AncienTrails

Yule and the Quarter Century Moon

Friday gratefuls: Rabbi Jamie. Loving rebuke. Unloving rebuke. Mark in Al Kharj. Hyperpanda. Saudi Arabia. Mary in Brisbane. Diane healing. My son. Seoah. Murdoch. Eleanor. Kingsley. Tara. Arjan. More Snow and Cold. Mini-splits keeping me warm. Go, heat pumps. Mussar. Listening for the melody of other persons. Salmon. Russet Potatoes. Asparagus. Baby Beets. Celery. Mandarin Oranges. Muesli. Milk. Protein powder.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Firefighters

Kavannah for 2025: Creativity

Kavannah for this January 10th life: Perseverance & Grit  Netzach

One brief shining: Rooting around for something to eat for dinner last night, peanut butter and English muffin, no, ramen, no, Chicken potpie, no, then, there in the back of the top freezer door, a rubbermaid container, what is it, Senate Navy Bean soup, the last bowlful, ah.

Let’s see. LA on fire. Trump gaining his long deserved status as a felon today. Our criminal President. The picture of the Presidents at Carter’s funeral. Every one with a hand over their heart. Except for cousin Donald. And how bout that threshold we just passed, eh? An average “2.7 degrees Fahrenheit, above those the planet experienced at the start of the industrial age.”*

Wonder if the wizard in his Mar-a-Lago Oz has a heart for him? Doubt it. Already taken by the cowardly lion. I can see Trump’s inner persona with a Bert Lahr face, without the humor.

That threshold? It was the goal of all the carbon dioxide emission heroics planned. If only we do these things now, we’ll stop the rise of the hockey stick at or below 2.7 degrees F. How we doing on containing emissions anyhow? We did reach a record last year there, too. The highest rate of carbon emissions ever. That’s right. All the angst generated in all the world and not only have we passed a critical threshold going up, a failure, we’ve ensured a yet hotter world by increasing rather than decreasing carbon emissions. All in the article linked to below.

Oh. And that felon about to run the most powerful nation in the world? He got this: (an) unconditional discharge, in which a defendant is not fined, locked up or given probation. You can read more details about this outstanding moment in Presidential history here: Trump Sentenced.

All this ripped from today’s headlines. Gosh, gee whiz. What an interesting country we have. What a hot country we have. What a felonious President we have.

LA burning? a tragedy for humans and infrastructure. One that will take decades I imagine for a full recovery. Here’s an irony. I don’t how much, don’t even know how to figure it out, but much of the water pouring down on those fires has to have come from Colorado Snow melt draining into the Colorado River.

Just a moment: Sometimes the world around me outstrips my ability to grasp, understand it. Even at a rudimentary level. I’m ready for four years of daily lessons in humility.

*2024’s record breaking heat.

Yule and the Quarter Century Moon

Thursday gratefuls: Rabbi Jamie. Laurie. Tara. Eleanor the dog. Rich. Joanne. Marilyn and driving in the dark. Irv. Nate. Cold. Snow. Dr. Whited. CT scans. Aortic artery. The heart. The lev. Mussar. This too is for the good. Doctors, Nurse Practitioners. Physician’s Assistants. Medicine.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Cancer

Kavannah for 2025: Creativity

Kavannah for this January 9th life: Chesed – loving kindness

One brief shining: This computer, the one recording my fingerstrokes in bits and bytes, I bought in a slight morphine haze after having had my left knee replaced in 2016, eight years ago this last December; I will receive its replacement, another Dell tower and new curved 32 inch monitor today, which means that awkward phase moving from one computer to another will begin soon after.

I have two addictions these days. One is buying books. And keeping them. The other is buying a new computer every now and then. I don’t need to. In either case. But both of them trip a little trigger that delivers the equivalent of sugar water for rats in a cage. Given that my previous addiction, alcohol, was both destructive and over time cost more than these two combined, I have come out about even I reckon. Can you say rationalization?

Anyhow my shiny new platinum Dell tower will arrive along with a bigger, curved, 4K screen. That means I can take this 27 inch screen downstairs and watch Criterion Channel movies on it. Or something. I’m just grateful that my thing is not new cars, or houses.

Mussar last night. The stories we tell, this group of confidants, soul replenishers. The seeing and being seen. Intellectual stimulation. Gentle challenges. Digging into the inner world with each other, sometimes guts and all. Hugs and smiles each time we meet. Lunches and breakfasts, texts and phone calls in between. A sphere of intimacy as close as BFF’s, approaching family without quite the same level of obligate love.

Kate and I came to this group together until she died. I went as her spouse. She was on the board at the time. Eight years, or nine. Long enough for the Velveteen Rabbit effect to have worked on each one of us.

