• Category Archives Mountains
  • Learning my lesson. Again. And, yet again.

    Summer and the Summer Moon Above

    Monday gratefuls: Tal. Lid. Luke. Leo. Dick. Ellen. Rabbi Jamie. Laura. Lisa. Sagittarius Ponderosa. Roaming Gnome Theater. Aurora. Bad memories. Not blessings. Angry Chicken. Korean hot pot. Sundays. Shabbat. Seoah. Murdoch. Storms coming. The wettest June on record here. Keeping that Fire risk low. Traveler’s insurance. Allianz long term care insurance. Kristen. Travel medicine. Travel. Welcome to the journey.

    Sparks of Joy and Awe: Shakespeare

    One brief shining: Read some of the Tempest and Midsummer Night’s dream this morning reminded of the packed and punchy nature of Shakespeare his plays and his poems words all tight ricocheting off each other building meanings until like a Han Shan poem one line changes the meanings of all that came before a genius so luminous I feel like kneeling down before him to say, Master!

     

    Ooh boy. I keep learning and relearning the same lesson. Which I suppose means I’m not learning at all. Anyhow. Drove into Denver yesterday, then into Aurora near Jon’s old house. Left here about 11:45. My plan. Go to Stanley Market, eat at Rosenberg’s deli, then make the short trip from there to Roaming Gnome theater for the matinee performance of Sagittarius Ponderosa.

    About half way down the hill on 285 I saw all the cars streaming west, latecomers to the usual Friday boat and camper show headed to South Park and the interior of the Rocky Mountains. What’s this? Oh. July 4th traffic. Folks taking the week, leaving late to avoid the Friday afternoon traffic jams so common here. Wait. July 4th weekend.

    Oh. Stanley Marketplace. Will be packed. I might not get served in time. I had given myself an hour to eat after arriving. Began to run through alternatives. The Bagel Deli just past I-25. That could work. Pulled into their parking lot. Nope. Folks waiting outside. Confirmed my hunch about Stanley Marketplace. Well. New York Deli not far from that spot. Will be too busy, too. A holiday weekend.

    I had wanted to eat lunch at Rosenberg’s, then pick up some dinner at the Angry Chicken after the play. I love their Korean fried chicken, but it’s way too far to go unless I’m close by. Turned north as 285/Hampden became Havana. An Asian inflected part of the Denver metro. H-Mart nearby. Lots of pho shops. A Korean hot pot and barbecue restaurant. Hmm. May not be as invested in the holiday weekend. Could be easier to get in and get out.

    It was. I had never had hot pot before though it’s similar in nature to Khan’s Mongolian barbecue in the Twin Cities. Tables with induction coil wells over which a pot of broth sits. You pick up soup ingredients on your own, take them back to the table, and put them in the heating broth. Waitress delivers the meat in thinly sliced rolls on long platters. Spent more than I wanted to but I learned how to do it. Will be useful when I hit Osan. Could have been tasty but I was in a hurry and didn’t really realize the potential of the hot pot.

    Got to the theater a bit late. They had waited for me. But not long. Sag was already underway. In the small darkened space I fumbled my way toward a seat. Dick and Ellen Arnold were seating in the same four chair row.

    The play itself. Can’t tell whether my hearing made it difficult to follow or whether it was the script. Or, the direction. Anyhow it had funny moments, tender moments, and commentary on the difficulty of communicating our selves as we know them to others, especially family members. Perhaps my expectations were too high?

    Anyhow I left quickly after the play was over at 3:30. Not before greeting Luke, Leo, Tal, Dick and Ellen, Jamie and Laura. Realized I leave things early because the hubbub afterward makes it impossible for me to hear.

    Drove to the Angry Chicken on Havana. Blessedly on the way home. Put in my to go order. Ten wings and some corn salad. Waited twenty minutes. Plastic bag in hand I left.

    Then drove back across the south Denver Metro in 90 degree heat, AC blasting. This is the lesson. I left the Angry Chicken at about 4:30. With the hard part of the drive ahead of me. I’d already been gone from home for almost five hours. Exhausted. Still in the city. The drive wasn’t torture. Not exactly. But it was uncomfortable, unpleasant. I was worn out, wanted nothing more than to be home. In my chair. At 8,800 feet. Cooler. Quieter. Way less busy.

