Right here – in the middle – eastern Dakotas and northern Minnesota = TOO HOT!
Yes, the TOO COLD is coming – THIS terrifies ME
(I am old enough to know that is the wise reaction to this news.)
Month: September 2025
/0\ Reminder to Self
Don’t stand too close to the darkness
look away
pull away
Look for something lovely
go there
stay there
\0/ – Change Due? Ready? Set?
Humanity recently set off on a journey along a track that is clearly setting us at odds with the operation of systems that were – in many areas of the planet – suitably working.
“The modern climate era, known as the Holocene epoch, began approximately 11,700 years ago with the end of the last ice age, providing a relatively stable period for the development of civilization. However, this current climate is now changing rapidly due to human-caused greenhouse gas emissions, a phenomenon that has accelerated since the late 19th and mid-20th centuries.” AI
What I do know is that nothing about the weather in this area, eastern North Dakota, has been normal over the past six months. There are no birds. There are very, very few pollinators. No moths or butterflies. No dragonflies or ladybugs. Not even any grasshoppers or crickets.
The earth is saturated. When it freezes, come spring whatever snow falls over winter will have nowhere to go if temperatures rise too quickly before the ground thaws.
Then there will be flooding.
This is my fifth year back in this area after an absence of nearly 20 years of living in Arizona high desert. I wanted to live in a place where the people pay attention and notice negative changes. I am in that place.
\0/ – So Many Words
An ocean of words. More than I can imagine, given the vast array of languages in our human cultures. And now that we understand, for example, that elephants create names amongst themselves, I can only float above this planet of mystery without finding any boundary between the known and the unknown.
This morning I wanted to expand my understanding of the concept of superstition. Origin meanings of the word include “a standing over.” I discovered yet another vortex: Elephants recognize death amongst their herd (clan, band, family). They stand over their dead.
Mothers have been seen carrying the carcass of their stillborn baby around with them for up to two years. Entire bands will stop to ‘pay their respects’ to the remains of one of their dead over many following years of their travels.
I know even chickens recognize the death of one of their own. They also stand over their dead. I described what I witnessed of this in a 2003 blog post — *In Honor of the Grieving Chicken (2003)
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Ahh…. Mentioning chickens. Just brought to mind the crew of six hens I had a decade later, on an entirely different spot of high desert land – this time with the Mexican border in my backyard – who practiced together every morning for a few weeks until they learned exactly the spot that would bring success to their efforts to acquire BREAKFAST – IF – as they also learned – they sang a specific song!
I would not have believed this was possible if I hadn’t been there, with them, to witness this! It wasn’t ANY loud annoying raucous racket that would stir me to correct action at 5 am. And not from just ANY spot in the rather large yard. But more than the amazing specificity they were able to figure out in terms of spacial smartness (along the outside of the wall where my bed was), it was the absolute melodic beauty of the SONG they created so that their desires could be harmonized with mine! I then enjoyed their singing every morning and the hens ate their breakfast at the time of their choosing.
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note: In the slough of origins for the word superstition I can pick out some of the rubble on the trail of the obliteration of the Medicine People of the regions where that word appeared.
/0\ – Long Road, Still on It
Somewhere along the line of the years that have passed since my regular writing of posts on this blog I evidently began – and evidently have become very good at – doubting myself. I never questioned myself over any word I put here during those writing years. Right now I question, “Why am I even here? I no longer have anything to say!” I do know, now, that until NOW, I didn’t even realize my doubting of self existed!
Nothing like a blank space to bring one up SMACK against reality.
It’s not that I don’t write. I am nearly through bound journal #29. Excuse the pause. I had to go look. It was on Tuesday 2/6/2018 that I wrote my first word in journal #1: What is “art” — what is “painting”? Not a day has passed since then that I have missed a day of writing.
SO? Did some kind of backlash happen that led me from the last serious post I wrote on this blog off to a rugged detour fed by cheap ballpoint ink pens and – how old school of me – paper pages? This journal journey began as I read “Renoir, My Father” by Jean Renoir, originally published 1962. I absorbed that book slowly through my skin.
I have lived the same way ever since.
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Stop the Storm 