Up early this morning to get a jump start on things before the rest of the house woke up. I took the garbage out, noticing that the weather was clear and the stars huge and bright in the pre-dawn sky. I also heard some suspicious rustling in the shrubs behind the chicken coop, but it was too dark to see what made the sound. I have my suspicions.
On Samhain night, as is our family custom, we left out a plate of food to share with the Ancestors and Beloved Dead. (Unlike leaving something unharvested in the garden, I have yet to figure out an ecological benefit to this practice, but we do it anyway for the sake of tradition and in memory of those we have lost in our lives.) And around midnight, some shuffling and clinking and the occasional squeaky protest let us know that the "ancestors" had arrived in the guise of a family of raccoons.
When I was small, raccoons here were shyer. My dad, leaving for work very early in the dark winter mornings, would sometimes report that he had seen a few crossing the road, and on rare snowy days we might find some tracks. When I was a bit older, I would find the tracks in the mud near the beach, evidence that the raccoons were taking advantage of the all the food resources available in their environment by hunting for tidepool critters during evening low tides. But of late, they have become quite bold and there have even been some reports of them acting aggressively toward humans.
Raccoons are a good example of wildlife who have embraced humans with open arms, like crows, pigeons, Canada geese, rats, gulls, and in some cases coyotes and deer, and the humans have been unintentionally welcoming. In the suburban borderlands between the city and the wide open spaces, these critters thrive on manicured lawns, home-grown fruits and vegetables, unsecured garbage, pet food left out on porches, and sometimes the pets themselves. What's interesting to me is the attitude of humans toward these animals, and how it changes as they grow more adapted to the environments we have changed the most.
My own attitude toward raccoons has changed a lot. I still enjoy their presence, but I'm a lot less enthusiastic about them after they halved the population of chickens in our backyard croft. To be fair, we had not done an adequate job of providing the chickens with a maximum security facility, and the raccoons, true to their nature, were simply taking advantage of that. I am also now aware that raccoons carry a stunning array of diseases, some of which are transmissible to humans with potentially lethal effects, so I'm not too keen on the notion of a family of raccoons living (and pooping) in my yard.
Bald eagles still enjoy reverence and respect as wildlife here, although I have heard that in southeast Alaska the birds are so common that no one gives them another thought, and some tourists who want to see the eagles are told to go to the garbage dump to watch them scavenge. In the Salish Sea we are still happy to see the eagles around, because as recently as 30 years ago they were still quite rare here. As the local population has recovered and nesting pairs have moved in to urban greenbelts, they have become a much more common sight. I frequently hear them calling when I'm working in the garden, or see them flying over the house or perching in the taller trees nearby. Their population increase has, however, been detrimental to the local great blue heron population. Several heron rookeries have been attacked by bald eagles. As a great blue heron fan, I'm not happy about this, even while I am grateful that the eagle population is doing so well.
River otters are another example. It happens that around here, river otters use the salt water environment as long as there's a source of fresh water nearby. And it happens that in an area as rainsoaked as this, there is almost always a river, creek, storm drain, or some other source of fresh water nearby. Coincidentally, river otters really like riprap shorelines, which are a relatively easy and inexpensive way to address shoreline erosion, especially around marinas where riprap is also used to build breakwaters. So as humans have created more riprap shorelines, the river otters have moved in, and it seems they also enjoy hanging around on docks and the boats moored nearby, where they do completely unreasonable things like poop. A lot. All in the same place. Because for river otters, poop is like Facebook--a quick way for them to get updates from all the other otters in the area. If your boat is the spot they have chosen for one of these fecal information kiosks, that's no fun and in fact causes great frustration among the owners of such chosen vessels. I recently saw a news article about a dog who ate poison intended for river otters at a marina (note that the reporter's explanation of why the otters "mark their territory" in this article is completely wrong, but it was Fox News, after all).
It seems that the more successful another species is and the better it is able to adapt to the same environments we have changed to make ourselves comfortable, the less we tend to like it. Basically, the more they become like us, the more we start to feel like they don't belong close to us. Which is curious, really. If you look at how the human population has scattered over the planet and become successful in wildly divergent environments, is it really possible that we might feel threatened by animals who take advantage of the changes we've made? Why don't we just domesticate them into pets or working animals, like our ancestors did? Or is this contact with wildlife who aren't backing down triggering an old instinct forgotten as we have largely cut ourselves off from the natural world--the instinct that reminds us we're not at the top of the food chain after all?
Showing posts with label Samhain. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Samhain. Show all posts
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Science and Religion
Predictably, it is pouring rain this weekend. No fun for the trick-or-treaters, and it means I can't get out into the garden to finish putting it to bed for the season.
The Pacific Northwest maritime climate is usually mild enough that winter gardening is worth doing. (This year the predictions say that may not be the case, but in general, cold-hardy vegetables do well here year-round.) I, however, follow the old Celtic tradition and stop my harvesting at Samhain, leaving the garden to rest until Yule. Celtic folklore variously says that food left in the fields after Samhain is for the Faeries/fair folk/Old Ones, or that malevolent spirits will spoil the food so there's no point in trying to eat anything harvested after that. But from a practical standpoint, leaving something behind in the fields to decompose through the winter is pretty good agricultural practice, since the composting vegetation will nourish the soil. Samhain is a time to listen for messages from our ancestors and those who have gone before. Sometimes, those messages are embedded in the cultural traditions handed down to us.