    I can’t drive that far anymore for that long and not get exhausted. Just can’t. I know it. But not well enough. Not sure what to do about it either. Stay home? Nope. Need human connection, some out of the house moments. Go with others? Maybe.


  • Too Much Chocolate and Brain Fog

    Summer and the Summer Moon Above

    Saturday gratefuls: Han Shan. His poetry. Shadow Mountain. The green green Mountains of home. China’s Mountains. Korea’s Mountains. Mt. Fuji. The sect in Japan that worships Mountains. The Mule Deer Doe eating Grass and Dandelions in my back last night. Joan and Alan. The Bread Lounge. Evergreen. The everlasting construction along its Lake. All detours, everywhere. Tom’s old fashioned thank you note.

    Sparks of Joy and Awe: Joan’s house and property

    One brief shining: Never had French toast like that six Texas toast sized slices stuffed with Nutella and chocolate small drops of chocolate on the top and syrup even syrup it was the chef’s choice for stuffed French toast and oh my I ate about a third and gave up turned it back over full.

     

    Yeah. Alan and I had breakfast at the Bread Lounge and I ordered the stuffed French toast. Not gonna do that again. Thought I wanted something sweet as a counterpoint to my usual savory breakfasts with Eggs and chicken fried steak or bacon or tamales, a few too many potatoes. Maybe hot sauce.

    We got caught up on this and that. CBE news. His life in the vertical cruise ship as he calls his apartment complex in central downtown Denver. Many puns later, he can’t stop, we left with a bag of pastries for Joan’s.

    I’d never been to Joan’s house before though I’ve heard often about its daunting driveway. Which I thought was not so bad. Not curvy, not even that long compared to others. Anyhow her house sits on the crest of 27 acres of prime Colorado Mountain real estate looking west toward Evergreen, Mt. Blue Sky (formerly Mt. Evans), Mt. Berrigan and beyond. It’s a lovely and special location.

    Her home is a beauty, too. All polished woods and black rafters, black painted wood here and there for contrast. Plate glass windows with the view toward Evergreen. A perfect house for a writer. I think Joan’s on her 18th or 19th published novel now.

    Her husband Albert died last year at 96. Not sure exactly but 68 years of marriage. Somewhere in that range. We talk about grief from time to time before acting class begins. Yesterday she asked me brain fog.

    I’ve only come to realize now, two and a half years after Kate’s death, I told her, how much brain fog I’d had. And that’s an exact metaphor. When it began to lift, I could see life again. With clarity. Before there was always a scrim, one I was not aware was there until it began to lift.

    Jon gave the best metaphor for it. Recovering from the fog of grief mimics the slow rebounding of the North American Continent from the last Ice Age. It’s still underway, measurable especially in the Canadian tundra.

    When Alan and I left, Joan told me she was going to mail me one of those rocks over there. She pointed to a rock wall she or Albert had built near her front door. It was what, she said, I had lifted from her mind. I reached back for her hand and gave it a squeeze.


  • A journey into mystery

    Summer with the Summer Moon Above

    Saturday gratefuls: Tom. Aspen Perks. Chicken fried steak and eggs. Coffee. Good conversation. Shaggy Sheep. Kenosha Pass. South Park. No snow plowing from 7pm to 5am.  Canon City. Guffey. Fairplay. Bailey. Royal Gorge Railroad. The Arkansas River. Rafters. The Gorge. Volcanic remnants. Walls of Rock. The Bear. The Bear Butt. Rescue on the Water. Pronghorn Antelope. Big Horn Sheep. A hot blue Sky day.

    Sparks of Joy and Awe: Two exhausted men hugging a utility pole

    One brief shining: Tom and I looked out the window of our dining car having become used to the sight of rafters six to a boat with one staff person at the rear passing down the muddy, raging Arkansas their blue or red rubber rafts following the currents around white Water covered Boulders and saw…people in the yellow helmets and life vests of the raft passengers desperately trying to stay afloat as the River swept them downstream!

