Category Archives: Politics

Politics, US History

Where is our Jazmin

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Spring and the Moon of Liberation (1% waning crescent)

Thursday gratefuls: Tara. Breakfast burritos. Shadow and Eleanor, buddies. Blood draws. Down the hill. Snow. Costa Rica.

Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.

Sparks of Joy and Awe:  Rich

 

Kavannah: Simcha. Joy.  I have such joy with my friends at CBE.

Tarot: paused

One brief shining:  In the phlebotomist’s chair. Again. Five vials. A slight push. Jazmin had found my vein. Whoa. She’s good. Efficient, too. Swap in one vial. My body fills it. Out. Another. Less than five minutes.

A working woman with delicate hands. She performs a frequent task with no fuss.

Jazmin.

Compare Jazmin’s careful, accurate insertion of the needle with, say, Trump’s depiction of himself as Jesus. Ham-fisted. Coarse. At the very least, rude. At worst, outright blasphemy.

Facing down, in a cowardly-lion way, the Pope. Who is the Pope? How many legions does he have? He cannot lecture me about war and violence. I have a Nobel Peace Prize. See? Right there.

JD Vance, he of the pliable values, instructs the Pope to be more careful when speaking about theology—to a man who has risen to the highest office in the Roman Catholic Church, who leads a nation of theologians.

Where are the Jazmins of the political world? Is there no one who will relieve us of these troublesome men? Who can identify the tasks before us, address them with care and confidence, and deliver policies that make our nation better—stronger?

They have yet to emerge. It may be that the route to the presidency weeds out politics’ Jazmins, ensuring that the thoughtful, the compassionate, and the competent fall away while the venal, the corrupt, and the cruel survive.

And yet history offers exceptions.

Obama, I believe, was one such man. His values were clear, his compassion evident, though his skills proved insufficient to overcome the forces arrayed against him. That is the nub of it.

A combination of humane vision and the political mastery of Lyndon Johnson is vanishingly rare.

When I consider history, I know such leaders have existed: the martyr Lincoln, the stalwart Washington, the canny Roosevelt. Perhaps the times make the person. Only in moments of rupture do we find those with the courage to heal a broken nation.

My sense, though, is that such people always exist, unnoticed by history. When peace and plenty prevail, effective leadership remains within reach. Many can—and do—lead. The demand for extraordinary vision lies dormant.

But then come the crucibles: the American Revolution. The Civil War. World War II. Nation-shaking events. Even our survival as a republic at risk.

It is, right now, such a time.

Our President, enabled by sycophants and toadies, lurches from boasting of a Nobel Peace Prize to extinguishing a civilization—glad-handing enemies while stiff-arming allies.

I do not know where they are or who they are, but it is past time for the Jazmins to show up—to ply their trade with skill and aplomb.

Eyes closed.

Hands in lap.

Wait.

.

 

 

Garden, Great Wheel, Greenhouse, Politics, Seed Keepers

Dysphoria

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Spring and the Moon of Liberation

Sunday gratefuls: Mental energy. Physical energy. Emotional balance. Support. Driving. Agency. Diet. Mini-splits. Dr. Josy.

Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.

Sparks of Joy and Awe:  The night sky

 

Kavannah: Wonder. Malchut. Seeing the aspen and the lodgepoles. Seeing Artemis.

Tarot: Four of Vessels, boredom. “…you may be overlooking new opportunities due to inward focus, fatigue, or dissatisfaction. It suggests a need to break routines and re-engage…” I have let fatigue and pain reshape, and narrow, my daily life.

One brief shining: Spring rising on the Great Wheel. Last Samhain–Summer’s End–I was still harvesting. A strong hint. Something’s wrong. Missed it in my joy over fresh tomatoes.

 

 

Samhain to Spring. My harvest extended well into November. I had planted late, in July, because Artemis took a while to finish. Seeing how the irrigation worked, tuning the heater and the exhaust fan for optimal tomato conditions, perhaps a chance to harvest some lettuce. That’s all I imagined.

The warm fall, which would extend into a warm, almost snowless winter, allowed the beets, spinach, kale, and tomatoes to continue growing, producing. I harvested these, plus a cucumber or two, until the nights grew too cold.

