One brief shining: Songs that we love, that drive our hearts mad, dredge up detailed glimpses of experience past, send our souls into spiritual ecstasy, make our feet begin to tap and our body begin to sway, what is this strange hold sound has over us?
Thursday gratefuls: Audra. Open-Sided MRI. Chris. Engineers. Angry Chicken. Driving home into the Mountains. Black Mountain. Shadow Mountain. Conifer Mountain. Berriman Mountain. Lenticular Clouds. Cumulus. Cirrus. Rain and Snow.
Sparks of Joy and Awe: Magnetism
Week Kavannah: Ratzon. Will, desire, pleasure.
One brief shining: Looking into Audra’s eyes, feeling her hand on mine, her thumb moving, not erotic, but intimate as Lorentz forces caused the big machine to pound and grind and whir in rhythmic waves of sound while the magnets created detailed slices of my lumbar spine.
Glad that’s over with. Should have adequate information about my lumbar spine. As I noted earlier, there may not be much to do though we can target any therapy with accuracy after this.
Ironically the drive in and out left me hobbling into the house when I got back.
Shadow takes my absence with aplomb. She does not chew things up, poop or pee. She seems to rest quietly beside my chair. A huge bonus. Could be otherwise.
Dog journal: Shadow sleeps under the bed at night. I opened the bedroom door a couple of days ago for her. Not perfect. She chews the bed slats, the carpet (which I intend to replace at some point), my nightstand. Doesn’t last long. Impacts my getting to sleep a bit. Worth it since she seems happy back in her original safe place here.
I flagged off Amy this last Tuesday. Didn’t have enough energy for her session and the drive into Sushi Den with Ruth. Chose Ruth. Desensitizing Shadow to the leash does not go well; I need Amy’s guidance. Next Tuesday.
Had her toys in a long wicker basket. Each night I would pick them up, put them back. Over the course of the next day she’d pluck them out, play with them. The used to be chipmunk, purple cat, a long red Kong and a small black one, four different balls including a glow in the dark one, and three individual socks: one of Seoah’s, one of my son’s, and one of mine.
Then she began to chew on the wicker. Going up to the loft to grab a large stainless steel bucket as her next toy bin. Chew on that, Shadow!
Just a moment: Bill Schmidt has asked us to load up our favorite songs for the Ancient Brothers. That’s gonna be tough.
The Doors. The Stones. The Beatles. The Animals. The Monkeys. Country Western. 50’s doo wop. Teen anguish songs. The Who. Led Zeppelin. Creedence. The Band. Dylan. Coltrane. Miles Davis. Thelonious Monk. Aaron Copland. George Gershwin.
Let’s do a trial run here. Surrealistic Pillow by Jefferson Airplane. Wild Horses by the Stones. Satisfaction by the Stones. The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down by The Band. The Weight by the Band. Venus in Blue Jeans. Teen Angel. Dead Man’s Curve. The House of the Rising Sun by the Animals. Blue Train by Coltrane. Kind of Blue by Miles Davis. Stairway to Heaven by Led Zeppelin. Ain’t No Grave Gonna Keep My Body Down. Going Down To the River To Pray. When Will the Circle Be Unbroken. See You in September. The Queen of the Silver Dollar. Jolene.
Thursday gratefuls: Lashon hara. Mussar. Shadow. Twisters. Diane. Mark. Mary. My son and Seoah. Murdoch. Kate, always Kate. Cold night. Fair sleeping. Shadow’s toys. Our backyard. The fence. The shed. The deck. Rabbits. Voles. Chipmunks. Winter. Spring. The in between time. Imbolc.
Sparks of Joy and Awe: Humans and Dogs
Week Kavannah: Social Responsibility. Achrayut.
One brief shining: Good news comes in, too, like the friend whose lesion seems benign, the shoulder with less pain and increased range of motion, Shadow calmer, happier, the Ritalin decreasing my fatigue, even Great Sol out for a longer Colorado blue Sky stint.
Dog journal: Puppy hands. Small hematomas on the back of my hand. Eager Shadow, saying hi hi hi hi hi, I’m so glad to see you! So so glad! Old skin, young nails sharp and wielded with the muscles of an excited puppy.
Shadow’s ears have finally lost their pinned back look most of the time. She still cowers and flinches sometimes and her ears go flat. I ache when I see that. Something happened to make that her response to a human. Don’t know what. Waning, though.
She owns her space, plays with toys, greets me, no longer the shy, hypervigilant Dog under the bed.
