Category Archives: Minnesota

Colorado, Memories, Minnesota, Mountains

249 Years

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Summer and the Greenhouse Moon II

4th of July gratefuls: Cousin Donald. Hyper Masculinity. The Commander’s Cup. Seoah. Murdoch. Songtan. The United (?) States of America. Oklahoma. Indiana. Wisconsin. Minnesota. Colorado. Judy. Raeone. Kate, always. Shadow. Her chewed leash. Work yet to do. Planting. Seat cushion for Ruby. CBE Men’s group. Suffering. Luke. Rebecca. Leo. Tara. Eleanor.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Long time friends

Year Kavannah: Wu Wei. Find the flow of life’s force, follow it

Week Kavannah: Savlanut. Patience.

One brief shining: Walked up the slight rise past the wonderful Ponderosa and the jagged Granite Boulder, pre-schooler rendered chalk drawings on the sidewalk, and pressed the doorbell necessitated by the oldest hatred to join my friends discussing the mussar virtue of self-confidence.

The 4th of July. On the 249th birthday of this country I sit on Shadow Mountain, in purple Mountain majesty above the fruited plains. Somewhere below amber waves of Grain ripple in a morning Breeze.

Meanwhile, faraway in the land of broken toys a mean-spirited tyrant and his too loyal minions prepare concentration camps for immigrants who came here seeking a better life: ICE prepares detention blitz with historic $45 billion in funding.

The Elk Cow and her Calf that crossed the road in front of me Wednesday night do not know this. Their world continues, following a thread of ongoing life rooted millions of years in the past, honed to the ways of Mountain life, to seasonal change, to knowing the ways of predators.

Nor does Shadow know. As we work out our life together, a struggle and a joy for both of us, she too follows a path begun thousands of years ago when friendly Wolves joined human encampments for shelter, food, and joint protection.

How I wish I could be a non-human animal, wild or domesticated. I could live according to the ancient rules of nature. Eat. Reproduce. Play. Rest. Die. Not live according to the cruel rules of human society, the unnatural ways of my often thoughtful, loving, compassionate species.

The Elk do not shun their own, round them up and move them out. Sure, animals may contend over territory for survival, but we humans contend over territory for power and for purposes driven by fear and hatred.

This fourth of July I join many Americans who no longer find great pride in their country. National Pride in the U.S. Sees Dramatic Decline. Or maybe not quite.

The Mountains and the Plains. The fertile fields of the Midwest. The great Boreal Forests. The Atlantic Coast and the Pacific Coast. Redwoods. Sequoias. Bristle Cone Pine. Wolves and Grizzlies. Wolverines and Lynx. Squirrels and Marmots. Fishers and Pine Martens. Rabbits and Chipmunks. All the Wild Neighbors. I take great joy and, yes, pride in living among and with all of these. America the Beautiful.

I also stand with all the humans, all of them, who live here with love, justice, and compassion in their hearts. Who know that the word neighbor has no color, no gender, no religion, no national origin. Who know that the warm and beating heart of this historic experiment in self-governance cannot be stilled by the cold dead hands of those without mercy.

Dogs, Health, Minnesota, Politics, US History

Gilbert lies in state

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Summer and the Greenhouse Moon II

Shabbat gratefuls: Nathan. His Husky, Dakota. Pollen. Plant sex. Lodgepole yellow. Shadow, loves to see me outside. Back and leg pain. Labrum tear treatment. SPRINT. The Greenhouse, very close. Tara and Eleanor. Luke and Leo. Tom and Max. People and their familiars.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Animal Companions

Week Kavannah: Wu-Wei. work the with flow of chi

One brief shining: Taking part in the Sloan-Kettering trial for a better way to help folks over 70 with cancer cope with life, finding most of the material not exactly trite, but obvious at least to me. Disappointed.

 

Dog journal: Shadow and I have a dance. We make progress. Our relationship is happy and loving. She joyfully runs across the whole back yard to throw herself at me. She rests now beside my chair. When she sleeps inside, she spends most of the night on the bed.

However. She dodges the leash. And, she has not come in at night for three nights now. Challenges. How to work with her since we are in a good place with each other. Natalie returns next week. Those will be the main two issues to resolve.

Nathan’s dog Dakota has an intestinal blockage. Multiple thousands of dollars. His old Jack Russel who lived with his Dad died two weeks ago. And, his partner, who runs a Dog sitting business, got bit twice this week after eight years with none.

Our Animal companions burrow their way into our lives, sneaking into soul connections, heart bonds tight. When they’re in trouble, so are we.

