Category Archives: Mussar

Finding love

Samain and the Moon of Growing Darkness

Thursday gratefuls: Amazon. Weights with neoprene. 48 ramen packages. Three light bulbs. One jar of protein powder. Being prepared. Weariness. Drugs. Of all kinds and all sorts. Visit to my medical oncologist tomorrow. Ley Septic. Furball Cleaning. Vince. US Mail. Mark in K.L.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Love

Kavannah: Perseverance

One brief shining: The downside of shopping with Amazon came along yesterday as the little photograph emailed to me with the cheery question-How was your delivery?- showed my package to be at a different door than mine, one with full glass and a bright orange streamer draped over its flower pot containing a now long dead leaf and stalk.

 

Mussar. From Monday night. Rabbi Jamie’s translation of Orchot Tzaddikim. From the chapter on love and hate:  “…by way of this gate of love, peace stands, a peace with everything And by way of this gate is silence and stillness, an openness to learn and perform good and worthy deeds.”

Each month we choose a practice for the middah we’ve studied. My practice this month is to notice when peace, silence, and stillness, an openness to learn and perform good and worthy deeds emerge in my daily life. Clues about love.

When I got home that Monday night, I walked into my home. Noticed silence. Stillness. Felt at peace. Oh. No wonder I like coming home, being home. It fills me with love. That was a surprise.

The next day I recalled the NYT’s article about the cosmologist who chose to study the cosmic void. The uncluttered apparent emptiness, silent and still. Oh. Studying the love that holds the Galaxies and Solar systems, the Nebulae, and Stars going nova.

Sat down to read Nexus that same day. Harari’s clear prose and interesting conclusions leading me on, eager to learn what he might say next. Love in the turning pages.

My brother and I talked over zoom. An opportunity to perform a mitzvah. Yet more love.

I speak with my zoomfriends. We see each other. Hear each other. Moments of mutual respect and love.

In just four days my practice has revealed love everywhere I go. In the still pause between breaths. In the silence of my back yard at night. The stillness of Orion, risen and visible in the cosmic void.

Even though I ache from it, I experienced love in the now regular resistant work I’ve taken up. Me performing a good and worthy deed for myself.

There is, too, the silent wisdom of my Lodgepole Companion. The massive, yet subtle presence of Black Mountain. The kind sadness in the still black eyes of the three Mule Deer Does and the young Buck who watched me walk out to the mailbox yesterday. Enjoy the food I said to them, breaking the silence.

I walk through the valley of love and I shall know peace, silence, stillness, an openness to learning, and the desire to perform good and worth deeds.

Tears and Laughter

Samain and the Moon of Growing Darkness

Tuesday gratefuls: Susan. Ralph Waldo Emerson. Her house. Beautiful. Jamie. Rich. Elephant Company. Tara. Marilyn. Ron. MVP. Going to bed late. Dreams of travel. lodging. As some pundit observed, long tie guy has flooded the zone with too many bad picks all at once. Orion, my buddy. The Mountain Night Sky.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Habeas Corpus for Elephants

Kavannah: Perseverance

One brief shining: We sat in Eames chairs around a large Camelot table, a spotlight outside revealing a beautiful outcropping of Rock, 15 foot glass windows, the east facing wall, showing the glittering lights of Denver, down the hill and far away, while we talked about anavah and sinah: love and hate, trying to find purchase in our lives for growing both as soul traits, character traits.

 

Every once in a while, like last night at Susan Marcus’s architect designed home, I feel blessed, blissed to sit with people smarter than me as we try to figure out how to lead our lives in a soul-full manner. How we can we express the essence of ourselves as sacred beings, using the medieval practice of mussar as a guide.

In those conversations we move from our lives into learning, from learning back into our lives. We struggle with the usual things: parents, children, marriage, existential angst while trying to place them within the context of developing our ability to practice humility, enthusiasm, love, hate (or repulsion), our ability to let the light of our own divinity shine unobstructed. Not easy work, but done with love and compassion. Confidentiality. Honesty.

