Season for keeping promises

I voted on Friday, October 16; participated in the local No Kings - Vote Early rally on Saturday; and today reached the limit of letting MAGAts and their Kommandant live in my head, rent free or not. I'm working on minimizing social media and news reading time henceforth. If civil war breaks out on or shortly after November 3, I'll probably get a call or an email. Could it be coincidence, and what kind, that Election Day next month occurs immediately after the Day of the Dead? Meanwhile, I want to do as little as possible to aid and abet any support of tech oligarchs and their autocrat associates.

what do you need to be ready to vote?

Photo by J. Harrington

We're at peak leaf color but the winds of the past few days have prompted peak leaf fall. Mid-week temperatures are forecast to return into the low 70s. Normal highs for this time of year are in the mid 50s, although "normal" seems on its way to being pronounced archaic. Meanwhile we all get to ponder what a super El Niño may ring to the middle of the country over the next several months. Do these tense, pensive, times warrant the creation of a new term: tensive?

On the brighter side, convincing myself that cleaning up fallen leaves and pulling past bloom golden rod is earth care and not just middle class yard work has helped me enjoy time spent outside this past week. (One aspiration I've never aspired to is having a perfect lawn.) Meanwhile, the local wild turkey flocks and gray squirrel population are making progress cleaning up the fallen acorns. With luck, we'll get early holiday presents as the votes are tallied, the goblins and trolls will soon leave the country and we'll all have lots to be thankful for come November 26.

Let America Be America Again

By Langston Hughes

Let America be America again.

Let it be the dream it used to be.

Let it be the pioneer on the plain

Seeking a home where he himself is free.

 

(America never was America to me.)

 

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed—

Let it be that great strong land of love

Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme

That any man be crushed by one above.

 

(It never was America to me.)

 

O, let my land be a land where Liberty

Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,

But opportunity is real, and life is free,

Equality is in the air we breathe.

 

(There's never been equality for me,

Nor freedom in this "homeland of the free.")

 

Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?

And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?

 

I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,

I am the Negro bearing slavery's scars.

I am the red man driven from the land,

I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek—

And finding only the same old stupid plan

Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.

 

I am the young man, full of strength and hope,

Tangled in that ancient endless chain

Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!

Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!

Of work the men! Of take the pay!

Of owning everything for one's own greed!

 

I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.

I am the worker sold to the machine.

I am the Negro, servant to you all.

I am the people, humble, hungry, mean—

Hungry yet today despite the dream.

Beaten yet today—O, Pioneers!

I am the man who never got ahead,

The poorest worker bartered through the years.

 

Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dream

In the Old World while still a serf of kings,

Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,

That even yet its mighty daring sings

In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned

That's made America the land it has become.

O, I'm the man who sailed those early seas

In search of what I meant to be my home—

For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore,

And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea,

And torn from Black Africa's strand I came

To build a "homeland of the free."

 

The free?

 

Who said the free?  Not me?

Surely not me?  The millions on relief today?

The millions shot down when we strike?

The millions who have nothing for our pay?

For all the dreams we've dreamed

And all the songs we've sung

And all the hopes we've held

And all the flags we've hung,

The millions who have nothing for our pay—

Except the dream that's almost dead today.

 

O, let America be America again—

The land that never has been yet—

And yet must be—the land where every man is free.

The land that's mine—the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME—

Who made America,

Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,

Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,

Must bring back our mighty dream again.

 

Sure, call me any ugly name you choose—

The steel of freedom does not stain.

From those who live like leeches on the people's lives,

We must take back our land again,

America!

 

O, yes,

I say it plain,

America never was America to me,

And yet I swear this oath—

America will be!

 

Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,

The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,

We, the people, must redeem

The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.

The mountains and the endless plain—

All, all the stretch of these great green states—

And make America again!

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Tis the season for ....

Yesterday the Better Half [BH] and I selected and cut down a youngish pine along the driveway for this year's home-grown Christmas tree. Getting it to balance in the tree stand was tricky because we hadn't noticed a crook in the trunk about half way up. The top half of the tree is slightly off center. We managed to fiddle with the tree stand a little and the tree stood tall all night. Today the lights went on. Other decorations are coming out and getting hung. Now I just need my mood to include more Christmassy spirits. Maybe if I keep away from the news until after the start of the New Year? Anyhow here's a picture of last year's home grown tree.

Home grown pine Christmas tree 2024

Photo by J. Harrington

Friday we helped the Daughter Person celebrate her birthday with lunch at a place in Stillwater called Brick and Bourbon. My cheeseburger was good and the BH raved about the meat loaf she ordered. Son-In-Law, Granddaughter and Granddaughter's "nanny" all had a good time and the place was festively decorated for the season. Snow showers during the day made the roads messy but driveable.

As this is being written, the temperature is in the single digits with a slight wind chill. That helps explain the diminished joy I'm feeling. Too damn cold. If you don't believe me, ask the dogs. They are not happy about their "walks."

Most of the Christmas shopping is done. There's still wrapping to be tended to and stockings on Christmas eve. Winter solstice happens in two weeks at 9:03 am. Days will start getting longer a week or ten days later. Then there's the two month lag before temperatures approach daytime averages above freezing. I suppose it would be curmudgeonly to ask for an early spring as a Christmas present.