The garlic went in in early November, while I was still harvesting cherry tomatoes.

All of November, then December and January, now February and March I waited. To see snow fall among the lodgepoles. To have a quiet, white day. A fire in the fireplace.

Spring came nine days ago. Shadow Mountain went straight to summer. Wildfire risk: Extreme. Denver hit the nineties. I slept almost naked.

I have seventy-nine winters. None of them were like this one. Watching the snow fall. Sleeping in a cold bedroom. Bundling up to go out. Yes. Wearing a short sleeve shirt in March. No.

Time and the climate. Out of joint. We earn our spring through winter’s cold and ice. No contrast.

Lodgepole needles are brittle. Aspens, confused, push out buds. Elk herds have already started coming down to lower meadows. The Black Bears have been up and raiding garbage cans for a couple of weeks.

I asked Jackie, a fly fisherperson, whether she’d been out yet. “No,” she said, “The streams are too low.” Maxwell creek, in another year, would be deep and fast as the winter’s snow cover begins to melt. No snow to melt.

Trump says, “We’ll keep bombing our little hearts out.” I see my neighbors struggling to pay for gas and groceries.

I don’t recognize my own country.  Men I cannot trust; men who shame their friends and welcome autocrats. How have we let them in?

To be old and to have the fundaments of my world stripped away disorients me. Where am I?

I plant anyway.

Protest anyway.

I am here on Shadow Mountain.

 

 

 

 

Family, Korea, Memories, Politics, US History

Love it or Leave it.

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Imbolc and the Moon of Tides

Sunday gratefuls: Torah. Luke. Jamie. Galen. Nate. Ruth and David. Tara. Snow, a bit. Colder. Mary and Mark. Joe and Seoah.

Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.

Sparks of Joy and Awe:  Snow

 

Kavannah: Histapkot. Contentment.   Seek what you need, give up what you don’t need.

Tarot: Six of Stones, Exploitation. The Great Work–creating a sustainable presence for humans on Mother Earth.

One brief shining: Ruth plans to come up tomorrow evening with David, her very new boyfriend. She asked if we could have a fire in the fireplace. When I said, “Yes,” she replied, “Great! I’m bringing fixings for s’mores.”

 

Ruth does not want to stay in the U.S. Medical school abroad. Ruth’s middle school friend, Wilson, went to Glasgow for college straight out of high school. He does not intend to return.

Tara and Arjean will be living in Costa Rica this time next year. Marilyn and Irv checked out Costa Rica.

Love it or leave it. The bumper sticker aimed at the long-haired, draft-dodging, pot-smoking, acid-tripping college kids. Like me. Many of us, including Mike Hines, a next neighbor and good friend, did just that.

Emigration to Canada appealed. No draft. English spoken. Nearby. Friendly. Even so, I never wanted to leave. Stay and fight. My country, not right or wrong. Hardly. Home though. Worth trying to change.

So many of my former friends in the anti-war movement slid out of their draft exemptions into the job market. White privilege keeping us safe for at least four years.

I tried. Wasn’t any good at it. An apprentice manager for W.T. Grant. What was I thinking? After a move to Wisconsin, Judy and I bought a house. Settled into blue collar work.

I moved eight-hundred pound bales of Munsingerwear scraps, left over from cutting out underwear and t-shirts. Put them on a conveyor belt and ran them through a cutting machine. Preliminary to making rag-bond paper for the U.S. Treasury. Much better than W.T. Grant. Even so. Canada looked as good then as it ever did for me.

What does it take to dislodge a person from their home country? Economic collapse.  The Irish potato famine. War. Call these push factors.

What can pull young, bright minds away from their homeland? Foreign students, especially from China, came here for a more open and innovative education. Others for the American Dream. A house. Kids. Decent income.

What about, though, the Ruths and the Wilsons? Perhaps it is the stranglehold on money and power of the older generation. Mine. Perhaps it is a more general unease. Government in shatters. Bigotry ascendant. Climate change imminent. Or, perhaps these same factors have, over time loosed the mystic bonds we call patriotism, made them less, much less, compelling.

Ruth fell in love with Korea. Great medical schools. I hope she finds a good spot. Our kids are leaving not only home, but country.

I will miss them.

