Philosophical

Essays concerning concepts and thoughts regarding metaphysics, epistemology, ethics, and politics

Garden Tips You Don’t Want to Hear

Damaged plant on right Damaged plant on right

#1 Raise Your Expectation to Fail

This is a tough lesson to learn and does not get easier with time. However, as Joel Salatin of Polyface Farms is quoted as saying: “If something is worth doing, it is worth failing.” Failing is a key element in learning, and learn we will if we only remember those things we failed at.

#2 But…Lower All Other Expectations

I expected my garden to double the output this year. It is the second year, and I have bees. I expected my bees to give honey this year; although it is the first season they’ve had in their new home, they are doing so well. I expected my soil to come into its own; it is the second year that I’ve added compost, grass clippings and manure. I expected so much.

 

#3 Don’t Give In

I watched late in the summer as my tomato plants started developing yellowing leaves on the bottom, and continued to watch as the yellowing leaves made their way towards my beautifully big green tomatoes. I watched as my onions fell over but retained their green stalks and the bulbs quit growing. I watched as my leek went to stalk, and the yellow cherry tomatoes I planted reached and reached for the light that was not available. I watched as my peppers seemed to not grow and was reminded how fragile life is, but how persistent the human spirit can be.

 

#4 And Remember that Nature Rules.

No matter what we do; no matter how much we care, nurture, pick, pluck, plant and ply: nature rules. It is not we that are the masters of our lives, nor is it a god. Nature it has been said is the most effective serial killer there is. If that is not enough, nature has only rules that it itself creates. As we go about our “important” business of living we forget that we ourselves are part of nature and not the other way around. Our gardens remind us of that when hale pounds our plants pitifully in the middle of summer, and we watch in horror as unknown diseases and plights overtake once healthy dreams. But remember that nature does not dream and you do!

 

#5 Do Your Best

Do your best, but remember that doing your best guarantees nothing (see #1-4 above). Do your best because doing your best is the meaning that we create in our lives. While it is true that we are what we eat, it is also true that we are what we think. If you do not do your best you have already wasted your time and nature will not lie to you about it.

 

#6 But Remember Your Best Is Never Good Enough.

I know that this seems harsh but there are plenty of people that will attest to this for you. I know that in school those nice “teachers” tended to remind you that everything will be OK, but they were lying. You received grades that you did not earn. I know that your friends will compliment you on such a fine job you’re doing, but they are just being nice and you know when that’s the case. Your best is never good enough because when it is you cease to learn and you will be reminded harshly of #4. On the other hand if you ever find that you believe these people it is probably because of #3.

 

#7 Remember: What Else Do You Have to Do?

The human lifespan is short. There is not enough time to waste on excuses although we all waste ample hours in doing so anyway. Your job is only an excuse. It may be that it pays for your garden. Or perhaps gardening is your job in which case #1-6. Either way you must eat and why not know what you are eating? Your children are only an excuse. They need you to live your life and not theirs. Give them something to look up to: teach them the importance of self-sustainability and food. Life is what we make of it. Ask yourself what you want to make of yours and perhaps more importantly why. Go out and tend your garden there really isn’t anything more important to do.

 

 

Patience

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I am told quite often to have patience, but I watch my tomato plants and they seem to grow inches everyday, but the fruit remains green. Large, green globs of fruit hang heavy on the vines. I can taste the fruit of my labors; I envision the salsa if only my peppers would hurry.

 

My peppers are bearing fruit as well, but the plants themselves haven’t grown much. They look healthy now, but only after some attention. I watch as peppers sprout from white flowers, healthy green, red and purplish. I watch the peppers and envision baskets of Anaheim, Joe’s Cayenne, Poblano, Jalepeno…, if only my tomatillos would get bigger.

 

The tomatillo plant was given to me by a friend of mine; the plant is beautiful. Small, yellow flowers wielding to pockets of green, sticky fruit. Spreading its spindly branches, I tie the plant religiously to the homemade stands I’ve built. Dozens of green bags hang precariously from the plant, and I check often for the fruit hidden inside. The green chili that I make from the peppers and tomatillos always taste good with a homemade beer, if only my hops would hurry.

