Category Archives: Memories

Morristown

Fall and the Sukkot Moon

Monday gratefuls: Diane home safe. Kep nudging me at 4 am. Frost. Ideas spinning. Downstairs to write. For Kep. Agency. Feeling strong in the move. Robin coming Wednesday. Fatigue. Long Covid? Mary. Kobe. On the waterfront, Osaka Bay. Mark, working for Amazon in Oklahoma City. Kristie. Urology Associates. Laughing with the Ancient Brothers. Creativity, creating. Acting. Growing here in Colorado. Me. Ruth.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: See’s Candy

 

Mostly deaf, mostly blind, still a sweet boy. Kep. Kep has adjusted to his disabilities, continuing his life as dogs do. My teacher. He sleeps more, sometimes going to bed as early as 5 pm. Eating well. Enjoying his day in a more subdued manner. Life at the short end.

 

Diane is my first cousin, the daughter of my mother’s brother, Riley Keaton. She grew up in Morristown, Indiana as did my mother and her four siblings: Riley, Roberta, Barbara, and Marjorie. After Mom and Dad moved  to Indiana from Oklahoma when I was about a year and a half old, the Keaton extended family was always nearby. Marjorie in Muncie. Roberta in Arlington. Riley on the family farm in Morristown. Barbara sometimes in the state hospital sometimes not.

Grandpa and Grandma Keaton, Charlie (my namesake) and Mabel, lived in town in Morristown. Since the Keaton family grew up in Morristown, Morristown has always held a special place for all of us.

Morristown had about six hundred to seven hundred souls during my childhood and adolescence. An American small town to Alexandria’s small city status at 5,000 according to Indiana municipal designations.

It also had and has a famous restaurant, the Kopper Kettle, where my Aunt Mame made fried chicken for tourists who would drive to quaint Morristown for dinner, often from Indianapolis. Locals however ate at the Bluebird with an excellent Sunday buffet, sugar cream pie, and a spot for old guys to drink coffee and solve world political issues.

The Kopper Kettle is on Highway 52 which runs straight into Indianapolis. If you go a bit past it and find Morristown Road, you’ll go past the big house that Charlie and Mable lived in before his death. Further on Morristown Road quickly takes you into the country side where corn and soybeans dominate the landscape.

Hanover cemetery appears at the point where Morristown Road veers off toward the County Seat, Shelbyville, and a gravel road veers off in a wide V toward the family farm where my cousin Richard and his wife still live.

Many of my Keaton relatives found their final rest in Hanover cemetery, which Uncle Riley cared for and now Richard after him.

I spent many days and nights in Morristown while growing up, staying with Grandpa and Grandma, weeks at the farm. I loved the the small shed where the metal milk pails sat in a concrete water pool, cooled by an artesian spring until the milk man came to collect them.

I remember one time the Holsteins had come up from a field and begun heading out toward the road. I was there and Uncle Riley yelled at me, “Stop them!” I got scared at the big animals plodding toward me and got out of the way. Apparently all I would have needed to do was raise my arms and shout something at them. Uncle Riley was not happy with me.

Not long after we moved to Alexandria he had inscribed on wet cement Charlie polio, 1949. I think it was in a foundation for a corn crib. He was a sentimental guy who cried easily as I do still.

Not sure I’m getting this right. I want you to know the sweet memories, the lavender scented times, almost Victorian era life I experienced in this small town. One I prefer to my own hometown of Alexandria.

This will probably do it better than I’m able to this morning.

When the Frost is on the Punkin

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock,
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin’ turkey-cock,
And the clackin’ of the guineys, and the cluckin’ of the hens,
And the rooster’s hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;
O, it’s then’s the times a feller is a-feelin’ at his best,
With the risin’ sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.
They’s something kindo’ harty-like about the atmusfere
When the heat of summer’s over and the coolin’ fall is here—
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees,
And the mumble of the hummin’-birds and buzzin’ of the bees;
But the air’s so appetizin’; and the landscape through the haze
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days
Is a pictur’ that no painter has the colorin’ to mock—
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.
The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,
And the raspin’ of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn;
The stubble in the furries—kindo’ lonesome-like, but still
A-preachin’ sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;
The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;
The hosses in theyr stalls below—the clover over-head!—
O, it sets my hart a-clickin’ like the tickin’ of a clock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!
Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps
Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps;
And your cider-makin’ ’s over, and your wimmern-folks is through
With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and saussage, too! …
I don’t know how to tell it—but ef sich a thing could be
As the Angels wantin’ boardin’, and they’d call around on me
I’d want to ’commodate ’em—all the whole-indurin’ flock—
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!

 

 

 

 

Will (Should) The Liberal Arts Survive the 21st Century?

