Category Archives: Memories

Family, Fourth Phase, Great Wheel, Health, Holidays, Memories, Politics, Writing

Stories Worth Telling

Leave a comment

Yule and the Samain Moon

Thursday gratefuls: A Mountain Morning in Winter. Rich and Doncye. Brother Mark. Mary. A new Kindle. Hanukah presents. Jacquie Lawson Edwardian Advent Calendar. December cold and Snow. Magpies. Canadian Jays. Abert’s Squirrels. Red Squirrels.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Snow Flakes falling on Shadow Mountain

Kavannah: Ahavah (love) and Bimah (understanding) Understanding, differentiation, deep insight; from בּוּן to split, pierce/penetrate; also בֵּין between

One brief shining: I roll out the mat, kneel down in a posture not unlike a Muslim at prayer and do the push-ups I can do, then skull crushers with weights brought down near my ears, those silly calf raises, 15 goblet squats, bicep curls, wall angels, incline pushups, my upper body/lower body day.

 

Fun with chatbotgpt. NB: I asked for skullcrushers which are done with dumbbells and got this guy. Part of the fun.

BTW: If you’re new to Ancientrails, I want to explain. When I capitalize a noun like Rock or Mountain or Lodgepole or Mule Deer, I’m following a commitment I made after reading Braiding Sweetgrass. In Potawatomi everything considered alive gets capitalized out of respect. I’m not totally consistent, but I try to be.

When I went into see Rabbi Jamie about feeling meh, he mentioned two things. One, getting back to making art. He means sumi-e which I did for a long ago Kabbalah class. I also paint. Both sort of. However I turned up the heat in the loft and intend to start again. It brings joy.

Second he mentioned a website Storyworth. For those of you age peers who read this, it’s worth a look if you have kids or grandkids. Storyworth sends out a weekly prompt, you write in their software in response to them. My first two prompts were: How did you get your first job? and What was your father like when you were a child?

At some point, I’m not sure when, you’ve written your story. It’s then printed and bound and shipped to you. Price determined by how many books you want. I’m getting four. Ruth, Gabe. Joe. Myself. A neat service. I’m having fun with it and it counts as getting back to writing.

I’ve also begun writing my project of essays, ideas on observing each of the 8 Celtic holidays. Pretty far along on Yule.

 

Just a moment: Still, like many of you, I imagine, marveling at the choices for cabinet leadership our new President, same as the old President has offered up so far. Sure, Gaetz got gone as fast as he deserved, but Hegseth remains in play. Kennedy, too. And Gabbard. Patel. Many of these vie to replace the old chestnut about the fox guarding the henhouse. Now: Patel guiding the FBI. That old drunk at DOD. Vax denier heads health and human services. Combine these choices with long red tie guy’s volatile, chaotic, grudge based style of, what? Can we call it governing? Sorta drains the meaning out of that word. The point is: matches. Gasoline. All over D.C. for four years. Four years.

 

Cooking, Family, Fourth Phase, Holidays, Memories

It’s the Best Time of the Year

Leave a comment

Samain and the Moon of Growing Darkness

Sunday gratefuls: Mark working his options. Mary. Turning cold and Snowy for Thanksgiving week. Thanksgiving at the Water Grill. Nexus, chilling and hopeful about A.I. Constitutional A.I. Anthropic’s Claude. ChatbotGPT. A.I.’s policing each other. Living. Cancer. Stable. Long tie guys quick appointments. Loyalty far and above competence.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Love

Kavannah: Perseverance

One brief shining: The coffee slides down my throat, the heavy mug with the Elk and the logo Evergreen reminds me of my current location as the caffeine hits my bloodstream and sleep begins to fall away, replaced by alertness, keystrokes and thoughts once again merge, another morning of Ancientrails under construction.

 

Hitting the family Ellis in their various locations: Melbourne, K.L., Songtan. All from the top of Shadow Mountain. Thanksgiving week. Holiseason well underway. Diwali. Thanksgiving. Advent. Yule. Christmas. Hanukah. Kwanza.

It’s that time of the year. My favorite. I love the lights, the music, the cheerfulness, the gatherings. The opportunity to celebrate life connections, to go deep into the psyche hunting for ohr, the light of creation. We’ve already had Divali and Samain both of which shared the same Gregorian dates this year. All Saints. Now Thanksgiving.

