exceptional drought

7.8.26 ~ Arcadia

Our county has been in an “exceptional drought” since late June. This is the highest and most severe category listed on the U.S. Drought Monitor. For almost a year we’ve climbed through “moderate,” “severe,” and “extreme” to reach this new level, capped off with record-breaking dry spells in the spring.

It’s been very hot, too, and I suspect the sun-drenched water this poor squirrel is drinking is pretty warm, too. We keep breaking high temperature records. As I take pictures from the comfort of an air-conditioned room my heart breaks for the creatures struggling outside for days on end in the heat.

As the temperature rises, it will drive a great migration — of humans, of animals, of plants, of jobs, of wealth, of diseases. They will all seek out cooler ecological niches where they can thrive. Some will fare better than others. Robins can migrate more easily than elephants. Poison ivy can move more quickly than an oak tree. Farmers who grow wheat have more options than farmers who grow peaches. And some creatures have nowhere to go. Polar bears in the Arctic can’t migrate farther north. Frogs in Costa Rica aren’t going to hop up to Canada.
~ Jeff Goodell
(The Heat Will Kill You First: Life & Death on a Scorched Planet)

refreshment and solace

“Woman Seated Beneath a Tree” by Gustave Caillebotte

Some people take their troubles to a particular tree and gain refreshment and solace from its company; others derive inspiration from sitting at its foot or in its branches; still others have discovered that trees are truly mediators between the worlds, living bridges between our apparent world and the unseen realms of the otherworld. When we approach a tree, we need to slow down our breathing, slow down our rapid pace, our mental busyness, in order to be attuned to the spirit of the tree itself. … With our heart, we ask the tree to show us part of its nature. … We listen and give thanks. Even when we are just passing a tree, not visiting, we can still send out a greeting to it.
~ Caitlín Matthews
(The Celtic Spirit: Daily Meditations for the Turning Year)

water lilies

“Water Lilies” by Abbott Handerson Thayer

There are two healings: nature’s,
and ours and nature’s. Nature’s
will come in spite of us, after us,
over the graves of its wasters, as it comes
to the forsaken fields. The healing
that is ours and nature’s will come
if we are willing, if we are patient,
if we know the way, if we will do the work.
~ Wendell Berry
(This Day: Collected & New Sabbath Poems)

a month of fixed facts

“Midsummer, Western Norway” by Hans Dahl

The foliage of to-day will not be denser or of deeper tints to-morrow, and whether in upland or in meadow you will find no new birds. Those that came to stay are now busy with their nests; those that tarried for a while, en route for more northern homes, have long since left us. June is a month of fixed facts, but they are none the less interesting because of this. What transpired a year ago, this day or week or month, or even half a century ago, is now being or will be re-enacted. But all was not reported then, and much has been slighted since, so that the danger is slight indeed that the record of any June day out of doors will be a twice-told tale.
~ Charles Conrad Abbott
(Days Out of Doors)

after summer merrily

“The Tempest: Ariel & The Bee” by Edmund Dulac

Where the bee sucks, there suck I:
In a cowslip’s bell I lie;
There I couch when owls do cry.
On a bat’s back I do fly
After summer merrily.
Merrily, merrily shall I live now
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.
~ William Shakespeare
(The Tempest)

stilleven vaas met rozen

“Still Life Vase with Roses” by Vincent van Gogh

Happiness is in it, and the quiet of ordinary things. A table, a chair, a book with a paper-knife stuck between the pages. And the petal falling from the rose, and the light flickering as we sit silent, or, perhaps, bethinking us of some trifle, suddenly speak.
~ Virginia Woolf
(The Waves)