ED ABBEY: FOUNTAIN OF WISDOM RE NATURE, POLITICS AND PROTEST!

“When the world is too much with me,” — and, ever since 11/16/16 it has been overwhelmingly so! — I turn to my heroes of old.  Thoreau.  Rachel (Carson). Eleanor (Roosevelt).  Ed Abbey.  They inspire me, stiffen my spine, balance me, serve as quintessential examples.  Ed does all this, PLUS, he makes me laugh.  Yes, right out loud, in the middle of the night, when I least expect it.

But it’s Ed’s prophetic wisdom that sustains me now, in this time worse than 1984, worse than Lord of the Flies

Pictures of Ed seem few and far between — this isolate one who reached the entire world.  Here is a stock photo of Ed in his beloved Red Rock Country.  Thank you, Alamy.

edward-abbey-author-of-desert-solitaire-shown-here-in-the-desert-at-JY6K00

I wrote in the first page of Ed’s The Journey Home,:  (first published in 1970) “Oh, Edward, where are you now?!  There is no one to speak/write/CRY OUT against greed, destruction, war on the land itself.  No one to protest the ruin of our land/air/water/future!”

As though Ed himself (no one calls him Edward – it’s my ‘pet name’ for my hero) had answered, I wrote his stunning proclamation:  “WE HAVE CONNIVED IN THE MURDER OF OUR OWN ORIGINS.”

Wizard.  Prophet.  So long ago, to have realized, to have dared call attention to the wasting of the West, of liberty itself!  “The earth is not a mechanism but an organism.”  “Growth for the sake of growth is the ideology of the cancer cell.”  Truth-teller, par excellence:  “Yosemite is no more wild nature than Central Park!”  Insisting that we should ban cars in our parks, he asserts, “You’ve got to be willing to walk!” 

America’s parks Abbey considers essential to the survival of democracy: –“treasures best enjoyed through the body and spirit, not through commercial plunder!.”  Which leads to one of my all-time favorite Abbeyisms:  “The best cure for the ills of democracy is MORE democracy!”  

Ed Abbey holds a particular hatred for those who would destroy his beloved desert, all in the form of ‘progress’:  “Vegas is creeping out everywhere.”

Abbey warns against “ration[ing] the wilderness experience.”  One of his quotes I’ve used as my e-mail signature proclaims “Long live the weeds and the wilderness!”

At his most exuberant, this author –who refuses to be called a naturalist–, exclaims, “O, to be a buzzard!”  One appeared at his (forbidden desert) funeral, delighting every mourner, all of whom has memorized so many of E.A.’s salient points, –circling, slowly, lazily, approving procedures below.  Those who know me, know I’m sure Ed borrowed that vulture’s physical body, for a fitting farewell.

Most chilling, always, are Ed’s musings on the dangers of our country’s losing true liberty.  “Our own nation is not free from the dangers of dictatorship.  And I refer to internal, as well as external, threats to our liberties.”  Abbey decries “the tendency upon the part of the authoritarian element always present… to suppress individual freedoms; to use the refined techniques of police surveillance…, in order to preserve, not wilderness, but the status quo, the privileged positions of those who now so largely control the economic and governmental institutions of the United States.”

(Have you noticed how rarely is used the term “United States” in post-1916 Amerika?  cfe)

In 1970, Ed warns of “the two-legged flesh-skinned robot, her head, his head, its head, wired by telepathic radio to a universal central control system.”

(Does anyone besides me cringe whenever I hear ‘the man or woman in the street’ use that ghastly Weather Channel command, “Stay Safe.”  It’s right up there with “Shelter in place,” which commands were rampant after the Boston Marathon Massacres. We are being coached during every storm to follow mandates that were the tools of tyrants.   cfe)

Edward Abbey probably had very little patience with matters of clairvoyance.  How else, though, do we explain his agony over, “When reality becomes intolerable; when the fantasies of nightmare become everyday experience, deny that reality; obliterate it; escape, escape, escape.”  “Every train of thought seems to lead to some concentration camp of nightmare.”  

