My partner & I went out to dinner recently — rewarding ourselves at the end of a particularly trying week. From a menu bulging with options, I selected “tuna encrusted with sesame seeds, black and green peppercorns, pan-seared rare, finished with soy vinaigrette, served with sushi rice and honey lime Asian slaw.” Sounds delicious, right? And the tuna was delicious. Ditto the slaw, if a tad over-sweet. But the rice? Ah, the rice. It arrived like a missile that had improbably landed in a ramekin — with the look, heft, and solidity of a perfect snowball. I took only one bite — a sticky, gummy spoonful that was reluctant to part with the spoon — and that was enough.

As if he’d been watching to see how we liked our first tastes, our delightful waiter appeared instantly to ask how everything was. When I pointed out the deficits in the rice, he took one look, laughed, & went cheerfully off to fetch me a dish of the same wild rice my dining partner had ordered.

As our otherwise delicious meal wound down and we awaited the tab, I idly picked the gummy rice ball up from the bread plate it had been ostracized to, gave it a little squeeze … and then, inspiration: a few little pokes & a couple of pinches in just the right places … two pointy ears, string bean eyes obligingly provided from my partner’s plate, a short carrot nose and … Voila! Transformation! Like Gepetto, I was instantly quite fond of my little character. I half-expected it to surprise me by starting to laugh & play tricks. I couldn’t help wishing there were a few more globs of sushi rice awaiting sculptural treatment.

“This is for the cook!” I said, handing the dish to the waiter when he returned with our check. He seemed to appreciate my handiwork & answered, “Oh I’m definitely taking this to the kitchen right now for the head chef!” and off he went. When we departed the restaurant, we had enjoyed not only a delicious dinner but a fun impromptu art experiment.

Once back at home, I opened my phone to see how the photo had turned out. I noticed the same little “i” ikon appear that appears with certain photos of plants — and a clickable option labelled “Look Up Food.” It identified my creation as Karami Mochi. Mochi is made from glutinous rice pounded into a gooey glob, and is used in sweet and savoury dishes alike. Karami mochi generally refers to mochi topped with grated daikon and soy sauce, and is also known as oroshi (grated) mochi. Other common toppings include katsuobushi flakes, nori, chili pepper and green onions. So, the app got some things right — my rice was indeed a glutinous gooey glob. And also it deserves credit for lumping (no pun intended) together rice and sculpture — just like my masterpiece.

According to Apple and other sources: “food-identifying apps on the iPhone are powered by Artificial Intelligence (AI). They use computer vision and deep learning models to process the camera’s image, recognize shapes and textures, and match them with massive databases of known foods … Besides plants and food, your iPhone’s AI (Visual Look Up and visual intelligence) can (or so say the ‘sources’) identify animals, architectural landmarks, famous art pieces, books, and even everyday objects like laundry symbols and car models.”

I picked out a few random photos on my phone to see how AI would do. Here’s what happened: It was pretty good at identifying animals, especially domestic cats. It also got porcupine right — but it wouldn’t hazard a guess on the dogs wearing protest signs.

As for car models, it wouldn’t even hazard a guess on any of my vehicle images, even the large side view of a moving van with UHAUL in huge letters across the side.

On plants: Romanesco cauliflower was correctly identified, but for the most part, there were many errors and outright bizarre interpretations. For example, a piece of knitting in progress:

was deemed to be a plant — labelled Dill in one photo, and in another, either an Air Plant, or Spanish moss! AI also identified a heart-shaped branch scar on a tree trunk as a bird (Brown Creeper) or a Western Honey Bee. A photo of icicles along the roof edge became “Staghorn Sumac.”

The most hilarious category is Famous Art Pieces. A watercolor doodle of mine

was identified as this:

If you view my painting upsidedown & use your imagination, you might see a remote resemblance between the two:

A watercolor by my friend Cynthia Crawford resulted in this far-fetched “identification”:

AI pointed to the painting below.

Do leave a comment & explanation if you see any connection whatsoever!

Last of all, I asked AI to identify this:

The image is featured on the website for my daughter Roseminna Watson’s Music In The Studio, the upcoming concert series held in the artist’s studio in Truro, MA. However, AI identifies it as this:

While I don’t expect a robot to be able to correctly recognize every artwork in the world, famous or otherwise, I do find it amusing & also annoying that it seems compelled to come up with an answer for everything — where any self-respecting human would simply say, “Gosh, I don’t know.”

At any rate … when you tire of all this AI business & want some real life excitement & connection, do check out Music In The Studio! There are ways to immerse yourself & participate even if you can’t make it to the Cape!

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The poem above was written in 2024. And a few days ago, the time came when Kitze had to leave us, to leave this earth.

We were carrying her body out the door, when suddenly a pair of hummingbirds appeared from around the corner & darted toward us. They came very close, hovered for 2 or 3 seconds — shimmering, iridescent, ethereal — and then they sped off, flashing the sun’s light, celestial messengers showing us the way.

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Political and societal disorder is nothing new — every century has had its share, and this one is no exception. The Ship of State is a classic metaphor likening a government or nation and its political governance to a ship navigating the sea.

The Ship of State metaphor originated with the Greek poet Alcaeus around 600 BCE and has endured through the ages. As the ancient Greek philosopher Heraclitus puts it, Alcaeus “compares the troubles of a tyranny to the turmoil of a stormy sea.” Illustrative of this is Plato’s best-known dialogue The Republic, wherein the Ship of Fools appears as a philosophical allegory.

“Imagine then a fleet or a ship in which there is a captain who is taller and stronger than any of the crew, but he is a little deaf and has a similar infirmity in sight, and his knowledge of navigation is not much better. The sailors are quarrelling with one another about the steering -- every one is of opinion that he has a right to steer, though he has never learned the art of navigation and cannot tell who taught him or when he learned, and will further assert that it cannot be taught, and they are ready to cut in pieces any one who says the contrary…” [From Plato’s Ship Of Fools ca 375 BCE]

Centuries later, Hieronymus Bosch painted the iconic Ship of Fools shown above. The painting was originally part of a triptych, three panels painted with oils on wood around 1500. The other two sections depict an “Allegory of Gluttony” and “Death and the Miser.” The Ship of Fools panel is housed in the Louvre.

Interpretations of the symbolic images that appear in this complex painting abound. What I see is a boat or small ship crowded with a group of people — most of them on the boat, but two of them overboard next to the vessel — engaged in all sorts of activities. Each one of them appears to be doing their own thing, seemingly without regard for their fellow-travelers and their situations — unless it’s to bop someone over the head. In this ‘every man for himself’ atmosphere, no one seems to be steering or managing the boat.

I’ve read several interpretations of the scene portrayed in this painting, and it’s interesting what different people see. The online art gallery Artchive describes & interprets it this way:

The central motif of a tree, bereft of foliage save for a single sphere reminiscent of an apple, references the Biblical tale of original sin, reinforcing the painting’s thematic underpinnings of folly and human fallibility. A figure in the foreground is visible hoisting a branch, perhaps in an ill-fated attempt at navigation. Birds perch and fly around, adding to the chaotic atmosphere.

Multiple individuals engage in feasting and merrymaking at the boat’s center, with food strewn haphazardly across a table, symbolizing the sin of gluttony. Notably, one person extends their arm out into the water, interacting with a book, symbolizing the negligence of wisdom and the scriptures. The stern of the boat is occupied by a character wearing a funnel hat, often associated with foolishness, while another figure regales the company with music, paying no heed to the perils that may lie ahead. The overall tenor of the artwork serves as a moralistic caution against the heedless pursuit of fleeting pleasures, suggesting the consequences of such folly.

Art history expert Tom Gurney focuses on a whole different set of details:

The illustration shows ten people adrift in a boat, two others overboard. In the centre of the group is a nun playing a lute and a friar. To the left of the image, a woman appears to be about to hit a man who is dragging a flagon in the water.

To the right of the picture another man appears to be vomiting over the side. Above him, a man clearly dressed as a fool, is drinking from a cup. One of the boatmen is using a huge ladle instead of an oar, the other has a flagon on the end of his oar.

Dangling from the mast is a pancake, or similar item, which the main group might be trying to eat. This may be a reference to a traditional folk custom or game. Climbing up the mast is another character who is about to carve some meat from a roasted bird strapped to the mast.

The mast itself is tree-like and covered in flowers and leaves. From the mast flies a flag bearing a crescent moon, perhaps a symbol of “lunacy” derived from the Latin word “luna”. High in the mast’s foliage sits an owl, which appears almost skull like at first glance. The owl, in mediaeval times was a symbol of bad luck…

I myself am particularly intrigued by the faint image of the crescent moon on the pennant flying from the mast, and also by the gold button or badge on the sleeve of the fool (if that’s indeed who he is) drinking from the cup.

Which details in the painting grab your attention? Is there one character who speaks most eloquently to you? What is the most puzzling detail? Share your observations in the comments below!

[The Greek poet Alcaeus lived from 620-580 BCE. His most influential image is the allegory of the ship of state, found in a number of fragments.]

