Category Archives: US History

A Firefly Lit Lane

Spring                                                         Bee Hiving Moon

Down the well this morning, tapping into the underground stream.  Still searching for an image.  Something to coalesce the third lifetime, the third phase of this body/mind’s adventure here on earth.

One came to me.  Suddenly.  But it feels apt.  I’ll have to let it set for awhile.  Work with it itself in the imagery extension section of the workbook, but it feels pretty good.

The image is of a lane headed back into a woods where the lane continues but with tree branches creating a leafy roof over it.  The time is late twilight, the season late summer.  The air is cool but humid.  And the lane, where it enters the woods, is lit by thousands of fireflies, blinking on and off, shifting locations, providing a weak but real luminescence so I can follow the path into the woods.  Because the fireflies are spread out along the path’s length, they also give the lane a feel of depth, as if it proceeds quite a long way into the woods.

This is not a mind birthed image, but a memory.  I saw this lane and these fireflies several years ago during a trip to New Harmony, Indiana.  I’ve written here about New Harmony before, but just as a reminder, it was founded by the Rappites who created a very successful religious community there in the mid-19th century.  Much of New Harmony’s built environment has its roots it that era.

When they moved to Old Economy Village in Pennsylvania, the Welsh industrialist Robert Owen bought the whole town for his utopian community, a quasi-socialist endeavor.  He brought with him from Britain a number of scientists and engineers committed to his scheme on a ship dubbed the Boatload of Knowledge.  The community didn’t last long, but the U.S. Geological Survey among other things grew out of the efforts of the people who came to New Harmony.

Since that time, New Harmony has continued to have a religious and intellectual bent.  In fact, as I looked down the lane into the firefly lit woods, on my left was an open air Episcopal Church designed by famed architect, Philip Johnson and on my right was a small garden marked by tiny drumlins planted with firs and dotted with boulders carved with quotes by Paul Tillich, the Protestant theologian, whose tomb lies there, too, in Paul Tillich Park.

In fact, this aerial photograph shows the spot where I stood between the open air church on the left and Paul Tillich Park on the right, looking north down the lane into what at night was a tree lined bower over an ancientrail leading into an infinite distance.  This feels like a perfect third phase image.

Kairos

Imbolc                                                      Hare Moon

A bit more on an old topic, inspired by thinking about Jenkinson’s remarks that appear below.

The humanities are important as just that, the human forming portion of our educational deposit.  Over the millennia, stretching back to the time of gods emerging from the deserts of the Middle East and continuing right through the poetry and literature and painting and sculpture, the movies and television and games, the sports and horticulture and domestic arts of our day, we have had to grow into our lives, into our identity as human beings. It is not easy, but it is the most important task we have and the one which the family, the schools, our societies and cultures exist to engage.

This is not an argument for the humanities over science, technology and mathematics.  Far from it.  We have needed and will continue to need the valuable insights that come from deep thinking about the atomic structure of things, the hard rock science of the earth, the softer touches of the biological inquiries and the neuroscientific and all the other forms of scientific endeavor with which we humans engage.  But consider the difference in importance between raising a boy or a girl and lifting a rocket ship to the moon.  Which matters more?

It is not in the theory of evolution or in the biological sciences or in matters astronomical that we find the answer to such a question.  Even though we often pretend it is in this insecure age the answer is not in the psychological studies.  No, the answer to a question of value, of significance, of which is more than this lies only in the realm of culture.

The most important task of our time is said simply and defined humanistically, but requires the sciences in all their potency to finish:  create a sustainable human presence on this earth.

Why is this most important?  Because if it is not accomplished, the earth, no matter our scientific prowess, will scour us from her face.  She will make the thin layer of our habitation, from maybe 6 inches below the surface of the soil, to maybe 12 miles or so above the earth-the troposphere where most weather occurs-outside the parameters necessary for our existence.  That is, as the biologists are found of saying, an extinction level event.

So we are at a moment of kairos, a greek word meaning the opportune time.  Paul Tillich a theologian of the last century saw kairotic moments as “…crises in history which create an opportunity for, and indeed demand, an existential decision by the human subject.” Wiki His clearest example from the mid-point of that bloody hundred years was World War II, but even WW II and WW I put together do not equal the crisis we face now, a kairotic moment which, as Tillich said, demands an existential decision by us all.

(damaged relief of the Greek god Kairos of 4 century. BC)

The will and the skill to make that decision, a decision for or against our children and our grandchildren’s future, lies not in the sciences, but in the humanities.  It is in our sense of who we are as a species, as a being with a history, that we will find what we need to decide.  And, contrary to many, I am now convinced that the biggest barriers confounding our ability to make a non-suicidal decision lie in the realm of governance, a thoroughly humanistic endeavor.

Strip away those disciplines that force us to consider our humanity and we will be left with the calculus of Malthus.

