Category Archives: Nature and Gardens

NoPoMonth, but…

April is National Poetry Month; but this year, I am in hibernation mode.

I’m not going to readings or writing a poem a day for 30 days, not posting much of my or other people’s poems or poetry books on social media, and not doing much poetry writing or any submitting. What’s gotten into me? Some kind of malaise? Or just a sense of being overwhelmed by, you know, life and aging and perhaps too much reflection. Plus there’s garden catch-up to tend to, since I was away for the early part of the season opener. And we’ve had a heat wave with a dry spell and lots of wind, so I’ve had to pace myself with the heavy stuff. Thankfully, Best Beloved can pitch in with much of that. Yet I am reading poetry, and if that ever stops I’ll know I’m in trouble.

So–back from traveling westward-ho. While in Fort Collins, Colorado, some dear friends introduced me to Wolverine Publick House, Cafe, and Bookshop, where there’s a lovely poetry book room in which I found my colleague Ian Haight’s book, Spring Mountain: The Complete Poems of Nansŏrhŏn. Also lots of other fabulous poetry that I had to restrain myself from purchasing, lest I overload my carry-on luggage weight. I read many of the Nansŏrhŏn translations in earlier versions that Ian emailed to me, and it is wonderful to find the book in print (from White Pine).

While in Boulder, CO, another friend suggested Devon Price’s book Unmasking Autism, which has given me much room for reflection. For many years, I helped students write college-level papers and realized that a number of these young people had varying aspects of “autism spectrum disorder”…that I, as a writing tutor/teacher, was wholly untrained to deal with. To help them, I made it up as I went along, student by student. It turns out that most of what we know about supporting autistic people to navigate contemporary social structures has been pieced together by people making it up as they went along. It helped me that one of my dearest friends has a now-adult child with autism–I’ve known him since before his birth, and I think of him as an intriguing person who has much to offer to a society that essentially ignores or shuns people like him. He needs more support services than the students I saw at the university, but he is quite his own person, and always has been. It saddens me that people like him are not more celebrated (not merely tolerated) in our society. We would all be much richer for the experience. Devon Price makes an excellent case for how acceptance of neurodiverse people can enrich the world; however, that would mean dismantling much of the capitalist, work-ethic, individualistic social systems we have, not to mention changing how the US health insurance and health care industries operate. So–not too likely any time soon. If ever. But I believe we need more social space for people whose “peculiarities” are not harming others, even if they seem a bit “weird.”

That would be good for me, for one. Speaking as a perpetual outlier and occasionally rogue thinker, it’d be nice to feel my ideas and modes of thinking aren’t weird, just different; they can be acceptable in their own way. I do not fall under the category of adult autistic but, like most of us, I have some traits that I share with the people Price writes about. Recognizing that we share traits is a way to get to know people who seem “unlike us.” And to feel less afraid of, or uncomfortable with, having them in our lives.

~

Finally, I want to shout out to Bob Mee, whose blog I read (thanks to Dave Bonta’s Poetry Blog Digest.) Mee’s recent post questioning whether the brain, as we age, changes the way we write poetry really got me thinking. I’m getting longer in the tooth myself and, as I’ve been writing poems since I was 20, his post got me curious about my own changes in style, approach, form, content, topic, influence over the years. I will probably be mulling over this idea for some time, and it may even get me to dredge up some really old poems to see whether how I write poetry has changed. Mee says: “when I sit to write the process is different. My brain is still capable of energetic concentration but I look at some of the ‘old’ poems from twenty years ago and know I cannot write like that any more.” Hmm. I’m not sure this is as true for me as it is for him, but I think it is worth examining.

Happy places

The past few days, I have been in one of my happy places: the Sandia Mountains of New Mexico, where one of my Dear Ones lives. Cibola National Forest offers alpine grasslands and mostly-pine forests (juniper, pinyon, ponderosa, Douglas fir, white firs, aspen, oaks) and trails ranging from easy walks to steep climbs. Also horse trails. I stuck with the easier walks, but after just a couple days I adjusted to the altitude. Spring is just beginning up in the mountains, but lower down–at 5,500 feet–there were flowering trees and early “ephemerals” and even, in downtown Albuquerque, hollyhocks starting to bloom.

