• Category Archives Mountains
  • Love is more powerful than discomfort.

    Grandma. At Chief Hosa lodge

    Mabon and the Sukkot Moon

    Monday gratefuls: Boulder. Ruth. Snarfs. The Flatirons. The greens as Great Sol sank below the horizon. Grandpopping. Podcasts. One on crime and disorder. Another on Walter Benjamin. Falling. Of the Aspen Leaves. The dry Willow Leaves blow away, many carried downstream by Maxwell Creek. Samain only 10 days away. Simchat Torah Wednesday.

    Sparks of joy and awe: UC Boulder

    Kavannah: Compassion  Rachamin

    One brief shining: Ruth and I sat at a blue metal table on Pearl Street, Boulder’s main drag, our paper wrapped sandwiches spread out in front of us, mine a french dip sans jus, hers something with nothing animal, a few cars drove by since we were far from the Mall, Leaves finished with their seasons work lay scattered on the sidewalk as we spoke of painful childhoods, death, deception, and treachery.

     

    Our initial impetus for moving to Colorado came after I attended an Ira Progoff retreat in Tucson. In a meditation on the next stepping stones of my life I realized Kate and I needed to be here in Colorado for the kids. Reinforced on the drive back when I showed up at Jon and Jen’s with no warning to Ruth. She saw me, turned and ran back in the house. That was April of 2014.

    Kate agreed. We gave ourselves two years to make the move. Momentum took over though and by that October Kate had been in Colorado as our scout, finding a house. I knew I would dither and Kate was decisive. 9358 Black Mountain Drive. In the Mountains as we both wanted. Jen called it Mountain fever and was mad that we’d not moved closer. We however were not coming to be babysitters, but grandparents.

    Andover and its gardens, its bees, its orchard, its woods had become too physically demanding for us. Kate had retired three years before. It was an inflection point for us. We still had four dogs: Kepler, Rigel, Gertie, and Vega. As the Winter Solstice neared Tom Crane and I got in our Rav4 with tranquilized Kepler, Rigel, and Vega. Drove straight through. Rather, Tom did. We talked the whole way only stopping when one mammal or another had to pee. Kate left a day or so later in a van I had packed full with items we didn’t trust to the movers. She had Gertie with her, feeding her Whoppers on the way out. Well. Parts of Whoppers. Which Kate reported Gertie approved.

    In the Garden Andover

    Leaving the Twin Cities after forty years, a bit longer for Kate, was tough. I had friends, especially the Woolly Mammoths, and I had immersed myself in the cultural life of the Twin Cities: The St. Paul Chamber Orchestra where Kate and I met. The Science museum which Joseph and I loved. The Children’s Theater, The Guthrie, the MIA, the Walker. Both of us had spent hours and yet more hours planting, weeding, living with dogs, caring for bees and extracting honey. Sitting by the firepit. Just being together in a place we shaped from our first days there.

    Yet. The call of being with our grandkids as they grew up in what we knew were challenging circumstances with an angry mother and father felt compelling.

    Kate and Ruth developed a strong, strong bond. Kate helped Ruth learn to cook, sew, be a Jew, and a young woman. I took Ruth on adventures to museums, the National Western Stockshow, hikes in the Mountains. Gabe, too. When Kate died, then Jon, Barb, Jen’s mother aka Tennessee Grandma, and I were left. Barb had to move to into an assisted living spot and sees the kid’s less.

    I would have gone to Hawai’i in spite of all this had I not figured out that my son and Seoah’s return there was not certain as I’d initially thought. Glad it turned out that way. Ruth and I have become close, Gabe as well. I’m an important, stable, calm presence in both of their lives. They both love Shadow Mountain Home, being up here.

    Now I drive to Boulder once or twice a month. Gabe comes up and stays for a couple of nights. Critical for them, I believe. And, me. When I think about them, about my son and Seoah, about Mark and Mary and Diane, then about cancer, I can see keeping up with treatments as long as they are life extending. Love is more powerful than discomfort.


  • A Pagan Covenant

    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.


  • Home

    Mabon (Fall) and the Sukkot Moon

    Friday gratefuls: Heidi. Salaam. Marilyn. Ruth. Alan. The Dandelion. Big O tires. Phillips 66 Gas. The waning of the gold. Leaves beginning to fall. Clear, bright, blue Sky. Great Sol grinning. Mother Earth happy with what they’ve made together. The Ocean. The World Ocean. The unknown of the deep. Its wildness. Beavers damming Streams, making Ponds. Thinning Forests. Wild Life. Our Wild Friends. Cyclical time.

