General

Gray Hair, a Side Benefit of Aging

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77!  bar steady 29.79  2mph S  dewpoint 50  Spring

                 Full Moon of Growing

This may be one of those years where we skip spring and plunge right ahead into summer.   I prefer a little foreplay before it heats up, but we may not get it.

The trunk now has clean, fresh oil. While waiting on the oil change, I read and edited Stefan’s first poems.  He’s got such a good ear, it will be a pleasure working with him.

My passport application has gone into the Department of State.  This picture looks good, the gray hair makes me look better in photographs.  A nice side benefit of aging.

Just finished drying off blanched vegetables preparatory to putting them in plastic containers for the refrigerator.  Blanching gives the vegetables a bright color, sweetens them and preserves them, in the fridge, for meals.  They have become like snack food to me.

Nap now.  Workout. Go to Scott’s for the Woolly meeting.

Garden, General

The Hawthorne Giant Shakes His Shaggy Head

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64  bar steady 29.81 2mph S dewpoint 50 Spring

             Full Moon of Growing

It’s that time of year again.  The time, that is, when I have to pull the shades of my east facing computer room windows.  Otherwise, it heats up in here.  Pretty fast.

If we’d get some rain to get with this warmth, we’d have plenty of blooms.  I have daffodils and tulips getting close.  Went out yesterday and wandered through our woods and garden.  While looking at one of the large beds shifted from flowers to vegetables, a lily question came up.  Namely, where did I plant all the lilies I had in that bed?  I’ll be damned if I can recall.  They’ll come up as a surprise. 

The Hawthorne giant must have shaken his shaggy head and stomped off to the Arctic circle.  Hope he finds cool weather when he gets there.

The rock wool cubes in which I planted the lettuce dried out last night, at least in the smaller of the hydroponic setups.  I don’t know why.  The plants themselves don’t seem affected, so I conjecture that their root system now reaches down into the nutrient solution.  Learning while we go. 

The truck needs an oil change and I need to read Stefan’s poems and finish the book on Mastery that Tom Crane sent.  So, I’m off.

Faith and Spirituality, Family

A Tradition Thousands of Years Old

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59  bar rises 29.84 1mph NE dewpoint 46 Spring

             Full Moon of Growing

Kate and I observed a tradition thousands of years old tonight.  We got out the Haggadh, put the horseradish, cilantro, haroset, boiled egg and lamb bone (we substituted a chicken leg.) on a Seder plate.  A small egg shaped cup held the salt water, the Elijah cup stood ready for his return.  We had matzoh and we hid the aphikomon for the dogs.  They were, as the passover ritual suggests, children unable to inquire.   We worked together within the limitations of our planning and availability of certain goods to produce a meal, to read the Seder ritual and retell the timeless story of enslavement and liberation, the Exodus.

This Haggadh, the language and shape of the Seder laid out in book form, is hopeless.  It is sexist in the extreme; sexist where no law of faith requires it.  Kate suggested I write one of my own and I just might.

It is a little strange for me, metaphysically speaking, to participate in this ritual with solemnity, which aspects of it requires.  Once I get in the flow of it though the ritual and the language and the songs blend together and become a hymn to the life of a people and their relationship with their highest and best sense of themselves.  It is a story which acknowledges human frailty as well as longing for the divine, bravery as well as fear.  It is their story, but also our story.  Bondage, liberation and the struggle for freedom belong not just to the Jews, but to everyone.

Faith and Spirituality, Garden, Great Work

Matzo Located In Coon Rapids

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69!  bar steep fall 29.84 3mph ENE dewpoint 49 Spring

                     Full Moon of Growing

Boy.  With the temps in the high 60’s the full moon of growing has matured during the right weather. 

Good news.  There are Jews just across the city line into Coon Rapids.  Both Cub and Rainbow have many shelves with matzo meal, borscht, chicken bullion, matzo soup mix and potato pancake mix.  Bad news.  Manischewitz has back ordered passover approved matzo.  Bummer.  So, we will have to anoint the regular matzo as ok for passover.  It’s ok; I’m a minister, I can do that.  Not really, but what choice do we have?

The world as a whole is miraculous and in its parts, too.  I put more seeds into small plugs of earth, readying them for life under the bright lights until the weather is congenial for their presence in the big show outside.  Each seed I handled, most very tiny, a few bigger, say half the size of a small pencil eraser, had all that was necessary to produce a beet, a morning glory, a cucumber, basil, rosemary.  All these mighty engines need is a bit of help.  Water.  Light.  Some nutrients later on, but in the beginning they carry their own food source, stored away from a plant long ago gone to seed, perhaps compost now, but it lives on in these small parcels.

