the great turtle

I live on land that belongs to the Lenni-Lenape. They were willing to share it, but we took it anyway.

Long before Abraham's covenant with the same God worshipped by the same folks who brought us napalm and ICBMs, the people here had their own Creator, Kishelemukong, who "creates us by his thoughts."

A Great Turtle plays a role in the creation story, and we evolved from trees.

In the midst of Hobbesian turmoil, I try to remember this. The Lenape survived here for 8,000 years, give or take a thousand, on the same lands we've made uninhabitable.

Come May, I will again kayak in the Hackensack ("Ackingsack") Meadows. This time I'm offering a prayer to Kishelemukong.

colony collapse disorder

Walking to school in the dark of winter allows for thinking, but when it's truly dark, my thoughts seem wordless.

The past week or two, a hint of steel blue light has softened the eastern horizon, and now words bubble up as I walk. I try to hold on, but the words make little sense once the sun rises. What follows may only make sense in the earliest dawn light in February.

The bees have been dying again, but the mites are not to blame. Scientists call it Colony Collapse Disorder, which sounds like something curable with a serotonin uptake inhibitor. The almond industry may be threatened, but I'm more worried about the bees than the almonds.

The bee colonies look fine from the outside, with bees wandering in and out the hive, but when the hives are opened, most of the bees are gone. Not dead. Gone.

The assumption is that the bees die outside the colony--any other explanation gets one into tinfoil hat territory.

Bees are far more sophisticated critters than most hominids realize, and while a spike in almond prices might have a financial impact here (my love adores almond butter), I am troubled by this for more basic reasons.

I think my sister's death may partly to blame. She was killed by a Christian missionary's errant driving, a gentleman who has assured me that he will "ask God of the Universe to bring you solace and sympathy." Earlier he let me know he's been asking God to give me the faith to keep trusting God's plan. I might put more weight in his words had his God of the Universe asked the missionary to stop immediately after his actions tore my sister apart, but no matter.

So now I put my faith in an apple orchard in Tipton, Michigan--the bees keep buzzing, the apples keep coming, and this past summer saw a resurgence of honey bees around here. Mary Beth's breath helped feed the trees.

Last time I touched my sister was when her blood oozed onto my hands as I rummaged through what remained of her car. After crawling through the wreckage, my hands were smeared with red blood, a miracle of sorts, as she had been dead for some time by then. I went to a diner with her lover, ate without washing my hands, an act of Communion of sorts. I think folks who worship the God of the Universe have a similar ceremony.

According to entomologists, the Colony Collapse Disorder probably started a couple of years ago. I think it started November 2004.

And I think all the bees are flying to Tipton.