I appreciate the layered ironies of all holidays. Light against the fading of Great Sol. The depth of learning available only in the darkness. The messy and ugly origins of Thanksgiving, yet its warmth and family focus now. Our need to see Native American stories. Christmas replacing the Roman blowout of Saturnalia with its too often ridiculous capitalist captivity. Hanukah and its noble martyrs who were far right Jews of their time and its gentler but still ridiculous capitalist captivity. Yule, its symbols taken over: The Christmas Tree. The Evergreen Holly and Ivy. The crackling Fire with the Yule Log. A wassail bowl. Singing and Feasting. Cultural appropriation of long ago.

So much to appreciate, to probe.

Then, less than a month from now, the least encumbered holiday of them all, the Winter Solstice. A celebration of life continuing in the darkest moments. The rich nurturing of nighttime, of a blanket of Snow, a bright Moon. The psyche free to roam in the oceans of the unconscious. A still turning point. Join me on that long night. Unless of course you live in the Southern Hemisphere where you’ll get naked and dance around the bonfires of the Summer Solstice. Looking at you, Australia. New Zealand. Africa. Most of Latin America.

 

Just a moment: Reminded by all of the Thanksgiving recipes of my first attempt to cook a Thanksgiving meal. In my senior year of college, 1968-69, I worked as an 11 to 7 security guard at a factory that made magnalite cookware. For the Thanksgiving holiday they gave all employees a frozen Turkey.

I dutifully took it home and put it in the freezer of the second story apartment I shared with John Belcher and Carter Fox. On Thanksgiving day I took it out and called my Aunt Marjorie to ask her what to do. She was a professional cook for the University.

Imagine her surprise when I led with, “I have this frozen Turkey. What do I do with it?”

As you could guess, my roommates and I went out for our Thanksgiving meal.

Colorado, Dogs, Family, Friends, Memories, Minnesota, Mountains, Shadow Mountain, The Move, The West

The Doggie Drive

Leave a comment

Samain and the Full Moon of Growing Darkness

Shabbat gratefuls: Tom. Conversation with him. His kindness. The Truth. A CBD ointment for aching joints, pain. Worked on my trigger fingers. Happy Camper. Evoke 1923. Mt. Rosalie covered in Snow. 13,575′. Long tie guy and his in your face appointments.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Friendship

Kavannah: Perserverance

One brief shining: Sitting at the table where I found my pearl, in what is no longer the long time Bistro now the Evoke 1923, Rebecca took our orders, delivered a tasty filet mignon tartare, a beet salad, and our entrees: duck for Tom and filet mignon for me while we struggled to hear, especially after the piano player started up, two old guys trying to parse the future of A.I. largely overwhelmed by the clink of silverware on porcelain, happy chatter from the table of six, the limits of hearing aids reached and exceeded.

 

It’s nearing 10 years since the long doggie drive of December 2014. Tom and I together with Rigel, Vega, and Kepler on I-90, then I-76, finally 285 to Shadow Mountain. 15 hours or so of conversation, attention to dogs and the eventual end of the Great Plains where they wash up against the hogbacks of a precursor Mountain Range to the Rockies. That was the first phase of the actual move, Kate arriving later with Gertie and that van we had packed in Andover.

On the Winter Solstice of that year our moving van came and promptly got stuck in a ditch. Eduardo and friends pulled it out. Snow fell and the temperatures hovered around zero. Not willing to try again the van driver took the whole load off Shadow Mountain to a more level spot, rented two u-haul trucks and shuttled the whole truckload from some spot on Hwy. 73. This lasted far into the night with dogs and movers crossing and intersecting.

From that day until the day she died Kate said she felt like she was on vacation living up here. Six and a half years of vacation. A good retirement for her. Glad she didn’t see the MAGmA overflow decency and justice. She would have been angry and disappointed.

Over the course of those years I’ve become Harari, a man of the mountains, now wedded to this place through location and intense experiences. Many, many memories. Some difficult, sure, but also many more intimate, fun, bound up with the wild nature of this place, with Judaism, Kate’s final gift to me.

Mountains. If I have my way-Lord willin’ and the creek don’t rise-I’ll live out my final days here, too.