Ft. Union

This trip, we flew in to Denver to see as many Colorado friends as we could fit into 4 days (such fun!), drove I25 south alongside the Rockies, and entered NM through the high grasslands, where we saw pronghorn antelopes and wagon-wheel ruts, still evident from the days when the Santa Fe trail led travelers to bustling Fort Union. Now the place is quite empty; it’s even a Dark Skies park, but we were there in the daylight hours. I spied a nesting pair of western meadowlarks and enjoyed listening to their songs. The mountains make their own weather, and the clouds were constantly shifting and remarkable to behold as we drove down the highway. We were lucky to have timed our departure so as to miss most of the truly awful Denver-area traffic. Indeed, our drive southward on Easter Saturday was almost zen-like in its big-sky peacefulness. It helped that we had decided not to listen to the news media…

What is it about this high, dry region that has appealed to me from the first time I visited Abiquiu at age ten? As a child, it seemed the place possessed a soulful magic. I was fascinated by the mesas, hogans, adobe dwellings, twisting rivers, desert fauna. But as an adult, I’m a gardener–this is not an easy place to garden. The soft, rainy days of spring and autumn, the summer downpours I grew up with…these are not New Mexican phenomena. If I were to move to the Southwest, I’m sure I’d miss fog and mist and even drizzle, at least sometimes. I’d miss the deep, fertile soil I’ve enriched for 25 years in my truck patch (which I am currently sowing, slightly late, with spinach, lettuce, carrots, etc). Yet even though I have spent the past two days prepping and catching up on my garden, making bouquets of narcissus and hyacinth, and hearing the familiar birds of home, I recognize that this happy place is not my only happy place.

I thought recently of a letter I read written by, of all people, Martha Washington (to her friend Mercy Otis Warren), in which she says, “the greater part of our happiness or misery depends upon our dispositions, and not upon our circumstances. We carry the seeds of the one or the other about with us, in our minds, wherever we go.” She was leaving her Virginia plantation, where her grandchildren were, to go to the Capitol with her newly-elected husband.1

I don’t know that I necessarily have a cheerful disposition, but I appreciate her metaphor of the seeds we carry with us whatever our circumstances. It’s spring in eastern Pennsylvania, and there is much here to appreciate.

~

  1. Found in American Historical Curiosities, John Hay Smith, 1860 https://www.gutenberg.org/files/7912/7912-h/7912-h.htm

Sowing and reaping

Last week of March, and I suppose it is time for my customary “prepping the garden and sowing greens post.” One thing I like about gardening is that there’s constant change; each year differs somewhat from previous ones, in terms of weather/climate and in terms of my situation/plans. This year, not much seed-starting indoors. Instead, I’ll sow direct and purchase seedlings locally. So what I grow in the vegetable patch will depend on what looks good at the farmer’s market or the nurseries. It will be a surprise.

The garden does need some prep work, however, and greens need to be sown early. Today I planted spinach, lettuces, purple kale, carrots, coriander. And I set up a raised bed, which I finally moved from its previous spot, for herbs. I listened for returning migrant birds, noticed little flying insects, and found grubs, worms, and numerous arthropods (millipedes, garden centipedes, sowbugs). The usual suspects! Mild days in early spring are salubrious to body and soul.

~

The reaping to which I refer in the title of this post is metaphorical, as spring isn’t a big time for bringing in the sheaves, though in a few weeks the winter wheat will be ripe. I feel I have reaped some joy from a recent poetry reading I gave at the library of my former employer, DeSales University, and how often do we feel that way? It’s a gift! Dr. Steve Myers invited me to read with three of the alums of the MFA program DSU now offers, and last night I found myself back in the library where my office used to be (once I finally escaped from the basement where I’d been located for 17 years). The audience was a mix of undergraduate and graduate students and friends who were kind enough to show up on a Wednesday night. It’s wonderful to feel appreciated now and then. 🙂

I haven’t been giving many readings lately or even attending open mics. Evenings and nights are not my best time, but the college is very nearby and I really was pleased to be able to participate…Best Beloved drove me there and back, so everything was manageable. I read some quite old poems and some quite new ones, and a few in-between from my books. And I sold a few books! Always a thrill. I am dwelling in gratitude today.

