Johann Gottlieb Fichte, inventor of the personal identity that, stolen by the romantics and rewired like Frankenstein you are making use of to browse through these words, said this:
That’s how it is. Love, that is actually love and not simply a passing fancy, never tethers itself to what is past but wakes to, is inflamed by and comes to rest only in the eternal.
Can you imagine saying that in public today? It was revolutionary in the late 18th century. It is still revolutionary. This is revolutionary:
That’s what eternity looks like. That, said Fichte, is the point by which we should measure our love: not what those yellow-bellied marmots were up to last year, so it can be repeated, but what they are going to be up to 100 years from now. The time between is eternity.
It would be beautiful if we taught the children of the Okanagan and the Okanogan that in our country grass doesn’t compost and make food for worms. Actually, this is a story that stretches from California to the Boreal Forest, in the channel of fire between the mountains. Look.
That’s Great Basin Wild Rye, three years of it, perhaps four, standing tall. No composting. No humus. No soil building from the leaves. No worms. None of that. Those things come from Europe. They don’t know what to do with a grass that lives in the sky.
Notice how it holds seeds for years.
They only fall when you, or someone with four legs or two wings, rustles through them. The concept of years, or the cycle of the seasons, is nonsense in the vicinity of Giant Rye Grass. We should tell the kids.
Every day, all day, he keeps watch. We have a winery that calls its shtoof and burble Calliope, but forget that. The thing to remember about him (and his magenta neck ruff, which he will fly up high and display, with wings outstretched) is that he is not a Canadian bird, or an Okanagan bird or any other thing like that. He is one of the old ones and he’s as small as a dwarf shrew, and that’s small. We’re in his way. Well, unless we plant a rowan. He likes them.