     

    A day of mystery. The first had come on a road far into our trip which had signs reading: No Snow plowing from 7pm to 5am. What? A second mystery was the biological position of the Pronghorn Antelope. Was it a Camelid? A Goat? A Cervid? The third and most disconcerting was the blue raft empty of passengers, its lone staff person guiding it by himself.

    Let’s back up. Around 7 am Tom and I took off for Canon City and the Royal Gorge Railroad. We had tickets for a luxury meal on the 12:30 train. We stopped at the Shaggy Sheep near Guanella Pass for breakfast, run by a chef who got tired of the Manhattan rat race. Good food. About 20 minutes west of Bailey.

    When I started to write that last paragraph, I realized something interesting. We passed through only two towns on our way to Canon City: Bailey and Fairplay. That’s along a two and a half hour drive South and a bit West. Two towns. South Park through which most of our route ran is an example of the High Plains, flat expanses at 9,000 feet. Windy and cold in the Winter and hot in the Summer. Not many folks live on it. Two towns.

    You arrive at South Park after using the Kenosha Pass on Hwy 285, an 11,000 foot spot where the Mountain Peaks level out for a bit allowing a road to be run over them. After you crest the pass, South Park spreads out below looking like Midwestern farming country. Cattle grazing. Bales of hay in the fields. Farm equipment at the homesteads. Yet ringed by Mountains, snow capped this June, and elevated far above the farms of Indiana, Iowa, and Illinois.

     

    We reached that first mystery after we passed out of Park County, which encompasses most of South Park. No Snow plowing from 7pm to 5am. I couldn’t imagine what the sign meant and why you would need one? Are there rogue snowplowers who might insist on plowing this road anyhow? Didn’t seem likely. Solved this mystery once back on my home computer. It’s a Colorado Department of Transportation regulation for the whole state that disallows Snow plowing on stretches of highway that receive fewer than 1,000 trips over night. Staff and budget shortages due to Covid.

     

    The second mystery came as we passed the occasional Pronghorn standing in a field. I’d heard from a hunter that they were Goats. That didn’t seem right. Most likely seemed a family relation to the Cervids: Moose, Elk, Deer. Somewhere I thought I’d read they were related to Camels. None of the above as it turns out. Here’s a quick explanation from Wikipedia:

    “As a member of the superfamily Giraffoidea, the pronghorn’s closest living relatives are the giraffe and okapi.[14] The Giraffoidea are in turn members of the infraorder Pecora, making pronghorns more distant relatives of the Cervidae (deer) and Bovidae (cattle, goats, sheep, antelopes, and gazelles), among others.” Wiki

    The same article points out that they are the only surviving member of their family, Antilocapra americana. They’re the fastest land animal in North America capable of up to 55 mph.

     

    The third mystery though remains unresolved. We had finished our Osso Buco and Buffalo Shortribs as the Royal Gorge Railroad train on which we rode passed out of the Gorge and had begun to head back. We looked out the window to the Arkansas River flowing fast beside the train as it had been since we left Canon City. We saw more of the red and blue rubber rafts representing different float companies setting out on their journey down the surging River. What fun!

    At some point we stopped to pick up a fatigued kayaker. We both thought, likely heart attack. Paramedics on the train tended to him on the observation car attached at what was now the front of the train and also attached to the car in which Tom and I rode. That was interesting. Nice that the train was there and able to help.

    Further along, again looking out the window. Oh. My. God. Look. That’s somebody in the water! Yellow helmet and safety vest suggested a passenger from one of the rafts. Then Tom said. There’s another one! Over there. About to hit the wall. He turned a bit further to look and noticed a blue rubber raft empty of passengers, only the staff person with the rudder oar still sitting in it. The rafts all had six passengers when they set out from the landing where the train had switched directions only ten or fifteen minutes ago. We’d seen two men in the water. Where were the other four?

    The train moved on and we only saw the two. Tom thought he saw one of them reach a raft and get pulled aboard. We passed two more of the blue rubber rafts bobbing at the rocky wall to the River a bit further but the train kept moving. Then it slowed. And backed up.

    I asked a Native American train staff if he knew whether they’d picked up the people in the water. We’re not allowed to comment on it. Oh.

