry in our basement, I saw a wolf spider on my shirt and dusted it off without more than a startle. Then I caught sight of another one as it ran up my sleeve. That required me to yelp and tear off my hoodie, but mostly I held it together. When I leaned down to pick up another piece of clothing, my hair swung in front of my face. Right in front of my eyes, I saw the blurry outline of a huge wolf spider. That was it. I smacked my hair, the spider landed on the carpet and I proceeded to run in a circle around the room, shrieking gibberish. This was a bit upsetting to my son, as he had just entered the room and hadn't seen the lead-up. Eventually, we calmed down. I checked my hoodie thoroughly before putting it back on, then grabbed a jar and card. Catching each spider in turn, I relocated them to the compost pile. The last one barely fit in the wide-mouth mason.
I was fine for a long time after that. Without incident, bees landed on my arm and ladybugs flew onto my hat. I developed a swift but calm dodge that worked well for anything flying at my eyes. Saturday night, all of this was ruined.
After crawling through the cucumber and squash vines, picking dinner, I walked into the kitchen, arms full of fresh food. Just then, I saw something black and yellow high up on my shirt. Buzzing loudly, it had the twitchy gait of a parasitic wasp as it darted toward my eye. Much of the harvest scattered. I started screaming for help because when I automatically tried to strip off my t-shirt, I hauled the wasp-thing even closer.
Amid the blinding expectation of pain, I had one lucid moment. The cucumber still clutched in my left hand was hook-shaped. I managed to flick the creature onto the floor and escaped into the dining room. My alarmed son arrived in time to see it fly off. I caught my breath and gathered up the pattypan squash, still wary of attack. My son spotted the creature in the kitchen window, so I grabbed a jar and an envelope and captured it. Then I released it on the back deck before making my brave retreat.
Once inside the house, it occurred to me to grab my camera. Identification is a great way to prevent this level of fear. After tolerating a couple of shaky shots, the insect flew. I fled. In the photo, I could see the stiff upper wings, so googled "beetle wasp images." It turned out that this was actually a wasp beetle, a gentle pollinator. It had no stinger or killer-mandibles, just a great act. Its wasp-like movement, sound, and colour were all designed to menace predator and farmer alike. Too bad it got the hook partway through its off-Broadway debut. I hope it recovers its confidence. My son's reaction: "So years from now, I will have to tell my therapist that you were never even in danger?"
Aug. 6, 2014
What higher form of gratitude is there than accepting my life at this moment? All of it -- without sad stories or pride attached, just freely observed: Where am I? It is really tough to let go of the "Where did I come from?" and even tougher to surrender the "Where am I going?"
There is great power in being. I can change where I am with one moment of my full, impartial attention. With this realization, all things become possible. My mind jumps in with enthusiastic plans and I feel the familiar rush and hurry of the outer world. The bees have a solution for this. In a garden packed with mixed blooms, each bee focuses on one type of flower per foraging excursion. This habit works well for the plants, too, as the right type of pollen transfers between flowers. One thing at a time is best for all. I breathe in each moment and build from there. When settled into my body, observation bubbles up like a spring. My mind is open. I pay attention to what is -- the air on my skin, the space around me -- and feel the sun gently shining on my world. I act on one thing that arises from this place. Where am I now? |
July 26, 2014
July 24, 2014
July 16, 2014 |
Who invented the butterfly? A total genius. At the reincarnation drive-thru, this would be the full meal deal. You hatch out of a vitamin capsule that is stuck to a tasty leaf. You eat the vitamin, then the leaf, and it's just crawl and eat until your skin can't stretch any bigger. You get a little bit sleepy, so you wrap yourself in a nice quilt, dream for a while, then wake up skinny and able to fly. After that, it's a steady diet of nectar, a day or two of passionate lovemaking, and then hobby time: BeDazzling vegetation with the next generation. Sure, you don't live very long, but with all the shape-changing there's no way for boredom to set in. Earthworms are great for life on the planet, but they're a bit of a rip-off as a lifetime. Plus, they leave baggage. Anyone afraid of shovels? Robins?
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July 5, 2014 Otis Poses for Portraits Around the Yard
July 2, 2014
This photo could be used for an alarmist article about the hazards of pesticides, genetically engineered crops, or electromagnetic field radiation; a litany of evils against the environment. However, this honey bee died of natural causes. Her body lies as she left it, in the middle of a shasta daisy in the hot sun. Her stinger is elsewhere. Maybe she completed her entire life span of six weeks; maybe she flew for only a day. Using images to frighten people into caring is so often done in the media that we are becoming inured to it. We feel bad about whatever is going on, then bury ourselves in our own lives because those problems are so big there's no way one person is going to solve them.
There are enough of us on Earth to start thinking like insects. If one honey bee had the power to consider the task of filling a hive with honey, she might just lie down at the entrance and give up. She will make only one twelfth of a teaspoon of honey in her entire life. Thankfully, she isn't wired for worry. She is born with a purpose and fulfills it to the best of her ability. Her success ensures the continuation of the hive. If people need to replant the rain forests from the Amazon to Alaska in order to heal our world, then we should just start. Planting one twelfth of a rain forest would be a worthy life's work and it probably wouldn't require a huge chunk of the population.
For now, I'm working on a smaller scale. This half-acre can supply a lot of nectar and pollen for the bees. I am still building the soil throughout the yard and, with that, the nutrients available from each plant. The vegetable garden is supplementing our food, but there's a long way to go before we are supported by it. There has been a boost in production this year with all the pollinators around, though. Maybe I will look into getting a share in an organic farm co-op to get a few larger crops on the go. It's all about the motivation.
Photography is what started me on the path to pollinator gardening. That was a few years before the large die-offs of honey bees in our part of the world. I'm glad I already had my toes in the water before that happened. Panic stops me in my tracks, while curiosity keeps me going for years. Each new bee I photograph is a discovery for me. I want to keep finding different species here each year, so I am getting more involved in conservation in the wider community.
