Walking the Land: Returning Home

This “Man in a Maze” basket by the Akimei O’odham (Pima) people of Arizona is in the Fruitlands Museum collection in Harvard, Massachusetts. Though baskets like this are called, “Man in a Maze,” the design is actually a labyrinth, a teaching tool. Mazes have false turns and dead ends, and the sojourner must often retrace their steps and start over. A labyrinth is a continuous journey, a winding path with no wrong turns, no wrong decisions. The basket’s fine weave expresses stillness and balance, virtues that walking a labyrinth are said to restore.

In 2006, I installed an outdoor labyrinth for Fruitlands Museum inspired by the design of the Pima basket. I remembered this labyrinth while I was writing about our current situation—each of us isolated, walking our individual paths through the pandemic.

Walking the Labyrinth at Fruitlands Museum, 2005

For the Fruitlands’ labyrinth, I used round New England field stones placing them on a flat and grassy hillside. The measured concentric circles follow the contours of the land. Once the installation was completed, I wondered, what should we put in the center? A plant, a flower, a special stone? Nothing felt right, and I left it empty.

A question many people are asking is what the return to normal will look like. Many have discovered a new attentiveness in their daily lives—cooking special recipes, baking bread, taking long walks. And with this attentiveness, gratitude for what we do have naturally arises. The question is will we be able to carry this mindful pace with us as we re-enter the busy marketplace?

When walking a labyrinth, reaching the center is the goal. Perhaps, however, the return is more important. As we walk back out, we have the opportunity to consider what we have noticed along our journey. Quite possibly, we walk back out of the labyrinth with more confidence. We may feel the freedom of not worrying where we are going.

Some of us don’t want to return to normal; for isn’t normal what has polluted our rivers, clearcut our forests, and created social and economic inequality? We aren’t going to change the way international corporations operate—let alone our own government—in a few months, but we can make personal decisions about how we want to walk our labyrinth. Are we walking with attention and with gratitude, or are we hurrying, trying to get somewhere? Are we fully present to the moment of walking? We each have a path to walk, there is no other. We change our lives by what we bring to our walking, and the only thing we truly bring with us is our heartmind.

I see now why it was right to leave the center of the labyrinth at Fruitlands empty. There is a journey, but there is no goal to achieve, no pot of gold, no rainbow, no anything. We may be spiritual beings, but we are on a human path we each have to navigate. Let’s imagine the joy of walking. The labyrinth is no longer at Fruitlands, but I offer you a walk-through Louise Berliner’s poem inspired by it.

Journey 

Imagine the wind
Midwife to the basket
Seeds delivered to soil
Subversive act of survival

The seeds take root
Cattail willow devil’s claw
Call to the Pima women
Come gather split soak coil

The basket grows
Tells its story in pattern
Elder Brother in the maze
A journey to the center

The seed becomes artifact
Sold or bartered shipped carried
Arizona story going East
Against the traffic

Imagine the glaciers
Midwives to the landscape
Stones delivered from soil
Subversive act of survival

New England’s best crop
Schist granite fieldstone
Call to the hands of an artist
Come gather map place illuminate

The labyrinth grows
Tells its story in pattern
Any stranger may begin
A journey to the center

Imagine the artist
Midwife to the sculpture
What the hand made
The feet now travel

Stinging Nettles: Gifts from the Great Mother

LH, photo: Ariel Matisse

Squatting in a patch of stinging nettles with my foraging basket, and rubber gloves, I was snipping young stalks to sauté for dinner. Some people react with alarm when I mention eating stinging nettles, but the truth is nettles are beloved by wild foragers and herbalists. Mother Earth offers this gift packed with vitamins, minerals, and protein. Richio Cech in his book, Making Plant Medicine, summarizes the uses of nettles: “Practical Uses: Legion.” The Greeks and Romans cultivated fields of nettles more than any other crop.

Nettles sting because they have hairs on the stems and undersides of leaves that break off when touched, exposing the tiniest sharp needles that pierce the skin and inject a toxin that causes a burning rash. Fierce protection! For nettles are so nutritious, animals would devour them before they grew large enough to flower and bear seeds, the driving force in a plant’s life.