 

The cascade hop plant is probably my favorite plant in the garden. It hangs heavy with sticky leaves and gorgeous, small green cones of goodness. The lupulin inside the cones await golden nectar. The plant is a fast grower, and the hops that spring forth (with a little help from the bees this year) are lovely light green and smell of the goodness that beer is. I plan to brew a honey porter, if only the bees would hurry with their making of honey.

 

I added a honey super to the hive two weeks ago. The last check on the super, the little girls had begun to make comb for the honey that I hope will soon be. The bees have been a favorite addition to my garden. They have done so well this year. I really didn’t get the bees for honey production, but out of curiosity. But I remember the addition of the second hive box. They filled it hurriedly and I worry about the bit slower production on the honey super. I have mason jars that I can almost taste the honey dripping from the spoonful’s that I ladle from them. Honey harvest is often in September, and only if the girls have enough for themselves. August is almost here.

 

August is almost here and with the end of summer begins the fall. I remember the times past in the fall as the leaves change and cool evenings bring the leaves to the ground. I’ll gather them and send them through the shredder for mulch over the winter. I always like that job because it is somehow calming, but it does make me wonder where the time has gone.

 

 

Killing Chickens

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I killed a chicken today. I say “killed” because I did not “take its life”; it did not “pass on”. I took a knife and I slit its throat. To kill and animal ought to be an act of respect, and I hope that I do the bird justice when I eventually put her in a pot and make chicken and dumplings with her. She was a nice looking bird if not a bit old. She’d had a good life, which is important.

 

I also think that it is important for everyone that eats meat to kill their own food at least once. It is never a pleasant experience until after the act of killing when it is easy to differentiate the food aspect from the living creature aspect. Somehow in that split second it is easy to understand how fragile all life really is and the cost that is paid for living. This is perhaps one of the greatest personal motivations that I have for trying to become self-sufficient.

 

I’ve killed a number of animals over the years, all of which I’ve put in my freezer and eaten, except for a few sheep that I helped someone kill in order to put in their own freezer. Death is certainly part of life, and is no doubt a part of becoming self-sufficient: we have to eat. Self-sufficiency is in some ways self-realization and in the bigger scheme of things, the realization that we are part of a greater cycle which will continue with or without us.

 

I thought about that I was a part of; the cycle that would begin with the death of the old bird. The owner of the chicken had bought four new pullets to replace the doomed chicken. I would eat the chicken and eventually the cycle would come full circle with my own death. This is not morbid or odd; it is beautiful actually.

 

More and more, as the realization of what it is to become self-sufficent grows along with my skill-set, I realize the beauty in the idea of self-sufficiency whether it is through my new found love for “Bee TV” (pulling up a chair with a cup of coffee and watching the bees fly to and from their hive), growing a garden, carpentry, mechanics, putting up drywall (I did that last week, one of my lesser favorite skills) or killing a chicken for a friend.

 

I thought about it and concluded that it would not show the respect due the old chicken had I simply referred to her death as a “passing”, or that I “ sent her to a better place”. I killed a chicken, simply put. But her death symbolizes something greater than can be described, pronounced or understood.

The Workshop Universe Pt. III (Edited)

Lagoon Nebula (Messier 8)

 

The Big Bench Bang, then the year after the bench was built it is claimed in the tradition of mythology that most of the tools present were in place, had a place and were all accounted for. Of course, this is just a myth because looking at the place now it really does seem impossible. Five years later, the spread of the universe accumulates in the form of an electric welder and the first and only cleaning on record is applied. Organization and then entropy ensues afterwards. Ten years later an assortment of what is now the stuff of the universe is acquired: wrenches, ratchet sets appear and the space between appears as blackness, cleaning is but a faded memory. Fifteen years after the Big Bang, the gas welder appears from the nothingness and afterwards the black hole appears spitting forth hand tools from one end and sucking up all that comes within its reach, cleaning becomes a myth for some and a wish for others. Shelving falls and it and all its contents lay untouched for two years until by sheer force and will organization fights the chaos of the Universe; the act of cleaning is outlawed by the creator himself. There was a few wars fought in defense of organization and a simple wash but all were quashed in the name of chaotic order. There are some that ask about the time before the Big Bench Bang and the answer is simple: it was a workshop for the wagons and horses. Another little side-use was the slaughtering of pigs. It is in fact where I learned to do such things.

