Tag Archives: amaranth

The scent of a monastery.

church, reality, travel, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

The monsoon season officially ended in Arizona on September 30, but at least one rainstorm was not keeping to that calendar. The evening that we arrived at the high-desert monastery we enjoyed a loud thunderstorm and showers that continued through the morning.

Velvet Ash

When I got caught in a shower while taking a walk I discovered this gazebo near at hand, where I waited a few minutes until the rain lessened.

Now that I have returned to northern California (where we are still waiting for our own wet season to begin in force) I feel that the spiritual watering I received is liable to evaporate to nothing if I don’t take more time than I have so far, to process what seems like a deluge of impressions and experiences.

I’ve been thinking about an article from Father Stephen Freeman, about Living in the Real World. Here is an excerpt:

A monk lives in a monastery. He rises early in the morning and prays. He concentrates his mind in his heart and dwells in the presence of God. He will offer prayers for those who have requested it. He will eat and tend to the work assigned for him to do. And so he lives his day. He works. He prays.

And someone will say, “But what does he know about the real world?” But what can they possibly mean? He walks on the earth. He breathes the same air as we do. He eats as we do and sleeps as we do. How is his world any less real than that of anyone else on the planet?

A man lives in a city. He wakes in the morning, turns on the TV as he gets ready for the day. He dashes out the door (he’s running late). He gets to his car, listens to the news on the radio, takes a couple of calls on his cell phone. He gets to work and for every minute he does something that he thinks of as “work,” he spends at least another checking his email, looking quickly at Facebook, and maybe checking the news. He gets into an argument at lunch about what should be done somewhere else in the world and who should do it. Angry and distracted, he is frustrated with himself because he swore he was not going to have that same argument today. He goes back to work with the same routine. After work he drops by a bar, has a couple of drinks and decides to stay and watch some of the game. He gets home late and heads to bed.

Who is living in the real world? The man-in-the-city’s life is “real,” it actually happens. But he is distracted all day from everything at hand. He never notices himself breathing unless he’s out of breath. He swallows his food as quickly as possible. Even the beers he has at the bar are as much for the buzz as for the taste.

If the man refrained from these things his friends might taunt him, “What are you? Some kind of monk?”

What is the “real” that we should live in?

The sisters at the monastery demonstrate a quality of life that is closely grounded in the earthly, incarnated existence that God has given us, with all its limitations and glories. Their orderly life, hard work and continual prayer create an oasis of beauty and holiness.

From their chickens, ducks and guinea fowl they collect eggs. From a little herd of goats they get plenty of milk for their own use and to sell to soap-makers. Pomegranate and apple orchards and vineyards supply more fruit; and they take the fruit of 850 olive trees to press into oil and cure into olives for eating. Over the years they’ve learned to drive tractors and do construction of their buildings, among dozens of other skills.

Guest quarters and bookstore are in this building.
Goat milk feta was available to guests for breakfast.

I took many pictures of plants and butterflies! Lantana is interspersed with prickly pear cactus in the landscape, and we saw several species of swallowtail butterflies, skippers, this Cloudless Sulphur, and Queen Butterflies feasting on those flowers.

Cloudless Sulphur
Devil’s Tongue Barrel Cactus
Amaranth, with okra behind.
Cane Cholla Cactus
Bunny Ears Cactus

On Mount Athos

While at the monastery our group of women woke in time for Matins at 5:30. Vespers was at 3:50 and Compline after dinner. One morning of our visit Divine Liturgy was served soon after Matins. (The sisters have more services in the night, just for them.) Standing and praying in church (and sitting when we couldn’t stand any longer) was a huge shower of blessing, of course.

One of the sisters walks around the property beating the hand-held talanton (semantron) to announce both services and meals. This picture of the talanton is from Mt. Athos; St. Paisius Monastery tries to keep the monastic rule and tradition of Athonite monasteries.

When we arrived they were coming to the end of the Feast of the Cross, with the accompanying red altar cloths. Soon the cloths had been changed to blue, which is the default color, in honor of Christ’s mother, the Theotokos.

One image that comes to mind regarding the idea of pilgrimage is from the novel Kristin Lavransdatter, set in medieval Norway. Kristin sets off on foot with only her infant child for company, and walks to a holy site far enough away that she has to sleep outdoors on the way, I don’t remember how many nights. Her food is whatever she has brought in her bag.

Such a pilgrimage that takes serious commitment and protracted journeying would no doubt lend a different flavor to the experience, compared to our group’s monastery visit that was so easy and comfortable, and quick. Do I even qualify to be called a pilgrim?

One afternoon I sat on a bench next to this quiet moth, about an inch across, and I felt some camaraderie with his dull color. (He was much more “boring” in his actual size.) Maybe I, too, could just cling to the monastery for a time, blending in as much as possible with its unique color, the way the moth clung to the bench, and soak up the grace by clinging.

My friend Lorica comes into my story at this point. She was in our group, and had compiled a booklet of songs for us, titled “Spiritual Songs for a Pilgrim Journey.” We sang from it in the van on our drive from the Tucson airport.