Consider a pre-scientific world in which people live or die by the annual harvest and pass along successful growing strategies by oral tradition. If farmer Angus picks his fields clean before Samhain, his crops might not do so well next season. Farmer Iain, on the other hand, leaves some of his plants in the ground, maybe even with a little fruit still on them, and plows it all under in the early spring as he prepares to plant. He gets a bumper crop. The obvious explanation is that Farmer Iain found favor with the Fairies by leaving them ample food at years' end the previous year, while stingy farmer Angus was cursed for his miserliness! Now, we can justify this superstitious folk practice with a scientific understanding of how soil amendments improve crop yields. I would offer that many "superstitious folk practices" have similar origins and purposes. Just because our ancestors didn't use the scientific method doesn't mean they didn't observe patterns and document them.
The first salmon ceremony widely practiced by northwest indigenous peoples is an elegant example of this. Salmon is the foundation of diet and culture for most local indigenous groups, and archeological evidence suggests that even in this incredibly dynamic ecosystem, salmon was a consistent, abundant resource for more than 2,000 years. In this ceremony, the first salmon caught in the season is cooked and shared with all the members of the community, and the remains are then returned to the river. Two critical actions, direct and symbolic: sharing the salmon by everyone having the symbolic taste shows everyone that salmon is a valuable resource to be shared and stewarded, and that sharing it strengthens the community. Further, Western Science has finally figured out the value of returing salmon carcasses to the river--they provide food for the invertebrate species that form the base of the freshwater food web and in turn feed the baby salmon the following year.
This ceremony embodies the cultural/environmental wisdom that informs cultural practice: Salish people knew that the salmon skin and bones must be treated in a particular way, which involved returning those nutrients to the natural system from which they came. No salmon remains were burned; that was considered taboo. It was an insult to the Salmon People, who would withhold their bounty if so treated. As it happens, where salmon carcasses are not returned to the stream, the salmon population declines. These ceremonies were more than entreating the powers of nature to be kind and provide well, as superstitious folk practices are often portrayed. On the contrary, they actually helped the ecosystem.
Some folks might look at me askance when I tell them I won't harvest the last squash and kale in my garden because I'm leaving it for the Fairies (in the form of myriad decomposers), or they might consider the First Salmon Ceremony as it is practiced today quaint relic from native cultures. I think there is probably a lot more value in many of the traditions and practices passed down to us by our ancestors than we might find at first glance. Something to consider as we listen for their messages this season, in a world where traditional practices are disappearing on a daily basis. Blessed Samhain.
The Pacific Northwest maritime climate is usually mild enough that winter gardening is worth doing. (This year the predictions say that may not be the case, but in general, cold-hardy vegetables do well here year-round.) I, however, follow the old Celtic tradition and stop my harvesting at Samhain, leaving the garden to rest until Yule. Celtic folklore variously says that food left in the fields after Samhain is for the Faeries/fair folk/Old Ones, or that malevolent spirits will spoil the food so there's no point in trying to eat anything harvested after that. But from a practical standpoint, leaving something behind in the fields to decompose through the winter is pretty good agricultural practice, since the composting vegetation will nourish the soil. Samhain is a time to listen for messages from our ancestors and those who have gone before. Sometimes, those messages are embedded in the cultural traditions handed down to us.
Consider a pre-scientific world in which people live or die by the annual harvest and pass along successful growing strategies by oral tradition. If farmer Angus picks his fields clean before Samhain, his crops might not do so well next season. Farmer Iain, on the other hand, leaves some of his plants in the ground, maybe even with a little fruit still on them, and plows it all under in the early spring as he prepares to plant. He gets a bumper crop. The obvious explanation is that Farmer Iain found favor with the Fairies by leaving them ample food at years' end the previous year, while stingy farmer Angus was cursed for his miserliness! Now, we can justify this superstitious folk practice with a scientific understanding of how soil amendments improve crop yields. I would offer that many "superstitious folk practices" have similar origins and purposes. Just because our ancestors didn't use the scientific method doesn't mean they didn't observe patterns and document them.
The first salmon ceremony widely practiced by northwest indigenous peoples is an elegant example of this. Salmon is the foundation of diet and culture for most local indigenous groups, and archeological evidence suggests that even in this incredibly dynamic ecosystem, salmon was a consistent, abundant resource for more than 2,000 years. In this ceremony, the first salmon caught in the season is cooked and shared with all the members of the community, and the remains are then returned to the river. Two critical actions, direct and symbolic: sharing the salmon by everyone having the symbolic taste shows everyone that salmon is a valuable resource to be shared and stewarded, and that sharing it strengthens the community. Further, Western Science has finally figured out the value of returing salmon carcasses to the river--they provide food for the invertebrate species that form the base of the freshwater food web and in turn feed the baby salmon the following year.
This ceremony embodies the cultural/environmental wisdom that informs cultural practice: Salish people knew that the salmon skin and bones must be treated in a particular way, which involved returning those nutrients to the natural system from which they came. No salmon remains were burned; that was considered taboo. It was an insult to the Salmon People, who would withhold their bounty if so treated. As it happens, where salmon carcasses are not returned to the stream, the salmon population declines. These ceremonies were more than entreating the powers of nature to be kind and provide well, as superstitious folk practices are often portrayed. On the contrary, they actually helped the ecosystem.
Some folks might look at me askance when I tell them I won't harvest the last squash and kale in my garden because I'm leaving it for the Fairies (in the form of myriad decomposers), or they might consider the First Salmon Ceremony as it is practiced today quaint relic from native cultures. I think there is probably a lot more value in many of the traditions and practices passed down to us by our ancestors than we might find at first glance. Something to consider as we listen for their messages this season, in a world where traditional practices are disappearing on a daily basis. Blessed Samhain.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)