Category Archives: Plants

Fungi, Plants, Reimagine. Reconstruct. Reenchant., Shadow Mountain

Microdosing

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Beltane and the Mesa View Moon

Monday gratefuls: Miami Grand Prix. Sacred objects. The Most Ancient and Proud Brothers. Psilocybin. CBE. Dismantling Racism. Depth. This time. Anger/Patience. K’ass and Savlanut. Simcha. Joy. Ed Brill. Comedian. Laughing. Ginnie. Ron. Alan. Cheri. Tara. Suzy and Pete. Josh. Those Mountain Streams, full. The Ponderosa Pines lower down. Their beautiful Bark and Branches. Tall.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Community

One brief, shining: Took another microdose of psilocybin yesterday and it moved into me with subtlety and power, creating a slight aura of light and deepening my vision, especially into the Trees, the silent gentle guardians of our Mountain World, and as I considered them my feet became Roots, spreading like Rhyzomes into the Soil beneath my feet, my spine and upper torso lengthened as I reached toward the Sky, feeling minute movements in the Air around me, feeling a Squirrel run up my Trunk, and a Robin land on one of my Branches, until I stopped growing for a moment, standing there knowing why I had chosen this spot for my eternal home.

 

Psilocybin is so gentle. Each time I’ve used it. It feels like an inner deep massage, muscles relaxing while sensory input sharpens. And it attunes me to plant life. Set and setting, I suppose. Timothy O’Leary’s contribution to the field of psychedelic research.* Plants have been and still are so important to me. These friends. Wild neighbors, too.

The Lodgepoles and Aspens that line my every drive whether to Evergreen or to Aspen Park. Corridors defined by and watched by Trees. The Lodgepoles and Aspens add to their number Ponderosa Pines, Colorado Blue Spruce, White Pine, Willows, Red Osier Dogwood as the Mountain Valleys descend from the top of Shadow Mountain.

The Trees observe, feel our passing. Shade us. Breathe out Oxygen, take in our  CO2. Yet we treat them as things. To cut. To remove. To use in building our homes and places of work. It occurred to me that every tree is Shel Silverstein’s Giving Tree. Giving of itself to us until we take all from it. Yet growing again, and again, and again.

I stand with them. Plant Trees. Love them and they will love you back.

 

Agnostic.** Pagan. In relation to ideas of God in any religion, I am agnostic. In relation to where I find divinity and sacredness, I am pagan. As I demonstrated above. My sense of God is the inner divinity to whom I bow when I say namaste. In that sense I am a polytheist with 7,942,645,085 other Gods in my pantheon. I could easily increase that number by each Tree on Earth. Each Elephant. Each Dog. Each Mackerel and Krill. Each drop of Water, each tongue of Fire, each inch of Soil, and all of the Sky. Yet I am no pantheist.

Why? While I believe in an ultimate unity of all things, I do not believe in an homogenization of all things by using any concept as inherent in everything. In fact I believe that God, in the sense I’m using it, creates, emphasizes, celebrates uniqueness. The great mystery is the powerful, the wonderful combinatory affect of all this uniqueness into one pulsing living whole.

Nothing is outside it. Nothing is rejected. Everything is held in its sacredness, in its true divinity without sacrificing its own distinctiveness. Matter is energy. Energy is matter. When one shifts to the other, the divinity, the sacredness it carries is not lost but transferred. How could it not be? Therefore the distinctiveness which it has created remains as it shifts in form and kind.

I suppose I could argue, maybe I am arguing that this proves a life beyond death. Maybe. Who knows? Kate. Kep. Dad. Mom. Regina. They know.

 

 

 

*Set and setting respectively refer to the internal and external factors that influence your psychedelic experience. “Set” is a reflection of your inner climate—your mood, personality, beliefs, perceptions, and so on. “Setting” refers to all that’s going on outside, such as the people around you and their behaviors, the music playing, the smells and weather in the air, even the cultural forces that aren’t as readily visible. Bailey Elyse, Double Blind, Oct. 2, 2020

 

**agnostic (n.)

1870, “one who professes that the existence of a First Cause and the essential nature of things are not and cannot be known” [Klein]; coined by T.H. Huxley, supposedly in September 1869, from Greek agnostos “unknown, unknowable,” from a- “not” (see a- (3)) + gnōstos “(to be) known” (from PIE root *gno- “to know”). The coinage is sometimes said to be a reference to Paul’s mention of the altar to “the Unknown God” in Acts, but according to Huxley it was a reference to the early Church movement known as Gnosticism (see Gnostic). The adjective also is from 1870.