Working together is another important insect skill. Ants can cross rivers by building bridges with their bodies. Bees can kill giant hornets by swarming around the predator and cooking it with their collective body heat. There are also great possibilities for people when they join together in a common purpose. At the very least, there are benefits to shared learning. I still don't know the names of all the bees, but as long as they're getting fed, they don't care what I call them.
Below are photos I took last Saturday afternoon when the sun came out. Ten people came to look at the pollinators in my garden earlier that day as part of a course. It rained pretty much the entire time they were here. We only saw three or four hardy bumblebees at the fireweed and lavender. Here are the little friends I had hoped to show off:
There are enough of us on Earth to start thinking like insects. If one honey bee had the power to consider the task of filling a hive with honey, she might just lie down at the entrance and give up. She will make only one twelfth of a teaspoon of honey in her entire life. Thankfully, she isn't wired for worry. She is born with a purpose and fulfills it to the best of her ability. Her success ensures the continuation of the hive. If people need to replant the rain forests from the Amazon to Alaska in order to heal our world, then we should just start. Planting one twelfth of a rain forest would be a worthy life's work and it probably wouldn't require a huge chunk of the population.
For now, I'm working on a smaller scale. This half-acre can supply a lot of nectar and pollen for the bees. I am still building the soil throughout the yard and, with that, the nutrients available from each plant. The vegetable garden is supplementing our food, but there's a long way to go before we are supported by it. There has been a boost in production this year with all the pollinators around, though. Maybe I will look into getting a share in an organic farm co-op to get a few larger crops on the go. It's all about the motivation.
Photography is what started me on the path to pollinator gardening. That was a few years before the large die-offs of honey bees in our part of the world. I'm glad I already had my toes in the water before that happened. Panic stops me in my tracks, while curiosity keeps me going for years. Each new bee I photograph is a discovery for me. I want to keep finding different species here each year, so I am getting more involved in conservation in the wider community.
Working together is another important insect skill. Ants can cross rivers by building bridges with their bodies. Bees can kill giant hornets by swarming around the predator and cooking it with their collective body heat. There are also great possibilities for people when they join together in a common purpose. At the very least, there are benefits to shared learning. I still don't know the names of all the bees, but as long as they're getting fed, they don't care what I call them.
Below are photos I took last Saturday afternoon when the sun came out. Ten people came to look at the pollinators in my garden earlier that day as part of a course. It rained pretty much the entire time they were here. We only saw three or four hardy bumblebees at the fireweed and lavender. Here are the little friends I had hoped to show off:
June 29, 2014
At the peak of the long summer's day, who can better illustrate fierce joy than the hummingbird? The little Anna's hummingbird in my yew tree leans into her song, daring anyone to approach her nest. The rufous-sided hummingbirds will challenge her if she strays into the vegetable garden, where they are sipping from sage, comfrey, and leek flowers but she doesn't bother them. She is busy guarding a larger hoard of fireweed, foxglove, red hot poker, and vetch.
I just took a course on pollinator gardening yesterday. There was an interesting group of people attending, all with experience in different areas of conservation. We carried many different beliefs and ideals into the classroom, but our enthusiasm for the subject did not allow differences to get in the way of learning. I love that sense of unity. Inside everyone there is recognition of the importance of helping the Earth. When that knowledge is acted on, we access a wellspring of joy that knocks down the walls we've built between one another. No one wants this honeymoon phase to end. However, the ruined walls have jagged edges which, if ignored, will catch on things. People in groups often start to clash or avoid each other.
It is so essential for us to learn to work together these days, but just knowing that doesn't make it happen. I haven't been involved any group that ran smoothly for me for more than a year. Conflict sickens me, whether or not I am directly involved. When I clash with someone, there is a frightful ugliness that arises within me. I end up battling against it harder than I battle the other person's behaviour. I try to leap to a compassionate place, but only manage to find excuses for the other person and then carry the entire responsibility for the conflict around with me. My ugliness builds, alone and angry, waiting for another person to stumble into me so it has a chance to rise up heroically and validate itself. That's a crummy pattern; so how can I break it? Maybe I'll watch hummingbirds.
As soon as one hummingbird notices another in her territory, she flies directly toward him. There is no ugliness in that challenge; no time to build up angst. He crossed the line and he needs to know it. Now the other hummingbird has a choice. Is he feeling lucky? Most often, he gets out of there as fast as he can.
The trick for me, after years of suppressing anger, will be to issue my initial challenge with a question instead of a beak to the eye. Communication will then have a chance. As for the ugliness, that will diminish in sunlight. Hummingbirds are always scrapping, yet are among the most beautiful creatures around. Their confidence, curiosity and openness facilitate their freedom. I hope so much to learn from them. The group of pollinator enthusiasts I met yesterday has the necessary knowledge and skills to improve the ecology of our entire region. It would be great to work together for years and watch the natural world thrive.
I just took a course on pollinator gardening yesterday. There was an interesting group of people attending, all with experience in different areas of conservation. We carried many different beliefs and ideals into the classroom, but our enthusiasm for the subject did not allow differences to get in the way of learning. I love that sense of unity. Inside everyone there is recognition of the importance of helping the Earth. When that knowledge is acted on, we access a wellspring of joy that knocks down the walls we've built between one another. No one wants this honeymoon phase to end. However, the ruined walls have jagged edges which, if ignored, will catch on things. People in groups often start to clash or avoid each other.
