Beautiful View

Imbolc                                                                 Imbolc Moon

One of the continuing joys of our move to Colorado lies in the majestic scenery. It means that even the most mundane of tasks can occasion a journey with evergreen valleys, rugged mountains capped with snow, vistas that stretch for miles, and the Colorado blue sky.

BTW: Buena Vista was an interesting place, somewhere I would return. Another mountain town with a booming tourism industry. It’s not, however, an old mining town, rather it grew as an agricultural center thanks to abundant water, a rarity in many spots in the Rockies, coupled with land level enough to farm. Reminded me of Driggs, Idaho.

Liar's Lodge, Kate's retreat site
Liar’s Lodge, Kate’s retreat site
Heading east, toward home

 

All Are Welcome

Imbolc                                                                        Imbolc Moon

I love my insightful friends who’ve weathered a gremlin or two. You know who you are.

One of them, Tom, sent me this poem from Rumi:

The Guest House

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
As an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

Imbolc                                                                            Imbolc Moon

Buena_Vista_4676Off to Buena Vista in about an hour. To the Liar’s Lodge. Kate will be there until Monday noon, sewing. A quilting retreat. I’m taking her out and picking her up.

Once we get past Fairplay, about 45 minutes or so west of here on Hwy. 285 and the county seat of Park County, we’ll be in new territory for us. I’m excited to see more of South Park, the large high prairie that begins at the Kenosha Pass. Total trip is around 1 hour and 45 minutes according to Google.

 

Be gone, Gremlin

Imbolc                                                                      Imbolc Moon

gremlinsFelt myself slipping into that old debil melancholy this morning. You know, the usual. What have I done with my life? Have I wasted it, wasted the gifts granted to me by genetics and being thrown into this amazing moment on the world’s journey? Look at how much others have done. Kate. Joanne. Ron. The rabbi. Deadly, comparing. And, pointless.

I know that. Most of the time. But this morning a gremlin slipped up from the collective pool in which we all swim, burrowed through my unconscious and grabbed my self-perception by the collar, shook it. “Look here. See this! See you! What’s. Been. Going. On?”

One of the grace marks of age though, thank God, is experience. Oh, I know you, Gremlin. You’ve visited before. Often. And listening to you is bad juju. I’m going to go on about my day, get this done and that done. Think about what I can be up to right now since yesterday’s gone and tomorrow’s not vouchsafed. In the present your grimy, gremliny thing is irrelevant and the present is all I have. Yes, I remember that.

Gremlin shrinks back from the horizon of my consciousness. Well, I’ll be going, but I won’t be far. I’ll come to visit you again.

I know you will. And that’s ok, because in your aftermath I appreciate my life in this moment so much more.

Gremlin shrinks in size, looks ashamed.

Yes, we all have, and need, spurs to invigorate us, make the pony gallop. I remember those spurs, rawls they called them, on the wall at the Chilean ranch we visited in Puerto Mont. They were a circle of sharp pointed metal tines, vicious looking. You’re nowhere near that bad, not anymore.

And there, the gremlin has disappeared, diving back into the deep pool, swimming with other beasties, ready to come try for a bit of the Self, of the Soul next time. Until then.

Stormy Weather

Imbolc                                                                           Imbolc Moon

The formerly super, blue and bloody moon is now a crescent in the early morning sky.

There is a slight air of anticipation. That before the storm clarity and stillness. It’s slight because the snow to come will not be much, measured by other years and other storms, but this year, while the east has been cold and snowed in, we’ve been warmer and mostly dry. Sounds like a baby. We still have two big snow months ahead, March and April, so there’s still time for more white stuff, but for now a 3″ forecast is something to celebrate.

 

 

Radon

Imbolc                                                                  Imbolc Moon

radon-elementSort of feeling crummy yesterday, Kate, too. Not sure whether last month’s illness lingers. Or what. Kate said, “Maybe the radon mitigation system’s not working.” Oh. Well. Damn. “I’ll go check.” The radon mitigation system has a fan that disperses radioactive particles, blowing them up and out of the house. If it’s on and the barrier’s intact, the system’s working.

