The Empty Nest

It was to have been a day of celebration. Over the past month, the male and female bluebirds in our meadow had successfully fed and cared for their three chicks. They had weathered violent rain storms, cold as well as hot humid weather. And now the day had arrived for the chicks to try their wings and join their parents outside the nest. Instead, as the three fledglings stepped out of their nest box and began to test their wings, two red wing hawks swooped down and grabbed two of them. The third was able to return to the nest box, but its newly feathered body was so badly eviscerated, it soon died in the nest box.

For two days, the female has been sitting on a nearby nest box, her head and body pointed towards her now empty nest box, as if willing her three to emerge just by her concentrated presence. Now and then, the male who would now have been in charge of feeding his fledged youngsters makes a flash appearance in the vicinity of the nest box and then disappears. The empty nest box stands erect and silent. What should have been a joyful explosion of blue in the meadow over the past couple of days is now a hushed quiet, broken only by an occasional eastern phoebe landing on one of the nesting boxes with an insect caught in its beak or a butterfly flitting over the purple thyme and flowers of the meadow.

I had followed the activity of the blue birds from the day I noticed the female darting in and out of one of the nest boxes in the meadow. I began monitoring the nest box, noting the date the female had laid her three blue eggs, joyful when the chicks hatched, and checking on the progress of the three chicks every couple of days. As the date for the youngsters to fledge approached, I no longer opened the nest box. Instead I watched expectantly through my birding telescope, taking my cues from the parents who were taking turns feeding their growing offspring.

The day the birds were to leave their nest was beautiful, sunny and dry. Two friends had driven from Boston to visit for a couple of days. We were having lunch outside on the wrap-around porch when I heard the screech of a hawk. Two hawks had begun to appear over the meadow about two weeks ago. Worried by their recent interest, I had tried to discourage them by running out into the meadow clapping my hands. This cry aroused me from my chair. Muttering some words of apology to my friends, I ran through the house and out of the back door towards the meadow. Overhead were the two hawks. One had just swooped down around the nest box. I ran into the meadow clapping my hands and waving my blue napkin which, in my haste, I had forgotten to leave at the table. One of the hawks cried out again and slowly circled over the nest box. Neither bird seemed in a hurry to leave. I persisted with my clapping and arm waving. Finally, the two hawks slowly flew away from the meadow towards the woods. I did not go near the nest box fearing I would disrupt the young blue birds within.

Distracted by my visitors, the incident slipped from my mind. It was only the next morning that I became suspicious that something was amiss. Looking through the birding telescope, I observed that neither male nor female blue bird was approaching the nest box. They perched instead on nearby boxes. There was also no sign of any other activity from the nest.

That afternoon, no longer able to hold back, I strode over to the nest box, tapped on the side panel to check if there was any movement within. Discerning none, I slowly opened the nest box and peered in. I was greeted first by the smell of decay and then by the sight of a blue feathered body lying dead in its nest, alone. Its little body mutilated. I gently lifted the little bird and held its still, soft, weightlessness in the palm of my hand. I now understood what I had witnessed the day before when I had chased the two hawks from the meadow. Gazing at the lifeless bird in my hand, I felt responsible somehow for its death and the death of its siblings. Having followed their development and anticipated their emergence from their nest, I had become more than an objective bystander. I had monitored their nest because I wanted to ensure their safety and yet at their hour of triumph, nature trumped my efforts. Rationally, I know there was nothing to be done: the red-tail hawks were participants in a natural cycle of life and death. And yet I found myself whispering words of apology as I watched the female perched on a nearby nest box staring at her silent nest: "So sorry."

