Barb at Ennis Lake, John Muir Park

Sun is breaking through the morning mist as I arrive at John Muir Park on October 27.  I walk down the hill to what the Muirs called Fountain Lake, now known as Ennis Lake, and see streams of holy light raking the fog-shrouded waters. 

Though no structure remains, I know the Muirs’ farmhouse, built in 1850, was somewhere nearby.  I picture young John getting up on a day like today with the inside of the house about the same temperature as the outside: 34 degrees.  The one stove in the house was only for cooking, according to John’s father, Daniel.

The Scottish family made a farm here in central Wisconsin, their first home in America, when John was 11.  He and his brother attended school in Scotland, but in Wisconsin they were too busy doing farm chores and building a house.  Later, when the land wore out, the family moved to nearby Hickory Hills and John dug a well by hand through 90 feet of soil and stone.  He was almost worked to death, but the land and trees always revived him, as he wrote, remembering, “Young hearts, young leaves, flowers, animals, the winds and the streams and the sparkly lake, all wildly, gladly rejoicing together!”

As the mists lift, so do flocks of small birds, moving from shore grass to lofty treetops all gold and red with autumn leaves.  A marsh hawk flies by and I hear Sand Hill Cranes calling from the Fox River across Highway F.  I’ve come to commune with nature–and the spirit of John Muir.  As offerings, I have two of his favorite foods: bread and apple slices. 

Moving away from the lake, I follow a mowed path.  A section of the Ice Age Trail goes around Ennis Lake, kept up by volunteers in order to highlight the history of the glaciers in Wisconsin.  I go over a hill and down to two spreading oak trees, still hanging onto their leaves.  As the sun brightens the sky, the tan leaves glow as if fresh-baked and buttered.  The trees are so big, surely they were around when young Johnnie Muir was here.  I offer chunks of spelt bread and Fuji apple.  I throw in an almond for good measure.

Driving home, north along Tenth Road, I finally see some Sand Hill Cranes.  There are dozens of them milling about in an open field bordered by corn.  Usually the cranes pair off in separate fields, but at this time of year they gather to prepare for their migrations to Texas or points further south.  They call to each other, a deep chortle like rusty hinges on a creaky door.

With almost no traffic I am free to linger along the side of the road, watching.  Three cranes glide by my car window, sailing along just to stretch their wings.  In the field, two elegant, gray cranes face each other and bow.  One flaps its wings, then the other.  Then there is bobbing all around followed by a minute’s rest.  Then more bobbing and flapping.  It is quite a dance.

I drive home to the cabin, munching the remains of the apple I shared with John Muir and the oak trees.  During his lifetime, Muir helped create national parks such as Yosemite, but he was unable to preserve this patch of land that had been so dear to him as a boy.  He tried, but it wasn’t until 1957 that it became John Muir Memorial Park, where anyone can visit and make their own connections with the natural beauty that helped form a passionate conservationist.

I went down to the dock to take a swim but got distracted by the wildlife.  There was a green heron on the swim raft.  A green heron!  I’d never seen one up close before.  They are described in The Sibley Guide to Birds as the most “solitary, secretive” heron and yet this one stayed put even as I walked to the end of the dock to get a good look at him.  (I say “him” because he looked like a hunched-over vicar wearing a cape of dark feathers.)  I talked to him as he marched about, lifting his legs higher than necessary, as if he were wading.

“Hello!  Are you the one who’s been pooping on our swim raft?”  He did not deny it, preening his rufous chest feathers with his long, black beak.  “Well,” I told him, “I won’t take it personally.”

As I sat on the dock, I noticed our resident turtle swimming under the wooden slats.  The huge snapper settled his turkey-platter of a shell in the seaweed and became almost invisible.  Then I noticed a smaller turtle swimming nearby.  A relative of the ancient one under the dock?  The dinner-plate size turtle stuck her(?) head out of the water and watched me, so I talked pleasantly to her and wished her a safe winter in the mud at the bottom of the lake.