It is so essential for us to learn to work together these days, but just knowing that doesn't make it happen. I haven't been involved any group that ran smoothly for me for more than a year. Conflict sickens me, whether or not I am directly involved. When I clash with someone, there is a frightful ugliness that arises within me. I end up battling against it harder than I battle the other person's behaviour. I try to leap to a compassionate place, but only manage to find excuses for the other person and then carry the entire responsibility for the conflict around with me. My ugliness builds, alone and angry, waiting for another person to stumble into me so it has a chance to rise up heroically and validate itself. That's a crummy pattern; so how can I break it? Maybe I'll watch hummingbirds.
As soon as one hummingbird notices another in her territory, she flies directly toward him. There is no ugliness in that challenge; no time to build up angst. He crossed the line and he needs to know it. Now the other hummingbird has a choice. Is he feeling lucky? Most often, he gets out of there as fast as he can.
The trick for me, after years of suppressing anger, will be to issue my initial challenge with a question instead of a beak to the eye. Communication will then have a chance. As for the ugliness, that will diminish in sunlight. Hummingbirds are always scrapping, yet are among the most beautiful creatures around. Their confidence, curiosity and openness facilitate their freedom. I hope so much to learn from them. The group of pollinator enthusiasts I met yesterday has the necessary knowledge and skills to improve the ecology of our entire region. It would be great to work together for years and watch the natural world thrive.
June 22, 2014
It was a watering day today. I know this because I woke up early and the robins called me outside. (I would think the plants put them up to it, but they had their own agenda.) Whenever I drag the hose around the yard, there are at least three robins watching me intently. Worm hunting with a hose is a bit like pit-lamping, but I feel fine with helping the birds (as long as they don't start wearing singlets, tossing cigarette butts everywhere and yelling, YEEHAW).
Aiming the spray nozzle helps me focus on each plant in my garden, checking for growth, insect damage, or new buds. That gives my logical mind something to do while the sounds of falling water send me into daydreams of next year's garden. Many of my favourite spots in the garden were envisioned while watering: the poppy patch, the lavender hillside, the sunflower forest from a couple of years back.
The best time, though, is when the watering is finished. The whole yard feels like a happy sigh. This morning after I shut off the hose, I invited my husband to join me for a stroll around the homestead. The sun filtered through the trees as hummingbirds chased each other through the fireweed. We stopped in the vegetable garden to snack on fresh peas, then closed the gate and continued our walk over to the hibiscus tree. Judging from the little crop circles beneath it, the deer have been sleeping there lately. They've been a constant quiet presence in the garden this year. I never see them during the day, but any new garden we dig attracts them like wet cement. They're compelled to leave their hoof-prints. Sure, they get up to mischief at night, but they're not too bad. The slugs have stomped more seedlings this year than they have. The slugs have predators to keep them in line, though. My husband spotted this little tree frog as we walked up the path through the clinic garden. It looked hungry, but I know it will plump up soon. There was at least one slug nearby that had been unceremoniously flung from its breakfast dahlia. We left the frog to its search. Strolling in pyjamas on Sundays can get pretty strenuous, so we wandered inside for a drink of water.
Aiming the spray nozzle helps me focus on each plant in my garden, checking for growth, insect damage, or new buds. That gives my logical mind something to do while the sounds of falling water send me into daydreams of next year's garden. Many of my favourite spots in the garden were envisioned while watering: the poppy patch, the lavender hillside, the sunflower forest from a couple of years back.
The best time, though, is when the watering is finished. The whole yard feels like a happy sigh. This morning after I shut off the hose, I invited my husband to join me for a stroll around the homestead. The sun filtered through the trees as hummingbirds chased each other through the fireweed. We stopped in the vegetable garden to snack on fresh peas, then closed the gate and continued our walk over to the hibiscus tree. Judging from the little crop circles beneath it, the deer have been sleeping there lately. They've been a constant quiet presence in the garden this year. I never see them during the day, but any new garden we dig attracts them like wet cement. They're compelled to leave their hoof-prints. Sure, they get up to mischief at night, but they're not too bad. The slugs have stomped more seedlings this year than they have. The slugs have predators to keep them in line, though. My husband spotted this little tree frog as we walked up the path through the clinic garden. It looked hungry, but I know it will plump up soon. There was at least one slug nearby that had been unceremoniously flung from its breakfast dahlia. We left the frog to its search. Strolling in pyjamas on Sundays can get pretty strenuous, so we wandered inside for a drink of water.
June 18, 2014
When The Cool Subject Of Your Nature Photos Breaks the 4th Wall, Sending You Straight to Disneyland:
June 17, 2014
These days, there are few opportunities to witness nature's great migrations. The remaining bison are fenced in; the salmon are forced to jog instead of run; and nobody cares about the Great Manitoban Mosquito Migration, if there is such a thing. This morning I was driving home from the store and saw a cloud of insects ahead of me. I thought, "Lacewings? Too big. Locusts? Too biblical." As I drove through them, I heard a few hit the car and hollered, "They're bees! SWARM!!!"
The bees were traveling and I wanted to follow, but first I had to drop off my son at home with the groceries. My mom and I returned to the area, right near the local marsh, and searched for the swarm. We walked right past it and, without teamwork, would have missed it the second time we walked by, too. I heard a sound like grass rustling, and took off my hat to listen closely. While I stared at the grass to see if its movement matched what I was hearing, mom said, "There it is!" Hanging high in a hawthorn tree was a swaying cluster of golden life.
We called our beekeeper friend and he came out to assess the possibility of getting these girls into a hive. The branch the bees were on was at least twenty-five feet above the sloped edge of a dyke, with another branch beneath that would block a box from sliding easily under it even if we could get up there. The tree was too thin and thorny to climb. He reluctantly had to leave for an appointment and arranged to borrow some equipment later from one of his friends. I drove back to the house and picked up my two kids so that they wouldn't miss out on the excitement. My grandparents used to keep bees on their farm, but even so, I hadn't seen a swarm since I was five years old. This was a chance to pass on part of our family heritage.