Fall and the High Holidays Moon

Saturday gratefuls: Tal. Georgeta. Nitya. The Importance of Being Earnest. Stagedoor Theater. A late Night. Gabe. This afternoon. Blue. Green. Gold. On Black Mountain. Solar panels soaking in the Sun. Boiler Medic. Geowater. Vince. Snowplowing set. Hawai’i. Minnesota. Adventure. Home. The housing market.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Nitya’s performance

 

On the subject of liberal arts. If you pay any attention at all to the world of higher education, you know that the liberal arts have been and are under heavy fire from pragmatists of all sorts. Lists of majors that “pay off” are common with Philosophy degrees and Anthropology degrees easily targeted as low earning degrees and not worth the investment. Usually here investment means amount of money for the degree. Guess who has a Philosophy and an Anthropology degree? Yep.

Or, the fabled English major. God help the education major, the arts major. Doomed to a lifetime of depressed financial potential. God better help them because no one in the STEM or Health fields will.

My own conjecture about the roots of this issue lies in the long ago days of decent vocational education, days when blue collar workers could learn welding, carpentry, plumbing, electrical work, auto body and mechanics, cosmetology, secretarial skills and expect to earn a decent living from those skills. By decent living I mean the ability to do three things: buy a house and a car, afford good medical care and food, and a good education for your children.

Three things happened to first confuse then demolish this route to the American dream. First, American manufacturers lost the will to compete with the cheaper labor and goods available in countries like Japan and China. Jobs, blue collar jobs, left the country. Second, foreign goods began to appear in the United States that were not only comparable to US made goods, but cheaper in price, and sometimes, especially in the unfortunate instance of vehicles, better. Third, the combination of one and two lead to the Rust Belt effect where factories closed and well-paying jobs available to persons with a high school degree or even less vanished. Almost overnight.

This is the story, writ large, of my hometown, Alexandria, Indiana. In postwar times, say 1950 to 1970 or so, Alexandria had a thriving main street, Harrison Avenue. On it were two movie theaters: The Town and The Alex. Two grocery stores, Kroger’s and Coxes. Two dime stores, Murphy’s and Danner’s. Broyles’  Furniture. Fermen’s Womens Wear and Baumgartner’s Mens Wear. Mahony’s Shoes. Guilkey’s shoe shop and newsstand. Rexall’s Drugs and Bailey Drugs. The Bakery. The Yankee Bar. Conway’s barbershop.

On Friday and Saturday nights kids from neighboring smaller towns would come to Alexandria to drag main, go to the Kid Canteen, bowl. Parades, big parades, happened on Decoration Day and at Homecoming. Sidewalk Sale days drew customers downtown like weekend food stalls in Bangkok’s Chinatown.

When the crash came, it came fast. By 1974 most of those businesses had altered or closed. In later years plywood fronts would replace plate glass windows. Whole families would leave town in the dead of night, closing the curtains before they left because they could no longer pay their mortgages. Detroit had lost the battle with Volkswagen and Toyota.

I know. You’re thinking, he’s lost the plot. What does this have to do with the liberal arts? Vocational education lead nowhere. Who needed welders? Electricians. Unions began to decline in influence, too, and as they did so did blue collar wages across the board.

It was in this time that the lie of college for everyone began its insidious infiltration into the American zeitgeist. Get a BA and you’ll be safe. College graduates out earn high school graduates. And, this is true. Read this: Do college grads really earn more than high school grads.

And this is the where the story takes its twist. With vocational education or factory union jobs no longer a safe bet for that house and car, good medical care and food, what was left for the blue collar worker? College for all. We’re a small d democratic country. We’re all equal. So it seemed to make sense.

Except it doesn’t. College education takes a certain set of skills and gifts not widely distributed in any population. First, a basic level of intellect. Then, reading and writing skills. A taste for the sort of work required to sit through lectures, study, and write papers or lab reports. This is not about the idea of equality before the law which Americans often confuse with a leveling equality of skills and talents.

Such a leveling does not exist in the US population or any other. I could post links to several articles about the benefits of a college education. You could search them for an admission of the basic requirements to thrive in college. And find nothing.

With the dollar value of blue collar work on the decline along with it went the pride that came with hard work and a decent income. Many blue collar workers used to earn as much liberal arts majors do now. Not anymore. Now the blue collar worker scans and palletizes objects in Amazon or UPS warehouses, sweeps the floors of elementary schools, works in the volatile construction industry. Barely earning a long ago out of date minimum wage.

It was in this transition to an economy with few well-paying lifetime jobs for high school grads that saw white supremacy once again more obvious in US culture. It never left, of course, but it now purported to explain the poor white males declining, even vanishing, prospects. See this recent article by Thomas Edsall, Two Americas.

When the notion of a college education for all began to gain traction in the US mindset, it triggered a concomitant expectation that a college education would deliver a financial reward for those who stuck it out. College education began to replace the old vocational education model where a specific career with specific financial expectations were the norm for students.

And finally we come to the point: In this climate focused on the dollar value of a college education, college education as vocational education, the liberal arts begin to look like a bad bet. Cue the lists of majors and their earning power.