Sure enough, the fan was off. I’d not checked the particulars of this setup before because it had always been running. Off to the crawl space. Not my favorite place because even though I’m very far along in the healing process, my left knee still ouches when I kneel on it. Unavoidable in the crawl space. Still, to prevent radiation poisoning, what’s a little discomfort, right?

radon2Going into the crawl space is a bit like opening the closet to go to Narnia. The makeshift door to the crawl space is in a closet and opens to the world beneath our house. However, even before I removed the door, I reached up to switch on the light. By god, right there, beside the crawl space light switch was another switch. It said, fan. Oh. Could it be this simple? It was. I hit the switch, which was in the off position, then went back outside to listen to the fan. On.

Part of the problem solved. Then, onto Amazon for a radon detection kit. Just to be safe. It’ll be here soon. I did a radon sample in Andover, so I know it’s a relatively simple process. We’re probably not experiencing radiation poisoning, but better to know than not.

In the Veldt

Imbolc                                                                      Imbolc Moon

bush, South Africa
bush, South Africa

Brief continuation of the post below. Thinking about destinations and journeys some more. A thought triggered by a BF Skinner example of creativity, “A chicken is an egg’s way of making more eggs.” Perhaps destinations are our way of creating journeys. Perhaps destinations exist to insure that we travel, get out of our comfort zones and investigate ourselves on the road.

I don’t know whether it’s still au courant in physical anthropology but there was a theory that travel in the African bush was responsible for our increase in brain size as a species. When we crossed large open spaces while hunting and gathering, we were vulnerable, a predatory species without the usual predatory equipment of fangs, claws, rippling muscles.

The theory was that to stay alive we had to be very good at noticing movement, noticing danger and that that increased work for the brain. The humans or pre-humans who were best at that task survived and presumably selected for large brains. As a result, some have speculated that our brain works best when we’re in motion.

Just thinking out loud here.

Sky. Slope. Rock. Streams. Evergreens. Being in the journey.

Imbolc                                                                               Imbolc Moon

Wanted to mention two internal conversations. Both have occurred while in transit through the mountains.

20150512_141606The first, perhaps the simpler, has been about how to describe our environment in the most economical way possible. I know, I didn’t say it was deep, just persistent. I’ve come to these nouns: sky, evergreens, slope, rock, streams. Yes, it leaves out houses and wildlife, roads and cars. But. The context for life up here can be described using those five words.

The second has been about destinations and journeys. Whenever I leave home, on foot (rare) or in the Rav4, I have a destination in mind. I’m leaving Black Mountain Drive and going to Beth Evergreen or to Jon’s house or to King Sooper or to Dazzle. Something is attractive enough or is needed enough to make me get up, go outside, start the car and go.

Because of these motivations, whatever they are, the journey tends to focus itself on the destination. Not surprising, eh? What do I need to get at the store? Did I remember everything? My wallet. Coffee. Keys. Phone. The destination can infect the entire journey, put us in blinders so that we’re like horses headed to the barn for hay.

Yet. The journey can occupy more time than we spend at our destination. But we view it as incidental and the arrival at the destination the real act. This is not about whether the destination is more important than the journey, the two require each other, rather it’s about intention and attention.

14608842_1689729854679011_2228956598700838196_oIf the present is all we ever have, and it is, then the journeys we take, no matter how mundane, are also the present at the time we are on them. There is no future. We only imagine it. There is no past, it is a memory. There is only this moment, keys clacking, letters and words appearing on the screen, a car going by, Black Mountain and blue sky out the window.

So. What? What I’m trying to do is appreciate the journey for what it is, not as wasted time between this destination and that one, but as an experience sui generis. Our whole life is a journey between emergence and disappearance, how sad it would be if we missed our life along the way.

Splitters and lumpers

Imbolc                                                                           Imbolc Moon

splitters2Last night at Beth Evergreen three presenters, a University of Colorado Regent, a newly hired diversity specialist for Jeffco schools and an Evergreen woman, formerly a philanthropist and LGBT activist, now working in corporate social responsibility spoke about labeling and identity. It was, in some ways, disappointing.

Though the focus was on labeling, someone or something else (like census forms, school boards, the dominant culture) describes you, and identity, you describe yourself, the topic veered rapidly into a mode of doublespeak. It’s difficult to describe, but identity politics has become a minefield of careful positioning, trying not to cause offense, and further and further journeys into talking but not changing. Each person in the room last night, presenters and audience included, brought authentic concern and a willingness to be part of a solution. But, to what?

