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The Deepest Roots

Is This My Beautiful House?

Couple walking down a forested path away from the camera.
At Bloedel Reserve.



Is this my beautiful house? as David Byrne asked. I am luckier than most of the people in the world, if luck is measured by things, comfort, access to food, and safety.


I spent May on a different island, concentrated on my writing. I produced a talk called Prentice Bloedel and the Idea of the Sublime, in which I explored the relationship of a timber magnate to the land he chose to preserve in – not its original state, which had long been changed – but in a state that makes it accessible to people more accustomed to streets, sidewalks and groomed paths. And yet, given the scale of these northwest woods, there is still something of the wild in it, something that goes beyond what can be described with words: the Sublime.


These days, I am acutely aware of my privilege, of the people who are desperately trying to save their children from the horrors of war. My parents were brought north from Mexico to escape a war in which 20% of the population died. My parents and their parents were welcomed into this country as productive members of society. While some of my relatives returned and some did not, we have been able to maintain our kinship patterns, which historically, have involved people traveling from north to south and south to north since long before any of us can remember. We are not rapists and murderers. We are workers, teachers, artists. We are bakers and farmers and housewives. We are people who cherish our children and long to give them a safe place to grow up.


Today, I cannot count the places in the world where waking up alive is a miracle. Each morning we are greeted by the rude, limited vocabulary of a man who realizes that he cannot outwit his enemies, can only hope to bluster his way past them. Mexico is angry. China is angry. Even Canada is angry! We feel the foundations of civilization tremble as teams of lawyers and bureaucrats work to roll back any progress we might have made both on the local and national level in terms of the well-being of the poor, the conservation of natural resources, and the improvement of the environment.


Not long ago, it looked as though we would succeed in cleaning up the air and water around us before permanent damage was done, but I think that milepost has come and gone with the suddenness of a freight train full of crude oil. I've marched through the streets of Seattle at least three times since the beginning of the year, defending women's rights, immigrant's rights, fighting off corporate interests that now overtly disdain the rights and environmental issues that go hand in hand.


Last week, a resident orca in Puget Sound, a member of the J Pod, delivered a calf that died within a half hour of birth. The mother, called Tahlequah by humans, has been carrying the body, by its fin or across her nose through the ocean for over nine days now. She is clearly grieving, whether or not in the same way a human mother would grieve. And I feel responsible. The J Pod has not had a live birth in three years. They are starving. In the meantime, I can go to the grocery store and buy salmon any time I want. How did this happen?


Then there is a forest with a walking path. Emanuel Kant said that the beautiful is small, measurable, but the sublime is beyond measure, even fearful, in its glory and magnitude. Despite the thousands of acres Prentice Bloedel helped to clear across North America, he underwent a moment of transformation that compelled him to share his experience with others. When Bloedel and his wife Virginia began to walk the relatively modest 150 acres on Bainbridge Island they purchased for their retirement, something shifted, something changed, so that he was moved to see the forest with new eyes.


This is the sort of transformation we need to undergo. We must see the forests, rivers and oceans with new eyes. We must see all people with new eyes, as marvels of existence, as deserving of as good a life as we wish our own children.


We each see a bit of the puzzle, or understand some of the science, or some of the economy. We tell ourselves and each other stories to justify our own places in the world. We must widen those stories to include a few more people, a few more places, until every person and place is held in esteem by someone.


These are the types of stories collected in my book, The Deepest Roots. After studying these topics and interviewing people about their stories since 2012, I am running out of excuses to call myself "The Clueless Eater." I am a little less clueless, although much of the pattern is still hard for me to understand. But I am ready to change the name of this blog to "The Deepest Roots," after the stories that sustain us through good times and bad, that tie us to our land, our ancestors, and our beliefs. I live in a storied land, meaning it has been cared for and nurtured both in physicality and in the imagination. Is this my beautiful house? Only if I work with others to keep it that way.

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History is an Act of the Imagination

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Hard Work

Image of a woman in a hat crouched over seedlings she is planting in a sunny garden.
Kathleen in her garden, Montrose Colorado, 1980.



Today is the first day of Spring, and I am sharing a very old photo of me starting one of my first vegetable gardens. This is in Montrose, Colorado, where we lived four years on the Western Slope of the Colorado Rockies.


On the downside, the soil was mostly clay, and we spent a lot of time trying to work in organic matter. On the plus side, we had a share of ditchwater from the Chipeta Water District, and it was as precious as gold in the arid, high desert climate.


Unlike the temperate maritime climate where we now live, Western Colorado had cold nights and hot days, even in the winter, when it could snow overnight and feel brisk but doable without a coat by midday. Our home was located a couple of miles west of downtown, on the lip of the Uncompahgre Plateau, in an area called Spring Creek Mesa.


We heated our home with a wood stove, and spent the weekends in the summer gathering wood from the National Forest. The air was so clear, that we could see thunderstorms advancing towards us from the Utah border, sixty miles away. The altitude was high enough that one had to correct recipes for baking. We now live at sea level, so I don't have that excuse anymore!


So I wish you well for your gardens this year. So far, we have purchased snap pea starts, and I plan to start some golden beets and carrots pretty soon. It looks as though our purple cabbage, which I planted quite late, made it through the winter, where it will join our chard and arugula in my Red Pine Garden plot.