Thinking of Dakota who had surgery yesterday evening and has an extended recovery ahead of her.

 

Back and leg pain: Well. Gosh. Now even a short drive puts me in enough pain that on returning home I have to lie down. This in spite of improving strength through p.t. and three times a day dosings with tramadol.

Around the house my pain has ameliorated. Much better. Not sure what it is about driving. But I don’t like it. Come on, SPRINT.

 

Just a moment: In other Dog news, Gilbert, state senator Melissa Hortman’s Golden Retriever, lies in state with Melissa and her husband, Mark, at the Minnesota Capitol. I knew Melissa a little bit from Sierra Club work at the Capitol.

All three were shot by Vance Boelter, a man with strong connections to the New Apostolic Reformation (NAR). I’m two thirds of the way through Matthew Taylor’s “The Violent Take It By Force” which investigates the NAR’s role in the January 6th insurrection.

I plan a series of posts about this book when I finish it, but one noteworthy piece of information from it may help us understand Boelter’s actions.

Cindy Jacobs, a prophet in the New Apostolic Reformation, added a layer of interpretation to the familiar verse from the Gospel of Matthew cited often by missionary focused Christians: “Go therefore and make disciples of all the nations…”

Missionaries inspired by this command have long traveled the Earth seeking converts and building churches. Jacob’s saw another level of interpretation.

She wants the NAR to make disciples of nations. Not just individuals. This raises the stakes of what the NAR calls spiritual warfare. The metaphors are violent and now, with Jacob’s new approach, apply to whole nations.

The title of Taylor’s book, in fact, comes from Matthew 11:12: “From the days of John the Baptist until now the kingdom of heaven suffers violence, and the violent take it by force.”

 

Ancient Brothers, Dogs, Family, Fourth Phase, Greenhouse, Memories, Men, Minnesota

Living, not dying

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Beltane and the Greenhouse Moon

Sunday gratefuls: Israel. Iran. The Middle East. War and peace. My son. Father’s Day. Korea. Commander. Seoah. Murdoch. The Jangs. Shadow. Our relationship. Dogs. Kate, always Kate. Evergreen Rodeo. Tourists. Maxwell Creek.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: CBE Men’s Group

Week Kavannah: Week Kavannah: Bitachon. Confidence.  “A feeling of self-assurance arising from one’s appreciation of one’s abilities or qualities.”

One brief shining: Touched the framing of the greenhouse, sturdy, and began to imagine the Garden beds filled with Lettuce, Radishes, Beets, Peppers, Tomatoes, Marigolds, a favorite salad ingredient, Nasturtiums, and standing inside a heated greenhouse in the Winter, Snow piled up outside and tending to the raised bed with Lettuce, Peppers, Radishes, Beets, Flowers growing in pots.

 

Life, tactile and warm, Shadow and the greenhouse, living, not dying. Nurturing life other than my own, right here at home. As I’ve been used to doing for the last 40 plus years.

This is walking upright in the world. For me.

Yesterday I attended the CBE men’s group. Rabbi Jamie said, “I’m seeing you in person.” I finished a ten session zoom class with him on Wednesday, and I haven’t been to the synagogue in several weeks though I’ve attended Thursday mussar on zoom many of them.

Driving has become such a literal pain that even a trip to Evergreen makes me uncomfortable. Working on it. SPRINT device in July sometime. A visit to an orthopedist on Wednesday for the tear in my right hip’s labrum.

Glad I have Halle and her spirited work, her sage advice. One hour then up. A walking meditation. Dog training. Making breakfast, lunch. Getting the trash ready. Yes. Agency.

 

Father’s Day: Talked to my son yesterday. His Sunday morning. Father’s Day. Being a father in my particular way began with my commitment to feminism. Doing my part for birth control. I had a vasectomy at age twenty-six. The Rice Street Clinic in St. Paul.

As a result, when the need, and that’s what it was, the need to become a father hit me, quite unexpectedly, at age thirty, I had to have a reversal. Which never woke my little guys back up. Low motility.

Which left adoption. Raeone and I worked with an adoption agency in Minnesota to find a baby who would die if they were not adopted. At the time, the late seventies, that meant India.

Women in rural Bengal would find themselves pregnant in their eighth month due to malnutrition. The would go into Kolkata to give birth, then the babies were discarded.

Unless. International Mission of Hope had arrangements with several of the “hospitals” that took in these women. In those instances the babies were taken to an IMH orphanage and made available for adoption.