    The train moved back to the site where the two rafts had stopped along the wall of the Gorge. At a utility pole there two of the men we’d seen in the water hugged the pole looking exhausted and bewildered, surrounded by others. A third man struggled up the embankment with no help from the rafting staff, also plainly one who had been in the water.

    What happened to the other three passengers remains unknown to me though I’ve searched several times. A man died on the same stretch of water only four days ago. Thrown from the raft. The 14th water related death in Colorado this year.

    When the train arrived back in Canon City, there were EMT’s and an ambulance and a fire truck there to receive the rafters. They were placed on gurneys and then disappeared from sight.

    What of the other three? Unknown. Tom suggested that maybe they were younger and stronger swimmers who reached the shore on their own. The three we saw all appeared to be middle aged men. May it be as Tom suggests.

     

     


  • A Thursday with Friends

    Summer and the Summer Moon Above

    Friday gratefuls: Tom. Ellen and Dick. Hail. Again. Cool nights. Good sleeping. God is Here. Metaphor. Kathy. Luke. Vince. Gutters. Psilocybin. Flower. Weed. Red Rocks. The Bread Lounge. A Cuban. Evergreen. Gracie and Ann. CBE. High water on the fish ladder. Maxwell Creek running full.

    Sparks of Joy and Awe: Friendship

    One brief shining: Life in its fullness comes running at you, with you like a Mountain Stream after a heavy Rain, crashing over barriers, not allowing any obstacles, where necessary spreading out, then calmly, gently flowing into the placid waters of a great River, headed to the World Ocean.

     

    Yesterday. A full day. Talking to Diane, always a pleasure. Catching up on family news. A favorite cousin for all of us moved into hospice. We’re all in the aging range. This group that used to play with each other at Thanksgiving, during family reunions at Riley Park, on the farm outside Morristown. Family in its longue dureé as Ginny, daughter of Diane’s sister, Kristen, gives birth to a new generation of the Keaton clan as have children of other cousins. We will wink out one by one, but the family will continue.

     

    Over to the Bread Lounge to read a bit before Tom got here from DIA. Instead ran into Tal and Alan talking to each other. Alan in his  usual I’m here to assist you mode trying to figure out how he can help Tal’s new company, All in Ensemble.

    Alan’s decided to let his beard grow back. I’m glad. It was odd seeing him clean shaven. He shaved for his art, as he says. A role in Zorro!, the musical.

    Together we talked about Tal’s character study class, about mutual friends and family. The Bread Lounge serves as the student union restaurant for Evergreen. Go there and you see folks you know.

    After Alan left, Tal and I discussed my character Herme. He liked my idea of a one-act play to introduce the Rivers and Mountains Poets of China to Mountain audiences. He offered to help me in any way he can. He’s bringing an outline from a playwrighting class to our next Tuesday class. Who knows? Perhaps the Hooded Man will play up and down the spine of the Rocky Mountains. Could happen.

     

    Tom got to the Bread Lounge after navigating an overly busy DIA filled with summer travelers. We ordered sandwiches, which came late so we had to pack them up and head over to mussar. Where we discussed the role of metaphor in our daily lives and the implications of metaphor for understanding what we might mean when we use the metaphor God. A good heart/mind conversation.

    Following mussar Tom and I were hosted by Ellen and Dick Arnold, Rabbi Jamie’s parents. A wide ranging conversation which had as its focus the upcoming trip to Israel. Dick will be my roommate for the group part of the trip.

     

    When we got back to Shadow Mountain, Vince was here mowing and weed whacking. In the rain. Vince is a good guy. Lucky to have him as my friend and property manager.

    Tom and I were tired. We talked, then went to bed. Getting ready now for our trip this afternoon on the Royal Gorge Rail Road.

     

     


  • Verdant

    Beltane and the Shadow Mountain Moon

    Friday gratefuls: Mary on her way. Ruth getting her driver’s license. Coming up here tomorrow. Possibly bringing Mary. And Gabe. Cool, Rainy Nights continue. Mussar. God is Here. Monotheism. Boo. Animism and polytheism. Yay. Marilyn and Irv. Good friends. Ribeye steak. Potatoes. Mushrooms. Mixed Vegetables. Peaches. Verdant. The Mountains in June. Unusual and beautiful.