Blessings to her and those first inquisitive Wolves who coinvented Dogs.
Finished mussar on zoom a second ago. Haven’t gone in person since adopting young Shadow. Today I wanted to have time to workout. Half hour there, half hour back. I would have been too tired.
I mention this because I also know there is a healing energy I get from showing up. It’s substantial and balances the energy I get from my mostly private life. As do my various zoom calls, breakfasts and lunches.
No matter how private, introverted, isolated we might be we are still creatures of community. You don’t have to look further than language itself to prove that. Language marks you as a member of this group or that one and even if you only use your language to process your own thoughts you remain part of that community always.
I get healed and buoyed up as I hope to heal and buoy up others. Showing up, as my friend Paul likes to remind me, marks the other as important, significant, loved. Medicine we all have and we all need.
Just a moment: It’s that most wonderful time of the year. Basketball tournaments everywhere, including March Madness. Cinderella teams. Juggernauts. NBA future draft picks. WNBA future draft picks. State level tourneys.
A Hoosier thing. High school basketball. Sure, other states, but we always believed nobody else loved high school hoops the way we did.
The Lion Sleeps Tonight. That song on the school bus radio as we pulled away from the Anderson, Indiana gym. Where only moments before tiny Alexandria had won the sectional by beating the Anderson Indians in the Wigwam. (yes. not that anymore.)
I remember frost on the windows, seeing each other’s breath in the cold March air as we screamed into the night. What wonderful joy!
Tuesday gratefuls: Luke. Leo. Shadow. The flying hearing aid. Cool nights. Great Sol. The hard time in the Mountains. Little food, hidden under Snow. Predators hungry. Hibernators beginning to move around in their slumber. Temperatures careening between Winter and Spring. Snow sliding off the solar panels. Sit. Down.
Sparks of Joy and Awe: Finding my hearing aid
Week Kavannah: Yirah. Awe.
One brief shining: Puppy paws and puppy claws plus puppy bouncy energy hooked my hearing aid, sent it in off on a long flight, hunting for it, needing it even more than my phone, where could it be oh god what if it’s gone what if she smelled the ear wax and ate it, lost things get found by a search pattern, ok here, there, wait, underneath the dumbbell? That’s it! Whew.
Kate. Yes. Always Kate. My ninja weeder. Quilter. Clothes maker. Physician. Traveler. Keen intellect. But most of all, my sweet Kate. The woman of possibility and promise. Music lover. Grandmother. Stepmother, but really second mother to my son. One who would not quit. Dead next month for four years.
Yet also here. In her quilts. In the Turtles and the small troll with the Norwegian flag. In the bronze Horse statue from Camp Holloway. In the art from our time in Mexico City, Paris, Hawai’i. In her Judaica which I use. Most of all in my memory, nestled in with all I most cherish, never to leave.
Thirty-five years from our marriage in St. Paul’s Landmark Center. Thirty-five years from our wonderful honeymoon following Spring from Rome to Venice, Paris to London, London to Edinburgh, Edinburgh to Inverness. The first of many journeys we made together.
Circumnavigating Latin America. Korea and Singapore. Greece. The Greek Islands. Kusadasi and Ephesus. Istanbul. Maui many times. The Big Island and Kauai. NYC. New Orleans. Mexico City. Oaxaca. Merida.
The journey we made from St. Paul to Andover. The Gardens. The Dogs. The Bees. The Orchard. Then on to Shadow Mountain. The Mule Deer. Black Mountain. Congregation Beth Evergreen. Ruth and Gabe. Sadly, Jon.
Her own last journey. In and out of emergency rooms, hospital beds, surgery suites. A gradual, but inexorable decline. Yet always working the NYT crossword each morning. Always engaged with the politics of the day. Always engaged with me. Precious time together.
Now in the four years since she crossed the vale between life and death still vital and present in my heart.
Thursday grateful: Shadow. Regret. Remorse. Teshuvah. Selam. Marilyn. Rich. Joanne. Jamie. Kabbalah Experience classes. Exploring Religion and Its Radical Roots. A New Story for the Evolution of Human Consciousness. Training Shadow. Training myself. Love. Michelangelo’s 550th birthday. Art. Negative Space. Poetry.