See these four points from a Georgetown University article on the Economic Value of College:

1. The top-paying college majors earn $3.4 million more than the lowest-paying majors over a lifetime.
2. Two of the top highest paying majors, STEM and business are also the most popular majors, accounting for 46 percent of college graduates.
3. STEM (science, technology, engineering, and mathematics), health, and business majors are the highest paying, leading to average annual wages of $37,000 or more at the entry level and an average of $65,000 or more annually over the course of a recipient’s career.
4. The 10 majors with the lowest median earnings are: early childhood education ($39,000); human services and community organization ($41,000); studio arts, social work, teacher education, and visual and performing arts ($42,000); theology and religious vocations, and elementary education ($43,000); drama and theater arts and family and community service ($45,000).

Now we have this remarkable reality in our country. Blue collar workers have trouble, big trouble earning a decent income. Ironically, the communities of color who suffer along with the poor, white male high school grad, have developed ways of coping with economic hardships. See the Edsall article.

And, colleges and universities, stuffed into a false equivalency with vocational education, have cheapened the word value by taking up the talking point of the dollar value of a college education as a primary rationale for attendance.

The problem in other words is not with the liberal arts, but with the mindset that places money as the determiner of a good result in a post-high school education.

This is not only a travesty, it’s a tragedy. And how would you know this unless you had a liberal arts education?

Here’s a good example of what a liberal arts education can do and why it’s not only valuable (good value), but essential:

I don’t know whether the liberal arts in the college and university setting will survive the 21st century. But philosophy, theater, music, painting, sculpture, literature and the other liberal arts will survive. Why? Because we need critical thinking, effective communication, rational analysis, and ethical reasoning to understand and weigh the life or death choices facing humanity. We need them.

Fatigued

Lughnasa and the Harvest Moon

Wednesday gratefuls: Luke. Alice. Kep. Kate, always Kate. Hawai’i. Meds. Covid. Sleep. Dreams. Taking action. Agency. Owning my desire to move on. Finding a realtor. The Windward side of Oahu. Ocean. Reefs. Tide Pools. Sea Turtles. Animals of the Water. Volcanic Islands. Tradewinds. Reconstructionist Judaism. Potlatch.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Potlatch

 

Contacted LG about my Watery experience with their washer. Under warranty. Will get taken care of sometime in the near future. Still a hassle because. No washer.

Laundromat. Always an experience filled with memories of other points in my life. The smell of soap powder, sudsy Water, the warm breath of dryers opening. Those hard plastic chairs. Change machines and soap dispensers. Also, and my favorite part, the bulletin board offering house cleaning services, massage, junk removal, homes for sale, photography, lawn care. Fun to see what people post.

On a similar theme I called Boiler Medic to see if my lifetime warranty payment had been approved for my new hot Water heater. Did I mention I’m tired of dealing with this stuff? No call back yet. I suspect it wasn’t approved and they feel bad about telling me. Hard Water. A possible reason for denial.

 

Had Luke, the Executive Director of CBE, over for dinner last night. A fine conversation. He’s a thoughtful, multi-talented guy who’s making the shift from a life of science to working for non-profits and to Judaism. A convert. Have not had many people over. Luke dropped out of a materials science Ph.D. program at the School of Mines.

 

Took myself out for breakfast yesterday. Chicken fried steak, eggs over easy, and fried potatoes. Since Covid I’ve had this need for protein. May do the same today.

 

Had a subtle but powerful moment yesterday. I walked out to the mailbox to collect my mail. And a memory of a walk Seoah and I took out to the end of the driveway flashed over my thoughts. The last day of shiva. A ritual. The members of the minyan form two lines and the mourner walks through them to the end of the driveway. Shiva is over and the world outside of intense grieving at home awaits.

Grief returned for a moment. Then, I had this wonderful feeling. That Kate was blessing my move to Hawai’i. Part of the wider world beyond our former home together. Unexpected. A mixture of sadness, yearning, and joy.

 

Alice has come and gone. She seems very competent, too. The comps she offered were lower than I hoped, but she’s at work finding more. This is a tough time period as it’s the slowest and lowest part of the market. Of course, those things can change. Once I have everybody’s net sheets, I’ll have a better idea of where I am.

No matter what I’m committed to moving off of Shadow Mountain. If I end up without enough money to make Hawai’i work, I’ll find somewhere else.

 

Fatigued today after a good night’s sleep. Must be lingering Covid. A little jangly, too. Hope this doesn’t continue. Gut issues seem to have resolved. A gift that keeps on giving.

 

 

 

 

 

Buttery

Lughnasa and the Durango Moon (oops. Lughnasa. Not Imbolc. My bad.)