The imagery was impossible to not notice.  I took a pick-up (Adsons) and deposited the seeds into the crevice in the center of the small prepared plug of earth.  After I dropped in the seed, my role finished.  The rest is up to the seed and the things that nudge it into action.  Later, plants.  Food captured and processed, food made from light thanks to another miracle, photosynthesis.  Think of that:  food from light.  That’s what these living parcels can do.  Something we couldn’t do, ever.  No matter how learned and wise.  If not for photosynthesis, we’d starve to death in the midst of abundant energy.

Faith and Spirituality

This All Sounds a Bit Woo-Woo (OK, Maybe More Than a Bit)

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42  bar rises 29.99 2mph NNE dewpoint 41 Spring

            Full Moon of Growing

“People often say that this or that person has not yet found himself. But the self is not something one finds, it is something one creates.” – Thomas Szasz

I agree with Szasz (the anti-psychiatrist famous for his views about schizophrenia) that the self is not something one finds.  I agree with his critique of the notion of finding one’s self.  I disagree with his conclusion though, that the self is something one creates.  Over time I have developed a personal perspective on this issue, one related most closely to Carl Jung’s work, but a bit different from his, too.

Intuition tells me that the Self of each living thing is unique and much larger (at least in potential, perhaps in size) than the always incomplete self we realize at any one point during life.  The Self is the harmonious and dynamic interaction of all that an individual life can become.  I imagine it as an incorporeal (don’t ask me about the physics) reality, a sort of etheric entity that stands taller and looms larger than I do.  It may, and I suspect it does,  connect us to a metaphysical plane, perhaps a realm of archetypes, where our individual, unique moment in the great stream of looping time feeds from the  purest and best of its manifold possibilities.

This all sounds a bit woo-woo, I know.  I can only tell you that after many years of prayer, meditation and Jungian analysis this is the sense I have of who and what I am and could become.  This same process has led me to conclude that every grass plant, every daffodil, every oak tree, every yew also has a Self toward which it reaches, with more and less realization in a lifetime.  Dogs, lions, crawdads and centipedes, too.  This is why the Japanese indigenous religion of Shinto, an animist faith, and Taoism, a testament to the dynamic, connected and living nature of all there is appeal to me.  

The empirical, western, enlightenment man within me only lets these thoughts surface when I’m alone lest I be perceived either as a lunatic or a throwback to some neo-Platonic dead end of philosophical speculation.  And I may be. 

It is impossible, all the same, to deny what the heart knows to be true.  There is more to this, too.  I also believe in cyclic, not chronological time.  That is, I find the rhythms of the universe, the whole to which we are certainly connected by as intimate a link as the very atoms which constitute our bodies, to be those of repetition, seasonal and episodic.  What goes around comes around.  Whatever will be has been (to rephrase a canard).  This idea I find deeply reassuring since it suggests some reincarnation type possibility, not a one shot and extinct life.  I say this in spite of my almost deepest conviction, borne on an empirical and existentalist raft, that this one life is all we have.  In fact, though I live my life as if that were true, my heart, again, tells me otherwise.

In the spirit though of plan for the worst, hope for the best, I do believe the existentialist, one shot and extinct, approach gives living the most buzz, the most vitality and engenders, too, a deep sense of responsibility for each other.  It is, therefore, to me, an optimal way of being even if we get, as I suspect, second, third and even gazillionth chances to realize our true Selves.

OK.  That’s enough of that for the morning. I have to go buy potatoes, Matzoh and cake meal.

Faith and Spirituality, Great Wheel, Great Work

No Matzoh In Andover

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47  bar rises 29.95  3mph N dewpoint 40 Spring

                     Full Moon of Growing

No matzoh at Festival in Andover.  No lamb.  The butcher said, “We only carry it for holidays.  Can’t push it any other time.”  Not many Jews in Andover either, apparently.  This is a big one for Jews all over the world, but not big enough to create a market for lamb at the local supermarket.  No matzoh cake meal either.  All this  means a trip to Byerly’s tomorrow.  Plenty of Jews in and around Maple Grove.  It’s all about the market.  Plenty of Hindu’s in Maple Grove, too.

I don’t imagine there are many Parsi here either.  Oh, well.  It’s probably fair to say that I’m one of a handful of the Taoist inclined, too.  May be a few Chinese folks and me.