Our first referral, a girl, died due to a salmonella infection that rampaged through the orphanage. It took another year for a new referral, little Jang Deep, four pounds and four ounces, delivered in a wicker basket by blue and white garbed nuns at the International Arrivals section of the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport.

 

Feelings, Fourth Phase, Garden, Memories, Minnesota, Shadow Mountain

My Sweet Kate

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Imbolc and the Snow Moon

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.

Dogs, Dreams, Feelings, Fourth Phase, Memories, Minnesota, Shadow Mountain, Wild Neighbors

Call of the Wild

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Imbolc and the Snow Moon

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.

Memories, Minnesota, Politics

Trump, Trump, he’s so cruel

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Yule and the 78th Birthday Moon

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.
Commentary on the news, Holidays, Memories, Minnesota, Politics, US History, World History

Yesterday’s Lives

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Yule and the Quarter Century Moon

Thursday gratefuls: Reconstructionist Judaism. Judaism as jazz. My White Pine companion at Boot Lake Scientific and Nature Area-Minnesota. Those elms I had to cut down and debark in Andover. Emma’s fallen cottonwood. The Seven Oaks out my study window. The dead Ash Tree where the Morel’s grew. The Ironwood that was so tough to cut. Honeycrisp. McIntosh. Plum. Pear. Cherry. Trees in our Orchard.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Mountain Winds

Kavannah for 2025: Yetziratiut  Creativity

For this January 2nd life: Netzach  Perseverance and grit

One brief shining: A hand on her back, a flinch, you scared me, oh wondering what could have made her flinch since she knew I was there, right behind her, sad that touch took her into flight mode, the snow blew busily across my driveway.

 

We’re almost done with Holiseason. I count January 6th, Epiphany as the end of this wonderful time of year that began on Samain, October 31st. Here’s a connection I’d not made before. January 6th, day of the insurrection, when MAGA stormed the Capitol building carrying weapons and looting like vandals. January 6th, day of the Epiphany, which celebrates the visit of the three Magi bearing gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Sorta different, eh? Now wedded by history.

 

Not sure why, but yesterday’s lives have begun seeping into my present. Not in a regret or shame or guilt way, but as a remembrance of time’s past. Could be the stories I’m writing in the Storyworth application. Maybe not though. At breakfast with Tara I told Ball State movement stories that I rarely tell. Today in my gratefuls Trees I had known in Minnesota kept coming to mind. A few days ago I took the Artemis Honey jar out of the cabinet and went into a combination of grief and joy, of remembering life with Kate and the persistent joy then which brought grief about its loss and about Kate’s death.

Most lives, like mine, are ordinary. Most lives, like mine, are extraordinary. Ordinary because they will sink under the burden of history, little known and less remembered. Extraordinary because only I could live my life which makes it, like yours, wonderful, another full-on, head down, legs moving experiment in what it means to be human.

May as well lean into it, the onrush of old lives. Seems to be what’s happening in my psyche.

 

Just a moment: That truck. Near Cafe du Monde. Jackson Square. ISIS? Geez, guys. Read the room. So yesterday. And the irony, the maybe intended irony, of an ugly Tesla cybertruck blowing up in front of a long red tie guy hotel in Las Vegas. Why can’t China or Russia be the great Satan? Or at least share the honor.

I can already feel the aggrievement wheels turning in cousin Donald’s meanness machine. What if he decides to turn the full weight of the U.S. military against Muslim terrorists? He’s capable of that. And trust me someone in his sphere of malevolence has probably recommended it already. What if?

 

 

Family, Feelings, Fourth Phase, Literature, Memories, Minnesota

The Skein of our Lives

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Yule and the 2% crescent of the Yule Moon

Sunday gratefuls: Honesty. To others and self. Yule darkness. The days between the Winter Solstice and the New Year. 5th day of Hanukkah. The Maccabees. The oil in the Temple Menorah. Good workout yesterday. Chatbotgpt. Ruth and Gabe. Mark and Mary. My son and Seoah. Murdoch. Rich. Ron. Alan. Diane back home. That long dive into the deep end of my mind.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: The Lev

Kavannah: Love (ahavah) and Persistence

One brief shining: Reading Michael Moorcock’s The War Hound and the World’s Pain I followed von Bek through Hell, through Mittlemarch, or Middle Earth, out to the world as we know it always hunting for the cure for the world’s pain until finally at the edge of the forest near heaven he receives a clay cup that signals his oh, so ordinary enlightenment while representing the culmination of human striving.

