Beltane Rushing Waters Moon
A Few Trees
Yearly Archives: 2017
Streams of Flying J Ranch
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The knee has improved. A lot. I went on my first post-surgery mountain hike yesterday morning, an hour plus at Flying J Ranch, just down the hill from us off Hwy. 73. I can’t scoot along the way I used to, moving fast and keeping my heartrate up, but that’s a function of age as much as the knee. Still, I was able to keep a steady pace even though I did stop often to take pictures.
These are unnamed streams flowing down the side of Berrian mountain, crossing the Shadow Pine trail that I hiked. I love the sound as much as the video itself.
Mother’s Day
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Mother’s 
day. It’s hard to write about Mother’s day. My mother’s death in 1964, when I was 17, drained the day of meaning. I suppose it didn’t have to be that way. I might have taken the opportunity to celebrate her on this day, but somehow it’s never felt right.
Even though I know it’s a Hallmark holiday, a clever way to sell cards and flowers and candy, it has a sneaky power that comes from the Judaeo-Christian admonition to honor thy mother and thy father. This is a simple phrase, easy to remember and oft repeated, but often difficult to fulfill. This sentiment is not unique to the West, of course. Asian cultures often have an exalted view of parents, extending even past death to care and grooming of graves.
Mom was a 50’s mom. She never learned to drive. She stayed at home, raising Mary, Mark and me though at the time of her death she was updating her teacher’s license so she could work again full-time. It was her plan to use her income to pay for our college costs.
She was not, however, fond of the typical duties of a housewife. That’s not to say she neither cleaned, nor cooked, nor did laundry. She did all these things, but only as necessities.
Mom’s been dead 53 years and my memory of her has faded, but the presence of her has not. That is, I can still feel the love she had for me, the countless hours she spent bringing me back from literal paralysis during my long bout of polio. In fact, in what is surely an apocryphal memory, I can recall being in her arms at the Madison County Fair surrounded by bare light bulbs strung through the trees, a cotton candy machine whirring pink spun sugar, and suddenly feeling sick with what would become that disease. But I felt safe with her. The memory may be a later construct, but the feelings behind it are genuine.
Since my relationship with my father soured during the Vietnam War, in 1968 to be exact, I have felt parentless, sort of adrift in the world without close family support. That’s a long time. And, yes, much of that experience was reinforced and maintained by my own actions. Nonetheless it has never changed. My analyst once described my family as atomized rather than nuclear. It was apt.
So, mom, today I want to say thanks for your love and your caring. Thanks for all the energy and attention you put into all of us. Thanks for the gift of recovery. Thanks for the vision of me as a capable person. Thanks for all the meals, the clean laundry, the clean house, especially since I know these things were not what you really wanted to be doing. Thanks for giving me life. It’s been a long time, but perhaps I can celebrate mother’s day now. For you.
Life. And Danger.
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When the temperatures were in the teens below zero and winds whipped the trees, driving along a barren stretch of road meant a breakdown could kill you. That sensation is a major component of Minnesota macho, enduring the worst the north pole can throw at you. At times it was invigorating, at other times we were just glad to have survived it. It did make opening the door at home and going into a warm house a real joy.
This morning I fed the dogs as I usually do, but I left them inside, no longer willing to risk a mountain lion attack. Mountain lions add frisson to life in the Front Range Rockies. It’s similar to driving in well below zero weather.
It’s also different. In the instance of weather the danger is without intention, the cold does not care whether you live or die. The mountain lion cares. To the mountain lion our dogs are food, perhaps a day’s ration of calories. So are we. Though mountain lion attacks on humans are rare, they do happen and as development presses further and further into their territory the chance of an encounter, fatal or not, increases.
There are bears here, too. Unlike the mountain lion the bear will not hunt us, but if we interfere with a bear, say a sow and her cubs, she will hold her ground and defend her babies. Though the bear is not a predator of humans, they are a danger because an encounter can end in severe injury, even death.
Mountain lions and bears, oh my, are not the only fauna here that can hurt you. At lower elevations there are timber rattlers. There are also black widow and brown recluse spiders, all venomous enough to cause great harm. In these hills we find not the sound of music, but the shake of a snake’s tail. Julie Andrews might not skip so blithely here.