 

 

 

Merchants of Doubt

Imbolc                                                            Valentine Moon

 

Spent yesterday doing the Climate Change course.  A fascinating series of lectures titled Merchants of Doubt.  Primary author of the book, Naomi Oreskes, is a historian of science at U. Cal. San Diego and a lecturer in this course.  This book and her lectures make a compelling and important case that climate change denial has its roots in the work of a small group of distinguished scientists, three initially:  Robert Jastrow, Frederick Seitz, and William Nierenberg.  All three were cold war physicists working on nuclear arms.  All three distinguished themselves.  Jastrow became head of the Goddard Institute for Space Studies, Seitz was president of the National Academy of Science and Rockefeller University, Nierenberg headed the Scripps Institute for almost two decades.

Read Great Wheel for the expanded story. The three of them worked on an advisory panel for Reagan’s Star Wars Defense Initiative.  When 6,500 scientists refused to take SDI money or work on it in any way by signing a petition stating their intentions, it caused great concern among these three cold war physicists.

The three created the George C. Marshall Institute to challenge the scientific consensus against Star Wars.  Seitz also worked for RJ Reynolds as a consultant.  In 1989 the cold war ended. The U.S. had won the cold war.  This deflated the rationale for the Institute; but, using the strategies developed by the tobacco industry, “doubt mongering”, the Institute went on to attack the science behind acid rain, ozone holes and eventually, global warming.

This methodology, honed in tobacco wars and practiced against acid rain and ozone (unsuccessfully, as it turned out), has been blisteringly effective against climate change science and its policy implications.  Why?  Read the rest of the story on Great Wheel later today or early tomorrow.

 

Write About Baby Animals.

Winter                                           Seed Catalog Moon

Gabe, to whom I read some of my blog entry about our trip to the Children’s Museum, asked me, as we were walking away from the MLK Rodeo, “Grandpop, write about baby animals.  About how cute they are and how I love them.”  We’d just seen a Holstein and her calf bedded down for the night in a pen behind the Denver Coliseum.

This was our usually annual visit to the stock show.  (I missed last year with another round of doggy surgery and expense.)  We go walk through the exhibits, look at farm equipment, see livestock exhibitions, admire the Cinch cruel denim ads, the cowboy hats and boots for sale, the cattle stalls and leather vests.  One booth, Colorado Tanners, had hides  and pelts which could be made into anything you want.  Can’t forget the really big belt buckles, lots of’em.

It was busy this year because we came on MLK day.  In the past I’ve tried to hit weekdays when the crowds are smaller.  This time, though, I wanted to take the kids especially to the MLK rodeo with all African-American cowboys and cowgirls.  It was a good choice, as it turned out, but it meant the holiday crowds were there.

106 years old this is the largest stock in the world by number of animals involved.  It’s a big deal and people come from all over to participate.  I always see folks with Iowa State sweat-shirts, for example.

The rodeo announcer distinguished himself as a racist, saying, “There’s one thing about this crowd.  They’ve got rhythm.”  But worse, at another point, when a second announcer described a 24-year old cowgirl as looking 14, the announcer said, “But that never stopped you did it.”  This tarnished the event for me. Which is putting it mildly.

The events themselves though were good.  Calf-roping, considered a high art among the rodeo crowd, was good. (if you weren’t the calf.) So was the bronc-riding and the barrel racers.

When we got back to the hotel, Ruth grabbed me and said, “I don’t want you to go Grandpop.”  Gabe came around the car and gave me a big hug.  So did Jon and Jen.  It was family.  Three generations appreciating each other.  Wow.

DANK

Winter                                                               Seed Catalog Moon

Dank.  That’s the name of the place.  The medical dispensary that now has a retail recreational marijuana cash register, too.

This hidden store is in a setting of low warehouse and light manufacturing type buildings.  The brick exterior has no sign and the only evidence of its existence is a black and white piece of 8.5 by 11 taped to the window that says: Dank.  Keeping it kind.

Once inside the entry way there is a long hallway with office suites off to both sides.  Only at the far end of the hall, maybe 100 feet away is any human being evident..  Sure enough, DANK is the last office suite on the left.

A colorful sign advertising various forms of marijuana:  loose, baked, oil and kief (a product unfamiliar to me).

A guy in the required knit hat, ear buds and baggy sweater, a couple of days of growth says, “I have to check your I.D.”

As you might imagine, I gave him a look.  The gray-hair and wrinkles?  “Sorry, man.  The state requires it.  I know you’re more than 21.  But I have to check the expiration date.”  General laughter in the room.

Off to the right is a glass vitrine with three shelves holding hand blown pipes and bowls and bongs, artistic.  A roped walkway, ala security lines, held a dozen or so people, mostly young men in their twenties, but there was another older man like me and one woman.