Tuesday gratefuls: Not on a ventilator. Vaccines. Boosters. Omicron. Living in pandemic times. Caring friends. Who’ve kept touch. My body. Its immune system. A blue Colorado Sky. Hawai’i. Minnesota. The Soil. Here. In Minnesota. In Indiana, the best of the Hoosier State. The Volcanic Soil of the Hawai’ian Islands. Pele. Kiluaea. Mauna Loa. The great mystery of the World Ocean. the Kep. Dreams. Doubling down on moving. Back to it tomorrow. Ode’s hippy days. And, nights. Life after a harsh Covid slap. Sweeter, more precious.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Immune response

 

Today I feel only tired. Brain fog lifted. No residual symptoms except for a slight cough. Amazing. Tomorrow will be a full week since I got so hammered by the virus that I could barely drag myself around. Memory of that Wednesday, wiped. Now, less than a week later, I’m on the up ramp toward feeling good. Virologists. Immunologists. Pharmaceutical workers. Pharmacies. Pharmacists. It takes a metropolis and lotsa labs to beat a virus. I’m thankful for all of them.

This is a misery through which millions and millions have passed. And many succumbed. What better evidence do we need for our essential sameness? The virus doesn’t recognize skin color. Nationality. Ethnic origin. Religious preference or sexual preference. It recognizes the human body. The one we all share. Perhaps our mutual suffering can teach us what reason seems unable to.

Suffering is as much a human common denominator as love. When our body sinks into pain, to illness, to fragility caused by a microscopic organism, we experience what others of our species experience. The agony of existence, its rough edges, its limits. When we feel love, we experience what others of our species experience. Its sublimity. its comfort, its infinite possibility.

Find the wisdom about our common life in these most basic, universal and real shared moments. We all get sick. Suffer. We all fall in love. Rejoice. Let’s reach out to each other in both.

On the last day of quarantine my doctor said to me, “Wear your mask if you go out. Stay away from crowds and crowded places. After next Monday, you’re good.” Gonna stay in for the next week anyhow. Nap. Gradually start exercising again. Eat more. She also said, get a flu shot as soon as you feel better. I will.

 

Not said much about Lughnasa this year. But. Just read an NYT article about Princess Kay of the Milky Way. Got me going. Unless you live in Minnesota or are particularly attuned to its state fair traditions, you’ll not have heard of Princess Kay. Or butter sculpting. Let me explain.

Each year (asterisk for the pandemic years) before the Minnesota State Fair begins its August through Labor Day run, a young woman leader of the state’s dairy industry is chosen. She becomes Princess Kay of the Milky Way. Since 1965 a full-sized bust of Princess Kay and the other four finalists has been sculpted in the butter booth of the Dairy building. Yes, that’s right. 900 pounds of butter, salted, gets shaped into the likeness of all five young women.

You wouldn’t believe the ice-fishing on Lake Mille Lacs either. Minnesota has some strange traditions. That Winter Festival, too.

The relationship to the Celtic holiday of Lughnasa (not Imbolc, that starts in February) is this: On August 1st the Celts began a market holiday for the first fruits from the field. Corn dollies. (wheat=corn) A parade with the first shock of wheat. Loaves of bread from the first harvested wheat. Thus, btw, the Catholic feast day of Lammas, or loaves.

This agriculture celebration with feasting and games and display of farming’s first fruits of the year kicks off the three season harvest holiday that includes Fall on the autumnal equinox and Samain, or Summer’s End, on October 31st. It’s resonance continues in county fairs and state fairs in Great Britain and the U.S.

On a personal note. In 1971 while an intern in Ada, Minnesota I participated in the wedding of the just chosen Princess Kay of the Milky Way. It was considered quite a privilege.

 

Androgyny. Needs and Desires.

Summer and the Living in the Mountains Moon

Thursday grateful: Running lines with Alan. The Campfire. That pastrami sandwich. Feeling conflicted. Money. Trips. Axumin scan. Long term care insurance premium. Maybe a new (read expensive) hot water heater. Friends. Family. Travel. A need for rest, time away. How to reconcile. The synagogue. Luke. Rebecca. Jamie. Marilyn and Irv. Kep. So excited in the morning. Food, dad, food!

Sparks of Joy and Awe: It’s a ladle (not a spoon, you dumb ignoramus!) a line from the Odd Couple

Tarot: The Seer, #2 of the major arcana

“With the innate ability to balance emotions and the power of will and source of knowledge, The Seer encourages us to change the ordinary material world. She uses all of The Wildwood’s natural resources skillfully. She nurtures positive changes in people’s minds, expressed through emotions and commitment to life. Her magic is one of the purest and most revered things on earth.”  tarotx.net

 

Androgyny. Quite a ways back Kate paid me a compliment, one I’ve treasured. “You’re the most androgynous person I know, Charlie.” I value the balance of yin and yang, of the feminine and the masculine. In me. I love being a sensitive man who will knock down injustice. I love cooking, raising kids, keeping a nice house. The chainsaw and I were one. Back when I could still hold one. The axe, too. I loved gardening, the labor of it and the nurture of plants. Raising dogs and caring for them when they’re sick. I loved being in relationship with Kate.

