Winter and the Leap Year Moon
Monday gratefuls: All my wounds have closed up except for one. Antonio the dog trainer comes today. Great pictures from Joe and SeoAh. They look very happy. Kate’s new feeding tube. The dawn. The mountain spirits. Shinto. Kami. Miyazaki. Spirited Away.
TGIM. Thank god it’s Monday. All those worker bees heading into Denver and points down the hill. Less traffic up here for us old folks. Even after all these years out of the work force, Mondays find me with a bit more energy, ready to go. The weekends, especially Sunday, feel slower, like time to get domestic chores done. Old patterns.
Kobe Bryant. Dead in the fog. And his daughter, Gigi. Shocking. 41.
But, not as shocking as the orange tumor on our democracy. The kewpie doll of political malfeasance. Hit him with a soft ball. Bounces back up. Hit him with a hardball. Bounces back up. Hit him with so many balls thrown by himself. Bounces back up. Gotta admit I don’t get it. His bad judgment, his callous disregard for people, facts, history aren’t enough. His not disguised meanness of spirit, his habit of berating those with whom he disagrees, firing those closest to him. A mess of a man. And, our President.
In Resurrection: Ertugrul they are fond of day follows night as a metaphor. Ertugrul fights, as the translators have it, the cruel. Just, the cruel. The oppressors. Our state, as did the Seljuk state of Ertugrul’s time, needs a resurrection moment.
States do rise and fall, often from the corruption and incompetence of their leaders and not from foreign invasion. A haunted country. The ghosts of Nathan Bedford Forrest, of Father Coughlin, of Benedict Arnold flit around our body politic, pouring their darkness into so many hearts. While we allow these once dead ideas life, the better angels weep.
Haven’t thought about it, but Trump has presided over the years of our discontent here on Shadow Mountain. His soul sickness infecting life everywhere. No, he’s not responsible for our challenges, our troubles, but having him in office hasn’t lifted us up either.
Yet. I can feel it, the new day for our country. It’s trying to rise, vault over the Front Range, light up the Continental Divide, break the grip of this dark night of our collective soul. It will not come from politics, though they will reflect it as the moon does the sun. It will come when those of us, no matter our liberal or conservative or radical inclinations, say this is not the way forward. We can no longer see ourselves represented as the cruel.
I have, like so many, a fondness for our great ideals. For the notion, however shaky, that we are all equal before the law. For the U.S. as a beacon of freedom, a place for the teeming masses yearning to be free. For a country where the voiceless can be heard. A nation dedicated to these truths life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.
It is these ideals, the ohr of our collective and individual souls, that I can feel stirring. We cannot let this St. John of the Cross moment be without its redemptive turn. We will not. I feel sure.