Castor Beans—Who Knew?

Last fall I saved some seeds in a plastic container in our mud room and promptly forgot about them. A week ago, I remembered. I soaked the seeds for two days before planting them in a large clay pot to see if they would germinate. Then I placed the pot on the porch where I would see them and be sure to remember to give them water twice a day. I didn’t want the sprouting beans to dry out. When I returned later that afternoon to water, the pot was gone. That seemed odd. Where did it go?

For the last few years, we’ve grown a singular plant in the garden outside our kitchen door. It’s odd looking, and almost always unfamiliar to visitors to the farm.

           “What’s that growing?” we are asked.
           “It’s a castor bean plant, Ricinus Communis.”

While it can grow as a perennial tree in temperate climates, here in New England, we grow it outdoors in a sunny spot as an annual. This red-leafed variety grows quickly, in one season easily touching eight feet, and it isn’t finicky about its soil. The plant has very large leaves—you wouldn’t be wrong to think a child-sized umbrella—shaped like a giant Japanese maple leaf with deep lobes. We have been buying one plant each spring from Applefield Farm in Stow each year.

Young Castor Bean Plant with flowers and small seed pods.

The small clusters of pale flowers are barely noticeable, though they have a sweet scent. It’s the seed pods that attract attention. Red clusters of spiky balls, a little smaller than horse chestnuts, vie for room along thick stalks. Then, once the pod dries and the seeds within are mature, the pod splits open, and literarily shoots forth its smooth, oval-shaped, brown-red seeds. I can only guess that since it is self-sowing, the plant doesn’t want too much competition at its roots from its own offspring. And with the seeds protected in their spiky pods, birds aren’t helpful with dispersal. And then, there’s the poison, which I’ll get to soon. But first, let’s solve the mystery of the disappearing pot.

            When I saw Blase I asked, “Did you move my pot of castor beans?”
“Oh, I planted a cutting from the Fiddle-leaf Fig in that pot,” he said.

Blase had seen the pot sitting in the corner of the porch, and in need of a pot, he took it, plunging the fig cutting into the center, and setting it on the plant bench in the sun room. He had no way of knowing it was filled with castor beans.

A week later, the castor bean seeds began to germinate. Thick pink bean stalks poked out from the now white lima-bean-size seeds. I dug the seedlings out from around the fig and planted them in individual pots.

And what about the poison?  Well, yes. The plant is considered poisonous because the seeds contain ricin, a serious toxin, especially when injected into the body. Eating enough raw seeds will also make you ill with diarrhea and vomiting. The gritty facts about how it is used as a poison can be found here. Earlier this year a man who worked for a biotech company in Massachusetts was arrested for buying 800 castor beans with the intention of extracting the poison. I didn’t know anything about the dark side of castor beans before writing this blog.

And what about the oil? The oil is not poisonous. It is most often sold as a laxative, but it has lots of other uses: lamp oil, soap, candles, plastics, linoleum, paints, inks, ointments and coolants. The seeds contain close to fifty percent of their weight in oil. When I was waiting for the birth of my second child, my midwife told me she was going away so I needed to get this birth moving. She suggested castor oil. It was disgusting. And I don’t think my teaspoonful had any bearing on Nick’s precipitous arrival a day later.

I did learn that in ancient Egypt castor oil was often used for lamps as well as medicinally. Castor bean seeds have been found inside tombs. I can imagine the seeds were buried to keep the lamps lit while the dried apples strung inside the tomb provided food for the deceased’s journey home. I have lots of castor bean plants growing on our side porch. If they do well, I’ll put them out at the farm stand and you too can pick up one of these show-stopping annuals.

Spring Training at a Zen Monastery

Before spring slides into summer, I wanted to share about the last three months which will also explain why there have been so few blog posts. I’ve been on an intense retreat—some of it quarantined in my studio, some of it at Zen Mountain Monastery in the New York Catskills, and some of it, following the spring Old Frog Pond Farm schedule.

I was asked by my Zen teacher to serve as Shuso, or Chief Disciple for the three-month training period, we call Ango. The training period, Ango, dates back to the time of the Buddha. In his time, the year was broken down into three-month periods much like our four seasons. There were two seasons of intensified practice when the community of monks, the Sangha, gathered and practiced together. These periods coincided with the monsoon rains, when it would have been dangerous and difficult for the monks to be wandering the countryside. Instead, they gathered in groves and set up temporary living huts, practicing together and living near their teacher. These intensified three-month periods, called Ango, alternated with the seasons when the Sangha would disperse, going off in the own directions, to beg for food, find shelter, and spend the time in solitary practice.