More snow is in the forecast for the coming week. That makes Robert Frost's poem seem quite timely for this native New Englander transplanted to Minnesota decades ago.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Robert Frost  1874 – 1963

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

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A fish in hand is worth....

Thanks to an invitation from the Son-In-Law and Granddaughter, I went fishing yesterday. My (not quite 4 year old) Granddaughter outfished me, I’m pleased to announce. In the time I was with them, she caught (and released) one sunfish while I, using a popping bug, had two strikes. Neither of the fish who took a swipe was big enough to get its mouth around a bluegill bug. I should have changed to a smaller fly but wasn’t sure I would be able to see it in the small waves that covered the lakes surface.

one of these might have been better than the popper

Photo by J. Harrington

Although I was outfished and came home empty handed, I accomplished several worthwhile objectives. First, I established I haven’t entirely forgotten how to cast a fly, even into a 10 mph (gusting to 15) headwind, despite a distressing lack of casting exercise over the past couple of years. Second, I demonstrated, to my satisfaction, that I know how to undo a “wind knot” in a leader, created by not being careful with my backcast into the aforementioned wind. Finally, I reconfirmed that the fun is in the fishing at least as much as in the catching. Now I need to haul myself off to a local trout stream and check out how my wading skills are holding up despite a lack of use. I will wait until the wind is topping out at 10 mph or less for that exercise. Today’s 20+ mph breeze is more than I can cope with.

Fishing Before You Know How to Fish

https://www.awakin.org/v2/read/view.php?tid=2574

Through the pines and the one maple I hear her.

I shouldn’t have gone fishing if I didn’t know how to fish.

I shouldn’t have gone fishing if I didn’t know how to fish.

There she stands

legs impossibly long

pink and black polka dot swimsuit baggy

pole in her hands

and a little oval sunfish impossibly on her hook.

I don’t tell her, but I do think

Oh, sweet girl, life is always like that.

Fishing before you know how to fish.

Leaving before you know how to leave.

Speaking before you know how to speak.

Fighting before you know how to fight.

Loving before you know how to love.

Dying before you know how to die.

We are all the child with the pole

worrying about who we’ve hurt.

And we are all the fish on the hook,

hoping for mercy.

Her aunt hears her muttering prayer

and though she hasn’t unhooked a fish in 30 years

grabs the wriggling innocent in her hands

and dislodges metal from cheek.

And this, too, is all of us.

Saved again and again by prayer we didn’t know we were saying

and a witness we forgot was listening.

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Ironic? You bet!

One of the folx down the road is a tRUMP supporter. In fact, there’s many of them in the county in which we live. The one I’m writing about however, has a sign in from of his house that claims: “Gun owners for Trump!,” or words to that effect. Maybe I’ll try to take a picture the next time I drive past if the sign is still there. Since the candidate was grazed by a bullet yesterday, and several folx are dead and others critically wounded according to the news, I wonder if the Trumpster MAGAt has a sense of irony. Even more, I wonder if the candidate does, but suspect not.

will we be the phoenix or the ash pile of democracy?

Photo by J. Harrington

Those of you who read this with any regularity have probably noticed I’ve ben on a kick lately, citing old sayings and quotations. The current opportunity offers too much to pass by. Heres a few that come to mind:

• Lie down with dogs, wake up with fleas
• Known by the company you keep
• Give as good as you get (or vice versa)
• What goes around, comes around (or vice versa)
• and the ever infamous Live by the sword, ...

If I left out any you think belong on the list, please note them in the comments.

Last nights thunderstorms awakened my dog and made her quite anxious, so of course she looked to me for reassurance at about 12:45 am. I gave here a couple anxiety calming treats and had her lie down while I rubbed under her chin. (She doesn’t like me to pet the top of her head.) After a while, the rain, lightning and thunder faded away and SiSi and I faded back to sleep. I figure SiSi’s about as likely to grow out of thunderstorm anxiety as most politicians are likely to grow into authenticity, integrity and transparency. Both of which are more likely to occur than for me to get to vote for the candidate [AOC] I’d really like to see as POTUS so I’ll just try to make the most of the world I’ve got to live in. Good luck to US all. We’ll need it if we continue to act as though we’ll settle any more by a next civil war than we did by the last one.

America

By Tony Hoagland

Then one of the students with blue hair and a tongue stud   

Says that America is for him a maximum-security prison

Whose walls are made of RadioShacks and Burger Kings, and MTV episodes   

Where you can’t tell the show from the commercials,

And as I consider how to express how full of shit I think he is,   

He says that even when he’s driving to the mall in his Isuzu

Trooper with a gang of his friends, letting rap music pour over them   

Like a boiling Jacuzzi full of ballpeen hammers, even then he feels

Buried alive, captured and suffocated in the folds   

Of the thick satin quilt of America

And I wonder if this is a legitimate category of pain,   

or whether he is just spin doctoring a better grade,

And then I remember that when I stabbed my father in the dream last night,   

It was not blood but money

That gushed out of him, bright green hundred-dollar bills   

Spilling from his wounds, and—this is the weird part—,

He gasped “Thank god—those Ben Franklins were   

Clogging up my heart—

And so I perish happily,

Freed from that which kept me from my liberty”—

Which was when I knew it was a dream, since my dad   

Would never speak in rhymed couplets,

And I look at the student with his acne and cell phone and phony ghetto clothes

And I think, “I am asleep in America too,

And I don’t know how to wake myself either,”

And I remember what Marx said near the end of his life:

“I was listening to the cries of the past,

When I should have been listening to the cries of the future.”