 

Just a moment: A life lived from, say mid-20th century to the first quarter or so of the 21st, has already passed, as few lives ever do, from one millennium to the next, the second to the third. We’ve also seen what may be the end of a political era begun under FDR. I’d call it whiplash, but the change has been more gradual than the crack of a whip. A new world is being born, but despite long tie guy’s next fast-food adventure on Pennsylvania Avenue, neither he nor his minions will define it.

This new world will emerge from the tension between the mindless governance of, as Kamala Harris rightly said, an unserious man, and cultures political, artistic, and economic which my generation assumed to be stable. Oh, my.

 

Fourth Phase, Garden, Memories, Minnesota, permaculture, Plants, Politics, Seed Keepers, Weather +Climate

It will be us. And, it will be so.

Leave a comment

Samain and the Moon of Growing Darkness

Monday gratefuls: My sweet, kind Ancient Brothers. The Seed-Keepers. Veronica. Ruth. Gabe. Samain. The fallow time. Snow. Boulder. Snarfs. Shadow Mountain. Election 2024. Clarity. Warming. The Great Sol Snow Shovel. Tara. My Lodgepole companion. A Colorado Blue Sky.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Lunch with Ruth

Kavannah: contentment and joy

One brief shining: Strange to recalibrate a life at 76 yet I did just that a year ago this month, having my penis-my penis!-pricked (hah), disrobing and immersing myself in the mikveh, explaining my reasons for embracing a new way of life to a beth dein, house of judgement, and taking a new name, Israel, one who struggles with God.

 

Israel. Part of my nom sacré, Herme Harari Israel. My fourth phase name. In the direct toledot, generations, of Abraham and Sarah. My now forever ancestors. This name also signals my continuing pagan life as the hooded man of Shadow Mountain. Feel free to refer to me by any name you wish.

The Moon of Growing Darkness. A bit of explanation. You may think this refers to the election of long tie guy, but no. It refers to my joy as the days grow shorter and the nights increase, headed toward the Long Night, the Winter Solstice. Yule in the pagan way. My affection for the dark, for the night long proceeds long tie guy, proceeds cancer, proceeds Judaism.

No, I’m not an owl. I love the mornings when my strength and intellect and creativity peak. But as much I love the darkness. Might have begun during those fall days in Andover when I would dig out and replenish the soil in the flower beds that arced around our lower level brick patio.

As I worked, Folk Alley radio played in the background and a chill Minnesota fall day would make the task a deep joy. Lying not far from the tarp onto which I put the Soil would be brown bags full of Corms, Rhizomes, and Bulbs. With the Tulip Bulbs, I would place them in slightly raised rectangular wire baskets, place them at the right depth, then shovel Soil back over them with a bit of Organic matter mixed in. The Rhizomes,  new Irises that Kate had chosen, might go in next to the Tulips. On the next tier up of this three tiered bed I would sprinkle Daffodil Bulbs and plant them where they landed, going for a mass of yellow in the Spring.

The Crocus Corms would go into the bed next to the front porch and that would come a bit later. This was a twenty year ritual, one I looked forward to because I loved the thought that within the nurturing Soil, beneath the Snow, tucked in warm against the bitter Minnesota Winters were these small capsules, no less amazing, perhaps more amazing than a space capsule, of life, holding within them enough nutrients and ancient wisdom to throw up a stalk when the temperatures signaled safety, push out leaves that would begin to gather more food for the all important Flower, that seductive botanical invention that draws Pollinators, and would, in time, die back as Seeds formed. Even though most of these Flowers never propagated by seed.

How could a gardener not be in love with darkness? Seed-Keepers will work in the darkness of the coming red tie guy years. Tucked in warm against the bitter autocratic Winter, small communities ready to send up stalks when the political temperature is right. Then to send out Leaves and power a movement into Flowering. It will be us and it will be so.

Yes, we had Morels in our Woods
Fourth Phase, Memories

Ante smart phone and hearing aids

Leave a comment

Mabon and the Sukkot Moon

Shabbat gratefuls: Yiddische kopf. Alan and Joanne. Dandelion. Ginny and Janice. Aspen Perks. Ruth tomorrow in Boulder. Being a Jew. Always. In my round about way. First Snow. Coming down in the straight lines of Mountain Snow on Shadow Mountain. Gold and white. Green and white. Black Mountain white. Steel gray skies. Lodgepoles showing off their get rid of the too heavy snow load tricks. The good life. Life itself. The Tree of life. Kabbalah. Sukkot and the Sukkah.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Torah

Kavannah: Friendship

One brief shining: Got there, to the Dandelion, early as I usually do, to discover I’d left home without my hearing aid, my phone, and my glasses; geez, I thought, trying to parse out why I’d done that, concluding the first chill weather of the season-it was 35 out-and thinking more about outer wear: let’s see, fleece, large jacket like flannel shirt over my sweatshirt had occupied my attention, pushing away going through my usual Mountain pilot’s checklist, will remember them all today. In fact I already have my loaner hearing aid in and my phone beside me.