The Seer and I are old friends. Her feminine intuition, her link to Mother Earth. I feel them. Honor them. Honor her. She was the one who told me, “You need to be a Dad.” And, I listened. She was the one who told me, “You need to write.” And, I did. She was the one who told me, “Marry Kate. Right now.” I did. I listen to her as often as I can, as closely as possible. She was the one who told me, “Move to Colorado. Be close to Ruth and Gabe as they grow up.” And, we did. I have never regretted hearing her voice.

Drawing this card today reminds me to collect the information I’ve gleaned over the last year and two months since Kate died. To listen to the Seer once again. Hear her advice on what happens next. What I need to do now. Listening.

 

I’ve put myself in a box. One of my own making, one that expresses deep desires but may not conform, right now, to my reality. I really want to go to Durango with Tom. I really want to see the Redwoods with Diane. I really want to extend my reunion trip and visit Sarah and Jerry at Belews Creek. But. In August I have my Axumin scan. Over a thousand bucks. Then in September my long term care insurance comes due. Three and half times that. Plus I may need a new water heater. Maybe more than the two combined.

Money. I have enough. Yes. But not more than enough. I so want to go places, see other people. But. I may have to settle for Hawai’i until I’ve seen my way through these big expenses. Adulting. Bah, Bah. Gonna have to count my pennies again. Stay tuned.

Her Last Journey

Beltane and the Living in the Mountains Moon

Grateful: for 33 plus years with Kate

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Her life and her death

 

After

Sometime after celebrating Kate’s yahrzeit at CBE, May 6th, a small voice began to say, It’s time. Time for what? It’s time. Time for what? It’s time. Oh. I see.

Whatever lies in the deep of me, the soul. My self. Inner wisdom had decided it was time to spread the rest (most) of Kate’s ashes. Yes, I put some around the Irises in her memorial Iris bed. Yes, I gave some to Jon, Ruth, and Gabe which they spread in Maxwell Creek at Upper Maxwell Falls, but I had retained most of them. They sat behind me along with Rigel’s ashes. For several months.

Niggling in the back of my mind was something Seoah had said, “Koreans believe until the ashes are spread the person isn’t free.” My take was that the person who held the ashes was the one who wasn’t yet free.

That was me in this case. Yes, but not free of what? Certainly not her memories. I will not ever let them go. Certainly not her momentous presence in my life. I cannot let that go. Free, I think, of a physical tie to yesterday. Free, I think, of any delusion that she’s gone away somewhere but might come back. Free, I think, of the life we had together. Free so that my life can move forward on its own.

 

So almost exactly a year and two months after her death (the 12th is tomorrow), on a clear blue Colorado day, the temperature in the mid-sixties, I strapped the urn with the flame narrative, the one shaped by Richard Bresnahan and fired in the Johanna Kiln into the passenger seat, and Kate rode with me one last time. To my trail.

Carrying the urn, heavy for this sarcopeniaed old guy, up the small hills and across the rocky stream, I walked. Burdened. Which was the point, after all. Her ashes and the urn were a counter weight when I walked on slanting parts of the trail.

I had decided that if I fell and broke the urn that would be where she needed to go. But, I didn’t. I crossed back and forth as the trail moved from the north side of the Stream to the south. Catching Rocks with my hiking boots, not dead yet, able to leverage myself from one bank to the other.

When Kate and I arrived at the small pond at the base of the waterfall, I set the urn on the ground. A moment. Letting it sink in. What I was about to do. Say good-bye. Let her go. Send her to the World Ocean via this tiny, unnamed Mountain Stream.

The urn, upended, began spilling out the off-white, grayish remains. As they hit the Water, the dustier material fanned out in the Stream, while bone fragments sank to the bottom. The whole Stream, that part visible to me from the Waterfall, clouded.

Then, in a bit the onrush of new water had cleared the Stream back to its usual state. Like life. We live, clouding the Water, then we die, and the great Stream of Life itself moves on, clears the Waters, and it’s as if we were never there.

a moment later

I said two namastes to Kate’s disappearing presence, then slowly raised my arms, palms up. Crying.

Not long after I felt a release, a brightening.

This was something I needed to do and something I needed to do alone. Most of the remembrances for Kate have been communal, at CBE or with family. This was for the two of us. Us.

After a bit, I collected myself, picked up the much lighter urn, and walked back to the car.

 

Natural Healing

Beltane and the Living in the Mountains Moon

art@willworthington

Friday gratefuls: My journey over a lifetime. Kate. Always. That trail. With the Creek, the Mountain Stream. The fallen Trees. The tall Pines. The Wild Strawberries. The Rocks. The steep valley walls. Wild Rose. Primrose. Those yellow Flowers I can’t identify. A place of great sanctity. A holy place. A sanctuary. Friends. Near and far.