 

I have these threads weaving through my life and my heart as we head toward the quarter century mark of the first century of the third millennium. In no particular order: kabbalah, mussar, friendships, family, writing, the nature rights legal movement, Mountains and Shadow Mountain, Wild Neighbors, reading for Herme’s Journey, exercise, cancer, back pain, books of all sorts, travel, Seed-Keepers, telling my story, Ancientrails. AI. Judaism. Paganism.

And, of course, there is the wider context for all these: Kate, politics, organizing, Christianity, paganism, alcoholism, Jungian therapy, the Wooly Mammoths, Minnesota, the St. Paul Chamber Orchestra, Raeone and Judy, Tina, seminary, Alexandria, the Andover years, the Peaceable Kingdom, all those dogs.

There is the third place of the lev, as well. Or, perhaps better, the lev as a third place in which all these coexist, influence each other, reaching over and shaking hands, embracing. Pushing away. Denying. Erasing. Recreating. Nothing is static. All effects All. Moving not necessarily forward or backward, up or down, but in and out, releasing new energy with each penetration, impregnating the moment so something novel can grow, reach out for something else and keep the whole underway.

 

Yes. We loved each other.

Let me give you a modest example. Last night I decided to have an English muffin with peanut butter plus the last bit of the unfrozen Senate navy bean soup. As the English muffin toasted and the soup warmed in the microwave, I got out the peanut butter and thought. Hmm. Honey.

Reached into the cabinet, moved a box of sugar, and there sat a small canning jar with a handwritten label: Artemis Honey. In Kate’s beautiful cursive. She came. Standing there with the uncapping knife, honey super in hand, looking beautiful and engaged. The Andover years where we worked as one. Dogs. Vegetables. Flowers. Bees. And the chamber quartet we commissioned for our wedding. The honeymoon. Living in the move as we prepared to come to Colorado.

For a long moment I stood there. Before I reached in. Should I eat this? As if it were the last piece of her, of our life together. The honey harvest. Of course I can eat this now, a holy communion, a eucharist. Her body and mine together again if only for a moment.

I spread a bit of the wonderful thick amber colored honey over my peanut butter. And ate it.

Bees, Dogs, Garden, Great Wheel, Hermitage, Holidays, Jefferson County, Judaism, Kabbalah, Memories, Minnesota, Mountains, Paganism, Reimagine. Reconstruct. Reenchant., Reimaging revelation, Shadow Mountain, Wild Neighbors

Mitákuye Oyás’iŋ

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Yule and the Yule Moon

Christmukkah gratefuls: Many happy Christmases. The complete severance of Christmas from Christ’s Mass. All of the childhood induced fantasies drifting up and out of bedrooms all over the world. All of the Jewish memories of resistance triggered now for 8 days. Holiseason peaking with Christmas, Hanukkah, and Yule all resonating, vibrating with each other. It is indeed the most wonderful time of the year.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Holiseason

Kavannah: AWE Yira יִרְאָה  Awe, reverence, fear (פְּלִיאָה Plia: Wonder, amazement)

One brief shining: I hear the rattling of old Marley’s chains this morning, looking at a world about to devolve into a Christmas Carol with a different ending, where the Scrooge’s of our country like Trump, Bezos, Musk, and Gates join oligarchs from around the world to ignore even the Ghost of Christmas future and forge for themselves heavy chains and money boxes that will haunt them into their unredeemed future.

Here is the image representing “Mitákuye Oyás’iŋ” in the style of socialist realism, emphasizing interconnectedness and harmony.

And even so, let me say a word for yirah. For wonder, amazement, awe, reverence. Paul reminded me of the Lakota phrase, all my relations. I asked chatbotgpt to give it to me in Lakota and what it means in the Lakota worldview.

The answer* made me realize that I’ve spent decades deconstructing theological and philosophical and even scientific ideas, trying to swim down and through them to the core of what matters. Mitákuye Oyás’iŋ matches my current conclusions though I had to get through years of seminary, meditation, horticulture, dogs, loving Kate, to find the final ingredient I needed, the unitary metaphysic of Judaism. The Tree of Life in Kabbalah maps on to this native worldview, too.

Wish it was as easy as reading this years ago and being able to integrate it, but that wouldn’t have worked. I needed to live the struggle. Judaism with Kabbalah contains this wisdom and expresses it without dogma. Makes me feel even more like a member of the tribe. Or, a tribe.

When I talked to the Mule Deer Doe last week, when I spent time with the three Mule Deer Bucks on my first day here on Shadow Mountain ten years ago, when I planted tulips and iris and crocus and garlic and heirloom tomatoes, when I removed honey supers to carry to Kate for our honey harvest, when I sat with a Wolfhound’s head in my lap and another’s in Kate’s, I engaged the embodied learning of Mitákuye Oyás’iŋ.