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All week long the Moon has shone ever more insistently into my bedroom at night, and will reach full today at 1:23 ET. April’s full moon goes by many names in many different cultures, and is most commonly called the Flower Moon here in the Northern hemisphere, because green & growing things start to bloom here at this time.

There is a general rise in energy among all living things with the return of longer daylight hours, and we humans are no exception. This seasonal shift affects mood, energy, and focus as we recalibrate in response to light, temperature, and environmental changes. Our bodies note the shift before the calendar does.

All week long I’ve felt a curiously restless energy — unable to keep still, needing to move, go outside, wander the awakening world. Rivulets of water, birdsong rising on all sides, the green flush of new grass, acorns bursting winter jackets to reveal the bright red of oxidizing tannins underneath. (This is a stress response that indicates a healthy acorn adapting to its exposure to air and sunlight.)

As I observe the Moon this week, I’ve also been thinking about the four astronauts of the Artemis II mission, trying to imagine what their experience might have been like. It must have been eerie, to say the least … making life ‘down here’ seem somehow more surreal than the apparent non-life on the moon. Upon their return to Earth and before they had even time to decompress or reflect on their life-changing experience, all four generously addressed a transfixed world audience. After touchdown in the Pacific Ocean, they still had to undergo days of medical and scientific evaluations for balance, mobility, and cardiovascular changes. During this adjustment period they are also receiving vestibular and physical rehab for issues of mobility and coordination.

I was struck by the sense of unity all four expressed in their public statements.

Around six minutes before the aircraft’s 40-minute lunar flyby, Victor Glover said, "As we get close to the nearest point to the moon and farthest point from Earth, as we continue to unlock the mysteries of the cosmos, I would like to remind you of one of the most important mysteries there on Earth, and that’s love."

Viewing Earth from out there in space, and knowing we were all down here watching, he said, ”Trust us, you look amazing, you look beautiful. And from up here, you also look like one thing. Homo sapiens, all of us, no matter where you’re from or what you look like, we’re all one people.”

“I know I haven’t learned everything that this journey has yet to teach me,” Christina Koch said. “But there’s one new thing I know, and that is: Planet Earth — you are a crew.”

Jeremy Hansen’s message was, “I did have this sense when I was in deep space, looking back at the planet, that I was very insignificant. But the fact that I was there, that a human was there experiencing it, made me feel very powerful because of the collective unity that it took to push four humans there. We didn’t do that, the four of us. It was this huge team, extraordinary team.”

Wiseman reported: "I'm basing this on what I saw and when the sun eclipsed behind the moon, I turned to Victor and said 'I don't think humanity has evolved to the point of being able to comprehend what we're looking at right now,' because it was otherworldly and it was amazing."

Meanwhile, getting back down to Earth, our struggling planet, I’m thankful for the many signs of Spring to lift our spirits & boost our resolve.



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Wednesday, April 15th: With the rest of today and part of tomorrow in which to write Friday’s post before going out of town, I’ve been racking my brains to come up with something fit to print. The ongoing folder of essays-in-progress refuses to yield anything I could wrangle into satisfactory shape within that timeframe. As I acknowledge that here on the page, a host of new ideas, barely formed — begin to crowd my head, but unfortunately the likelihood of one of them streaking to the finish line overnight is pretty danged unlikely. Inotherwords ... I’m at my wit’s end. Overwhelmed. At a loss. Utterly perplexed. Stuck. Stymied. (No sooner does that last word come to mind than I run to look up its origin … Ah — a golf term, basically meaning “having the way blocked by another player.”)

At this point, I’d definitely welcome a “deus ex machina” or “god from the machine.” The term comes from ancient Greek theater (5th century B.C.), where a crane-like machine (mechane) would deliver actors — usually playing the part of deities — to hover in the air over the stage as if in flight, resolving the plot by presenting a surprise solution to a seemingly insoluble predicament.

As a quote in the OED puts it:

The mêchanê was used under various circumstances; but the most ordinary occasion for its employment was to introduce the ‘deus ex machina’ at the end of a play, when affairs had reached such a complicated condition that only divine interference could put them right again. [A. E. Haigh, Attic Theatre iv. 190, 1889]

According to Wikipedia: “ ...Stage machines were also used in ancient Rome, e.g. during the sometimes highly dramatic performances at funerals. For Julius Caesar‘s funeral service, Appian reports a mechane that was used to present a blood-stained wax effigy of the deceased dictator to the funeral crowd. The mechane was used to turn the body in all directions.”

Above: A fanciful concept rendering of deus ex machina in use. Crane design and position speculative -- no records exist. [Image from The Ancient Theater Archive]

“…In ancient performances deus ex machina involved a real machina, specifically a crane. Engineers assembled an elaborate assortment of hardware to lower an actor to the stage.

The ancients were limited to a few wooden beams, ropes, and pulleys. Probably the most challenging use of this machinery occurs in the finale of the tragedy Medea. If the play was produced as written, a chariot containing three passengers would disappear in the wake of a flying dragon. That would be a big order even for today’s set designers.” Read more at Engineering and Technology History Wiki https://ethw.org/Deus_ex_Machina

Spinning off from the idea of a god literally dropping down from on high, the term ‘deus ex machina’ has come to more broadly mean any unexpected, artificial, or improbable character, device, or event that appears suddenly, resolving a seemingly unsolvable situation in life or story. That is precisely what I need in this moment. And honestly, at this point I don’t care if “it is commonly considered a lazy or contrived storytelling “cheat” that saves characters without them earning the resolution.” So bring on the mechane!!

Compared to the daily events on the great stage of this world, my personal predicament of being up against a deadline without a solution is trivial. The world is in tough shape. We need one or more airborne deities to appear in a rescue operation — to swoop in and scoop up the havoc-wreaking, self-appointed “heroic figure” who fancies himself tops on the roster of gods, kings, & heroes, while his craven attendants cluster around him, carrying out his destructive commands with no regard for the oaths they swore in taking office, nor the terrible harms they are enabling.

Deranged AI images posted by the current POTUS infiltrate our awareness via the internet, portraying him in various bizarre get-ups, each one stranger and more tasteless than the last. His visions of himself are growing more bizarre and grandiose with each passing day. Most recently he reimagines himself as an agent of ‘divine interference.’ [I’m sparing you in not displaying those images here — but if you want to review them, click this link, in which Adam Gabbatt provides analysis and links.]

What wouldn’t we give at this point for such a mechane to appear from the wings and hoist this self-appointed Salvator Mundi up, up and away?

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It has been quite a week. Saturday — No Kings. Sunday — The Dream. Wednesday — A landmark case before the Supreme Court. I’ll start with the latter.

At the Supreme Court on April 1st, the Justices sat for oral arguments in Trump v. Barbara — the administration’s case challenging birthright citizenship. Maybe because Wednesday was also April Fool’s Day, the President himself made an unprecedented appearance — sitting in the front row of the court’s public gallery just long enough to hear his own litigator perform. Once Solicitor General D. John Sauer had laid out the administration’s case, and shortly after the opposing party began their presentation — Trump stood up and left. Walking out in the middle of oral arguments is considered bad form and highly disrespectful, in a setting where remaining seated in attentive silence until the case ends is the accepted norm.

The eloquent, fact-based argument laid out by Cecillia Wang, National Legal Director of the American Civil Liberties Union, delivered moving testimony to the care with which the 14th Amendment was constructed. Her presentation offered a brilliant history lesson in how birthright citizenship stands as a corner-stone of our democracy. What a shame that the one who most needs a reminder of that was not there to hear it.

The 14th Amendment grants citizenship at birth to all babies born in the United States (with a handful of exceptions), regardless of their parents' citizenship or immigration status. This right is clearly laid out in Section 1 of the Amendment, ratified in 1868. It is one of the most precious rights enshrined in our Constitution, and has withstood the test of time in spite of several earlier legal challenges, to remain firmly in place for 158 years.

In his continued attempts to break down and divide the diverse and multifaceted population that makes up our America, Trump is once again challenging the Constitution, which is the very foundation of our democracy.

Implicit in being born a citizen, and required of those applying for naturalization, is the oath of allegiance, which begins with these words: “I hereby declare, on oath … that I will support and defend the Constitution and laws of the United States of America against all enemies, foreign and domestic …”

The current situation involves a rogue leader who happens to occupy the highest office in our land and is sorely testing us as a nation. It is therefore incumbent on us to stand up and protest. When we do so, we uphold our duty as citizens to defend the Constitution against a domestic enemy, currently in the guise of a President. His actions test our willingness, our ability, our stamina and our determination in defending the rights bestowed upon us by our Constitution. The word protest comes from Latin testare, to bear witness, to attest — which itself comes from attestāri, meaning to bear witness to, to affirm the truth or genuineness of something — in this case, the Constitution. When we stand together in defiance of authoritarianism, we are performing our civic duty. And we came out in force on Saturday at No Kings demonstrations all over the country to do that.

The video clip below shows a miraculous dove bearing an olive branch, which appeared & flew down Rte. 10 which was lined on both sides with protesters at No Kings III.