The kids' reaction was much the same as when we all went out to a popular salmon river to watch bears years ago: As soon as the first one walked into view, there was a collective "Oh!" followed by attentive silence. We watched the cluster for a while, noting a few bees near the bottom performing a waggle-dance, then switched our attention to the ravens and crows cleaning up dead things from the adjacent new-mown hayfield. A vulture and bald eagle circled around and the kids chatted to each other.
I went back to look at the swarm once more and say goodbye. I closed my eyes and sent a feeling of gratitude to the queen and colony for the opportunity to witness their migration and wished them well for their future. As I finished, the kids came back to stand next to me. We noticed then that there were a few extra bees flying around the top of the cluster, then a few more. The whole shape dissolved and the air came alive with sound: not the loud buzzing of bees one would expect, just a sibilant whir of wings. The cloud milled about then moved away from us, along the path we were on. We followed, sometimes walking, sometimes running to keep up. At a junction a minute or two down the road, the cloud dissolved into a nearby stand of greenery. We had been looking right at them, and could not figure out where they had gone. After a fairly stringent search of the area, which netted me a wasp sting on my Achilles tendon, we switched our focus to the squeaking frogs in a nearby ditch.
I will always remember today's timelessness. While looking at the swarm, I got the sense that my children and I could be enjoying this activity whether we were living in Ancient Egypt or any other historical age in a temperate area. That sense of continuity brought me peace and hope for a future where these natural cycles are recognized and facilitated rather than blocked. Soon I shall get to work on the caribou corridor through my yard. They don't migrate through here, but so much is changing, it's good to have contingency plans.
The bees were traveling and I wanted to follow, but first I had to drop off my son at home with the groceries. My mom and I returned to the area, right near the local marsh, and searched for the swarm. We walked right past it and, without teamwork, would have missed it the second time we walked by, too. I heard a sound like grass rustling, and took off my hat to listen closely. While I stared at the grass to see if its movement matched what I was hearing, mom said, "There it is!" Hanging high in a hawthorn tree was a swaying cluster of golden life.
We called our beekeeper friend and he came out to assess the possibility of getting these girls into a hive. The branch the bees were on was at least twenty-five feet above the sloped edge of a dyke, with another branch beneath that would block a box from sliding easily under it even if we could get up there. The tree was too thin and thorny to climb. He reluctantly had to leave for an appointment and arranged to borrow some equipment later from one of his friends. I drove back to the house and picked up my two kids so that they wouldn't miss out on the excitement. My grandparents used to keep bees on their farm, but even so, I hadn't seen a swarm since I was five years old. This was a chance to pass on part of our family heritage.
The kids' reaction was much the same as when we all went out to a popular salmon river to watch bears years ago: As soon as the first one walked into view, there was a collective "Oh!" followed by attentive silence. We watched the cluster for a while, noting a few bees near the bottom performing a waggle-dance, then switched our attention to the ravens and crows cleaning up dead things from the adjacent new-mown hayfield. A vulture and bald eagle circled around and the kids chatted to each other.
I went back to look at the swarm once more and say goodbye. I closed my eyes and sent a feeling of gratitude to the queen and colony for the opportunity to witness their migration and wished them well for their future. As I finished, the kids came back to stand next to me. We noticed then that there were a few extra bees flying around the top of the cluster, then a few more. The whole shape dissolved and the air came alive with sound: not the loud buzzing of bees one would expect, just a sibilant whir of wings. The cloud milled about then moved away from us, along the path we were on. We followed, sometimes walking, sometimes running to keep up. At a junction a minute or two down the road, the cloud dissolved into a nearby stand of greenery. We had been looking right at them, and could not figure out where they had gone. After a fairly stringent search of the area, which netted me a wasp sting on my Achilles tendon, we switched our focus to the squeaking frogs in a nearby ditch.
I will always remember today's timelessness. While looking at the swarm, I got the sense that my children and I could be enjoying this activity whether we were living in Ancient Egypt or any other historical age in a temperate area. That sense of continuity brought me peace and hope for a future where these natural cycles are recognized and facilitated rather than blocked. Soon I shall get to work on the caribou corridor through my yard. They don't migrate through here, but so much is changing, it's good to have contingency plans.
June 16, 2014
June 6, 2014 Bumblebee Box Update
June 4, 2014
June 2, 2014
An unexpected opportunity came to me almost two weeks ago to have a bumble bee nest in my yard. Early this spring, my dad and I built a few bumble bee boxes according to the specs in a book called, "Attracting Native Pollinators," which is produced by the Xerces Society for Invertebrate Conservation. I set up a couple around my yard. Though I saw many queen bees scanning for possible nesting sites, none of them looked twice at these little condos. I researched some more and made a few changes to the design. I was about to set them up again when my mentor in the bee world got a bit of a surprise.