Saturday gratefuls: Stephanie. That trail again. Happy Camper. Aspen Perks breakfast. Salad. Apples. Peanut Butter. The Continental Divide. Mt. Rosalie. Mt. Evans. Black Mountain. Staunton State Park. Richard Power’s Orfeo. Learning lines. Mini-splits. Jon. Money.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: That trail.

Tarot: Seven of Stones, Healing. And, Again.

Key words: “Give our minds a break, Calmness, Meditation, Stillness, Healing, Reevaluation, Patience, Perseverance, State of stability, Attentive care, Take time to relax and unwind, Connection to the source energy.”  tarotx.net

 

Forgot to finish this yesterday. A busy day. Over to Aspen Perks for breakfast: Salmon Eggs benedict. Reading Orfeo. After a morning with what people especially beyond Richmond Hill (think Pine, Bailey) call the camper and RV races. Or, the RV assholes. Or, those bastards. Folks from down the hill invading, driving too fast. Often with trailers in tow. Passing on curves. Generally being jerks. After Richmond Hill 285 goes from a four lane divided highway to a two lane, no dividers. That’s when things get clogged.

At 9 am I was still a bit ahead of the bulk of it. But I had a guy towing a trailer behind me, a BIG RV ahead of me for much of the way. Irritated locals often try to pass early. Not waiting for the passing lanes that come after the road to Staunton State Park. It’s a recipe for accidents. And, they happen. And, they kill people.

 

I was on my way to the Happy Camper for my every two months or so cannabis run. 25% off! for the whole month. Still digesting a Stanford study that says thc can increase inflammation in the veins and arteries around the heart. Gonna consider genistein to counteract this effect. Sleep is critical and my thc use has made 8 hours every night possible. Gonna contact my docs to see about safety and dosing.

 

As my avanah (humility) practice for the month, I’m using a focus phrase: ichi-go, ichi-e. Every moment is once in a lifetime, unique, precious. Trying to use it every time I encounter a living entity: Kep, Myself, Rocks, Lodgepoles, Elk, Friends, Waitress, other Diners, Birds, the Sun, Black Mountain. All the time. Sort of like the Jesus Prayer. Trying to make it subliminal, yet also present as I move around through my day.

In this way I can learn to take up the right amount of space in my life. Not too much, not too little. Not minimizing my gifts, not over emphasizing them. Making sure I remember to bring my whole self to each precious moment. Since it will not be repeated, it’s the only chance I have.

 

I have now hiked what I’ve begun to think of as my trail, at least when I’m on it, three times since Gabe and I were on it last Saturday. I may go again this morning. Yesterday after my time with Stephanie, Dr. Gonzales’ PA and a sweet lady, I hiked it with the ichi-go, ichi-e focus phrase.

I saw that patch of Wild Strawberry blooms and thought of Ingmar Bergman’s film of the same name. A favorite. The Mountain Rose Bushes are in full Flower, too, five white Petals brightening the trail. They will give way to Rose Hips as the Wild Strawberry Blooms will to Strawberries.

The little Stream, I don’t know its name, flows a bit less vigorously as the Snow melt and Rains subside. Still it sings, dancing over Rocks, falling down the Mountainside, continuing its creation of this holy Valley.

Oddly, as I thought about this trail last night, I realized I’ve done just this, exercised outside in spots that became favorites for a very long time. I used to hike the trail along the Mississippi down by the Ford Avenue Bridge. Then I moved on to the Crosby Nature Farm, also along the Mississippi. When I worked for the Presbytery, I often exercised or walked at the Eloise Butler Garden and Wildlife Sanctuary. 

In Andover I went to the Rum River Regional Park and snowshoed a trail through Woods behind the new library in the Winter, spent other times at Boot Lake SNA. Now I’m on my trail just off Brook Forest Road. Up here though the options are much more abundant. I’ve also been on Upper Maxwell Falls, The Geneva Creek trail outside of Grant, and plan to hit the Mt. Rosalie Trail soon.

My equivalent of the Celtic Christian practice of peregrinatio. The Skunk Cabbages are probably blooming right now at Eloise Butler. I miss seeing them and the bright yellow of the Marsh Marigolds. The power of the mighty Mississippi, too. Though a Mountain Valley is equal to them in its own way. Love the one you’re with. Eh?

RazzPutin

Beltane and the Beltane Moon

Friday gratefuls: Blue Sky over Black Mountain. A fading contrail. Sun hitting the solar panels. Wind. Muscles still healing. Luke. A sweet guy. So talented. Rabbi Jamie smiling, easy. Mussar. Kate’s yahrzeit tonight at CBE. Her plaque on the yahrzeit wall lit up. Kya. The road trip to meet her tomorrow. Ode on the Road.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: A possible buddy for Kep

Tarot: Six of Vessels, reunion

 

At first I thought. My class reunion in September. Read a note about it before I shuffled the cards. That’s pretty on the nose. But something deeper. The mound, a dolmen? Pouring out of it. Water. Into a pond on which six small vessels float, a light in each one. Ferns and arrow root frame the vessels. Two otters look intrigued. They might slide into the water and play. The sun is behind the trees, faint as if it were dawn or dusk. Long shadows jut out from the leafless, gnarled trees.