One of the best things at the event was seeing a former student who was one of my writing tutors and who now works at DeSales. She’s also lately enrolled in the MFA program. What a joy to catch up with a person I met as a bright 18-year-old with a natural talent for writing, who’s pursuing creative writing now–as a mother of two, and nearing 40–not so different from my own circuitous path in poetry. Such are the rewards of teaching…occasionally, I do miss it.

Lots of rain in the forecast for next week. Things will green up, and maybe those seeds will sprout.

Snowdrops

My trip to Baltimore for the AWP Conference Book Fair didn’t happen; my immune system decided otherwise, with a resurgence of a nasty respiratory virus and a flare of fibromyalgia. I guess I can look on the positive side and say I saved a lot of money, right? Plus I can purchase most of those poetry collections online, I suppose. Still, there really is nothing like browsing through thousands of luscious books for something that grabs me, that takes the top of my head off, to paraphrase Ms. Dickinson. Through social media platforms, I can see colleagues-in-literature making connections and meeting one another face-to-face, which is what conferences are for. Another year, maybe.

And after days of necessary spring rain, drizzle, and fog, the long-awaited thaw eradicated most of our snow. Crocuses bloomed, and bees came out to visit the snowdrops.

I felt much better today and was able to take a walk in the mild sun, listening to robins, mourning doves, song sparrows, woodpeckers, redwing blackbirds, bluebirds, house finches, Carolina chickadees, American crows, Canada geese, mockingbirds, cardinals, bluejays, masses of starlings…I watched the high-flown antics of redtail hawks and turkey vultures.

In other regions of the world today, people listen and watch for fighter jets, torpedoes, drones. There but for fortune may go you or I (Phil Ochs). Meanwhile I remain grateful for feeling slightly better as the days lengthen into spring. It’s March–we could still get snow! But the spring peepers sense the warmer temperature and trilled a bit last evening while the great horned owl was hooting. Here’s a poem I wrote in 2012 about DST.