But how could he have imagined 100 channels of 24-hour cable

Or what kind of nightmare it might be

When each day you watch rivers of bright merchandise run past you

And you are floating in your pleasure boat upon this river

Even while others are drowning underneath you

And you see their faces twisting in the surface of the waters

And yet it seems to be your own hand

Which turns the volume higher?

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Good Friday thoughts.

Snow is melting. Cloudy skies have some thin spots and patches of blue even. It’s almost Easter weekend. There are enough good things happening that we shouldn’t be dismayed that too many humans turn April Fool’ into a daily event. This morning I saw an add for a helpful solution to much of the aggravation and agitation triggered by living in contemporary society. There’s a helpful new drug that wasn’t developed by big pharma. Take 500 mg of fukitol, followed by a nap.

bumblebee on purple lupine

Photo by J. Harrington

The Better Half sent me a link this morning to a story in the Washington Post that cheered me in at least two ways:

1. the subject matter offers hope for protecting pollinators, especially bees, (and so, much of our food) and;
2. it was one of the better written news articles I’ve read in a long time.

I don’t know if this link will work, but you’re welcome to try it: https://wapo.st/4cMGQYa

By this time next week, I expect most, maybe all, of the snow to be gone and the dogs and I will again enjoy our walks down the driveway and along the road instead of treating them as a necessary chore. I bet we’ll even return to walking to the pond north of us to see if Canada geese or wood ducks have stopped to rest. I wont’t be wearing Yak-Trax or a down parka and the dogs won’t be wondering why I filled their ditch full of snow. Shortly after that, we can start watching for spring ephemerals while listening for more bird song. Spring will have arrived in more than name only.

Do you suppose local news would be more successful if they/it published and practiced more solutions journalism stories? I’m more than a little tired of reading the abundance of bad news that mentions not a bit of what to do about it. In fact, for a couple of local newspapers I check regularly for projectsI’m trying to follow, they frequently lack any in depth coverage that didn’t come from a news release. At the time we originally were heavily dependent on a free press, we barely had a functioning postal system. Now we’re back to a barely functioning postal system and have a multitude of information sources full of mis and disinformation. Whatever happened to fact checkers and copy editors?

Not Ideas About the Thing But the Thing Itself

Wallace Stevens
1879 – 1955

At the earliest ending of winter, 
In March, a scrawny cry from outside 
Seemed like a sound in his mind. 

He knew that he heard it, 
A bird's cry at daylight or before,
In the early March wind.

The sun was rising at six, 
No longer a battered panache above snow . . . 
It would have been outside. 

It was not from the vast ventriloquism 
Of sleep's faded papier mâché . . .
The sun was coming from outside. 

That scrawny cry—it was 
A chorister whose c preceded the choir. 
It was part of the colossal sun, 

Surrounded by its choral rings, 
Still far away. It was like 
A new knowledge of reality.

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Whatcha got?

I’ve checked two different, authoritative, sources, The Bible, and A People’s History of the United States, and each concurs quite a bit with the other about the fact that humans seem to have been screw ups pretty much from the word go until today. That makes it easier for me to be less concerned about the prospect of knowing how to do the right thing all the time. It even diminishes my concerns about whether the upcoming election will determine the fate of democracy, the human race, BIPOC folks, women, nonbinary people etc. It may or may not, but only in combination with a bunch of other factors, some of which we may not even be aware of.

When I was a youngster, last millennium time, Disney released a film that included a song that’s keeps coming back to me every decade or so. The song’s title, It's Whatcha Do With Whatcha Got, pretty much says what I’m focusing on these days. [Full disclosure: I keep thinking, incorrectly, the song is from Song of the South instead of from So Dear to My Heart.]

As I’ve been rereading Agnrta Nyholm Winqvist's book on wabi sabi, I’m reminded of the principles that:

• Nothing lasts forever
• Nothing is perfect
• Nothing is ever finished

Long Time Coming and a Long Time Gone cover

To add some interesting perspective to these principles, see if you can lay your hands on a copy of Richard Farina's Long Time Coming and a Long Time Gone and read some of his "Little Nothing" poems.