The heart of the matter with Edward Abbey comes down to his conclusion in this final chapter of “The Journey Home“:  “WE CANNOT HAVE FREEDOM WITHOUT WILDERNESS.”  He quotes one of his own heroes, the legendary Dave Brower, in case we are missing the point:  “A WORLD WITHOUT WILDERNESS IS A CAGE.”

(David Ross Brower was a prominent environmentalist and the founder of many environmental organizations, including the John Muir Institute for Environmental Studies, Friends of the Earth (1969), the League of Conservation Voters, Earth Island Institute (1982), North Cascades Conservation Council, and Fate of the Earth.” Wikipedia)

 Abbey goes out on yet another flawless limb:  “I SEE THE PRESERVATION OF WILDERNESS AS ONE SECTOR IN THE WAR AGAINST THE ENCROACHING INDUSTRIAL STATE.”

 

“IF WE WISH TO GIVE OUR CHILDREN A TASTE OF THE GOOD LIFE, WE MUST BRING A HALT TO THE EVER-EXPANDING ECONOMY, and put the growth-maniacs under medical care.”

In case we didn’t get his point, about the importance of wilderness as a place where humans can rediscover themselves; as well as as “coyotes, lions (he means mountain lions), eagles and badgers; a place to re-experience freedom, the place “to learn what the lion has to teach,” Abbey declares, “All government is bad, including good government.”

“I am an extremist,” he insists in his naturalist-denying preface, merrily confessing his “extreme intransigence.”  Edward Abbey raves about being “far out on the very verge of things, on the edge of the abyss, where the world falls off into the depths.  That’s where I like it.   E.A.”

My hero describes his writings as having been “stirred in a blackened iron pot over a smoking fire of juniper, passionflower and mesquite.  Agitate. “(italics Ed’s).  He calls his words “a slumgullion”, which, “like any stew, makes a tasty, nutritious and coherent stew…  Society, too, is like a stew 00 If you don’t keep it stirred up, you get a lot of scum on top.”

Travel with Ed.  Revel with Ed.  Experience and re-experience Canyonlands and Arches and Death Valley and even Hoboken, and always the sere, saguaro-studded landscape in which he earned is deathless nickname, Cactus Ed.

Realize that to lose untrammeled wilderness is to lose the very liberty for which this country was founded in the 1770’s.  Let Edward Abbey, seer, open your eyes, stiffen your spine.  The times, our troublous times, demand it!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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NOT ‘ROSES ARE RED’ — current poem

I know, I know.  Poets are supposed to be writing about wine and roses, the arrival of spring, zephyrs, and so forth.

My Muse isn’t the least BIT interested — this is her truth this ‘cruellest month’…  Bear with me…

 

CALL IT BLASPHEMY

 

listen, God

I’ll trade You

I’ll take those three hours, any day!

 

forget this sentence of eight entire decades

even the scourging – what was that

an hour or so?

 

when you have a cruel mother

you are afraid everywhere

even in utero

 

o.k., so there was the Via Dolorosa

mine the VIE Dolorosa

and nobody helped carry the heavy wood burdens

 

no kind person wiped tears from my face

on that foreign balcony above a sea

when I finally realized that both daughters

 

were now the property of a cult

–over thirty years ago, Lord,

longer than they were IN my life

 

ah, You say, but there was the Agony in the Garden

indeed, every seed and bulb I planted

was the attempted burial of agony

 

“Will you not watch one hour with Me?”

I have been watching eight decades, Lord

waiting for faith like a mustard seed

belief in just touching the hem of Your garment

 

believing in mercy

 

Listen, God

I’ll trade

 

CAROLYN FOOTE EDELMANN

April 12, 2018

 

 

 

 

“IN JUST SPRING…” etc.

Waterfall Swirls, Pidcock CreekJPG

Pidcock Creek Swirls, Bowman’s Hill Wildflower Preserve, in just-spring

I don’t know about the rest of you, but I am still searching for ‘just spring’!