~

Daylight Savings Time

In the 21st century it seems
a bootless custom, a cultural exercise,
useless gill of the railroad era.
Yet as I sit on my porch
long past the 6 o’clock hour,
dinner already consumed, dishes cleaned,
feeling the breeze of mild late winter
raise the hairs on my bare arms,
I am glad for the extra hour
among long shadows as my dog
chases a woodchuck, as the wood-
pecker pounds in metrical progressions:
trochee, trochee, spondee.
The path the dog follows 
is greener than it was yesterday,
coltsfoot blooming and the scent
of winter-blooming hazel in the air, 
available to my senses because
the day’s now one hour further skewed
toward spring, a brief and welcome turn 
in the nature of things, 
however imposed and arbitrary.
~
~~~

A week before National Poetry Month, I’ll be reading at this event in Center Valley PA.

Comparisons

I keep a day-by-day garden journal, ten years at a time (the one I use is here, from Lee Valley). This record often proves useful and is an interesting way to compare how the seasons unfurl from year to year. After 30 years of record-keeping, for example, I can see that the summers here are hotter and drier than they used to be, and that winters are far less consistent. I note which plants thrive and which fail, and observe when invasive species arrive and when certain plants or animals seem to experience a die-off–or a flourishing. As I used to tell my students in composition and rhetoric classes, basic comparisons are a toe-in-the-water way to begin learning how to do full-fledged analysis. In what ways are things alike? In what ways do they differ?

Let’s look at February, surely my least-favorite month. In 1997, the month was mild, even warm; snowdrops bloomed on the 21st (in 1996, the bloom was the 23rd, in 2000, the 24th). Fast-forward: in 2023, they blossomed on February 13th, in 2024 on February 8th. Similarly for the bloom times of iris reticulata and witchhazel. Last year, however–2025–we had arctic air pushing through due to warming at the poles and other effects. The snowdrops opened late, on February 25th. This year, we’ve had a colder-than-average midwinter. Today, after yet another snowstorm, there’s an additional 5″ of snow cover over existing snow. I doubt I’ll see snowdrops for another week or so. But you never know. Galanthus are resourceful, having originated possibly in the Pyrenees or even Thracia, and they have adapted to many regions quite happily. They can even bloom under a light snow cover.

Comparing seasons from year to year has helped me to plan my garden, but it’s always a bit of a crap shoot. Earth’s varying meteorological systems mean that humans endeavoring to grow crops or plan for weather events will often be surprised. Nature is unpredictable, no matter how many analyses we project. The recent snowstorm here was, if not wildly inaccurately predicted, at least not following the most expected computer models. Which is as it should be. Artificial intelligence and algorithms are far from foolproof.

~~

What will the weather be like on March 7th? I’m planning to attend the book fair day at AWP in Baltimore that day, but always “weather permitting.” Last year in Los Angeles, I liked having the option of just attending one day of the event–sans panels and such, which overload my introvert personality. But Baltimore is a 3-hour drive from here, so weather must permit! The past five years, March 6-8 has been mild and reasonably fair; so says my garden journal, so maybe I will get there. If so, I’ll return bearing poetry collections…

Meantime, my mother will turn 93 this week. I wish celebration were in order, but she seems to be retreating into a zoning world of her own, less familiar to us and less aware of her surroundings. Once again, comparisons: who she was for most of my life and who she is (or is not) now. She’s weathered much in her lifetime. The analysis: I don’t love her any less.

Tracks

This was no fox.

The other day, we noticed a coyote limping down the meadow. We hear them now and then, at night, but we seldom see them; and this one was out at noontime. A bit unusual. I felt concerned about it as it moved off into the undergrowth at the field’s edge.

Out of curiosity, I guess, the next day I traced its tracks from the treeline between our property and the next one, down through our meadow, into the woods beyond our lot. Mind you, I am not an animal tracker. Furthermore, our snow is absolutely criss-crossed by tracks: deer, rabbits, humans, birds, squirrels, cats, and the occasional owl-hit. It took a little looking to determine which tracks had been left by the coyote, but I had seen it taking the deer path through the dead weeds, so I started there. It wasn’t really too difficult to determine, despite paw prints from all those other critters. The prints resemble dogs’ tracks; and there aren’t spots, like those you see with a fox, where the animal suddenly prinks, leaps, or lunges its nose and forepaws into the snow while chasing field voles. Also? The prints were too big to be a red fox.

An aside–I recently read Catherine Raven’s memoir-ish book Fox and I, which I liked very much and from which I learned a more than a few fox-related pieces of information. And some descriptions of winter in Montana, which is too much winter for me, especially after this latest snowfall in Pennsylvania. But anyway—