And finally — The Dream. Sandwiched between the two historic events of Saturday and Wednesday, came Sunday, when I was able to escape current events for a bit to attend the Boston Ballet production of The Dream. (Click this link for a quick sample…)

The curtain rose on a dim & mysterious forest clearing, encircled by shadowy bowers & leafy nooks. The combination of Shakespeare’s story, Mendelssohn’s music, Sir Frederick Ashton’s choreography, & the consummate skill & dedication of the dancers swept me up into a world of music, magic, & beauty — a lovely place to be for a while. The endurance of the ballet’s three elements — story (1600), music (1826), and choreography (1964) — are proof that the things which lift us up, and that we in turn treasure and support, will endure.

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I admit I’m inordinately drawn to glitter & shine, especially out in nature. On my walks along our dirt road, when I spot a glint of light beckoning in the roadbed, I get ready to pry out yet another piece of pyrite — popularly known as ‘Fool’s Gold’ — pressed into the mud, sand, and gravel. Back at the house, I’ll dig down into my pocketful of dirt and grit to examine the latest treasure. The photo above shows a handful of nuggets from my hoard, which includes one prized pyrite cluster — a naturally-occurring glob of interconnected iron sulfide crystals — recumbent in a seashell known as Jingle Shell, Gold Shell, or Mermaid’s Toenail. Pyrite (from Latin pyrītēs or “fire-stone”) is the most common form of iron sulfide, with a simple cubic structure. Pyrite was used in 16th- and 17th-century flintlock pistols, in which a serrated steel wheel spinning against the mineral would create sparks.

In her boundless generosity, Nature adorns the night sky with bright stars, the early morning with frost crystals and dewdrops sparkling on grass and leaf, northern winter skies with infinitely-varied snowflakes, and the world of water with the rainbowed scales of fish. Of all the shiny objects in our universe, crystals may be the most alluring — likely because in a natural world composed almost entirely of curving, branching, or fractal lines, they present all straight lines and sharp angles. Their translucence and ability to reflect and refract light also draw immediate attention.

Humans have noticed, prized, collected, traded, and hoarded crystals of all kinds for at least 750,000 years. Some have historically been prized for the healing and spiritual properties attributed to them. Others, like diamonds, have achieved a high monetary value, prized for their clarity and intensely flashing sparkle. We are now learning that our fascination with crystals goes way far back into our remote past.

In a study just published in the journal Frontiers in Psychology, Juan Manuel Garcia-Ruiz, crystallographer at Donostia International Physics Center in Spain, set out to investigate our ancestral fascination with crystals. He and his team found that the fascination is shared by our closest living animal relatives, the chimpanzees. The scientists worked with two groups of separately-housed chimpanzees at a primate rescue facility to learn more about the attraction.

In one experiment, they placed a one-foot-tall quartz crystal on a pedestal in each group’s yard. They installed a second pedestal nearby, this one holding a brownish sandstone rock of similar size. Largely ignoring the brown rock after a cursory examination, the chimps focussed their attention on the crystal, examining it at length, turning it over in their hands and holding it up to the light. Members of both groups ended up detaching the quartz crystal from its pedestal and taking it back to their hay-lined dormitories. Researchers had to barter with one group to get the crystal back, offering them yogurt and many bananas in exchange. This New York Times article features a video close-up at the top, of a chimp named Toti making a careful examination of the large crystal.

In another experiment, the researchers made piles of pebbles with a few quartz and calcite crystals mixed in. The chimps quickly and easily separated out the crystals. These they also examined closely, holding them to the light, carrying them in their mouths, and eventually spiriting them away to their indoor living space — leaving the pebbles behind.

Humans & chimps aren’t the only members of the animal kingdom drawn to crystals. Pack rats — also known as wood rats — have a well-known proclivity for collecting shiny objects, with crystals occasionally among them. And in other cases, it is said that burrowing rodents can inadvertently lead humans to underground mineral treasures like gold and diamonds:

My favorite fellow-collector of all time is the Bowerbird. Many of you are probably familiar with the way the males create elaborate nesting structures, decorating them with very particular aesthetic considerations. Their inventive techniques include arranging pebbles, shells, and colorful objects — often manmade ones including things like bottle caps, tinfoil, colored ribbon & candy wrappers — around their mating nests to attract females. Often they will place smaller items closer to the entryway and larger ones farther away, creating an optical illusion that makes the male appear larger and more impressive when he’s displaying or showing off for the females, enhancing his aesthetic prowess in the eyes of prospective mates. For more, check out this article with many photos and more detailed information — and this one featuring a veritable castle built by a single Great Bowerbird, who topped off his entire masterpiece with hundreds of smoky quartz crystals.

It’s curious that this far into our evolution as a species, there’s still so much we humans have to learn about and from other animals, our fellow-travelers on the planet. Let’s pay attention.

Excerpt from Song Of Myself, by Walt Whitman

I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and self-contain’d,
I stand and look at them long and long.

They do not sweat and whine about their condition,
They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins,
They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God,
Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of owning things,
Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago,
Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth.

So they show their relations to me and I accept them,
They bring me tokens of myself, they evince them plainly in their possession.

I wonder where they get those tokens,
Did I pass that way huge times ago and negligently drop them?

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Kintsugi is the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery by meticulously joining fragments back together and filling cracks with lacquer dusted with powdered gold (or silver or platinum), highlighting the flaws in the mended object. In extended use it refers to an aesthetic view that embraces imperfection and treats healing as an essential part of human experience. The word kintsugi is Japanese — kin, gold + tsugi, to patch or join.

If you’ve experienced the unfortunate effects of touching poison ivy, oak, or sumac, it might surprise you to learn that the allergic irritant responsible for the ensuing blisters, redness, swelling, and intense itchiness can also play a healing and restorative role, as exemplified in the Japanese art of Kintsugi.

The word ‘poison’ comes from ‘potion’ — ‘a liquid usually taken orally, with healing, magical, or poisonous qualities,’ according to the Oxford English Dictionary. The origin of the word embodies the unity of opposites, wherein seemingly contradictory forces are interconnected, depending on one another for their existence. Gold & poison work together to create the beauty of kintsugi.

The T. vernicifluum tree belongs to the genus Toxicodendron, which means ‘poison tree.’ It grows in China, Japan, and other South Asian countries, where it is commonly called the ‘laquer tree’. This tree’s adhesive sap -- known as urushi -- contains urushiol, the allergic irritant also found in poison ivy, poison oak, and poison sumac. Skin contact with uncured urushi is toxic for most people, and even its vapours can cause reactions in susceptible individuals. Therefore great caution must be taken by those who work with it — good ventilation, gloves, and protective clothing are required.

Urushi sap is a natural adhesive. When cured, it forms a durable coating, resistant to both water and heat. In the humid climate of regions where the lacquer tree grows, urushi became a valuable resource used to protect wooden objects from degradation. The lacquer been used for centuries as a finish for tableware, musical instruments, furniture, jewelry, archery bows, statues and temples. Urushi lacquerware developed into decorative art forms that are still used in traditional Japanese crafts and modern luxury items. This toxic, adhesive sap is a crucial ingredient in the technique of Kintsugi — integrating the damage and repair of an object with its history, illuminating instead of hiding the seams. ( To learn more about urushi, including how it is harvested, visit this link)

Urushi is an interesting material in that it dries by absorbing moisture. Many layers must be applied to form a strong bond, with each layer requiring 12 to 24 hours to cure in a warm, humid environment. The lacquer hardens into a clear, hard, and extremely durable surface, able to withstand hot and cold water as well as acids and alcohol. The poisonous sap repairs the fracture and seals the cracks, healing the vessel whole again. Powdered gold is then sprinkled on top of the still-wet final layer of urushi. Since gold is a non-reactive metal, a bowl, cup, or plate repaired in this way is once again equal to the task of daily kitchen & dining use — flawed but intact.

Patching a shattered vessel back together with urushi, and then dusting the filled cracks with gold, creates haunting veins that gleam — precious reminders of loss, flaws, wounds, brokenness, imperfections, age. Those cracks chart passage through challenges, hardships, and what we may consider faults and shortcomings — but those, too, are to be honored in this record of joy, sorrow, and survival. Gold highlights the imperfections, making them a feature of the piece as a whole — not covering up fragility, but honoring it, burnishing it with light while adding protection.

Like delicate pottery fragmented & then mended, with gold running along its cracks, the signs of aging in our bodies testify to the beauty of human fragility. Creases around the mouth record smiles and laughter, furrows in the brow document worry, scars attest to physical injury, and the crinkly skin of aging hands bears witness to the work of those hands.

Kintsugi’s deep, layered coating is luminescent, glowing, and strong. Overlaid with veins of gold, it celebrates fragility, age, daily work, and misfortune. Fault-lines & fractures are visible, yet the vessel is intact. Its resiliency exemplifies an appreciation for every step of the journey made, suggesting that we can forgive ourselves and others for imperfections.

After several weeks spent learning about Kintsugi, it’s impossible not to compare the current state of our democracy to a fractured pottery vessel. On most days, the damage feels irreparable. But I still believe that if we, the people, remain steadfast in insisting that the principles upon which our government was founded be defended and upheld, it may yet be mended. My hope is that the poison currently dividing our country will ‘cure’ over time, cementing us back together, rendering us once again ‘flawed but intact.’ May we receive the healing power of urushi & the lustre of gold, to hold us together and remind us of our history.

