Imbolc and the Snow Moon
Monday gratefuls: Miralax. Rocky Mountain GI. Shabbos meal. Luke and Leo. Tarot. The Hermit. The Wanderer. The Fool’s Journey. Shadow and the outside. Shadow the intransigent. New computer. Getting help. Working out. Ruth. Korea. My son. Seoah. Murdoch. 35th anniversary.
Sparks of Joy and Awe: Kate, always Kate
Week Kavannah: Yirah. Awe.
One brief shining: The shifted clock synchronizes us with the rest of the world, changes our time of reporting to work, of having lunch with friends, alters our bed times and our rising; it does not however change an animal’s feeding time because they do not know our clocks and rely instead on inner chronos, following their remembered patterns. So do we, if we listen.
Each time I read that Standard Time matches our circadian rhythms I want to shout out. No. 
Our circadian rhythms match the world. We think light bulbs and grocery stores change this. That we, masters of time, can choose whenness. But we cannot. Spring will follow winter. Day night. Our measuring instruments only conceal the limits of our true understanding. An understanding which our bodies do not forget no more than Shadow forgets when her feeding time is.
This is the deeper reason, the why of my dis-ease with this human all too human hubris. Enough. Live as your body needs. As your pet’s body needs. Just say no to Saving Daylight.
Whether it’s a real Indian saying or not: Only the white man (rational man) would think that he can cut six inches off a blanket, sew it back on the other end and imagine he has a longer blanket.
The American Immortal* feeds off the same blinkered view of reality. This food. Eaten in this quantity. On this schedule. That workout. This choice of vitamins and probiotics. And, voila! No more death.
Or, as in the wonderful Netflix anime series, Pantheon, we can become an uploaded version of ourselves. Able to live forever in a cyber paradise. Will the last person to upload please pull the plug?
As one in the fourth phase of life, beyond 70 with a terminal illness, I can say that either alternative sounds miserable. Can there be disembodied life? Would a world in which no one dies be a world at all? Certainly it would be crowded, resource poor, mean.
Death adds life to life. An end to the ancientrail. Yours and mine. Which lets us know where we are on our inner journey, the far more important one. Shucking off this flesh. A necessary moment for any potential rebirth. Or, simply an end. I’m ok with either.