Courage as Grace

News broke today that the court in Burma (Myanmar) has postponed its verdict of Nobel Peace Prize Laureate Aung san Suu Kyi until August. What seems clear is that the military leaders of that country want her out of the way during elections next year, so she will inevitably end up in prison. The crime? A foreign journalist arrived at her house uninvited (a lesson here for those of us whose thoughtless actions hurt rather than help others--the opposite of courage). In Chechnya, Natalia Estemirova, a human rights activist who for years reported on the injustices and human rights abuses by both Russians and Chechnyans was kidnapped and murdered on July 15th. As she was being dragged into a car, she cried out, "I'm being kidnapped," but those on the street either were too afraid to do anything or they simply ignored her cries. Five months earlier, Stanislav Markelov, a human rights lawyer, was gunned down in Moscow and, three years ago, Anna Politkovskaya, a Russian journalist, was murdered also in Russia. In Iran, countless people have either been killed or are imprisoned for protesting a flawed election this year. The list goes on of brave men and women who put their lives on the line in order to speak out against injustice, cruelty, and evil.

Each time I read the immense acts of courage that each of these and countless others have shown in their lives on behalf of others I am filled with awe. Their acts of standing up to powerful regimes in defense of the innocent leave me questioning my own life choices made in the safety and comfort of my home. When the lives of these brave men and women are crushed by the very forces of evil that they have risked their lives to expose, I am left with a sense of helplessness. Every death or imprisonment leaves us poorer and more vulnerable. In Russia, one by one, the intelligentsia that has had a long history of standing up to Stalin and the dehumanizing evils of totalitarian regimes, is being killed off. In Iran, the strong hand of Mahmoud Ahmadinejad is squelching all opposition. Yesterday, thousands of mourners who gathered with opposition leader Mir Hossein Moussavi at the cemetery to honor those who died protesting the election were forcibly pushed back and Moussavi was prevented from finishing the memorial. Like a captured bird in a cage, Aung San Suu Kyi -- a brave fighter on behalf of democracy in her country-- continues to bear the clumsy, brutal, and fearful actions of those holding onto power begotten illegally with grace, dignity and even humor.

C. S. Lewis once wrote that courage "is not simply one of the virtues but the form of every virtue at the testing point." And isn't it the case that for Natalia Estemirova it was her compassion for the young and vulnerable caught in the middle of the violence wrought by both Russians and Chechnyans that led her to confront it? Courage manifests itself at the point where outrage at injustice, compassion for the vulnerable, horror at the senseless loss of life, and love for people around you to live with dignity and freedom converge.

In a recent op-ed piece in the NYT, Sam Harris seeks to cast doubt on Francis Collins, President Obama's nominee for next director of the NIH on the grounds that he, Francis Collins, believes that one can be both a Christian and a scientist. In a line towards the end of his piece, Sam Harris, in attempting to dispute Dr. Collin's statement that "science offers no answers to the most pressing questions of human existence," remarks that it is through science, and science alone, that we will be able to answer questions "like, Why do we suffer? Or, indeed, is it possible to love one's neighbor as oneself? " To Mr. Harris's question, "is it possible to love one's neighbor as oneself?" the answer lies in every life extinguished because it chose to put human decency and freedom above its own.

The Things that Reconcile

Walking around our small orchard a couple of weeks ago, David and I discovered to our dismay that our plum trees were suffering from curculio blight (that causes plums to shrivel up and die prematurely) and black knot. In addition, the trunks of two of our apple trees were girdled by borer. We immediately got on the phone to our local nursery and to the arborist who sprays our trees in the spring.

Ever since we started our gardens and our orchards ten years ago, it became clear that David and I responded differently to matters affecting our garden. For me, the goal was to attract wildlife and intervene as little as possible in the life of our plants and trees. For David, gardening provided a respite from the demands of his work and he was not above taking shortcuts to simplify the process. As a beekeeper, I wanted to promote practices in our gardens and orchard that would protect my bees, along with other wildlife. David's response to hindrances was more impatient. Upon seeing weeds sprouting in the driveway, for example, his hand was more likely to reach for a chemical that would deal with the problem quickly and efficiently than struggle with something that required more time and might not render perfect results. I wanted an approach that would integrate our actions with a a view of life around us as sacred while David sought for practical and swift action. Our two different approaches frequently clashed as we tried to respond to the various challenges produced by trying to grow fruit and vegetables.

