The Mountain Summer Moon
Thursday gratefuls: Mussar. Smiling Pig. Diane on Orcas. Mary down under. Mark in Phnom Penh. My son and Seoah in Songtan. Me on Shadow Mountain. Nineteen and a half years of Ancientrails. Books. Teshuvah. Tikkun Olam. Workouts done by Tuesday. Erleada, again. Fatigue. Ruth. Bob’s Your Uncle. Voles. The Olympics. That surfer photo. Caitlin Clark.
Sparks of Joy and Awe: This amazing Planet
One brief shining: Sat down at the Smiling Pig, a barbecue joint in Bailey, looked out the window and saw Mt. Bailey on the right, Crooked Top Mountain on the left as Hwy 285 came down Crow Hill in a straight line with my table before a sudden curve to the right as it dives into the Platte Valley formed by the North Fork of the South Platte River, without the concrete barrier an out of control semi could spoil my lunch of barbecued chicken wings, smashed potatoes, and baked beans.
Kavanah (intention): DECISIVENESS Charitzut (char-ee-TSOOT) חֲרִיצוּת
Decisiveness, assertiveness, industriousness; literally “pointed/sharp”
Its poles- (שְׁקִידָה Shkida, shkee-DAH: Focus, application, diligence) [עַצלוּת Atzlut, ahts-LOOT: Inactive, hesitant, not present]
Been thinking about the long and winding path of Ancientrails. For over nineteen years, since February 2005, I’ve written this daily. Almost all days. 7118 from then to now. Over 8,000 posts. When last I counted, over 7 years ago, two million words. It’s changed over the years. As I’ve changed. Begun in the aftermath of an Achilles tendon repair-a nighttime fall in Bangkok the November before-its original purpose was to put my journal on line. A web log. A blog.
Some of the changes along the way have come from the difference between a private, hand written journal and a public memory cache. I deep sixed a job offer from a UU congregation by writing about my interview on here. I’ve made a few people mad, probably hurt a few unknowingly. My son told me to delete his name entirely due to his moving up in his chosen career. On occasion I ended up in a surprising controversy. One time over a few posts about my first wife, Judy. Seems she could tell our story in short stories, but her fans didn’t like my version.
An old situation, one I hadn’t known existed, involved a girl from my high school class, Margo, who felt she’d been passed over for valedictorian. Who knows, I admitted. She could be right. The patriarchy was alive and well and unchallenged in 1965.
Mostly I’ve shared thoughts about politics, paganism, family, the messy contents of my thinking. In the process I’ve written myself into many insights, finding that writing about a problem provides critical distance, allows just enough objectivity to heal some wounds, deal with some troubles. I’m thinking here of Kate’s illness and death. Cancer. The oh so strange of American politics.
Writing this whatever it is has become a morning prayer, a confessional, a soapbox, a place of wondering and questioning. I write it, then read through it as a post, editing lightly. Probably won’t quit until I can no longer write.