Pigs have lost their lives in the Universe long before its inception. Actually, since about 1934 pigs have been slaughtered here. The war-grounds for pork is marked territory with the blood and grease of man and pig. The times that the author was involved in the wholesale fight for meat a large, round metal bowl was used; a left-over from the second world war, a “horn-mine” that was found by the father of the creator of the universe (yes, the creator has a father) on the nearby beach but before that a wooden cask was used to hold the hot water that cleaned the carcass before the hair was burnt off the skin. It is neither a pretty sight or a quaint smell that ensues when pigs are slaughtered and both are permanent parts of the workshop. The pig is killed, hung and bled. Then parted while cats and dogs claw over the innards and the grandfather tool (the axe) is put to use to half the carcass. The head is fought over while entrails are dragged out into the darkness of space by cats and dogs alike. All of this happens within the workshop leaving the place with a different kind of smell. I wonder if because water is used if this is counted as a cleaning.

Today the shop is off-limits to any hired help because of unknown realities and time-warp related worries. It continues to grow both in sight and smell. The black hole grows, sucking in the shelving at times, and at other times parts and tools but it nevertheless continues to exist; a parody to existence itself, a stubborn trophy waved in the face of the belief in design and order. Both and anachronism and a study in the future of mankind itself, the Universe of the shop defies definition and yet defines itself as the matrix of change and the canvas of the future. Entropy ensues and it is good.

Workshop Universe Pt. II (Edited)

Lagoon Nebula (Messier 8)

On the far wall along the total length of the workshop universe is the divine workbench itself. It is the mighty holder of all that there is. Only the bravest of people dare run their hand across its fanciful but invisible top. It is no longer flat although it is not round; it exists without shape. It bears witness to countless oil-spills, tool-cleaning chemicals, gasoline, diesel, spit, blood, dirt, grease, beer, melted rubber, metal, iron, cloth and other unmentionables; emanating from it is a smell unknown to mankind. From the bowels of its load the smell entices and edifies, it sickens and cleanses the body; it is both a religious experience and a nightmarish vision from the asshole of hell itself; Medusa with the voice of the Sirens; Satan with the voice of angels. It is a small mountain range of blackened history where tools die and are reborn in a cyclical act of evolution by the natural selection of the creator himself. Its herculean strength is the only thing that be accounted for its still standing under the weight of so much for so long. It is made of wood but from some magical forest of strength endowed trees.

 

”I built it new, when I turned the place into my workshop.” Says the creator. He continues with a gleam in his eye as he tells me about the table drill in the middle of the bench. ”I bought that drill with a case of beer and then helped drink the beer…” The drill is a single piece anchored in place upon the bench by magical forces or sheer stubbornness, bounding out of the wilderness of sprawling parts, tools, pieces with its pulleys and belts opened for air. A chunk of blackened Swiss cheese like wood ornaments its drill plank. Everything hangs in anticipation of joining the cohorts of junk that lies on the imaginary floor. Gravity never gives up; everything eventually falls. The corners of the bench are long since rounded by use and the shelves seem to float above the bench itself, covered in grease and stacked, rounded with no-named pieces and parts. Above the middle of the workbench is a small window, most of the panes miraculously intact although light is frightened away from the prospect of shining though the smutty glass into the black hole of the workshop. It runs, screaming insanely, while all that is rests peacefully.

 

From the bowels of this place have come amazing feats of mechanical mystery. It is well known that from the chaotic chords of the blackened workbench are home to the answers to inexplicable and innumerous breakdowns, cracks in well-worn machinery, broken parts and a multitude of other problems that the farmer-creator faces. Inventions are not an unknown oddity to such a place as this. ”We bought the Buch 302 (A tractor) in about 1960 and right after I finished building the bench, I needed a backloader for the Buch, so I built one. It had a hydraulic lift and everything. That was the first project that I had after building the bench.” Nothing is off-limits and everything can be fixed if not permanently then at least temporarily; temporary being the permanent state of the workshop universe. Wheel-alignment, parts replacement, parts made, reparation of tools, invention of tools.

