More on the Humanities

Fall                             Waxing Blood Moon

Walked the fence today, checking for limbs, plants I’d missed.  Sure enough, about a third of the way around a large fallen tree branch pressed against the chain link shorting the fence and creating a hissing, popping sound when nudged.  The air smelt of burnt plastic fibers.  A visit with the chain saw fixed that problem.  Later on I tightened up the rope from a place where it had sagged.  After turning the fence off of course and putting Rigel in her crate.

This fence is a great metaphor, but for what I’ve not yet discerned.

On a topic close to my heart a professor of English for forty years wrote this essay:  The Decline of the English Department. Mr. Chace places yet another shot across the bow of careerism and the practical major while trying to suss out just what went wrong.  He puts his finger on the fragmentation of the humanities into gender, race, media and technology studies as well as the lack of passion for books and the traditional humanities.  In general I appreciate a man who takes responsibility for the dismal thing that has happened and I like Mr. Chace’s posture in this piece.

While I would like to blame the victims, too, the politically wracked departments attempting to right ancient wrongs in scant years by creating university departments, I find it lets off the hook the real culprit.  A relentless scanning of the horizon for opportunities to make money without regard to the social or environmental costs lies at the bottom of this debasement of education.

Crass instrumentalism has invaded every aspect of our lives.   Witness the prosperity gospel.  The growth of the mega-church. The new business orientation of medicine where patients are now consumers and doctors employees.  The rank greed filleted for all to see as the great economic crisis unfolded last fall.  The loose expansion of credit with fine print so dense not even its creators understood it.  Partisan politics make the party a blunt instrument for personal and factional advancement rather than a representative tool for negotiating compromises amongst civilizations conflicting interests.  Professional sports now have contracts in the quarter of a billion dollar range.  Tens of millions are not unusual for catching or throwing a football.  Educators at the elementary and secondary levels now teach to the test, a strategy created to insure that they meet federal standards and that their students pass high stakes tests.

It is this coarsening of the social fabric, gone from a workmanlike denim for the post World War II economy to a scratchy burlap in this age of the derivative, that has led to a pushing aside of any thing that does not promise economic or political gain.

This is not new.  A friend of mine has a neighbor in his condominium who was hired to teach philosophy at West Point.  In the time period before he began teaching a widespread cheating scandal unfolded.  The honor code had no clothes.  Leadership at West Point told him, “We can’t believe it, but we just never thought to teach our students ethics.  You have to put together a group of experts and develop a curriculum.”  Ethics is one of those disciplines that you can be taught, that you can know well, and that will have no affect on you at all unless you have the will to apply it.

It is not enough, in other words, to teach justice and critical thinking and wisdom and equality if there is no social will to honor them.  That social will comes from a shared conversation about our past, about our common destiny and our mutual responsibility.  Instrumental thinking places all the emphasis on results with means receiving attention only as they bend circumstance to the result.  This is a recipe for disaster as any historian, English or philosophy professor can tell you.  It is not new, it is not a new thing under the sun.  Rather it is a lesson learned by Moses when he came down from Mt. Sinai and found even his brother Aaron bowed before the golden calf.

Judgment came then and it will come now.

Estranged

Fall                                   Waxing Blood Moon

Tomato picking and compost bin rebuilding, the bulk of the morning.  To keep our young pups from celebrating life by knocking down the straw bales out of which I designed this compost bin a wire fence now encircles the bales, with an other, shorter wire fencing material for a gate.

The day started chilly, but has warmed up to 69.  It’s one of those fall days when the Andover H.S. Marching Band can be heard carrying pompoms and the thud of padded football players in its wake.  As this sound comes across the fields of vegetables and the cul de sacs between our home the football field, I become at once both younger and older, thrust back to Alexandria High School and Friday night football while by necessity comparing that time with the present.  It’s not an unpleasant feeling, just a bit strange.

Caught episode 1 of a Harvard class on Justice taught by Michael Sandel.  It’s well worth the time.  Sandel’s teaching style combines the Socratic/law school method of hypotheticals with analysis of responses.  The engagement of the students makes it obvious Sandel is a teacher as well as a philosopher.  I only want to comment on one, striking observation he made about philosophy.  “Philosophy,” he said, “is not about something you don’t know; it is about making you look at what you know from the perspective of a stranger.  Philosophy creates an estrangement from our own experience.”  This is so true, as is his follow-on comment that once you gain this insight you cannot go back to the naive state.

Every hour of every day I see my self and the world through the lens of philosophical analysis, the lens fitted over an anthropological  camera body.  The two together make the world a strange and exotic experience at every turn.

Doubt

Fall                               Waxing Blood Moon

Got this comment on my post:  Blood Moon Risin

Gently put, nicely said. Doubt isn’t it’s own reward but I think it’s an honest place to be. As you quote Rilke at the outset – the first stanza of his famous, profound and beautiful “Fall Day” – I’ll offer another Rilke for you.