A lot of laughter, occasional tears. Befuddlement is common. And, admitted. Gotta say I love being a Jew and part of Congregation Beth Evergreen.

Also, food. Last night butternut squash soup, chicken wings, cowboy caviar, a fancy salad, hummus, carrots, and for those who drink, a red wine labeled, 7 Deadly Sins.

 

Just a moment: Harder than I thought it would be. Getting back into working out. Deciding this time to privilege weight training, resistance work over cardio. My heart rate has remained excellent, but my muscles have given way even more to that old devil, sarcopenia. Where once I opened jars and bags with practiced ease, I now often have to resort to tricks and accessories. Not acceptable. And remediable.

Plan to make sure my resistance routine is solid, making gains. Then, I’ll add back in the cardio on my treadmill. Self-care, it’s not just a river in Egypt. Oh, wait…

 

In spite of myself l find a habit gained during 45’s reign of error returning. Opening the New York Times to see what he’s done now. Who’s he appointed? Why? Of course the why question has no answer. Whim. Some strange political calculus. An indecipherable conclusion based on misinformation.

When the revolutionaries take over the government, they usually turn out to be same as the old boss. Since this is a revolution based at root on greed and fear, it may stretch things farther than any of us hope, certainly more than we want, but the U.S.A. has and will recover. That is my Seed-Keeper faith and one I will help make happen.

 

Seeking Contentment and Joy. Losing them.

Samain and the Moon of Growing Darkness

Tuesday gratefuls: Sadness. Unhappiness. Dismay. Prostate cancer. Dr. Buphati. That P.A. Kristie. Contentment. Joy. Pain. 1883. Ilsa May. Her role as Elsa Dutton. Cold Nights. Snow. Wild Neighbors. The West. Comanche. Lakota. The Great Plains. Buffalo. A Wild and undiscovered country still. The West of my heart.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Home

Kavannah for election week: Contentment and Joy

One brief shining: In a small office at Rocky Mountain Cancer Care I experienced dismay, unhappiness, a strange intersection of politics and self care, and again, as I did on the drive home three weeks ago from RMCC, I felt alone, this time in the usual patient’s chair listening to the P.A. say they had no PSA for me.

 

First jolt was seeing a P.A. instead of Dr. Buphati. I liked him, was counting on his knowledge to guide me through what came next. She offered to go get him. She said she did not care either way. This was the strange intersection of politics and self care. I wanted to see Buphati, but I didn’t want to deny her skills, her right to be there. Feminism strong in me. In medicine especially. Kate.

Second jolt. We have no PSA for you. I deflated. This appointment was supposed to define the next steps in a journey that had made confusing turns over the summer and early fall. Why not? How can you not know?

She said (I don’t remember her name, if it even got through the fog.) I just got assigned.

Then I got unhappy and said so. I’m unhappy and disappointed. I don’t understand how after three weeks you don’t have it. My expectations about knowing what comes next had me in knots. I wanted, no needed, to know and I couldn’t. But why? In the end it didn’t matter.

Go ahead, I waved my hand dismissively. Still trying to reorient. She handed me the results of the DNA results for my cancer cells. Nothing of significance. That means no clinical trials, no targeted therapies. Oh. I took the papers, glanced at them, wondering where my readers were. Nothing of significance. Oh.

In the end she went to get Dr. Buphati. Who came in masked, as was she. Making it difficult for me to hear. He agreed I had every right to be upset. That somehow the lab didn’t have the results. I told him my upset had started back in June when my PSA went up after my drug holiday. Then went down after going back on Orgovyx. My visit to the radiation oncologist who said I had hormone resistant cancer. After which Kristie said, no. Not without rising PSA on two drugs. Erleada came next. This was the PSA measure that would tell the difference. But there were no test results.

We talked for a bit more. His knowledge and clarity helped me calm, but the dismay and the sadness had already burrowed their way into my feelings of the moment. When the phlebotomist, a kind Latina, young, asked me how I was, I said feeling down. And I was. She knew that already. Helped me put on my jacket.