I’m slowly coming to a conclusion that there are those who are benefiting by keeping US upset and at each others throats and the best way to combat that is with a positive attitude and outlook. The great and wonderful Leonard Cohen seems to support such a perspective with the lyrics of

Anthem

Leonard Cohen

The birds, they sang 
At the break of day 
Start again 
I heard them say 
Don't dwell on what 
Has passed away 
Or what is yet to be 
Ah, the wars 
They will be fought again 
The holy dove 
She will be caught again 
Bought and sold 
And bought again 
The dove is never free

Ring the bells that still can ring 
Forget your perfect offering 
There is a crack in everything 
That's how the light gets in

We asked for signs 
The signs were sent: 
The birth betrayed 
The marriage spent 
Yeah the widowhood 
Of every government
Signs for all to see

I can't run no more 
With that lawless crowd 
While the killers in high places 
Say their prayers out loud
But they've summoned, they've summoned up 
A thundercloud 
And they're going to hear from me

Ring the bells that still can ring 
Forget your perfect offering 
There is a crack in everything 
That's how the light gets in

You can add up the parts 
But you won't have the sum 
You can strike up the march 
There is no drum 
Every heart, every heart 
To love will come 
But like a refugee

Ring the bells that still can ring 
Forget your perfect offering 
There is a crack, a crack in everything 
That's how the light gets in

Ring the bells that still can ring 
Forget your perfect offering 
There is a crack, a crack in everything 
That's how the light gets in 
That's how the light gets in 
That's how the light gets in

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Does Mother Nature get SAD?

It’s snowing still. Again! It’s snowing again. Still! At least that  situation is tempered by the observation that  a second jonquil has opened in the bulb planter, with more to come. Sixty (60) days until Spring Equinox! Not quite 6 weeks until meteorological spring. That’s when, approximately, snowflakes become drops and drips and flow into or over the ground feeding aquifers and brooks and creeks and wetlands.  Can you tell I’m not really a winter person?

Groundhog Day is two weeks from today. Will Phil see his shadow? Let’s hope not. It would mess up the Celtic celebration of Imbolc [their start of spring]. I may go with that celebration to reinforce my Irish heritage. If the United Nations, or Congress, or the Minnesota legislature were earning their keep, they’d pass a law that mandates the duration of winter is inversely proportional to its intensity. Actually, maybe Republicans will pass such legislation in a broader form and claim they solved climate breakdown.

see any nests of white-eyes?

Photo by J. Harrington

Yes, winter has affected my judgement and thought processes. Plus, I’m still recovering from the workout of clearing lots of slush from the driveway earlier this week. My slow recuperation reminds me of the old joke “I’m not the man I used to be, never was.” Winters aren’t what they used to be either.

White-Eyes

By Mary Oliver

In winter 

    all the singing is in 

         the tops of the trees 

             where the wind-bird 

with its white eyes 

    shoves and pushes 

         among the branches. 

             Like any of us 

he wants to go to sleep, 

    but he's restless— 

         he has an idea, 

             and slowly it unfolds 

from under his beating wings 

    as long as he stays awake. 

         But his big, round music, after all, 

             is too breathy to last. 

So, it's over. 

    In the pine-crown 

         he makes his nest, 

             he's done all he can. 

I don't know the name of this bird, 

    I only imagine his glittering beak 

         tucked in a white wing 

             while the clouds— 

which he has summoned 

    from the north— 

         which he has taught 

             to be mild, and silent— 

thicken, and begin to fall 

    into the world below 

         like stars, or the feathers 

               of some unimaginable bird 

that loves us, 

    that is asleep now, and silent— 

         that has turned itself 

             into snow.

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Blues or blahs getting you?

I’m sitting in an easy chair looking out the window and wondering if it’s good or bad news that the chronically cloudy days are getting longer. If we were enjoying blue skies and sunshine, longer days would be delightful. Longer days full of cloud cover doesn’t do anything to perk me up.

do you have the winter blues or the January blahs?

Photo by J. Harrington

After we survive Friday 13th tomorrow we get to enjoy a brief January thaw over the weekend and the days will improve to “mostly cloudy” before returning to cloudy on Monday. According to an article in the Star Tribune a couple of years ago, “The cloudiest months are November and December, with an average of 18 cloudy days. November averages five days with clear skies and December six.” But, in 2020 “...Minnesota recorded its gloomiest January in 57 years, according to the state Department of Natural Resources. From Jan. 22 to 31, 2020, there were 10 consecutive cloudy days.” I didn’t find an update for 2021 or last year.

Paul Simon, many years ago, wrote a song that nicely captures my mood and status today. I hope you enjoy it. If you want to listen to Simon and Garfunkel sing it, go here. [Music can make even cloudiness better.]

Cloudy

Lyrics:

Cloudy
The sky is grey and white and cloudy
Sometimes I think it’s hanging down on me
And it’s hitchhike a hundred miles
I’m a ragamuffin child
Pointed finger-painted smile
I left my shadow waiting down the road for me a while

Cloudy
My thoughts are scattered and they’re cloudy
They have no borders, no boundaries
They echo and they swell
From Tolstoy to Tinker Bell
Down from Berkeley to Carmel
Got some pictures in my pocket and a lot of time to kill

Hey, sunshine
I haven’t seen you in a longtime
Why don’t you show your face and bend my mind?
These clouds stick to the sky
Like floating question–why?
And they linger there to die
They don’t know where they’re going, and, my friend, neither do I

Cloudy
Cloudy

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Let’s hope!

 The first post on the first day of a new year--no pressure, right? Well, not much since this will be our 3,691 daily posting, but who’s counting? In a little while we’ll be watching the “border battle” between the Minnesota Vikings and the Green Bay Packers. If the Vikings win, it will be a pleasant surprise.