 

 

To continue that thought for a moment. Yes, I leave things behind. Have all my life. Not a trick of old age, but of hurried living. Why I’ve had patience as a kavannah so much of late. Anyhow when I got to the restaurant early, the woman who manages the place who knows I’m sunny side up on my eggs, greeted me, gave me coffee and cream, and I went to my usual table to sit and wait for Alan and Joanne. Poured cream in the coffee. Got some water from the cooler. Set out my silverware and napkin. Then.

No phone. What do I do? Realized I’d come early to restaurants all my life, too. And most of that time without a cell phone to amuse me. To make me feel like I had something of significance to do while I waited. What did I do then? Often I’d have a book. Sometimes a notebook and pen. I’d read or take notes, write a poem, sketch.

This day Great Sol was in my eyes. I turned away from his glare, thought about lowering the shade but decided Mother’s spinning would put her lover above the roof line soon enough. As it did. I put my hands in my lap and sat there. Saw the only other guy in the room suddenly stand up and make what I took to be basketball mimes: a hand over his head blocking, a slight turn and and a ball released toward the basket. I guessed basketball not only because the hand movements were familiar, but his height. Maybe 6’5″ or more. A big guy.

Looked at the rows of root beer, soda, mineral water in the glass front standing cooler, how neat they were, awaiting the days shuffling and rearranging. The guy from the linen supply truck came in and gathered up moisture absorbing rugs, rags used in the kitchen, went out, came back in with fresh rags in a clear plastic bag and fresh rugs over his shoulder.

Read the chalk board. Tomato Soup. Poblano and bacon quiche. Apple cinnamon rolls.

Alan and Joanne came in the door. Oh. Well. That’s what I used to do. Pay attention.

Family, Garden, Great Wheel, Holidays, Judaism, Memories, Minnesota, Mountains, Our Land and Home, Plants

A Pagan Covenant

1 Comment

Mabon and the Sukkot Moon

Friday Gratefuls: The Sukkah. Harvest festivals. Celebrating the intimate link among humans, Great Sol, Mother Earth, and Seeds. Fall. The sweet, sad, soulful song of Aspens and their gold. Hygge. Coming soon to Shadow Mountain. Rabbi Jamie and his high holiday sermons. Ruth, who wants to eat together again. Sunday. Boulder. Kate, my love. Talking to her. Laurie and her Chi-town food truck. Tulsa King. On the Run. Phantom Toll Booth. The Iliad. Homer.

Sparks of joy and awe: The Harvest

Kavannah: Patience

One brief shining: The CBE sukkah has wood lattice on its three sides, mesh grass matting for a roof, and three children’s decorated tapestries, with a lulav always on the table, the four species: branches of myrtle, palm, willow bound together and the etrog, a large citrus fruit separate from them, the branches waved north, south, east, west, up and down, while saying a bracha, a blessing, the etrog picked up at the end a blessing and a ritual which has a theme of Jewish unity, sure, but more to the point represents the moment in time, the harvest, which Sukkot celebrates.

Seed Savers Exchange is one of the oldest and largest heirloom seed conservation organizations in the world.

Email: diane@seedsavers.org

Corn pickers and combines. Gathering in their mechanical dinosaur ways Corn, Wheat, other Grains. A rhythm with which I grew up. Farms all round my hometown of Alexandria, Indiana, around my mom’s hometown of Morristown and on the land between the two to the south, to Muncie on the east, to Elwood on the west, and Marion on the north. I learned early to always slow down on a gravel road if a hill blocked the view in your direction of travel. There might be a lumbering mechanized giant moving very slowly just over the crest of the hill.