He had been asked to remove a bumble bee nest from a work site. I had offered to give those bees a home here, but he explained that bumble bees use the angle of the sun and other mental calculations to imprint on the site of their nests. Relocation is not really an option for them unless it is to a spot really close to the original one. Unfortunately for this nest, that wasn't an option either. He removed the nest and put it in the freezer, which was the most humane way to euthanize the bees. By using their nest as a tool for teaching people about bumble bees, he hoped to make up for their loss. After a couple of days, he removed the nest from the freezer to examine it and see about setting it up for a display. Suddenly, "buzz-buzz," there was a bumble bee crawling around his desk. He quickly put the nest into a box, caught the bee and put her in with it. By then, there were more bees crawling around the box. He rigged up a feeding tube with sugar water and they drained it over the next few hours. These were bees that had just hatched from the brood cells, so had not imprinted on their old nesting site. He asked if I was still interested in having bees and I agreed. (Actually, my reply was not that cool and may have been punctuated with rapidly clapping hands.) The next morning, he helped me get my bee box into a roughly south-east facing spot and made some suggestions about furnishings. I set up the area that day and he brought the bees over after dark. He had rigged up a temporary little box to fit into the bee box so he could just peel the paper off the bottom and drop the nest in. It was my job to put on the lid. We plugged the entrance tunnel so they wouldn't come out and fly around too soon. The sticky aspect of the nest got in the way of the plan a little bit. A couple of the bees escaped and flew around us, but I got the lid on, then realized after a minute that it wasn't all the way on. I adjusted it and felt it crush a couple of bees. I felt bad about that. Got up at first light to open the entrance tunnel. Actually, I was awake a lot that night to check the time. When I pulled out the screen plug, I heard a buzz from the straw next to the box and an answering buzz from inside. The escapees were staying close. I finally went to sleep but woke up a couple of hours later to see what was happening. It took a while before I saw a bee return to the nest. I spent a lot of time out there watching (was too tired to do anything else, anyway) and was rewarded by seeing one of the bees emerge for the first time and turn around to look at the entrance. She focused as if she were taking a photo then walked over to touch each rock, looked back at the entrance then started flying in widening figure-eights all while facing the entrance. Finally, she circled the plants around the nest site and then flew off to forage. Last Friday, I opened the box to check on them. They are recycling the wax of the nest into new honey pots. They do not have a queen, so are pretty docile; just free-feeding without gathering pollen. The nest hasn't grown. I saw a new hatchling imprinting last week, so I guess the younger brood have all developed fine. Not sure of their life span, but if there isn't any egg-laying, the nest won't last all summer. I am learning so much from them and hopefully will be able to attract queens to other bumble bee boxes. I'll check on these girls this Friday to see if they've moved on to sculpting a little wax Statue of David. They are brilliant enough. |
Follow-up to Quiz (Below): A Real Bumblebee Mimic
May 30, 2014
This is a skill-testing post. There are many different species of bumble bee in my garden. Below, I've compiled some of my best photos of them from the last few months. See if you can use your powers of observation to find which of the photos does NOT feature a bumble bee.
It is sometimes tough to tell the difference between bumble bees and their mimics. Identification of bumble bee species is something I am learning through pollinator workshops, internet resources, and good conversation with the bees themselves: "So, why is it you feel you are a melanopygus and not a vosnesenskii?"
They don't care at all what we call them, but there is something so satisfying in the science of classification. It sorts the overwhelming vastness and diversity of nature into patterns that our brains can follow and retain (somewhat). Once you know that melanopygus likes to settle into bird boxes and vosnesenskii is a ground nester, you can create habitat for them in your yard.
Habitat loss and lack of food have hit our wild bees hard. Many species are disappearing from their traditional ranges. Mass deaths of honey bees have had a lot of press, which has boosted awareness of pollinators in general. That's a small silver lining. Countless wild bees have also been killed by a lack of understanding: people spraying pesticides on trees in bloom, for example.
Bumble bees don't make extra honey for us, but they are the most efficient pollinator around. They can disengage their flight muscles from their wings and vibrate their bodies to dislodge large amounts of pollen, which their fuzzy bodies then transfer from flower to flower. Bumbles are more resistant to cold, so forage longer than many other types of bee. If honey bees don't recover, a strong bumble bee population could keep our food supplies steady.
There are many things we can do in our yards to help them. Mulching garden beds in the autumn is great for the soil. Plus, new queen bumble bees overwinter in piles of leaves. They are the only members of the nest to survive from one year to the next. Growing big patches of bee-friendly flowers from seed or from a reputable nursery that does not use neonicotinoid pesticides will yield a steady supply of nectar and pollen. An abundance of good food keeps bees healthy and strong. Cultivating hedgerows of flowering shrubs will build great habitat along the fringes of a yard as well as supplying food. Anything that helps wild bees will also help honey bees and pretty much all life on the planet. So, did you find the bumble bee mimic in the photos below? I'll give you a clue. He's looking for nectar in the wrong place. Observation is key.
It is sometimes tough to tell the difference between bumble bees and their mimics. Identification of bumble bee species is something I am learning through pollinator workshops, internet resources, and good conversation with the bees themselves: "So, why is it you feel you are a melanopygus and not a vosnesenskii?"
They don't care at all what we call them, but there is something so satisfying in the science of classification. It sorts the overwhelming vastness and diversity of nature into patterns that our brains can follow and retain (somewhat). Once you know that melanopygus likes to settle into bird boxes and vosnesenskii is a ground nester, you can create habitat for them in your yard.
Habitat loss and lack of food have hit our wild bees hard. Many species are disappearing from their traditional ranges. Mass deaths of honey bees have had a lot of press, which has boosted awareness of pollinators in general. That's a small silver lining. Countless wild bees have also been killed by a lack of understanding: people spraying pesticides on trees in bloom, for example.
Bumble bees don't make extra honey for us, but they are the most efficient pollinator around. They can disengage their flight muscles from their wings and vibrate their bodies to dislodge large amounts of pollen, which their fuzzy bodies then transfer from flower to flower. Bumbles are more resistant to cold, so forage longer than many other types of bee. If honey bees don't recover, a strong bumble bee population could keep our food supplies steady.
There are many things we can do in our yards to help them. Mulching garden beds in the autumn is great for the soil. Plus, new queen bumble bees overwinter in piles of leaves. They are the only members of the nest to survive from one year to the next. Growing big patches of bee-friendly flowers from seed or from a reputable nursery that does not use neonicotinoid pesticides will yield a steady supply of nectar and pollen. An abundance of good food keeps bees healthy and strong. Cultivating hedgerows of flowering shrubs will build great habitat along the fringes of a yard as well as supplying food. Anything that helps wild bees will also help honey bees and pretty much all life on the planet. So, did you find the bumble bee mimic in the photos below? I'll give you a clue. He's looking for nectar in the wrong place. Observation is key.
