Banjo Frogs

As soon as the sun sets, the bullfrog orchestra warms up, tunes and begins a musical marathon. They are all singing in the same key. They inspire one another. One begins, another repeats from another section producing a beautiful canon.


Some Banjo frogs make a series of swallowy glugs – typically three descending gulps – while the others sort of moan.


When I shine a flashlight on them, they suddenly stop; when I move it around, they start up again. Therefore, instead of cueing those to come in, they stop; it is reverse conducting. With practice, we can perform a symphony. The Duncan Lake Frogharmonic.

They are so loud, it is necessary for me to wear earplugs in order to sleep. This is an attention issue. I am unable to stop listening.

From my memoir – “The Summer at Duncan Lake”     July 2009

Celebrate Red Clover Infusion

Red clover is a humble yet magnificent gift that happens to grow abundantly in my back yard and I can safely say that it grows in yours as well. It is indigenous to many regions around the country. Since my childhood, I have been unable to resist the sweet nectar at the base of each individual purple blossom. If you haven’t partaken in this delightful activity, simply pick a red clover – which is actually purple – and pluck a tiny, slender blossom. The base of the blossom is white and contains nectar. Place the white end between your teeth, bite down and brace yourself for an explosion, offering your taste buds a heavenly surge of natural sweetness.

Last year, I suffered from the bite of a brown recluse spider. This was a life-altering event. Although I was fortunate to avoid skin grafts, I was ill for quite some time. I believe that my fast acting application of a homeopathic salve aided in the prevention of the death of the skin around the bite area. However, I took in over 43,000 milligrams of antibiotics in ten days. To say that I was wiped out is a gross understatement.


After the onslaught of antibiotics taken at home and at the hospital, I needed to regain my strength and rebuild my immune system. In addition to a variety of homeopathic supplements, a friend suggested that I drink plenty of “red clover” tea as an effective blood purifier. Upon doing research, I have discovered that red clover is excellent for many ills such as cancer of the stomach, quieting nerves, healing fresh wounds and it makes an outstanding healing balm. (Please note that it is not recommended for pregnant women.)


I dashed off to my favorite health food store and purchased a pricey box of the tea. I spent a good part of my summers chewing on these purple gems that grow wildly in every back yard I have known, so I knew that it was crazy to buy any more “red clover” tea from that point on.


Recently, after several days of rain, the grasses surrounding the house were dotted with both red and white clover. I decided to harvest the red clover for tea, although it is also great for making sweet syrup, lemonade and sprinkling in rice and salads. Are you one step away from outright grazing yet?


This is how to celebrate red clover. Gather the flowers in the summer when in full bloom. Blossoms may be used fresh or dried. Check for bugs. If drying, place in the shade, preferably on wax paper. When dry, put them in paper bags and hang in a dry place.

Recipe for Red Clover Infusion

Place ½ to 1 cup of dried red clover into a quart mason jar.
If using fresh clover, remember that fresh herbs are simmered gently in water for a few minutes to break down their cell walls. Dried herbs are not simmered as they have brittle cell walls.
Boil 1 quart of water.
Pour boiling water over the herbs to the top of the jar.
Cover the jar tightly with the lid to prevent evaporation of vital elements, as some herbs have unstable oils that easily evaporate.
Let steep at least 8 hours or overnight. Long steeping increases the potency of the tea, as the water is given time to dissolve and do much of its work.
Strain as necessary, leaving the herbs in the infusion to continue steeping until all the tea is gone.
Sweeten to taste with honey if desired.
Enjoy one of Gaia’s astonishing gifts.

Mailing List

Hello Mailing List Friends,
I posted a blog earlier today, "The Purple Flower and the Umbilical Cord".  I am not certain if it was sent via email as usual.  So please check the blog...I wouldn't want you to miss this.

Be well.

Mj

The Purple Flower and the Umbilical Cord

Stray corkscrew curls swirled behind her like kite tails as she pedaled ahead of me on her bike. I followed in my car blotting out clear images of French braids, pink fenders and wobbly training wheels. She darted in between two crumbling houses surrendering to chipped paint and sagging front porches with missing windows. I cranked up the volume of the CD player, disappointed in Schubert for not providing me with much needed relief from the ugly, grim reality and imperfection of our culture as it invaded my safe world. I closed the window, hoping to keep it outside where it belonged. How could this be? I reached for a piece of gum.