    Sparks of Joy and Awe: Aspens, the Mountain torches of Mabon

    Kavannah: Teshuvah

    One brief shining: Driving past the spot where I saw the Bull Elk in the Rain, I noticed the golden torches blazing, flanking where he looked at me through the dark, Aspens, oh, I see, Bull Elk sacred in the night in May, Aspen leaves in their brilliant final phase in October, yes, I see, the Wheel turning, the sacred manifesting in its seasonal way, different yet also always there.

     

    These blue days with golden Leaves and water reflecting Lodgepole green. Lake Evergreen, a small jewel set amongst the inner Foothills, Mountains rising on all sides of it. Folks paddleboarding, kayaking, canoeing small moving dots of color rippling the reflections. You might think after almost ten years these sights would be ho-hum, I’ve seen it before, so what. No. Instead the turning of the Great Wheel puts all of them through kaleidoscopic changes.

    Soon the Aspen Leaves will be gone or scattered on the Lake like thin gold-leaf, no longer reflected but held up by surface tension, Leaf on Water, no longer Leaf mirrored. The deciduous trees become skeletal before Samain, fitting into the bleak tones of fallow fields, decay, and death.

    Too, the Elk and the Mule Deer have chosen, over the millennia, this time for reproduction. The Bears, hyperphagic, know Winter looms ahead, a season with little food. Great Sol’s rays spread out over larger and larger chunks of Land and Water, reducing their effect.

    The Grasses have gone russet and tan. The Asters have gone to seed. In a few Meadows tractors have bailed hay for the Horses and Llamas and other cud chewers with Mountain homes. The Cattle Company that feeds out their Black Angus on the Meadow the Bike Park folks wanted will come soon for their long last ride.

    The fireplace beckons. It sits throughout the summer, mocked by the heat. Pointless. Needs more wood available. Have not yet gone down the hill to Variety Firewood where they have hard Woods and perfumed Pinõn. Maybe tomorrow.

    Each season leaves its special imprint on familiar scenes, changing them not only from the season just past but from the previous occurrence of the same season. Trees grow taller, fall over, get cut down. Streams alter their flow. Seeds carried by the Winds and by Birds and by Wild Neighbors germinate in new fields and open ground.

    So the Mountain Dweller enjoys the changes, gets renewed by Nature’s own renewal, feels sadness as a season comes to an end. Home. Here in the Rockies.


  • Blood and Seawater

    Mabon (Fall) and the Harvest Moon

    Sunday gratefuls: Mark Odegard and his art, a retrospective. The Ancient Brothers. Consistent and persistent. My son. Seoah. Murdoch. Geneva Creek. Clear Creek. The North Fork of the South Platte. Maxwell Creek. North Turkey Creek. Blue Creek. Upper Bear Creek. Lake Evergreen. Bear Creek. These last six all part of my Watershed. Shadow Mountain’s split Granite Aquifers. Where I get my Water for Shadow Mountain Home.

    Sparks of Joy and Awe: The Act of Creation

    Kavannah: Teshuvah

    One brief shining: On Friday I picked my way down a slight decline studded with Rocks, ahead of me Water spilled over them at speed and filled my ears with its soothing sound, as if it touched, and maybe it does, an ancient hominid memory of Water at last, at last, similar I imagine to the visual soothing offered by large bodies of Water like Lake Superior, the Atlantic Ocean, the Pacific; we are not Animals of the Water but we are not Animals at all without Water, the bond singing in our blood* and our internal supply of Water gauged and signaled when low by thirst.

    Geneva Creek beside Guanella Pass Road

     

    In this month of Elul, of chasbon nefesh, accounting of the soul, I ask you, reader, to pardon me if I have caused you injury either by word or deed, by commission or omission. This is a sincere request. If we need to talk to resolve something, please let me know. I wish to go into the days of awe with my soul cleansed as much as it can be. This is part of that process.

    I know. My soul. Seems anachronistic, a Greek idea clumsily borrowed by all three of the Abrahamic religions. The notion that there is a something, a part of us that endures after death. A real thing like a Rock or a Lodgepole. For over thirty years I’ve avoided the question by positing extinction as the result of death. No where for a soul to go. No need for a soul. Q.E.D.

    Jews have, as usual, many and conflicting thoughts about the soul. For some there are 5 souls. For others none. Right now I’m reading a Rabbi Jamie translation of a 16th century text that works with two: the neshamah and the nefesh. The neshamah is the pure soul, the image of divinity, the uniqueness of that in which it resides. Unstainable. Original sin is a non-starter within all Jewish understandings of the soul and of human nature.

