33 posts tagged with "living"

My earliest experiences of nature were of playing in the yard — and out back — as a child in a Houston suburb. As I recall it, our backyard had a pecan and some young oaks, along with multiple gardens. There was a red oak — or perhaps a maple? — planted out front, and a sweet gum tree whose seed casings would bring forth caution in even the most carefree of barefoot children. And of course there was the St. Augustine grass. This was all conducive to much play outside. But the best part was behind the fence: The Ditch.

We got up this morning with merely grudging acceptance of the breakfast we planned on attending — an introduction to the Valley Ranch home owners association and committees, for new home owners. We left the meeting feeling excited and optimistic. We already knew that it was a good, "master planned," neighborhood. Now we feel more confident that it has a bright future as well, one that includes serious water conservation measures, ecological aesthetics, and social opportunities.

Also see: Op-Ed: Preserve Local Parks Grants, adapted from this essay

Like many in my parents' generation, my Gen-X childhood was spent outside whenever possible, with the freedom to roam the neighborhood and explore the vestiges of "the wild" wherever they could be found. In southern Missouri, that meant playing in small valleys, not fit for home construction, that still teemed with minnows, crawdads, and the occasional alligator snapping turtle. Even the backyard offered something wild: instead of a fence separating us from our neighbors, we had an old farm tree line; some of the larger horse apple trees still had bits of barb wire encased in their bark. The trees sheltered squirrels and chipmunks, birds and bats.

And then we moved to the Dallas area, in the middle of 7th grade. Again our home was on old farmland, but there were no vestiges other than the flatness of tilled cropland. White Rock Creek was perhaps a mile away, but there was no access without obviously trespassing — and it wasn't compelling enough to risk getting in trouble. I turned inward and focused on my studies; perhaps that was for the best. But I felt lost. A part of me was missing.

Winter was once a midly depressing time for me, as it is for most: short, cool days, brown grass, bear branches. Obviously this is Texas not Minnesota, otherwise: shorter, super-cold days, car stuck in snow or sliding on ice (but the grass was still green - under the snow - and the branches would often have a delicate coating of the white stuff). Fractals and birds started changing me some years ago. This winter has only confirmed that.

In honor and memory of Mr. Ronald White, of St. Paul, MN, I set out this evening to find a documentary on the Ojibwe people and/or language. His story, as a part of that people, is not mine to tell (in so far as I know some miniscule part). So I will share this documentary. It does not sugar coat the past, but neither does it dwell on it. It dwells on the present and the future of the native language and culture of Minnesota, Wisconsin, and other areas around the Great Lakes.

Two of many items that grabbed my attention and reflection: (1) opening comments noting how many people are concerned with the loss of habitat, but are not also concerned or knowledgeable about the loss of cultures. (2) "You don't have to say 'respect your elders' in Ojibwe - its built right in" — "elderly man" is "great being," and "elderly woman" is "she who holds together". Words for the sun and grandfather are the same, as are grandmother and the moon. You could ask "is the moon up?" and mean "is grandmother stirring?"

First Speakers: Restoring the Ojibwe Language on PBS.

We ran out of regular coffee, hence drinking instant this morning (Pampa brand from Mexico). The smell of this brand takes me back to Haifa, where I went on Pilgrimage a year ago. The B&B we stayed in had an electric kettle and kept us well-stocked with packages of instant coffee. On mornings where we had to get moving before the cafe downstairs opened, that was my wake-up.

This is a strange sort of spring we're having. And a small part of me died a little death watching the new Lorax trailer this morning.

This afternoon I heard an interview with Thich Nhat Hanh, from the public radio Humankind program, that is helping me frame a response I've been thinking about over the last few days. On Facebook, I posted: "Over-preparation only guarantees that you don't have time to live in the moment. That you don't have time to make a better world today, or to appreciate God's handiwork just beyond your nose and all around. From a comment to a friend after I asked for advice on pursuing an MBA. Thoughts?"

When I became a Bahá'í in the 90s, perhaps the second deliberate change I made (prayer being the first) was to act with greater respect and appreciation towards my parents. I have long remembered that there was a particular passage that prompted this change; the "Bahá'í Faith" quote service on Facebook has brought that long-sought quotation back to me today:

While it was unfortunate that we were not able to see the Shrine of the Báb in all its golden-domed grandeur (covered over during on-going rehab), we had the bounty of being only the third pilgrim group to visit the restored Ridván Garden outside of 'Akká. The Bahá'í World News Service has an excellent article, from October 2010, on the restoration work and the history of the garden: Holy place restoration sheds light on region's heritage.

It is indeed a beautiful and calming place, and one can well imagine the relief of leaving the horrid conditions of the city to spend a few hours in joyful company on the island. This entire complex is filled with trees and plants descended from those brought across the deserts by pilgrims from Persia (as mentioned somewhere in The Chosen Highway), particularly cypress, pomegranate, and various citrus fruits (the tangerines were ripe and wonderful!). The peace and tranquility in this site, which is only a few hundred yards from apartment buildings, could easily send one into a rapturous state.