Later the grain trucks would back up to silos when the market was right and carry the harvest to elevators and their huge silos which held many farmer’s crops for loading on grain cars for dispersal to the General Mills, Kellogs, Cargills of the world. So ordinary. Common. Mundane. Usual. Wasn’t until l moved to the Rockies that I found myself apart from the rituals of agriculture.

Oh, once in a while I’ll see a tractor harvesting hay off a Mountain Meadow, but that’s rare enough to be remarkable. There are Cattle in eastern and western Colorado, a few up here in the Mountains, but that’s ranching. It works to different rhythms and has slaughter as its grain truck to the elevator equivalent.

As long as Kate and I lived in Andover, we observed the fall agricultural rituals albeit on a much smaller scale. Tomatoes. Potatoes. Onions. Beets. Carrots. Beans. Raspberries, Ground Cherries, Honey Crisp and Macintosh Apples, Pears, Cherries, Honey. Whatever we planted. Flowers, cut Flowers, too.

Kate would can, dry, and we both would bottle honey. Then go out to the firepit and throw a few logs on, sit with the dogs milling around, and enjoy quiet time together. The harvest season. A feast. A moment when the covenant among Soil, Seeds, and human toil revealed its promise.

Feelings, Fourth Phase, Memories, Reimagine. Reconstruct. Reenchant.

No Karmic Overburden

Leave a comment

Mabon and the Sukkot Moon

Sunday gratefuls: Sukkot starting Wednesday. Dr. Buphati, medical oncologist, tomorrow. Variety Firewood. Yom Kippur. Mabon. Poetry. Cold Mountain. Basho. Rumi. Ginny and Janice. AI. Orange one and Kamala. Election 2024. Please vote. Mail-in Ballots. Civilized. Got mine yesterday. Climate change. The Gulf Stream. Greenland Ice sheet. The Atlantic. Milton and Helene.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Golden Aspen

Kavannah: Patience

One brief shining: Bought a chair a while back, made by the Amish in the Arts and Crafts  style, a Morris Chair, and a Violet themed stained glass standing lamp to go behind it, then a standing globe so I could find my dispersed family and better understand geopolitics, a set of timed lights to ramp up my balance exercising, not to mention the Aeneid, Mysticism, The Vegetarian books, and started to get a queasy feeling that I’m buying too much, some of the boxes yet unopened, though my finances are solid, not sure, maybe being good to myself feels (is) selfish? The Calvinist in me says yes, the Jew in me says no. Not as long as you care for and are generous with others. Which I feel I am. No wonder I converted.

 

Tough, fighting those strains of self-abnegation developed through years of scarcity and violently enforced religious beliefs. Violent, you say? Yes. Consider. If, in the course of your life, you vary from the path of salvation, miss the mark too often, what say ye about the next life? Hell and damnation. Even if you’ve convinced yourself long ago that the three-story universe was false, the fact that such a consequence was ever considered possible for sinning too much? Too often? Badly enough? makes sin a devastating burden on the psyche. Sort of a Milton plus a Helene plus a Katrina for the soul. Seems like a system designed to keep me in line with threats, and not insubstantial threats, but of damage to the very self of Self.

No. What matters is how you act today, in this moment. No karmic overburden. A similar system, btw. Yesterday, that old life, has slipped into the stream of time’s flux. What can you do with it? Nothing. But today? This life. This October 13th, 2024 life? This one we can work with.

Patience. I’ve realized that impatience exposes the anxieties I still have. Hangovers from those early days in Alexandria and the First Methodist Church. No, neither my family nor Methodism were blatantly abusive. No, they merely encouraged an anti-self work ethic, an other-focused diminishment of self, a closed mouth attitude toward sexuality making it confusing and embarrassing, an inner compass always slightly off because there were too many wrong paths, wrong actions, wrong feelings to follow a clear direction.

All of this, an uncertainty about personal worth, about the eventual destination of one’s soul, a valorization of work and self-denial, of hiding true feelings were the hallmarks of a good upbringing in mid-century, small-town America. I got a solid dose of it. Did you?