The Workshop Universe Part I (edited)

Lagoon Nebula (Messier 8)

Respectfully dedicated to my father-in-law, Jorgen Troldborg.  A man who has taught me much.

In the Universe the 2nd rule of Thermodynamics applies: that entropy will ensue. We live with that knowledge comfortably because it is such a slow-going process. But in some cases, entropy is evident and even happens right before our very eyes. Such is the case with the workshop universe at the Troldborg farm. The universe is not as old as we thought. It is, in fact, forty years old because Jørgen (the owner of the universe) was thirty years old when he created it. The Universe is a part of a totality of Universes known as the Troldborg Gård (Troldborg Farm) and Jørgen acts as the manager and general CEO of the place: his creation by design. The workshop universe holds a special place in the history of time here because within its dark bowels lays the history of Troldborg Farm. This is a short story about that history and the entropy that is inherent in all creations including his.

As was stated, the Workshop Universe is about forty years old but the oldest tool somehow outdates the universe by some one-hundred and twenty years. Such illogical facts are not important to the creator. Now if the word of the creator is not to be questioned that tool is an ax of sorts used to split tree trunks and is still usable and is enjoying life as the metaphysical grandfather of all tools in the universe today. What sort of place does such a special parcel of amazing history take up in the universe? I asked the creator himself.

”Some place or another… I think it may be in the attic over the workshop…”

While he pondered the existential space-time continuum of the question, I pondered the importance and place of lesser tools in the workshop. For example, the Drill press, a no-named drill that was once used in a fishing village called Skagen Denmark. ”Of course,” the creator followed up when I asked him about it, “it was originally powered by a windmill in a workshop on the harbor up there. They had a ´pull-station´ and would throw a belt over one of the pulleys there and the drill would be run that way. When I got it I fixed it so it could be run with a little electric motor.” The drill press sits pretty much in the middle of the black-hole of the workshop; there is a black hole in the center of this universe as well. That is to say, right in the middle, surrounded by the insurmountable stash of tools, toys, scrap iron, wood, empty cans, half-full cans, fuel barrels, plastic buckets, chains, rope, plastic ties, nylon webbing, electric motors, gas motors, reserve parts, axles from cars, tractors, mopeds, bicycles, shovels (with and without handles), the handles of the said shovels without such handles, broken bottles, paint brushes, ratchet sets, open-ended wrenches, collections of assorted rubber parts, pieces of panhandled plows, compressor pistons, hay-press pulls, bolts, nuts, washers, screws and nails that have been pulled, pried, pricked, pummeled, pled, pounded and peened out, in and around most known materials of mankind, chainsaws, pulleys, lifts, hooks, cords, cables, used saws, assortments of hammers, several welders masks, an electric welder, boxes of welding sticks, gloves with and without holes, burnt out plugs, jars of liquids that defy definition and either snuff out life itself or are the cradles of civilizations yet unknown to even the creator himself. To actually come to stand next to the drill press would take a miraculous act or would cost one their sanity and probable their life to boot. It is said it can be done but the author has his doubts. I believe that it is the event horizon.

Another standing question that I had of the Workshop Universe is the large compressor that sits in its corner silently until its long, shaggy tail is followed through the trail of indefinable debris and connected with the hidden contact mounted proudly but covered with the dust, grease and grime of the infinite muck of universe itself. It is then that the monstrosity hums and pops into life spreading an earthquake of bangs that rumble the theoretical floor of the shop itself. Now I say ´theoretical´ only because the floor as really never been seen as far as I know. The fact that one does not float in the shop is no proof because of the thick, dense fog that hangs over and in the workshop at all times; perhaps the ether that Einstein mistakenly referred to? It would be easy enough to enjoy the sights and sounds of the shop simply by walking on the fog itself. Of course, there are theories about this but to go into the physical guesswork of if, when and how is well beyond the scope of this trivial discourse. Suffice it to say that the actual floor is somewhat of a myth. The compressor has no color but is not black nor is it white. It is rather a thick, oily grayish “blue”. Its color changes with the fog and with the sorrowful rays of sun that happen upon it from one of the three openings into the workshop world.

