Stirring the Cauldron

New Moon Newsletters from Jessica Prentice

New Sap Moon

March moondark kitchen notes
from Jessica Prentice

The moon is new! We have just moved into the lunar cycle known as the Sap Moon in the Old Farmer's Almanac. Over the years I have written about this lunar cycle many times. I have written about maple syrup and about palm sugar. I have written about sweetness, craving, and addiction. I have written about slavery and the sugar industry. I have written about how white sugar affects the body. The Sap Moon lends itself to all of these important topics. But on another level, the Sap Moon is about something else. It is about faith.

The running of the sap in the maple trees of the north is something that only happens at this time of year -- a time when the earth is still covered with snow and ice and there is as yet no visible sign of spring. But the thaw has begun. The first drops of sweet nectar from tree taps was living proof that nature is in a constant state of change and flux, and that there is a lot going on underneath the surface. There are forces moving that we cannot even begin to perceive.

How does the sap of the maple tree know when to begin its journey up through the trunk and out to the ends of the branches where it will feed the buds and the leaves? I don't know. I'm sure there is a scientific answer to this question, but I prefer to contemplate the mystery.

A few weeks ago the ornamental plum tree planted in front of our house burst into flower. My partner commented as we drove around the area that all the plums on all the streets were suddenly blooming, though they hadn't been the week before. It was a poignant reminder that the seasons are always turning, and that nature has its own schedule. It does its own thing despite the fact that we may be behind in our emails or our taxes. Somehow the plums all knew that it was time to bloom, and they did.

Last week, I asked a farmer at the farmers' market whether he had any goose eggs yet.

"Not yet," he said. "Could be any day now. But I guarantee you, if you see a goose egg anywhere else, I'll have them too. In all the years I've been keeping geese that's always been the case. If there's a goose anywhere in Northern California laying eggs, mine are laying too."

"So they all start to lay at the same time?" I asked.

"Almost the same day," he replied, "somehow they all know it's time to lay."

At the farmers' market this week, I saw the season's first basketful of big beautiful white goose eggs. I guess the geese got whatever magic signal they were waiting for.

People who are receiving this email in the Northeast or Midwest might be gritting their teeth by now: Plum blossoms? Goose eggs? It's still winter here and we're still frozen! (So I guess I shouldn't gloat about the three bunches of asparagus I've already enjoyed!) But my whole point is that even in the seemingly frozen north, spring is surreptitiously arriving as the sweet sap has begun moving in the trees.

And the message I get from that sap is this: have faith.
And also this: you're not in charge.

There's a simple reason that this is the message I'm getting at the moment: it is one I need to hear.

I admit to feeling some despair about the state of the world at the moment, and about the deep divisions and misunderstandings that are persisting between peoples who share the same planet but not the same culture or values. I also witness and experience divisions and misunderstandings in my day-to-day life, and sometimes it seems very hard just to get along with members of my own community or family, despite our many shared cultural values. Other people hurt me and I hurt them and conflicts come up despite the best of intentions. A turn of phrase feels like a slap in the face, and we go into defensive mode, striking back. A certain cartoon feels like much more than a slap in the face and then there's a riot and people die. Lines are drawn, tensions are high, and there is reason to despair. There is blood shed or tears shed; violence or anger; shooting and bombing or yelling and screaming.

Have faith.
You're not in charge.

If we are feeling powerless it is no surprise. It is hard enough sometimes to figure out when to say "I'm sorry," or how to say "that hurts" -- even to the people we love the most. How much more difficult to resolve conflicts that have been going on for millennia and have involved millions of people?

So we try to take charge of our own lives, to empower ourselves to pursue our dreams and to follow our conscience. But we have all seen good intentions end in disappointment. And even when our dreams come true, it can feel like a mixed blessing.

I have been dreaming of publishing a book for years and worked long and hard to accomplish that goal. And yet when I talked to my publisher last week and was informed that the book is at the printers -- that after five years of concerted effort, ink is actually being put to paper -- I felt sick to my stomach. There is so much fear and vulnerability in the knowledge. I am afraid of disapproval or of judgment. My heart jumps into my throat when I consider that what was once held deep within is now exposed and unprotected. No longer sheltered inside me, it becomes like a newborn infant that could so easily be harmed. It is hard not to be fretful -- especially if you're a control freak like me. It is no wonder that so many people put aside their wildest dreams and choose some other path. It is simple self-protection.

Have faith.
You're not in charge.

And yet I know that I am like that maple tree -- the sap moves within me and it must do its work. And I am like that plum tree -- I will put forth blossoms or die trying. And I am like those geese -- my eggs might not be golden but I must lay them anyway. We are not so separate, so different, from the nature all around us as we think we are. We have been given life, and life moves through us. Like the maple trees, we have more than we need; we have plenty to share.

And to me, this is something divine. I know there is a biological, physiological reason that the sap moves, the goose lays, and the plum tree blooms. But that does not detract from what will always be, to me, a miracle. A reason to have faith. A reminder that there is a force much larger than me at work, and that I am blessed to be able to take part in a grand unfolding mystery. I have no idea how it will end or if it will end or what the future holds -- and no one else does either.

For Ash Wednesday I went to services to receive the mark of ashes on my forehead -- a reminder that I come from the earth and will return to the earth. It is a sobering but not a sad message. It is just another reminder that I am a being that lives and someday shall die; that I am a part of the nature I see all around me and love so dearly. I am just as mortal as a tree or a goose, and I am also just as precious. When I go to church I hear a simple message:

Have faith.
You are not in charge.

Clearly, it is something I need to hear over and over again, in many different ways. It is something I wish I could whisper in the ears of many around the world who are filled with anger or despair, people who plot the destruction of another. But then I remember: I am not in charge. And: I must have faith.

And so today, like so many days, I make that choice. To trust in a universe that offers up plum blossoms and goose eggs and maple sap. And to make my words as close to prayers as I can make them. Because each one of us needs to make an offering, and this is mine.

click to: book summary

Full Moon Feast Food and the Hunger for Connection by Jessica Prentice Full Moon Feast invites us to a table brimming with locally grown foods, radical wisdom, and communal nourishment.