Whither goest thou, oh pilgrim, with thy staff in hand?
Though the wondrous mercy of the Lord go I to a better land.

The lines above remind me that my whole life’s journey might be called a pilgrimage, and this too-brief trip was a reminder of what my Real Life consists of. I want one day to return to St. Paisius or to visit another monastery to help me further on my way — if I do I hope it is for a much longer visit! — but in any case, it is through God’s wondrous mercy that I travel in the right direction moment by moment, wherever I find myself.

Lorica helped me in another way, on our first full day of our visit. As we were having a tour around the property, she said, “Something that we are walking on is very aromatic.” I hadn’t noticed, but I looked down and saw these little yellow daisies growing like weeds along and in the path. I broke off a stem and we knew that that was the aromatic plant. It was delicious to my own senses, and new.

I learned that it is the Southwestern native pectis papposa, or chinchweed, and they say it can sometimes be found in Mexican markets sold as limoncillo.

On the day of our departure, I was standing by the van waiting for the others and watching the butterflies again, when I noticed a big clump of chinchweed right there. A stem of it just fit into a pocket of my backpack, so I brought it home as a memento of the visit.  It is sitting near me now on the sideboard, dried up and having lost not quite all of its spiciness.

The intangible things that I brought home from the monastery — I pray those stay with me longer, whatever they are. Because the aroma is sweet, and powerful. I think it’s the scent of holiness.

What we found on Highway 6.

family, nature, wildflowers, , , , , , , ,

Driving from Baker, Nevada to Mammoth Lakes, California took most of the day, and filled our vision with wide views. Pippin took the picture above showing one fine example.

We stopped within a few minutes to take pictures of clouds. Scout rode with me for a while, long enough to tell me stories of third-century Rome, especially of the tetrarchy of the emperor Diocletian. When we pulled over for car and human fuel Ivy took his place, and for about an hour we didn’t have enough of a mobile signal to listen to a book together, so I asked her to tell me about The Black Stallion, which she read very recently. She is a good storyteller; I think she remembered more details from her first reading than I even noticed the last time I read it.

As soon as possible, we started listening to The Call of the Wild, which she chose from my Audible library. I hadn’t read it since I was just a little older than she is now. We finished the whole book during our drive, and Ivy paid close attention. The next day on the trail, she was composing poems as we hiked, one of them about a husky dog in the northern wilds.

We saw plenty of mountains in the distance as we pushed on toward California, but the plant life seemed thin. Only when we parked our cars along a wide spot in the road in the Stone Cabin Valley did Pippin and I see the truth. Darling and diminutive flowers in a rainbow of pastel colors were scattered all over the gravelly sand.

The Professor was amused at the sight of our happiness in what many would call a “godforsaken place,” as we scanned the ground for just one more version of what the Seek app told us was “Saltlover.” Here is the picture he took of us:

What we learned later when we were able to research it online was surprising and a little sad. This plant Halogeton glomeratus is not a native plant but was introduced from Russia and China; it is a noxious weed of the amaranth family in rangelands of the American West, because of what it does to livestock and to the soil. Grazing sheep are especially vulnerable and can be killed by the high levels of oxalates it contains, and the mineral salts it excretes into the soil make it hard for other plants to survive. Two different species of plants have been introduced that tolerate the salts and might compete under the harsh conditions of that territory. The seeds of Saltlover “have the ability to germinate within one hour after being exposed to water.” That is vigor!

A bright orange flower stood up above these little spires in a few places, the Desert Globe Mallow:

And colorful rocks also caught our eye. I wanted to take this big one home, but after I dislodged it I could see it was too large and heavy:

Not to worry, several other smaller ones were just as brilliant, and before we piled in our cars again and continued on our journey, I had squeezed a few in the back of my Subaru. I told the children that when I die, they should be sure to take these rocks out of my garden and keep them as their own continuing memorials to the time Grandma came along on their mountain and desert explorations.

Broken hearted over September.

my garden, other gardens, senses, , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
Sneezeweed

From my planter boxes I pulled up and cleaned out parsley, zucchini, chives and Love-in-a-Mist; butternut and pumpkin vines, and a volunteer zinnia. When I went after the sea of overgrown chamomile, its warm and bittersweet aroma comforted me in the midst of that violent afternoon’s work. I don’t think I used one leaf of basil this summer; I just wasn’t home enough to take care of the garden in general, or to use half of its produce.

My pumpkins, grown from seed and nurtured in the greenhouse, were a complete flop! But one plant I gave to my neighbors produced 22 pumpkins, so one morning I found these on my doorstep:

Now I’ve sealed the boxes against winter, and added several inches of good soil. Still to do: organize and plant all those beautiful succulents that my friends gave me in the last few months, and put seeds into the dirt.

Trug full of Painted Lady runner beans.
Succulent stem abandoned and unwatered — and undaunted.
My first spider plant ever!
Nodding Violet I propagated.  If you want it, come and get it!

I had fun with Bella the other day at the community garden where she tends a plot. We always like to look around at what the other gardeners are doing, and to forage along the edges where people plant offerings to the whole community who farm there; you might find raspberries, or cutting flowers, or kale ready to harvest and take home.