I … invented what I conceived to be the appropriate title of ‘agnostic,’ … antithetic to the ‘Gnostic’ of Church history who professed to know so much about the very things of which I was ignorant. [T.H. Huxley, “Science and Christian Tradition,” 1889]

The agnostic does not simply say, “I do not know.” He goes another step, and he says, with great emphasis, that you do not know. [Robert G. Ingersoll, “Reply to Dr. Lyman Abbott,” 1890]  etymonline

 

Family, Feelings, Fourth Phase, Friends, Plants, Travel, World History

Pacha Mama

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Beltane and the full Mesa View Moon

Friday gratefuls: The Mesa View. The threshold. Liminal spaces. Dawn. The Omer. Day 29. Dismantling racism. Diane and Ecuador. Marilyn and Irv. At Primo. Sally. Thursday mussar. The tribe. BJ and Schecky under the huppa. Smashing a glass. At Sarah and Jerry’s in North Carolina. The cake with the wonderful floral display. A full day.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: The huppa woven of large branches by Jerry

One brief, shining moment: There are too few words in English, too many instances of this beauty, the Lodgepoles bathed in the Sunlight of early Dawn capture me every morning, standing gentle and upright, Branches swooping toward the Earth, the Light filtered through the stand catching this Tree, this Branch, and changing its touch as the Earth turns, presenting Shadow Mountain at new angles to the motionless Sun.

 

Talked to Diane yesterday. We might head out to Ecuador after the first of the year. For a couple of months. Early days but Sally, who’s already down there, has gotten excited and sent me a bunch of material. Marilyn visited Cotacachi, too, and has some great connections she plans to share.

When I told Marilyn, a traveler of note herself, of my plans to visit Joe and Seoah in Korea, then Israel in November, and Ecuador early next year, she said, “Seeing how many continents you can touch?” Hadn’t thought of it that way. But, yeah.

When Kate and I went on our circumnavigation of Latin America cruise after she retired, we visited two cities in Ecuador, Manta and Guayaquil. I remember distinctly the Iguanas in the town square of Manta, the friendly Ecuadorian who took Kate to some pharmacy so she could buy medicine, and the wonderful market where I bought my Alpaca coat and small, but detailed paintings that I later gave out as gifts to the Woollys.

In Guayaquil we drove past the white city, a huge cemetery with many white tombs on our way to a Cacao plantation. Kate and I met the friendliest pit bull ever there. Also tasted a drink made from the Cacao pulp that was extraordinary.

Ecuador, which means equator in Spanish, was the first country in the world to give legal rights to its environment in their constitution. Here is the clause:

Article 71.

Nature, or Pacha Mama, where life is reproduced and occurs, has the right to integral respect for its existence and for the maintenance and regeneration of its life cycles, structure, functions and evolutionary processes.

Gotta love a country that gives rights to Nature. What would you think about a country that privileges gun ownership in its constitution? Or does according to some interpretations of our second amendment.

 

BJ and Schecky married themselves underneath a huppa made of large Branches woven together by Jerry. I attended via zoom. Bellews Creek, North Carolina. They will be moving this fall to Driggs, Idaho. Leaving their almost fifty year rent controlled home in the Beacon Hotel on Broadway in New York City. It was close to Julliard, which they both attended.