    Sparks of Joy and Awe: Green

    One brief shining: When I look out my window to the back, I see wet Lodgepoles, red bark standing out against green Bunch Grass pocked with yellow Dandelions, Kate’s Lilacs growing taller, the gray white Aspen with its chartreuse Leaves, Rocky Soil damp with the Rains, but no Elk Bulls, no Mule Deer, an occasional Rabbit and Chipmunk.

     

    In the eight and a half years I’ve been up here on Shadow Mountain the Mountains have never been so green. The Mountain Meadows have Grass in abundance, a buffet for our Wild Neighbors after a difficult, painful Winter. I’ve noticed for the first time that the chartreuse Leaves of the Aspen light up the Lodgepoles in Spring (or, Summer, not sure which is which) as they do in their gold clothing in the Fall. We’ve had cool, Rainy weather since late April. Not what other folks have experienced, I know. Glad for us though.

    All the Mountain Streams would have diminished by this time in a normal June, yet they remain full. Not raging like they did at the end of May but still sending heavy amounts of Water over their Rocks and Falls. Flooding down the hill at several locations though not as bad as 2012.

     

    I could, I know, spend the rest of my life following Mountain roads, visiting New Mexico, Utah and northern Arizona. There is so much to see so close to me. Places people come from all over the world to see. The many national parks in Utah, the four corners area, Rocky Mountain National Park, Mesa Verde, Chaco Canyon, Santa Fe, Taos, Dinosaur National Monument. Too many to point out. And perhaps I will spend a year focused on doing just that. But not this year. This year and at least part of the next I’m going overseas, seeing new parts of the World. Yay!

     

    The travelers coming to Shadow Mountain Home have changed schedules. Mary will be here tomorrow in the morning. BJ and Sarah won’t arrive until Sunday at the earliest. Mary leaves Sunday morning. Ruth will pick up Mary from her hotel near the airport after her midnight arrival. Ruth has her driver’s license! She’ll be coming up in her car. Ivory, our old Rav4. Which has no air conditioning. A good year for her to get used to it. A new era has begun. Ruth can drive on her own.

     

    Going over to Kittredge for breakfast with Alan. The Blackbird Cafe. In a place where an old favorite restaurant used to be. First time. Summer or its early Springlike equivalent makes driving so much easier up here. I need these times with my friends.

     


  • Mountains

    Beltane and the Shadow Mountain Moon

    Monday gratefuls: Rock fish. Panko. Mixed vegetables. Potatoes. Cooking. The Ancient Brothers. Psychedelics. Colorado. Leaning into the new psychedelic era. My green back yard. Vince. Pine pollen on the driveway. The start of allergy season for me. Cold Mountain. My character for acting class. October 8th. Men and aging. Men and grief. A high blue Sky. The curve of Black Mountain. The solidity of Shadow Mountain underneath me. Maxwell Creek and Shadow Mountain Brook carrying water off of Shadow Mountain.

    Sparks of Joy and Awe: The treadmill

    One brief shining: A deep sadness on reading in the Colorado Sun of the huge numbers of Elk, Mule Deer, and other wild neighbors who died over the winter due to starvation caused by the very snows which we all celebrated with the Colorado mantra we need the water and yes we do but at this cost I don’t know.

     

    After reading that article the deep sadness came over me as I realized it might explain why the bull Elks have not been back for my Dandelions. Imagining them lying dead of starvation somewhere on Black Mountain. I hope I’m wrong, yet this is the first time since 2019 they’ve not shown up when the Dandelions were in bloom. It filled my heart to see their big bodies at rest after a meal. To watch them put their heads down and clip off the Dandelions and their greens. To stare as they jumped so easily from one side of the fence to the other. Perhaps some of their children will find my back. I’m leaving my gates open now, too. No more dogs to contain. Let the wild critters in.

    Watching those three grow from younger and smaller Bulls to their majestic full size made seeing them each year even more special. Like everyone one up here, well, most everyone, I want our wild neighbors to thrive, live their best lives. Seeing those Bulls over a period of years gave me a personal glimpse into their lives. Like cousins you see once a year at Thanksgiving I saw them grow, got to know which one was twitchy, which one would spend the night here, which ones would leave and come back the next day.