Just a moment: Conflagration. Crown Fires. Santa Ana Winds. Movie stars. Canceled premieres. Canceled houses. Armageddon. Hard not to wax apocalyptic. We’ve all seen L.A. burn, get swallowed by earthquakes, invaded by aliens, wrecked by rampaging gangs. This time though the disaster is not on the lot, the lot is the disaster. Life imitating, well, art. Sort of art that is.

And add the compassion of a past, yet future President, who says: the fires are Gavin Newsome’s fault. Just makes it all the more surreal.

California is a repository of the American Dream, one forged by those who kept going west until they got stopped by the waters of the wide Pacific. And sometimes Dreams devolve into nightmares. Right now in LA.

Selfishly, I hope we’re not the next fire prone area to make national news.

Samain and the Moon of Growing Darkness

Wednesday gratefuls: Ley Septic. Living Waters. Snow and cold. Great sleeping. Sue Bradshaw. Synthroid. Celebrex. Erleada. Orgovyx. The bubble gum and baling wire keeping me alive. Laurie’s Chi-Town Food Truck. Laurie’s dog. Joy and Kaitlan. Rich and Rick. Mary in Oz. (Aus). The Pacific. The Southern Ocean. The Atlantic. The Sea of Japan. The Yellow Sea. The South China Sea.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Mark’s new job

Kavannah: Perseverance and chesed

One brief shining: Snow came in through the screen of my opened bedroom window, sprinkling my head with a Mountain Winter baptism, Waters evaporated into the Sky, perhaps from the Pacific Ocean or the Gulf of Mexico, falling on my head, including me in the great cycle of Water, a most holy act of Mother Earth and her sacred Atmosphere, necessary for sustaining life, and preparing me for the life I lead today, this November 27th, 2024 life.

Thanksgiving is tomorrow. Disputed cultural territory, yet a beloved holiday, too. Now followed by Native American Heritage Day. Better known right now as Black Friday. Whenever potential customers go idle thanks to holidays, ads and special promotions announce its coming and try to wrest a few bitcoins from the collective purse. The curse of the holiday times.

Oh, part of that, too. Sporting events get scheduled. Plenty of seat time. On this point, see the aforementioned ads and special promotions times 2. Thanksgiving football. The Detroit Lions and the Chicago Bears. For example. In some instances the sporting event is the holiday: Superbowl, World Series.

I choose to let the curse be a mild one, granting the capitalists their pound of financial flesh. I can enjoy a meal with Ruth, Gabe, and Jen without participating too much. As our time at the Water Grill tomorrow will allow.

Family. Friends. Loved ones. Together, seeing, being seen. Hugs. Smiles. Reawakening old relationships, reinforcing new ones, sustaining active ones. Humans connecting around important themes: Gratitude, Light, Darkness, Sacred Nature and her progeny. Love.

As we all pass through this Holiseason, well underway, I hope you can take every opportunity that presents itself to pinch yourself, you’re alive! You have friends and family! And if not, my wish for this Holiseason is that you find one or the other or both.

Just a moment: Saw Sue Bradshaw, my PCP, a nurse practitioner and a sweet woman. Each time she sees me she takes my hand and smiles. I smile back, squeeze her hand. Healing before any talk or probing and prodding.

We discussed my multiple medications and conditions. I told her she was taking good care of me. Well, I’m trying, she said. Then added, look at you, you walked in here. I replied, Yeah, as we might say back home, above ground and taking nourishment.

How bout that cease fire in Lebanon? You go, Joe. Underappreciated, yet still putting in the hours and the big effort. A sad end to a good Presidency, perhaps now lifted a bit by a diplomatic holiday miracle. A late November surprise.

Beltane and the Shadow Mountain Moon

Sunday gratefuls: Ruth. Jen. Gabe. Sarah. Northfield Nighthawks, class of 2024. Ritchie Center. Pomp and Circumstance. Elgar. Mortarboards and gowns. Rituals. Rites of Passage. Alexandria High School, 1965. Nuggets v. Timberwolves. Battered Fish and chips. Bangers and mash. A perfect post graduation meal.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Ruth, the graduate

One brief shining: Up from the gymnasium floor, above the first two tiers of smooth concrete seats, we found four in a row, sat down and waited through an excruciating band warmup, a practice presentation of the colors, other family and friends streaming up even higher past us, until Elgar’s piece* used for the inauguration of Edward VII, and the Northfield High School Class of 2024 began to file in, mortarboards turned to art projects with glitter and team symbols, their teen wearers torn in that liminal space between serious moment and unrestrained hilarity.

Yes. It happened. Ruth graduated! Sarah and I drove down, I chose to park faraway and Uber in. To save a lot of walking. In that sense it worked well. However, I did park faraway. Further than I thought. Yeah, sure, maps. Who needs a map? I knew where I was. And, I did. It just wasn’t close to Denver University. Oh, well.