Then came the crisis in the orchard and our concern for how to deal with the harm being done to our trees strangely brought us closer philosophically. It began with a book our arborist gave us to read entitled, The Apple Grower, by Michael Phillips. The author, an apple grower in northern New Hampshire, makes the case, in a very even handed way, for growing apples organically -- something that many orchard experts argue is impossible. With some relief (because we realized we were not alone) we read that growing fruit -- and particularly apples -- is the most demanding and frustrating endeavor of all, even with the aid of a full chemical arsenal, let alone organically.

A major obstacle for fruit growers (and David saw himself in this group) has been, as Michael Phillips points out, an expectation for a kind of perfection in our fruit that would have been unheard of in earlier times. This artificial expectation is a result of the scientific and technological advances in agriculture designed to control plants and "pests." Phillips also comments on the symbiotic relationship that "pests" have with their host plants and wonders whether, in the larger scheme of things, the apple (or any fruit, for that matter) exists for us humans to consume or whether it exists for a more intricate and complex purpose having to do with the host plant and its relation to the larger environment. The human may in fact be outside of this equation, not at the center.

These two observations have caught David's attention and have somehow re-calibrated his thinking about the nature of stewardship and the care of our orchard. This morning, a clear and sunny day, David put into practice the first of the many suggestions offered in the book for protecting fruit trees from unwanted parasites in a sustainable way: he applied diluted white latex paint to the lower half of all the trunks of our fruit trees. Interestingly, as he is migrating towards a more integrated approach to caring for our gardens, I have become more open to considering a more diverse array of options for overcoming some of the hindrances to growing fruit and vegetables, moving us closer to reconciling our different approaches. This does not mean we will melt into one view, but rather I suspect we will find more common ground as we gather our resources together to carry out the complex but rewarding work of sustainable gardening.

As I'm writing, dusk is falling at the end of a beautiful summer day. The birds have become quiet and in the distance I can just hear the howling of coyotes. And for some reason I am reminded of a something in Willa Cather's book, O Pioneers!. At the end of Chapter IV, the main character, Alexandra, is describing to a friend she has not seen for many years, why she hopes her youngest brother, Emil, will choose to leave home and travel, like her friend: "Perhaps I am like Carrie Jensen.... She had never been out of the cornfields, and a few years ago she got despondent and said life was just the same thing over and over, and she did n't see the use of it. After she had tried to kill herself once or twice, her folks got worried and sent her over to Iowa to visit some relations. Ever since she's come back she has been perfectly cheerful, and she says she's contented to live and work in a world that's so big and interesting."

Like Carrie Jensen, the things that reconcile us and provide meaning to our daily choices often come in unexpected forms. A troubling development in an orchard, a move to another state, something some one says -- it can be anything, but the response is always unmistakable. It takes us out of our comfort zone and re-orients us, making sense in a new way of things we took for granted. Decisions we make at a very local level ultimately make sense when understood in a larger context. Making decisions to grow fruit and vegetable in a sustainable way is as much our responsibility as it is a commercial farmer's. Learning to love one other is an important step to loving the world that is so big and interesting.

View from my Window

The drive to Wayland from the Berkshires early Wednesday morning and then returning in the middle of the day today is done. The two cats and the dog are sleeping in different parts of the house and from my window the sun and the clouds are vying for prominence over the meadow. As I'm writing, WMHT is playing Summer from Vivaldi's Seasons (an overplayed piece, unfortunately, but lovely, nevertheless).

Over the past few days, I have experienced an embarrasment of riches, first by beautiful violin and piano sonatas performed at Ozawa Hall on Tuesday evening and then by an explosion of color and passion at the Tintoretto, Titian and Veronese exhibit at the MFA. I feel so incredibly fortunate to be able to move back and forth between Wayland and the Berkshires -- partaking of the cultural feast in both places. (Oh, and let's not forget New York City, also just two hours away.)

But it's the quiet moments at our home in the Berkshires that I retreat with relish because the quiet in between the cultural activities is like exhaling after inhaling deeply. The lush green of the vegetation around me punctuated by dashes of color from the flowers in the garden and the meadows settles the mind and slows the pulse. Allowing myself to be drawn into the slower rhythms of a day here or there with nothing more to claim my attention than wondering from which window to gaze clears my mind and prepares it to receive whatever next is offered at the rich table of cultural fare in the Berkshires.