I wanted contentment and joy. They were/are my intentions for this week, but I lost them at the words no PSA results. I wanted to be calm, clear, kind. But I wasn’t. I felt let down by Dr. Buphati, by RMCC. No mussar moves came to mind.

So the valet got my car and I drove away toward the Mountains, wanting only to be home.

 

Just a moment: That was yesterday. I got some Chicken wings, cole slaw, and Potatoes at Safeway, drove to Shadow Mountain, and binged 1883. Soothing myself. Letting myself feel sad, disappointed.

In 1883 I witnessed one of the best dramatic performances I’ve seen. Ilsa May, a young actress, plays Elsa Dutton who turns 18 as her family makes their way as part of a wagon train headed to Oregon. Her arc from bonneted, piano-playing Tennessee girl to cowgirl, then wife of a Comanche warrior and becoming a warrior herself was an alembic for my feelings. In seeing Elsa take the real agonies and the ecstasies of young maturation I rode with her. Seeing a way through the self-inflicted responses I had. Better this morning. Much better. Thanks, Elsa.

Contentment and Joy

Samain and the Moon of Growing Darkness

Monday gratefuls: Dr. Buphati. Snow. 4-5 inches. Powder. Or, as the skiers say: Pow. Vikings win. The Ancient Brothers. Walking Each Other Home. Mark in K.L. The Brickfields. The lives of all the Wild Neighbors. Everywhere. And, all the domesticated Animals. The Great Wheel. The Tarot. Kabbalah. Living in joy. Cosmic voids. Sculpture. Rodin. Brancusi.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: First substantial Snow of the season

Kavannah for election week: Contentment and Joy

One brief shining: At night I crank open the casement window over my bed, letting in the  smell of Lodgepoles and Grass as the Night Air streams over my head, when Snow begins to fall like it did last night Snowflakes come through the screen, shower me in a light experience of the weather outside, and often, like last night, make the window hard to close.

 

Without knowing. Without certainty. I claim today my joy and my contentment. I seek today those moments that delight my heart, tickle my inner child. Like my Lodgepole Companion holding the powdery Snow as an early seasonal decoration. Thinking of lights, Christmas and Diwali and Hanukah and Kwanza and Yule. Remembering sliding down the hill at the end of Monroe Street and taking my sled over the jumps we kids created. Of the farm outside of Nevis, Minnesota on a Snowy day, air-tight stove crackling with good, dense Oak logs, the cook stove boiling water for coffee. Of standing by the Shadow Mountain kitchen window with Kate by my side, watching the Snow come down. How lucky we are to live here, she would say. Yep, I would reply.

Also enough coffee in the pot this morning for a full cup. The mini-splits keeping the house warm. An early Dawn, at least according to the clock. Life, this precious and wonderful gift.

Reading, that most amazing skill. Example: The Emptiness of the Universe Gives Our Lives Meaning. I loved this short piece. The cosmologist Paul Sutter chose for his life work the study of cosmic voids. The apparently empty spots between and among galaxies, local clusters, superclusters. How innovative and creative, to study negative space. It’s as if an art historian chose to study only the negative space in sculpture, in paintings. Or a musicologist specializing in rests and stops.

I am content. I’ll have Fire in the Fireplace tonight. Toss some Pinōn on for a scent treat, thinking of the clay stoves in the corners of rooms in New Mexico. I’ll have a good book, probably An Unfinished Love Story by Doris Kearns-Goodwin recommended by Marilyn.

I’ll take in what Dr. Buphati has to say at 2:30 today and I will see it as the next steps necessary to claim the life I have yet to live. Not as the first steps toward death. Which comes anyhow.

Realized the other day that after my Bar Mitzvah, literally the day after when I had my unsettling telehealth visit with Kristie, I’ve been living with the notion of a shortened life span, an inner focus on decline. So much so that I gave up exercising. Wanted to privilege spontaneity.

My year of living Jewishly had its capstone moment and I voluntarily took the steps down into my Cloud of unknowing. And reified it. Since that day, June 12th of this year, until last week, I’ve had a focus on less than, what would soon be missing. Me. I made a pivot from a deep plunge into Judaism to a dive into the shallow end of lack. Broke my heart for a while.