The deep and holy well of memory gushes into the pond of our everday, our present. Perhaps unexpected. Yet with strong emotion. Emotion that can illumine our life. If we let it. Maybe I’m the Otter, the one with his head up, looking at the Waterfall. Maybe I’m the Arrowroot, ready to offer stored up energy for the table of this life.

This continues the story from yesterday, of old bonds broken, other old bonds recalled and renewed. Gushing out of the dolmen, informing me. Philosophy. Acting. Writing about travel, politics. Writing itself. Friendships nurtured. Maybe movies. Art.

This is the Watercourse way. Following the River of self where it flows, not forcing it. Embracing the eddies and pools, the rapids, the sudden falls. Ah.

 

The war in Ukraine. America loves an underdog. The plucky Ukrainians against the old Russian empire led by Czar RazzPutin. The bare-chested bear baiter ruler against the comedian. Seems like an obvious win for the Empire, neh?

Funny how things are working out. As the military loves to say, the Ukrainians have taken the fight to the Russians. The supposed easy victims now become the aggressor. Must be confusing for the folks back at Russia military HQ. Heads will roll.

While I sit atop Shadow Mountain, fingers crossed that some event or another doesn’t pull us all in. Biden’s got this one right. Unite the allies. Send weapons. Money. Intelligence. Stay out of it otherwise. A larger war would serve no ones interest. A Ukrainian victory just might make the world safe for democracy. For awhile. As we’ve often claimed as our motive.

 

Of course. That assumes the electorate in the U.S. still wants a democracy. I’m pretty sure the majority do, but there’s that troublesome fringe  of fascists, organized and strong. Trumpites. Trumpettes. Trumpists. Fascistii with too long red ties, those red hats, and hearts filled with sadness over the loss of white privilege.

Live free or die. Don’t tread on me. Those confederate battle flags. Flown in defense of a form of government that will, by definition, restrict freedom. Oh, well. May you live in weird times. We are.

 

 

Beltane: You are alive!

Beltane and the Beltane Moon

Sunday gratefuls: Beltane. The growing season. Fire festival. Life renewed. Again. Still. My voice. Jon. Better. More insight, moving forward. Three dead mice. 2nd night, none in the kitchen. Edward Abbey. Mario. Taos. Road trip. Iran. Possible tour in the fall. Taipei, winter. Energy back. Got a lot done yesterday. Closing in on a finished downstairs. Feels so good. Jon’s idea about centering the chandelier. Smart guy.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Jon, taking hold

 

October, 2014 Andover

 

Beltane. Yes. The season I need. A Fire festival. Those crazy Scots and Swedes. All naked today, bonfires. Probably a lot of making love in the tall grass. Sympathetic magic. Maybe a few year and a day handfast marriages. The maiden goddess lying with the Greenman, with Cernunnos. Persephone with Pan. Ceres waving her hand, seeds unfurling, heading toward the sun.

A celebration of the Garden, the Prairie, the Pasture, the Woodland. Life giving. Soaking in the Sun. The Rain and the Snow melt. Mountain Streams full. Trout loving the cold Water. It’s Beltane. Ring out the fallow season for real. Ring in the season of plenty.

In the old days, the farthest away of the Celtic times, only Beltane and Samain. The growing season and Summer’s End. One or the other. Fertility or waiting, decomposition, getting ready. Resting. For this. The time of green. Of yellow and brown.

Oh, I’m so ready. I’ve had a long, long fallow time. Maybe since 2018 or so. Life with Kate had hit its late fall, early winter. The Covid. Her decline and death. Grief. Kate, always Kate. Now less Kate and more me. Alive still.

Beltaned. My Seed beginning to unfurl, blast its way through the Soil. Drinking in the Rain. Basking in the Sun, gaining power. My own Photosynthesis. Hands out, palms up, neck back, face lifted to the warmth of a new life season. Probably my last one. The fourth phase. Joyful. Rich. Headed toward joy.

Leave no bit of juice in the tank. Spill it all on the road, running the engine as long and as far as possible. Like Ode on his long road trip. Like Neal Cassidy and Ken Kesey. Like Walt Whitman and his powerful Yap.

That’s the message of the Great Wheel. Until you fall into the soil, become one with the next generation of life, you are alive. An agent. A whole universe swirling with galaxies of love, nebula of knowledge, Big Bangs of creativity.

Contra Dylan Thomas I do want to go gently into that good night. Not as one passive and resigned, but as one filled with experience. One who took the moments and lived in them, loved in them. Shouted. Danced. Acted. One who knows the night is nothing to rage against, rather something to embrace. These element’s fallow time after their long journey as me.