At Zen Mountain Monastery we practice Ango in the spring and the fall. The Shuso, or chief disciple is chosen by their teacher, and they can be either a lay person or a monk. Their role is to inspire the Sangha with their devotion and commitment to practice. The training period ends with a ceremony where the chief disciple gives their first talk on koan and is then challenged by the Sangha with live questions.

At the end of May, my time as Shuso ended with a talk on the koan, “Dongshan’s Essential Way.” Dongshan was a 9th century Chinese Zen master. The koan is a brief teaching dialogue between a student and their teacher. This koan begins with the student saying, “I cannot see the essential path; I still can’t become free of discriminating consciousness.”

What is this essential path? The student can’t see her way. Is it hidden? Who is hiding it? What is hiding it? And why is this student asking the question right now. Today?

I gave my talk on the last Sunday in May. It was followed by questions from other students, and then congratulatory poems. The ceremony marked the completion of my transition to become a senior student in the order, and the opportunity to now take on a more important role within the Sangha.

Many of you know how much I love Zen practice and specifically, training at Zen Mountain Monastery. A full matrix of activities shape our training: zazen (meditation), liturgy, body practice, art practice, work practice, study of the teachings, and face-to-face encounters with our teacher. Most importantly, it is following the rigorous monastic schedule, putting aside one’s own desires, and joining the community. It is said that being in community is like being in a rock tumbler. We need each other to bump up against, to be polished. However, to put it most simply, Zen training is the study of reality as it really is when we are not confused, when our mind is not obscured by attachments and clinging to that which is not real. We aspire through our practice to move among grasses of this world with equanimity and compassion, to be fully present, to do good and not cause harm.

I haven’t felt that I could write about this rite of passage until it was over. There were moments when I knew for certain my teacher had made a grave mistake. I could not do this. But I also knew there was no way out. Of course I was going to do what I was asked to do. I was going to give it everything I could. And the Sangha was there with their love and their support.

Now that I’ve a little time back home, and have hung up my new white robe and am wearing jeans, t-shirt and work boots, I wanted to share with those of you are curious a little about this rite of passage in the Zen training world. And here is a podcast posted where you can listen to the ceremony or find it on the Zen Mountain Monastery website. If any of you want to talk to me about my experience or about Zen Mountain Monastery, I love talking about it. And if you’d like to join us for morning meditation at the farm, drop me an email and I’ll let you know the details.

I look forward to reconnecting with many of you in person. We’re preparing the grounds for our 15th Annual Outdoor Sculpture Exhibit opening on August 1 with twenty-five sculptors bringing new work on the theme of “Emergence.” We’ve scheduled storytelling events with Fugitive Productions, and Plein Air Poetry returns also on the theme of “Emergence.” The fruit is ripening. It looks like mother nature is providing a bountiful and beautiful crop, and our farmers are working hard to encourage its health and growth.

The verse that accompanied the koan is on the verse board below:

Wet with morning dew
The tips of the ten thousand grasses
All contain the light of day.

Enjoy these last days of spring!

Group Photo after the Ceremony

Our Trees are in Bloom

As an apple orchardist I pay attention to the buds. Will they be strong? Are they healthy? How will I take care of them, because I know—left alone, an orchard in New England will become a massive tangle of brambles, invasive vines, and diseased fruit.

We’ve already sprayed the apple trees with fish fertilizer, seaweed, a little copper, and two different biological fungicides to make sure our buds are protected from the spring diseases. Microscopic fungal spores will rise from the soil beneath the tree in a light rain and land on the leaves. There they find purchase and grow. Once the fruit develops, the fungus jumps to the fruit, ultimately making scab-like forms covering over the developing fruit. Once infection begins, it’s hard to reverse. Spores are released over the four-to-six-week period until we reach 100% release.

Every year I have to be prepared for scab, the nickname orchardists use for the fungus, Venturia inaequalis, one of the early apple diseases and one of the worst problems for organic orchardists in New England. I remember when I first learned to spray. Suited up in protective gear, spray tank filled with 300 gallons of water and the spray materials, the tractor settings in low speed, 3rd gear, at 1700 rpms, I was told that the spray for scab needed to renewed before every wetting period. It seemed an overwhelming proposition. If it rained one day, and then four days later, I needed to spray again because the material would have washed off the trees.