 

 

 

Family, Feelings, Friends, Great Wheel, Holidays, Judaism, Memories, Plants, Weather +Climate, Wild Neighbors

Israel

Leave a comment

Mabon (Fall) and the Sukkot Moon

Thursday (Rosh Hashanah) gratefuls: Happy New Year, 5785! Sukkot. Mom. 60 years ago this month. Her death. Tom’s eyelid surgery. Mark in Georgetown, Malaysia. Visas. Soon to travel to Saudi Arabia. Fall. Harvests all around the world. Friends and family. Dogs. Wild Neighbors. Cecil’s Deli. Bill and Paul. Travel. AI. Playground by Richard Powers. Ocean.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Ocean

Kavannah: Teshuvah

One brief shining: Wrestling with the angel of belonging, my own Jabbok Ford, why I chose the Hebrew name, Israel, no longer wanting to be in large groups no matter how significant the occasion, yet also knowing, as friend Paul says, that showing up is often all that matters, how to reconcile my covid/introvert/homebody/back pain inflected avoidance with my love of CBE. Acute on the High Holidays.

 

Do not want to become a recluse. In no way. In no way either do I want to get sick or deny my nature. Aware attendance at High Holiday services (or, lack of) gets noticed by friends. Am I not committed? Am I not a Jew? So I struggle. Here’s another aspect of it. As a new Jew (ha), I don’t have a lifetime of memories about the High Holidays. I find the services long and, with the Hebrew and davening, often obtuse.

Also, I didn’t suddenly release my pagan ways. Sukkot, Simchat Torah, Tu B’shvat, Passover, counting the Omer, Shavuot reflect my Judaism much more strongly than the heady and often patriarchal notes of the High Holidays. The month of Elul as preparation, chasbon nefesh. Yes. Taking a soul returned to its own land into a new year. Yes. Grieving at Yom Kippur. Yes. Human matters.

And then, the reflection of the Great Wheel in Jewish colors: Sukkot, the fruit harvest. Simchat Torah, dancing with the Torah, the body itself in motion. Tu B’shvat, the new year for the Trees. And I might include Wilderness, Wild Neighbors, Horticulture. Passover. Spring planting. Counting the grain as it grows and gets harvested at Shavuot. This is my Judaism, an ancient celebration of humanity’s connection to the life-giving turn of the seasons and to Mother Earth.

On a lunar calendar note, also a link for me with Judaism, lunar calendars rapidly get out of alignment with the seasons without leap months added. This year we added a second month of Adar. This means that yahrzeits get pushed out by a month or so from the actual death date. Though the yahrzeit rarely lines up with the actual death date, usually it’s within a week or so.

This finds my mom’s 60th yahrzeit falling on October 31st this year. On Samain. On All Hallow’s Eve when the veil between the worlds thins. Judaism and paganism line up to make her 60th year in the Other World a special moment for me. Hard to believe she’s been dead 60 years. Never gone, of course, but fainter as a memory. On the 31st I’ll light a yahrzeit candle for her and look through the photo albums and photos I have of her. Remember, re-member, her.

Memories, Minnesota

Sacred Waters

Leave a comment

Mabon (Fall) and the Sukkot Moon

Wednesday gratefuls: Rosh Hashanah. Yom Kippur. Sukkot. Simchat Torah. The seasons of Judaism. The Great Wheel. Its presence in liturgical calendars of all sorts. The Gunflint Trail. Grand Marais. Lutsen. Lake Superior. Pukaskwa National Park. Wawa. The U.P. Sault Ste Marie. The Edmond Fitzgerald and the Gales of November. The North Woods. Ely. The International Wolf Center. Mark and Mary both in Malaysia. My son back in Korea with Seoah and Murdoch.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Gift giving

Kavannah for Tishrei, week 1: Teshuvah

One brief shining: Two trips completely around Lake Superior by car, visiting the true North Shore in Canada, in particular the Canadian National Park Pukaskwa with 700 square miles of roadless Wilderness and Wawa, the quirky little town where I first had poutine, and the bar there over which I stayed for a night each trip.

 

This bridge dangles over a wild River which empties into Lake Superior not far from this point, a Rocky Gorge contains its Rapids on both sides. It’s hiking distance from the only parking and I’ve made this hike several times. Never encountered another person.

Were I a true outdoorsman I would have hiked in and camped somewhere in this Wilderness. Instead I’ve always chosen to hike for a couple of hours first on a wooden walkway that crosses a large Marsh, then on a trail through a dense Pine Forest that leads to the bridge.

At different points Lake Superior is not far from the trail and its Waves crash against the Shore, not really a Beach here, instead made of fist sized chunks of polished Granite and Basalt. Being on the Superior Shore surrounded by miles and miles of protected Wilderness always brought me a calm inner state that lasted a long time.