There’s a story in the collection ‘Stories of God’ that he wrote while working on the ‘Book of Hours’, which most folks consider his better (of the two) work).

Regardless, the story is called, in English, ‘A Tale of Death and a Strange Postscript to it’. In it, a happy couple that have squirelled themselves away from the world, are greeted by death. In their fear they hide from Him, and little by little lose their joy of life.

I love this story because I too am afraid to die. It’s helped me acknowledge and move past that fear.

Keep writing – you do it well –

Regards,

Jack

Jack Beacham
Stories-of-God.com
Jack.Beacham@Stories-of-God.com
98.21.188.5

As Jack intended, I’ve rethought that post, considered it.  Here’s how I see it now.  Doubt is an odd word and I’d never noticed it before this comment.  Doubt sets the conceptual table and has a trick for dessert.  Doubt, defined by the person identifying it in another, says really,  “Oh, I see.  Right now you can’t see the things I see, but if and when things clear up for you, you will see them.”  That is, the  idea of doubt from the position of its identifier defines the doubter using the identifiers terms.  In other words, if I express my sense that there is nothing knowable beyond this life, I’m a doubter.  In fact, all I’m identifying is my sense that this world is all we get.

I get the sense that Jack is a kind and compassionate man. I appreciate his taking the time to respond.

As for me, I understand his doubt about my take on the afterlife.

Bill Wins

Fall                              Waxing Blood Moon

It was Bill’s night at sheepshead.  He came out the big winner.   I don’t feel bad.  I had some good hands, won some, lost some.  Had fun.

Drive back I was on an entrance ramp to 35w coming off Hwy. 280.  It’s a two-lane that goes down to a one-lane.  Behind me two cars went into the last slot side by side.  They shot out once onto 35w.  The first past gave the other the finger.  Then, the other, tan car sped ahead, got in front of the other and slowed down.  What was notable about this?  Both women in their late twenties.

Soup

Fall                                          Waxing Blood Moon

Various financial matters kept me inside till lunch when I took my best gal over to Osaka.  We ate a quiet lunch, both tired from the week.

Back home I made a 4x serving of gazpacho which Kate will can tomorrow.  I take the recipe as a suggestion.  This time I added leeks, sweet corn and cilantro to the ingredients.  The garlic amount seemed modest to me so I doubled it.  A long time in one spot, but the pot has gone into the refrigerator to cool down.  A tasty soup.

Tonight I play sheepshead with the Jesuits.  They’re smart guys and take the game seriously though we play for fun.  We’ll see how it goes tonight.

Gettin Old

Fall                                Waxing Blood Moon

Garlic planting today.  Turnip harvest.  Gazpacho making.  Garden work appropriate to the season.

Have had a little trouble getting to it.  Just finished a call from Allianz Insurance on my application for long-term care insurance.   A pleasant young woman took down my information.  She said, “Ohhh”  every once in a while, the sort of sound made when empathizing with a small child or a fragile senior.  Empathy is a funny thing, done well as this young woman did  it soothes and calms.  Done poorly it can raise my hackles because it trespasses into the realm of independence, mine, and may cross the tense border between empathy and sympathy.

This time, unlike with the John Hancock interview, there were no rows of numbers to remember, no questions about the day, month, year, season.  This experience was superior to the John Hancock nurse, who seemed a bit distracted and hard bitten.

Later on sheepshead.

Now, to the outside.

Picking Grapes With Hilo

Fall                                       Waxing Blood Moon

As the sun went down this evening, I picked grapes.  Picking grapes reaches back in time, especially wild grapes, as these are.  It reaches back to our hunter-gatherer past, a past much longer than our post neo-lithic, agricultural and urban  world.  This vine grows here because it can.  Maybe someone planted grapes long ago here, but these small grapes, almost like miniatures, offer themselves in the eons old rhythm of plant reproduction.

To get at the clusters, all smaller than the palm of my hand, I found it easier if I first removed a covering of vines and leaves that obscured the grapes.  Do these leaves shade the grapes, keep them from desiccating too soon?  Is there some part of the grape’s maturation that requires a cooler, shadier environment?  I don’t know, but the layering of leaves, then grapes up near the main vine, where it crawled across the top of the six foot fence we have toward the road, appears intentional, at least intentional in the way that evolution works through its blind selection of more adaptive characteristics.

Hilo, our smallest whippet, accompanies me when I work outside.  She hangs around and watches me, wanders off and finds something smelly to rub on her shoulder, watches other animals go by on the road.  Her companionship also reaches back into the  paleolithic when humans and shy wolves began to keep company, fellow predators brought together by the similarity in the game they hunted and the also similar method of hunting in packs.