A Time of Peace

 

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There is something calming about noticing a flower that you have never noticed before; there is something that is exciting about waking up in the morning and seeing that the plants have been busy the night before. There is something that is humbling when we realize that life goes on without our taking the time to notice, that we are a mere blip in the endless sea of time that laps over the beachhead.

 

That life goes on without us forces us to realize that we live on borrowed time; no one owns their time, and peace of mind comes from realizing that we are on borrowed time. I notice this when I stop to realize that my new bees only live for six or so weeks. I realize this every time I think of the twenty-five years of marriage that I have enjoyed. These relationships and the things that we deem as so important come as waves on a beach, dissipating into the sand. Time is limitless but our time is limited.

 

Our time is limited, but what we do with our time is not. How we spend our time is up to us, but that we spend our time is not. Perhaps this is why peace of mind is so often found in nature, on a piece of land: time is free there because nature is time incarnate: timeless.

 

This is perhaps the reason that real peace of mind can only be found in noticing a flower that you have never noticed before, or hearing the buzzing of a few bees in the honeysuckle. This time is never wasted because it is time not being spent. I am learning not to waste my time because I am learning that my time is borrowed. I am learning to spend my time wisely because again, my time is only borrowed. That flower that I notice today will be gone tomorrow, another taking its place. That piece of land that is so beautiful costs nothing to notice, but not noticing it costs so much.

 

The wrinkles that show up on my face remind me of the things that are so important, and that they are important only because my lack of time makes them so. I have found that it takes time to enjoy peace of mind, and that such time is well spent. I have found that like everything else, truth is embedded in time itself: it is a process, and such is life as well as death.

 

There is no cheating time, we only get so much. We will only have time to barter with in our dying breath as Mr. Death comes to take the last coins of seconds that we have left. This is why it is so important to spend your time wisely. Notice the flower in the garden, the bees in the hive, the garden and everything else which is timeless. It is only these things that are free, and perhaps because of that bring peace of mind. Peace of mind comes with no buyer’s remorse. Perhaps this is because in the end it is the only thing that gives us a time of peace.

 

The Right Thing

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It is amazing that growing your own food, buying local and seasonal, and trying to consume less is such a revolutionary act; but it is. Being self-sufficient helps us realize the difference between right and wrong. Self-sufficiency is, in fact, the realization of what is right. Being self-sufficient is the right thing to do because it is a good in itself. I am new to this realization of the need to be self-sufficient, and the most disconcerting thing about realizing this need is two-fold: first, how could I not have realized it before, and secondly being self-sufficient is very difficult in today’s society.

 

It is an interesting experience to realize that you have been living your life with your proverbial eyes closed for most of your life. The experience is un-nerving yet it is motivating; it motivates you to either make excuses or do what is right. I’ve found that there are a number of ways that we can do what is right, but it takes work.

These days I am reminded of doing what is right in some peculiar ways. I am reminded when I look out my window at the green lawn that surrounds my house: I need to replace it with a more suitable and sustainable landscape. I am reminded when I am weeding the garden or planting food. I am reminded when I am at the grocery store (the failure dome as I now call it) making choices about the food I will buy. Of course, I am reminded of it every time I read the news and often when I talk to friends.

 

Doing the right thing is not really a choice that we have. We can no longer choose to support the corporate food industry and call it an ethical decision: it is not. That being said, doing the right thing is not easy. We can no longer call ourselves independent simply because we make a good living: we are not. Being independent is not as easy as making a lot of money. We know a right thing when we come across it, and in fact, there is only one thing easy about the right thing: we know what it is. Being self-sufficient is the right thing because being self-sufficient forces us to realize that we are not separate from the world we live in, but a part of that world.

 

It truly is an amazing experience when we realize our moral beliefs in an objective way. And, as strange as it may seem, being self-sufficient is the way to realize the difference between right and wrong. Being self-sufficient is not right because it allows us to live in a sustainable way, or protects us from Armageddon, or prepares us for the end of society. Being self-sufficient is right because it is good. It is good to live honestly, independently, considerately, and responsibly. Doing the right thing because we can choose to do so is the greatest human capacity. Doing what is right may be difficult, but it is always the most moral choice.