    The nefesh surrounds the neshamah with personality, with choice, with the joys and sorrows of fleshly life. Driven by the yetzer harah, the selfish inclination, and the yetzer hatov, the loving inclination, our lifetime represents opportunities to synch up our character with the unstainable neshamah. We fail. We succeed. We start over again and again.

    Is this consciousness in which our unique nature, our buddha nature, our I am, rests? I don’t know. Might be. I do like the notion of a sublime me, a sacred me, a shard of the ohr, the light of the divine released into and creating by its release all the known and unknown parts of the universe.

    Blood and Seawater. Consciousness. Deep memories from our time in Africa. Consider the vast amount of unknowing. Might there be room for a shard of holiness somehow in me and of me, but not extinguishable even by death? I’m much more open to that idea now than I have been for over thirty years.

     

     

    *”Like the Earth, we are 70% saltwater. In 1897 French physician Rene Quinton discovered a 98% match between our blood plasma and sea water, or what we called ‘ocean plasma’.” Oceanography


  • The Realm of the Mountain Kings

    Mabon (Fall) and the Harvest Moon

    Shabbat gratefuls:  Mussar. Gabe. Pain. Quantum mechanics. The empty space on which I sit. Atoms. The creation of Solar nuclear furnaces. Vastness. In Space. In our Inner World. Consciousness. The Boundless. Things that never were and will never be. Faery. The Otherworld. The Multiverse. Heaven. Hell. Reincarnation. Books. Movies. TV.

    Sparks of Joy and Awe: Guanella Pass

    Kavannah: Teshuvah

    One brief shining: Been thinking about thinking, as us amateur philosophers often do, wondering if the thinking I’m doing is original, which is unlikely, or if it perhaps is an original reworking, more possible, always remembering that conservative cultures like China view originality and curiosity with deep, deep suspicion which of course makes both that much more dear to me.

     

    Gabe and I made it to Guanella Pass while the Aspen retained golden glory. We were not alone. Not quite as good an experience, yet wonderful, amazing anyhow. Geneva Creek ran full, offering Water boiling over huge Boulders, spreading on flat Land, Watering Meadows of golden Grass, Lodgepoles and the Aspen providing color against 12,336 foot Geneva Mountain on the left and 14,049 foot Mount Bierstadt on the right, all against a Colorado blue Sky. Temperatures in the low to mid-60’s. Scented with pine resin and the Ozone smell of Water as Geneva Creek rushed toward the North Fork of the South Platte.

    Talk about Yirah. About the sacred in the oh so not ordinary realm of the Mountain kings. Here are a few pictures.

    Gabe amongst the Boulders at Geneva Creek
    At the Shaggy Sheep
    Gabe
    Boulders and Aspen and Lodgepoles
    Parking area at the Waterfalls

     


  • Shortie

    Mabon (Fall) and the Harvest Moon

    Friday gratefuls: Gabe. Celebrex. Tramadol. Ruby. Guanella Pass. The Shaggy Sheep. Bailey, the Bigfoot Museum and Store. Hwy. 285. Leaf peepers. Pain. Mountains. Aspens. Lodgepoles. Valleys. The North Fork of the South Platte River. Living where people come to recreate. Happy Camper. Edibles. Alan. Breakfast tomorrow. Sunrise Sunset Diner. Fall and its sad beauty.

    Sparks of Joy and Awe: Waterfalls

    Kavannah: Yirah

    One brief shining: In Grant, turned right off Hwy 285 onto Guanella Pass, 22 miles on to Georgetown on I-70, up hill to 11,669 feet then down hill to Georgetown; at the trailheads to Burning Bear Creek and Abyss trails, enough cars parked alongside the road to fill a football stadium parking lot; Gabe and I turned back not far from there and found the Waterfalls, spent time taking photos, enjoying the fast running Creek and its cascading flow.

     

    Photos tomorrow. Short version of the trip. Fun, important with Gabe. Painful. Driving him home after a morning of sightseeing began to hurt as we got on Hwy 470 headed into Denver and continued from that point until I got back home. Don’t think I can continue to do this. I sang songs to distract myself from the painful hip. Worked surprisingly well.

    Beat up and drug down by the time I hit my chair. More on this tomorrow.


  • Biker Chick

    Mabon (Fall) and the Harvest Moon

    Tuesday gratefuls: Joanne. Jamie. Susan. Rich. Tara. Marilyn. The Bistro. Its new owners. MVP. That Prius, stolen from Denver, that drove through the fence. Israel. Palestinians. Gaza. Lebanon. Hamas. Hezbollah. Iran. Yemen. The Houthis. The Ukraine. Russia. This violence soaked planet, warming around us. As a planet we are, to the universe, less even than the Mayfly life of a human compared to the Rocky Mountains.