So will the rest of us left behind.

 

 

 

 

Fourth Phase, Health, Judaism, Politics, Shadow Mountain

Peace?

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Imbolc and the Moon of Tides

Thursday gratefuls: Tara. Fantastic Four. Shadow, the early riser. The U.S. military. The Middle East. War. Peace. Negotiations.

Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Snow

 

Kavannah: Shleimut.   Being present to myself.

Tarot: Ace of Vessels     My emotions need recharging from the deep waters of my soul. I am the stag.

 

One brief shining: Today they begin, the bone scan, the echo, the pet scan. Two cts. Is my body strong enough to withstand the trial? How we will know if the treatment I’m getting works. This bone scan against that one.

 

Not looking forward to the next week and a half. My life has pauses, then bang, bang, bang. More blood tests. More diagnostics. Since last May, the pace of surveillance has ramped up. A lot.

More scheduling. More rides needed. More information over my transom than I can keep up with. A lot.

Meanwhile, the world.  Crazy. Real estate developers as diplomats? A President against foreign intervention starts his second war this year. Israel a hegemon.

A headline says Ford, General Motors, and Chrysler may devolve into niche makers of the last gas fueled cars as China rises in building ones fueled by electricity. Many self-driven.

Climate change supercharges hurricanes. Ate our mountain winter. Sea levels go further into Miami. New York City. Thwaites Glacier rests precariously on warming Antarctic waters.

What about measles? Polio. Even covid and the flu. A polio survivor. I remember the line at age 8. Thurston Elementary. About to get a shot. The vaccine. How indignant it made me. Not fair.

Vaccines don’t work? Says the cabinet secretary, Robert Kennedy. Thanks to the polio vaccine, twenty four years later. 1979. Polio eradicated in the U.S. Measles outbreaks increasing.

The context of my old age.

Where can we find peace? Not in the clanging of the MRI or the cool gel of an Echocardiogram. Nor in bloodwork or office visits. Certainly not in the newspapers I read every morning.

A touch on the arm. Shadow’s tongue licking my hand. Tara sitting with her legs draped over the chair arm. Shadow and Eleanor playing, bumping, running.

The Mule Deer does that visit my front yard often. Dining on grass. Delicate. Graceful as they move across my field of view.

Ruth offers to drive up. Make me French toast. Even bacon. Gabe asks me to offer him fun facts about himself. He can’t think of any.

No matter. The craziness. The tests. No matter.

Even in the midst of external chaos. Teshuvah. Return to the homeland of your soul. I am a writer, a lover of nature, human partner to Shadow, curious, resilient. A friend and a brother and a cousin. A Jew named Israel.

I also love. My Ancient Brothers. My synagogue friends. Mozart. Shadow Mountain home. My life.

Peace lies not on the newspaper pages. Not in lab results or treatment protocols.

Peace lies in being who you are.

No matter what.

Family, Fourth Phase, Friends, Judaism, Korea, Politics, Shadow Mountain, Travel, US History

Is it time to go?

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Tuesday and the Moon of Tides

Monday gratefuls: Tara and Eleanor. Arjean. Costa Rica. Iran. U.S. Israel. Gaza. Lebanon. War and peace. Mark in Hafar.

Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Tara

Kavannah: Shleimut. My lev, calm. Clinical trial decision made. Living into the next.

Tarot: Knight of Vessels, Eel. My spirit, strong. My decisions, made. Old, not dead.

One brief shining: While I sit in peace on Shadow Mountain, Shadow gnaws a toy, asks for breakfast. Mary roasts in summer heat. Joe and Seoah shiver in a cold Korea. Everyone seems further away.

 

A conversation U.S. Jews. Is it time to leave? Is this a Weimar moment after Adolf took power? Friends Marilyn and Irv looked at land in Costa Rica. Decided not to go. Irv said he loved the mountains. Too old to leave.

Tara and Arjean. Have hired a property manager. Are cleaning out 27 years of stuff.  Move to Costa Rica sometime in June. Stay in AirBnBs as they scout for a place to settle. A year or so experiment.

Two times when I almost left the continental U.S. 1969. Got the call for my draft physical. To Indianapolis with all of my money and all my possessions. (not much) Would have moved to Canada like my old friend Mike Hines.