Click on this link to see a video clip of the Globe Dance, from the political satire/ black comedy film by Charlie Chaplin — a genius ahead of his time. The movie is brilliant & supremely relevant today.

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WORDS MATTER. There comes a point when certain words need to be reclaimed, and I’ve reached that point with the word ‘ice’ which I refuse to capitalize from now on. As an acronym, it might just as well stand for Indefensible Cruelty Extreme or Inhumane Callous Entity. What matters is what a thing IS, not what it’s called — substance over name. WORDS MATTER.

When I use the word ‘ice,’ I want to summon an image of the myriad crystalline formations seen on a sunny winter morning when light passes through them, refracting & creating a spectacle of shimmering glitter, dazzling the eyes. Or the sound of tinkling fragments dropped from candied tree branches onto a crust of snow. While admiring the varied presentations of ice in nature, I also respect the treachery of black ice & slippery walkways.

I grew up in a very old house with small glass window panes. On the coldest winter mornings, we would awaken to windows that sparkled, a miracle of ice coating the indoor sides of those panes. You could scratch with a fingernail or blow patiently on the frost, concentrating each warm breath on one spot, until a tiny, clear window would open in the frost. Through that round opening you could look out, squinting, at the spectacular twinkling world before you.

Ice in nature presents in various forms, depending on air temperature, atmospheric moisture, precipitation, impurities in air and water, and wind chill. Many of you are familiar with the elaborate ice flowers that appear overnight on glass when it’s exposed to below-freezing temperatures on the outside and moist air on the inside.

Window frost was more common in the past, when houses still had single-pane windows. The double-pane windows more common today don’t get cold enough on the inside to inspire the formation of ice flowers, being much better insulators. The photo below shows one of the most amazing ice designs I’ve ever seen:

Below are a few photos I’ve taken over the years of other kinds of ice formations.

Hoarfrost forms when water vapor in the air condenses on cold surfaces on clear, windless nights, freezing directly from the vapor state without turning into liquid water first in the process. This explains hoarfrost’s delicate needle-like crystals.

Rime ice, on the other hand, though similar, is more of a feathery or fluffy accumulation of ice crystals that lack the clear definition of hoarfrost. It forms under foggy or cloudy conditions when moisture in the air freezes on cold surfaces. It can build up over time as long as the foggy and cold conditions persist. It doesn’t weigh down the structure it is built on, whereas hoarfrost can accumulate enough weight to break tree limbs or down power lines.

Water in motion, as in waterfalls, will freeze midflow during prolonged periods of below freezing temperatures.

How does a waterfall freeze when the water is constantly flowing? Ashish explains it this way on www.scienceabc.com:

It happens like this: the water in the river/stream that supplies water to the waterfall supercools (when water experiences a temperature less than its freezing point without becoming a solid) when the temperature dips below the freezing point (around -6 degrees Celsius). This results in a gradual slowing down of the flow as water molecules begin to stick to each other and form tiny, solid particles of ‘frazil ice’. Frazil ice, which has an oily appearance when seen on the surface of water, is a cluster of loose, randomly-oriented ice crystals shaped like tiny needles. It usually forms in rivers, lakes, oceans, and other water bodies containing turbulent, open and supercooled water. These frazil ice discs cluster together and adhere to nearby surfaces, so in free-falling waterfalls, these discs attach to the overhang, whereas in waterfalls that flow down a cliff, the discs cling on to the cold rocks. Provided that the temperature stays at that level for a long enough time, frazil ice forms an anchor at the spot where the water drops from the rocks and begins to grow downwards, creating a column as tall as the height from which the water falls.

One of the most magical of winter treats is to see the air filled with clouds of diamond dust — also known as clear-sky precipitation, because it forms when the sky is clear. It requires temperatures quite below freezing, so is more commonly seen in Antarctica and the Arctic. I see it occasionally early on a winter morning, just as the sun appears over the horizon. Suddenly the air is filled with floating specks of gold whirling in constant slow motion. I’ve tried many times to capture a video of this fairy dust, but it remains elusive in the eye of the camera —an ephemeral treat to be marvelled at, undistracted by technology, before it disappears.

Fire and Ice

—By Robert Frost

Some say the world will end in fire,

Some say in ice.

From what I’ve tasted of desire

I hold with those who favor fire.

But if it had to perish twice,

I think I know enough of hate

To say that for destruction ice

Is also great

And would suffice.

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The lush, magical green world above is taken from inside the Xiaoxhai Tiankeng Karst sinkhole in China — the world’s largest such formation — looking up into the sky through the opening. These sky holes, as they are also called, and of which there are many in China, are called tiankeng, or Heavenly Pits in Mandarin.

Karst is a topography found in regions of readily-dissolved rock such as limestone, and features various wonders of geologic formation & dissolution. Some karst landscapes appear as forests of needle-like spires above ground — the most famous example being the South China Karst. In other instances, where the substrate gets worn away by the action of water underground, the limestone slowly dissolves to form underground rivers, wells, sinkholes and caverns. Such is the case with the Heavenly Pit in the picture above.

Inside these pits, there are trees towering 325 feet high, and many other surprising forms of life, thriving in an ecosystem as yet barely disturbed by humans. Li Pasha, an ecologist, science writer, and former environmental reporter at Sixth Tone, created this link which offers an outstanding source of information, including excellent photos, diagrams, and explanations of Karst sinkholes, the mysteries of how they are formed, and the plants & denizens of their depths. This excerpt is from his essay:

Scientists are only just starting to properly survey the biodiversity of China’s tiankeng. Though most research so far has focused on plants, the sinkholes are already known to be home to a large variety of animals.

There are flying squirrels, civets, as well as many species of snakes, frogs, and lizards. The caves inside host dozens of different species of bats, which play vital roles in ecosystems — controlling the insect populations and acting as pollinators.

Then, there are some truly weird fish. Ghost-white, blind cave fish, some with strange protrusions on their heads, lurk in the underground rivers that flow between the tiankeng…

Insects are another group of otherworldly-looking inhabitants of tiankeng ecosystems. Giraffaphaenops clarkei — a fierce-looking beetle discovered in Leye County in 2002 — is a good example. Armed with massive serrated jaws, it takes its Latin name from its long giraffe-like “neck,” which allows it to forage under rocks. New species of spiders and insects continue to be discovered in the tiankeng, and dedicated surveys of China’s sinkhole fauna are sure to add to the list.

But it’s the diversity of plants inside the tiankeng that most excites Chinese scientists. Sheer rock walls, hundreds of meters high, have prevented humans from reaching the bottom of the pits, protecting the forests growing there.

Sheltered inside these virgin forests are a number of plant species that have gone extinct outside the tiankeng. In 2016, biologists exploring a tiankeng cluster in Guangxi discovered a dozen species that had never before been recorded in the region, including a shrub, orchid, lily, rock jasmine, and seven new bryophytes (a group of primitive plants that include mosses).

Note that even heavenly pits are not without the potential to threaten or be threatened — think buildings being swallowed … cars being swallowed … tourism and development threatening these rare and delicate ecosystems.

Meanwhile, back to today ... I’ve been picking away at this post-in-progress for more than a week, my brain & body feeling rather waterlogged — “I can’t get over the doorsill” — as the fifth little pig squeals in the toe-counting nursery rhyme. That sense of being paralyzed & unable to take in, absorb, respond to, or act upon, the overwhelming slew of incoming missives is a feeling we all can recognize. We’re being worn down, just like the limestone substrate that favors the formation of sinkholes & internal collapse. In such a moment, the photo above invites us to escape into that heavenly pit, a deep, emerald-green world where we can find rest & refuge, nourished by wonder, away from the hurly-burly. “But wait,” a persistent inner voice is saying, “Don’t retreat. Find the living roots beneath the dead growth, under the shriveled stems & leaves — prune them away & nurture what is hanging on & even thriving below ground.”

“Find the living roots.” That’s exactly what Tony Rinaudo, an Australian agriculturist & missionary, did in 1983. The year before climate activist Greta Thunberg was awarded the prestigious Right Livelihood Award (popularly referred to as the ‘Alternative Nobel’), Rinaudo won the prize for literally getting to the roots of land degradation and deforestation. He coined the term ‘underground forest’ to explain his discovery of elaborate underground root systems found beneath the stumps of seemingly dead trees in Niger. Exploration revealed that these trees were not dead but dormant, containing significant root systems and biomass that had continued to thrive underground. After his initial and unsuccessful work trying to reclaim desolate farm fields and forests by planting new trees, his discovery of life below ground led to the founding of the Farmer Managed Natural Regeneration (FMNR) movement.

