The place, Labrador, must be beautiful, the North Atlantic a swelling gray flow and endless. I am thinking of that place and seeing it in my mind, but then I see my garden and the bright yellow mustard flower. the two images combine and then i see the yellow painted broken line in the ocean.Like a state highway. And everything is paved over with dark wet clouds, chilly, everything damp, especially the matches. It pours and pours and the chill is equal to the chilled produce section at Hannaford’s. Which sounds cheerful to me, but I am just going to sit here and develop gills so I may draw a breath easier.  there are wet spots on the ceiling above my bed and in Gabriels room, but it hasn’t stopped raining long enough to have someone look at it. I would like to have a nice new metal roof, and hear it thunder when it rains.

So I have lived close and right by the Atlantic Ocean before, but never as North as Labrador. Some of the weather we in Northeast Vermont are experiencing is from there, right today and now it is, anyway. It (the weather) came down from Labrador and settled in New Brunswick,  and something is drawing it in, and there you have it.

But by the ocean, these long hours and days of rain are not as dark. And here, in our lush rain forest everything is green, everything except the mammals and birds and human made things . Half of the horizon is one large forest and it is deep green, jade green, forest, (duh), green , olive green, silver green, blue green, emerald green, kelly green, and that does not reflect light as well. And while the ocean moves in a roll, or is choppy, or is flat and still , it is water meeting water, and somehow looks and feels righteous.

Here, among trees and bushes and grasses and mosses and vines, and flowers and berries, we have had enough. The woods seem indeed to want to march to Dunsinane.they are swelled with  water enough to pull up their roots and march right up.

We could be shifting climates, meaning that with the change that is happening, we are too far north to get all that heat the rest of North America will be getting. Heat rises and so as it meets the colder air that is moving because it is being displaced by warming trends, it condenses, it condenses for fucking days on end. The cooler Labradorian air presses down and rides the air trough and stalls. Welcome to Climate change.

I will tell you this, the berries were excellent this year, my potato plants look elegant, peasently, but elegant. The cabbages family, known as Brassicas are loving it. The snap dragons, as I, are growing gills. The beans are numerous but are not really growing up much, the sweet potatoes are also slow, the dill looks like something Martha Stewart would grow and photograph.(I think the gardening is actually done by others, right?).

The silver ocean, the salty wet rocks, and I remember when boats used rope, instead of poly twine,, and that rope was cold and bristly and would have weeds stuck to it, nice bits of brown green kelp, alive. And empty beaches to run my dogs on, because bathers and sun soakers were not there, but for a surfer or two bobbing along, or a surf caster, and that fresh smell of ocean oxygen.

Inland, there are flowers. And maybe Ents. Lamps turned on, warm food and 99% dry shelter (cept for them spots on the ceiling).  An old friend lost her Mom to that place our love goes, in the end. I read the obituary, it was touching because I knew her daughter, when we were all younger and had so many more steps to take. It was mentioned that the woman was an avid swimmer and taught it to others, and just swam. All this water is  auspicious,  for her soul. And ours too. Perhaps she is swimming to Labrador.


The Miasmas

Around the turn of the 20th century, there were no medical facts regarding what sort of disease,virus, or bacteria lurked in the bloodstreams of insects that spawned in swamps.  The weather itself, the climate, was thought to be the bearer of illness. It was known as the “miasmas”, a foul air that lingered in tropical tarns, an atmosphere created by heat, humidity, and rotting vegetation. Food spoils, the air is heavy, nothing dries out, the flowers droop with the constant beating of rain, a short walk with the dogs bring mosquitoes to ears eyes nose and neck. There is mildew and it’s coming for your things .

The miasmas, I think, has not been discounted by the discovery of microscopic entities. There is a “presence” in this sunless steam. The ground is full, she cannot hold water anymore, she has closed herself to hold on to any oxygen remaining. The teaming cities of microbes and bacteria that depend on oxygen are in a state of emergency. Minute rivers have flooded their banks, and small insects and worms are now refugees, seeking higher ground. It is just not me, or you, the ground itself is praying for some sun and a fresh breeze, for air. But the miasma sits like a cloud within a cloud, messing with your moods .

In the small town across the state highway, they are lining up for the Greensboro Funky Fourth, a small parade of wonderful folks, Bread and Puppet, a lawn chair contingent, barbecue, music, babies, dogs ,and summer people. Flags everywhere, New England and New Englanders full of the self satisfaction of being a wonderful inclusive part of americana, lawyers and loggers eating hotdogs together, but never really together, you know what I mean?

The sun breaks through, the clouds won’t give. There is a reason we love the matching of yellow and gray, it brings relief to the eyes, that go directly to the spirit. Dispelling the pollution of the miasma, I will wipe the surfaces with a diluted bleach solution, I will light the soy candle of coriander and rosemary, I will light an incense stick, and pick the wild daisies and think of myself as a missionary.