Turns out psoriasis worsens when wearing wool and in hot, humid climates. Army uniforms. Wool. Vietnam.

As I left the place where I’d had my physical, a serious man told me: “You cannot enlist in the Army, the Navy, the Air Force, or the Marines.” I asked him, “Are you sure?” When he said yes, I said, “Thank god.”

Second time. After Kate died. Joe and Seoah. Planned then to retire after Korea and move back to Hawai’i. Cleared out the house and garage. Researched places on Oahu where Kepler and I could live. Checked out synagogues. Studied my budget.

Jon died. I couldn’t leave Ruth and Gabe.

My sister and my brother, Mary and Mark. Long time expats.  Mary now in Melbourne and Mark teaching ESL to young Arab men. Joe and Seoah: Hawai’i, Singapore, and Korea. Nine years

State Department urges Americans to leave the Middle East. Mark stays. Hafar has no military targets. He lives among the Saudi citizens. Not in an Aramco US compound. An old Saudi hand at this point.

I’m the stay at home of a far flung family.

When is it time to leave?

 

For me. Not yet.

Ancient Brothers, Family, Fourth Phase, Friends, Politics, US History, World History

Holding Opposites

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Imbolc and the Moon of Tides

Monday gratefuls: Ancient Brothers. Shadow, my downward dog. Iran. Israel. U.S. Gaza. Hezbollah. A cool, dark morning.

Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.

Sparks of Joy and Awe:  The Deep Blue Sea

 

Week Kavannah:   Shleimut.   The alignment of the inner self with outer actions, bringing a sense of completeness to life.

 

Tarot: Three of Bows, fulfillment       Teshuva, alignment between neshama and the Self, a power that flows through me.

One brief shining: Fulfillment. Satisfaction. Not happiness. Joy in writing with more precision. Nouns. Fragments. Revising, a process with which I still struggle. My Shadow life. My Ancient Brothers life. My Jewish life. Engaged with Iran and with Mark, close by in Hafar.

 

Painful. To see Iran and my Ancient Brothers. The same day. Mary, down under. Joe and Seoah far away. Mark far away from me but near war. Grocery shopping and day care. A man pets his dog. While death races along the streets of Tehran. The One, yes, but. Pain and love, together again. Always.

A danger. Exhaustion from the steady, too steady beats of killing, of government acting in Iran and not acting at home. Epstein files. Rising health insurance costs while medical care disappears. Hospitals close. Cost of living rises. The cost of war.

So easy to turn away from accelerating drought in the Rockies. From those who need the Mountain Resource Center. ECHO’s food bank. Easier to launch Cruise missiles, Tomahawks. Drop bombs.

Ruth coming up to make me breakfast. Her specialty, French toast. This Saturday morning. Gabe sharing the poems he wrote in Oregon. Ruth in college, Gabe getting ready. Their lives full with preparation. Classes. Applications. Learning. Testing. Readying themselves for a future with dramatic climate change, increasing acts against Jews and Blacks and Latinos. What they have been thrown into.

I work. My candle is lit. These words. Those words. A Hansel and Gretel trail leading to, leading to what? A record of an Alexandria boy grown into a man. A man who acted. In theater. On the streets. In the soil. On the page.

A man whose life unfolded in the shadow of war. Whose maturation, delayed, came when conservatives began to gain ground. In 1981 Joseph’s plane landed. The wicker basket. Reagan inaugurated.

Fatherhood. Joyous. Daunting. Inspiring. Joe turns 45 this year. Seoah 48. I turned 79. Ruth will be 20. Gabe 18. That thin, yet strong line of love expressed as Ruth masters chemistry, Joe watches North Korea. I learn to write.

Too late?

We braid our lives into each others. French toast. Sunday morning themes. Breakfasts at Aspen Perks. Eleanor and Shadow playing hard. Parallel. Our braids. Their braids. The wider world. Iran. Israel. Minnesota fighting ICE.

Ruth goes to class. Bombs drop. Joe goes to work. ICE leaves Minnesota. I write. Cartels ship fentanyl. No life independent of another. The web of life woven by photosynthesis, by kisses and hugs, by acts of war.

Life. Lived in paradox and irony. Always. Holding opposites.