“Blessings to you, turtle,” I said and was surprised to hear a low growling noise from the turtle as she submerged and swam away.  Brown blobs followed after her, flowing right toward me, and I realized she was moving her bowels as she went.  An editorial comment?  I tried not to take it personally.  And I decided to wait till spring to go swimming in that Wisconsin lake again.

Sometimes I write book reviews for AHP Perspective, a publication of the Association for Humanistic Psychology, and I will reprint them here from time to time.  This one was in the December 2007/January 2008 issue.  Though Bill Cooke calls his book a dictionary, it is more conspicuously subjective than most reference books.  It is a fun book to browse in, whatever your beliefs.

Dictionary of Atheism, Skepticism, and Humanism by Bill Cooke.  Prometheus Books, 2006, 606 pp., $75, ISBN 1-59102-299-1

Bill Cooke’s Dictionary of Atheism, Skepticism, and Humanism is a kind of mini-encyclopedia, if you can call a 600-page book “mini,” that covers a wide range of ancient and modern thoughts and beliefs.  Cooke peppers his entries with stimulating facts and twists that compel further reading.  As with potato chips, it’s hard to consume just one.  For instance, examining an entry on humanism leads to subjects of agathonism (a variation of the golden rule) and cosmic perspective, which leads us to winged anchor and so on.

Cooke, who has an entry in his own dictionary, hails from New Zealand and is the author of several books focusing on rationalism and its proponents.  He works in the United States at the Center for Inquiry and the State University of New York at Buffalo, among other places.  Cooke explains in his preface, “This dictionary is not designed to be a handbook against religion.  I have deliberately refrained from a large number of entries about religion.”  He intends the book “for free-thinkers in the broadest sense of the word; people who like to think for themselves and not according to preplanned routes set by others.”

Eclectic is one way of describing this dictionary.  The subjects are broad ranging, to say the least, with such topics as Gurdjieff, Darwin, dependent arising, the Commonwealth of Nations, and, strangely, metrosexuals.  Regarding the latter, Cooke explains that he includes buzzwords to illustrate the evolution of language.  Most of the entries are people, ideas and concepts, and events and organizations.  There is a “Calendar of Atheism, Skepticism, and Humanism” in the back of the book, listing events month by month.  For instance, in January we find both the birth of Thomas Paine in 1737 and the birth of Janis Joplin in 1943.  Cooke himself points out that the dictionary is “the product of one person’s curiosity” and is limited in scope.

Fortunately for his readers, the author not only has curiosity but a tremendous sense of fun and humor.  In fact, the entry on fun informs us, “One of the more important implications of atheism is the importance of having fun.  We only live once, and our life is not a grim preparatory test for some sort of graduation in the sky.”  As you can see, Cooke does not keep his opinions to himself in an effort to present this as a dry, factual reference work.   It is so packed full of thumbnail sketches of fascinating people, ideas and events, that we are grateful for his lifetime of careful research and experiences in these matters.  I, for one, was glad to meet psychologist Margaret Knight (1903-1983) who dared to go on the radio in 1955 to challenge religious beliefs in Britain, paving the way for other humanists to speak up.   To read about the Six Suggestions for Religious Believers is to encourage dialogue.  Learning with him is itself fun.

Of the values and attitudes that pervade this book, I particularly appreciate Cooke’s egalitarian sensibilities.  Not only does he have an entry on feminism, he attends to the rights of women in other entries when relevant, pointing out some consequences to women of various belief systems.  He also illuminates sexual hypocrisy wherever he finds it, whether with cult leader David Berg or psychologist Carl Jung.

Humanistic psychologists may be especially interested in the entries on humanist beliefs, values, and virtues (closely followed by an entry on Hummer: “Presumably the last word in selfish, self-defeating consumerism.”).  Cooke’s entry on humanistic psychology is slightly critical of Abraham Maslow, ending with the statement, “Maslow coined the word ‘Eupsychia,’ which was his future utopia and was run by (and, it would seem, for) the self-actualized few.”  Unitarians have a favorable entry while Quakers are overlooked.  Cooke has no entry on Buddhism in general but features a branch called Theravada Buddhism, which he considers “the brand of Buddhism which most accurately reflects the teachings of Siddhartha Gautama” in part because it is “the most atheistic of the great Asian Traditions.”  He raises a legitimate question, asking if Buddhism and other Asian Traditions, as he calls them, can even be considered religions when they are not theistic.