Yes, mitákuye Oyás’iŋ comes most vividly into our whole life through direct experience. Yet for me the life of the mind is important, too, and I wanted always to be able to clarify, to say in words the truth my body already know.

In a way I sense my life is now complete. I made the swim all the way to the bottom and down there was the Holy Well of the collective unconscious, linking me to all my relations through the world of Judaism.

Reincarnation? Could be. Death a transformation? Without a doubt. Life a continuous amazement and wonder. For sure. May as well celebrate.

BTW: I like this image from Chatbot’s Dalle, too.

Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukkah!

 

*”Mitákuye Oyás’iŋ” reflects the interconnectedness of all beings and entities in the universe. It embodies the belief that everything—humans, animals, plants, stones, water, air, the earth, and the stars—is interrelated and part of a sacred whole. This worldview emphasizes:

  1. Unity and Kinship: All beings are regarded as relatives, forming a vast web of relationships that must be honored and respected.
  2. Reciprocity: The phrase underscores the importance of balance and mutual care among all entities, fostering a sense of responsibility toward the natural world and its cycles.
  3. Sacred Connection: Life is seen as a continuous, sacred circle in which every part has its place and purpose, contributing to the harmony of the whole.
  4. Humility and Gratitude: By acknowledging “All My Relations,” individuals express gratitude for the interconnectedness of life and humility in recognizing their place within it.

In ceremonies and prayers, “Mitákuye Oyás’iŋ” is often used to close statements or invocations, serving as a reminder of this profound interconnectedness and the sacred responsibility it entails.

                                                Herme Harari Israel

Family, Memories, Minnesota, Politics, US History

Arrival Day

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Yule and the Samain Moon

Sunday gratefuls: Mini-splits. Boiler. Hot Water. Well. Septic. Pipes. Electricity. Generator. Walls. Windows. Roofs. Floors. Driveway. Skylights. Solar panels. Great Sol. Orion. Andromeda. Polaris. Ursa Major. Vega. Rigel. The Moon and its phases. Shadow Mountain.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Our Town by Thornton Wilder

Kavannah: Persistence and love

One brief shining: Oh so long ago those days of old army jackets (cue the irony), work boots, jeans, work shirts, long hair and beards, joints and acid, Hell no we won’t go, Hey, Hey, ho, ho, LBJ he’s got to go, sweaty nights with the woman I met at that day’s rally, the Doors in the background playing Riders in the Storm.

 

the prompt: in psychedelic colors portray with kindness a group of gray haired activists protesting in the 1960’s

I suppose, sometime, is that enough equivocation, I might-a little more-write my own memoir of the 60’s, the war against the war. Another planet, another universe. Laid against Peter Hegseth, Tulsi Gabbard, Kash Patel. Those long red ties. Government as clown car. Cram all the horn honkers, the confetti cannonaderes, the yellow and blue and red frizzy haired ones in that you can. Then one more.

Central Indiana, where I spent my 60’s, though not my sixties, was not the pulsing epicenter of the movement though the 1968 Democratic convention happened not far away. Even so we did our part. Dressed up like all the other individualists marching together across the country. Listened to the same bands. Held fast to the same dreams. Not the Children’s Crusade, but similar. Older. Young adults.

Easy to cast a cynical eye back to those days. Say the obvious things about white privilege, a poor person’s war (aren’t they all?), the way we were. Yet my life turned away from the American establishment (remember the establishment?) for good. Turned toward justice as a life work. So much else. So much else. But not today.

 

No. Today I want to acknowledge another powerful event that shaped my post 1980’s life: the arrival, 43 years ago this night, of my son and his wicker basket partner, Willie. I’ve repeated the story often of the iced up fuel line in our orange VW Bug, sidelining us on the way home. And Angel, the Latino, rescuing me and towing me home, and as he came inside so I could thank him properly, an Angel became the first outsider to see my son in his new home.

Suddenly. A parent. That day earlier Raeone and I were a childless couple in our early thirties. At midnight on December 15th, that same day, we were parents. No nine months of preparation. Of course there was anticipation, but no pregnancy.

My son weighed 4 lbs and 4 ounces. He was so tiny. We both wondered if he would survive the first day with parents as clueless as we felt. Well. I talked with him yesterday. He’s made it 43 years past that night at Minneapolis/St. Paul International. I guess I can breathe now.