Meanwhile, the Weather Underground web site is currently forecasting 7.4 inches of snow on Tuesday. They’ve been regularly revising the forecast over the past few days. The National Weather Service appears to be firmly committed to “A winter storm is still on track to impact the area Monday evening through Tuesday. Heavy snow, freezing rain, and rain are all possible at times - depending on how far north or south the storm tracks.” I have an appointment Wednesday morning and I can’t yet sort out whether I should reschedule because the roads won’t yet be cleared. That may be tomorrow’s challenge. Remember Harvey Cox has taught us that “Not to decide is to decide.” One piece of missing information is what options are available for rescheduling from Wednesday.

a burst of hope

Photo by J. Harrington

The snow may be welcomed by the Granddaughter person. Her grandmother recently got a kick-sleigh and, until today, the Granddaughter wanted no part of sitting down for a sleigh ride. Somehow, her parents convinced her otherwise and today we saw a brief video of a seated two-year-old enjoying a ride propelled by dad. I’m choosing to interpret this as an indication I need to have more faith in the future. Peter Leschak, a local author, offers a similar perspective in today’s Opinion Section of the Star Tribune.

In fact, by coincidence, the first book I finished reading this year, a Christmas present from the Better Half, is a short collection of Emily Dickinson poems entitled Hope Is the Thing. May our year be fulll of well-founded hopes and our needs be met so we can keep the faith.

“Hope” is the thing with feathers

By Emily Dickinson

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -

That perches in the soul -

And sings the tune without the words -

And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -

And sore must be the storm -

That could abash the little Bird

That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -

And on the strangest Sea -

Yet - never - in Extremity,

It asked a crumb - of me.

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It’s SAA season (Seasonally Adjusted Attitude)

We’re making progress toward Christmas and the December birthdays of two adult children. The Better Half has been doing interior decorations this afternoon while I was off doing errands at a couple of big box stores. We think we’ll pick out and cut down our tree tomorrow and I’m learning that not having everything done on December 1, so we can “relax and enjoy the season,” is okay.

tomorrow, like this

Photo by J. Harrington

The morning papers were full of stories about lots and lots of cases of flu and COVID and RSV but I think I was the only one wearing a mask this afternoon. Sigh! I know how inconvenient it is to have glasses steam up in cold weather, but I also know I want every bit of protection I can get from whatever’s out there. I also know that coping with a COVID pandemic for going on three years is a cumulative pain.

This is a time of year when I try (Yoda: Do or do not! There is no try!) to not let the madness get under my skin too much. Practicing an attitude of live and let live seems rare these days. In fact, I’ve almost given up on anything like that, but it is slowly sinking in that I don’t accomplish anything worthwhile by getting upset and ranting. I need to pay more attention to how the dogs handle not getting what they want. Most of the time they turn, not the other cheek, but they refocus their attention on something else they might be able to get. No treats? Maybe we can get some lovin’ or a drink of water and try again for a treat later. I wonder if Santa can deliver new attitude modules for Christmas. If not, I have no doubt I’ll have lots of chances to practice shifting my focus over the new few weeks and most of next year.

[little tree]

By E. E. Cummings

little tree 

little silent Christmas tree 

you are so little 

you are more like a flower 

who found you in the green forest 

and were you very sorry to come away? 

see          i will comfort you 

because you smell so sweetly 

i will kiss your cool bark 

and hug you safe and tight 

just as your mother would, 

only don't be afraid 

look          the spangles 

that sleep all the year in a dark box 

dreaming of being taken out and allowed to shine, 

the balls the chains red and gold the fluffy threads, 

put up your little arms 

and i'll give them all to you to hold 

every finger shall have its ring 

and there won't be a single place dark or unhappy 

then when you're quite dressed 

you'll stand in the window for everyone to see 

and how they'll stare! 

oh but you'll be very proud 

and my little sister and i will take hands 

and looking up at our beautiful tree 

we'll dance and sing 

"Noel Noel" 

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Can Democrats execute on fundamentals?

Have you ever heard the Will Rogers quotation: “I belong to no organized party. I am a Democrat.”  I no longer find it amusing. As of the end of May, 2022, the Minnesota Democratic-Farmer-Labor party is continuing to ask for funds for the midterm elections. In particular, the Senate DFL Caucus, is asking for a donation to “flip 3 seats in the Minnesota Senate.” They continue, “We need to build a massive grassroots movement to get out the vote in every corner of the state.” Unfortunately, for those of us who live in Senate District 28, the Minnesota DFL web site lists only one DFL endorsed candidate, for House District 28B. THERE IS NO DFl- ENDORSED SENATE CANDIDATE LISTED for SD28.

SD28 is, for the most part, comprised of Chisago and Isanti counties. The Chisago-Isanti DFL has a web site. It does not mention nor identify DFL candidates, at least as of about mid-day on May 31, 2022. We have a House candidate for district 28b on the state site but none I can find for 28a.