Feelings, Fourth Phase, Fungi, Plants, Shadow Mountain, Weather +Climate

Naturally

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Beltane and the Mesa View Moon

Wednesday gratefuls: Beltane. The growing season. Rebecca. Tom. Bill. Paul. Ode. Diane. Kep, my sweet boy. And Kate, who remains even though gone. A soaking Rain yesterday. Thunder. Walking the perimeter. Psilocybin. The house from within my stand of Lodgepoles. Bunch Grass. Bear’s Claw. Wild Rose. Living in the Mountains. Marilyn. Dismantling Racism. Oh.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: The Lodgepoles in the Rain, their piney scent

One brief, shining moment: Rain coming down like a fine mist, I walked the fenceline, as I used to do in Andover every spring, looking for breaches, places the fencing has pulled away from the posts, and while I walked the smell of Pine, the Mountain Soil, a Rabbit still with a great dark Eye, a Robin on a Lodgepole Branch, a Squirrel scrambling up a Tree Trunk.

 

Lot of advice on stress. Go to Nature. First, you can’t not be in Nature. A subtle way of wedging us further and further away from our reality as part of, rather than apart from, the Natural World. In this sense meditation is going to Nature. Part of why it works for so many?

The Japanese have a term you’ve probably read, shinrin-yoku. Forest bathing or taking in the atmosphere of the Forest. That’s not the same as saying get out in Nature. It’s about going to a specific part of Nature. Not sure why I’ve never seen Ocean Bathing as a similar idea, but it must work the same for a lot of folks. Or, for that matter, Mountain Bathing. Lake Bathing. Garden Bathing. Sex Bathing.

Anyhow I went shinrin-yoku on my property here yesterday. (Whenever I write in the possessive about property or Trees, I wince. Only temporarily mine and then only in the sense of stewardship. Not to mention how much of our Land used to be the territory of other Nations.)

I thought of Rigel as I walked out the door. The Rabbit who likes to sit under the fire pit darted out from there, stopping about twenty feet from its home under the shed. Still. He can’t see me

A soaking rain fell as I walked. Started at the point where the garage meets the fence. Past that point, where the fence turns north, there is a shallow trench maybe 30 feet long with a pile of soil at the far end. Evidence. Doggy running. Rigel, Kep, Gertie, Vega. Jude’s dogs on the other side. Zeus, Boo. Then, later Thor.

Further on green Shoots had begun to emerge through the Bunch Grass. Old Logs were wet, waiting for Mushroom Spores. I surveyed all the Fire mitigation I had done after we moved. Stumps cut low. Clumps of trees left out here, at the far fenceline, well over a hundred feet from the house. Looking toward the house, the thirty foot zone with no Pines and between that line and where I stood, smaller stands, one or two or three Trees at least ten feet apart.

The house and its cedar siding, the shed, the garage, also wet from the rain were in their literal element. And looked beautiful to me.  How lucky am I, I thought.

There were the Lilacs planted per Kate’s dying request at the same time I had the Iris bed expanded. Part of the same wish from her. Lilacs and Irises. Kate.

Coming inside I felt renewed from a half hour of shinrin yoku, never leaving the borders of Shadow Mountain Home.

 

 

Plants, Politics, The West, US History, Weather +Climate

I can feel it emerging

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Imbolc and the Waiting To Cross Moon

Sunday gratefuls: Kep, struggling again. Gabe up for a Rockies afternoon game. Ruth for a night at Dazzle Jazz. Alan as Uncle Moishe in Ron Solomon’s Purim spiel. Monday night. Rich and his class. Luke and his new job. Mike and Kate coming up here sometime this month for barbecue: Campfire Grill in Evergreen. Rabbi Jamie’s ski trip. Race #1 of the new F1 season: Bahrain.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Ruth

 

Reading Wes Jackson’s Becoming Native to This Place again. A radical thinker. At one point he writes about the Cartesian/Baconian advancement of science and the rational method of inquiry. Descartes says in his Discourse on Method that the more he sought to know, the more he realized he had  yet to know. Jackson makes this wry and insightful comment: “This statement would have been all right if he had stopped there. Unfortunately. Rather than regarding informed ignorance as the human condition, and the appropriate result of a good education, Descartes believed our ignorance to be correctable.”

Jackson identifies this hubris of the scientific method as a root source of many of our current maladies. We believe we can extract the parts from the whole, understand them without regard to it, then act on that information. Turns out though if you do not understand, say, the nature of ancient energy and privilege it over contemporary energy sources like wind, solar, photosynthesis, you can do great harm to the whole. Change the climate, for example.