The whole ceremony, once it began, ran right at two hours. Done pretty well. Things moved right along. It was one of thousands of high school graduations that day. Just one. But it was the one. The one that mattered for us. Ruth’s day.

We tried to locate her. Hard even though we knew she’d sit in the fourth row from the back and on the right side facing front. I mean, there were all those blue gowns and faces obscured by unfamiliar funny hats with tassels. Plus, just to give it another degree of difficulty the girl who sat next to her had the same curly hair. Oh. There she is. We waved. She didn’t see. How could she?

There were many speeches. A lot of flying high. A lot of you will succeed against any diversity, will persevere, will find your dream if you work hard and stay kind.

Then, Ruth crossed the stage: Ruth Elizabeth Olson. Her moment. Our moment. Diploma and Nighthawk metal feather in hand she went down the steps and back to her seat next to the curly haired girl and that was that. Well, in another 30 to 45 minutes.

Dinner after was at a British Pub themed fish and chips joint where Ruth and Gabe and I have eaten many times. Where we ran into more graduates, in particular Wilson, a former friend of Ruth’s from her Macauliffe days.

*BTW: Elgar’s composition

The title is taken from act 3, scene 3 of Shakespeare‘s Othello:

Farewell the neighing steed and the shrill trump,
The spirit-stirring drum, th’ear-piercing fife,
The royal banner, and all quality,
Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war!^[1]

Spring and the Purim Moon

Thursday gratefuls: Diane. Rebecca. Mussar group. Rabbi Jamie. Evergreen Market Cooking School. A usual busy Thursday. Alan and Tara tomorrow. Shabbat. Then, Socrates’ Cafe. Jackie. Purim Spiel. Sunday. Ancient Brothers. Evergreen Chamber Orchestra. Busy guy. Bechira. Choice point. Kehillah. Community. Resurrection. New life.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Choosing how I feel

One brief shining: Got a call two nights ago from Joanne, hello Charlie, do you still want the Shema on your tallit, yes I do, thank you, you’ll look spiffy.

Over the next few days I’ll have lunch with Rebecca, breakfast with Alan, attend Thursday afternoon mussar, have a session on Jewish holidays with Rabbi Jamie, learn knife handling skills at a cooking school, continue work on my torah portion with Tara, participate for the first time in the Socrates’ Cafe, go to a Purim spiel at CBE, discuss pleasure with the Ancient Brothers, and attend a chamber music concert at St. Laurence Episcopal. Gosh. Cramming human interaction into a four day weekend. More than I usually do in a month.

All the while last week’s storm slowly sublimates, Great Sol beams it up, up, up into Water vapor. Half of my driveway looks like the leading edge of a Glacier with striations of Snow laid down at different points of the storm compacting each other, creating a layer cake look. In the back where the white has no disturbance the drifts and shallow areas quietly lose their height, as if they were a slowly deflating balloon.

My revenant from yesterday has moved on or sunk back in. This morning I’m glad to see Great Sol, glad to see my Lodgepole companion, glad to sit here on the third level of Shadow Mountain Home, and write.

Moods swing. Sometimes like that big, big swing in Bangkok*. A huge swing, over 90 feet high, featured in a ceremony with Hindu origins. Certain Thai folk would swing and swing and swing trying to reach a bag of coins placed on a pillar. Occasionally one would reach out for the bag of coins, miss, and fall to their death. Mood swings can have us reaching for a bag of feelings just out of our grasp, feelings that would either make us finally all right, or doomed.

So many suicides, I’m sure, were people on the Giant Swing, hoping for relief, any relief, from suffering, reaching for it. On a less dramatic note we can allow our moods to engulf us for a minute, an hour, a day, a week and while there to wreck havoc on our sense of well-being.

I’ve learned some tricks to deal with them. Tal’s How do I feel? Writing blog posts. Knowing that they’re moods and not permanent conditions. An awareness that they come and go. Perhaps talking of Michelangelo. Prufrock let his  mood take over.

*According to ancient Hindu mythology, after Brahma created the world he sent Shiva to look after it. When Shiva descended to the earth, Naga serpents wrapped around the mountains in order to keep the earth in place. After Shiva found the earth solid, the Nagas moved to the seas in celebration and made the earth stable completely. The Swing Ceremony was a re-enactment of this. The pillars of the Giant Swing represented the mountains, while the circular base of the swing represented the earth and the seas. In the ceremony Brahamanas would swing, trying to grab a bag of coins placed on one of the pillars. wiki

Imbolc and the 77 Moon

Shabbat gratefuls: Snow. Cold. Winter Storms. Bringing Water we need. My own tiny Aquifer. A steel blue overcast Sky. Black Mountain gone. (I suspect it’s still there, though) Lodgepole Branches gathering Snow. The Supreme Court. Alan. Relationships. My life’s focus these days. Including with myself. Bereshit. Mishpatim. Parshas I’m studying now. That Shabbat feeling. Candles.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: The Eye

One brief shining: The Lodgepole out my window has Branches focused toward the east, toward Great Sol’s return appearance after a Mountain night; on Their west side, where Their colleagues grow, the Branches never emerged, the same true for Others who face out toward the open air with an eager reach, why waste energy where it’s all shade anyhow?