Then I began to understand that the Cloud of unknowing was the true and only way to view life. Whether shorter or longer, I don’t know. As has always been the case. I came up from the mikveh a Jew. I came up from the shallow end of lack attentive again to today, to this life as I have it now. As I will until I don’t.

Herme Harari Israel

Experiencing the World

Mabon and the Sukkot Moon

Tuesday gratefuls: Kamala. Tim. Blue. Red. Orange obstacle. The obstacle is the way. Great Sol. MVP. Angst. Love and pain. Humility. Elephants. Free will. Or, not. Stan Draghul memorial service. A man focused on experiences not things. Wondering about my own memorial service. Yahrzeits. The Yarhzeit wall at CBE. Judaism. A way of being and staying human.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Deep friendships

Kavannah: Joy

One brief shining: Stan’s son Adam said there was a lockbox in his hospice room, though “knowing my Dad the code was pasted on the bottom;”  he opened the lockbox after Stan died and found all of his passports; opening them at the memorial service he held up the changing pictures and leafed through the visa pages: China. Nepal. Israel. South Africa. Cambodia, “all over the world,” a man hungry for experience.

 

 

I only knew Stan a bit from mussar days pre-pandemic. He never returned after Covid got legs. Each of his children, his friend/partner, his long time nurse (Stan was a family practice doc), and a friend from his men’s group all spoke of him with consistency and admiration.

As often happens to me, I left the service wishing I’d known him better, much better, than I did. A person could write an interesting book attending memorial services for a year and offering life lessons from the lives summed up in them. With Stan I would say choose compassion, kindness, keen intellect, curiosity, wanderlust, love of family and profession. Traits. Ways of being in the world. Available to all, but certainly manifest in Stan’s life.

Afterward. A meal. Eating with Marilyn, Joanne, Tara, Jamie, Ginny, Sally, and Janice. You know. Croissants split and filled with Chicken salad. Baguettes sliced with raw roast beef. Vegetables with humus. Fruits. Strawberries. Blueberries. Wonderful grapes.

The morning.

 

The evening. Instead of holding MVP in the Sukkah-it was too cold-and the Evergreen Chorale was practicing its Christmas concert in the sanctuary, we moved to Jamie’s parent’s house. Not far away. A profound evening of deep sharing, lots of laughter. Probably not enough tears. Heartfelt and honest. A source of Joy. Every one around the table: Jamie, Marilyn, Ron, Rich, Joanne a good friend.

Rich, as he does from time to time, threw a real oddball into the conversation. He has some role, not sure what, in a Colorado Supreme Court case being heard Thursday:  Petitioner-Appellant: Nonhuman Rights Project, Inc.,
v. Respondents-Appellees: Cheyenne Mountain Zoological Society and Bob Chastain. The issue before the court:
Does the petition make a prima facie case that Missy, Kimba, Lucky, LouLou, and Jambo are entitled to release?
Did the district court have subject-matter jurisdiction?

Missy, Kimba, Lucky, Loulou, and Jambo are African Elephants being held at the Cheyenne Mountain Zoo in Colorado Springs.

Too, the Court meets in one of its community settings: Wolf Law School at UC-Boulder. Right where I dropped Ruth off Sunday evening after sandwiches at Snarf’s. I’m gonna go. Provided I get up in time and can find parking. Oral arguments are at 9:15. Boulder’s about an hour away. Rich said to get there early. I’m thinking 8:15. Which means leaving here at least by 7:15. Then, the critical piece finding a parking place on campus on a school day. Ruth will help me. We might go together.

This falls under my new act spontaneously commitment made when I returned to the land of my soul. Does mean, to my regret, that I will miss Simchat Torah which is Wednesday evening. Got to hit the hay early before an early Thursday morning.

 

 

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

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.