Sparks of Joy and Awe: Joanne’s mind
Week Kavannah: Patience. Savlanut. When I rush, slow down. When I want to speak, wait. When my inner agonizer arises, calm him, move on
One brief shining: We gather around the table, some drinking wine, others water, eating the always random collection of food-I brought turtles from a Valentine gift-and settle down to discuss matters of the soul, baring ourselves to each other as we’ve done for over nine years, learning the Jewish soul language of mussar.
Gonna come back to the NAR. Just this for now. The top leadership in this “non-hierarchical” movement, prophets then apostles at the helm. They rely on revelation to the prophets and apostles who act as Peter, Paul, and Mary might have for Jesus.
This means new revelations can respond to the daily news stream. And be funneled through fallible human vessels. The apostles sort through them, decide how to interpret them. See the problem here? All the various cognitive biases are in play.
Another way. Two Jews, three opinions. Commentary on the Torah that uses non-rational techniques for interpretation Different readings delight all, insight coming from the many voices, no one trying to claim Biblical or ecclesiastical authority. All searching for truth, that layered and nuanced notion, all knowing definitive truth lies outside our ken. And are thankful for it.
Last night at MVP we discussed regret, remorse, and anger. We shared our earliest memories of regret. Mine? Age 12 or so. New fancy slingshot. In my bedroom at home on Canal Street in Alexandria. A car pulled up on the street outside. A man got out and walked to our house.
I thought. Huh? Wonder if I can hit his windshield? I could. Got caught immediately. Mom and Dad sentenced me to do the dishes, at twenty-five cents an hour until I’d paid off the window. Smart parenting.
Here’s an example of the kind of thought triggered by these evenings. From Rabbi Jamie:
“…in an attempt to understand why the author of Orchot Tzaddikim (Pathways of Moral Leadership) paired the two midot of regret (charatah) and anger (Kaas), I offer the following “definitions”:
Haratah / regret is the productive emotional responses to an encounter with the gap between my lived conduct (action or inaction) and my ideal or aspirational conduct.
Kaas / anger is the productive emotional response to an encounter with the gap between the real world such as it is and the ideal world, such as it ought to be, e.g. unfairness or injustice, disinformation and deceit, etc.”
Now I have to come up with a practice for the month. Right now: Become aware of regret. What comes next? Need to get a more focused idea.
Monday gratefuls: Shadow. Amy. Snow. Vince. Deep clean for Shadow Mountain Home. Cook Unity. Training Shadow. Studying the New Apostolic Reformation. Working my purposes. Ruth’s 19th birthday meal early. Sushi Den. Gabe and his Ph.D. in theater. Kate, always Kate. Rigel. Kep. Vega. Gertie.
Sparks of Joy and Awe: The Atlantic Ocean
Week Kavannah: Patience. Savlanut. When I rush, slow down. When I want to speak, wait. When my inner agonizer arises, calm him, move on
One brief shining: The crunch and push of metal on asphalt belies the soft and fluffy nature of the Snow the blades of the orange Jefferson County snowplows move off the roadways to keep us Mountain folk mobile, safe. Grateful for them.
Rembrandt-style painting depicting 1950s union workers, 1960s civil rights activists, and anti-war protesters standing together in unity.
During the Ancient Brothers meet yesterday morning I had another aha about my childhood, another throughline. The grooming of a social justice warrior. I realized there were three key drivers, maybe a fourth, that led me to spend my early and middle adulthood working for social justice.
First, my dad. As a journalist, a columnist, an editor, his job was to be clear eyed about what happened in my hometown. Then to write about it, decide what stories needed exposure. And, crucially for me, to have an opinion about the fairness, the justness about some of them.
Second, my church. The United Methodist church we attended had a strong social justice element to its ministry. This came directly from the work of John Wesley, who organized coal workers in the coal mines of nineteenth century England and believed Jesus mandated work on behalf of the poor and disadvantaged.
By the time I was twelve I had visited poor neighborhoods in Chicago, New York City, and Washington, D.C. on see-it tours sponsored by the church. And the United Nations, Congress, even the Russian consulate in D.C.
Third, and not least by any means, Alexandria served as a home for hundreds of men, almost all men at the time, who worked in General Motor’s factories nine miles away in the county seat of Anderson, Indiana. Delco Remy and Guide Lamp. Or, Guide and Delco as we knew them.
That meant they belonged to the UAW. The United Auto Workers union. At the time strong and forward looking. My friends families owned their homes, bought cars, took vacations, and could afford to send their kids to college. If the UAW went on strike against General Motors, Alexandria felt it. Yet the salaries, health care benefits, and generous pensions these men, most from the South and most not high school graduates, earned made Alexandria a vital, wonderful place to grow up.