More apt this puzzling year  than e.e. cummings’ is either Eliot’s “April is the cruellest month” or Whitman’s dirge for our lost Lincoln, “When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom…”  “Wasteland”!, indeed…  grief beyond explanation or justification, beyond forgetting…

I do have a couple of meagre, wind-whipped hyacinths struggling to unfurl.  Of course, just as I discover them, two frisky deer gallop merrily through my back yard.  So far, they have not noticed the withered hyacinths nor the gelid daffodils.

Let’s give e.e. a chance, just the same:

[in Just-]

in Just- 
spring          when the world is mud- 
luscious the little 
lame balloonman 
whistles          far          and wee 
and eddieandbill come 
running from marbles and 
piracies and it’s 
spring 
when the world is puddle-wonderful 
etc,
I  don’t know.  The old cummings magic doesn’t seem to be working this time for me.
How about you?
Where do YOU turn
for spring?
brave skunk cabbage March
EXOTHERMIC SKUNK CABBAGE, BOWMAN’S, which can melt ice in order to emerge…

DESPERATELY SEEKING SPRING

First Burst of Spring Bowman's 09

First Burst of Spring at Bowman’s Hill Wildflower Preserve, Bucks County

Snow or no snow, chill or no chill, spring is inevitable.  There’s no gainsaying the Vernal Equinox.  Days lengthen.  Ground thaws.  Spring’s exquisite ephemerals (flowers that bloom only so long as the forest canopy is not leafed out) will soon be everywhere.

Bridge from Winter to Winter Bowman's 09

Bridge – From Winter TO WInter, Bowman’s

One of the privileges of hanging out with naturalists is that they know where to find first signs of spring.

first flower of spring skunk cabbage Bowman's 09

First ‘Monk’s Cowl’ — Skunk Cabbage, Bowman’s 

One of the disadvantages is that they know the names of everything, leaving you wondering if you’ll keep the difference between twinleaf and bloodroot this year.

Bloodroot at Bowmans Late Blooming April 2016 001

In early April, beech leaves pale from almost copper or caramel to the hue of palomino horses.  When they’ve turned to ivory, nearly white, they’ll fling themselves to the ground, providing acid atmosphere required for a healthy beech nut crop this year.

Paling Beech Leaves Bowman's

If you’re lucky enough to have naturalist/photographer friends, your lessons will be a merry marriage of art and science.

Toad Trillium and new-dropped beech leaves Medicinal Trail Bowmans Late Blooming April 2016

Toad Trillium Among Newly Dropped Beech Leaves

If not, you may use these images as a Field Guide to earliest ephemerals.  Let me know what you’re finding where YOU are.

Twin Leaf Emergence Bowmans Late Blooming April 2016

Twinleaf Emergence, Due Any Day Now

Tiny daffodils poked through rocks and snow this week.  Closed, they looked like lemon snowdrops.  Open, they are like stars fallen into my garden.  Rescued from yet another storm, they grace tiny green glasses on my dining room table.  So fragile in appearance — but I think they’re surviving/thriving far better than I this year!

Fern Emergence Bowman's

In ‘just spring’ (e.e.cummings), when Christmas fern has yet to resurrect…

Wandering almost every trail at Bowman’s Hill Wildflower Preserve, below New Hope, in Bucks County, this weekend, we found lesser celandine — invasive, spiky gold ground-hugging flowers everywhere.  A few exclamation points of skunk cabbage presided beside the old pond and on Marsh Marigold Trail.  In one patch of rare sunlight, a spray of bloodroot insisted that we rejoice in spring.

I’m trying.

pidcock bridge from on high

The next time we cross the Civilian Conservation Corps Bridge over Pidcock Stream, we should find green emergence, and even hints of yellow.

Marsh Marigold in bloom

Meanwhile, the joy is in the quest, keeping all senses tuned to the slightest spring heralds.  Early spring miracles include delighting in our fellowship – that there are any number of strong friends who are willing to brave brisk winds and brown surrounds, together, seeking spring.

Marsh Marigold Trail in March

Marsh Marigold Trail in the Birth of Spring

Again, I ask, what are YOU finding?