“FMNR teaches communities that caring for existing trees—even the tiniest sprouts—through simple methods such as pruning can maximize growth while returning nutrients to the soil, promoting optimal conditions for growing annual crops. Arguably the least expensive and most successful method for restoring the power of forests, FMNR has now spread worldwide. In Africa’s Sahel region, FMNR has helped improve food security, resilience, and climate change adaptation in impoverished farming communities.” [from https://www.oneearth.org/tapping-into-underground-forests/ or click on this link]

In 1992, Clarissa Pinkola Estes used the term the Underground Forest in her book Women Who Run With The Wolves to talk about the inner psyche of women and the ‘Wild Woman’ archetype. She explores the concept of a hidden and often buried wellspring of self-knowledge that has been suppressed, which is crucial not only to self-preservation and survival, but to authentic fulfillment of one’s inner being.

Through that lens, venturing into the deep Self is a journey into the underground forest — a rich world thriving beneath the surface, a world that contains beauty yet is not without treachery. At this moment in history, treachery seems rampant. The inner Self may feel overwhelmed by the daily turmoil and manic activity of these times. But still the deep recesses thrive, waiting to be explored.

Our time on earth is an ongoing process of learning what it means to be human. On the journey, we might be completely unaware of the world lying beneath our feet, the underpinnings of daily consciousness. Buried deep inside the hidden sanctuary of this underground forest is the opportunity to access revelations that can strengthen us, even while they pose deep challenges to belief systems and a sense of mastery. It can present unknown & potentially unsettling mysteries but also space necessary for reflection & renewal. Both aspects deepen knowledge. The business of living requires integrating what we learn in this deep hidden space with what we experience on the ground, in the day-to-day task of navigating whatever might present itself to us.

Thank you for reading my post. If you find it meaningful, I hope you will consider leaving a comment and/or sharing it with friends.

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• Thank you for reading my post. I hope if you find it meaningful, you’ll consider commenting, subscribing, & sharing it with others.

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There have been times in my life when I’ve found myself leaving the everyday behind, spurred to venture into unknown realms: the watery deep, mountainous heights, or worlds below ground. I’m often drawn back to these particular moments, which last in my memory.

Years ago, on vacation in the Caribbean, I jumped off of our small boat into the crystalline, lapping waves, for a quick swim that soon became a mini-journey — leaving my husband and two children behind with our guide. Paddling slowly along, I snorkeled farther & farther away, hypnotized by ever-moving patterns of light & shade created by sun, sand, & water — and the seductive tinkling sound made by a multitude of pebbles and shells washing gently back and forth on the sunlit rippled ocean bed.

Staring deep into the underwater, I was surrounded by legions of shimmering, many-colored fish moving crosswise to the soft current, turning in unison, flicking & flaunting their silvery sides as if jousting with the sun — couriers of the sea flashing an invitation to join the primeval dance of joy.

As the boat with my little family on it receded further & further into the distance, I paddled & floated on that endless sea of otherworldly sensation, reluctant to reverse direction and return to human civilization. But eventually it was time to turn, swim back, & clamber up onto the boat, and I did.

Then in 2001, I was lucky enough to spend two weeks in a small Swiss mountain village in the Engadin, where I hiked daily. On one particular day, I started out by riding the little chairlift out of the village and slowly up. My chair passed over rocky fields of cows, the jingle of their many-toned bells an enchanting distant music; then directly below me, three generations of a farm family haying together — baby asleep in a basket under a clump of small trees, grandmother in a long blue flowered dress raking hay nearby, young children hefting piles onto the wagon. At the end of the line, I continued on foot through a shady forest where the rules of seasonal mushroom-gathering were prominently posted along the way; past lengths of sawed-up tree limbs, neatly stacked, with initials or names written in crayon or pencil on the ends of some pieces to indicate whose pile it was. Leaving the forest behind, the trail then emerged into the open again, dwindling to a narrow, dry path that rose ever higher, ever closer to points on a level with snowy alps.

As the loose scree of the trail became more and more treacherous underfoot, I began to realize it was foolish, hiking alone, to continue upward. So far I hadn’t seen another soul. One false step or extra-iffy foothold, and down I’d go. But I really wanted to make it to the top, wherever that was. So in spite of warning thoughts, I went on. Finally I reached a very small summit, still with no one else in sight. I stood in the sun, stately alps rising all along the valley, a cool breeze on my hot face, resting, reflecting, exhilarated. After a while, a party of six younger folk came bounding up the slope. When they arrived, I made the quick decision to head back down before they did, figuring they’d pick up the pieces if I fell.

More recently, I joined a small group of ten on a forest walk led by bear expert Ben Kilham, to learn about black bear sign and habitat. He led us to a bear’s den — unoccupied, he assured us — and said anyone who wanted to could go down into it. I was curious to try that, and slight enough to fit. Lowering and twisting my body down through a narrow opening between enormous boulders, I entered a dim underground chamber, a roomy cave with rock floor & a faint fragrance of animal — someone’s room. Lying back against stone, I closed my eyes.

Muffled voices and laughter above-ground receded from my awareness as I sank into a sense of being in another world — a world of safety and calm. I could imagine myself as a she-bear, cozy in this dark, restful place with two small cubs nestled against me. Sinking into that tranquility, I took my time heading back up into sunlight and human company.

As I revisit these three scenes, in this week, on this day — I wonder why they resurfaced at this time, and in such a strong way. I had no inkling they were coming until Saturday, January 3rd, when I led a writing workshop at the Enfield Shaker Museum. We all settled in for a 35-minute silent scribble, using one of the prompts offered as a starting point. I chose ‘Into The Wild.’ The three indelible memories recounted above are what I ended up scribbling about. Why?

The inescapable awareness of our world being led deeper & deeper into a different sort of ‘wilderness’ played a part, because on the very morning of — in fact on the way to, the workshop — I turned on the car radio and heard the astounding news out of Venezuela. There were other possible posts for today that I’d been working on, but as the events of the past two weeks have piled up, culminating in reports that ICE is now shooting American citizens, I am in more and more of a quandary — disheartened & not knowing what to say to my readers, or how to speak to the world’s distress.

The natural world is not all beauty & light. It is not without predation, threat, danger, death, destruction. But I have yet to witness seemingly cruel, greedy behavior among animals that does not, on closer examination, in some way preserve the natural order for the protection and continuation of the species. Even the largest, most powerful of animals behave within certain boundaries, living according to nature’s design. What humans might interpret as cruelty — for example, the way cats toss, pounce, bat, & recapture their prey — has a defensible explanation.

In the wild, cats both large & small play with their prey in a deliberate attempt to tire the prey animal out, to a point where the prey is less likely to cause injury to the cat via teeth, beak, or claws when eventually it delivers the last fatal bite through the spinal cord, striking to kill. Honing their hunting skills through practice is a survival technique as well, one passed on to the young who learn by watching. And even as I write those words, I suddenly think: WE are being tossed & batted & tired out. May the analogy stop there.

And so I return to certain memories for renewal. I have probably shared Wendell Berry’s words before, but they are pertinent again & again.

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[Today I share one of my most widely-read posts, first published on December 27, 2024. Contained within is a poetic fragment offering a deep & reflective pathway into the new year.]

The Night When Two Years Touch

No matter whether we choose to observe — or not to observe — the turning of the year, something unmistakeable stirs in every heart at this time. There is an insistent awareness of time’s passage & the fleeting nature of life — a summing up of joys & sorrows, triumphs & trials.

In the best of times, New Year’s Day feels like stepping out into the dewy freshness of a spring dawn. This year, it is quite a challenge to trust that “stepping out” will not mean “falling into” a space, a void. Every one of us has undergone particular sorrows and hard times in the year which is about to end. Yet whatever we mourn or question — individually or collectively as a family, a nation, a world — there is still a stubborn and indisputable air of promise in the turning of the year.

On New Year’s Eve, I always reread the following words, a quintessential appreciation of this moment — excerpted from a letter written by Stephen Harvard (1948-1988) and saved by Dorothy Healy, a beloved Portland librarian. It embodies the mystery and promise inherent in a seasonal shift felt by all living creatures. It reminds me of everything there is to celebrate.

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Christmas. Whisper that word, and like the silky rustle of tissue paper, the sibilant syllables stir memories that float up like dream fragments from some faraway place, intoxicating the senses: sweetness on the tongue, color and sparkle to the eye, spicy fragrance in the nose, a rustle & crackle to the touch, bells & singing & harmonies tender on the ears.

Christmas in my childhood home was all about making. The family ethos, instilled in us from an early age, centered on making whatever was needed — be it a warm hat, a wall-mounted clipboard, a bookshelf, or a new dress. This idea took over all through our house at Christmastime. Making found its way into every aspect of the season.

In the run-up to Christmas, one could hear the whirr of the sewing machine, the rhythm of hammering coming from the shop, egg-beaters in the kitchen. Sounds of creation were punctuated by the occasional howl of frustration when a seamstress attached a pantleg to an armhole by mistake, a woodworker cut a board too short, or a pianist learning a Christmas carol repeatedly flubbed a note and ended the session with a huge loud & unpleasant chord.