May 20, 2014
May 15, 2014
Butterfly lovin' is easy. She puts out pheromones, a suitor follows them to her, they mate, and they probably never see each other again. No hurt feelings, arguments, dividing of chores or stored-up resentments. Also no joyful moments of laughing together, playing with their children, or snuggling at the end of a tough day. I still think people in long-term relationships can learn from butterflies, though. She opens up, makes it clear where she is, and stays there. He uses his sensitivity to meet her wherever she is, then they move on together. Their time together is brief, but they use it well. It doesn't matter, in principle, which partner plays which role. It's the patience and gentleness that are important. No wings (or hearts) were broken in the making of this year's caterpillars.
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May 14, 2014
May 11, 2014
May 8, 2014
May 1, 2014
Update (April 30, 2014): The ants have not robbed the mason bee houses at all since I started feeding them. Most of the nesting tubes are capped now, so I shall have to begin the slow weaning process. It might be tricky, though. I think the ants have developed a religious cult around the Plate of Plenty. I couldn't hear their chanting when I took this photo, but I bet, to other small creatures, it was loud and pretty creepy.
April 29, 2014
April 24, 2014
To all those who compulsively clean up their gardens every two seasons, stop! Mess is the new beautiful. I used to weed and then top-dress the gardens in spring with organic soil or compost. As summer approached, I'd watch, bewildered, as the ground turned crusty and lifeless.
Last fall, I started building lasagna garden beds. Layers of peat moss, manure, compost, grass clippings, kelp & leaves were supposed to turn into light, nutrient-filled soil. It was heavy going, but fun. Plus, it worked. Soon I went mulch-crazy. My blueberries and rhododendrons were blanketed with pine needles. I covered all my veggie plots with leaves or alfalfa hay. Within days, the crusty soil softened. Now, after a winter of worm activity, I have the rich medium of gardeners' dreams.
There are fringe benefits, too. I have become the new home building supply outlet for hip young bird couples in our neighbourhood. Yesterday, I saw a charming white-crowned sparrow couple measuring straw for their construction site. They scuffed around, picking up lengths and holding them up to the light -- any flaws and the piece was dropped. Eventually they made their decision, loaded their pick-up truck and drove off.
Our yard is also a holiday destination for pollinators of every description. This bee fly was basking on the straw around our new peach/plum tree a couple of days ago. Many species of bumblebee have been scanning the yard for old mouse nests in which to start their brood. Even my yard is too clean for that, so I am learning how to build them boxes instead. They're pretty picky, so I will brag here if they move into one.
Other species are welcome too. The sharp-tailed snake, about the size of a large worm, may already have disappeared from our area as a result of habitat loss. In the autumn, I will make a warm pile of sticks in a sunny area for snakes to use as a winter den. If any of those little ones are still around, they'll find us. If not, I look forward to hosting garter snakes. I hope this will inspire you to start planning your annual garden mess-up.
Last fall, I started building lasagna garden beds. Layers of peat moss, manure, compost, grass clippings, kelp & leaves were supposed to turn into light, nutrient-filled soil. It was heavy going, but fun. Plus, it worked. Soon I went mulch-crazy. My blueberries and rhododendrons were blanketed with pine needles. I covered all my veggie plots with leaves or alfalfa hay. Within days, the crusty soil softened. Now, after a winter of worm activity, I have the rich medium of gardeners' dreams.
There are fringe benefits, too. I have become the new home building supply outlet for hip young bird couples in our neighbourhood. Yesterday, I saw a charming white-crowned sparrow couple measuring straw for their construction site. They scuffed around, picking up lengths and holding them up to the light -- any flaws and the piece was dropped. Eventually they made their decision, loaded their pick-up truck and drove off.
Our yard is also a holiday destination for pollinators of every description. This bee fly was basking on the straw around our new peach/plum tree a couple of days ago. Many species of bumblebee have been scanning the yard for old mouse nests in which to start their brood. Even my yard is too clean for that, so I am learning how to build them boxes instead. They're pretty picky, so I will brag here if they move into one.
Other species are welcome too. The sharp-tailed snake, about the size of a large worm, may already have disappeared from our area as a result of habitat loss. In the autumn, I will make a warm pile of sticks in a sunny area for snakes to use as a winter den. If any of those little ones are still around, they'll find us. If not, I look forward to hosting garter snakes. I hope this will inspire you to start planning your annual garden mess-up.
April 17 Nesting Update: The bushtits were collecting more cattail seeds from the apple tree today. This little one was just watching. So fluffy... looks as if she's a newly-fledged chick. She has yellow eyes, so she is a female. Maybe she's an adult, just supervising the work because she's full of eggs. I'm sure I would have found the nest sooner if they had already reared a brood of chicks. The ruckus at the dinner table is hard to miss.
April 15, 2014
April 14, 2014
You've heard how the winds blow strongest just before the eye of the hurricane. I've noticed a similar situation inside myself. Spring is my favourite time of year, closely followed by autumn. Usually, I am in a great mood at this point, and I am -- now. Getting here was tricky.
I was pushing to arrive and everything just pushed back. Expectation led to disappointment, then anger, then blame, then self-reproach. All that emotion wanted to play out in an infinite loop. Instead, I changed the recipe.
When I noticed myself pulling away from family and friends, I found a small way to express my love for them. Making tea, giving a hug, stopping to listen -- all are simple tasks, but surprisingly difficult to do when caught up in a whirlwind of negativity. Loving intention was strong enough to carry me through each action, even though it felt strangely disconnected from my habitual feelings.
Something wonderful happened. My family found little ways to express their love to me and I was able to notice their efforts. Appreciation and gratitude flooded in and I found my center. Things are much gentler here. Love and companionship have returned. All is well. At some point, the storm will move on and I may find myself navigating those winds again. There's no need to worry about that now. I've mapped the updrafts. I'm just enjoying the softness of spring.