A Conversation around the Table

One of our guests sitting at our table reflected on the fact that we were on the eve of Independence Day. "I am reading a book that was given to me on Father's Day," he said, "and I was struck about how the efforts of the founders of our country were to make everyone equal -- like Christianity." "Christianity," he added, "is about everyone being equal."

I was struck by this observation. Does Christianity really focus on the equality of man? This is an interesting idea but one which I don't think is quite true. The notion of the equality of man is a political idea, which in many cases was derived from Christianity. But is the equality of human beings the aim of Christianity? Christ does teach that to care for the poor and the weak amongst us is an essential part of what it means to be a Christian. In another instance, however, he also tells people around him, "Render therefore unto Caesar the things that are Caesar's; and unto God the things that are God's." His ministry was not directly to alter the society around Him. Christ's message, instead, is one of love and grace and an invitation to us to participate in our salvation and the salvation of the world.

Christianity, certainly as it is understood by the Orthodox Church, does indeed concern itself with what it means to be a human being, but its response to that question is not political but relational: Christianity is concerned with personhood. The focus here is not on equality, as such, but rather on the unique and unrepeatable quality of each person in communion with God, fellow beings, and creation.

In Orthodox Christianity, this notion of personhood has two very important characteristics: First, it is relational-- without the Other, I as a person do not exist. Second, personhood is inconceivable without freedom--mainly the freedom to be yourself. Freedom understood in this way is freedom not from but for someone. This understanding of personhood is very different from our current notions of individuality and freedom, which emphasizes freedom from rather than for.

Because it is morally right to believe in equality for all the obvious reasons that the term implies--equal freedom, respect, and treatment for all people --it feels as if it should be a primary tenant of Christianity. But as Orthodox Christianity points out, there is an even deeper recognition of human dignity and freedom in the Christian understanding of the communion of love. While equality -- the equality of all people-- is a notion that is honored and valued in Christianity (after all, we believe that we are all equal in the sight of God), in the end, Christianity is grounded in the notion of communion-- a communion that involves a recognition and response to the 'other.' In this view, human life cannot exist apart from the Other--the Other being God as well as our fellow human beings and the rest of creation. In fact, Orthodox theology suggests that the ecological problems that are threatening our planet are a result of the crisis between human beings and the natural world viewed as an extension of ourselves. When we do not respect the otherness of what is not human, we tend to absorb it into ourselves and destroy its separate and inherent value as the Other. Respect for otherness in Christianity is not a matter of ethics, but of ontology--when we lose our ability to affirm the goodness of the other in persons and in nature, we simply cease to be fully human.

Human beings viewed as persons rather than individuals defy classification or identification with a category or a stereotype or a group of any kind. As persons in relation to and made in the image of God, we are unique and unrepeatable. What makes us unique is our ability to respond fully to our calling. And this calling is dependent on the existence of an Other to issue the call. Our relationship with an Other, however, is not symmetrical; the call that summons us to respond to and affirm an Other comes from outside ourselves and automatically makes our relationship to the Other a-symmetrical -- not equal. In other words, this call from the Other comes as an invitation. We cannot manufacture it or force it to happen. We cannot control it. It is a gift and it is grace. It visits us and calls us to respond and it is through our response that we are unique and particular. Our identity is formed through the way in which we respond to this call of the Other. Our freedom is in our response and acceptance to create a relationship with the Other. It is this "yes' or "no" that defines us and makes us participants in human history. And what is the nature of this call? We are, in short, invited to be active participants in the ongoing creation and salvation of our world through the living Church in communion with the Other .

Minding Bees

Invariably, when people hear that I am a beekeeper, they ask whether I've read "The Secret Lives of Bees." I have read the book and I even have a poster of the film based on the novel hanging in the honey room in our barn. The truth is that for me beekeeping is a lot of hard work -- it is not effortless, the way it is portrayed in this novel. The bees do not behave as if they know me and when I am clumsy or taking their honey away, they sometimes get downright cross with me.