He believes science and humility need to work together. In the instance of agriculture he tells the story of a man in Nebraska who developed seeds and sold them. But only to  farmers in his region. His seeds had characteristics that made them strong in that regional ecology. A local seed source rather than the abstracted seeds sold by Monsanto, Bayer. They did not need Roundup ready alterations because they already knew the soil and the other plants that grew there.

What Jackson wants to create is a new rural life, a new localism predicated not on Cargill or Monsanto or John Deere, but upon perennial crops and a system of trade that could hook up a small Kansas town with a small North Dakota town, one that grew crops better suited for that local ecology. A new localism in which both flora and fauna were appropriate to their location, yet benefited all through trade without gigantic corporations in the way.

This vision. A hard one. Only thing harder, probably? Continuing on the soil and region destroying path we are on.

I’m beginning to see linkages between the Jackson’s and Wendell Berry’s and the fracturing nation in which we live. How their vision for a local agriculture, the base after all of civilization itself might contribute to a new politics. How the breakdown of the country might have a positive outcome. Especially when connected to the old neighborhood politics I know so well from my working days. And when bonded with the actions necessary to tip the climate change scales away from apocalyptic scenarios.

There could be a path here. Needs more noodling, but I can feel it emerging.

Cooking, Dogs, Family, Feelings, Fourth Phase, Friends, Health, Hermitage, Judaism, Mountains, Plants, Shadow Mountain

Glad

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Imbolc and the Waiting to Cross Moon

Thursday gratefuls: Mauve Sky through the Snow laden Lodgepoles. Beautiful. Fresh Snow. Cold temps. -8 last night. Probate. My son working hard. Jon’s house cleaned almost. Jen and I go through it on Saturday. Title for the Rav4 cleared today. Salmon tonight. Alan and Cheri, moving. Tom, who leads and builds. Kep to the vet today. Dr. Simpson. Hep B. Diane. Mary in a hip new apartment building. Eau Claire.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: My son

BTW: my son is a security choice for him.

 

The cleaners have done the first pass on Jon’s place. Jen and I will go through it on Saturday, identify what needs to go to storage and how much space we’ll need to rent. The cleaners will move those items to storage, then complete the clean out. House on the market next week. Maybe. At a decent price. Not a great one, but the market shifted a lot over the last six months and is in a weird place right now. Seems well considered.

I’m going to the DMV today to sort out the title for the Rav4 and will take that to Jen on Saturday. Then it’s hers and Ruth’s. After the house sells, the next step will be Jon’s pension and mutual funds. At that point? Finis. The whole sad saga can move on into the lives of Ruth and Gabe, me. I still have his ashes, for example. I hope we can organize an exhibition of his art at some point. Perhaps sell some for the kids.

With the probate process taking so long there’s been no chance for closure. A constant reminder of the negligent side of Jon. Grated against all of us. Including Ruth and Gabe. When the house sells, Ivory goes to Galena Street, with the storage unit filled and the money issues settled, we’ll all be able to remember the artist, the teacher, the dad, the stepson, the sensitive and so bright guy he was. Those will, as they should, grow to overshadow his struggles, allow his fullness to come back into our hearts.

My son had all this work lined up and ready to go last September. His work as Jon’s personal representative has been an act of brotherly love. Typical of him. He and Jon were close.

May Jon’s memory be for a blessing.

 

Kep goes into the vet this afternoon. See if we can do anything to help his hind legs. Though I doubt it. Check his sight and hearing. There again. Little to be done, I’m sure. Good to have a look. Maybe some pain meds? I don’t think he’s in pain, but I want to be sure.

 

Alan and Cheri. Moving down the hill today. After 27 years. A big moment for them. Right into the heart of Denver. City folk.

 

Mountain life. I’ve stuck with it. And am glad I did. Seeing the Snow on Black Mountain. A Fire in the fireplace. Deepening relationships with CBE folk. Experiencing the benefits of doctors who know me and want me to thrive. Staying connected with folks near and far. Family and friends. Alone, but not lonely on Shadow Mountain. A wonderful house. A good gym setup. Books. Entertainment. A kitchen that inspires me to cook. A soon to be newly painted interior.