Put those three together. Seeing taking a stand against injustice, unfairness, as a personal responsibility, feeling a religious calling to stand with the poor and disadvantaged, and understanding the positive role unions and economic justice could make for all of us prepared me for a lifetime of seeing injustice and doing something about it.
The fourth element I mentioned would be this. Growing up in a small town-John Cougar Mellencamp is a Hoosier-gave me a sense of what it meant to live as part of a community, one where I knew some people well, some less well, and others only in passing, but I did know them. And what happened to them. Justice, love, and compassion become real, tangible in such a setting. There was, I think, a balance between the individual and the community.
Monday gratefuls: Shadow. Eating. Marilyn and Irv. Eleanor and Tara. Snow on its way. March of the big weather. Ritalin. A bit more energy. Mary’s truffles. Yum. My son. Murdoch. Seoah. Teaching Shadow. Ancient Brothers on freedom and communal responsibility. Mountain Jews. Shadow immersion. Study. Reading.
Sparks of Joy and Awe: Sit, Down, Touch
Week Kavannah: Patience. Savlanut. When I rush, slow down. When I want to speak, wait. When my inner agonizer arises, calm him, move on.
One brief shining: In the far away and long ago my buddy Dave and I settled into his red VW Beetle for a drive from Muncie to Detroit, headed to Canada, Toronto, to pick up information about emigrating from the Toronto anti-draft folks; got stopped because of our long hair, so we turned around, went back into Detroit and bought white shirts, stocking caps for our hair, crossed the bridge again, and were admitted for our Canadian vacation. Ta dah.
Thought of a through line I’ve never mentioned here. Reading and Minnesota, Shadow Mountain. As a young boy, I read so much. Certain things impacted me. A lot. Always wanted to see Peru after the Silver Llama. Like many boys, I imagined myself as James Bond. Sherlock Holmes. Robinson Crusoe. Fighting in the War of the Worlds. Building robots with positronic brains beholden to the Three Laws of Robotics.
Jack London though. He changed my life. I read Call of the Wild. I admired Buck. Yes. The description of the Canadian wilderness. Buck’s journey into his wild nature. Pine Trees. Lakes. Wolves. Wolverines. Cold winters. Surviving in the north.
Central Indiana. Flat. Paved. Industrial and where it wasn’t industrial carved up into mile square sections of farm land. Small towns every 5 or ten miles in all directions. The opposite of the wilderness where Buck finds his true identity.
When I married Judy Merritt, her home state of Wisconsin triggered my long dormant desire to leave a place where, as I saw it, there was no there there, all domesticated by human artifice. We moved to Appleton, Wisconsin to be near her family. Imagine my disappointment when I found a city and region filled with paper mills and dairy factories. Nope.
Judy and I decided to split and an odd chain of circumstance led me to seminary in Minnesota. At least there were lots of Lakes. Once I found my way up north the Boreal Woods and the Glacial Lakes matched my fantasy. Minnesota became home. For forty years.
Kate and I moved to Colorado to be in the grandkids lives, but we never considered living in Denver. Had to be the Mountains. For both of us. Our Andover life had prepared us for life with Wild Neighbors, Lodgepoles and Aspens, Mountain Streams and trails, by holding us close to Mother Earth.
In that sense, and it’s a far from trivial one, Jack London and Call of the Wild changed the trajectory of my life by igniting a desire to live in cold lands, where Wilderness and humans could cohabit.
Friday gratefuls: Vince. Alan. Rabbi Jamie. Rick. Rebecca. Veronica. Helen. Engineers. Tom. Bill. Jon Bailey. Mountains. Elk Cows. Moose. The Night Sky. Vega. Rigel. Luna. Cernunnos. Lugh. Arawyn. The Other World. Arthur. Avalon. The Grail. The Fisher King Wound. Chicken wings. The Lazy Butcher.
Sparks of joy and awe: Taxes
Kavannah this week: Rachamim, compassion Listening for the melody of the other
One brief shining: In this libertarian, oligarchic inflected age, a time, as sister Mary found in an Australian news article, of the morbidly wealthy, it may seem like heresy or apostasy or blasphemy to like taxes, but I do: property, income, sales taxes all of which express a profound understanding of the political raison d’etrê, caring for the common good, like dues at the synagogue.