First Spray

Since that time, I’ve learned to time our sprays to most effective for the maximum spore release. I’ve planted many new scab-resistant varieties in our orchard, and removed some of the scab magnet trees like Macintosh. And since 2006 when Old Frog Pond Farm received organic certification, new bio-fungicides are available for organic orchards.

Orchardists have their own language to describe the stages from bud to blossom. Dormant describes the trees in winter, when the buds are gray-brown and tightly closed. They wait for the right combination of temperature and length of daylight to awaken. The outer sheath on the bud is a winter quilt protecting the folded blossom inside. When the apple bud breaks dormancy, the covering of the fruit bud opens slightly to reveal light gray tissue, silver tip.

Then comes green tip. The buds plump in response to warmth and light. The bud opens further to reveal a green plant tissue. The next stage, half-inch green or mouse ears, is an apt description as two tiny oblong-shaped leaves appear. Tight cluster follows with a rosette of green leaves around a tightly packed flower bud. Pink stage is next, as this singular flower bud separates into five or six individual pink-sheathed blossom buds.

This is the most exciting moment in the orchard, for each of these flower buds, if pollinated, will become an apple. In the center the king blossom opens first. It’s the strongest and largest bud. The others follow; reserves for the tree in case something happens to the King. Full bloom is when all blossoms are open. Pollinators arrive from far and wide to drink sweet apple nectar and unknowingly pollinate the trees.

Our trees are in full bloom, and I won’t spray again until the petals fall. Bloom is the time when I walk through the orchard rows and feel overwhelming gratitude to be part of such fragile beauty.

May 4, 2021 Old Frog Pond Farm

Hooray!

I received an email from an apple grower colleague asking if I’d mind if he read a poem I had shared with our holistic apple growers group. He will be speaking at the UU Church in Lincoln, Massachusetts on Sunday, April 25th.  I imagine he is speaking for their Earth Day service because of his long history of caring about apples and in particular, the heirloom apples of Maine. John Bunker is not only an apple grower, he is an apple sleuther. He has made it his life’s work to identify as many old apples in Maine as possible. People bring him apples, send him apples, email him photos of apples, and stop him on the street to tell him of old trees they know of and want to identify. John published a book in 2019, Apples and the Art of Detection: Tracking Down, Identifying, and Preserving Rare Apples.

The poem he was referring to in his email was one by the great 14th century Persian poet, Hafez.  

An Apple Tree Was Concerned

An apple tree was concerned 
about a late frost and losing its gifts 
that would help feed a poor family close by. 
Can't the clouds be generous with what falls from them? 
Can't the sun ration itself with precision? 

They can speak, trees, 
they can say the sweetest things
but it takes special ears to hear them,
ears that have listened to people
with great care. 

Indeed, this poem feels quite timely given wintry weather we experienced here in New England on Friday. 

I wrote back to John saying, “Of course! I think Hafez would be delighted.” And I was grateful to be reminded of it, because I, too, will be speaking on that same Sunday at our UU Church in Harvard with good friends, Piali De and her mother-in-law, Marion Stoddart.

Marion Stoddart is well known to many because of her groundbreaking work to inspire and lead the restoration of the Nashua River, at one time one of most polluted rivers in America. Piali De is a brilliant scientist and the CEO of Sensio Systems, an innovative company leading the way to support healthcare at home. We’ll be speaking about lessons learned from restoring the Nashua River, bringing back an abandoned orchard, and raising questions about ownership of land and the importance of ‘common’ land. You can go to the website for the UU Church in the Town of Harvard if you would like to join us next Sunday.

Cultivating Love is part of my new installation for Studios Without Walls exhibit, The Light Gets In, opening on May 28, 2021

Though the Apples, Art, and Spirit blog has been silent in recent months, things are changing. My family has gone through their share of both life and Covid challenges. But we’re coming out on the other side. We’re turning our attention to reopening the farm, taking care of the perennial crops, and planting annual vegetables and flowers.

While weeding the rhubarb I grabbed this fellow. But it did not glide away!

Now we need some cooperation from the weather gods.

Apricots are the earliest blossoming of our fruit trees.

Our apricot tree is in full bloom as are early peaches. It’s likely that we have lost the fruit from these trees. We hope the apples are fine. I’ll be checking on them, and definitely listen to what they have to say.

At the end of my note to John Bunker, I wrote, “Thanks for the reminder. We need each other!”

John quickly wrote back, “Not only do we need each other... we HAVE each other! Hooray!

Yes, we need each other! And we have each other!