 

Family, Feelings, Fourth Phase, Friends, Health, Hermitage, Judaism, Mountains, Plants, Politics, Reimagine. Reconstruct. Reenchant.

Digging in

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Imbolc and the Waiting to Cross Moon

Tuesday gratefuls: Dr. Eigner. Orgovyx. Erleada. Sushi. Okinawa. Insurance companies dropping neighbors for home insurance.The Dark. Sun unseen. Kep, the early. Extending my mornings. Sano Vet. Thursday. My son and his wife. Murdoch. Love over the internet. Golf. For them. Wiring up the loft door. High winds. Cooling temps. Shadow Mountain. Shadow Brook. Conifer and Black Mountains. Berrian Mountain. Bergen Mountain. Korean fried chicken.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Dr. Eigner

 

80 mph gusts here on Shadow Mountain yesterday. Blew my loft doors open. Lifted the ceiling tile covering the entrance to the loft’s rafters. Due to damage to the doors that I imagine occurred during a similar event I had to wire the door to a broom handle placed on the other side of the railing for my deck. Actually enjoyed the problem solving, the act. Agency. Winds continue this morning. A big change in Weather coming.

 

Three questions for Dr. Eigner, my oncologist: Will I live long enough to follow my son to Hawai’i? Should I radiate my two mets at T3 and on my left pelvic lymph node? I’ve been feeling sad about having cancer. Is that usual?

You will die of old age. Have I been wrong? Sure. But not often. New treatments every year. Orgovyx and Erleada didn’t exist when we first saw you. Your PSA has been undetectable for almost two years.

How long do you plan to live? To 90 or so. Then treat the mets. If you’d said, 80 or 85, I’d say no.

Why has it taken you eight years to feel sad? This is so common I have plans for managing it. If you were depressed, I’d contact your primary for anti-depressants. Exercise helps your mood, too. We treat the whole person.

Given the Vascular Institute results and the Rocky Mountain Pulmonary Intensivists results: no problem here, dude. And Eigner yesterday. I’m digging in for the long haul.

Talk to Dr. Simpson today to schedule my radiation. A brief treatment, 3-5 sessions.

 

Rabbi Jamie asked me what kind of ritual I would like to clothe this threshold crossing in? See the O’Donohue post. Told him I’d appreciate a consult. Then ideas began to come. CBE is planting trees this spring for a memorial garden. Folks who do human composting or aquamation can have their remains scattered up there. I might help pay for the trees.

Then another idea. I wrote a poem a while back that had this line it: Death’s door opens both ways. An image of a door, a free standing door. With old West saloon doors in the shape of wings. Death’s door opens both ways inscribed on both doors. In Latin. Of it burning up as I walk through. Having a strong cohort of friends plus Ruth and Gabe walk me up to it, then go around on the other side to greet me. Maybe some music.

I’m having lunch on Friday with Tal. Gonna ask if he knows a stage carpenter who might be able to make this happen. Not ready yet, but preparation is good.

 

How bout that Biden? Sneaky. Going to the Ukraine. And Putin. Pulling out of the nuclear arms treaty? And my son going to Korea. For four years. Yikes.

Anoka County, Bees, Colorado, Dogs, Family, Feelings, Fourth Phase, Friends, Garden, Health, Hermitage, Jefferson County, Judaism, Memories, Minnesota, Mountains, Our Land and Home, Plants, Shadow Mountain, The Move, Writing

Waiting To Cross

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Imbolc and the Waiting to Cross Moon

Monday gratefuls: Dr. Eigner. Dr. Simpson. Kep, the early. Snow. More Snow. Mild temperatures. The Ukraine. Biden. The James Webb. Tom and Bill, the science bros. Max, getting older. Ode, the well-rooted wanderer. Paul, the steadfast. Alan, the cheerful. The Ancient Brothers, a true Sangha. Zoom. Korean fried chicken. Jon, a memory. Kate, always Kate. Ivory. Ruby. Oncology.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: The Ancient Brothers

 

So I said it out loud. My reaction to mom’s death turned me from a confident, ready to take on the world teenager to a frightened, hesitant young adult. One who dropped German because he was failing it. Shame. One who convinced himself there was not enough money for Wabash because he was afraid to go back. Shame. One who entered then a great teacher’s college, but a mediocre university. Ball State University. Shame.