 An old adage says, “When in doubt, use nettles!” Their beneficial uses include: a natural detoxifier, an anti-inflammatory, a treatment for gout, anemia, joint pain, diabetes, hay fever, urinary tract issues, and prostate issues. Flogging with stinging nettles for arthritis, joint pain, and to increase blood circulation is the one recommendation I am nervous about trying. But when I am without energy and need a dose of friendliness, I reach for the jar of dry nettles and make a cup of tea. It’s magical how this plant restores my balance.

Arrangement with Nettles, watercolor, LH 2020

 And, of course, what’s good for me is good for the orchard. Part of being a good orchardist is learning how to take care of the trees with kindness. In late spring, when I want to boost the trees’ immune systems and help provide an extra boost of minerals, I turn towards nettles. When the plants are about eighteen inches tall, I cut a wheelbarrow-full, enough to fill a 50-gallon barrel. Then I add water and let the nettles sit for a few days. Sometimes, I add comfrey leaves for added minerals, horsetail for its silica, and garlicscapes, if I feel the trees need insect protection. After a few hot days, I drain out the liquid and fill my 300-gallon sprayer. The gooey remains of the nettle plants go onto the compost pile, and I set out for my tractor tour of the orchard pulling the airblast sprayer with its peacock’s tail of spray fanning out to touch every leaf.

Nettles reduce heavy metals in soils, in fact I remember hearing that if you plant a rusty agricultural tool, it will attract nettles to grow there. Mostly I find nettles pop up where they choose. At the farm, they don’t seem to care whether it’s a dry berm in full sun, against the peeling paint of the old chicken coop, or in the dappled light of the streambed. When Nettles have finished what they came to do, they pack up and move on. Wild plants are like that.

Now is the season to gather and cook young nettles (they will regrow for fall harvesting.) Try steaming them and adding a little lemon juice and olive oil, and some parmesan or other favorite cheese. Or sauté them with onions or shallots, add some garlic powder, and a bit of cream. For nettle pesto, most people suggest you boil the nettles and dry them with a towel. Then fill your food processor with the nettles, walnuts, pecans or other nut, lemon juice, salt, a couple of peeled garlic cloves, and some hard cheese like asiago or parmesan. Once it becomes the consistency of a paste dribble in olive oil till it is smooth and the consistency you’d like. If you make a lot, freeze some for the middle of next winter to serve over fresh linguine and bring spring back into your life. Don’t be alarmed: nettle pesto is iridescent green.

 In midsummer, I cut some of the tall nettles, tie them bundles, and hang them in my studio. Once they are dry, I take a cardboard box or large paper bag, and with gloves on, run my hands along the stem to remove the leaves. The dry leaves can be stored whole, but I put them all through the food processor and store them in a couple of gallon jars. We sell small packs of dried nettles at the farm stand along with bags of freshly picked.

Out of the soil of friendliness grows the beautiful bloom of compassion,

Watered by the tears of joy,

Sheltered beneath the cool shade of the tree of equanimity.

                                    —Longchenpa, 14th century Tibetan Buddhist teacher

 Nettles are a curious teacher. They sting! But when we appreciate them, we receive nothing but gifts.

                         Happy Mother’s Day!

Nettle Bouquet, watercolor and pencil, LH 2020

The Mystery of Swallow

Sky above the Medicine Wheel at Old Frog Pond Farm, Night Photo: Robert Hesse

While in our individual quarantines we hear of mysteries revealed across the globe: In India, people can see the glow of the high Himalayas, fish are swimming again in the dank Venice canals, and above in the night sky, the stars in the milky way glow more brightly. Closer to home, I study tree swallows.

 I’ve been watching an iridescent pair who have taken up residence outside my studio window. They perch on the top of a pine nesting box, one of a dozen my husband, Blase, built from scraps in his woodshop. I have yet to see either bird enter the box to lay eggs. Swallows, like most song birds, don’t lay all their clutch at once. The effort is too much; they lay only one egg a day. During this time of egg laying, the parents don’t immediately start incubating, but wait until the clutch is complete. Of course, I thought, how does she know when that last egg is laid? Maybe the way an artist knows when a painting is finished. It’s intuitive, there’s a satisfaction, a completeness. There’s a whisper, it’s done, it’s out of your hands. Release it, and trust.

