A Someday Worth Looking Out For

On returning birds, a nettle harvest, and a Someday I long to see.

The dark-eyed juncos have returned, their tsip…tsip…tsip… a very welcome opening into spring and a regular summons to lure me outside to hear them. Yesterday, when I tried to track where they were foraging and singing, a beautiful black raven soared overhead, and I lifted my chin to the sky and followed him, his kraaaaah kraaaaaah an invitation to keep my face to the sun.

It isn’t warm yet. We ran two of our wood stoves today, and when the power went out, I made my breakfast upon one of them. It took longer than usual, but the sizzle was more acute with the hum of the refrigerator silenced, and I’m convinced my meal tasted better. Slowing down does that kind of thing.

Power outages usually mean not only a lull in the cleaning and laundry, but a break in home schooling as well. So, this afternoon, in the waning sunshine (always waning, it seems, this time of year), I walked the mixed woodlands around my property, trying to coax more birds to announce themselves from the brush. I so love their twitterings, and have contemplated more than once their declining numbers. I mentally apologized for all of the radiation and other shenanigans we humans have ruined the airways with, and wished I could somehow make a safer place for them and us alike. But I can’t control the air, not even on my own property.

I had taken a basket with me. I was hopeful I’d see something to bring home. Buds, maybe. Lichen. A bulb or two, flowering. Proof of spring. At least an interesting rock or two.

Sometimes, it’s difficult for me to walk around my property. I see all of the work that needs to be done, and I can’t give my heart and head a reasonable time frame for when it will be done, other than a vague Someday. Someday. Sometimes, I really hate Someday.

I stepped over downed wires and into the large pasture, and noticed the growing pile of shrubbery. It’s going to make great chip for compost, a nice blend of greens and browns. I inspected the hazelnut tree too, and mentally made a note to brainstorm ways to protect and harvest at least a few pounds of nuts before the squirrels get them all again. A large cedar had fallen nearby, and there were still half a dozen or more rounds that needed to get brought up and cut into firewood. I dreamed a dream of a team of workers who could put things to rights around here. Maybe Someday.

And then I saw it, the wonderful patch that proclaimed, “Rejoice! Spring has come!” Young nettles dotted the slight hillside in the dappled shade, their heartish shaped leaves waving gently in the breeze, teasing me with their soft purplish underbellies. I instantly craved the nourishing constituents (did you know nettles contain chlorophyll, iron, magnesium, potassium, and a whole bunch more?). I could almost taste the sweet and salty leaves baked up in a spanakopita, and knew that my wet winterlogged lungs and body would enjoy the astringency. Nettles! Yes, please!

Nettles are fit for picking when they are small, say under a foot tall. Their seeds are edible as well, once they are fully grown, but I have no experience with them. In any case, if you’re trying to keep nettles to one area, cutting them before they go to seed would help tremendously. I always use gloves when picking and handling them. I’m not brave enough to try properly picking them barehanded, which is sort of funny given that when I kept honeybees, I rarely used gloves. I picked a nice basketful of nettle while reflecting on the possibility of keeping hives again.

On my way back to the house, I found a thick mass of daffodils on the roadside (note to self: these are desperate for division), and cut a lovely bunch to put in the milk jar by the sink.

The wood stove in the kitchen was still burning well, and I welcomed how it cut the chill on my cheeks. I swooped all of the counter clutter from the morning out of the way, put down my treasures, and set the kettle to heat for afternoon tea. I then gently cut away the leaves from the stems, allowing them to softly drop into a silver bowl. Once finished, I plunged the leaves into a boiling pot of water for a minute or so, which took care of the stinging hairs and brought it all to a vibrant green.

As I waited, half a dozen recipes ran through my head but I realized I really hadn’t harvested enough for anything substantial. I strained the leaves out of the pot in order to keep the cooking water (it’s nutritious!), ran cold water over them all, and squeezed everything dry. I used some of it to chop into a herbal butter (I can hardly wait for sourdough toast tomorrow), and the rest I set into ice cube sections to add to soups and stews later. My kitchen smelled like fresh spring soil, and I was so very happy.

It was a good day. Curious how just an hour spent outside can make the entire day a “good” one. I so enjoyed seeking and listening to birds, noticing the dappled light streaming through the woodlands, and musing on the lush green growth surrounding me. I was reminded of Tennyson’s poem of The Brook, where he writes, “For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever”. Yes, spring does come again, and creation does indeed go on and on, groaning under the weight and burden of men’s folly and foolishness. Yet its blessings continue to nourish us one and all, and offer countless extraordinary evidences of the Author’s signature.

Tennyson’s men may come and go, but I know that Someday, I too, shall go on for ever and ever, even after I go. And that in the new heavens and new earth, righteousness will dwell and all will be well at last according to God’s promises. Now, that’s a Someday worth loving, and looking out for, in my book.

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