Not a lot of shame in my life. Very little. That’s where it lies. Perhaps now having put it out there. So late. 76. It will fall away. It took me years, nearly three decades, to put the pain of her death in perspective. Treatment for alcoholism. Quitting smoking. Quitting the ministry. Years of Jungian analysis. Finally. Meeting Kate. 26 years later. I finally passed the threshold of grieving mom’s death.

And started living my life. As a writer. A gardener. A dog lover. A beekeeper. An anachronistic blogger. With a woman who loved me as I was and one whom I loved as she was. A love where we wanted and supported the best life for each other. We traveled. A lot. We stood with both sons fully.

Abundance. Yes. Ode’s word for our Andover home. Yes. Flowers. Meadow. Fruits. Nuts. Berries. Grapes. Honey. Plums. Pears. Apples. Cherries. Iris. Tulips. Spring ephemerals. Roses. Hosta. Gooseberries. Beans. Heirloom tomatoes. Leeks. Garlic. Onions. Kale. Collard Greens. Lettuce. Carrots. Ground Cherry. Raspberries.

The fire pit. The woods.

The dogs. So many dogs. Celt. Sorsha. Morgana. Scot. Tira. Tully. Orion. Tor. The Wolfhounds. Iris. Buck. Hilo. Emma. Kona. Bridget. The Whippets. Vega and Rigel. The IW/Coyote Hound sisters. Gertie, the German Short Hair. And Kep, the Akita.

It was so good. Until the work became burdensome. Until I visited Colorado one year and Ruth ran away from the door because she didn’t expect me. A surprise visit. Then we had to come. The two. A push. The work of Seven Oaks had become too much. A pull. We wanted, needed to be there for Ruth and Gabe.

So we packed everything up. And on the Winter Solstice of 2014 moved here, to the top of Shadow Mountain. 8,800 feet above sea level. Into the Wildland/Urban Interface, the WUI. With four dogs: Kep, Gertie, Rigel, and Vega. Again, thanks to Tom for helping with the dog move.

When the time came, we put away Andover and envisioned a life together in the Rocky Mountains. Kate felt like she was on vacation every day until she died. Where she found the Jewish life she had always wanted. Where we both found ourselves immersed in the lives of our grandchildren, of their parents.

Now Kate is dead. Vega is dead. Gertie is dead. Rigel is dead. Only Kep and I remain alive. I’m at another threshold, waiting to cross.

Aging, Commentary on the news, Cooking, Family, Feelings, Fourth Phase, Friends, Great Work, Jefferson County, Judaism, Mountains, Plants, Politics, Shadow Mountain, US History

It was a lynching

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Winter and the Valentine Moon

Tuesday gratefuls: Hot Water. My shower. Marilyn and Irv. Ageism. Aspen Perk. Aspen Park Dental. Darlene, the hygienist. Seeing the Magpies against the Snow as I sat in the dental chair. Clean teeth. Good gum health. No work needed. Yes. Grocery pickup. Home. Brined center cut porkchops. Cooked in the Air fryer. Mixed vegetables. Tangerine. Mary’s photos of her last days in Kobe. Eau Claire. Air travel. Sarah and Annie. The Jeep.

Sparks of joy and awe: Friends and family

 

A note I sent to my county commissioner, Lesley Dahlkemper, about a proposed Mountain bike park on Shadow Mountain Drive:

Hi, Lesley!

Met you at Marilyn Saltzman’s 70th birthday party. Before you became a commissioner. Congratulations!

I live on Black Mtn Drive. Up the hill about 2 miles from the proposed mtn bike park. Aside from the obvious degradation of a mountain side and a beautiful, clear running stream and aside from the obvious traffic nightmare on already difficult to navigate blind curves and narrow no shoulders Shadow Mountain Drive, I’d like to tell you about a 7 AM drive I took that passed by the bike park area.