I kept thinking of the hoary argument in plant classification between lumpers and splitters. The same analytical dynamic plays out in many fields. Lumpers look for commonalities, seek to reduce the number of categories in any particular area of study while splitters look for differences, for nuanced distinctions that allow uniqueness to flourish. Neither approach is right or wrong, it’s almost a psychological tendency, I think, rather than a reasoned stance.

splitters3In identity description the nod now goes to splitters. As one presenter last night said, “I see gender like the stars in the sky, some may be brighter, more prominent, but there are many stars in the sky.” That’s breathtakingly broad.

A key word that emerged last night was fluidity. It basically means that the ground shifts frequently in this conversation, not least because people claiming their own identity often make different distinctions as they learn more about themselves and their community. There are, too, regional differences and age cohort differences. It’s a splitters’ paradise.

Here’s why it was disappointing to me. It felt like conversations from the mid to late sixties, though those were blunter in their focus. They were, at least at first, focused on civil rights for African-Americans, or Blacks, or Black-Americans. The power moves involved in labeling versus identifying were in bold relief. We’re not niggers or coloreds or darkies. We’re Americans with a particular historical background.

Remember Black is beautiful? Afros. Kente cloth. Angela Davis. Malcolm X and Martin Luther King. Last night was the contemporary version: male, female, bisexual, pansexual, transsexual, intersexual, asexual. Gay. Lesbian. It all felt depressingly familiar, as if we’d moved in time away from the sixties, but not in content.

beltane2017gorbachevThat’s not to say that “racial” distinctions were absent from the conversation. Not at all. Unfortunately. The strange, weird thing about this is that race is a nonsense category, not supported by genetics at all. So creating a splitters nomenclature for various “races” reinforces a non-existent and damaging conceptual paradigm. Of course, the culture, in diverse ways, uses race as a placeholder for attaching secondary characteristics to others. Of course it does. But how do we move away from that convenient slotting, or lumping of people based on skin color? Does it happen by emphasizing color? It cannot. Does it happen by ignoring the racist who does? No.

And that was the problem I had with evening. There seems to have no movement forward in the land of identity politics, only movement crabwise.

I did not ask my question, because it occurred to me on the way home, naturally. “Has identity politics by the left contributed to, even caused, the rise of populism now roiling our nation?” That is, have we, in slicing and dicing the particulars of personal difference blinded ourselves to the plight of working class Americans? It seems so to me.

A movement against oligarchy, plutocracy and autarchy must be first made of lumpers. These lumpers must find, express and celebrate the commonalities among those who suffer as a result of concentrated wealth, purchased power, dynastic ambition. Right now we have given away our power with a navel-gazing splitter mentality. Of course, we must be able to define and describe ourselves. Yes. But we must not only reach for the unique and particular, but for the broader and more universal. No political change can come without joining hands, so the more difficult, the more necessary task in the Trump era belongs not to the splitters but to the lumpers.

 

 

 

Oops.

Imbolc                                                                       Imbolc Moon

stocksStocks have begun to sink. Good. I hope they go down a full 10% at least, a decent correction and a return to market volatility. This puffed up market, glowing and expanding as if by orange-haired demagogic magic, was never his. It was the tail end of the Obama economy; the one, lest we forget, that he rescued from the worst economic crisis of recent times.

Irrational exuberance. Greenspan may have presided over the last inflation, pumped up by his own Randian version of combover ideology, but he nailed the bubble feeling. How else to explain the glee which has followed the rise and rise and rise of the various indices? And, now, its opposite, irrational anxiety.

Stock-Market-BubbleIrrational because the underlying fundamentals are still sound. We’re adding jobs, inflation and interest rates remain low, and international economies began growing together, for the first time in a while. Fluctuations in stock prices are, and I can’t believe I’m agreeing with Mike Pence here, normal. They represent the ebb and tide of sentiment not necessarily anchored, at least in the moment, to any real world economics.

Trump is a blowhard, a hardcore racist, a not disguised at all white supremacist, a misogynist, a cruel man. And somehow, damn it, our President. His approval ratings, already abysmal, may plummet further along with the Dow Jones. May it be so.