Imbolc and the waning Megillah Moon
Friday gratefuls: Kate. Rigel. Kepler. Fresh snow. Vaccines. Sleep. Books. This computer. Dexterity. Psalms. Rabbi Jamie. His buddy, Justin. 45 gone. 46 at work. Lisa Murkowski’s vote in the Senate energy and natural resources committee for Haaland.
Sparks of Joy: Bright Sun on white Snow. The letter A. The Mountains.

What a long, strange trip it’s been. The Dead’s second compilation album and the title for life over the last four plus years. How I love the stable, unexciting presidency of Joe Biden. He’s pushing a stimulus for a wounded nation. He has police reform and a voting rights bill moving through the House on their way to the Senate. And, he’s putting together an infrastructure bill. Go, Joe.
Taking 45’s chaos off the table, reducing the news to policy analysis, political odds, the normal functioning of our democracy has lifted that everyday burden. Even a golden calf simulacrum of 45 can be laughed at, an oh my god moment. Head shaking, yes, but the burn of such a statue aloed by electoral defeat.

I’ve never been proud to be a Democrat because my politics fall on the left side of its consensus. But I’m close to pride now. Working on the pandemic, unemployment, protecting the vote, changing the field for policing, building a national policy to refit our nation. Put a minimum wage, a wealth and a carbon tax. Put teeth behind our rejoining of the Paris Accord and I’m gonna fly a blue flag over the blue lights we already have.
Who is this Ron Johnson anyhow? Send him back to Wausau or Shiocton or Baraboo. This last Wisconsin town has a circus museum. He could be an exhibit there, with the other clowns. Or, maybe he could go to the cranberry bogs around Tomah. Get a wooden paddle and earn his living as a harvester. Anything but an obstructionist asshole asking for the whole bill to be read, 628 pages.

I’m 74. The days of youth long gone. I no longer expect a fair world, but I hope for a just one. I no longer expect a peaceful world, but I hope for a stable one. I no longer believe in a three-story universe, but I love this actual one, even more mysterious.
Give me my Tolkien, my Psalms, my Oxford English Dictionary. And, faeries. Give me my family, my ancient friends, this amazing life. Give me the Mountains and the Snow and the bright Sun and blue Sky. This is enough. Always has been.










Life continues, no matter. Until it doesn’t, of course. That is, even when an evil bastard like Trump is in office, we still have to eat. When a rampant virus rages, we still have to sleep. When a family member is ill, we still love each other, support each other. Life is a miracle and wasting it, well, please don’t.
No matter how proximate or distant disturbances in the force, science goes on, literary folks write books and articles, the past remains a source of inspiration, and the future a source of hope. No matter whether life has meaning or whether it is absurd (as I believe) the secondary effects of this strange evolutionary push into awareness persist. And, yet they persisted.
Mt. Evans and its curved bowl continues to deflect weather toward us here on Shadow Mountain. The light of dawn hits Maine first, as it has for millennia. The polar vortex slumps toward Minnesota.


At our elevation the Lodgepole guard the Aspen whose golden leaves in the fall proceed their winter sleep. At lower elevations the Ponderosa, the Spruce stand guard. At the treeline ancient Bristlecone Pines patrol. In other parts of Colorado the Douglas Fir, the Engleman Spruce, the Pinon Pine, the Rocky Mountain Juniper, and the White Fir watch. The Great Spirit reminds us each Winter of the Evergreens special gift.