At the end of the line were two cash registers flanking a glass display case with white chocolate with marijuana baked in, chocolate chip cookies, lighters, including a bic lighter, green and with DANK written over a marijuana leaf.  The cashiers served as marijuana sommeliers, answering questions about various strains like indica and sativa, prices per ounce.

To an old 60’s guy this was a scene resonant with memories of bags scored from furtive dealers, parties with just a hint of paranoia.  And here, in this state where my grandchildren live, and in a store not a mile from their home, people bought and sold grass.  Legally.

It was, as we might have said, a trip.

 

My Hope for the New Year

Winter                                                                Winter Moon

Ever since Reagan, and with the witting aid of William Clinton, the poor have receded from the public debate.  Oh, yes, you see comments about inequality like the 99% of the short lived Occupy movement and even occasional woe saying from a pundit or two, but otherwise the Appalachias and deep Souths and poor urban cores have gone missing.  But only from the news and from positive policy making.  (Yes, it’s true, they did appear at Farm Bill time as the expensive food stamp item and in the grim socialist nightmares of Tea Party folk asleep in their beds — the spectre of Obamacare, but only in these negative ways.)

We have been and are in a time when the economy and its travails have become the focus of political conversation.  Can we afford that war in Afghanistan?  That war in Iraq?  Social Security?  Medicare?  Medicaid?  Can we afford the deficit?  All these questions trump a larger question, the one of the social compact, the unum in E Pluribus Unum.

In America the question used to be not first about what we can afford, but what we need. Even the most benighted president of recent times, Richard Nixon, proposed the earned income tax credit which would have assured a stable annual income for all Americans.  My wife, a physician, and I have agreed for a long time that single payer health care is the only responsible and just course for America.  Every person should be able to find a job, health care, housing, food and a decent education.

Why?  Because we’re all in this together.  If the argument of simple justice doesn’t persuade you, look at our demographic future:

“…the United States of 2050 will look different from that of today: whites will no longer be in the majority. The U.S. minority population, currently 30 percent, is expected to exceed 50 percent before 2050. No other advanced, populous country will see such diversity.”   the Smithsonian, The Changing Demographics of America.

This means that our doctors, teachers, business leaders, union organizers, federal, state and municipal workers and politicians must come in significant numbers from within the majority population composed of the combined Asian, Latino, Black, and Native American communities.

Think about it.  This means the children of these communities need not just adequate schools, but good ones.  And to learn in those schools those children need to be well fed and healthy.  Too, they need a stable home in which their parents model for them the kind of work habits our complex economy demands.  Their parents can only provide that model if they, too, have jobs.

This is good news.  It means that by shaping an America that knows its self interest lies in the fortunes of all its citizens we can ensure our common future and therefore help lift each other toward a just nation.

It means we cannot afford to have hungry, sick Asian children at their school desks.  It means we cannot afford to have Black adults who lack jobs with decent wages.  It means we cannot afford to have Latino citizens who can’t find housing in which to raise their children.  It means we can no longer allow native reservations to be among the poorest regions of our nation.

It takes no political savant to imagine some of the policy directions that flow from these realizations.  Yes, the particulars may differ among people of good will, but these are the kind of expenditures around which we need to build a national budget, around which we define first what we as a nation need, then look to public policy to help us decide how we can afford it.

 

 

 

On the Margins

Samhain                                                                  Winter Moon

We’re in the dark period of the year, the time when the Winter Solstice stands out even among long nights as longer and deeper. Tonight, all Solstice eve, it’s 4:30 pm and twilight fell a while ago.  Snow comes down, adding to an inch or so to what we got over last night, all accumulating on top of the snows of early December.

Let me demonstrate how odd my religious situation is.  When my doctor, Corrie Massie, asked me what plans I had for Christmas, without thinking, I said, “We’re Jewish.”  Now we’re Jewish in that I support Kate’s Judaism, but what I really meant was, “I don’t celebrate the Christian holiday.”  Didn’t want to start with the whole theological narrative in my doctor’s office so my unconscious answered.  Not a lie, just not the whole truth.

No elevator speech for following the rhythmic cycles of nature, for celebrating not transcendence but immanence.  No quick way to say I’m an outlier here, too, standing on the margins of religion.  So often I find myself in conversations where I just don’t want to go through the whole analysis to explain myself.

Yes, too much carbon dioxide is, will be a problem. The unseemly gathering of wealth threatens the fabric of our culture.  No, I’m not really a Democrat and am planets away from Republicans.  Tea Party?  Different universe.  No, I don’t use pesticides.  Yes, we grow a lot of our own food and keep bees.  Oh, and I have a son in the Air Force who now has aspirations to become a general officer, to make sure authentic folks have their say.  No, mining minerals on the border of the Boundary Waters Wilderness does not make sense.  Socialism and single-payer health from Mark Odegardcare?  Sign me up.  I’m glad China and the rest of Asia have begun to grow strong.  I love the U.S.A.  Cable television?  Cut the cord.  That sort of thing.