Just finished the Saturday workout.  This one’s a bugger and my muscles can tell they’ve had hard use.  It’s the only way to make’em grow and the only way to compensate for age related loss of muscle mass.  It’s important, but it doesn’t make it easy.

The world is a strange, big place.  While I did my resistance work, I listened to a program on the evolution of the planet.  The irregular catastrophic punctuations in her history gives me pause.  The Chixilub meteor, fissure eruptions, super volcanoes, snowball earth, a few ice ages here and there and pretty soon, as Evertt Dirksen used to say, you’re talking about real extinction events.  It may be that we have come on the scene in a period of Pax Terra; but, based on our history as a planet, I’d say it won’t last.

Faith and Spirituality

Tell Your Inner Pharaoh: Let My Whole Self Go!

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44  bar rises 29.89 2mph N dewpoint 40  Spring

                Full Moon of Growing

Have a good weekend!  This cheery greeting, usually delivered on Friday to departing co-workers or customers, has a bittersweet undertone.  It might mean, have a good week-end, because how could you have a good work week.  Week-ends in American culture, at least since the 50’s, have been a time of personal autonomy sandwiched in between the days spent workin’ for da man.  We might go up to the cabin or  hop on our John Deere and mow that suburban lawn.  It might be the time for a brew and a game.  Church on Sunday morning.  A picnic.  Play time with the kids.  Whatever.  The essence of weekend is whatever.  Whatever you choose to do.

It is this last that always captures me.  Each day, not just on weekends, we have choices about what to do.  We might perceive our week as so packed with duty, so loaded with responsibilities and obligations that there remains no room for choice, for the exercise of free will.  No escape.

It is not so, however, not ever.  As humans, we have not only the freedom, but the responsibility to scan our lives and decide whether the choices we make match up with our own deepest values.  If they don’t, something needs to give and it might be all those duties and obligations. 

Too hard, you say?  The downsides too great?  I can see how you might say that, but let me reverse those questions.  What is the price of continuing on your present course?  What downside do you face from chewing up your soul each day, then trying to patch it back together at night or, on the weekend?

We celebrate this weekend such a crisis moment for the Jews of Ramses II’s Egypt.  In those days the Jews, according to the Torah, had traded their rescue from starvation for the life of slaves.  They spent their days working in the fields, on construction gangs, making bricks.  It seemed, to any objective observer, that they had no freedom, no choice in the matter.  After all, they were a poor, subject people ruled by the mightiest land in all the known world.  They lived out back in the slave quarters, while the Egyptians lived in the big house.

What could they do? 

Moses, a child of the slaves, had grown up in the pharaoh’s court through circumstances which you know.  God spoke to him.  Tell pharaoh to let my people go.  This frightened Moses and frightened many of the Jews.  Freedom scares us.  Something bad might happen.  Yes, things are bad, but they could be worse.  Just imagine.

God was insistent.  Moses came back from Canaan and confronted Ramses.  He would not let the Jews go.  They were his slaves, why should he?  Let the Jews go.  Ten times Moses insisted, ten time Ramses said no.  After the tenth plague–one followed each of Ramses’ refusals–Ramses’ relented.  The death of the first born proved too much.  The angel of death had been thwarted in the slave quarters by lamb’s blood smeared on door frames, so death passed over the homes of the Jews.  Thus was born this celebration of liberation we know today as Passover.

There is more to the story.  The Jews leave Egypt and set out on the Exodus, one of the great emigration stories of world literature.  What happens along the way?  Many of the Jews don’t like the sudden freedom, the necessity to fend for themselves, the lack of certainty about where they will find next week’s and next month’s food.  Some want to go back to Egypt.  Even Aaron, the brother of Moses, helps the people melt down their gold to create a golden calf, an object toward which they could send their pleas.  There is a lot of backsliding, a desire to return to that old, familiar world where freedom didn’t exist, where choice was not a possibility. A world known. 

Every day we face the same questions the Jews faced in Egypt.  Every day we face the same questions Ramses faced.  Our frightened inner self, fearful of the consequences of autonomy kneels in front of the cultural Ramses we have each inherited as we grew up.  A brave, hopeful aspect of our self, perhaps the dreamer or the rebel or the advocate rises up every now and then against our inner Ramses, but all too often all he has to say is, no.  Think of the cost.  Think of the choices you will have to make on your own.  No, better to not quit your day job.  No, better to not take the risk with the significant people in your life.  No, let’s just leave things as they are.  At least we know what happens.