The Minnesota DFL state convention was held on May 20 - 22, more than a week ago. I’ve yet to locate the link on the DFL convention web site that leads to a list of which candidates were endorsed. As of mid-afternoon today, the Ballotpedia web site lists no DFL candidates for SD28. [There are also a number of other Senate and House districts with no DFL candidate listed.]

Are you ready to vote?

Photo by J. Harrington

Perhaps it's just my perspective on things but I find it extremely difficult to get engaged in a massive grassroots effort with a political party that has such difficulty organizing and communicating and getting candidate’s boots on the ground. Several weeks ago I filled out a questionnaire to serve as a district director in SD28. I never heard back until I received an email several days after the convention asking if I still wanted to serve since I had missed the convention and some other meeting. I responded that no one had told me my “application” had been accepted.

I’m definately planning on voting. I will, most likely, use a tactic I learned way back in time and space when I lived in Massachusetts. I’ll only vote for candidates I approve of, not an entire party ticket. That may mean there will be Democrats who won’t get my vote,just as the party won’t get my $$. I will research candidates in my congressional and legislative district and may make a contribution directly to their campaigns. To the Democratic-Farmer-Labor party? Meh!

[UPDATE: MinnPost has a web page devoted to MN House and Senate candidates.]

The Process

By Dilruba Ahmed

So grateful the process is clean

and faithful. Does not cheat

like a disenchanted spouse

dozing on a haggard couch.

Take heart: the process is always right — 

is automatic, phlegmatic. Clean, cold,

and always refreshing. Brewed to perfection

some say. Guaranteed to satisfy

you might say. Give thanks the process

is organized. Synchronized and sterilized.

Optimized but not disguised, like

the grown man at my door long after

trick-or-treaters have gone, hand

outstretched, mask covering his eyes.

Thankful, too, for the oversight: no

boogeyman standing over the drain pipe,

clogging it with debris when no one sees

so he can charge you your life

for the cleaning; name your price.

And how shall we praise the instruments

of investigation? So shiny, so new, gleaming

with silver and glass? No traces of fingerprints

or funders. No whispered voices

softly requesting, of the results, a first glance.

There’s no need to come clean. We know

the process won’t fall prey to steak and wine

and then slink upstairs to spend some time,

just a little. The process doesn’t. The process

wouldn’t. The process isn’t that kind.

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In memory of ...

Too many lives have been prematurely ended. Too many wars have been fought, some declared, many not. Our politics are again (still?) matters of life and death. I would suggest, as strongly as possible, that, in memory of those who have given their all to defend our freedoms, and those who mourn because of freedoms abused, we are well past the time when we need to stress responsibility more than rights. Exercising the latter while evading the former is wrong and not how we should be, or wish to be, remembered.

rest in peace

Photo by J. Harrington

When I was young, I would join my family on Memorial Day at the cemetery in which some of our predecessors were buried. That place is now half a country away. I wonder, from time to time, if our restless, often relocating society is undermining our sense of responsibility to each other. If you don’t have relatives in a local cemetery, does that diminish a sense of belonging? Do family graves help nourish our roots?

In Flanders Fields

John McCrae - 1872-1918

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
    That mark our place; and in the sky
    The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
    Loved and were loved, and now we lie
        In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe: 
To you from failing hands we throw
    The torch; be yours to hold it high. 
    If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
        In Flanders fields.

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Make it be a Happy New Year whether it wants to or not!

Happy New Year!. Over the next week we’ll gain slightly more than a minute per day of daylight. By month’s end, we’ll have gained almost an hour. That’s the good news. Unfortunately, really  warmer temperatures will lag two or three months behind the increase in daylight, but  the trend is in a positive direction, unless you’re a skier or ice angler.

Tomorrow night brings a New Moon. Full Moon occurs on the 17th, Martin Luther King Day.

black-capped chickadee

Photo by J. Harrington

If you’re feeding birds, please keep the feeders full during these coldest days. Providing some suet would be nice too. Chickadees need to consume 35% to 60% of their body weight daily in these cold temperatures. We want them well fed and around so that soon we can enjoy their spring songs as well as their cheery company.

We’ve not learned what  caused it, but this morning about 5:30 or so we joined about 2,400 of our neighbors in a power outage. The temperature outside was -9℉. Fortunately, the outage lasted only an hour or so. As part of our effort to have a more positive attitude this year, we’re focusing on being grateful power was restored relatively quickly instead of fussing about why it went out in the first place. We’re also glad we weren’t among those working outside to restore power, if that’s what it took.

Since we now have a whole new year at our disposal, let’s not waste it with the same old, same old attitudes. In addition to working on restoring Mother Nature, how about if we work on restoring our own good nature, despite pandemics, climate breakdown and Republicans.

Starlings in Winter

Chunky and noisy,
but with stars in their black feathers,
they spring from the telephone wire
and instantly

they are acrobats
in the freezing wind.
And now, in the theater of air,
they swing over buildings,

dipping and rising;
they float like one stippled star
that opens,
becomes for a moment fragmented,

then closes again;
and you watch
and you try
but you simply can’t imagine

how they do it
with no articulated instruction, no pause,
only the silent confirmation
that they are this notable thing,

this wheel of many parts, that can rise and spin
over and over again,
full of gorgeous life.