Laughing toddlers with three-day-old orange Kool-Aid moustaches – oblivious to their grungy disposable diapers that should have been changed hours before – dashed in and out of the street. I drove by slowly, trying not to look but unable to ignore the vacant stares of adults who sat slumped on deteriorated steps. The stench of abandonment filled the air.

I parked the car and waited, for what? I didn’t know. She – the resilient purple flower that grows in the crack in the sidewalk – stood beside a gray trashcan flipped on its side, smiled and motioned for me to come. I struggled against the stronghold of gravity and found myself standing beside a corroded El Camino with no tires, searching for the tools to abandon my own sense of abandonment.

The gatekeeper – a dark brown dog – watched from the second story window of a dirty pink house. I hesitated when we locked eyes. He didn’t flinch. Ignoring my initial impulse to meet the challenge, I looked away. I could hear him panting when I walked past the window.

Something smelled – a cross between cloves, pepper and sweat. I couldn’t identify the source or decide if it was good or bad.

I stepped over rusted bicycles, random parts and more trashcans to a small chicken coop tucked against a slanted wooden fence in the corner. The sight of familiar clucking hens – allies – invited tightness in my chest. I bit my thumbnail and watched them peck for bugs in the once paved driveway. They had food, water and adequate space. I exhaled, but not enough. What are we doing here? I screamed silently.

I brushed away the cobwebs of lullabies, apple blossoms and green grasses dotted with bright yellow dandelions. I grasped the delicate tendrils of long forgotten innocence and hope and tucked them back in the box with longing and regret. With the weight of the key pressed against my chest, I gathered faith and carried on.

A woman gives birth. The umbilical cord – never severed – remains intact and grows, invisible to the naked eye.

The Secrets of the Daisy

I sit at the gathering place
Surrounded by the hush
Of the sun-drenched meadow,
Deflowering a daisy with
He loves me,
He loves me not.
Subtle is the sweet grass
Embracing my self.
Yet, in all its silken splendor
My heart wilts
In regret.
Oh, but to leave the fate
Of love
Within crumpled fragments
Of a daisy!
For if I know not,
The intentions of a man,
Surely, he is not worthy
Of plucking from her,
The blissful glory,
Which graces her center.
Who am I to take her crown,
Boasting magnificence,
Innocence,
Encircling a brilliant
Golden face?
Generous,
Elegant,
Bowing only to the wind,
I shall leave the secrets
With her.
Never again to
Strip her pride
Petal by petal,
Just to know
If he loves me
Or not.

The Others Came (Sisters Part 2)

Then, at the insistence of Mother, the others came. Shy at first and oblivious to their two defrocked sisters – now silent with mere purple clusters staring vacantly beyond fresh dew as their own pinkness lay fowl on the garden floor. There is no time for mourning such magnificent brevity; the diminishing of one is in the memory of the other.

On unbending stalks, the many sisters reach towards the next day, unaware of time tapping recklessly against delicate folds of innocence. They have risen above the ones that hold tight to the promise of beauty in swollen buds, yet they continue to seduce winged ones and walking ones alike with intoxicating fertility and wild perfection.

Two Sisters

We came from the same womb, the same warm dark place, tucked safely inside with the others. We wait until the last full moon of the planting month, when the killing frosts are no longer a threat before we push through the rich layer of that which separates here from there.

All of we sisters quiver and reach towards the warm sun rising high above, following from east to west, eager to unfold and liberate beauty from within round, swollen buds. The others – tall, slender shoots – come, rush, tower over us, boasting frilly lavender, wine, yellow and white frocks that crumple and wither before us.

We take turns showing our faces – unmistakable papery pink petals surround an innocent, deep crown of purple seeds known to bring sleep and cast a spell on the weak. The spirit of beauty and truth intoxicates those of a divine spark.

When the time is right, my sister and I follow the others, whose spotted silken petals lay still in garden grasses beside enduring hemlock.

We wait and watch the other unravel undying pinkness. Quiet winds urge us to show our faces, which makes the gardener weep. She comes out once and again to watch us and to wait.

After the night and before the day, my sister and I make the last gesture of completeness. In all of our glory, we – two sisters of the earth womb, follow the sun and beguile young men with potent seeds and entice old women to cut for her table – have arrived. We sisters collect dew and call upon butterflies. We watch the others come and go before us and we watch the others wait in bud for our passing. Finally, in one sweet, elusive moment, our decaying petals will lie on the garden floor, proclaiming our memory and lingering on the next miracle.