 

Judaism, Poetry, Politics, US History, World History
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Imbolc and the Moon of Tides

Sunday gratefuls: A restful Sabbath. Tara’s home. Eleanor will come. Iran. Israel. U.S. Khamenei. Morning darkness. The power of myth. Rumi.

Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.

Sparks of Joy and Awe:  Superman

 

Week Kavannah:   Shleimut.   The alignment of the inner self with outer actions, bringing a sense of completeness to life.

Tarot: Six of Arrows, transition

My inner world. Moving to the clinical trial and to a focus on draft 2 of Superior Wolf. With confidence.

One brief shining: Fusing the clinical trial decision with the ongoing evolution of my writing style. A sail like the Six of Arrows, full with the winds of agency, of growth, of resolve.

When I was in college in the last millennium, I met four students who identified as Persian. 1967. Street theater. Guerilla theater. Their Tehran was a place of deep culture and tradition. Long standing Persian culture in contemporary dress. A place of creativity contained and encouraged. They inspired me, then involved in a theater minor and modern dance.

At each turn of Iran’s fortunes, from the self-coronation of the Shah to the Iranian Revolution and the hostage crisis and to this morning’s headlines, I go back in time to those vibrant students. Their Iran has always stuck with me, especially as the cold hand of Shia dogmatism tried over and over again to crush it.

Talk about civilizational erasure. Bearded clerics. Covering women. Killing dissenters. Funding resistance to Israel and to Sunni Islam. Hezbollah. Hamas. Houthis. Persian culture in a burkah.

Khamenei assassinated. A part of me is so happy. I imagine those students, now in their old age, feeling an opening, a moment for theater of the people. A theater of liberation, one opening possibilities. How I wish I’d stayed in touch, remembered their names.

Part of me grieves his death. Not as a rigid dogmatist, but as a man. His life stopped.

Yet another part of me gets a thrill seeing the muscular actions of the U.S. and Israeli militaries. Taking the fight to Iran instead of suffering blow after blow from terrorists funded by Iranian oil. Take that, fundamentalists. Oh, to live in a world of black and white. Good U.S. Bad Iran. Too old for that.

I admit it. I don’t know what to do with those parts of me. A long time anti-war activist. Fighting American imperialism decades before our own authoritarian grabbed power. Ironic. Work for self-determination. Vietnam. The Lakota. Persians in a closed and throttled Islamic state.

I will not even use war metaphors for cancer treatment. Not a fight, or a struggle, rather a wounding. Needs healing, not gun-boat metaphors.

The problem? A pre-emptive war with no defensive justification. Gun-boat diplomacy. Reactionaries succeeding. Naked imperialism. Might makes right. It doesn’t.

In this frame? A more intellectual reaction. I’m appalled. No matter the apparent rewards, reinforcing the king is bad. Bad for the U.S. Devastating for nations around the world. Don’t catch his attention.

We contain, as Whitman said, multitudes. I see mine in reaction to this brutal smackdown. The dominant male in me. Yes. Yes. Yes. A patriarchal part of me. One I know to not entrust with the steering wheel. In there though.

Dawn arrived on Shadow Mountain. Shadow got fed.

 

Family, Friends, Holidays, Judaism, Politics

Close. Yet. Unaffected.

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Imbolc and the Moon of Tides

Shabbat gratefuls: Class with Jamie and Luke. Cardio. A transformation grid. Shadow, a sweet girl. Iran. Israel. Gaza. The West Bank. War and peace.

Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.

Sparks of Joy and Awe:  The Night Sky

 

Week Kavannah:   Yetziratiut. Creativity.   Feedback on my new writing style.

 

Tarot: King of Vessels, Heron

One-legged I stand beside my inner river, feeling joy, fear, inspiration. Purim. Starting the trial. Writing.

One brief shining  Life pushes things together: Warren’s sister dies. We celebrate Purim.  Explosions wrack the Middle East.  Iranians die. Dawn comes to Shadow Mountain. YHWH echad.

Shadow Mountain continues its snowless winter.

Trump strikes Iran. Executive power abused as royal decree.  He uses, like the neo-royalist he is, American fighter jets and bombers, aircraft carriers, to enforce his personal grievances. No checks. No balances. The sound of bombs shattering ears.