Readers will find that they continue reading entries not only for information but to see if they agree with the author.  Better than eating chips, you will likely find yourself energized and a bit wiser after delving into this extensive dictionary.  At the very least, you will have new questions to explore, both on your own and in dialogue with others.

Barbara Wolf Terao, Ed.D. is a reader of dictionaries and a nonfiction writer.  She practices Buddhist humanism, yet believes in more than she can see, thus violating the second and the fourth of The Ten Core Humanist Beliefs.  She tries, however, to live up to the other eight, especially the first, stating that humans are part of nature, and the ninth, that life on earth is fragile and requires tending.

We get a free paper in our rural mailbox in Wisconsin.  I like to read about upcoming Amish auctions and fundraiser bratfests (for enjoying bratwurst sausages, not naughty children).  I also read the classifieds, which is kind of a sociological experience and is sometimes quite poignant.

The September 8 edition tells me that Sherm’s Piggly Wiggly is looking for a part-time meat cutter and that there is a “Milking position in a double 10 parlor.” There are roosters, dogs, and fishing equipment to buy and houses to rent.  “FOR RENT: Renovated church converted to 3 bedroom, 1.5 bath home.  Vaulted ceilings.”   I guess they would be vaulted, ay?

It’s the letters of thanks that make me realize that we all need ways to show our appreciation.  A farmer writes, “I would like to thank our daughter for milking the cows Sunday, August 9 so we could go to the state fair.”  Lorraine writes to thank the fire and police departments “who helped me through a critical time of my life.  I will never forget your thoughtfulness.”  There seem to be messages for the saints in every issue.  August 25 has an anonymous writer declaring “Thank you Jesus, Mary, Joseph, St. Jude, and St. Anthony for prayers answered.”

So they read that paper,too?  Good to know.  And good to know that an attitude of gratitude still lives in the heartland.  It could also be called an ALTitude of gratitude, because it elevates your life condition when you give thanks, don’t you think?  It gets you out of the valley and onto the top of the hill where you get a perspective on where you’ve been–and how many have helped along the way.

Not to be a totally eclectic Gemini, possibly losing the focus of this blog altogether, but I thought I’d post a recipe.  Since I don’t eat wheat, I was happy to finally come up with a gluten-free cornbread I could eat.  This one’s pretty good.  I guess it’s the xanthan gum ( a powder I got at Whole Foods) that gives it some texture.

GF CORNBREAD

Mix the following ingredients in a big bowl:

1/2 cup corn meal

1/2 cup corn flour

1/2 cup brown rice flour

1 Tbsp. xanthan gum

2 teaspoons baking powder

1/2 tsp. salt

1/2 cup buttermilk

1/3 to 1/2 cup honey, depending on your sweet tooth

2 eggs, beaten

1/2 cup canola oil, corn oil or melted butter.

Spread in greased and floured square pan.  Bake at 400 degrees F for 20  minutes, until fairly browned on top and no longer gooey in the middle.  Good with chili or as a snack with honey or jam.

Enjoy the last of summer!

WRITING A CONCEPT STATEMENT

 

In October 2008, I attended a weekend writing workshop at Ragdale.  The teacher, Anne LeClaire, asked us to include a 25-word summary statement of the piece of writing we brought to share. 

Using exactly 25 words, I came up with an overview of my writing that I thought was wonderful for packing so much into one sentence, making use of terms that implied entire bodies of thought, such as “ways of knowing” and “epistemological boundaries.”  The word “sylvan” also evoked so much, making me think of the beauty of the trees and the mysteries of the forest.  I was so clever I felt like I was cheating.  I thought people would find it funny how it sounded like a diagnosis of pathology but was really a description of freedom from pathology.  Then I read it sitting around a table of my fellow writers.

“SYLVAN WAYS OF KNOWING:

A nice, well-adjusted (i.e., miserable) WASP girl blows open her epistemological boundaries, finding herself terminally interdependent and spiraling down to earth.”