The average cat weighs 10-12 pounds, the average red fox 30-ish pounds, and eastern coyotes in our region can be 45-55 pounds. This one was, I think, a male because it left quite heavy tracks, though possibly it was putting more weight on three legs because the front right paw was injured badly enough it never set that paw down. I recall once when our family dog got caught in a neighbor’s “soft-paw” fox trap. As soon as I got her loose, she ran for the house, and I noticed her prints in the snow–three heavy prints and a lighter one since she was favoring one foot. This coyote wasn’t using its leg at all. In a few places I could see a swash on the snow surface where the snow was deep enough that the coyote’s foot had skimmed it. The circuit led into the woods and I pressed no further.

That’s about the extent of my animal-tracking knowledge. It was, however, an interesting departure from my usual winter walk, and a nice day for walking. Everyone else in the county was out buying gasoline and groceries because a big storm was in the forecast for the weekend. Which did arrive (the storm, I mean. Well, also the weekend.).

I’ve been working on new poem drafts lately, after weeks of barely any new writing, focusing on revision instead. What do you bet that coyote, or its tracks, or at very least, the snow, will show up in at least one new draft?

~

FYI: Here’s another set of tracks commonly seen at my house in winter:

Tracks of a John Deere Model M (c. 1947)

Unsettling

We got some rain on Saturday, which we’ve needed, and dismal cold rainy January days are perfect for settling down with a book. I’m reading The Unsettling of America, Culture & Agriculture (1977) by poet, writer, farmer, educator, activist Wendell Berry, still working at 91–his book Sabbath Poems was published in 2024. I’m much more familiar with Berry’s poetry than his prose, though he’s written at least half a dozen novels and many books of nonfiction. This text, I’ve since learned, is one of his more famous–it’s been revised and re-issued six times. The copy I got from the library is the original version and features cover blurbs by Gary Snyder, Wallace Stegner, Edward Abbey, and Stewart Brand, among others; Publishers Weekly summed up the book as “a cool, reasoned, lucid and at times poetic explanation of what agribusiness and the mechanization of farming are doing to the American fabric.”

Which is a fairly good one-sentence précis, though Berry’s wording often strikes me as more passionate than “cool,” and agribusiness is only one aspect of his critique. I was in high school in the 1970s, and at the time it seemed average Americans were beginning to recognize that pollution and overpopulation could be problematic, that maybe we needed to eat more natural and wholesome foods, and that establishing an Earth Day might help people turn focus toward the planet. Simultaneously, we had Earl Butz as Agriculture Secretary, a man who ended many New Deal programs to help “small” farmers and who encouraged large (eventually, corporate) farms. Butz appears several times in this book, and no wonder; he and Berry debated the topic in public and in print, and their thinking was almost diametrically opposed concerning the philosophy behind agriculture. Berry’s book is a social and philosophical argument that is only somewhat dated and really quite prescient, though he might come off as mildly curmudgeonly to today’s readers. Or maybe not so prescient. He was simply paying attention.

The sections of the book that most resonate with me are those in which he writes of nurturing and relationships, and points out that good relationships involve responsible actions and collaborative, mutual care whether they are marital, family, or social relationships or relationships with the soil, the flora and fauna, the whole planet. He predicts a future in which people live in their houses and not with the land, or even within their communities, and where wilderness is “conserved” so that it can be exploited for entertainment and scenic views. People in the US, he says, don’t feel responsible for the land on which they live; they don’t understand its cycles, its weather patterns, its waterways; their property is merely property–a commodity for convenience and investment. I’d say that future is already upon us.

Thus, Berry has made me think more deeply about my relationship with “my” property. If you’ve read this blog for awhile, you may notice how often I consider weather, dirt, local animals, insects (especially invasive or non-native ones), plants, tree diseases, water–I’m no farmer, but I am a gardener and do feed myself at least partly from my own backyard. I take almost daily walks around the perimeter of our 6+ acres, poking around in the hedgerows, scanning the sky, looking down at walnuts and animal scat, watching for new buds or coloring leaves or bird nests or wildflowers. I worry over droughts and hailstorms and flooding. Climate change concerns me in very local and specific ways, not just in general.

