Lughnasa Waning Artemis Moon
Bob Feemster owned the Alexandria Times-Tribune which my father served as editor for many years. In 1951 Bob bought us a black and white TV because the believed newspaperman should be aware of this new media. My earliest memory of television and politics comes from watching that little TV in the 1952 race between Stevenson and Eisenhower. A Democratic household, we were pulling for the Unitarian Stevenson against the former General of the Armies, Eisenhower.
This was long before news organization using exit polling and computer modeling to declare victors. The actual number of votes was what mattered and they showed up at different points in time. The far west results didn’t begin to come in until midnight or so. Dad let me stay up and watch the election returns with him. Of course, it was partly staying up late at night that intrigued me, but I had also caught my father’s passion for the process. What would happen?
You know the result. Far from turning me away from politics, that long ago late night served as a foundation for a life of modest political activism. You know, student politics in high school, student politics in college, radicalization during the Vietnam war era and engagement since then in various levels and kind of activism from Indiana Presidential politics and Minneapolis City politics to Minnesota state politics, neighborhood politics in Minneapolis as well as community based economic development and a raft of other state and local efforts.
In some ways politics has been the defining theme of my life. I’ve been at it, more or less, since that night in 1952. Rarely I have gone for more than a year without some concrete form of political engagement. When I encounter problems in our broader community, my first thought is of a political response, how to organize it, where to start.
But. I’m losing my taste for it. Why?
These days I work on political issues related to environmental concerns. I have a responsible position in a large Minnesota organization with a track record for achieving change at both the state and national levels. My role is directly political in that I serve as a sort of manager for the organizations legislative work. My passion for a peaceful, verdant, and just world (as some foundation says) is not less than it has been. So, what’s the problem?
It may be broadly an analytical problem. That is, my political work has a good deal of calculation attached to it. Analysis of political realities and the nature of changes we want often conflict. The political path is the one on which something can be made to happen. This puts the work largely in my head, when my motivation comes largely from my heart. Over the years, now the many years, of political work, I have learned dispassionate detachment perhaps too well.
The work no longer serves as a vehicle for my passion. Where has that passion gone? Into art and writing. When I have downtime, art comes to mind. The world of art has drawn me, given me space for my passion and an arena in which to share that passion. Writing has done the same. I even have a passion for the Latin work I’m about to start up again. But, no longer for politics.
This is a difficult place for me to be. It feels as if I’m denying a part of myself or about to become irresponsible. However, here’s what I’ve concluded.
When I pressed my way into the Sierra Club’s work a few years ago, I did it through the political committee, which seemed the natural fit for me. Long experience in non-profit organizations and in political contexts have given me skills that helped me move up in the organization’s leadership. Yet it feels increasingly like a burden. I wonder now whether this work with the Sierra Club isn’t a regression like my return to the UU ministry.
Regressions, my analyst told me, occur because there is something you need to retrieve or repair. In this case it might have been my agency. Agency is the capacity to have an impact and I wondered, when I reengaged with the Sierra Club, if I still had it. Yes. The answer is yes. A more important question now, however, is this: Do I need to assert my agency at this point in my life? No. I don’t.
bronze and cast into the sidewalk. They were commemorations of various political struggles including the 1934 truckers strike, Nellie Stone Johnson’s political career and a moving tribute to a Dakota woman. Across the street from them at Westminster Presbyterian a Paul Granlund cast three humans up and heavenward from geometric forms all cast in bronze. We walked a long ways, over two hours, and the leg on which I ruptured my achilles took to aching.