 

 

 

As I went to bed. The Holy, The Sacred. Clear sight

Lugnasa and the 99% Full Harvest Moon

Tuesday gratefuls: Ninja blender. Figuring out the veggie paradox. Celecoxib. Allows me to stand long enough for short cooking. Pain lessened. Over my dislocation created by possibly shorter life span. Feeling grounded in my life again. In part thanks to the pain treatment. A beautiful photograph. Taken by me. Header. Serious thinking. Tarot. Jessica Roux.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: The Sky at dusk on Shadow Mountain

Kavannah: Yirah

One brief shining: Each night after the lights go dark, the window’s cranked full open, the fan turned on, and I’ve taken my last look at the Stars through the Lodgepoles, I fall into a revery of thought, never knowing where my mind will carry me but always happy for the ride, this idea bouncing off that one, triggering another turn of ideas or images, pure and unguided inner joy. Today’s post is about last night’s journey.

 

Thinking about the day as my head lay on the pillow, body stretched out and at peace. As I try to do each night, I consider the middah I chose. Did it come to mind? Did I experience its manifestation? What were the specific moments when that happened? How did I feel? Then, and immediately afterward. What did I learn?

Yirah. Awe. Wonder. Amazement. [(fear)] Yirah, the Hebrew for this sudden feeling of openness, of seeing clearly, often got translated, by Jews and Christians alike, as fear. As in the phrase “Fear of the Lord.” Bad translation. Bad. Down boy. And I say boy advisedly, because Fear of the Lord has a decided patriarchal connotation. Bow down to the King, the one who rules you, makes you obey, has the power of life and death over you.

Rudolf Otto defined the Holy as containing an element beyond the ethical sphere, which he named the numinous.* Stripped of what Otto defines as its element of moral perfection, which he has to assume because he’s writing within a Christian context, the holy, the numinous, is in my opinion what we mean by the word sacred.

Yirah opens a neural pathway for experiencing of the numinous. Which, again Otto, can be both terrifying and fascinating. In Yirah, in awe, wonder, and amazement we find the gateway to revelation. And what is revelation? An experiencing, however brief or long, of the numinous, the holy. The sacred.

I reclaim a possible connection to Kant here in his use of the word noumenon. Below the author of the Wikipedia article says the numinous is unrelated to Kant’s idea of the noumenon which refers to: “…an unknowable reality underlying sensations of the thing.” Kant also called this the ding an sich, the thing in itself, whatever an object of perception is without the observer.

What I believe Yirah opens us to is just that: the ding an sich, the thing itself. Reality as it is, not as we confuse it with our preconceived ideas, our biases, our values. I think you could also call it the field out beyond good and bad where Rumi invites us to meet.

What is that reality, for which I now claim the word sacred? A place where the mystic bonds of each to each and all to all become, however briefly for us, accessible. So in cultivating the middah of yirah we strengthen the inner muscle that allows us to see beyond the surface to the ligaments and tendons that link us to the Tree, the Friend, the Lodgepole Pine, the Mountain, the Ocean, to our Lover, to our Inner World and in it to the Collective Unconscious. Those connections which tie us inextricably together, a roiling, boiling mass of creativity, of newness that we try, hard, to ignore because experiencing it directly is to experience, perhaps, the terror of dissolution, yet also a deep fascination. Oh, so this is what the World is really, really like?

An important observation here is that this is not a logical nor a conceptual process. It is a sensory process, in other words, a process stimulated by seeing something, hearing something, touching something, tasting something. It is in no way faith. You might call the experience of yirah a mystical moment, whether long or short.

So when I took in whole cloth the bulk of Black Mountain and realized a moment of wonder, what happened was a brief, bodily experience of all the links and bonds that tie me to Black Mountain and Black Mountain to me. When I watched Great Sol’s light fade into night and the colors entranced me, I saw into the mystic bonds that tie me to Great Sol, to the dusk, to the coming night, to the vast distances between Shadow Mountain and our Star. When I experienced, for a moment, myself as part of the Arapaho National Forest, a human among Trees, I felt one with each Lodgepole, Rock, Stream, Mule Deer, and Elk.

And one more bit. Yirah, then, is a sensory event which peels back the gauze of day-to-day illusion in which we see and treat everything as separate from our body, ourselves. The midot, all the character traits we study in mussar, I think, are ways we can open ourselves to the world, ways we can become a moment for the other to experience yirah and us as bonded to them. A give and take, a push and pull, a way perhaps of becoming holy, sacred.

