Milkweed in the Orchard

In the last few years, milkweed has spread exponentially throughout the orchard. We don’t mow it down, but we don’t plant it either. It is as if the earth herself has decided that we need more of it; that nature wants to help the monarch butterflies who depend on this plant for their survival. Every summer, monarchs lay their eggs on milkweed. The emerging black-, white-, and yellow-striped caterpillars begin eating around the edges of the leaves, and even absorb a substance from their host that provides a defense against predators.

But where are the monarchs? Their numbers have been decreasing steadily for the last twenty years. In fact, the Endangered Species Coalition reports that North American monarchs have declined by ninety percent since the mid 90’s. During the first few years of tending the orchard, I would see monarchs daily when the milkweed was in bloom. This year I have yet to see one.

One reason for their decline is the loss of milkweed habitat. Much of this acreage is now planted with corn and soybeans, and the fields are sprayed with Monsanto’s Roundup. (In 1995, 10 million pounds of Roundup was used on corn and soybeans, and, by 2013, the total pounds rose to 204 million.) Roundup destroys all weeds – including milkweed! I’ve known about the horrors of Roundup, but I didn’t realize that genetically modified corn seed, like Bt corn, produces pollen that kills monarch caterpillars and other insects. I am familiar with Bacillus thuringiensis, Bt, a bacteria-based organic pesticide that is approved for use in organic production. An organic grower uses it sparingly and for target pests. But in the case of Bt corn, the plant itself sends out this pesticide to all insects, pollinators as well as pests such as the corn borer.

When the first findings came out that Bt corn was killing off the monarchs, the agricultural giants who control the fate of millions of acres of farmland (as well as the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency and the U.S. Department of Agriculture) denied them. If you want to read further, Orion Magazine published a great article aptly titled, The Canary in the Cornfield.

In recent years, monarch butterfly decline also correlates with unprecedented fluctuations of temperatures caused by global warming. For example, in 2013, a cold period in May delayed the Monarch departure from their wintering grounds, so they arrived late and didn’t breed as well. Their numbers upon their return the following winter were the lowest ever. In early March this year, a sleet storm with high winds at their wintering ground in Mexico felled trees and buried large numbers of monarchs under sheets of ice. 

It’s good we have milkweed growing throughout our orchard, and it is wonderful to read about all of the projects to encourage the survival of the monarch, like the Fresh Pond Monarch Watch in Cambridge, MA, who are planting milkweed, pulling out the invasive black swallow-wort vines, and breeding and releasing caterpillars. However, it will ultimately be the millions of acres in the Midwest that will make the most difference in monarch numbers.

Milkweed belongs to the Asclepiadaceae family, derived from Asclepius, the Greek god (actually demi-god because his father was Apollo but his mother was mortal) of medicine and healing. Athena gave Asclepius the gift to save mortals and even bring them back from the dead. Zeus was jealous when he saw his foes coming back from Hades and supposedly killed Asclepius with a thunderbolt. No one knows for sure since Asclepius became a living god. In ancient Greece there were 320 Asclepions, healing sanctuaries, actually the first hospitals in the world. Last year a 2,400-year-old temple dedicated to him was excavated. I hope he continues to use his healing powers through the proliferation of milkweed and helps to insure the survival of the Monarch butterfly.

Asclepius and his daughter Hygieia, goddess of health.

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Some People See a Turtle

My son, Nick, was young when he fell in love with turtles. He had a pet box turtle, Pebble, and she would eat every night in our kitchen sink. Nick offered her greens, vegetables, and cottage cheese on a small cutting board he put in the shallow water next to her — and we all watched amazed as her snakelike neck extended, she cracked open her sharp beak, and ate surprisingly quickly. Then Nick would take her back to her box in his room with a lamp for heat, and she would root around through the newspapers until she was nicely hidden.

When we traveled, Nick started collecting small turtles made from stone and wood. Friends and family would send him turtle mementos from Russia, Guatemala, and Thailand, in ebony, teak, alabaster, jade, cloth, and corn husk. Nick’s dad made him small shelves in his bedroom to hold this growing collection.

When Nick was a little older, he started making turtles with stones and leaving them in the landscape: a flat large stone for the body, one stone for her head, a narrow one for the tail, and four stones for each leg. We made some together on the sandy beaches of Cape Cod and even on the summit of Mt. Washington after a harrowing climb together.

When I first came to see the farm and walked around the lower pond, I stopped in my tracks. In the middle of the pond was a turtle—a round boulder the size of a Volkswagen bug, with a smaller rock for its head.  This monumental rock formation was gazing east toward the rising sun. When I spoke with the owners later, they said they had never seen it. 

Stone Turtle in Lower Pond, August 2016

In the creation stories of the Oneida and Iroquois, Skywoman fell through a hole in the sky, pirouetting down towards the dark water below. Geese saw this falling woman with long dark hair, and quickly flew up to break her fall. They caught her in their soft feathers and held her safely. But they couldn't hold her for long, and they didn’t know what to do. They gathered all the other water animals together in council — otters, fish, swans, beavers, and a large turtle. The turtle offered his back for her to stand on. But what to do next? The animals knew she wasn’t a water creature and needed solid ground, so they decided to dive deeply and bring up mud from the bottom of the water. It was far for them to dive, and they each in turn returned empty handed. At last, muskrat, the weakest diver among them said, “I will go.” They waited anxiously for muskrat’s return. Finally, they saw a few bubbles, and then his small, limp body surfaced. He had died on the return, but in his paw he still clutched a bit of mud from the bottom. “This mud,” Turtle said, “spread it on my back.” They spread the mud over Turtle’s shell, and Skywoman danced and the land grew.

That’s how we came to live on Turtle Island. It’s a creation myth of sacrifice and caring, of recognizing that the earth sustains us all. It acknowledges that we humans are all immigrants, that the animals were here before us. It is a creation story that affirms life, that recognizes death; one in which there is communication between all species.

Finding the large stone turtle on my first visit to the farm was a good omen. I see this turtle almost every day. The Turtle Island creation myth is in stark contrast to the Western creation myth of the Garden of Eden with its story of banishment, guilt, and wrongdoing. Fratricide follows in the next generation, and Snake gets a really bad rap.

Perhaps the West needs a new creation story, one that is earth centered. We can learn from this Native American legend of the earth as a giant turtle, and be reminded that we are still precariously standing on Turtle’s back. Maybe we also need to dance more to celebrate and heal our earth. Maybe, like Nick, we can all make stone turtle and leave it as a marker in the landscape of our recognition of the precariousness of where we stand. 

LH making a stone turtle in 2006 for Garden in the Woods, Framingham, MA