One could say I’m at least trying to nurture the earth. I’ve made many mistakes along the way and done some damage that I’m learning how to rectify; I have also realized that I have to accept some changes, such as incursions by invasive species, because they are beyond my control. Through the almost 30 years we’ve lived on this land, I’ve tried to understand it better. After all, we built a house on it. The soil was hard-packed, acidic, overused from previous decades of corn-growing, full of stones, sumac, and asiatic rose bushes, a fallow field that hadn’t been planted or farmed in decades but didn’t necessarily need me to tend it. It wasn’t my family’s land, and I didn’t intend to end my days here; however, I figured if I was going to live on this spot, I had better do whatever tending and nurturing it might require.

Which is about the best I can do as far as a relationship with the land in which I dwell, and about the best any of us can do in any long-term relationship: try to understand it, get acquainted, do some research, make plenty of observations (maybe take notes), and nurture what seems to need special attention and care. The land has given me much more than I’ve ever given it. It’s offered shelter, beauty, an education, food, the companionship of animal life, cricket sounds, tree frog songs, firefly lights on long summer nights, open spaces for my children to play in, owl calls and fox kenning, the grace of leaping whitetails, dead-fall wood we can burn in winter, forest-bathing, hammock-swaying, inspiration for writing. The wonderful porch here, where I often sit to write in my journal, opens a view to the meadow out back. So many poems started on that porch, with that view…

That’s how the earth nurtures me. May I be somehow worthy of it.

photo by David Sloan 2020

Guascas

I don’t usually write about food, other than what I’ve been growing in my garden, although on my trip to eastern Turkey I tasted some dishes totally new to me (such as hangel, yogurt soup, and dondurma, all of which were delicious). And this past weekend, in New York City, I had a Colombian stew called ajiaco that requires an ingredient that grows in my garden. An herb that I have long considered a weed. Guascas.

While searching the internet for ajiaco recipes I learned that ajiaco calls for guascas, which apparently can be found in dried form in grocery stores that carry items common in South and Central American cuisine. It’s also used in Mexico’s sopa de guías and in some West African dishes. When I looked up guasca, I discovered that it is galinsoga parviflora–naturalized here in North America and found in my garden by the zillions. I pull these plants up constantly from April until October; there are still a few in leaf and bloom out there, despite three recent frosts.

Well then! I harvested some galinsoga and some cilantro that’s also been hanging in there through early November, and bought three varieties of potatoes at the farmer’s market (yellow, red, and white) and a garlic bulb and local onions, and got some of this summer’s sweet corn out of my freezer, and tried making ajiaco.

The act of preparing and cooking food can be nourishing in itself, when I am in the right mood. On a cool and overcast day, trees getting leafless, wind picking up…it was a good day to try a new recipe. The stew turned out well, though I will try a few more variations to tweak the flavor in future. But the thing that struck me as I was looking up various online recipes is that the food writers kept saying “guascas is difficult to find in markets and buying online may be best.”

Hm. How about checking your gardens? Chances are fairly good you’ll find quickweed or gallant soldier growing among the vegetables; it’s considered a “common weed” in U.S. gardens. Next year while I’m yanking the galinsoga out, I will set a little aside for cooking.

https://plantsam.com/galinsoga-parviflora/

Walking

Numerous so-called health and fitness articles continually pop up on my screen, and many of them not only tout the benefits of walking but claim to know how many minutes or miles of walking (or rate of speed and such) are necessary to ward off dementia, keep your heart healthy, your bones in shape, your muscles well-conditioned, your circulatory system moving, your lungs going, or to extend your life. Oh, and relieve stress. And while you are at it you can get a device for your wrist or an app on your cellphone to monitor your pace, steps, heartbeat, etc.

But not everyone can walk. Too many of us forget that, take it for granted–especially “content” developers online angling for clicks. And, while I do like walking, I don’t particularly relish being told how I should go about it. I agree that it would probably be good for me to walk at a brisk pace for an hour every day, and some days I am inclined to do just that. There are other days I want to hike up a hill, or take a pokey amble around my meadow, or wander through a nearby park, or climb Nemrut Dağ just as dawn breaks. Or curl up on the sofa and read a book. I appreciate routine, but not invariable routine.