     

    Below are three poems attributed to Hanshan, or Cold Mountain. From this site

    Translated by A. S. Kline © Copyright 2006 All Rights Reserved.

    This work may be freely reproduced, stored and transmitted, electronically or otherwise, for any non-commercial purpose.

     

    Where’s the trail to Cold Mountain?

    Cold Mountain? There’s no clear way.

    Ice, in summer, is still frozen.

    Bright sun shines through thick fog.

    You won’t get there following me.

    Your heart and mine are not the same.

    If your heart was like mine,

    You’d have made it, and be there!

     

     

    A thousand clouds, ten thousand streams,

    Here I live, an idle man,

    Roaming green peaks by day,

    Back to sleep by cliffs at night.

    One by one, springs and autumns go,

    Free of heat and dust, my mind.

    Sweet to know there’s nothing I need,

    Silent as the autumn river’s flood.

     

     

    I traveled to Cold Mountain:

    Stayed here for thirty years.

    Yesterday looked for family and friends.

    More than half had gone to Yellow Springs.

    Slow-burning, life dies like a flame,

    Never resting, passes like a river.

    Today I face my lone shadow.

    Suddenly, the tears flow down.


  • The Slow Crossing

    Beltane and the Shadow Mountain Moon

    Wednesday gratefuls: The Mule Deer in the back. The merry, merry month of June. Tal. Joan. Lid. Rebecca. The Bacchae. The Iceman Cometh. Tennessee Williams. The Dybbuk. Phaedra. Racine. House of Leaves. Mark Adams. Tip of the Iceberg. Issa. Haiku. Theater. Acting. Building a character study, presenting it in a project. The gospel singing at CBE last night. The Great Sol is so so lit. Trains. Booking a flight to Tel Aviv. Mark in an apartment. In Hafar. Those two Elk along the road last night.

    Sparks of Joy and Awe: The Visitation of the Mule Deer

    One brief shining: Those Elk the three one with only one antler come now to eat Dandelions instead this morning it was one Mule Deer inside my fence her buddies looking at her from outside it while my heart admitted mild disappointment wondering when those big Bulls would get here having come four years in a row I enjoy their visit.

     

    A definite shift, a threshold crossing under slow way. I’ve added go anywhere days to my calendar. Yesterday after a solo breakfast at Primo’s I turned onto 285 headed toward Bailey instead of back toward home. Took the first exit and turned left instead of right to Staunton State Park. S. Elk Creek Road. What a beautiful drive. Elk Creek meanders back and forth across the road doing ox bows in a large Meadow just off 285 then crosses to become a fast moving wide Stream creating white Water as it smashes itself against Rocks again and again.

    The homes on the first stretch had a similar style. They used the bark board cut at a saw mill when starting to mill a whole tree as siding. They perched on solid slabs of Rocky Mountain basalt (I think) looking down on the action generated by the Stream below. The Valley sides are exposed Rock in many spots. Tall Ponderosa Pine throw shade at the road. The road itself vacillates between asphalt, gravel, and graded rocky Soil. I had to turn around fifteen minutes into my drive because two county road levelers took up the whole of a barely two lane stretch of road.

    Elk Creek road is one of my new favorite places up here. That’s the way of the Mountains. You learn the roads you use a lot, the Mountains and Streams, the Valleys, the way homes arrange themselves down in the Valley and up in the Mountains. You begin to imagine that’s the way the Mountains are. But no. Only an exit away a totally different experience exists, one you would never know unless you turned down that road, drove along it for awhile.

    That’s true of Blue Creek Road which interests Brook Forest Drive. Maybe four miles toward Evergreen on a road I take several times a week. I turned up Blue Creek Road six months ago. Wow. Open meadows. Large horse farms. Big houses. Each road has its own character, a character defined by the different folds and peaks and Valleys and Streams that Mountains create.

    Learning, exploring. Even in my own smallish section of the Rockies. That’s part of the slow way of the crossing.

