Seed Swap

I and a group of grad students from Appalachian State's Appalachian Studies program as well as the Sustainable Development program attended the High Country Seed Swap on Saturday March 4th, 2017 to collect stories of attendees.

At the beginning of the event, we were figuring out how to best approach participants to ask them for their stories.  This wasn't a university sponsored research project--we had no IRB approval--but I wanted to represent, describe and interpret my 'subjects' narratives as best I could, practicing my qualitative research skills in preparation for writing my dissertation.  I noticed folks were walking right past the sign-in desk, where the ag extension officer had placed clipboards and pens intending to catch names as data he could present to his supervisors to substantiate the impact of community events/outreach.  I offered to be the welcome wagon, smiling and calling out good morning to seed swappers, directing them to sign in and asking if they'd be willing to share any stories they had about seed saving with me and my colleagues.  Some started pulling out seed packets right away, happy to be able to tell their seeds' stories.  Others were in a hurry to attend one of the workshops on gardening and grafting but looked like they may stop back later when there wasn't such a crowd.

I collected stories about pink and yellow stripy tomatoes from an 81-year-old woman who struggled to tell me more about them saying "I can't speak the way I want to anymore."  Another told me about pie pumpkin seeds she brought and kindly didn't roll her eyes at me when I asked what she cooked with the pumpkins.  I heard stories of grandparents who were sharecroppers, of how these very varieties  helped their ancestors survive the Civil War.  Did you know that grits and hominy came into being because the Union soldiers commandeered all the food and people were forced to mill next season's seed corn into grits?  Combined with reconstituted dried corn (hominy) their ancestors survived 2 1/2 years on these rations.  That variety of corn was called, gruesomely, Bloody Butcher, for its red color I assume, and I found some of it in small packets nearby.  Other survival foods included caffeine-y chicory root in place of coffee, a plant which likes salty soil so can be found along our modern roadways with the residue from ice abatement salting--just keep your eyes open for the blue flowers.


I heard stories of love and devotion, of making medicinal tinctures from plants who can feel the energy of their gardener, of a couple who dug up their 800 dahlias EVERY YEAR to store indoors before replanting again in the spring.  Older folks told stories of collecting herbs in the woods with their elders who are long gone but felt present again in these stories their kin were eager to share.

I explained a few times the difference between a seed library and a seed bank, why librarians don't worry as much about temperature control and germination efficiency when they're just hoping to get a few more patrons to keep locally suited varieties in the soil and in the bellies of community members. Building resiliency in our food system and connections among us, growing food builds the kind of world I want for the future.

My mom's cousin was his cousin, so we're probably related
Western North Carolina is perhaps the most genetically diverse plant region in North America. Because the ice age didn't completely freeze this part of the world, we have some really old adaptations in these plants and lots and lots of different versions.  So while I was surrounded by so much genetic diversity in the plants, I also was struck by the consanguinity of the participants: many in the room had family histories in this particular region for many generations, and some swappers were in fact related to each other.

I developed my own seed fever near the end of the event, realizing that all this earthy sexyspring pleasure might be available to me too.  I'm not just a data collector.  I recognize I have some baggage, egoic attachments, about being childless and being good at gardening, as if silent voices ask with incredulity: really?  You couldn't even get pregnant and you expect to raise a tomato plant?  Nevertheless, I persisted, and in frenzied optimistic moments like this seed swap I throw this nonsense aside and gather seeds to plant as if they were gifts to others: indigo flowers for my artist friend so she might make natural dyes, Rose of Sharon in honor of my mother Sherrie, Black-eyed Susan in honor of my other mother--heck all the flowers for all the moms and non-moms.  I left with a collection of flowers, ornamental climbing okra which makes loofah sponges, pink-tip beans and medicinal plants, which I hope will survive my neglect.  And even the survivors, ("we happy few" they may recite), they shall have the genes to survive neglect; perhaps they will figure out how to water and weed themselves.

Promposals and privilege

There is a high schooler who is excited about her first relationship, her first girlfriend. However, because her girlfriend isn't out, doesn't feel safe to be out, they are keeping their relationship on the "down low".  When people ask the high schooler why she isn't dating anyone, she has to make up excuses to keep the secret.

I hate this.  I hate that this young person cannot have the validation of an acknowledged relationship. In a season of promprosals, she's already learning the toxic skills of hiding a relationship, of the nature of power and silence to the detriment of her own pleasure, her own confidence in her worthiness as a person deserving of love.

I understand that this is how things need to be right now.  I don't know the circumstances of the girlfriend, but I understand that young people risk ostracism, abuse, even homelessness if their parents don't accept them. I know hate crimes against LGBTQ+ teens are real.  I'm glad these two young women have each other.

I wish you love in your life

I wish you love in your life.