Some day though, on some great wakin’ up  mornin’, the dreamer within us decides that pharaoh must let his people go.  That no matter what the risks, the desert of an unknown future is better than continued subjugation.  Then, we step off the plantation, turn our back on the south and head north, toward the drinking gourd.

Is life easy then?  No.  Do we build our golden calves, false idols that try to subjugate us once again?  Of course we do. We are, after all, only human.  Yet now we have tasted freedom.  We know how to say no to pharaoh; and that lesson, once learned, cannot be unlearned.  It will always prod us forward, keep our legs moving toward the promised land.

So, over this weekend, this passover weekend, I hope you’ll take a moment in private and consider a confrontation with your inner pharaoh.  Send him ten plagues, hell, send him twenty, but don’t give up.  Tell him he has to let  your whole Self go.

General

Generous Rain

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50 bar falls 29.87 11mph N dewpoint 29 Spring

                 Waxing Gibbous Moon of Growing

Two tours today.  A Weber for about sixteen people.  Attentive, engaged.  Ditto for the Community College World Religion’s class.  All I need to feel successful is to have engaged, talkative tours.  Something happens that’s good then. Whatever it is.

Generous rain in the city, but very little here at home.  We could use some. 

I’m tired; but, I have to workout now or I’ll skip it and I need the time on the treadmill.  So, off I go.

General

I’m Not Sure I’m a Unitarian-Universalist. I Suppose That Removes All Doubt.

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43 bar steady 30.01 0mph NE dewpoint 36  Spring

             Waxing Gibbous Moon of Growing

At last.  A night where I was not the biggest loser at sheepshead.  Bill Schmidt and I tied for high for the evening.  I had great cards and some good luck, plus I’ve had a long lesson in sheepshead from masters.  It was fun to do well at last.  We’ll see if I’ve actually learned something as the games continue.

Kate and I watched Mission to Mars, most of it.  A surprising, hopeful Mars film.  Many films about Mars end with everybody dying, but this one offered an improbable, but not impossible conceit about how life came to earth.  What?  You’ll have to catch it to find out.

Tomorrow I have two tours, a Weber and a Concerning the Spiritual in Art, focused on non-Western religions.

The presentation for Groveland took an odd, but interesting turn today as I got ready to get started.  I had decided to face head on the question of UU identity by talking about identity development from a psycho-religious perspective.  The idea was to offer resources Groveland could use to develop a UU identity.   When I began to write, I started with a couple of U-U jokes.  Then I remembered an old anthroplogy lesson about joking behavior.  Our jokes define the boundaries of our group; they are an important device through which we can know who is in our group and who is not.  I’ll explain this a bit more later, but the presentation should be a lot of fun.

Due to various things I didn’t exercise from Saturday through Tuesday.  My back began to spasm and remind me one of the good reasons for all this time I spend with weights and flexibility work.  So, I got back to it yesterday.  Yesterday and today I did a particular series of movement exercises which go a long way toward a more limber me.  They worked.  All better now.

Art and Culture, Our Land and Home

A Failure of American Education

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46  bar rises 30.08 0mph N dewpoint 32 Spring

            Waxing Gibbous Moon of Growing

“There is no cure for birth and death save to enjoy the interval.” – George Santayana

Santayana liked football, but only practice.  While at Harvard, he attended practice faithfully, but never went to a game.  His philosophical wisdom has a firm place in American letters though he retained his Spanish citizenship until his death.  Here’s a sample of his poetry:                    

I give back to the earth what the earth gave,
All to the furrow, nothing to the grave.
The candle’s out, the spirit’s vigil spent;
Sight may not follow where the vision went.             

As Americans we too often forget our own poets, philosophers and people of letters.  We scan back over the literary and artistic output of Western civilization to find exemplars.  If we’re truly catholic, we might even include Asia, but how many among us know Santayana?  Dewey?  James?  Emerson?  Thoreau?  How many have read, say, Moby Dick?  Whitman?  Emily Dickinson?  Even Frost and Sandburg beyond their iconic poems?  Willa Cather?  Have we heard of Charles Hartshorne?  How about Ambrose Bierce?  Wallace Stevens?  John Dos Passos? Sherwood Anderson? American has produced great artists like Pollock, the Hudson River School painters, John Singer-Sargent and Whistler, but again who knows them?  Only a few.

This is a failure of American education and of our willingness to learn our own heritage.  This is not trivial.  A people who do not know where they come from, as Santayana famously said, are doomed to repeat the same mistakes. 

I will add a brief bio here from time to time of more American persons of belles lettres.  Our future depends upon us becoming more than casually acquainted with them.