     


  • Day to day

    Beltane and the Shadow Mountain Moon

    Tuesday gratefuls: Great Sol. Light on the Needles of the Lodgepoles out my window. Black Mountain clear against blue Sky. The Elk Calves and their Moms on Lower Shadow Mountain Drive. That big Mama Bear and her two Cubs on Warhawk. It’s kiddy rearing time for our wild neighbors. Airline Websites. Travel details. Early Spring weather. Waiting for the sudden jump to Summer. Dandelions. Those three Elk Bulls. Waiting on their arrival. Soon. Travel agents. Crows and Ravens. Canada Jays. That fat Chipmunk. The Rabbits who live under the Shed. Mountain Lions.

    Sparks of Joy and Awe: Bear Cubs

    One brief shining: In the Spring here in the Mountains Flowers emerge later Trees leaf out later but the Elk birth their Calves, the Mule Deer their Fawns, the Moose their Calves, the Mountain Lion their Kittens, the Black Bears their Cubs, the Fox their Kits while the Mountain Streams rush down, carrying the Water of Snow Melt and later Rains, while the temperatures fluctuate between warm and cold, while the days become longer and the nights shorter the Mountains and the Forests become a nursery for our wild neighbors.

     

    In the morning I turn off my electric blanket, close the bedroom window, pick up my life alert button from its charging station, unhook my cellphone from its cable, turn off the oxygen concentrator, and go out into the next room for my hearing aid. I take my first pill of the day, synthroid for my funky thyroid, washing it down with some tap water. I set my phone’s alarm for one hour after the time I took they synthroid. That alerts me to take my morning meds which include my chemotherapy. Grabbing my phone I head upstairs to write Ancientrails in the home office. I often finish around the time my alarm rings, some days, like today writing takes longer.

    Today I had to strip the sheets from the bed so Ana can put clean sheets on, arrange the blankets. Also I had to refill my seven day plastic pill containers. Took up some of the time I would have been writing.

    I’m very aware of how dependent on electricity I am. Blanket. Charging for my phone, my life alert button, my hearing aid. The oxygen concentrator. And, medications. I’m alive thanks to the batches of pills I throw down each morning and evening. Life with cancer and hypertension. Life up high. 8,800 feet.

    Bear comes next week to do the annual maintenance on my Kohler generator. It kicks in when heavy snows or lightning strikes take out my feed from C.O.R.E. Without it I would have no well-water, no cooking on my induction stove, no lights, no computer access. Electricity is the chi for my day-to-day life.

    My life is quite a distance from the hibernating Bear in a rocky cleft or the Mountain Lion in their den. I am softer, less resilient than they are. Even though I can find food perhaps more easily, I require an automobile for the task while they rely only on their paws and their instinct. Which of us is more likely to survive global warming?

     


  • October 8th. Baseball.

    Beltane and the Shadow Mountain Moon

    Sunday gratefuls: Gabe. The Rockies. The Mets. Rockies win! 11-10. Driving down the hill again on a beautiful Colorado day. Back aching as I drove back after a lot of time in a non-comfy stadium seat. Ancient Brothers this morning, poetry on aging, on celebrating and reflecting aging. I plan to post these poems over time here. Rains have paused. The Streams have begun to catch up, not quite so swollen. A catch in my throat as I crested the last Mountain on I-70 before the Continental Divide becomes visible. Home.

    Sparks of Joy and Awe: The games men and women play

    One brief shining: Why Gabe asked did we have to leave the Rockies game at 3 well I said I haven’t spoke to my son and his wife since they left Hawai’i and they have can talk at 5:30 pm Colorado time which means I have to take you home, drive back home up the hill before then. Oh. He said.

     

    The Ancient Brothers responded to my request for poetry. Lots of poetry discovered and read. About aging. About living until you die. About the common fate we share with the families of all living beings. Reading or reciting as Paul does so wonderfully gave these poems the shape and resonance of both the poet’s voice and the Ancient Brother who read them. A special and powerful morning.

    In part adding possible content for the October 8th Crossing the Threshold ritual I plan here at my house with Rabbi Jamie. Trying to figure out how to honor and name this time of life for men, men who have gone past career and the raising of family with health and vitality yet who have no cultural road map, no role to help guide their Winter season.