You probably don’t remember the PATCO strike. I do. I rode on a bus with members of the Minnesota AFL-CIO to a protest in Washington, D.C. 1981. Reagan, Reagan, he’s no good, send him back to Hollywood. We played poker, gin rummy, talked politics. Reagan won. He broke the air controller’s union. We returned to Minnesota.
Leif Grina invited me along. An organizer for the Hotel and Restaurant Workers Union. (Now UNITE HERE, combined with the Needletrades, Industrial and Textile Workers Union) Leif and I were good friends.
At the time, the early 1980’s, I worked with the labor movement, church social justice arms, and community organizers to create the Jobs Now Coalition^, which still exists, working on its mission of advocating for policies that promote job creation and economic justice. I did this organizing with Joseph on my hip.
In 1983 we wrote, lobbied for, and passed the Minnesota Emergency Employment Act (MEED)* I consider MEED and the creation of Jobs Now as a key highlight of my work as an organizer.
We have allowed labor unions to wither in the years since Reagan. This was/is a mistake. All this came top of mind reading the story this morning about the understaffed control tower which contributed to the helicopter/passenger jet collision over the Potomac. Reagan, Reagan, He’s no good. Send him back to Hollywood.
Trump, Trump, he’s so cruel, send him off to chesed school.
^ The Jobs Now Coalition was founded in Minnesota in the early 1980s as an advocacy organization focused on job creation, fair wages, and economic justice. It emerged during a time of high unemployment and economic distress, particularly following the recession of the early 1980s. The coalition played a significant role in pushing for policies that promoted employment opportunities and living wages for low-income and unemployed workers.
Key Aspects of the Jobs Now Coalition
Advocated for job creation programs, such as the Minnesota Emergency Employment Development Act (MEED).
Pushed for living wages and fair labor policies.
Conducted economic research on wages, employment trends, and workforce issues in Minnesota.
Partnered with labor unions, social justice groups, and community organizations to improve economic opportunities.
Promoted public and private sector investment in sustainable job growth.
The Jobs Now Coalition was influential in shaping Minnesota’s progressive labor policies, including wage laws and workforce development initiatives. It played a key role in ensuring that job growth benefited working-class and marginalized communities.
*The Minnesota Emergency Employment Development Act (MEED) was a jobs program enacted in 1983 during a period of high unemployment in the state. It was designed to create temporary jobs for unemployed and underemployed Minnesotans while stimulating economic development.
Key Features of the MEED Program
Provided wage subsidies to employers willing to hire unemployed workers.
Aimed to reduce unemployment by incentivizing private-sector job creation.
Focused on economic recovery during a recession by addressing job shortages.
Often targeted disadvantaged workers, including those facing long-term unemployment.
Sunday gratefuls: Ruth. Snow. More. Another full night’s sleep. In a row. Art Green’s Guide to the Zohar. Mysticism. Art. Lascaux. Venus figurines. Minoan. Grecian. Phoenician. Early Christian. Egyptian. Hittite. Babylonian. Roman. Celtic. Norse. Anglo-Saxon. Qin, Han, Tang, Song dynasties. Goryeon. Kang school in Japan. Ukiyo-e. Nayarit. Jalisco. Benin. Early Hindu. Nepalese. Tibetan. Nahuatl. Mayan.
Sparks of Joy and Awe: Art
Kavannah 2025: Creativity
Kavannah this week: Chesed (loving-kindness)
Rachamim practice: Listening for the melody of others
One brief shining: Love that kid, my now 43 year old son, seeing him across 9,000 miles, his hair a bit longer on top, a fade on the sides, talking about Seoah at the gym, Murdoch staying on base for their trip, Hawai’i-a mutual dream, his transition to command, the nod to the Vikings living up to expectations, a visit to Minnesota to see his mom, old friends, skiing and his racing turns, sore legs.
No. Got that out of my system yesterday. Mystical me. Today, let’s talk literature. Nah. How about art? Haven’t gone on that ancientrail for quite awhile. Chatbotgpt and I have had fun over the last few weeks co-operating on image making. I provide the idea, 4o provides the image. With wildly varying results, as you’ve already seen.
Here is the depiction of a 60-year-old version of you in a room filled with traditional Japanese teaware, capturing a serene and tranquil moment.
A bit of nostalgia. Trafficking in the past these days as I continue to write stories in the Storyworth app. 14 so far. Story is too grand a word for these 500 words or so excursions on roadways back into the last millennium. The last century. More like lightning flashbacks, brief illuminations of moments of a life.