Dead silence.  No knowing chuckles like I had anticipated.  Finally a woman spoke up, “I don’t know what this means.”  Others chimed in, agreeing with her.  One added, “I don’t understand one word of it.”  Anne said, “The idea is to come up with something you could say at a cocktail party to summarize your project.”

Oh.  Back to the drawing board.  I either needed to find a cocktail party full of academics who love jargon or rewrite the dang thing.

Now (August 2009), my book has changed focus.  Sending in a sample of my revised work, my summary reads:

“This book helps readers get outside, quiet their minds, and learn from nature.  Open the door, open your life.”

Not a word of jargon in it.  I’ll see how that goes over.

Dog vs. Duck, Bay Lake

THE SANE UNIVERSE

by D.H. Lawrence

One might talk of the sanity of the atom,

the santiy of space,

the sanity of the electron,

the sanityof water–

for it is all alive

and has something comparable to that which we call sanity in ourselves.

The only oneness is the oneness of sanity.

Five Amigos making dinner at Wolf reunion 7/22/09

WOLFS AT OLD ORCHARD
by Barbara Wolf Terao (aka Dilly)
 
     It was because of my grandmother’s illness with diptheria as a child that my great grandparents, Mippie and Pippie, started going north for the summer.  They left the stifling heat of St. Louis and took the family by train to the cooling waters of Bay Lake in northern Minnesota.  In 1901 they were guests of the Ruttger family, credited by them with initiating family vacations at Ruttgers, and later purchased their own place nearby.  My grandmother, Helen, thrived, as did Mippie’s mother who accompanied them.  The Wolf family has been heading to the land o’lakes and loons ever since.
     The farmhouse my great grandparents bought was built by David Archibald on the north shore of the lake called Sissebagama by the Ojibwe.  Archibald was friends with a Native American named Kahwessie who often came by to visit or to offer wild rice and maple syrup.  To this day, our family still gets wild rice from local producers or from the Mille Lacs Band of Ojibwe nearby.
     Surrounded by birch and basswood, many generations of Wolfs have gathered on the screened-in porch of the white farmhouse–joking, eating homemade cookies, and playing cards.  We girls from several families shared one bedroom.  The overflow of aunts and uncles went in the two-room cabin, conveniently close to the outhouse.  Sometimes during thunderstorms the power went out.  We wrapped up in blankets and read Archie comics by flashlight.
     Pippie planted a flower garden in the side yard while daisies and wild asparagus took it upon themselves to flourish hither and yon.  Though the apple trees for which Old Orchard was named died off over the years, a new vegetable garden yielded copious carrots and an absurd abundance of zucchini.  My dad, a math professor the rest of the year, watched the produce multiply under his tender care.
     The mothers and grandmothers, meanwhile, prepared a dinner each night for an extended family of a dozen or two.  We children came in from swimming and dressed for dinner.  (Dressed finely or not, we would be doing the dishes later, with lake water heated on the stove.)  The house, built in the late 1800s, had no indoor plumbing or heating, but we could still put a blue cloth on the old dining room table, say grace, and have an elegant meal.  I remember the bent, gray heads of my great grandmother Mippie and my grandparents, Helen and Louis Wolf, as we gave thanks.  Mippie died up north at the age of 95, enjoying the birdcalls outside her window till the last.
     I realize now that those times together were precious, especially as people (such as my husband and I in Chicago) settled hither and yon.  We still have a Minnesota Wolf den to call home, where we can gather as a pack and howl at each other’s jokes–as we did at our first-ever reunion in 2009.  Because of this wedge of lake country and our many seasons there with seven generations, I know my family.

Art Institute of Chicago

INHALATION

U mandara ke

As I breathe in the world,

exchange molecules with ants

and oaks

san butsu gu daishu

smell the incense,

the sandalwood beads pressed

in my hands

rain of white mandara blossoms

a million moments in me

are softened

and at ease

in the drumming rain.

Barbara and daughter

 

Cautionary photo to accompany ”AFTER 50″ poem.  If your kid has a knife in her hand, DON”T “keep hold!”  Let go.