On Christmas morning, Mom sat on the couch recording each homemade gift and by whom made, while we kids roamed over the gifts. There were new dresses for the little girls, made by Wendy (and at times held together with pins until the rush was over and she had time to finish them), doll beds made by Dad, sweaters knit by Mom. Some presents went slightly (or hugely) wrong in the making: like the sock I knitted for Dad that grew & grew until it was the size of a stocking cap meant for an elephant. I wrapped the one lopsided “sock” nonetheless & gave it to him still on the needles, unfinished. I made a holder for wooden matches that was meant to be mounted next to the kitchen stove for lighting the gas burners. I painted it dark blue, with a red stripe around the perimeter, and then wrapped it in newspaper so Dad wouldn’t see it while the paint was drying. When I went to unwrap and admire my creation the next morning, I realized that the newspaper had fused with the box as the paint dried. A little wooden man that I designed with moveable arms and legs worked perfectly upon completion. I hid it in the springs of my bed to wrap later but when I went to retrieve it, it had disappeared mysteriously, never to be seen again.

Oh, we made so much more than presents … gingerbread cookies to cut out, bake, & decorate; long strings of paper chains for the tree; puppet shows, musical performances, block-printed Christmas cards… Wendy made “sugar plums” every year to hang on the tree — clusters of large red grapes, dipped in beaten eggwhite and rolled in white crystallised sugar. One year she even made candy canes from scratch — lovely to look at when first we hung them on the tree. But by Christmas morning, the weight of them as they hung still soft had stretched them very, very long and thin — long enough to reach all the way to the floor, in fact.

ANOTHER SIDE OF CHRISTMAS lies just beyond the circle of light we create with our friends and family. In this season of wanting to find joy & respite from the crushing sadness of what’s happening in our dear world, still we are ever aware that just outside the spell cast by twinkling lights & music & laughter, vicious and heartbreaking things are happening.

Peace is a fragile thing, and easily broken — making peace requires gentleness. It starts inside your own heart, when you make peace with Self — then it reaches into the heart of your family, the heart of your community. At Christmastime, the desire for peace joins the desire to make — to make joy, make gifts, make music, cookies, connection. The urge is to imagine & then to create that which is not yet tangible, and to bring it into being. Because making “is the essential life-affirming impulse of all life” as posited in an earlier post. Peace-making asks us to start small, clearing one little corner in a garden of chaos. Plant your seed there, to be nourished and helped to grow. Peace and love are intertwined: there cannot be peace without an outgoing urge toward love.

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What follows is a true story from December 2007, which I used in my inaugural Feathers & Foxgloves post of May, 2024. When I decided to start publishing on this platform, I started by inviting a small handful of people to read & comment — so I imagine few of you have seen this before — unless you’ve explored my whole library of past essays in my archive of previous posts. This week, with Christmas on the horizon, I decided to repost it, with a few tweaks. Herewith, from a person who makes way too many lists & loses them ( & confesses fully in this post):

The Lost List

It’s 11:00 in the morning, a few days before Christmas, and I’ve finally finished all the grocery shopping. Now I’m scrambling in and out of all the stores in town, in search of last-minute gifts, when I suddenly realize I’ve dropped my list somewhere during the morning’s travels. I hurry back into the bookstore, where I think I remember last having it, and head for the information desk. The clerk behind the desk smiles in welcome and looks inquiringly at me.

ME: I’ve lost a little tiny red notebook – grubby little thing, only 3 pages left, but they contain my master list, everything I’m supposed to do and get today – on my last day out.

CLERK: Oh no – your master plan! You have a few moments of sanity, write it all out – and bingo, it’s gone!

ME: Right, you got it.

CLERK: Well, nothing’s come in to us yet. Want me to call you if we find it?

ME: Yeah, if you can — meanwhile I’ll retrace my steps and scan the floor …

[Which I do, followed by a scan of the sidewalks, and the parking lot, and basically the entire town … finally concluding that this is most likely a sign I should stop, enough is enough, etc. So back to the car, I give up my coveted parking space and depart town. Later that day, I’m back home making dinner, 5:30 pm. The phone rings, I answer.]

CLERK: Hi there! Did you get my message?

ME: No I didn’t!

CLERK: Oh goodness! I called hours ago and left a message on your machine! How did you ever make it through the day??

ME: You mean you found it?

CLERK: Yes, it’s right here!

ME: Well great! Uhh … are you terribly busy right now? Would you mind awfully just reading it to me?

CLERK: Oh fine! Sure, I can do that!

ME: Thanks SO much!

CLERK: Ok, now — let’s see here —

[Rustling of paper, as she prepares to read.]

ME: You can ignore the bookstore page – I did all that and crossed it out as I went — before I lost the notebook –

CLERK: Okay ... but — wait, why didn’t you buy The Perfect Storm??

ME: I did!

CLERK: Well, but you didn’t cross it out! Okay … Hanover it says up at the top of the page: Candy, argyle socks, return drugstore, Sebulex — I feel like I’m going through your underwear drawer — and then, at the bottom, 16 lottery tickets.

[She pauses before going on]

Then, on the next page … special glass, Krypto … argyle socks again, in bigger letters; Gift Certificates … and down at the bottom, with arrows coming in from both directions, in capital letters, CANDY – then on the next page Power House: argyle socks — I guess you wanted to be sure you got those! “Rita, lotion — Krypto, and tiny candy tins — ” Oh, do they have the tiny ones? I’m always trying to find those — then at the bottom it says, “Wendy” with a big question mark — oh, I see, the question mark goes with both names: Wendy, Dennis.

[She pauses]

ME: So is that it? Nothing else?

CLERK: Hold on a minute – on the back cover there’s the heading 'MAKE.’ Oh-h-h — well … it’s too late for ‘make’ —

ME: Well, what does it say under make?

CLERK: It says pillowcases, nut crunch, gift certificates …

ME: Oh boy … well, thank you so, so much!

CLERK: You’re welcome — and good luck with the Argyle socks!!

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Fire is complicated. We depend on it to cook our food, keep us warm, enliven the circulation, illuminate the dark days, and light our celebrations. Fire represents passion, energy, determination, vitality. But it has another side — as nearly everything does. Fire uncontrolled portends danger, destruction, devastation. The overturned candle can burn down the house. The flames of passion can destroy.

Back in “the olden days,” of which I am now a relic — back in the ‘50’s, back before ‘Transfer Stations,’ back when New England towns had dumps — people disposed of household trash by tossing it over the edge of a bank somewhere. That bank might have been the edge of a gully on the back forty, or an officially-sanctioned Town Dump, or a handy spot along the roadside, where it was possible to pull over when no one else was coming and surreptitiously unload.

Where I grew up, the Town Dump was way, way across a long field from our house. A trip to the dump entailed Dad loading up the back of the car, loading up the kids (why? because it was an adventure? to get us out of Mom’s hair?) and then driving about 1/10 of a mile up the road, turning left, and back down the hill to the smoldering dump. He’d back up to the drop-off, as close to the edge as he could. From there he’d throw all our junk over to meld with the smelly, smoldering mess below. To this day I think of the little sister who always got tearful with fear that our car would go over the edge along with the rubbish.

There were always rats at the dump — true opportunists & regular connisseurs of the delicacies provided by the townspeople. Shooting rats was a common pastime in the town. A story was told of the young couple sighted there early one evening — she in a pretty dress and heels, he toting a shotgun — the two of them out on a date and all dressed up, shooting rats.

Some of us remember the dump as always smoldering — though why that would’ve been isn’t clear … who knows, given the vagaries of memory. Did the town periodically do a prescribed burn? There were no regulations on what could or couldn’t be thrown in there.

At any rate, one day when I was around nine or ten, a dump fire got out of hand and the volunteer fire department was summoned to put it out. Never one to miss a fire, Dad got in the car, my older brother and I along with him. I remember this outing because when we got there, I was allowed to join the fire-fighting effort. Someone handed me a backpack fire pump, and helped me put it on, probably along with some instruction on how to use the attached spray hose. Hopefully also some safety advice. The details are a little sketchy.

What I do remember very clearly, is standing side-by-side with a motley crew of other people, peering through the haze & coughing on the acrid smoke, all of us engaged in a battle to control flames. I rather doubt my contribution was the least bit significant in containing the fire, but the sense of purpose toward a common cause that I experienced made a lasting impression.

First developed in the 1920’s, the Smith Indian Fire Pump is no relic of the past. As the present-day ads say, “Wildland warriors have been depending on Indian Metal Backpack Fire Pumps on the fire line for over 80 years. [More like 125 years, at this point!] Designed to help firefighters battle forest, brush, and rubbish fires; the performance of these pumps is legendary.”

The pumps provide a portable source of water in hard-to-access areas without proximity to a direct water supply. The combination nozzle adjusts quickly from a straight stream to a cone spray, and allows firefighters to suppress fire by penetrating hot spots and wetting dry areas, limiting a wildfire’s spread before it grows out of control.

That memory of my brief stint on the fire brigade surfaced recently when I was thinking about citizen initiatives to counter certain actions by the current administration that are destructive to our democracy. When, as individuals, we participate in protests, speak up in print, meet with other people to strategize, or contact our legislative representatives, we’re acting together for a common cause, meeting threats head on, doing whatever is in our power to uphold truth, kindness, inclusion, and justice.