The road to becoming a beekeeper has been a difficult one for me. I started beekeeping when my husband and I bought our home in the Berkshires. It is situated in the middle of several acres of meadows on rolling hills with views of Mount Lenox to the north and lush green woods with a pond at the edge of the meadows. The first time I walked in the meadows, it was summer, and I was assailed by a sweet burst of scent from the wild thyme under my feet. The landscape and the scent emanating from the meadow reminded me of walking in the countryside in Greece and inhaling the scent released by the wild herbs underfoot. The Greek countryside is spotted with bee hives and Greece has been known for its honey since antiquity. I turned to my husband and said, "This is bee country. We must get bees." From that point on, with a vision of hives sitting prettily in our meadow and bees happily foraging among the wild flora, I began in earnest of look around for a beekeeper to help me get started. After some searching, I discovered a beekeeping supply and resource center in Greenwich, New York. My husband and I attended a beginners workshop, purchased a 3lb package of bees with a queen and set off to hive the bees. I had already painted my hive and set it up facing south, along the edge of the meadow, with the woods acting as a wind barrier behind the hive.

While my husband had been keen on the idea of my becoming a beekeeper and had even accompanied me to the workshop, he balked when it actually came time to install the bees in their hive. He chose, instead, to stand at a safe distance with camera in hand to capture the release of the bees into their new home. I had carefully read the directions on how to go about opening the package, taking out the queen cage, and then depositing the bees in the hive and thought I had a good grasp of the process. Alas, things did not go smoothly. First of all, I had trouble lighting my smoker and when I finally had it fired up, I knocked it over as I was nervously trying to pry open the wood cover off the package. As I straightened up the smoker, I had not kept the lid on and hundreds of bees were emerging up from under the wood cover, making it difficult for me to find the small queen cage. Wearing leather gloves, I clumsily grasped the queen cage, which is about two inches in length and half an inch wide, and tried to attach two small nails at right angels in order to create a hanging bracket for the queen cage to be hung between two frames. The nails kept dropping out of my hands. By this time, there were bees flying all around me, I was overheating in my bee suit and my hands were shaking from nervousness. Somehow, I finally managed to attach the nails and hang the queen between the two frames in the middle of the hive and shake the remainder of the bees into the hive. There were still a lot of bees flying around outside the hive as I placed the outer cover over the hive. I prayed that these bees would finally find their way into the hive as evening drew near and that they would settle down to the important work of releasing the queen. The queen is kept in a separate cage because the bees and the caged queen are not from the same hive when they are packaged and the bees do not recognize her as their queen. This means they would probably kill her. A new queen has to be introduced slowly into a hive, giving the bees time to become accustomed to her before she is released. At the one end of the queen cage is a candy plug which the bees eat through over the course of the next couple of days or so until they reach her and release her. If all goes well, she is received into the hive and immediately gets to work laying and beginning the marvelous and complex life of the hive.

I've come a long way from that first awkward interaction with bees; I now have several hives and extract enough honey to sell some to a couple of our local stores. But every season arrives with its surprises and its lessons. This past winter I lost two hives -- one suffered from Nosema which is a severe form of dysentery that weakens the hive and in the end kills it off. The other hive had plenty of food supplies, but the bees probably lost their queen sometime earlier in the winter and were not able to survive.

Life and death are a reality in a hive -- the life or death of a single bee does not make a difference to the hive. A hive is a living entity which survives or dies depending on the health of the queen and on the ability of each bee to work in conjunction with other bees to accomplish the complex work of the hive. Bees take on various roles over the course of their lives, from nurse to defender, and finally to worker bees, who leave the hive and forage for nectar and pollen. There are also queen attendants, scouts and, of course, the drones--all vital contributors to the life of the hive.

One of my favorite past times is to stand near my hives on sunny days and watch the bees flying in and out of the hive. The hive literally hums contentedly as bees come and go in front of the hive with the pollen baskets located on their hind legs spilling over with pollen. Then, I understand, my original vision of having hives in my meadow is not just a dream, but a real and important part of my life.