Been thinking about sexuality and aging. Yes, I know about the rising instances of STD’s among those in their seventies, geez guys and gals. Come on. Not my point. Good for them except for the no protection part. No, I’ve been thinking about myself and others like me, not an insignificant sized group I imagine, who have had their genital sexuality compromised by surgery or drugs. Or, indifference. Yes, it happens as many of you know.

In my case a prostatectomy and subsequent radiation, drugs, and two years of chemo have left me nonfunctional sexually. Been the case since 2018 or so. Kate’s illness made this less of a problem than it could have been. I know. TMI. Maybe. Nobody’s gonna hold you down and make you read this. However I know I’m not alone and I feel like this lacunae in our common conversation needs fixing. I mean, we’re all adults here, right?

In the case of those us who have had androgen deprivation therapy (adt), a usual treatment in the case of prostate cancer, the goal is to push testosterone, which feeds the cancer, as low as possible. The standard is the level of testosterone in a man who has been castrated. Testosterone goes low, so does the sex drive. My T score has been around zero for the last 9 years.

Doesn’t mean I don’t have desire. It’s rare, but it does happen. Yet even so the combination of low testosterone and other chemical insults mean I can no longer get an erection. Factor in fatigue from a funky thyroid, now remedied, and fatigue from the adt drugs and the chemo. Not a lot of energy of any kind, let alone sexual energy.

However, all this is prolegomena to the main thought. That is, what does gender mean in such a situation? I’m a man, a cisgender male. Heteronormative in my desire. All my life. And happily so. Yet what am I now? In effect I have been chemically castrated. My sexual drive gone. And even were it not, a real inability to function as I had for my adult life until cancer.

Who am I now? Am I a eunuch? Am I still a man in the strict biological sense? What do these losses mean for me as a man? I’m not sure. I feel the same in most ways. Yet I also know I’m changed. Not the same as I was fifteen years ago. Am I now a solitary, a hermit not only by emotional inclination but also by biological reality?

Samain and the Winter Solstice Moon

Friday gratefuls: Alan. Joan. InSpire concerts. Bread Lounge. Bastiens Steak House. DAM. Heidi Saltzman. Irv. Kippahs. Mussar. Great Sol. The sacred surrounding us, above us, below us, within us, around us. Like Water vapor in the Air. Supporting us like the Granite and Gneiss of Shadow Mountain. Energizing us like our morning coffee. Mezuzahs on my front door, my back door, my bedroom door. Moving between spaces, thresholds, liminal spaces. A sacred moment. My son arriving on a 747 from Calcutta 42 years ago today. His wonderful life.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: My son

One brief shining: Turned off the electric menorah with all eight lights plus the shamash going dark, watched the bright blue beeswax candles burn down on my crystal menorah after saying the Hanukah prayer for the eighth time, finished with my first Jewish holiday as a Jew, feeling my Jewish identity grow and strengthen, as it does when I touch the mezuzahs on my door frames, put on my kippah.

42 years ago tonight. At midnight. A 747 landed in Minneapolis. The night was bitter cold, well below zero and it had come from the warmer geography of the Indian subcontinent. Within were two nuns in blue and white habits each carrying a wicker basket with two tiny babies. When they deplaned and came to Raeone and me, we were suddenly, immediately, right then parents. Oh. My.

My son (whose name I don’t use for security purposes for him.) lay next to the boy who would later become Willie. By happenstance a work friend, Luann, had also adopted from India and her son was in the basket next to ours. Not sure how she did it but Raeone made off with the wicker basket. Which she still has. What happened to the other two I don’t recall, my gaze and attention fixated on the 4.4 pound body of OUR baby. Would we kill him? His body, wrinkled and brown, looked too small to survive. And we were responsible? Yikes!

The short answer. Almost. At the time I drove an orange Volkswagen, the original bug. Which, from time to time, including this time suffered from frozen gas line syndrome. We sputtered to a stop a mile or two from the airport on our way home. The bug immobile. Oh, oh. Fortunately for my son and Raeone, Luann and Willy came by, recognized my car, stopped and took them to our house in Minneapolis.

Me? Not so much. 15 degrees below zero and windy. This is, btw, before cell phones. A truck stopped. A Latino man got out. I explained. He offered to tow me to our house. Thank God. He had a tow rope in his truck, hooked it up and I rode with him.

He came inside with me to see my son and warm up a bit. His name? Angel. As I said above, the sacred surrounds us.