Lake Superior has a sacred presence known by all who encounter her though they may not name the feeling that way. Her vastness, far from any Ocean, emerges after climbing a steep hill going into Duluth, shows itself along the Bob Dylan Highway 61 which many of us have revisited, and goes in and out of visibility on Canadian, Michigan, and Wisconsin roads as well. That there are lakers, huge cargo ships that carry taconite, coal, wheat, and corn, helps you understand the connected size of these Great Lakes.

Northern Minnesota’s Arrowhead region, the only area in the continental 48 to have never lost its population of wolves, lies always near the Great Lake. Its Wildness and Lake Superior’s sing to each other, a song of longing and beauty, of Winter Snow and Ice, of Wild Neighbors: Moose, Wolves, Whitetail Deer, White Fish, Northern Pike, Muskie, Pine Martens, Sturgeon, Minx, Beaver, Lynx, and Black Bears.

Inside my heart Lake Superior lives in its cold, deep, northern way. A constant reminder that there are places, sacred places, all over Mother Earth. A few I’ve been able to visit often enough to come to know at a heart level. In these latter years of my life the Rocky Mountains have become my sacred Wild Friends, too. How could I want a heaven when I’ve known so many already and live in one now.

 

 

Cooking, Dogs, Dreams, Family, Feelings, Fourth Phase, Friends, Garden, Great Wheel, Judaism, Memories, Minnesota, Mountains, Plants, Shadow Mountain

Oh, my

Leave a comment

Lugnasa and the Full Harvest Moon

Wednesday gratefuls: New credit card. Tom in Omaha. At the Air and Space museum. Good workout. Isaac coming today. Possible personal trainer. Ginny and Janice today. Cooling nights. Gold popping up here and there on Black Mountain. My son. His commitment. Palliative care. Sharpe. Salisbury Steak. A vegetable smoothie. Bad dreams.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Protein

Kavannah: Teshuvah   Returning to the land of my soul

One brief shining: Geez, ever have a night where the dreams stuck with you and you wish they hadn’t; last night I bought a used Porsche that had bald tires and rust, tried to preach in a synagogue bare foot which they said was ok, but couldn’t find my sermon, woke up agitated, out of sorts.

 

What dreams may come. Must have been feeling insecure last night. Perhaps because I got a Groveland UU e-wire announcing their dissolution. Kate and I were a part of Groveland from the beginning and I preached there off and on even after we moved to Andover, then the Rockies. I tried to help them grow. Didn’t have much luck. A feeling of failure. Though I never was their minister except for a brief period. Guess it is a feeling of failure. As I write this, I feel bad. Sad. Inadequate. Groveland was the place Kate and I landed after I left the Presbyterians.

Moods. As I’ve written. Need to return to the land of my soul. Which is here, today, this September 19th life of 2024. Shadow Mountain. Seeing friends. Living. How do I feel? Down. How do I feel? Grounded. How do I feel? Anxious. How do I feel? Sad. How do I feel? Inadequate. How do I feel? In my body. How do I feel? Grateful. How do I feel? Gathered in. How do I feel? Anxious. How do I feel? Surprised. How do I feel? Glad. How do I feel? Here. How do I feel? Sad/OK. How do I feel? Ashamed. How do I feel? Oh, yeah. How do I feel? In myself. How do I feel? Knowing. How do I feel? Back. Mostly

What I learned here was why I never served as a pastor. Not me. I’m a political activist, an organizer, but never a minister. Even though I tried on the role briefly. Twice. Kate told me it wasn’t me. She was right. I wanted to work. To mean something. Sure, that’s fine. But I couldn’t get to that being someone I wasn’t. I didn’t have the right skill set to help a congregation grow unless I was a consultant, not of the congregation. And I was not meant for a pastoral role.

I found work that mattered, that was me, in Andover. Gardener. Bee Keeper. Dog wrangler. Lumberjack. Cook. Husband. Writing. Learning. Oh, the joy I felt. We felt. How much time I wasted trying to fit into square holes when I was a plant shaped peg. A lover of dogs, plants, bees, writing, Kate.

Here in Colorado I have a new focus. The Mountains. Judaism. Friends and Family. Writing. Learning. All about love.