So. Take off those clothes. Throw away the inhibitions and the ambitions. Open. Spread out. Jump and twirl. It’s the Beltane festival. For you and for me.

 

Learning Curve Trending Down

Imbolc and the Seoah Citizenship Moon

Monday gratefuls: Kep. My phone, which reminds me when 6 am is now. Darkness again. Sadness. Ukraine. Russia. War. Peace. That Dragonfly lamp. The slowness of things just now. The Ancient Brothers. And their still more ancient fathers and grandfathers. Including the con man, the Irishmen, the one in green flannel underwear.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Finding the stock pot and the mixing bowls

 

Ah, the simple joys of kitchen remodeling. I put the stockpot up over the refrigerator, but when I first looked I saw only the second shelf akimbo. It was too heavy for me to lift into place. Can’t be there. Left hand cabinet door. Later, when I decided to look everywhere, I opened the right door and there was one of my favorite kitchen tools on a bias at the other end of the slanted shelf. Really? I did that? Yep.

And the mixing bowls. Determined I went through everything again. Then, there they were. Again, right where I’d put them behind the Pyrex measuring bowls, sort of hidden. Whew. Not crazy.

Bouncing between final moves on the furniture rearrangement and the kitchen reassemble. Both take time and energy. The end results I love. But still more slogging to go. A ways to go before I finish. At this pace? Maybe a month.

I took a big check over to Jodi at Blue Mountain Kitchens on Friday. Bowe still has to come out and finish a few things. Minor. Convince one drawer to glide easily. Some staining. A filler piece between the dishwasher and the sink.

Nausea has begun to get in the way, too. Damn. That’s no fun at all. This Erleada may be important, but it’s not very friendly. Hot flashes seem to have disappeared. Bowels a bit happier. Fatigue, stamina, and my tummy-not so much.

Wrote a piece about astrology for the final class tomorrow. I’ll append it here*. Feels like a fail for me. Might be, might not.

One similar tale. Long ago. Logic, my freshmen year at Wabash. I had done fine in Philosophy 101, all my other classes, too, except German. Which I dropped. Second semester I took Logic from Professor Larry Hackestaff, notable for wandering the green with a six pack of Bud dangling from his side, his belt run through an empty plastic ring. The beer looked like a large set janitor’s keys. Perhaps to the unconscious?

It wasn’t happening for me. I listened to his lectures. I studied hard. I flunked an early test. Oh, god. Was this going to be my first grade below a B ever? And maybe an F? How could this be? Couldn’t imagine. Shame. Fear. Anxiety. None of which helped me of course. It was around this time I got diagnosed with a spastic colon, now irritable bowel, I think.

And then. One morning in the library, in my favorite carrel, I pushed one more time and the world of logic opened up to me, blossomed. The law of excluded middle. Yes. Proofs. Yes. It was fun. A puzzle. Riddles within riddles. Aced the midterm and the final. Felt like I’d strapped myself to the mast like Odysseus, escaping the Sirens of doubt.

Maybe someday I’ll have a similar experience with astrology. Not now. Not sure when I’ll go back to it. Maybe soon, maybe never.

It’s weird because the Tarot has become a daily part of my spiritual practice. I thought astrology would, too. Apparently not.

Breakfast now. Then over to see Dr. Gonzalez, see if we can figure out the fatigue-stamina-nausea trio. Does make me feel a bit fragile. A feeling I don’t like.

 

 

*Astrology and me

A learning curve difficult to surmount. Not sure why. Usually. Fast into the wheelhouse of an idea. This subject. Not so much.

Part of it no doubt is my bedrock empiricism which can swing close to scientism, something I despise. Part of it is a lifetime of seeing the astrology columns in newspapers and reading them for amusement or entertainment. Part of it is a strong existentialism which finds it hard to give outside influence impact over my life. Part of it is the how. How can this be? How can this work? Maybe it’s the wrong moment in my life.

These classes have helped me. I now have a better grasp of the elements of astrology, still unable to put them together with any ease. Not even sure how I can advance. Perhaps I need to go back to work with Elisa on my chart. Learn it. Get it down.

Got to admit this troubles me. A strong part of me relies on intellect. Another strong part of me relies on the heart. At my current age I’d say they are in balance. When my intellect finds it hard to crack the code of a subject, I feel hesitant, reluctant to dig deeper. I had the same issue with languages. Just. Real. Hard.

I wish I had a better way of describing my journey. Yes, I’m intrigued that my chart seems to get some parts of me right. Yes, I’m intrigued by the idea of transits inflecting our lives as the planets move. But moving past intrigue into using astrology as a tool for my own journey? Still not there, after two private readings and two wonderful classes.

Leaving this path with way more questions than answers.

But, as Douglas Adams said, Thanks for all the fish.