Thinking this morning about those Monday mornings as a guide, a docent in training, then a docent when I could go in for a lecture in art history by an expert in the Minneapolis Institute of Arts lecture hall. After. I loved the in depth, detailed way of looking that art historians and curators brought to specific objects.
Never thought of it this way before but a lot of my life has been about seeing, really seeing, what was in front of me. Yesterday I discussed the revelation I find in each and every instance I encounter. Sometimes I see clearly, sometimes, most often, through a glass darkly. Perception clouded by bias, distraction, assumption, all those ills to which the human sensorium is heir to.
Anthropology offers a sort of x-ray vision into human behavior, how culture shapes us, defines us, supports and limits us. Philosophy sees questions where others see answers.
Here is the portrait inspired by our conversations, rendered in the dramatic and textured style of Francisco Goya, reflecting your life and connection to the Rocky Mountains.
Radical politics means looking into the truth of our economic and political relationships with one another and seeing the patterns, the flaws that create distortion, inequity. Gardening opened my eyes to the language of plants, how they express themselves, tell us what they need. Our long interrelationship with them. Having so many Dogs over the years opened my eyes to their distinctiveness, their majesty as fellow creatures, my deep love for them.
Living in the Mountains has turned me toward Wild Neighbors, toward Rock. Pines. Aspens. Fox and Moose. Beaver and Marmoset. Toward Mountain Streams in their dramatic seasonality.
Judaism has given me new lenses for viewing friendship, metaphysics, history, tradition, and myself.
Kate. In a true love affair which helped her understand herself in new ways, to see herself, not just her profession as she helped me see and be my whole self.
Sunday gratefuls: -8 degrees. Yet more Snow. Winter. Introspection. Diane, healing. Mark, all dressed up and ready to teach. Mary in the Florida of Oz. My son and Seoah, coming for my birthday. Talmud Torah. Exodus’ strong women. Moses. Yod Hey Vav Hey. Hashem. Adonai. I am. I will be who I will be. The burning bush.
Sparks of Joy and Awe: Writing Ancientrails
Kavannah 2025: Creativity
Kavannah for the week: Appreciation of Opposition Haarecha shel machloket
One brief shining: All through the nation MAGA folks will go to sleep tonight ready for their big day on Monday, Martin Luther King’s day of service, and cousin Donald’s hand on the bible, John Roberts presiding; I’ll give them their moment, but not my country.
Here is the image inspired by Caspar David Friedrich, capturing the nighttime scene in Bangkok’s Chinatown as described.
Want to lift a glass to Ancientrails. Early in February it will end its 20th year of daily existence. Started, oddly, in Bangkok. On a nighttime visit to a 7/11 I rushed across a side street and in the dark missed a gutter in the street. My right leg stayed still while my body kept moving. Thought I sprained my ankle. Hobbled on to the ATM, took out $100 in bahts, and limped across Yaowarat, Chinatown’s main drag, to my modest hotel. 2004.
Had about a week left before my flight home. Not wanting to miss the city, I drug my leg around, not worried because, hey, it was just a sprain. The nice lady at the physical therapist felt my leg and said, “Oh, that’s not a sprain. You’ve ruptured your Achilles tendon.” Well. Shoot.
Surgery. January 2005. Two months no weight on the right leg. What the hell am I gonna do? Cybermage William Schmidt set me up with Frontpage, a Microsoft app, and I began to write. I shifted, again with Bill’s help, to WordPress in 2007. Somehow the first three years got lost in the old bits and bytes shuffle.
I write every morning, no matter where I am, with few exceptions. Kate had her crossword puzzles and I have Ancientrails. Over 2 million words a few years ago. Probably closer to three now.
What I had decided to do was to take my journaling online. A blog. An anachronism now. Who writes blogs? Who reads them? Always had a thin hope that Ancientrails might take off, but frankly it never has. Oh, yes. There’s you, faithful reader, and I appreciate you more than you know. But a mass audience? Nope.
I get it, too. There’s no through line here except my life and opinions. Occasional theologizing, political opining, even art criticism though that’s fallen away for the most part. No telling what I’m going to be up to because I rarely know until I start typing.
Once in a while something fills my attention, like Ancientrails’ approaching double decade anniversary, and I remember to write about it. Most often, it’s a riff.
While I know it’s no masterpiece, I have added a codicil in my will to continue paying my cloud based service, Ionos, and its predecessors to keep Ancientrails on line after my death.
It is, at least, a piece of Americana. My peculiar America.