This swallow pair must be waiting for the last of the eggs to be laid before they start nesting. They sit throughout the day, though occasionally one will fly, leaving the other alone. Rarely, do they both leave.

I have resisted peeking inside the box to see the eggs, I can only assume the eggs are accumulating. Once incubation begins, the parents will take turns sitting on the eggs for a week. Once born, the babies will remain in the nest for 18 to 23 days. Then, they must develop into expert flyers. For their migration from North America to South America will begin in the fall and will travel 200 miles a day at speeds from 17 to 22 miles per hour. However, storms, exhaustion, and starvation are challenges they will face, and it is estimated that only half will survive the journey.

To my surprise, both swallows suddenly take off. I watch for their return when a bluebird lands on their box, perky, though a little uncertain, making me think it is perhaps its first spring to find a partner and mate. The swallows immediately return, flustered at the sight of this interloper. What to do? Cautiously they fly toward the bluebird, wings shaking, approaching, but not getting too close. I think, why aren’t they dive bombing it? They need to protect their nest. The swallows dare to come a little closer, but the bluebird just twitches. The swallows fly out and back, and out and back, but never touch the bluebird. They don’t seem to be aggressive by nature, but they know they have to do something. Meanwhile, the bluebird doesn’t seem to realize it has landed on a box that belongs to others, or it is simply feigning innocence.

I watch more of their wing wagging, and think, this couple is completely ineffective, ridiculously so. Then, amidst more flutters of feathers, the bluebird departs. The swallow couple land on the top of the box, nudge close to each other, feathers touching, sharing the experience they have survived together. Whew! That was difficult! We best just sit here for a while.

Such mysteries of nature belong to us for we belong to nature; we are part of it. How could we be other? We’re made of the same molecules of water, air, and earth’s minerals. When I become demoralized by the problems on the planet, the greed I witness, the suffering brought on by this new pandemic, I remember that I am this earth, not separate from it. I am this morning’s melancholic rain making circles on the pond. I am the swallows anxious flutterings. Argentina may be 10,000 miles away, but the swallows will connect us. They connect me to you. Isn’t that amazing?

First Swallow, LH

Aerial Bruststrokes

Rain, watercolor, LH

Yet another cold, rainy morning and I sit at my studio window watching tree swallows circle and loop, skim the water, and splash. They could be practicing touch-and-goes as if taking part in some aviation exhibition, but I prefer seeing them as painters dipping their brushes to color the pond and trees.

            I first met swallows soon after I met Blase, my husband. We were sitting on the front step of the farmhouse and I asked, “If you were to be reincarnated as an animal, what would it be?”

            Blase didn’t pause for very long before he said, “A swallow.”

            “A swallow? Why?”

Blase has a deep voice that resonates in his broad chest. He played football during high school and college. He’s physical and strong, so I imagined he would say, a lion, or some impressive creature.

            Blase answered my bewildered look, “Because they are so playful.”

            I didn't know a swallow from a wren but took in his comment as something significant.

Then he turned to me and asked what animal I would choose.

            I replied, “Maybe a lion.” I needed to be strong and able to fight for what I needed not only for myself but for my pride of three children.

            I have completely come around to Blase’s point of view. For the swallows, regardless of the lack of warmth and sunshine, do their thing, eat insects, and dazzle us ground walkers. The secret of the swallows’ contentment seems to be their willingness to fly in any weather, to be a complete expression of joy no matter the circumstances. I know how hard that is to do, especially when strong emotions come up, especially when the suffering and grief I feel increases with every bit of news from around the globe.

Navigating the currents of difficulties that arise is our daily practice. The storms will never disappear, but we learn to be better fliers. Like the swallows, we practice our take-offs and landings, until one sunny day, involuntarily we grab a brush, paint the pond pink, the trees purple, and the sky an emerald green, even when it is raining.

Pink Pond, watercolor, LH