    In part digging into each Ancient Brother’s experience and claiming of this time, a time I referred to as the best time of my life. To nods. Yet it is a mystery, a cultural lacunae. Undefined and for many confusing, dispiriting.

    With your help perhaps we can figure out a ritual to help us move from the time of succeeding and achieving, of building and developing, of nurturing children to the time of… What? Fading out? Easing into oblivion. Or something more, something richer and deeper. If you have ideas for such a ritual, please forward them to me. If you have more poetry, other content that might either be read during such a ritual or inform it, please send them along.

    Also. If you want to come on October 8th, this is an invitation. The more we have the better the moment will be.

     

    Picked up Gabe a Rockies cap stuck amidst his luxuriant locks bought for him by Uncle Joe last year at a game. We drove to Coors Field, found parking, got into our shaded seats and proceeded to eat hot dogs, peanuts, and ice cream. One game a  year is more than enough given that diet.

    Speaking of rituals. Going to a baseball game, at a stadium. A most American though hardly only American outing. Ticket takers. Seats cascading down toward the green diamond. Blue Sky above. Vendors with hot dogs pretzels beer cotton candy Rockies shirts baseball bats ice cream in small plastic Rockies’ hats. All manner of folks in and around, up and down. Young mothers with babes in bjorns. Grandpas with grandsons. Those certain late 20’s, early 30’s women who have the body and aren’t afraid to share it. The loud and beery regular fans. America, the mixture of all for all. In that sense so wonderful.


  • Well. That Sucks.

    Beltane and the Shadow Mountain Moon

    Tuesday gratefuls: Leo. Marilyn and Irv. Heidi and Rider. Primo’s. Kep, his ashes and paw print. Another beautiful day in the Mountain hood. Rabbi Jamie talking about ritual. Rebecca. Ode and Dennis. Luke picking up Leo. Blood draw for PSA and testosterone. A good workout. Resting heart rate down to 61. Weight at 145. 5.5 inches tall, down from 5′ 7″. 76. Being alive.

    Sparks of Joy and Awe: Heidi

    One brief shining: Picked up Kep’s ashes yesterday the receptionist remembered them all she said Rigel was a star as her voice broke when I came back to the car Leo wagged his tail happy to see me in my hand a bag with cloth cord handles, a bamboo box in a blue cloth sack and a small box with silver that held the imprint of Kep’s paw.

     

    When the doctor blurted out Leslie’s diagnosis including that she had less than a month to live, she said, well. That sucks. I won’t be going to Poland. You had to know Leslie but it was in character and a solid way, imho, to meet the guy in black with the sickle. Acknowledgement. No bargaining. Reality. A bit of humor.

    Her service is tomorrow. I’ll be there. And at her shiva tomorrow evening. How we do it.

     

    Left 15 minutes early this morning for an appointment with Rabbi Jamie. Why? Downtown Evergreen is a must see now thanks to a summer long detour away from the lake. On Sunday it took me twenty minutes to get from my side of Evergreen to the synagogue side. Today. No trouble at all so I ended up 15 minutes early rather than 20 minutes late. Sunday was with tourists. Today not so much.

    Rabbi Jamie and I discussed a ritual for crossing the threshold.  A mezuzah hanging will be part of it. Something also about being an elder and a male. We’ll discuss it over time. October 8th at ten am. He told me of a delightful ritual in Nepal. Apparently at 7 a boy becomes a man expected to participate in family and village life in a positive way. That phase lasts for 70 years. Then at 77, the man becomes a child again. On his 77th birthday the man leads a parade through the town where everyone greets him, blesses him. I like that idea, too. We’re going to discuss a late life ritual for men as well for my own situation.

    Also his dad may go on the Israel trip and we could room together. Save us both $1,100. Winner, winner, chicken dinner.

     

    After breakfast with Rebecca. Rebecca teaches ESL at a nunnery in northern India, one related to the Tibetan Buddhist diaspora. She’s 80 and travels there once a year for four months or so, living in the same quarters as the nuns. We sat outside at the Parkside in lovely 67 degree and sunny weather Colorado dogs and their humans coming back and forth through the tables.

    Rebecca believes Leslie got a good result with a healthy life up till two weeks before her death. Probably right about that.

    Life in the Mountains. And death.