Autumn happens to be a time of year I like a slow stroll or hike; save the brisk walks for cooler, lousier weather. Now that most of the leaves have fallen, I can spy bird nests and paper-wasp nests (there’s one of those in our tamarack tree; last year, there was one in the Japanese maple). Milkweed puffs are swirling in somewhat chilly air, red berries decorate shrubs and trees. Red-tailed hawks and black buzzards wheel overhead. No reason to churn through the scenery at a rapid pace.

A. R. Ammons wrote an essay titled “A Poem Is a Walk,” in which he describes the physical act of taking a stroll “with” a poem, rhythm, breathing, the stride; he says both a walk and a poem are useless–though you might want to read the essay before agreeing or disagreeing on the uselessness, since his essay is almost a phenomenological argument (and we have to decide what is meant by “useless”). [Note: The essay is paywalled behind University of Arizona’s site, and–oddly–the one legible free version I found is here, from the Università degli Studi di Milano! Well worth reading, though, and in English.]

I think better when I walk slowly and steadily, with pauses to look around. That’s when images come to mind, metaphors, descriptions, sensations, ideas. Sometimes, it is a kind of haiku-walking, generally undirected. I don’t plan to reflect on anything or come up with prompts for poems. And I don’t do it to improve my life expectancy.

I just like to walk. And maybe, a walk is a poem.

Adventure and ibises

At my daughter’s suggestion, we ended up in Mesopotamia: central to eastern Turkey, fertile crescent, Euphrates and Tigris, vaguely following the borders of Syria, Iran, and Armenia up toward the Caucasus to Kars. It was, indeed, quite an adventure. We were booked on a tour following a section of the storied Silk Road through Wild Frontiers, a British company, and spent 11 days in Turkey. It was informative, beautiful, marvelous–a fabulous way to spend over a week with someone I love who lives about 2,000 miles away from me. Our expert tour leader Timuçin Şahin (Tim) is a history enthusiast and sustainable-agriculture proponent who loves his native land and–despite its current repressive government–is not shy about noting its failings, complexities, and fraught past; he says a truthful narrative is the sanest way to accept the past and learn from it rather than repeat it. Though Türkiye doesn’t seem to be heading that way at the moment, and if anything, some of the processes that have led to Erdoğan’s consolidation of governmental power sound frighteningly familiar to this US citizen.

Which brings up another point about our trip: we were the only two Americans. The other ten tour participants were British, mostly pensioners. After a few days, when we felt comfortable with one another, one person admitted that “we were all a bit apprehensive about having Americans on the tour.” Apparently the perception is that more of us in the US support the current administration than is actually the case. So it was up to me and my daughter to correct some stereotypes and present as informed, kind, curious, reasonably well-educated world citizens. I hope we succeeded.

A larger-than-life bald ibis statue and yours truly at the bird sanctuary.

As I’ve no desire to chronologically report the entire trip, and honestly cannot do it justice, I am using my back-at-home time to reflect not on “highlights” (though there definitely were some) or inspiration–though there was that, too–but on some of the quieter surprises that enrich an experience like this one. For example, the Bald Iris enthusiast and savior we met in Birecik along the banks of the Euphrates. This man, whose name I didn’t write down, alas, has been operating a sanctuary for these birds for almost 40 years. The migratory kelaynak was once seen in huge flocks throughout Egypt and much of the Middle East and was considered sacred in some cultures. They went extinct in Egypt quite long ago and have been declining rapidly in the 20th century due to pesticides, climate change, environmental habitat destruction, sport hunting, etc. There are a few non-migrating colonies of Northern bald ibis in Morocco. Yes, it’s a funny-looking bird, but beautiful in its way. The ones we saw in Birecik are theoretically migratory but mostly reside in the colony, because whenever they are let out to migrate, they end up dead (found through tracking devices). The cheerful, enthusiastically hopeful ibis savior who photographs, tags, puts up nest boxes, and corrals the birds so they don’t fly off in winter is a veritable encyclopedia about these avians. He has put together a small museum, informational pamphlets, gift shop, and fund-raising platform in Birecik. There are decent human beings in the world who recognize the value of non-human creatures. This guy is an inspiration.

My readers may wonder whether I found poetry inspiration on this trip; the answer is, dunno yet. Probably, once I settle down and reflect, mull stuff over, consolidate my notes and my photos, and get over my intense jet lag. There was certainly no time for writing during the tour, as the itinerary was packed with cool things to learn, see, do, visit, hike up, float on (there were boat rides), and eat. I’d never been on a tour before. I liked this one, and because I had no knowledge of Turkey’s culture, language, economic situation, transportation options, etc, I was truly grateful for our tour guide’s expertise and enthusiasm.