Ah, world, what lessons you prepare for us,
even in the leafless winter,
even in the ashy city.
I am thinking now
of grief, and of getting past it;

I feel my boots
trying to leave the ground,
I feel my heart
pumping hard. I want

to think again of dangerous and noble things.
I want to be light and frolicsome.
I want to be improbable beautiful and afraid of nothing,
as though I had wings.

by Mary Oliver

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Going to the dogs

Today’s title is a phrase that I’ve concluded is misused or overused or both. Take a look at SiSi and Harry in the picture. They look like the antithesis of the standard meaning of "gone to the dogs."

do these dogs look deteriorated or awry?

Photo by J. Harrington

I’ve spent too much time this morning reading political assessments on Twitter. No Build Back Better; No Voting Rights. It’s soured my Christmas spirit. Another cloudy day isn’t helping much either. So, I think it best to share an old joke I remember from long, long ago. It’s a lead-up to a resolution I’m seriously considering for next year. No, not giving up entirely on politics, although that has some appeal. I want, and need, to figure out how to simplify life. There are too many recurrent crises, most of which  seem to result in a request for donations arriving in my inbox. I’m going to see if I can figure out how to broadly apply the theme in the joke below to most of my life. Else, much like COVID variants, political, ecological, economic, public health and related crises will dominate daily life without ever getting resolved.

May your Christmas week be filled with tidings of joy!

Why Worry?

There are only two things to worry about;

Either you are sick or you are well;

If you are well, there is nothing to worry about;

If you are sick, there are only two things to worry about;

Either you live, or you die;

If you live, there is nothing to worry about;

If you die, there are only two things to worry about;

Either you go to heaven or hell;

If you go to heaven, there is nothing to worry about;

If you go to hell…

You’ll be so busy shaking hands with friends,

You won’t have time to worry;

So why worry?

Mary Oliver raises a similar theme in today’s poem. Perhaps there’s something to “don’t worry, be happy!” There’s no doubt Santa will fit down the chimney. Of course, there’s also “easier said than done."

I Worried

Mary Oliver

I worried a lot. Will the garden grow, will the rivers

flow in the right direction, will the earth turn

as it was taught, and if not how shall

I correct it?

Was I right, was I wrong, will I be forgiven,

can I do better?

Will I ever be able to sing, even the sparrows

can do it and I am, well,

hopeless.

Is my eyesight fading or am I just imagining it,

am I going to get rheumatism,

lockjaw, dementia?

Finally, I saw that worrying had come to nothing.

And gave it up. And took my old body

and went out into the morning,

and sang.

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A present of Presence

Thanks to the Better Half’s [BH] leading the way, today we dumped half a coffee can’s worth of change into the coin counter at our credit union. For a long while the lobby at the branch we use was off limits due to COVID and the only coin counters I could find were the commercial ones that limit you to a gift certificate or charge a fee of almost 12%. Last week the BH did a run with her coin jar and today she showed me how it works. Despite Omicron, things seem to be improving slightly, at least on some fronts, although, unless there’s a massive change in behaviors and attitudes all over the world, we had best learn to live with pandemics and adapt to horrendous climactic and related conditions and growing levels of autocracy. It’s up to us and our record so far isn’t encouraging. Perhaps for Christmas and during the new year we can “do better."

one of my all-time favorite Christmas ornaments

Photo by J. Harrington

After the credit union, fully vaxxed, boosted and masked, the BH and I visited our local bookstore and, as my contribution to “Giving Tuesday,” I bought a poetry anthology, Poetry of Presence. I gave it to myself as an early Christmas present. After Minnesota’s “Give to the Max” day, I’ve pretty much reached my limit on charitable contributions for the time being. However, I am once again going to try to be more mindful in my daily life and including the anthology’s poems as part of my morning reading routine seems like a helpful and hopeful way to ease in to themes of mindfulness such as “acceptance, impermanence, non-clinging (“letting go”), compassion, or the unity of all things.” Few, if any, of these themes get much attention in the news or social media and yet, they seem to be essential if we are to have any joy in the world we’ve created.

As an example, today’s poem is included in the anthology and, without naming names, at least once of us needs to be reminded again and again!

How to Be a Poet

By Wendell Berry

(to remind myself)

i   

Make a place to sit down.   

Sit down. Be quiet.   

You must depend upon   

affection, reading, knowledge,   

skill—more of each   

than you have—inspiration,   

work, growing older, patience,   

for patience joins time   

to eternity. Any readers   

who like your poems,   

doubt their judgment.   

ii   

Breathe with unconditional breath   

the unconditioned air.   

Shun electric wire.   

Communicate slowly. Live   

a three-dimensioned life;   

stay away from screens.   

Stay away from anything   

that obscures the place it is in.   

There are no unsacred places;   

there are only sacred places   

and desecrated places.   

iii   

Accept what comes from silence.   

Make the best you can of it.   

Of the little words that come   

out of the silence, like prayers   

prayed back to the one who prays,   

make a poem that does not disturb   

the silence from which it came.