Wild nature is neither our friend nor our enemy, whether it’s Minnesota cold or Rocky Mountain predators, Singapore heat, or California surf. We live out our short moment as reflective, aware extensions of the universe, as natural and as deadly as the mountain lion, as dangerous when surprised as the bear, as willing to defend ourselves with deadly force as the timber rattler, the black widow and the brown recluse.
It is fragile, doomed to fail, this mystery we call life. Yet while we have it, be we bear or mountain lion, rattle snake or poisonous spider, we fight to keep it, do whatever we need to do to survive. This is the harsh reality at the bottom of Maslow’s hierarchy*, a necessary part of existence we share with all living things. It is better, it seems to me, to be aware of our shared struggle, to see ourselves as fellow creatures. Yes, we can reflect on our struggle, but that fact does not make us better than our living companions, it only makes us different from them.
*
Cultural Appropriation
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Cultural appropriation. I’m not sure I understand this argument, but this wikipedia entry contains a long summary. I get it when the issue is the Redskins as a football team name or Indians as the basketball team name in Anderson, Indiana with its related arena named the Wigwam. I understand it when the issue is blackface, Aunt Jemima, the wearing of war bonnets as fashion statements. I fully understand and appreciate, for example, the Northwest Coast First Nation’s desire to own their artistic heritage, a good example of which is the Transformation mask at the Minneapolis Institute of Art.
The argument begins to fray for me when I see complaints about using traditional cloth in new and different ways or even when others choose to reinterpret traditional art. Or, particularly, when I read books that create characters from different cultural traditions, gender perspectives, or ethnicities. I don’t understand how the life of art can go forward without all kinds of cultural appropriation.
If, as a Western white male, a U.S. citizen of mostly European genetics, I cannot create characters in my novels that are outside that narrow slice of the world’s reality, my work is restricted in ways that make no sense to me. Would I always get it right? No, of course not. But how do we understand other’s understanding of their others unless we can see it or read it or watch it? And is not the fraught interaction between and among cultures important to understand from all perspectives?
Of course intentionally stereotypical representations are abhorrent, but should not the critique of them be left up to the reader or the viewer? At least in the way I write self-censorship is the ultimate enemy, a foe to be fought off. This notion seems to introduce so large an element of self-censorship that an artist could find themselves crippled. This does not create cross-cultural understanding, it undermines it.
As a former student of anthropology, I know that cultural diffusion is always happening. Look at pidgin languages. Look at the appreciation of art in the different departments of encyclopedic museums. Look at the cultural diversity within the fabric of our nation. Go to Singapore and see the merging of several South Asian cultures into one nation.
I’m interested in reactions to this piece since I’m sure I don’t have a complete understanding.
Baphomet Among the Hay Rides of Belle Plaine
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On occasion I would drive on Mn. Hwy. 169, not often, but once in awhile. What I remember most about this exurban community to the south of the Twin Cities is Emma Krumbee’s Restaurant. It’s a country style dining experience cohabiting with an apple orchard, hayrides and lots of cute candles, apple related gifts and smiling waitresses. It always reminded me of Morristown, Indiana where my mother was raised. Downhome, rural comfort food.
Emma Krumbee’s is in Belle Plaine, not a place I expected to see in the New York Times and, in particular, not a place I expected to okay a Satanic Temple Veteran’s Memorial. Read some material* about if from the Satanic Temple’s website.
This is a photograph of the proposed memorial from the same website.
I like it. It’s spare, a bit ominous, but so is war.
I’m not sure what to make of the Satanic Temple itself. It looks a bit tongue in cheek with its Shop Satan webstore. Here are a couple of items from their webpage.
*”The path was paved for this historic event when Belle Plaine displayed a distinctly Christian veterans’ memorial in their ‘remembrance park.’ In response to claims that Belle Plaine was preferencing one religion over others, the 2-foot steel cross was removed. Some residents protested the removal and urged the City to find a legal means to bring back the statue. The City responded by opening the park as a “limited public forum” where anyone, including Satanists, are welcome to donate monuments of their own.”
