A warm, winter welcome to you, Dear Reader.
Thank you for spending a bit of your time with me today, and reading the inaugural issue of my newsletter!
Lately, I have been meditating on the metaphor of the winter solstice — a spark of new light, growing into the darkness — and it occurs to me that it applies not only to the moment in the solar year when the days begin to grow longer again, but also to our current period in history.
So many people in the world today are suffering from an overwhelming sense of anxiety. Climate grief, wars, and political strife seem to greet us at every turn. These are indeed dark times, as times go in human history. And yet, there are sparks of light to be found in this darkness — sparks that might be kindled for a brighter future, if only we could keep them in view, and in mind. That is my intention for this newsletter: to kindle a bit light by sharing...
Every evening, my family gathers around a warmly flickering, beeswax candle, to take turns reading aloud from a story. Typically, we choose a novel with delicious language, which invites us to view the world in an entirely new way. The rules: dialogue must be performed with character voices, and anything printed in verse must be sung (choose any melody).
We recently finished rereading an old favorite: The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett. (If you have never had the pleasure, I recommend the edition illustrated by Inga Moore.) The delight in this read-aloud is the contrast between between proper, upper-class British English, and the broad Yorkshire dialect spoken by working families of the moor. But the real reason we read it again and again is for its uplifting message of empowerment and hope.
The story of The Secret Garden focuses on the power of Nature to soothe and to heal. Dickon, the young brother of a chambermaid, drifts through the story like a fairy-child. He demonstrates how to observe and nurture the other-than-human beings of the moor. With him, we learn to listen intently, to move slowly, and speak softly, so as not to "flight" the wild creatures. We learn to notice and revel in Nature's subtle messages of hope: the slight swelling on the twig of a dormant shrub; the tiny sliver of palest green pushing out of the soil; the quiet bleating of a newborn lamb, hidden somewhere just out of sight. And alongside the children of the tale, we learn to work "good magic," that is, the art of focusing our full attention on the small acts that each of us can perform to help and heal what is suffering around us. We find our own hope and joy in the process.
Here in the Coast Range Mountains of California, the winter rains have finally arrived, and the year's crop of citrus is starting to ripen. As I sat by my window last week, savoring the remains of last year's orange marmalade, I began to feel a bit guilty. We have always tried to treat our fruit trees well. We use organic methods, though we are not organic-certified, and the only amendments we ever bring in are compost, blood meal, bone meal, potash, and a little bit of Azomite. We are generally prompt about our quarterly applications, since the trees do seem to suffer without them, but this year, life got in the way. We did spread an extra-thick (6 inch deep) layer of "forest floor," when the tree-pruning people delivered a free truck-load of chipped oak. But then, we neglected our trees for a full nine months.
When I went outside after the first big rain, I expected to find a grove of stressed, discolored citrus trees begging to be fertilized. I anticipated the backache that always follows raking aside the mulch to apply the amendments, and then raking it all back over the top, to keep in the moisture, and keep down the weeds. What I found instead was nothing short of a miracle.
The trees were the healthiest, most vibrant green that I had ever seen them. They were covered with ripening fruit. And mushrooms were popping up all over the place. When I dug into the soil to see what was up, instead of the usual two inches of mulch over hard-packed soil, I found a gradual transition layer of wood chips to humus to soil, crawling with critters, and laced with beautiful white threads of mycelium (the main part of the ground-dwelling fungi, of which mushrooms are simply a kind of "fruit" — a delectable edible that helps the fungus spread its babies into the wider world). I had never seen this in my yard before, and so naturally, I wondered: Why, suddenly?
I am finding some answers in Jeff Lowenfels & Wayne Lewis' fascinating book, Teaming with Microbes. Apparently, there are two forms of nitrogen that plants can use as food, and plants have strong preferences about them. Annuals, vegetables, and grasses tend to prefer their nitrogen in the form of nitrate, which is common in bags of soil amendment, and in alkaline soils dominated by bacteria who "fix" the nitrogen in that form. Perennials, shrubs, and trees (like my citrus) prefer theirs in the form of ammonium, which is common in acidic soils dominated by fungi — like the the soils of old-growth forests. As the saying goes, "Nobody ever fertilized an old-growth forest," and there is a very good reason for it.
While providing our trees with regular, emergency rations of horticultural "fast-food," the nitrogen and phosphate we had been providing with our amendments will also have inhibited our trees' ability to connect with and benefit from the mycorrhizal fungi in the soil — connections which the trees really needed to thrive. And without tree roots feeding sugars to the fungi, the fungi will have suffered as well. So, it turns out our "negligence" after laying down that forest floor was exactly what Mother Nature would have prescribed. It allowed our trees the space and time to reach out and build those mycorrhizal relationships.
I am less concerned now about the trees, and more concerned about what the mycorrhizae need to be happy. I suppose the real answer is to just stop meddling. Who knew you could fall in love with fungi, or the creepy-crawly critters of a little forest floor? Bring on the oranges, lemons, and limes. I'm ready to jam!
I have just received notice that a review of World Druidry is due to be published in the spring 2024 edition of the Journal for the Study of Religion, Nature, and Culture. This will be its second review in a peer-reviewed journal since the book was released in 2021. It is also being considered for inclusion in the curriculum for the Ancient Order of Druids in America.
This is all very exciting news for me as a self-published author. It means that the assertions about self-publishing posing an insurmountable barrier to having an academic work taken seriously were simply untrue. As it turns out, a solid piece of scholarship — even if self-published — can garner academic reviews, earn spots on university library shelves, and be adopted as required reading for curricula. The trick is to carefully consider three key questions, before deciding on the content and tone of the book:
After answering these questions, I approached four carefully selected influencers, with letters that spelled out why each of them, as a unique individual, would really want to read my book. All of them wrote back to say: "Well, I really don't have time to do this. I really shouldn't, but please send a copy. I'll write you a blurb." Those four blurbs, and the big academic names attached to them, persuaded journal editors to assign reviews, and Druid leaders to list the book as essential reading for those new to Druidry. And then, it simply snowballed.
My current work-in-progress is a work of fiction rather than scholarship, but even so, I am pondering the same set of questions as I write. I have not yet decided whether I will pursue traditional publishing or publish the next one myself, but I expect that knowing the answers to those three questions will help me either way.
That said, I should get back to my writing. When I last left my characters, they were deciphering glyphs on a hand-painted map, while being tracked by a strange kind of dragon-bird thing. (I really hope they're still okay!)
Sometime during the next twelve weeks, I encourage you to laugh with friends at a read-aloud, or go outside and meet a mushroom. Breathe some fresh air. Look at something far away. Soak up some sunshine. Run with the wind.
If you have questions, comments, or wisdom to share related to what I've written here, please drop me a line. I'd love to hear from you!
May you enjoy a truly magical holiday season. See you at the Vernal Equinox!
Yours, under the rain-drenched citrus trees,
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