I miss the camaraderie of my garden at The Rock Farm, but Phil Rockefeller tells me I can visit, and that one hive of his bees made it through the winter.


If you need some gardening inspiration, here are the delightful Toad and Frog, created by Arnold Lobel, sharing tips:

Frog and Toad in "The Garden"


Remember, it is hard work.



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Books I read in 2017

Ten Books I read in 2017
Books I read in 2017

History, poetry, geography, finding familiar sounds and rhythms in the language of others – these are a few of my favorite things. Colson Whitehead reminds us again how brilliant he is, Sherman and Claire write brave memoirs reminding us that their success as adults did not come out of an easy place, with helicopter parents meeting their basic needs. Julie Salverson documents the secret of a horrendous crime inflicted on First Nations people in Canada, and how they chose to respond, along with her own secrets. Emmy Perez and Laura Da’ stitch us to the land with words, while Lauret Savoy and Coll Thrush make us look again to see what we missed the first time. Isabel Quintero shows how difficult high school can be in its own right, yet offer shelter from impossible home situations. Rosalie Morales Kearns’ near future novel, in which women say ya, basta! could not be timelier.  Read More 
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An anchor

Trees on our property
This is the northwest corner of our property, facing south.

On the far left is a cedar cultivar we planted after a hundred-foot Douglas fir fell during a windstorm, its roots weakened by laminated root rot. We were lucky that it missed the house when it fell, and a neighbor volunteered to cut it up and haul it away for firewood.

Over the next couple of years, a madrone that had been intimately involved with the Doug fir slowly died, having been partially uprooted in the fall. It never quite recovered. We had to remove it, too, and now salal has spread to occupy the space and light once occupied by those two trees. The cultivar will never get as tall as the Doug fir, but it promises to fill out and provide screening from the street.

West of the salal is a younger madrone, leaning for the light,  Read More 
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Trace: Memory, History, Race, and the American Landscape

By Lauret Savoy
Counterpoint, 2015

This book was recommended to me by Donna Miscolta when it first came out. I was too busy at the time to read it, but I just finished it a few days ago and have to share my joy.

Savoy, an environmental sciences and geology professor at Mount Holyoke College, travels the land with the keen eye of a scientist and the sensitive heart of a memoirist. Each place she pauses, she leads us in catching our breath and examining the land for its ancient presence, “grounding” us in the landscape before turning to her personal connections, or disconnections, to the land.  Read More 
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Bed Time

While some gardeners are putting their beds to sleep for the season, mine is just warming up! Yellow beets gave way to snow peas. Snow peas gave way to red cabbage. I’ve got a second, sweeter crop of carrots, new crops of broccoli and chard, and every other day I harvest a few potatoes. I tried to grow blue ones, but I must have picked up the wrong starts at Bainbridge Gardens! I made soup with them the other night along with a cup of dried nettles picked earlier this year at Suquamish.

We had a hot, dry summer in the Northwest, punctuated by bad air from fires to the north, east, and south. Some days were apocalyptically bad, with the worst air I have tried to breathe since leaving smog-filled San Bernardino in the 1970s. But the plants loved the days of endless sunlight, rare up here.

Fall means  Read More 
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REC - Resources, Education, Compassion

Mount Tahoma and ferry from Bainbridge during the eclipse
Like many of you, I have been watching the news and worrying about friends and family in the wake of Hurricane Harvey. People are struggling to keep their families safe, and circumstances are bringing out the heroic in others. Meanwhile, the recent wildfires in British Columbia and the Western United States have produced the worst air  Read More 
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Culinary Arts and Local Food

For years and years, my husband and I have visited a magic place on the Washington coast called the Shelburne Inn. It was first recommended by a friend of the chef at the restaurant, but we soon fell in love not only with the food and the brilliant, clean light sweeping up and down the wide beaches, but with innkeepers Laurie Anderson and David Campiche. Laurie always appears calm and collected in the midst of the storm. David is always happy to slip away for a moment for a glass of beer or wine. In my book The Deepest Roots, I credit them with making me aware of the abundance of local food that can be grown, purchased or foraged year-round in Washington State. David grew up on the Long Beach Peninsula, and met Laurie when she got her father’s truck stuck in the deceptively soft sand on the beach. Read More 
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Vending Veggies

Sam Lillie of Veggie Vinder with giant kale leaf. or is that Swiss Chard?
At a reading from The Deepest Roots in Port Townsend, Washington, at the Imprint Bookstore, I met food purveyor Sam Lillie. His business is called Veggie Vinder.

-First of all, did you grow up in Port Townsend? If not, why did you choose to locate here?

I'm originally from San Diego. I moved to Port Townsend in December of 2015 about a month after I finished thru-hiking the Pacific Crest Trail. It took five months to complete and, because I solo hiked, I spent the majority of it alone. I returned to San Diego but felt claustrophobic from the amount of people. I have family in Port Townsend and was offered a place to stay while I transitioned back into the "real" world. It's been perfect. I get to wake up, have coffee, see deer, and be a part of such an incredible community. I applied to, and was rejected from, 106 companies across 4 states before starting Vinder.  Read More 
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