Yirah is the gateway for revelation. revelation the gateway to the sacred. The sacred is seeing the links that bind us to the all and the all to us.

*”…while the concept of “the holy” is often used to convey moral perfection, which it does entail, it contains another distinct element, beyond the ethical sphere, for which he coined the term numinous based on the Latin word numen (“divine power”).[2]: 5–7  (The term is etymologically unrelated to Immanuel Kant’s noumenon, a Greek term which Kant used to refer to an unknowable reality underlying sensations of the thing).” He explains the numinous as an experience or feeling which is not based on reason or sensory stimulation and represents the “wholly other”

“The Holy, according to Otto, is a mystery (Latin: mysterium) that is at once terrifying (tremendum) and fascinating (fascinans).   Wiki

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

A serene and joyful cluster

Lugnasa and the Harvest Moon

Wednesday gratefuls: Orange one v. Harris. Harris by a knockout. Great Sol. Tara. Ariaan. Vincent. Julia. Sophia. Mystical awareness. The sacred within and as the ordinary. Politics. Life at home. Muir Woods. Joshua Trees. Bristlecone Pines. Coastal Redwoods. Sequoia. Lodgepoles and Aspen. First gold beginning to appear. 9/11.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Accepting life as it comes

Kavannah: CONTENTMENT הִסתַפְּקוּת Histapkut     Contentment, simplicity, moderation; from ספק to divide/apportion (נַחַת Nachat: Satisfaction, gratification, comfort) (קִמּוּץ Kimutz: Minimalism, frugality, thrift; related קוֹמֶץ closed hand/fistful)  [קִנְאָה Kinah: Passion, envy, competition]  brackets are antonyms

One brief shining: Great Sol comes in at wider angle now, Mother Earth’s tilt having brought us round to Fall, headed toward Winter and the fallow times, my Lodgepole Companion has begun to settle in for the cool weather and heavy loads of Snow that lie ahead; the Aspens have sensed the changes, too, and auxin proliferates which triggers the revelation of gold that lies below the chlorophyll green; soon the Mountains will become a brilliant minimalist work of art, gold and green against the steel blue of a Colorado Sky.

 

I’m looking at a cluster of middot that are key to my life right now: contentment, serenity, equanimity, balance, beauty, joy, patience, peace, stability, wisdom. There are turbulent factors in my life, all medical at this point, that rise up, break the surface releasing noxious gases of agitation, sadness, worry, sending my moods into dark places. I don’t want to overstate this. I’m still essentially stable, balanced in the way I react to these miasmic intrusions. But it takes greater effort these days.

The two major sources of swamp gas are uncertainty about my current cancer reality, back pain and the methods to treat it. Having untreated metastases, as I do now, meaning I have active cancer growth until or if the orgovyx/erleada combination drops it to zero again, makes me feel untethered, floating free of effective medical care. The celexcoib has tamped down my back pain, though I’m now noticing break through pain right after I get up and in the late afternoon, early evening. Which might mean I need to increase my dose which increases the possibility of negative side effects.

So I need more joy, patience, peace, and serenity. I plan to focus on these middot over the next few weeks with the overall intention of keeping me here and now, in this 9/11/2024 life. Also holding uncertainty as the truth and constant that it is. Merely the overall state of all things, not a purveyor of doom.

 

Just a moment: I tried to watch debate. I saw orange guy bloviate. I watched Kamala rehash lines from her CNN interview. I thought about the observation that wanting to be president should disqualify you from the job. Realized both of them were distasteful to me in that sense. Nope, I don’t to watch preening and attacking. The world has enough of that. And it doesn’t enhance my serenity.

Wish I’d hung on a bit longer. Apparently Kamala got the orange one to twist himself into the negative, thoughtless, witless person that he is. Go, Kamala.

Will it be enough to turn the tide? Not on its own. But it will energize the Democratic troops for a marathon push to election day. Probably good enough.