My brother, Mark, in Hafar, Saudi Arabia, lives 156 miles from Iran. Just across the Persian Gulf. He says there are no military targets nearby.

A similar situation. In 2005 I helped Joseph move. Late August. While we carried boxes into his Breckenridge apartment at 9,000 feet in the Rocky Mountains, Hurricane Katrina devastated New Orleans. I felt lucky. 9,000 feet above sea level. In the heart of the continent. Lucky and a bit, what? Guilty. Privileged. Distant.

Close. Yet. Unaffected.

This sabbath I write at my own mountain retreat. Far from D.C. Far from the Persian Gulf.  In my country’s name ordnance falls from the sky. Persians seek shelter in Tehran. Jews seek shelter in Tel Aviv. Jerusalem.

I seek shelter. From my own government. Find it in the One.

Warren’s family grieves. His sister died this week. Pneumonia. MS. A creative heart stilled. I’m far from that, too. St. Paul.

This Monday evening. Purim. Drink until you can’t tell the difference between Haman and Esther. A celebration of a female hero who stood up to Haman, the Persian royal vizier who would destroy the Jews.

Kate loved dressing up for Purim. She would wear a coat she made for Joseph, a coat of many colors, and a floppy hat. Our first Purim at Congregation Beth Evergreen, 2016, my mouth dropped open.

Dan Herman, then president of the board, came in carrying a case of beer on his shoulder. Others brought several bottles of wine. A bar in the sanctuary. All through the service congregants would go to the bar for another beer or more wine.

Groggers, noise makers, sounded every time Haman’s name came up in the megillah, the scroll of Esther. Their grating sound joined with boo’s.

This sabbath, this Rocky Mountain day, I watch the candle burn. Will study Torah at 10. Relax.

Persia. Iran. Jews. A long, long story.

Mark teaches English to young Arab men. Close. Yet. Unaffected.

A scribe adds to the scroll.

 

Friends, Music, Politics, US History, Writing

Bodies

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Imbolc and the Moon of Tides

Friday gratefuls: Rich on Wall Street, the national anthem. Wild Flower. Downtown Evergreen. Dr. O’Leary. No skin cancer.

Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.

 

Sparks of Joy and Awe:  Breakfast with Rich

Week Kavannah:   Bitachon. Confidence.     I need to focus on confidence this week. Important decisions for cancer treatment, how to stay confident when physical weakness challenges me.

 

Tarot: #6, The Forest Lovers

In my writing I’m learning to balance animus and anima, listening to both, especially as I link my work to the natural world.

 

One brief shining: Wall Street. More wicked than I knew. Built by slaves of Dutch owners, the first Wall Street. A stockade. In 1711 a slave market there, a city slave market. Rich taking his honors class from Colorado School of Mines. The Body Politic. Politics of the body.

Early breakfast with Rich Levine. The Wildflower’s door was open, so I went inside, sat down. Noticed on the menu: 7:30-2:00. It was 7:20. Oops. Owner came out of the bathroom, started. “You scared the shit out of me. Want a cup of coffee?” I did.

When Rich showed up, laundered and starched white shirt, blue Patagonia vest in 12 degree weather, I greeted him as a Minnesotan. Cold weather proof.

He ordered the Athena, a vegetarian omelet.  A Mountain Skillet for me, eggs and chicken-fried steak, wild potatoes, and pancakes.

Over coffee, while we waited for our food, Rich told me of his pending trip with his class, the Body Politic, to New York City. Most interesting to me? Wall Street.  Built by the enslaved.   Later a city slave market.

The owner of Wild Flower delivered Rich’s omelet, my Mountain skillet. “Ready for a refill?”

We ate.

Plantation cotton fed Wall Street’s growth. Eerily, I also discovered mortgage backed securities sold to foreign investors. The collateral? Enslaved people. Aetna insured the enslaved as property.

Rich also pointed me to later stanzas of the national anthem which include these verses:

“No refuge could save the hireling and slave

From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave”

The British armed the enslaved. We sang, “Sweet land of liberty.”

A couple more cups of coffee later Rich told me his Ob/Gyn daughter was pregnant. His second grandchild, a sister for one and a half year old Felix.