    Sparks of Joy and Awe: Love

    Kavannah: Simplicity

    One brief shining: She got off the Triumph, its exhaust still hot, helmet in hand, as the Rabbi turned the key silencing the engine, this biker chick, this nonagenarian who had come from her home on Rainbow Hill via Squaw Valley Road, Winter Gulch, and Stagecoach Road before arriving triumphantly at the Bistro for a celebration of her 93rd birthday. Joanne last night.

     

    Yep. Not sure whose idea it was but Joanne Greenberg arrived by motorcycle wearing her usual long pants, self-made, a top likewise, a plaid fleece-lined snap up jacket, and a motorcycle helmet. She and Jamie took a scenic drive before getting to the Bistro where Rich Levine generously hosted the 7 of us, Ron as often away on a business trip.

    This was an unusual meeting of the MVP group, occasioned both by Joanne’s upcoming 93rd birthday today and Rich’s need to move away from our usual Wednesday evenings. Colorado School of Mines gave him again an honors class to teach on Wednesday nights for this semester. The middah for the evening, led by Tara, was simplicity.

    We got special attention from the chef and his partner/wife because Rich is their lawyer. Of course. Small town. The last time I ate there, on August 18th, I found the pearl. Becoming magical for me.

    The time around the table, again, underlines relationships. With other humans, core to life. With other beings. Core as well. With other living parts of the natural world, the Mountains and Streams, Lodgepoles and Aspens, Rock and Soil. The Sky. Where and in and on which we live. How could they not be core, too.

    Eating. Well. We had Salmon, Mahi-Mahi, Shrimp, Ahi, Scallops, Filet in a salad, dumpling soup, pate, bread, lettuce, tomatoes, creme brulee, vanilla ice cream, chocolate melt cake. Coffee. Wine. All offered to us not only by the Bistro but also by Great Sol whose light shone on the Plants eaten by the food eaten by the Fish, the Scallops, the Shrimp. And on the Plants themselves that we ate: Tomatoes, Potatoes, Lettuce, Radish, Herbs of various kinds. Grapes that were drunk. Water that came from a nearby aquifer, replenished by the summer’s Rain. Is food not necessary? Essential. Oh, yes.

    All this and we hadn’t talked yet. We batted around contentment. Simplicity. What is the feeling you get with simplicity. What is freedom from desire, attachment for? To live your imago dei, your buddha nature, your neshama soul. Your I am. We touched on love and gratitude for each other. Saw and were seen. Touched and were touched. Heard and were heard. Tasted the chef’s delicate work and smelled the cool Mountain air as it drifted in through the open window.

    We were, each of us, as fully present, in that ichi-go, ichi-e moment as we ever could be.

     

     

     


  • Fall. Closer to November 5th

    Mabon (Fall) and the Harvest Moon

    Autumn’s first morning!

    The bare foot knows it

    on the newly

    washed porch      Ishu

    Sunday gratefuls: Snow. 35 degrees. Mountain living. Feeling ready. Chasbon nefesh. Teshuvah. The land of my soul. Shadow Mountain. Books. Writing. Thinking. Seasons. The Great Wheel. The month of Elul. New Year. Soon. Great workout. Barbecue from Fountain Barbecue. Election year 2024. Kamala and Tim. My Lodgepole Companion with their first bits of Snow on their branches.

    Sparks of Joy and Awe: Snow

    Kavannah: Teshuvah

    One brief shining: Fall came bearing Snow, near freezing temperatures, while I slept warm under my summer weight comforter, arising first to a slushy Rain which changed to the first Snow of the season about an hour ago, a slick driveway, the blue Asters a bit forlorn though soon to go to seed anyhow.

     

    Firewood. Up here, mostly pine. No self-respecting Minnesotan would burn it. Too much creosote. Actually, a bias. All wood puts out plenty of creosote. Pine does, however, burn faster than hardwoods. By a lot. No loading the fireplace with oak or ash or elm for the night. However. Down the hill I can find hardwood firewood. Lots of deciduous trees in the high plains part of the Denver metro. One outfit has offered to let me go through their piles for Yule logs. I want to find some large oak or other dense hardwood to burn on the Winter Solstice as Yule logs. The concept: don’t let it burn up. Put it out, pull it out, and store it for next year to start the next Yule log.

    I plan to pick up some pinõn, too. Sweet smelling. Perhaps some fruit woods as well. Too expensive to have someone deliver. Will store in the garage. Dry. Plan to go as hygge as I can this late fall and winter. Not sure what else I’ll do. Candles. Inviting friends over. Hot chocolate. Cozy blankets.

