Field Notes Archive - November 2024
What Belongs
Invasive
Surgery, questions, thoughts, species.
The word has an inherent repellency, invoking that which must be endured through gritted teeth, or expunged entirely.
The Spotted Lanternfly first landed at Foggy Blossom last fall. This was nearly a decade after they first arrived on the eastern side of our state, thought to be accidental stowaways on a shipment of stone from Asia. We noticed just 2 or 3 harbingers of horror in 2023, and this year the acreage has become infested with the infamous pest.
Their favorite plant to perch on, the “devilish” Tree of Heaven, is also an invasive and pervasive presence here, making for a perfectly detestable pair.
Our expectation of dread over the arrival of these crimson-bodied creatures, however, has become more complicated through ongoing conversations.
I wonder, can the world have its infinitely interconnected cake, and eat it too?
Every non-native gets siloed as either beneficial or invasive, depending on what they may offer, or inflict upon, their new environment.
Apples, peaches, peanuts, corn, potatoes, peppers, spinach, carrots, oranges, shiitake mushrooms, honeybees, horses, and so many more live in the hero realm, rather than the villainous, invasive sphere. The sum of both, however, comprise the proverbial cake - a mix of every ingredient that has landed here from afar. It is both sweet, and frustratingly sour.
I am drawn to those who make beautiful things from the villains, transforming the bitter burden. The most exquisite weavings can be crafted from invasive plants and weeds. We’ve drank a delicious Japanese Knotweed elixir at a fancy restaurant, and have witnessed dozens of birds choose nefarious, non-native vines and trees as their preferred nesting site over the years. One artist uses invasive Burmese Python skins in place of leather, while another is “making peace” with the Lanternfly.
When it comes to that notorious polka-dotted offender, the messages are loud & clear:
See it? Report it.
See it? Stomp it.
Stop, scrape, squash.
Join the battle, beat the bug.
But despite how many thousands of violently flattened red bodies we’ve seen throughout the region, or how much tape has been wrapped around trees as a barrier (which wreaks much collateral damage), or how many people have tried to blowtorch them away (seriously), the invasion has not stopped.
More recent news hints that the level of inaugural panic was perhaps unwarranted, but it’s still too soon to tell what their impact will be, both here and everywhere they’ve reached.
Whatever their legacy, they’ve become an undeniable facet in a beautifully messy web that’s bursting with beings that - for better or for worse - are not where they belong.
Showcase of some of our abundant invasives
I was born in New York, about 260 miles northeast of here, while Dan was born less than 20 miles away. Our bodies have moved across thousands of miles on this planet, and the Lanternfly was already on its way to this acreage before we were.
Hardly anything stays put exactly where it first began.
Since arriving here, our approach to this land’s management has been a nuanced dance through ever-changing, intentional efforts, which are often repelled by greater forces. We have never sprayed chemicals, and do not intend to, despite having a plethora of plants that many would advise us to dose. We also do not irrigate, or take any action to remove pests, trusting that opposing forces will arrive in due time (many of which are woefully overdue).
The aim is to tend with hands that are both on, and lightly held back.
One of our first priorities, however, was to have 20 dead ash trees removed alongside our house, their dangerously teetering skeletons the victims of the invasive Emerald Ash Borer. And one of our longest efforts has been to cultivate a Chestnut grove, despite the blight that has been working against them for over a hundred years.
Our narrative has been shaped and inspired by the entire non-native spectrum, with invasives doing much of the informing.
The hope is that we’ll have been more of a heroic presence than a villainous one at the end of our days here, but can there ever be such a black and white line drawn between the two, when the possibility of both beauty and beast lives in all?
Lanternfly party on Willow
Originally published on November 3, 2024
Adjusting
Daylight has drastically dwindled since we shifted time backwards, but when present, the quality seems more luminescent than before.
Increasingly bare branches, plus the altitude shedding sun, allow for this riddling radiance to shine through, yielding stretchy shadows and spotlights that pull focus.
The desire to soak up every lit minute is strong, especially before the inevitable darkness that lands by 6 pm. Adaptation begins then, through an adjustment of vision.
For 43 more days, daylight will continue to diminish. Like the last, flickering gasps of a candle losing its once glimmering presence, the gleam of another year will be flattened to its lowest runtime on December 21st, the Winter Solstice.
Beyond that, 2024 will have a mere 10 days left before it’s fully extinguished. It will be laid to rest beside a string of onerous years, another ghost.
Life will go on.
Dan in the studio working on a new design
As our eyes adjust to the darkness at day’s end, the lens inevitably turns inward, allowing for an audit of how we’ve spent our time since January. The days have been full, requiring an abundance of focus and energy, which leaves residual exhaustion.
Still, there is a want to continue pushing, growing, and challenging ourselves, which is in direct opposition to other forces that are pulling us towards rest.
Before Foggy Blossom became a true business with tangible offerings, we were merely a name with photos on Instagram, and an occasional newsletter or blog post. In the beginning I attempted to make a shape for our brand, which was amorphous at best, and every winter we’d step away from the internet entirely.
Digital hibernation was what we called those months of being free from appearing in online spaces, and was something we looked forward to. It was an easy retreat.
Last Fig harvest in a beautiful basket, made and gifted to us by Jes Clark
Withdrawing was a breeze back then because there was no narrative that would be left hanging. It would take years of forward momentum through experiments, failures, and moves in the real world before there would be any semblance of an actual story.