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The nature of things

This morning I got slapped up alongside my head, but in a good way. The credit union that issues one of my credit cards ran into an issue, or two, and a number of their Visa cards were declined in a number of locations. Mine was declined at a Holiday gas station, thrice. This did not put me in a happy mood, but I wasn't desperate for gas so I moved on to pick up our Community Supported Agriculture share. The farm's manager pulled in as I was parking and we chatted briefly. She expressed sympathy for my frustration and asked if I had enough gas and/or money. All of a sudden, I felt like a cared for member of a community. These days that's all too rare a feeling, at least for me. I hadn't really expected that degree of kindness and I suspect that says more about me and my attitude these days than I'm comfortable with. Would I have offered assistance to someone I was only casually acquainted with? I've become more accustomed to dealing with a world in which businesses claim to be all about the customer but limit real concerns to "we apologize for any convenience." So, in addition to considering looking for a better credit union, I need to make some major adjustments in my attitude and expectations.

skunk cabbage along country road

Photo by J. Harrington

Next point: You may have read that nature can help us heal. Based on this morning's events, I can vouch for it. I took a scenic, gravel road, route as I headed away from the farm. The leaves are now about the size of a mouses ear. Since I'd brought my camera along, I pointed the Jeep toward the township road ditch surrounded by skunk cabbage and marsh marigolds, pulled over, and took some pictures. Farther down the road we took a peek at this spring's crop of lambs and beyond them watched a rooster pheasant scurry into the roadside weeds. All of a sudden I was less perturbed about gas, credit cards and the general state of the world and its faulty technology. I hope I've learned a lesson, that less time should be spent finding what's wrong with the world and more time spent enjoying what's right. That probably means lots less time spent on social media.

marsh marigold and skunk cabbage

Photo by J. Harrington

To a Marsh Hawk in Spring

By Henry David Thoreau

There is health in thy gray wing, 

Health of nature’s furnishing. 

Say, thou modern-winged antique, 

Was thy mistress ever sick? 

In each heaving of thy wing 

Thou dost health and leisure bring, 

Thou dost waive disease and pain 

And resume new life again.

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Into each life, a little rain...

 Once again this week the daily weather is cloudy and rainy. Next week promises more of the same. The standard reaction this would trigger from me would be kvetching about clouds and rain and never-ending. Today I'm trying a different approach. This is national poetry month. One of my favorite poets is Joy Harjo. Please enjoy her poem about rain.

Praise the Rain

By Joy Harjo

Praise the rain; the seagull dive

The curl of plant, the raven talk—

Praise the hurt, the house slack

The stand of trees, the dignity—

Praise the dark, the moon cradle

The sky fall, the bear sleep—

Praise the mist, the warrior name

The earth eclipse, the fired leap—

Praise the backwards, upward sky

The baby cry, the spirit food—

Praise canoe, the fish rush

The hole for frog, the upside-down—

Praise the day, the cloud cup

The mind flat, forget it all—

Praise crazy. Praise sad.

Praise the path on which we're led.

Praise the roads on earth and water.

Praise the eater and the eaten.

Praise beginnings; praise the end.

Praise the song and praise the singer.

Praise the rain; it brings more rain.

Praise the rain; it brings more rain.

One of my favorite forms of poetry is the prose poem. Please enjoy a prose poem about rain.

Rain

By Francis Ponge
Translated by Joshua Corey and Jean-Luc Garneau

The rain, in the backyard where I watch it fall, comes down at different 
rates. In the center a fine discontinuous curtain — or network — falls implacably and yet gently in drops that are probably quite light; a strengthless sempiternal precipitation, an intense fraction of the atmosphere at its purest. A little distance from the walls to the right and left plunk heavier drops, one by one. Here they seem about the size of grains of wheat, the size of a pea, while elsewhere they are big as marbles. Along gutters and window frames the rain runs horizontally, while depending from the same obstacles it hangs like individually wrapped candies. Along the entire surface of a little zinc roof under my eyes it trickles in a very thin sheet, a moiré pattern formed by the varying currents created by the imperceptible bumps and undulations of the surface. From the gutter it flows with the restraint of a shallow creek until it tumbles out into a perfectly vertical net, rather imperfectly braided, all the way to the ground where it breaks and sparkles into brilliant needles.

Each of its forms has its particular allure and corresponds to a particular patter. Together they share the intensity of a complex mechanism 
as precise as it is dangerous, like a steam-powered clock whose spring is wound by the force of the precipitation.

The ringing on the ground of the vertical trickles, the glug-glug of the gutters, the miniscule strikes of the gong multiply and resonate all at once in a concert without monotony, and not without a certain delicacy.

Once the spring unwinds itself certain wheels go on turning for a while, more and more slowly, until the whole mechanism comes to a stop. It all vanishes with the sun: when it finally reappears, the brilliant apparatus evaporates. It has rained.
 

Translated from the French

 

chickadee in April rain

Photo by J. Harrington

Rain replenishes our fresh water streams, rivers, ponds and wetlands. Without rain, many frogs and fishes would lose their homes. Rain doesn't seem to bother chickadees. If rain is good enough for chickadees and trout and plants need rain and we need plants and Water Is Life, it's entirely likely that it's my attitude that has been all wet and needs to get rained out!

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