There in that meadow were thirty cow Elks and one magnificent bull, a fourteen pointer. A mist was rising from Shadow Brook. Now that may not be a logical argument against the bike park, but it’s damn sure a good one to me.

 

Tyre Nichols. Still think the role of police in our culture doesn’t need drastic and dramatic change? Tainted by the power given to them by a frightened white majority the police live out the violent fantasies of those at home watching TV. Their color does not matter. What matters is their intent, their willingness to step well beyond the bounds of decency. Remember Derek Chauvin’s knee? One of the officers who stood by was Hmong. The others who stood and watched? Rodney King?

Tom Crane found an interesting interview with Rev. Dante Stewart. His words on lynching are worth sharing:

“That was more than police brutality. That was a lynching. They wanted to kill him because, in some sense, lynching is about the spectacle. It’s about what someone with power does to another human being to ride and rid them of every ounce of their dignity and put it in the public to show this is what we think about this person.

“When those in the past put Black people up on noose, it was a message to them: This is our estimation of your life, and much more, this is our hatred of your life. And when Tyre Nichols was beaten and the just immense disregard to him, it showed us in public once again the estimation of Black life, white racism and white supremacy.”  WBUR

This sort of action by the police reimagines the whip of the plantation slave master. Sanctioned violence to keep the enslaved in place. We still fear the emboldened and empowered other. What might they do to us? What to do? Do it to them first.

 

On a better note, also from Tom. On Kernza Grain. “I just came across this perennial grain developed by the Land Institute. I also ordered some from a site which sells it as a cereal much like oatmeal. I’ll let you know how it is.”

The Land Institute is a solution finder. Glad Tom found this product, the first commercial fruits of the Institute’s work. I’ll let you know what he thinks.

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Dogs, Memories, Plants, Politics, Travel, US History

Stolen Work, Stolen Land

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Winter and the Wolf Moon

Thursday gratefuls: Kate Strickland and Michael Banker. Seeing them on Sunday. Dushanbe Tea House in Boulder. Diane this morning. Tom tomorrow. Tom Tomorrow! Alan on Saturday. Mussar today. Fresh white Snow. Kep, the sleeper. His sleeping sounds. Sudbury Impact Crater. Ejecta all the way to Gunflint Lake in Minnesota. Subduction. Nickel. Copper. Platinum. Paladium. Zircon. Uranium. Colorado Plateau. Placer deposits of uranium. Manitoulin Island. The Georgian Bay. The Chi-cheemaun.

Thursday gratefuls: Life in all is wonder

 

Getting a distinct Canada jones. This Origins of North America course has rekindled memories of Stratford, Ontario, taking the Chi-cheemaun ferry to Manitoulin Island. Also my trips circumnavigating Lake Superior. I’ve always loved Canada. Every since our first family trip there and I saw those road signs with the crown on them. And those Fords that looked like Fords but had a different name: Meteor. That moment on Lake Huron in Ipperwash Provincial Park. One with the Lake and the Sunseen.

Now I see this is land stolen from the Chippewa Band of Kettle and Stony Point. This story about the sniper killing of band member Dudley George in 1995. Maybe the spirit of the Anishinabe inhabited me that day.

And so back to Imani (faith) Perry and her South to America. In her chapter on the Soul of the South she talks a lot about the Black Belt, a geological region that runs through Alabama, Mississippi, parts of other Southern states which was especially good for growing cotton. The term also has a broader definition: “Political analysts and historians continue to use the term Black Belt to designate some 200 counties in the South from Virginia to Texas that have a history of majority African American population and cotton production.” wiki

The Black Belt and the Chippewa’s struggle over Ipperwash are of a piece. They are land used by White governmental and economic structures enforcing white supremacy over those deemed lesser. This is why Perry says to understand the U.S. we have to go to the South. Because slavery informed the founding documents of our nation and because the wealth of the early United States had its base in cotton production and trade. These two facts go together. The wealth of the Southern states allowed them to have an outsized voice in the negotiations creating our nation.