Every year for a while now, I’ve been lucky enough to be part of a reception presented by staff from The American Civil Liberties Union of New Hampshire. They join us from an hour away to meet in our livingroom, where a circle of concerned fellow Americans have the privilege of hearing from leaders in the work of defending our rights & liberties.

The friends & neighbors who gather with us bring questions, comments, and energy — also brownies & other goodies! Afterwards, our conversations reverberate with a shared sense of renewal. It seems that everyone in the room comes away with a fresh infusion of determination and a real sense of solidarity — feeling bolstered & ready to keep pushing forward.

If we were facing wildfire, we’d come together to form a bucket brigade, passing water down the line to get that fire under control. Today our participation as individuals in this fight for democracy is just as critical. Each person’s particular gifts are needed — whether that be contributing financial support, using words & voices to speak out, joining volunteer efforts, or being present in the myriad other ways that we, the people, show up to do our part in defending our treasured rights as spelled out in the Constitution.

The following fragment is from my 4-part poem ‘Elements’ published by Pastoral Magazine in 2006.

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Moon Snails are among the prettiest things to be found on Cape Cod beaches — and indeed, on beaches all over the world. Besides being one of the most popular treasures among beachcombers, they also happen to be capable and voracious predators, feeding mostly on bivalves — clams and other mollusks housed within two hinged valves.

One morning this past summer as the tide was going out, I came upon a live demonstration of moon snail travel, and was able to document its mode of locomotion. Like most other marine snails, the Moon Snail has a muscular ‘foot’ that is used to move along on top of the sand, but also to plow below the surface. Muscular contractions pass down the foot in waves and propel the creature along. With the foot partially sticking out in front of the shell, the snail pushes through the sand rather like a snow plow, as it searches for prey. Here is the video I made that morning, which I call Moon Snail Movin’ On:

The Moon Snail’s method is to wrap that large foot around the prey to envelop it. Then it uses its radula — a ribbon-like strip of multiple backward-pointing teeth — to bore a countersunk hole through the shell of the victim. A gland on the proboscis secretes enzymes and hydrochloric acid that helps in the drilling. Once the hole has been bored, the snail uses its proboscis to suck out the bivalve’s flesh and consume it.

As documented by the Oxford English Dictionary, locomotion means “The action or power of a human, animal, cell, etc. of moving from one place or position to another unaided; progressive movement of the whole entity.” The adjective locomotive relates to this power and locomotive power is “Power used or available for the purpose of locomotion,” specifically “Power provided by railway locomotives.” The quote at the top of this post is from 1649, when locomotive stood for locomotive faculty — an inherent ability to move from one position or place to another, as by an act of will.

The first steam locomotives were developed in Britain at the very beginning of the 1800s and used for rail transport until the mid 1900s, when they were gradually superseded by electric and diesel locomotives. In 19th century slang usage, a person’s legs could be referred to as their ‘locomotives,' as in this quote from 1836:

“Keeping a steady eye on you at the expense of a proper attention to my locomotives, I went stumbling on.” [Maine Monthly Magazine December 2, 1836]”

While examining various modes of animal locomotion and the words used to describe them, a pop song from the 60’s suddenly came to my mind — The Loco-motion, a song written by Carole King & Gerry Goffin. The couple wrote it for the R&B singer Dee Dee Sharp, but she passed on the chance to record it. The song was then released by Eva Boyd, who had recorded the demo, with her name changed to Little Eva. Eva Boyd was Carole King’s babysitter. She had been introduced to King and her husband Gerry Goffin by The Cookies, a local R & B group who also recorded for the songwriters. In 1962, Loco-motion reached #1 on the charts. The song inspired a dance-craze with a line dance featuring arm movements that imitate the motion of coupling-rods on a locomotive’s wheels.

Seashells, word origins, locomotives, pop songs from the ‘60s … what next?? Even I don’t know! But tune in the day after Thanksgiving & we’ll all find out —!

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On Sunday, October 19, 2025, stunning headlines flashed across the world, grabbing the attention of people across the globe.

“MASKED THIEVES STEAL FRENCH CROWN JEWELS IN BROAD DAYLIGHT FROM THE LOUVRE MUSEUM IN DARING HEIST”

Gold, diamonds, emeralds, sapphires, pearls, opals — the words themselves glitter & wink, so luscious to the ear that you almost hear a sparkling rustle of precious gems as descriptions of the stolen jewels conjure up images of royal courts, romance, intrigue, and history. Who can resist the fascination?

The word HEIST traces back to HOIST, “A thing by which something is hoisted; a machine for conveying persons and things from one level to another, in mines, factories, hotels, etc.; an elevator, a lift.” In American slang, the word developed the sense of shoplift, and in British slang connoted “to lift another person on one’s shoulders to help him break in.”

Headlines about the spectacular heist were a welcome change from the barrage of political news that we endure around the clock. Brazen thieves break into the most-visited museum in the world and make off with jewels valued at more than $102 million dollars — all in seven minutes, no less? Nobody was ziptied, kidnapped, beaten, or hurt — so the story takes on a cinematic aura of thrilling adventure, mystery, romance, and derring-do that has excited the collective imagination.

Later the same day, a 32-second video went viral, showing the thieves descending from the museum balcony via the same electric hoist they had arrived on. The company name Böcker was clearly visible on the machinery, so the lift manufacturer promptly launched tongue-in-cheek ads capitalizing on the connection:

MEANWHILE, 3800 miles away & less than 12 hours after the break-in at the Louvre, another heist was launched, this one also in broad daylight.

“THE WHITE HOUSE STARTS DEMOLISHING PART OF THE EAST WING TO BUILD TRUMP’S BALLROOM”

News outlets around the world played live footage of huge cranes, excavators, and other heavy equipment smashing and bashing at the historic facade of the East Wing, dust and rubble clouding the air. For most people, the operation was a complete surprise — not that it hadn’t been talked about. But the unannounced decision to demolish the entire East Wing did not jibe with what the President had said previously about his ballroom project.

Back in July, when the idea of a grand new ballroom became ‘news’, he was vague, promising that the White House would not be touched by the construction. “It won’t interfere with the current building. It’ll be near it but not touching it,” he said. “And pays total respect to the existing building, which I’m the biggest fan of.” Then, as word of the demolition spread last week, he simply dismissed the ensuing outcry with a wave of his hand, saying “It was never thought of as being much … It was a very small building” — size apparently being his chief criterion for value.

The outrage, as many see it, is not just in seeing an iconic historical building levelled on the whim of a mercurial ruler, but in the way the operation was sprung on the public — started suddenly with no warning, and without any independent review or oversight of the project.

These two heists have much in common. Both relied on disguise, stealth, speed, and surprise. Both involved the forcible taking of iconic symbols of cultural history. Both represent significant cultural loss to the countries that treasured but now have lost them.

I diverge here, because of an insect that’s been begging all week to appear in this post. Thus I include the following, because if the natural world published headlines, a recent September morning might have featured this one:

DANGER ALERT! MANTIS SPOTTED NEAR MINT PATCH; MULTIPLE MEMBERS OF CRICKET FAMILY REPORTED MISSING

The Praying Mantis is so named because of its seeming attitude of devotion, ‘hands’ clasped in prayer. Its posture, however, is not a reverent one. The mantis is poised to strike — which it does quickly and accurately, often before the prey even realizes it’s in danger. It could more accurately be called the Preying Mantis, the verb prey meaning to plunder, pillage, or rob. Its robotic martial-arts appearance reminds me of the long and far-reaching limbs of machinery used to demolish buildings, and also of the mechanical lift that was poised outside the Louvre. All three feature articulated limbs designed to reach, strike, grasp, and destroy.

The stealth of the Praying Mantis is obvious, as is that of the Louvre thieves. The Mantis is intent only upon feeding itself — often by consuming insects that humans consider to be pests. The museum robbers operated under cover of amazing speed — swiftly in, swiftly out & gone. As for the East Wing demolition — though some argue that it was done completely openly, hiding nothing, most of us know better. Indeed there was talk about it before the fact — but it was vague talk, with assurances that the building would remain untouched and protected. The next thing we knew, the place had been reduced to ruins.

In my view, the most intriguing treasure in the museum thieves’ haul was the bejewelled crown of Empress Eugénie, prized with apparent difficulty from its protective glass case in the Apollon Gallery, being partially crushed in the process. It was later found on the ground outside the museum, abandoned when the thieves fled. Though significantly damaged, it reportedly is not beyond repair and restoration.

Why, I keep wondering, out of those nine stolen objects, was that one spared disappearance in the hands of thieves? Somehow more than simple chance seems to be at play, as if its destiny was to survive.

The crown is what’s known as a ‘consort crown’ — worn by the spouse of a monarch for his coronation and on state occasions. As empress or queen dowager, she who owns the crown retains title, crown, and other privileges of a queen for life. Napoleon the Third commissioned the creation of Empress Eugénie’s crown on the occasion of the Universal Exhibition in Paris in 1855. It’s a stunning piece that includes 1354 diamonds and 56 emeralds, and 8 golden imperial eagles. The design, intricacy, and workmanship showcase the virtuosity of the jewelers of this period.