 

Homeward Bound

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When I received my first package of bees I was intent on giving them a good home, replete with ample room and plentiful food.  I worked hard several week prior to their arrival to set up the hive “just right”, and plant flowers that would bloom at different times during the summer.  Of course, the bees were not aware of my preparation work nor were they aware that the newly situated place they had found themselves in was home.  But they had one, and their home made me happy.

 

The idea of home is not as simple as a place, however.  Rather, home is (perhaps) a feeling of comfort, a point when you can let your guard down, and “stay awhile” as it were. Fast food is out of place, advertisement is unwelcome and the smell of cooking is prevalent; home is welcoming and not too fancy.  Home is intimate and it affords a feeling of intimacy when we are there.  Home is quiet and warmth, love and friendship.  Home is comforting.

 

Home is the past: the memories that we cherish and the love of our parents when we were small.  Home is the smell of cooking, welcoming intimacy, quiet, warmth, love and friendship and it can be found anywhere.  Most creatures want a home, but most creatures (such as bees) do not belong to a specific place or even time; having a home is similar: it is not specifically defined.

 

Being raised by loving parents, making friends, finding someone that you love and that loves you back, having experiences, adventures, learning, losing, loving, laughing.  All of these things and so much more make up our homes.  A home is often a process of building memories.  In fact, memories may be the only building blocks of a home, much more than the brick and mortar, the wood and nails that we often find solace in.

 

A home cannot be bought and sold but it is not free.  We must create our homes and live in them as best we can.  We must accept the homes we have built and know that we can build a new one if need be.  Having a home is remembering why we are who we are, and planning who we want to be.  Home is comfort in the knowledge that we are self-sufficient, that we made choices and took responsibility for them.  Home is that quality of happiness that is rare and often fleeting; it is that feeling that we do not belong, but not because we are outcasts, but only because that is the nature of the human house.

 

Everyone and everything needs a home.  It is the ultimate goal.  We all belong to the human household, but not all of us have built a home.  Somehow, my bees have reminded me of this, and the chickens that I will soon get; the vegetable garden and the fruit trees.  The memories of long past times, and the achievements and failures that linger, and the wishful dreams of times to come; this is in essence what makes a house a home.  I wish you luck in building your own.

Ever Changing        

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As the seasons change they remind me that time does undeniably pass us by.  In the past few weeks I’ve seen the tiny seedlings that I started indoors grow leaps and bounds.  I’ve seen the parsnip poke its miniature shoots out of the soil covered in dead leaves and compost that itself has stood the test of time.  I see the kale and the carrots beginning to show out of the earth itself.  The weather is getting warmer and as it does our new bees begin to become more and more active.  We did our first hive check this weekend, and “my girls” are doing fine.

 

“My girls” indeed!  As I watch them busily about their business it dawns on me that these “girls” will not be the girls that my family meets when they come to visit later this summer; these “girls” will not be the ones that I take honey from (if at all) later this summer.  This hive will not be the same hive at all.  They will all have passed their jobs on to their sisters that they so diligently raise as I watch them fly in and out of their new home.  It saddens me…at first.  I realize, once again, that this is the nature of the seasons, is the nature of the years that have passed me by and continue to do so.  Change is the nature of life itself.

 

I watch as my parents get older and my nephews and nieces begin anew, with wonder in their eye: young and not thinking about time at all.  Like the hive I call my own we are not the same people we were a mere seven or eight years ago, literally or figuratively.  The cities we live in change; the landscape, the people, our friends, our jobs, our plans, our goals, our desires.

 

In fact, change is the only consistent.  As I complicate my life (to eventually simplify it) I realize more and more that this aphorism rings true.  As I see the very ground in my garden go from unfertilized lawn, to newly dug soil, to composted mulch full of worms and life I realize that I did not start this cycle of evolution in my garden; that this cycle never had a beginning nor will it have an end.  I watch the plants come up excited in anticipation just as I was last spring and will be in the springs to come.

 

Perhaps adding to my newfound goal of complicating my life, I must realize that I have a choice: to act with or react to the nature of life and the living.  As a gardener and now a keeper of bees, I try to be a steward but I am really an audience member to the grand change this is life.  But life, our lives, is short with no intermission, no stage, no actors, and no scenery.  I started out a suburban gardener, but I slowly realize that the garden has always been there and that I am only reacting to it.