 

 

 

 

 

“CLEARING” – Poem, Day After Storm

Short-eared owl at Pole Farm by Brenda Jones

Short-eared Owl wingdrop

 

CLEARING

it is evening after storm

–the one entitled “Nor’easter Four”–

I drive with excessive caution

between fields devoted to farms

passing, first, the owl-wood

then harriers’ hunting grounds

 

on my left, hefty cows graze

as though any winter’s day

dark shapes contrasting with silos

gleaming with increasing sunset

 

the ruddy barn to my right

could be bonfire itself

constructed and ignited

by Thor and his henchmen

countering skies the hue

of antique pewter

 

perhaps tonight

short-eared owls will prowl

again, just as returned sun

sinks

 

“Nor’easter Four” having been agent

controlling travel

for short-ears and snowies

destined for the Arctic

 

CAROLYN FOOTE EDELMANN

 

sunset harrier Pole Farm Brenda Jones

Sunset Harrier, Pole Farm, by Brenda Jones

“Nor’easter Four” — poem

1 A snow clearing 2011

 

Nor’easter Four

 

what I do not understand about “nor’easters”

is that every single one this month

has poured in like a rain of arrows

in some major battle for survival in our storied west

every single flake arriving

from the SOUTHWEST

 

as though there are two storms

comprised of fickle flakes

sometimes more than half

being the soft lazy wide ones

–nearly the size of dimes

and brighter

 

then the white deluge changes to dots

tiny as sand, as salt

as fog, or dust itself

 

the larger often seem confused

as though asking

–as with WWII posters –

“Is this trip necessary?”

 

reversing trajectories

inexplicably, determinedly

changing directions constantly

sometimes even rising

 

but fine flakes remain no-nonsense

–every so often taking over

filling every pane

sometimes, almost invisible

showing their heftier relatives

how to create

storm

 

1 a snow branch burden 2011

CAROLYN FOOTE EDELMANN

MARCH 2018

Words of Wisdom that Carried Me Through Other Dark Times: Desiderata

200px-Brooklyn_Museum_-_Sunset_at_Sea_-_Thomas_Moran_-_overall

Thomas Moran’s Apocalyptic Art of America’s Storied West

In the late 1960s and 1970s, this wisdom, –ostensibly found on a church wall – but I always felt it too modern for that claim–, pulled me through the darkest times of my life.

I send this as my post today, because we are living in tumult that, to me, exceeds the terrors of World War II.  At least, during WWII, the actions of tyrants were not aimed at our sacred planet itself.

My own mood is more akin to “…the center does not hold…     slouching toward Bethlehem to be born…”

But I cannot let myself fall into any slough of despond.  Never had LIGHT been more important in our world.

May these lines flow in and around you like grace, like honey itself, –shot through with light, bringing comfort and healing.

Desiderata

Go placidly amid the noise and haste
and remember what peace there may be in silence.

As far as possible without surrender, be on good terms with all persons.

Speak your truth quietly and clearly and listen to others,
even the dull and ignorant; they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons; they are vexatious to the spirit.

If you compare yourself with others you may become vain or bitter,
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.

Keep interested in your career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs,
for the world is full of trickery.

But let this not blind you to what virtue there is.

Many persons strive for high ideals
and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be not cynical about love,
for, in the face of all aridity and disappointment,
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.

Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.

But do not distress yourself with imaginings.

Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars.
You have a right to be here.

And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive God to be,

and whatever your labours and aspirations in the noisy confusion of life,
keep peace with your soul.

With all its sham and drudgery and broken dreams
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.

 

Max Ehrman, 1927.

Found in Old Saint Paul’s Church, Baltimore, U.S.A. Dated 1692

From the Alt.Usage.English FAQ: “Desiderata” was written in 1927 by Max Ehrmann (1872-1945). In 1956, the rector of St. Paul’s Church in Baltimore, Maryland, used the poem in a collection of mimeographed inspirational material for his congregation. Someone who subsequently printed it asserted that it was found in Old St. Paul’s Church, dated 1692. The year 1692 was the founding date of the church and has nothing to do with the poem. See Fred D. Cavinder, “Desiderata”, TWA Ambassador, Aug. 1973, pp. 14-15.