I was pushing to arrive and everything just pushed back. Expectation led to disappointment, then anger, then blame, then self-reproach. All that emotion wanted to play out in an infinite loop. Instead, I changed the recipe.
When I noticed myself pulling away from family and friends, I found a small way to express my love for them. Making tea, giving a hug, stopping to listen -- all are simple tasks, but surprisingly difficult to do when caught up in a whirlwind of negativity. Loving intention was strong enough to carry me through each action, even though it felt strangely disconnected from my habitual feelings.
Something wonderful happened. My family found little ways to express their love to me and I was able to notice their efforts. Appreciation and gratitude flooded in and I found my center. Things are much gentler here. Love and companionship have returned. All is well. At some point, the storm will move on and I may find myself navigating those winds again. There's no need to worry about that now. I've mapped the updrafts. I'm just enjoying the softness of spring.
April 2, 2014
Hard to get a clear photo through a smudged window, but I had lots of opportunity to try last week while this Cooper's hawk waited to flush a brace of sparrows from the rhododendron.
March 31, 2014
My mason bees are emerging! So far it's just the little males with their long antennae and fuzzy moustaches. I've been watching them all morning. They chew and scrape their way through the mud cap on the nesting tubes and crawl into the sunlight for the first time. Some can't wait to fly, so they take off as soon as their wings are free. Others step out and meticulously clean the dust off themselves before one of their compatriots knocks them off the box into the unknown.
Update: April 4, 2014 Ants have discovered the boxes and are robbing them of pollen. At first, I brushed the ants off whenever I caught them. The next day they had bodyguards: soldier ants with big heads and pincers ready to snap anything that approached. This was escalating, so I switched my approach. I put a plate full of icing sugar out on the railing, grabbed a Q-tip and started moving ants into the sugar. The soldiers were easiest to pick up. They just grabbed onto the cotton. It was getting them to let go that was tough. Once they were covered in sweet powder, they realized that the world is an abundant place, forgot their duties and started sipping the raindrops that were turning into syrup all around them. Now I have an ant version of Woodstock happening a few feet from my bee boxes and the burglary rate has dropped off dramatically. Will deal with the diabetic ant problem after this year's baby bees are tucked safely behind mud doors.
Update: April 4, 2014 Ants have discovered the boxes and are robbing them of pollen. At first, I brushed the ants off whenever I caught them. The next day they had bodyguards: soldier ants with big heads and pincers ready to snap anything that approached. This was escalating, so I switched my approach. I put a plate full of icing sugar out on the railing, grabbed a Q-tip and started moving ants into the sugar. The soldiers were easiest to pick up. They just grabbed onto the cotton. It was getting them to let go that was tough. Once they were covered in sweet powder, they realized that the world is an abundant place, forgot their duties and started sipping the raindrops that were turning into syrup all around them. Now I have an ant version of Woodstock happening a few feet from my bee boxes and the burglary rate has dropped off dramatically. Will deal with the diabetic ant problem after this year's baby bees are tucked safely behind mud doors.
March 27, 2014
Interdependence is everywhere. Unlike economies, which are built on the concept of growth and more growth, nature evolves. Growth is a part of this, but there is also a beautiful surrendering of space as well as the enrichment that provides a better habitat for new life.
The tree that grows for hundreds of years, gathering nutrients from sunlight and holding water in the earth is teeming with life. When it dies, it stands for a while, providing homes for birds and insects and protecting the soil from erosion. It falls and its form becomes a nursery for new trees as the goodness it gathered from life is transmitted to the soil and the river (and all the life it supports). Last week, the trout were spawning. Different species of trout swam among them, feeding on stray eggs. The predation didn't cause much of a diversion for the parents. They held their space and continued their work. It is easy to see nature as constant struggle, but there is an overarching peace. There is enough for all. Every living thing gives its best to life and then lets go when the only thing left to give is its body. Nothing is wasted. I also believe an energy of gratitude permeates this renewal. If we recognize and honour the gifts we have been given by previous generations, it will be easier to evolve past their mistakes. Maybe then our economies will come to reflect the abundance in nature. |
March 17, 2014
Spring is here! Not quite as early as I'd hoped -- definitely not in time to save my lettuce seedlings. They used all their energy to survive snow and -14˚C temperatures under row cover. They finally faded under heavy rain. If I'm that gung ho about spring, I'll have to get a greenhouse. The peas are peeking up, though, the leeks and onions are snuggled into their bed and I'm considering putting the surviving artichoke out into the weather. Maybe during the next warm spell. Am navigating the strange world of indoor seed starting at the moment. The office floor is strewn with soil. My broccoli and cauliflower are very gangly despite the full spectrum lights. Not sure how things will pan out for them.
The hummingbirds found the suet cage full of cattail seeds and thistledown that I hung out for them. They've been busily making quilts to line their nests. There are also lots of queen bumblebees flying around outside. My dad and I are building a few weatherproof, ventilated boxes that I will line with either wood shavings or leftover cattail fluff as nesting options for them. I'll soon set those out in the yard in the hope that one of the queens will move in. They're pretty choosy, so I will have to think like a bumblebee. It's really fun putting boxes out for bees and watching the house sparrows try to figure out how to steal them for their own nests. Not a chance! The mason bee boxes had them completely stumped.
I've removed the grass from around the apple tree and replaced it with a garden. Just seeded it with chives. As companion plants, they are supposed to combat scab on apples. I'll be planting nasturtium as well, which should repel codling moths as well as feed the hummingbirds. Hopefully all the nice new soil around the tree will improve its overall health and then it can fight its own battles.