That would mean that originalism is ipso facto racist. It says we have to interpret only the words of the constitution and use the plain meaning of those words as laid down by the founders. Well, hey. The three-fifths clause. The electoral college. Senators two from each state. That means the Extremes are not only hard right conservatives but also standard bearers for white supremacy. Wonder how Clarence feels about that.

February is Black history month. Would be a good time to read some DuBois, maybe some Richard Wright, Imani Perry, Frederick Douglas. Margaret Walker. Toni Morrison. Maya Angelou. James Baldwin. Langston Hughes.

Back to that Canada thing though. Think I’m gonna plan a trip. True North Shore of Lake Superior, over to the Georgian Bay, cross the bay going South, Head to Stratford for some good theater. Anybody wanna come?

 

 

Dogs, Family, Feelings, Fourth Phase, Friends, Garden, Great Wheel, Great Work, Health, Hermitage, Judaism, Memories, Minnesota, Mountains, Mussar, Plants, Politics, Shadow Mountain, The Move, Writing

Dutiful

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Winter and the Wolf Moon

Sunday gratefuls: Breakfast with Jen, Ruth, Gabe, Barb. Driving back up the hill. F1. The MIA. The Walker. The docent program. My many years there with good friends and art. Acting class. Creativity class. Origins of North America. Finding the volume of a Mountain. Korean. Pruning moving forward. Interior painting, early February. Probate. Still moving. slow. ly. The Good Life. Scott and Helen Nearing. Eudaimonia. Kristen Gonzalez. Psoriasis. Mark and the USPS. Mary in Kobe. Ancient Brothers.

Sparks of joy and awe: Eudaimonia

 

Human flourishing. Eudaimonia. Satisfaction. More important than happiness. Duty is just another word for cultural norms received and accepted. Obligations. On the other hand. Imposed. Why do we do what we do?

Assessing the life that is neither heroic nor mediocre. Since that’s where most of us end up. No need to measure ourselves against the ends of the bell curve. No need to measure ourselves. But can we be at peace with a life without comparisons?

As for me, I choose eudaimonia. Flourishing. Satisfaction. And, yes. Duty plays a role. Family. Sacrifice. Friends too. Being there. Wherever love is, there is duty. To be honest. Sincere. Kind. Helpful. To support the best for the other. Right down to the end. And by implication to support the best for yourself. Also, duty. The unexamined life is not worth living. Yes. A duty to yourself to know thyself. And to thy own known Self be true.

 

What’s interesting for me right now is how much a sense of duty has played in my life. Oh, no! The original oppositional defiant guy admitting to a sense of duty. I who even rebel against my superego. You can’t make me!!! Yes, duty.

A minor yet significant example. As a convinced feminist of the Betty Friedan/Simone de Beauvoir second wave. At the age of 26. In seminary. Went to the Rice Street Clinic late on a Winter afternoon. A scalpel I felt on the first cut slashed my vas deferens on both sides. Shutting down sperm from my testicles. Being responsible for my own contraception.

Another. One I’ve mentioned before. Fits here. No. I don’t want a Johns-Manville full scholarship to college. Managing people in a large corporation is not me. Will never be me. High school.

Once convinced of Vietnam’s sturdiness as a nation, one that had held back China for over 3,000 years. No. I will not fight, nor support that war.

After reading a convincing study about the future job prospects for Ph.D.’s. No to graduate school.

Family. Staying in the fire with Jon. Ruth. Gabe. Kate in later life. Mark. Yet also. Cut your hair or leave! Leaving.

These may not at first reading seem like duty. But they are. A duty to myself, to my own understanding of how to be present in the world.

When I realized Ruth and Gabe needed us in Colorado. Broaching the idea of a move. Kate on board. Following through.

Those two and a half acres in Andover. Leaving them better than when we bought them. How? Working it out with Kate over the years. Together. Staying the course with the full cycle of responsibilities throughout the year. Each year.

And, dogs. Living into their lives. With them from puppyhood to death. Oh. Sweet duty. Painful duty. Life realized in full.