Eugénie, who outlived Napoleon by 50 years, was apparently a woman with a mind of her own and ahead of her time when it came to standing up for her rights. She performed many duties, traveling to Egypt to open the Suez Canal, and representing her husband in an official capacity whenever he traveled outside France — for example during his absence at war in 1870. She advocated for women’s equality, supported women artists, and undertook initiatives which were considered outside the realm of women at the time. She exerted her influence to pressure the Ministry of National Education to award the first baccalaureate diploma to a woman — which was then presented to Julie-Victoire Daubié in 1861. When the city of Paris offered her a diamond necklace on the occasion of her marriage to Napoleon III, she refused, requesting that an amount equal to the value of the necklace be used to establish an orphanage for young girls. The Maison Eugène Napoleon was then constructed in the shape of a diamond necklace. The Eugène-Napoleon Foundation carries on to this day, housing a vocational high school, nursery school, primary school, and student accomodation.

In my mind’s eye, I picture the crushed and stolen crown coming to life, suddenly animated, for a few brief seconds during the thieves’ escape. Through the spirit of Eugénie, the precious object is granted the power of agency — for just long enough to make the thief drop it. Here’s how it happens: as the masked men make off with the loot, the one carrying the crown suddenly receives a very painful prick when a prong of gold protruding from the damaged crown pokes him in a most tender place, and that sharp stab of pain startles him into dropping the crown. It’s as if Eugénie herself brought about the crown’s release. Stay tuned — perhaps some day we’ll find out!

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After publishing the recent post ‘Sacred Text, Ancient Messages’ about the ‘Perfect Storm’ of 1991, I went to revisit a painting of that event by my brother, Truro artist Thomas A. D. Watson, titled ‘Storm Breakthrough.’ Lately I’ve been pondering the role of art in times of catastrophe and upheaval — the upheaval caused not only by the ocean’s depredations, but also and especially the chaotic upheaval and societal convulsions inundating our world in this moment.

I started wondering about how art can transform experience and help the human psyche absorb deeply disturbing events: war, destruction, catastrophe, violence in any form. How does it do this? Is it by reframing traumatic scenes, showing them in a different light? Or by helping us process violence in any form — if only by allowing us to witness it from a safe distance?

As a starting point, consider how persevering in one’s creative practice sooften constitutes a lifeline in times of despair. This I know based on conversations with other artists, and on personal experience. And there are examples all through history of oppressed, imprisoned, or otherwise suffering human beings staying whole through creative effort — often, by necessity, practiced in secret to avoid ill consequences. Ashley Bryan — artist extraordinaire, fellow children’s author, and dear friend — referred to this in his autobiography Infinite Hope: A Black Artist’s Journey from World War II to Peace.

“It was when you saw bodies floating in the water that you truly understood what was happening,” he wrote. “In my knapsack, in my gas mask, I kept paper, pens, and pencils … I would draw whenever there was free time. I refused to sleep. I had to draw. It was the only way to keep my humanity.”

Besides being crucial to the people who create art, art supports the psychological wellbeing of the general population. Art can affect the emotional climate without addressing suffering directly. Personal sorrow and emotional trauma can be softened and changed, through immersion in music or other forms of art. Songs & stories, paintings & sculptures, sonatas, symphonies, poems, theatre and dance performances — all bring momentary respite from hardship, affirming the strength & endurance of the human spirit in the face of everything that challenges its survival. [Here is an excellent article on how art affects our brains.]

A personal experience illustrating this: my father, whose caretaker I was, had to be hospitalized at age ninety-four because of a septic infection in one shoulder joint. One day as I sat by his bedside in the dimly-lit room — exhausted, overwhelmed, wanting only to leave and take him home with me — a nurse entered the room with a question. The hospital had recently started a program to bring live music into the rooms of patients, and at that moment a harp player was standing by, ready to come in, if we wanted her to. Dad was dozing, so I spoke for us both in accepting.

She came quietly in, and with no words needed or spoken, she began to play. As she brushed the strings and soft, gentle sounds began to rise & swirl, I first felt a calming sensation, followed by a sudden rush of tears & emotion that the music had released in a way that nothing else could do. Sobbing, I was lifted & held by the music, free from any need to know, to explain, to decide, to understand, or to act. When the harpist finished and quietly left the room, again without words, I felt deeply soothed and cleansed.

The way I see it, the power of art is in its pushing forward — insisting on ‘yes.’ Inherent in any work of art is an insistence on making — which is the essential life-affirming impulse of all life. Under the spell of this insistence, the spectator is touched, however briefly, by the energetic power to make, to act, to continue forward. Something is created out of nothing, transforming pain or joy, suffering or fear.

Years ago when I first stood before the painting “Storm Breakthrough,” it triggered in me a visceral memory of the roar of that crashing surf, the feel of wet spray on my face, the taste of salt in the air, and the sense of tremendous risk and danger — standing, as I was, on a bluff of sand not far above the raging sea. In viewing the painting, I experienced again the fear and exhilaration of that moment. BUT as I later realized, I hadn’t actually even been there during that storm! While immersed in the painting, I forgot that I hadn’t in fact witnessed the event firsthand. The painting transported me so powerfully that my imagination jumped in and made the memory ‘real.’ Thus I ‘remember’ being there.

I decided to ask the artist himself if he’d be willing to collaborate with me on this topic. I wanted to know what spurred his desire to paint the breakthrough and other subjects he’s painted having to do with disaster, natural forces, and the power of the sea. I was also curious to learn how he sees the role of art and artists in the face of crisis and upheaval.

Many thanks to Thomas A.D. Watson for responding to my questions via the essay below, and also for offering the inclusion of his artist statement, which amplifies those thoughts.

The Power of Nature, by Thomas A.D. Watson

I have always been drawn to the power of nature, the threat of the natural world as evidenced by ocean, mountains, storms. All point to the insignificance of man and mankind in the natural world /universe.

Growing up on the outer beach of Cape Cod, over my life I have witnessed the awesome power of nature - the ocean - during a storm. It can be frightening, and one realizes that one is utterly powerless against it. In situations like that I say to myself, “I am glad I’m not out in a boat in that right now.”

As an artist, the threatening aspect of the natural world around us is one part of what makes any particular landscape or seascape appealing to me. I have painted happy, benevolent summer seas and beaches, but I often try to do so while showing a hint of an underlying threat. I have always been tuned in to this darker side of nature, and I suppose that since I feel that menace, one appealing challenge as an artist is to try to communicate it through my paintings, while also showing that there is beauty in that menace. Concurrently, turmoil in nature can become a powerful metaphor for any other form of turmoil the artist is attempting to communicate.

In the house I lived in as a small child there was an oil painting of rough seas, painted by my grandmother, that hung at the top of the stairs going to the second floor. That painting was frightening enough to me that I would shield my eyes from it when climbing the stairs at age five or six. Still now, as a sixty year old man, I am intimidated by the sight of underwater photos of sunken ships, particularly ones that had a tragic ending. The same goes for images of giant rough seas or the like, or mountains or clouds that seem filled with menace. I am not sure what I find so disturbing about images of that nature, but I feel that somehow it relates back to my sense that I, along with humanity in general, am insignificant. The earth existed before there were humans in it, and will no doubt exist after humans are extinct. It will repair itself and continue in its magnificence. Putting oneself in a place of powerlessness in the face of the natural world has a spiritual or cathartic effect of some type, much as I imagine a religious person might feel in the presence of their god.

Years ago I knew a government employee that I disliked intensely but had to interact with. This particular man was a real pain. I remember thinking, “I was here before this guy had any authority, and I’ll be here long after he no longer has any authority.” That knowledge gave me a sense of relief, and the patience, mentality and humor to interact with him when I had to. I suppose that if nature were personified it might feel the same way about the human race.

Thomas A. D. Watson Artist’s Statement

“I really don’t know why it is that all of us are so committed to the sea, except I think it’s because in addition to the fact that the sea changes, and the light changes, and ships change, it’s because we all came from the sea. And it is an interesting biological fact that all of us have in our veins the exact same percentage of salt in our blood that exists in the ocean, and, therefore, we have salt in our blood, in our sweat, in our tears. We are tied to the ocean. And when we go back to the sea - whether it is to sail or to watch it - we are going back from whence we came.” — from John F. Kennedy’s Remarks at the Dinner for the America’s Cup Crews, Sept 14 1962

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“We abuse land because we regard it as a commodity belonging to us. When we see land as a commodity to which we belong, we may begin to use it with love and respect.” — from the foreword to Aldo Leopold’s A Sand County Almanac

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My fascination with landscape and the divine quality of nature stem from a lifetime spent in the outdoors.

I continue to focus on those intersections where the water, land and air meet. These areas are constant and well defined in our minds and yet are constantly changing; everything about them is transient, and so they reflect the juxtaposition of our own view of constancy against the impermanence of our lives and the real world.

To me, nature is a source of truth. Today, more than ever before, reality and truth can be difficult to define. Nature is a logical and harmonious system of order that provides an anchor in the confusion of the modern world.

— Thomas A. D. Watson

* Title & subject of this painting make reference to Ch. 133 of Melville’s Moby Dick.

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