Every wayward chapter has built a now evident web, albeit one whose structure is still solidifying in all four corners, and all four seasons. The instinct to continue is strong.
Dehydrating the Figs for future enjoyment
As 2024 retreats, we’re no longer looking ahead in order to discern a direction, nor are we turning towards the perceived solace of a wintry withdrawal. Instead, we’re adjusting to the darkness of every day behind us, astonished by what we were able to do, especially when the first thought of it all was one of assured impossibility.
Before the light began to shift so drastically this week, it was dosed with a steady certainty for months. From that vantage point, depth was in much shallower relief. The perspective now, however, offers increasingly clear historical data in hindsight.
We can forecast more wisely from here, forgoing the fantasy of projecting into an unknown, foggy future.
What lies ahead will forever be unclear, but with the wisdom of all we’ve realized firmly in tow, the path will undoubtedly unfold on more fixed foundations.
May our eyes, and our feet, adjust accordingly.
Originally published on November 10, 2024
On the Loss of a Beloved
a tribute to June Bug
The monumental winds of grief swept through last week, forever altering the landscape of our little family.
Dan and I were never merely a couple.
His June Bug and my Baron fell in love before we did when our paths converged at Puppy Kindergarten in 2010. Despite their magnetism, and our burgeoning connection, there were circumstances in our respective personal lives that required altering, and it would take 6 months after first meeting to finally become a foursome.
We were all so young.
Throughout the past 14+ years there have been many highs and lows, but the love that bound us in the beginning only grew more solid and sustaining over time. We owe June and Baron everything for this immensely beautiful life, which we’ve built upon their firm and unconditionally loving foundation.
Unfortunately, no one is immune to irreversible heartbreak, especially not those who share their lives with dogs.
A world without them felt inconceivable, but as they gradually began to outpace us in age, we knew that day would come. When it arrived this past week, the true scope and depth of our love for them became perceptible, and wholly engulfing in its enormity.
June left this world on the most beautiful November afternoon. She was held by the three of us in the comfort of home, finally freed from the painful burden her body had become. We wished for her explosive and joyous energy to be restored to her then, somehow, wherever she had gone on to, and we hope that those happier memories of her as young and vivacious are the ones that ultimately shine brightest in our minds.
Today, we are heartbroken.
We will always miss our girl who bravely went first, but we will be forever thankful for the opportunity to love, and be loved, so deeply, despite this grief. All the three of us can do now is gather the love we can no longer offer her, and express it where we can.
There is so, so much to give.
In Loving Memory
June Bug Brockett
June 2010 - November 2024
Originally published on November 17, 2024
Anchoring
in times of challenge/change
Fog in the Willow field
Our week of the 11th began with a loss, and ended with a car accident.
In an intersection I’d traversed without issue too many times to count, someone ran a red light and collided with me, spinning my vehicle around nearly 180 degrees. I was the only one in our car, thankfully, as the passenger side received the impact. My immediate anger at the other driver’s carelessness was quickly eclipsed by gratitude for both of our abilities to walk away unscathed. It could have been so much worse.
As I left behind the crumpled car, and the rest of that morning’s errands, I took with me all that I had the wherewithal to grab: a 5 lb bag of just bought birdseed, 2 sandwiches procured from a bakery 6 minutes before impact, and Baron’s retractable leash that we use on trail walks. Necessities.
In a month that was set to be our quietest of the year, this bookending has left us a bit wobbly, and bewildered.
By design, this past week has been considerably quieter, and almost entirely home bound.
Our aim has been to gracefully embrace and acclimate to this new reality where only one of our dogs, and one of our vehicles, is left. The pursuit of reliable anchors throughout the day has kept us from drifting, and there’s no better arena for healing than this acreage we call home.
In the mornings, when the world has felt most empty and uncertain, Dan turns to weaving. Finished forms appear by late afternoon, offering grandiose organizations of what was once wild and alive into something wonderful. The studio has its spark back.
I’ve found solace in the kitchen, where Baron, my emotionally supportive sous chef since I was 25, is content to lay by my side. Hours pass there as I’ve cooked, baked, and most notably transformed piles of this year’s garlic harvest from full, papery heads to peeled, sliced, and dehydrated powder - a meditative process that also transmutes the nervousness inside of me into something more shelf stable.
If we don’t keep the energy moving, it has a tendency to eat us up.
Snakeskin found in the woods
In the evenings, before we turn on the TV, we read to each other – a poem from a collection of Mary Oliver’s work, and a chapter from The Smithsonian's History of America in 101 Objects. The latter I bought after we spent hours upon hours driving to teaching engagements this past year, without enough conversation. In dry times, I’d dispel historical facts and stories from my phone, which we found a superior form of entertainment to most of our usual outlets, so we sought more of it in our every day.
Our reading ritual reminds us that poetry is always there to strike at our hearts from a new angle, and that there is always something new to learn.
There is much levity to be found from both.
Baron in the nursery, with June’s tree behind him
In a month whose holiday reminds us give thanks, we have gotten quite a head start.
For familial and friendly connections that offer ample support and affection in challenging times, I am grateful. For the reminder to always be as careful and alert as possible, I am grateful. For memories that make us smile, I am grateful. For the beauty of snow falling on the Japanese Maple atop June’s grave, I am grateful.
For this small corner of the internet, where I can take all the pieces currently on our plate and put them back together in some sort of cohesive sentiment, I am grateful.
For you, being here with us, I am grateful.