This time of year, the early fall, would have been good then too.  The food grows on vines and on trees, on shrubs and certain flowering plants.  Game eats the same food and becomes fat, a rich source of nutrient.  My guess is that there was a certain amount of anxiety, at least in these temperate latitudes, for the older ones in clan would know that winter comes after this time of plenty and that somehow food had to be preserved.

Kate takes the grapes and turns then into jelly and apple-grape butter.  The act of preservation, though now more sophisticated technologically, was essential back in the days prior to horticulture and agriculture.

The resonance among these fall related acts and our distant past adds a poignancy mixed with hope to them.  We have done it, we do it, others will do it in the future.  As the wheel turns.

And Then Again

Fall                            Waxing Blood Moon

The phone rang.  Dog outside the fence.  Yes, indeed, Rigel had attacked the vulnerable spot in our defenses, the truck gate.  No electric fence there.  So, once again, I retrieved her and this time toughened up the gate some more.  I’d already had it repaired and chained.

Sierra Club legislative work proceeds apace with issue briefs coming in and the work load beginning to stack up.  Feels good.

This week I have gotten to workout each day.  I need that.  It keeps me mostly sane.

Business meeting today.  Doing fine.

Yelp!

Fall                                        Waxing Blood Moon

Yelp!  Ah, what sweet music to my ears.  Here I am, shame on me, celebrating a cry of pain from an animal I love.  It is, however, a liberating sound in this strange regard; if we are not able to contain Rigel–she is the leader of jail breaks–, she’ll have to go back to the breeder;  so to keep her confined is to maintain her in the home she loves and where she is loved.  She doesn’t really runaway.  She follows her nose over the fence and through the woods to whichever neighbor catches her first.  She would come back if left to her own devices, but the realities of suburban living don’t allow her own devices.  Therefore, Yelp!, is a good thing.

This is probably the largest project of a domestic nature I’ve ever attempted.  It took a while because I had to learn something new at every turn of the page, but with the voltage flowing and the dogs contained for now, I can mark it down as successful.  A big deal for me.

Mabon (Fall) 2009

Fall                               Waxing Blood Moon

Equinox.  Today is the fall equinox.  In spring we celebrate the shift towards yet more light and warmth as the trend toward lengthened days sees daylight overtaking the night.   Now the shift has a different, more somber direction.  At the Summer Solstice the hours of daylight began to shrink in relation to the hours of darkness.  At this equinox the night begins to predominate, an acceleration that will reach its peak at the Winter Solstice.

Contemporary Wiccans (some at least) call this equinox Mabon and see it as the final harvest festival.  My own understanding and practice sees Mabon as the second of three harvest festivals:  Lughnasa (ended yesterday), Mabon and Samhain (Summer’s End).  Here on the 45th latitude the gardening year does begin to wind down now.

On farms, however, the corn harvest lasts well into October and even in our garden we have carrots, parsnip, garlic and potatoes still in the ground.   In the ancient British Isles the end of summer meant deciding how much livestock you could feed through the winter.   If there was too little food for your herd, a certain number of animals would be slaughtered and their meat prepared to sustain the family over the winter.

In either case though the fall equinox is the moment when the Great Wheel takes a decisive turn toward darkness.  That shift, along with the senescence in the garden and in the trees and fields, makes this an appropriate time for taking stock.  Kate and I are in the midst of preserving through canning, drying and storing the fruits of our summer’s work.  Grain and corn gets driven to the cathedrals of the plains in open trucks filled to the brim with yellow or golden seeds.  The elevators fill up as does our newly built store room.

On a personal level this turn of the Great Wheel offers us a similar opportunity, that is, a time to take stock of the summer, the last year, even the course of our life.   Experience the joy of taking in to yourself the fruits you have harvested as a result of your own hard work.  Yes, money may be a part of that, but it is not the most important.  How have you increased in wisdom?  Have you and a significant other grown in your relationship?  Has a relationship that needed to come to an end done so and allowed you to move into a new phase of life?

This is a wonderful festival for gratitude.  In fact, if you do nothing else to acknowledge this transition, take a moment to make a list of people and things for which you are grateful.  You could take this one step further and make others in your life aware of your gratitude.

Finally, on a life level, the Great Wheel’s turn at Mabon symbolizes the autumn of our lives.  If this is where you are on your ancient trail, Mabon prompts you to consider the gifts and lessons we have embraced along the way.  The Great Wheel turns toward the final harvest, that day when we will be gathered up into the abundance from which we came and to which we return.  Present to us now that the years ahead are fewer than the ones behind this knowledge can enrich these autumnal days.  Life becomes more precious, an experience to be savored, lingered over, greeted with joy hour by hour, day by day.

In the end the Wild Hunt comes for all of us, the just and the unjust.  The Great Wheel teaches us that even after it comes, life will go on and that, in some fashion, we will all be part of it.  Come to think of it, this may be my best answer to the question about the after life.