“The Belle Plaine city council was professional at all times. They adopted a clear set of guidelines which they adhered to. There was no push-back,” Greaves explained, “unlike some other localities where public office holders have wasted public funds in losing lawsuits, trying to gain unconstitutional exclusive privilege for their own prefered religious viewpoint. Belle Plaine recognized the legitimacy of our request and followed the law as it applies to public forums.”
“The Satanic veterans’ monument, a black steel cube adorned on each side with a golden inverted pentagram and adorned at the top with an empty soldier’s helmet, is expected to be installed on park grounds within the next couple of months.”
Wild, Wild Horses
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I belong to a facebook group called Front Range Wildlife Photographers. The following photographs are by Boulder resident Michelle Theall. I think they’re amazing.
Third Phase Matters
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Good news here on the medical front. After imaging and functional testing of her lungs, Kate seems to have some impairment, but nothing significantly bad. Also, her echocardiogram showed problems that are manageable and most likely related to aging and altitude. We met with her cardiologist yesterday, Tatiana, and she reassured us about my biggest concern, pulmonary hypertension. Turns out there’s a distinct difference with this diagnosis in Colorado and in, say, Minnesota. It often occurs in aging patients and can have its roots in lower oxygen supply at night, a problem with altitude. We have an oxygen concentrator now for Kate and her O2 levels at night have improved a lot. Also, earlier this year she had an endoscopy and a colonoscopy which found nothing.
The third phase is an interesting mix of the financial, physical, emotional, mental and spiritual. Challenges can come from any of these aspects of our lives and when they come they can be dire. Knowing this it’s easy to fuss about them. And, it can be easy, too, to imagine the worst possible outcomes. Kate and I are pretty good at managing the anxiety associated with third phase problematics, but it comes up even so.
That’s why a healthy third phase life demands careful attention to all five areas. Since December 1st, date of my knee surgery, we’ve had physical (medical) matters figure prominently. Now that those concerns have ameliorated we can work on ways to maintain our health.
It’s not just us. Good friend Bill Schmidt heads for the hospital on Monday for some medical care. It’s not only ourselves that these challenges effect, but our friends and family, too. That can produce emotional and spiritual concerns. I know Bill’s strong and that his genes are good-he looks good in his genes-even at 80, but a hospital is a hospital and surgery is surgery. There are always risks. While not worried about Bill, I am concerned.
In our current abysmal political climate medical matters in particular can also cause financial problems. Which then, cascading like the waters in Maxwell Creek this morning, can cause emotional and spiritual issues. Ah, life in a capitalist paradise. A robber baron’s capitalist paradise, that is.
Kate and I are fortunate that we’ve found a spiritual community where we can stretch and grow our inner strengths. With the spiritual side of life strong most other matters can be handled, even approaching death. Not where we are now, but it is where we will be one day.
DJT
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This, That
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So. Because physics. No black tea up here, at least not at a proper temperature. Thanks Tom and Bill for your help. When you relieve the pressure, the water reverts to the pressure of the air and the temp goes down as it does. Sigh.
Black Mountain is covered in cloud, hidden behind an opaque scrim of greyish white. Bishop Berkeley would suggest it’s not there at all, but I think it is. We’ll find out sometime today.
Went into Kate’s hairstylist with her yesterday and got my ears waxed. Jackie put hot wax on my ears, then pulled it off, removing those hairs that seemed to follow receipt of my Medicare card. This is my second time. She says if we do this often enough, the follicles will not push up hair. I mean, hair on the ears is so last iteration of our species.
Kate spent the rest of the day at Bailey Patchworkers. This is a sewing group that meets at the Bailey Library. Kate joined in our first year here. Another group with some of the same members, a needleworkers group, invited her to join them. As a result, she’s had two circles of friends here for almost the duration of our time in Colorado. This is a woman who listens to lectures and does counted cross-stitch or needlepoint. She’s sew into it.
Planted a tomato plant yesterday in a five-gallon plastic bucket. When I opened the bag of garden soil (we don’t have anything a Midwesterner would recognize as soil), the smell of the earth almost made me cry. I miss working in soil, growing plants and my body told me so. A greenhouse went up higher on the priority list.
I love living at altitude, among the Rockies and all their flora and fauna. See the post below. I also loved living in Andover where horticulture, in retrospect, was so easy. It is possible to recreate that experience in miniature, inside four walls and a roof. I want to do that.