     

    May be confirmation bias, almost certainly is to some extent, but I feel the winds shifting toward Kamala and Tim. In part because of their cash advantage, their ground game advantage energized by the debate, and the recent poll numbers I’m seeing. I respect Nate Silver’s reminder that 20% remains a 20% chance to win and both the orange one and K./T. are polling well above that. I know. I add to those positive trends the apparent disarray in the Trump campaign. He’s not got a good slam against Kamala. His policy positions are unclear-see abortion and taxes-or are too clearly tied to Project 2025.

    Momentum, as I wrote a bit ago, carries the day and right now I believe Kamala and Tim have it on their side. And, it feels to me like the pace and inertial force of the momentum increases with each news cycle. May it be so.

     

    Only for a moment, maybe 15 minutes, but we did have Snow. Then, cold Rain. 35 degrees this am. With the Aspen colonies flashing their season ending golden signals we have begun Fall on this, the autumnal equinox.

     


  • Oh, my

    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.

     

     


  • Exuberance!

    Lugnasa and the Harvest Moon

    Sunday gratefuls: THC. Celecoxib. Erleada. Orgovyx. Vince. Alan’s opening night for Man of La Mancha. My son and Seoah in Okgwa. Her father. Her mother. And family. Chuseok. Teshuvah. South Korea. The U.S. Air Force. The wide Pacific. 15 time zones. Korean. Paul Wellstone. Tim Walz. Kamala Harris. We’re not going back. The politics of joy.

    Sparks of Joy and Awe: My Korean family

    Kavannah: Exuberance

    One brief shining: When I choose an intention for the day, sometimes I crosscut the feelings I’m having, as this morning I’m feeling a little pressed down, not much but enough that it interferes with my joy, my willingness to embrace the day, squeeze some juice from it, find the yirah/awe in the ordinary that usually comes easily, sometimes I see the day ahead and want a kavannah that leans into it, focuses me, as I did with teshuvah yesterday.

     

    I’m finding this daily kavannah a powerful practice. I write the middah on my small slip of paper, put it into my pocket. The act of choosing it, writing it down, putting it in my pocket and carrying it with me throughout the day triggers an awareness that lasts till bedtime. I want to find things in this day, things that make me want to lift my arms up and shout with joy. With awe. With love.

    Exuberance carries over feelings from my zoom call with my son. As I wrote yesterday, they’re in Okgwa for Chuseok, a Korean harvest/fall holiday similar to our Thanksgiving. My son came on in one of the all white rooms at Seoah’s parents house, all concrete, and built for them a year or so ago by her brother. We chatted a bit, he caught me up on work. Showed me Murdoch lazing on the floor. And moved the laptop into the main living area.

    There was Seoah’s sister who will take over the farm from her parents starting in some fashion this fall. In the kitchen, her usual location when inside, Seoah’s mom ate from several small dishes in the Korean style. Her Dad, a joyful man and a very hard worker, wanted to say hi. He wanted to see the outside. Removing the camera, I aimed it out my window for a view of Lodgepoles and Black Mountain beyond.

    He got excited. I want to come to Colorado! Seoah translating. I got excited, too. Sounds like they may show up here on Shadow Mountain sometime next year. He loves Mountains. Climbs Mountains. Went to China to climb from the China side Baekdu Mountain*, an active strato-volcano on the China/North Korean border. He’ll love Colorado.

     

    Just a Moment: Buoyed me up to see Paul Wellstone’s name** back in the national political conversation. The quote and the article referenced below show how Tim Walz might bring the Wellstone spirit to a Harris/Walz government. May it be so.

     

     

     

    *”According to Korean mythology, it was the birthplace of Dangun, the founder of Gojoseon (2333–108 BC), whose parents were said to be Hwanung, the Son of Heaven, and Ungnyeo, a bear who had been transformed into a woman.” Wiki

    “The legendary beginning of Korea’s first semi-mythical kingdom, Gojoseon (2333 B.C.E.–108 B.C.E.), takes place here. Buyeo (2nd c. B.C.E. – 494), Goguryeo (37 B.C.E. – 668), and Balhae (698 – 926) kingdoms also considered the mountain sacred.” New World Encyclopedia

     

    **“I don’t represent the big oil companies, I don’t represent the big pharmaceutical companies, I don’t represent the Enrons of this world,” Mr. Wellstone said. “But you know what, they already have great representation in Washington. It’s the rest of the people that need it.” NYT article. 9/15/2024