Bodies feeding. Bodies about to be born. Bodies aging.

We parted ways. Love you, Rich. Love you, Charles.

Started up a begrimed Ruby. Drove away smiling. Energized.

Rich wants to collaborate on Even the Gods Must Die, my first novel. Vulnerable. My first.  Not confident it shows skill. He says that doesn’t matter. It matters. To me.

Admission. I plan as many revisions to Superior Wolf as necessary to make it sing. Then. I’ll use ChatGPT to help me find an agent. A place I got stuck a while back.

 

Health, Politics

Calibration

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Imbolc and the Moon of Deep Friendship

Friday gratefuls: Rabbi Rami. Rabbi Jamie. Rich. Marilyn. Tara. Alan. Stephen Miller. Judaism. Two Jews, three opinions. Teshuva. Tikkun. The One. Morning service. Kabbalat Shabbat service. High Holidays. Passover Seder. Purim. Simcha Torah. Shavuot. Succoth. Tu B’Shvat. Hannukah. Bet din. Mikveh. Sabbath. Israel. Holocaust. Pogroms. Reconquista. Mussar. Blessings. Belonging before believing. Reconstructionist. Reform. Conservative. Orthodox. Tanakh. Torah. Songs. Writings. Shiva.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Cinema

Life Kavannah: Wu Wei    Shadow, my Wu Wei mistress

Year Kavannah: Creativity.   Yetziratiut.   “Inspiration exists, but it has to find you working.” ― Pablo Picasso

Week Kavannah: Tikkun  Olam. Repairing the world.

  • Lurianic Kabbalah: A 16th-century mystical belief that the world was created by divine vessels that shattered, scattering “sparks” of divine light. Humans perform tikkun by gathering these sparks through prayer and mitzvot.
  • Modern Social Justice: Since the 1950s, the term has become a shorthand for social action and progressive activism, such as environmentalism and human rights.
art@willworthington

Tarot: 10 The Wheel

“The Wheel has turned; change is at hand. In all nature, there is a time and tide. The cyclic laws of birth, death, and rebirth are ever revolving and, without change, all things stagnate. How you deal with this change is the issue here. Within the tangled and tightly woven fabric of chance, you have the power to make a difference. By your own action you can change your life.”  Parting the Mists

 

One brief shining: On walking into Ginger Itaewon I noticed a string of Korean flags and on the front wall, the word Itaewon in large yellow letters, naming a culturally diverse, tourist friendly neighborhood in Seoul, yet over the cash register hung a portrait of the Thai king and the door to the kitchen had a colorful Japanese cloth room divider. Culture clash.

Evergreen: Drove over to Evergreen for lunch with Rebecca at Ginger Itaewon. Turns out the owner, a former Texan, is Thai.

I planned to calibrate through this lunch plus the drive to Evergreen and back how much accommodation I need to make to head drop. I had it figured about right. A half hour drive plus an hour and fifteen minute lunch, then a half hour back home found me nap ready.

No more driving into Denver. Perhaps western Lakewood, no further. The combination of holding my head up while I drive, then sitting for an hour or so in a chair with no head support? At the outer edge of my capacity. Holding my head up now calls on back and shoulder muscles that begin to fasciculate under the strain. Effects my capacity to use silverware, eat from a plate. Geez. Eating out’s not as much fun.

Now rescheduling any days on which I have two medical appointments. Used to bunch them for convenience, now I can’t handle more than one a day.

Just a moment: Drawing down 700 ICE agents. Leaving only 2300-only?-in Minneapolis. Still not getting the message. ICE out now!

Friend Tom sent me this link to an MPR article: Pursued by Federal Agents Suburban ICE Observers Remain Resolved.

Here a couple of paragraphs:

“Elizabeth and other suburban observers interviewed for this story said they haven’t seen federal agents de-escalate their activities since Homan’s arrival. In fact, they’ve noticed more federal agents on the roads, and the agents have moved from merely mocking observers to aggressively pursuing them or using dangerous tactics to try to box them in on suburban roads.

“I think they’re getting angry that we’re winning and the country is rallying around us,” Elizabeth said. “We’re so organized and we act with such integrity. They don’t want to admit they feel threatened by us.””