Whether that means a great relationship with your mom,
Or sibling or cousin or letter carrier.
A nice person you work with, who asks how you're doing and actually listens for the answer.
A clerk or server who makes eye contact.

Or kids you're over the moon about.
Or a lover who looks into your soul and accepts all of you.

Or a friend who you don't text "sending thoughts and prayers" because
you're on the way over to their place to help out, bringing food and stamina.

Or a person you just met, whose smile makes your rib cage wanna burst.

Love everyone you meet, and this becomes possible.

Why I'm still wearing this awesome pink hat

This hat has agency. This hat creates brave space, all around me, everywhere I go.  I wear it every day.

I don't know how to knit.  Someone who couldn't go to the march knitted a whole bunch of these hats and sent them along which is how I acquired this one.

 I marched in the Women's March on Washington on January 21st, 2017.  It was a much-needed balm on my soul, a moment of connections with my siblings around the world who are asserting a version of reality that resists the narrative being forced upon us by others.

While some want us to live in fear, anxiety, subservience, acquiescence, disorder, and scarcity, and to blame those different from us as the cause of our problems, we came together to express our love of other humans, our affirmations of what we care most about.  We created brave space where Black Lives Matter, Women are human beings, our LGBTQ+ siblings are worthy of love and respect, and we weren't going to put up with a wall or a ban on Muslims. It was intersectional.  It was care-full. People pointed out where the ground was uneven: "watch out for that curb there." A visually-impaired person was separated from her group, and event organizers announced her name over the PA adding that "she is safe and is at the front right area of the stage."  People were looking out for the well being of one another.

It was a potluck: people shared water.  People shared food. Strangers hugged.

Pink hats, White house.

On my drive back from DC, I stopped at a Dominican restaurant, still wearing my pink hat. The owner of the restaurant asked me about it and thanked me for marching because she wasn't able to do so.  Strangers have thanked me every day for the past two weeks.  It feels not unlike the "thank you for your service" comments I receive on Veterans day.

A male friend of mine who attended a march in a nearby city told me he and his male partner were able to hold hands in public during the march. He doesn't feel safe to do that in our town.  I want to create brave space for him and others to be as they want to be, even if it's just a four foot radius around me.

Not everyone can see a safety pin attached to your coat, but most people can see this neon pink hat from across a street.  I'm still marching. (It's easier than carrying a mattress around.)

I'm white.  What am I doing to dismantle White Supremacy?

About a week ago I was having a dark night of the soul.  After a sleepless night worrying about a) the challenges facing the world right now, b) my own personal quotidian challenges, and c) my health declining because I was in a state of chronic anxiety, I decided I need to cultivate some balance, pace myself, and do a little bit each day to make progress, including self-care.  This is the new normal.

My balancing act triangle of self-care, microwork, and macrowork: I need to care for my body in order to be able to do the other tasks of my quotidian projects (my work that pays the bills, completing my educational goals, reading, writing, making music) and the larger project, what I call The Work, creating the new systems and supporting the transitions to these new systems through love, education and good policy development.  I'm reminded of the flight attendant instructions about putting on my oxygen mask before assisting others.  Framed this way, I'm reminded that sharing a meal with a friend is activism. Reading is activism.  Writing my dissertation is activism. Working with and against my privilege is activism. And I can do most of it while wearing this fabulous pink hat.

Community Roundtable Interview on KRZA April 10, 2015

Click here to listen to the radio show interview with Karen Lemke and Judy Burrell.

Mountain Lake

I have been to this mountain lake before.

I climbed the trail leading up through the foothills, through the biome changes, through trees, above tree line. We camp here, at the base of the mountain. This is our base camp.

For some of us, this is the destination. We wanted to sleep here, to wake lazily with the sun, to read or draw or write or make music or make love by the shores of a beautiful mountain lake. We wanted to see the brilliant stars and the Milky Way without the bother of light pollution. Or we wanted to bundle up in the tent and listen to a storm roll through, gentle rain, attempts to keep necessary gear dry. Like socks.

And for some of us, we want all of this AND. This storm *and* the view from the highest peak. This bacon over the campfire AND the stars on a clear cold pre-dawn start to the twenty hour day which has me off the peak by noon.

These experiences may not happen sequentially, or on the same day. I still want all of them as they come to me.

Raging Studios Thank You vs I'm Sorry recording

Click here to listen to an audio recording of "Thank you vs I'm Sorry" through the Raging Studios project at Adams State University.  Recorded in the Richmond Music Studio in the ASU Music building in Alamosa, Colorado, in the beautiful San Luis Valley.

I wrote the music and words, play flute on the track and perform the spoken word section in the second half of the track. Jeremy Thompson Yeats played the ukelele, and Ben Paden did bass/keyboard/drums/mixing.

You may purchase Raging Studios vol 1 on Amazon or Itunes.  All proceeds support the Raging Studios research project at Adams State University.