There are many short trips with wheelbarrows in my future. My digging muscles are already complaining. I will have to get more newspaper roll ends and start covering over the grass instead of pulling it out. There's an asparagus bed to arrange, a potato plot to plan, an alliteration-aholics meeting to attend. I'd better start thinking like a snail -- deal with things as they appear. Bumblebee mind is exhausting.
The hummingbirds found the suet cage full of cattail seeds and thistledown that I hung out for them. They've been busily making quilts to line their nests. There are also lots of queen bumblebees flying around outside. My dad and I are building a few weatherproof, ventilated boxes that I will line with either wood shavings or leftover cattail fluff as nesting options for them. I'll soon set those out in the yard in the hope that one of the queens will move in. They're pretty choosy, so I will have to think like a bumblebee. It's really fun putting boxes out for bees and watching the house sparrows try to figure out how to steal them for their own nests. Not a chance! The mason bee boxes had them completely stumped.
I've removed the grass from around the apple tree and replaced it with a garden. Just seeded it with chives. As companion plants, they are supposed to combat scab on apples. I'll be planting nasturtium as well, which should repel codling moths as well as feed the hummingbirds. Hopefully all the nice new soil around the tree will improve its overall health and then it can fight its own battles.
There are many short trips with wheelbarrows in my future. My digging muscles are already complaining. I will have to get more newspaper roll ends and start covering over the grass instead of pulling it out. There's an asparagus bed to arrange, a potato plot to plan, an alliteration-aholics meeting to attend. I'd better start thinking like a snail -- deal with things as they appear. Bumblebee mind is exhausting.
March 9, 2014
Rain follows snow in spring. Rather than pacing grooves into my soggy yard, I thought I'd get out and peek at some other farms. Sure enough, lambs are bouncing into the world, curious and full of fun.
Feb. 25, 2014 Winter's Last Gasp?
Feb. 6, 2014 Cold Snap
Feb. 3, 2014
Eagles embody solitude. They are content to observe their surroundings until the time to fly presents itself. I once watched a bald eagle slow dive from above a mountain at one end of a bay and catch a fish at the other without visibly adjusting course. When eagles perch in a tree together, once all the formalities of shrieked greetings are complete, their being alone doesn't disappear. It merely overlaps.
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Jan. 3, 2014 Flying Piranhas
In my mind, birdwatchers have always been high comedy: knobbly-kneed people who fly into passionate tales of rump patches or patterned underparts lost in the hedgerows. Though I've always loved birds, I figured it was in a more casual way. If a bird flew past, I would try to see what it was, but I could quit anytime. I don't really remember buying my first field guide, but I likely hid it under some knitting magazines to look cool. It's only been the last couple of years that I've started doing quirky and adorable things like staring toward my neighbours' homes with binoculars. (I am sure they can tell by the tilt of the glass that I am focused on the trees.) After a few months, I realized I was hoping they would ask me what I'm up to so that I could rave to them about all the feathered treasures that forage in our yards. I might have a problem.
But wait! Don't crazy bird people have at least three bird feeders around their yard? I just grow things that the birds like to eat and leave them to it. Of course, this winter has had its cold snaps, so I decided that temporary suet-feeding wouldn't be too much of a handout for my avian buddies. They worked very hard to store all the seed from our gardens, so I was confident that these were not the types to just kick up their feet and start demanding beer as soon as there was catering. I hung out the suet cages and they were soon swarming with bushtits.
My last holdout as a casual is that I snicker like an idiot at the names of some birds. Bushtits are right up there with boobies. Hardcore birders don't even twitch when speaking those names and any attempts at levity are met with staunch confusion and an awkward pause in the litany of facts and figures. This shields them to a great degree. I haven't yet developed that bubble. Most of the time I refer to bushtits as "piranha birds" and sidestep both the hilarity and the awkwardness of realizing "bushtit" was the only word anyone heard in my two-minute monologue. The only trouble with "piranha birds," other than taxonomic inaccuracy, is that it could also be referring to the European starlings that showed up in droves as soon as the suet was out. Their swarms have fewer individuals, but are both leggier and louder, and they can skeletonize a suet cage in minutes.
Soon my feeders will be put away and the starlings will go back to harassing the kind-hearted neighbours who feed birds year-round. The bushtits will be the only flying piranhas in our yard and there will be no pressure for me to make that final leap into cargo shorts laden with duck calls and a hair-triggered parabolic mic. If my transformation happens by accident, so be it.
But wait! Don't crazy bird people have at least three bird feeders around their yard? I just grow things that the birds like to eat and leave them to it. Of course, this winter has had its cold snaps, so I decided that temporary suet-feeding wouldn't be too much of a handout for my avian buddies. They worked very hard to store all the seed from our gardens, so I was confident that these were not the types to just kick up their feet and start demanding beer as soon as there was catering. I hung out the suet cages and they were soon swarming with bushtits.
My last holdout as a casual is that I snicker like an idiot at the names of some birds. Bushtits are right up there with boobies. Hardcore birders don't even twitch when speaking those names and any attempts at levity are met with staunch confusion and an awkward pause in the litany of facts and figures. This shields them to a great degree. I haven't yet developed that bubble. Most of the time I refer to bushtits as "piranha birds" and sidestep both the hilarity and the awkwardness of realizing "bushtit" was the only word anyone heard in my two-minute monologue. The only trouble with "piranha birds," other than taxonomic inaccuracy, is that it could also be referring to the European starlings that showed up in droves as soon as the suet was out. Their swarms have fewer individuals, but are both leggier and louder, and they can skeletonize a suet cage in minutes.
Soon my feeders will be put away and the starlings will go back to harassing the kind-hearted neighbours who feed birds year-round. The bushtits will be the only flying piranhas in our yard and there will be no pressure for me to make that final leap into cargo shorts laden with duck calls and a hair-triggered parabolic mic. If my transformation happens by accident, so be it.