I guess I’m at an age where I’m living the life I chose and choose, yet no longer have that evangelical zeal for my decisions.  Maybe because I recognize more and more how many right answers there are.

 

Sexism and Privacy

Samhain                                                                        Winter Moon

Snowden did us all a good turn.  I don’t see others saying it, so I will.  It’s no accident that a US Judge for the first time applied the 4th amendment to the NSA’s actions.  Without Snowden’s leaks we would have no idea how far this opaque bureaucracy had gone in eroding our privacy rights.  We could not have a debate about the reasonable limits of super snooping with cyber tools. Though computer surveillance was not imaginable in the Revolutionary era, abuses perpetrated by the powerful were.

Franklin’s famous quip applies here:  “They who would give up essential Liberty, to purchase a little temporary Safety, deserve neither Liberty nor Safety.”  the original quote according to this wiki site.

Also, how about those Catholics?  Did John Nienstedt really touch a confirmand’s butt? Who knows?  What is known is that the Nixon lesson is difficult to learn for those in positions of power.  The cover up is often worse than the crime.  That’s true in this case.

Why?  Well, covering up sexual abuse by priests is on the face not as bad as the act itself; but, when that cover up allows known offenders to circulate through different parishes and ministries with the laity ignorant, then the cover up facilitates the abuser, gives them opportunities to offend they would not have had in a transparent system.

This is an old boy’s club where a wink here and a nod there pass for scrutiny.  Much like the NSA.

One more place where secrecy and male domination protect abusers.  The military.  When rapists know their crimes will go up the chain of command, up the ladder in a buddy system, then the logic of deterrence due to exposure lessens.  A lot.

In all three of these large institutions run by men the rationalizations of the powerful take precedent over the needs of the powerless.  This is sexism in the service of sexual abuse and the erosion of personal privacy.  Considered from one perspective sexual abuse is, too, a dramatic case of the erosion of personal privacy.

Where is the Ed Snowden in the Archdiocese of Minneapolis/St. Paul?  They need to step forward, files and computer discs in hand.  We need them.

East Meets West

Samhain                                                                Winter Moon

Another shooting in Colorado.  In a school.  In the Littleton School District, site of the 4-798D0E18-1629023-800Columbine shooting.  I was in Denver with Jon and Jen, both teachers in the Aurora School District, when the gunman shot up Batman theatergoers in Aurora.

(granddaughter Ruth at the Stock Show)

The culture of the West and the culture of the East collide with some visible force in Colorado and Denver is the epicenter.  Each January the Great Western Stock Show gathers cowboys and ranchers, rodeo queens and fancy riders, bulls and horses and cows and sheep into one place for a celebration of Denver’s central locale in the Old West.  This is a culture of hardy individualists, folks used to taking care of things on their own and not interested in citified ideas towards guns.

At the same time Denver is the business capitol of the region with shiny glass skyscrapers 4-CFBE0C9F-2317503-800and people in business suits hustling for a buck.  It’s also a major educational and health services center.  In addition thousands throng through the tented Denver Airport on their way to the ski slopes of the Rockies:  Aspen, Vail, Steamboat Springs, Breckenridge.  This is a culture more interested in public safety, clean streets and good medical care.

(Looking out from the Denver Museum of Art toward the State Capitol building)

It’s an uneasy conjunction, a mixing occurs, yes, but neither group comes away much changed from the interaction.

The Journey and the Moon

Samhain                                            Thanksgiving Moon

The last two nights the Thanksgiving Moon has hung like a pale lantern behind the clouds. The moon draws out of me such tender feelings, yearnings.  Maybe it’s the corollary of the old lover’s cliche, we’re seeing the same moon tonight.

What crosses my mind are all those long ago relatives, bearers of my genetic markers, on the trip out of Africa.  They may have moved on nights like these when the moon was full. Or, would they have huddled around the campfire, wary of predators who saw better in the gloom?

In either case they would have looked at the same moon unchanged from the time they began to move on that most ancient human trail.  Unchanged, that is, until July 20, 1969, a hot night in Muncie, Indiana when my flickering black and white pulled in the live–live–signals of Neil Armstrong setting a space-suit (space-suit!) boot on the lunar surface.

What a journey, if you think about it, from that trek across northern Africa, up into what we now know as the Middle East, to that boot touching down on the eons long undisturbed (by other than passing meteoroids) moon.  Even now when we look at the moon it appears the same as it did then.  Really, it’s only our knowledge that has changed, not the way it looks at night.

It pleases me to think of those, my people, in this season of the year, somewhere perhaps in a temperate latitude after thousands of years of journey, feeling a November wind chill in their face and what would become my Thanksgiving moon overhead.