Some kind of amaranth…

Some kind of 10-ft glorious amaranth.

I brought home seeds from that community garden, too, of tithonia, in a handkerchief I happened to have in my purse:

These mild days with soft air are a balm to the soul. They always surprise me with their kindness, especially when they turn up between others that are by turn sunless and drizzly, then scorching. For two weeks I’ve had my bedroom and morning room windows wide open to the weather all day and night. A cross breeze rolls over me as I sleep.

Sometimes there’s been a bit of smoke, sometimes heat at midday. At night I often have to burrow under the blankets; I hear the traffic early in the morning, and occasionally the neighbors’ loud voices late at night. But it’s the best way I know to feel alive to the earth. Simply by being open to the weather and the air, I can be In Nature. It’s the most convenient month for that, here where I dwell. September is where it’s easy to feel at home….

But — September is leaving this very week, that change is in the air. I admit to being a little broken-hearted; essentially, I’m being evicted, and that’s harsh. There is nothing for it but to take inspiration from that budding succulent stem above, that will draw on its stored resources, and make the most of whatever sunlight burns through the fog.  Those three little pumpkins will likely come in handy, too, because it’s time to start cozying up to October.

The Green Doctor, kindred souls and squashes.

agriculture, nature, , , , , , , , ,

While I was waiting at the fairgrounds gate I saw people leaving with their arms full of watermelons. A woman walked past me wearing a green t-shirt with bold letters proclaiming, “Things go better with kale.”

Then my friend Linda arrived. We entered the Farm-Garden-Homesteading-Everything show and soon found ourselves at a poultry exhibit. When she invited me last week I hadn’t investigated ahead of time what all there would be to see, and chickens were a happy surprise.

As we were admiring the different breeds one exhibitor explained to us that the truest Rhode Island Reds are a very dark mahogany color, and there was a rooster to demonstrate it. He told us about the “Frizzle” gene that causes the feathers of any breed to grow backward.

We got into a discussion with him about whether the upcoming winter would be warmer than usual. He mentioned seeing scores of baby lizards at what would normally be too late in the year, and wild birds setting on new clutches of eggs. I wondered myself yesterday when I saw a bird pulling rice straw out of my strawberry barrels.

Last week I heard another opinion, that the lack of sunspots of late foretells a cold winter coming. I didn’t even know what sunspots were, and will like to see how winter reveals itself. A related question of no import is whether I will remember any of this come winter!

A young woman I’d met briefly at church was at this fair, selling wool that comes from her family’s fiber mill. Another friend was at the medicinal hemp oil booth. I listened to a bright lady from the South talking for 45 minutes about fermenting, as she occasionally sipped from her bottle of kombucha. I even took extensive notes on that talk, and her recipe for kimchi, knowing full well that I will never make it.

More applicable to my life was the cherry tomato tasting, from which Linda and I and even Master Gardener people at a separate booth concluded without a doubt that Green Doctor was our favorite. It was developed by two women who are both doctors 🙂 . By contrast, I ate a little Yellow Pear, while telling the volunteer behind the table that one summer I had grown this variety and thought I must have got a “lemon” of a pear because every fruit on the vine was tasteless. She answered flatly, “They always are.”

For someone like me who avoids shopping, the shopping at this event was certainly great fun. There were two places with vintage clothing and other used items, from which I chose aprons! One seed booth featured corn, beans, and amaranth, all of which were appealingly laid out in varied and rustic baskets. I did indulge in a packet of orange amaranth seeds, and Linda bought a scoop of the Hopi type below; we will share with each other.

By the time we reached the moringa booth I still had some adventuresome energy to expend, but was slowing down a bit in the legs and feet. When I saw the jug of very green drink they were freely offering, signed “Peppermint Moringa Tea,” I helped myself to a cup, and it felt like Strengthening Medicine. From what I learned, the leaves are in fact concentrated nutritionally, but more pertinent to my situation long-term were other aspects of the plant, that it is easy to grow and can thrive in my area, and — look at these dear seeds! I have to try some. Linda bought a small tree. Now I am trying to figure out some way I might organize all my hopelessly burgeoning garden ideas.

It was refreshing to listen to a motivational speaker who was urging us, not to maximize our financial wealth, but to find ourselves and our joy by digging in the dirt and learning how to grow things. To talk to a man who has been hand-forging beautiful tools for fifty years. We hated to leave his booth, where the trowels, coat racks and trivets wanted to be hefted and stroked and admired, and their creator seemed content that they be appreciated, knowing that most of us couldn’t afford to own them.

Hundreds of people all in one place with whom one might discuss natural pest controls and sheep breeds, Mason jars and succulents…. and species of scented geraniums. Linda and I each took home a little nutmeg-scented plant which will remind us of our outing together. I have a few close friends who are fellow-gardeners and who love to share our excitement with each other, but never before have I had a day as full to the brim of like-minded folk as bright and colorful as the squashes we had come to see.

Whatever winter will bring this year, it is not yet upon us, which means more hours and days I might prepare for it, while bringing in extra basil, strawberries, and figs. Now that I’ve returned from the dream-invigorating festival, it’s back to the Real, my own garden.