A touch of sanity?

Back in the days when I was in school learning Latin, dei in that language translated into “of god” in English. I suspect it’s coincidental that in contemporary society, DEI stands for Diversity, Equity, Inclusion. As I look at much of my email in-basket these days, I wonder if the basic concept would be substantially improved if it were broadened to include the urban / rural split. Here’s one example from the Rural Assembly:

Rural health disparities 

Access to quality healthcare is a fundamental right that every citizen deserves. However, individuals living in rural areas often face significant challenges in obtaining the healthcare they need. 

I doubt it would come as a surprise to anyone, urban or rural or any other demographic category, to be informed that our whole health system is broken and looking only at an urban / rural disparity could be counterproductive since it doesn’t encompass the whole system that requires changing. Similar observations could be made about our agricultural system, our education system, our economy, our government and especially, our tax system. WE ARE ALL IN THIS TOGETHER!!!! Those who have US at each other’s throats benefit by keeping US divided. To a great extent, we should paraphrase a key concept from a prior presidential election: “It’s the system, stupid!!”

time for the dawn of a new day?

Photo by J. Harrington

There’s another old saying we would be wise to remember, as expressed in Latin: Quos Deus vult perdere, prius dementat (literally: Those whom God wishes to destroy, he first deprives of reason). Popularly stated in English as “Whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad.” That suggests we might want to tone down getting mad at each other to solve some of our common problems, like being taken to the cleaners by the top 1% and corporations who fail to pay their fair share of taxes.

Instead of trying to solve problems with the blunt instrument of law, perhaps we could try a combination of communication, cooperation, common sense, and shunning (boycott) or avoiding who and what we disagree with, instead of relying on judges, juries, lawyers, cops and politicians.

Do not be ashamed

by Wendell Berry

You will be walking some night
in the comfortable dark of your yard
and suddenly a great light will shine
round about you, and behind you
will be a wall you never saw before.
It will be clear to you suddenly
that you were about to escape,
and that you are guilty: you misread
the complex instructions, you are not
a member, you lost your card
or never had one. And you will know
that they have been there all along,
their eyes on your letters and books,
their hands in your pockets,
their ears wired to your bed.
Though you have done nothing shameful,
they will want you to be ashamed.
They will want you to kneel and weep
and say you should have been like them.
And once you say you are ashamed,
reading the page they hold out to you,
then such light as you have made
in your history will leave you.
They will no longer need to pursue you.
You will pursue them, begging forgiveness.
They will not forgive you.
There is no power against them.
It is only candor that is aloof from them,
only an inward clarity, unashamed,
that they cannot reach. Be ready.
When their light has picked you out
and their questions are asked, say to them:
"I am not ashamed." A sure horizon
will come around you. The heron will begin
his evening flight from the hilltop.

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The winning of meaning

Pardon me while I ponder out loud. Is it the responsibility of national political parties to ensure that their candidates meet the qualifications for office? If SCOTUS decides it’s a political question, rather than a question of constitutional law, that an ex-president be allowed on the ballot, but then is subsequently persuaded, after securing an electoral college win, based, perhaps, on another SCOTUS decision about something like hanging chads, that the presumed winner is indeed not qualified to hold the office because of the 14th Amendment’s Section 3, who failed? Or did our entire system fail? (Our current SCOTUS has little respect for precedent.)

I Voted button  --  but what does it mean?

Photo by J. Harrington

I’m not arguing here about democracy versus some other kind of political system, I’m thinking that we have evolved into, de facto and de jure, a dysfunctional system in which politics and laws are intermixed and intertwined, compounded by the fact that we speak and write in a living language that changes over time, even something as basic as “is” and the ability to distinguish between present and past tense [was]. According to former President Clinton:

“It depends on what the meaning of the word ‘is’ is. If the—if he—if ‘is’ means is and never has been, that is not—that is one thing. If it means there is none, that was a completely true statement. … Now, if someone had asked me on that day, are you having any kind of sexual relations with Ms. Lewinsky, that is, asked me a question in the present tense, I would have said no. And it would have been completely true.”

I can fairly easily envision a scenario in which the election is thrown to either the House or SCOTUS and the shooting starts almost immediately after a decision is announced because great numbers of voters believe, with quite a bit of justification, that the system is rigged against them and those like them. So, the real question becomes “what can anyone do to prevent such a scenario?” We already know that if a certain ex-president loses, he is likely again to claim that the election was stolen, without any proof. Could we be faced with a SCOTUS responsible for the destruction of democracy as we know it, or would the blame fall to the Republican political party?

A Nation's Strength

William Ralph Emerson

What makes a nation's pillars high
And its foundations strong?
What makes it mighty to defy
The foes that round it throng?

It is not gold. Its kingdoms grand
Go down in battle shock;
Its shafts are laid on sinking sand,
Not on abiding rock.

Is it the sword? Ask the red dust
Of empires passed away;
The blood has turned their stones to rust,
Their glory to decay.

And is it pride? Ah, that bright crown
Has seemed to nations sweet;
But God has struck its luster down
In ashes at his feet.

Not gold but only men can make
A people great and strong;
Men who for truth and honor's sake
Stand fast and suffer long.

Brave men who work while others sleep,
Who dare while others fly...
They build a nation's pillars deep
And lift them to the sky.

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National Code Talkers Day

 Today’s posting speaks for itself in gratitude and apology.

• History of Navajo Code Talkers Day


• Navajo Code Talkers and the Unbreakable Code (CIA)


• The Past, Present, and Future of the Navajo Language


• The Diné Reader: An Anthology of Navajo Literature

A Blessing

By Luci Tapahonso

For the graduates of the University of Arizona.

This morning we gather in gratitude for all aspects of sacredness:

the air, the warmth of fire, bodies of water, plants, the land,

and all animals and humankind.

We gather to honor our students who have achieved the extraordinary

accomplishment of earning doctoral or master's degrees.

We gather to honor their parents, grandparents, children,

family members, and friends who have traveled with them

on their path to success. They have traveled far distances to be here

this morning: we honor their devotion.

 

May we remember that holiness exists in the ordinary elements of our lives.

 

We are grateful for a homeland that has always thrived

on a glorious array of people and their diverse cultures, histories,

and beliefs. We acknowledge the generosity of the Tohono O'odham

in granting this land on which we learn, teach, celebrate

accomplishments, and sometimes mourn losses.

 

May we always cherish our ancestors as we prepare for the days ahead.

May we remember that we exist because of their prayers and their faith.

 

We are blessed with distinct and melodious tongues.

Our languages are treasures of stories, songs, ceremonies, and memories.

May each of us remember to share our stories with one another,

because it is only through stories that we live full lives.

 

May the words we speak go forth as bright beads

of comfort, joy, humor, and inspiration.

We have faith that the graduates will inspire others

to explore and follow their interests.

 

Today we reflect a rainbow of creation:

Some of us came from the east, where bright crystals of creativity reside.

They are the white streaks of early morning light when all is born again.

We understand that, in Tucson, the Rincon Mountains are our inspiration

for beginning each day. The Rincons are everlasting and always present.

 

Those who came from the south embody the strength of the blue

mountains that encircle us. The Santa Ritas instill in us

the vigorous spirit of youthful learning.

 

Others came from the west; they are imbued with the quiet, yellow glow of dusk.

They help us achieve our goals. Here in the middle of the valley, the ts'aa',

the basket of life, the Tucson Mountains teach us to value our families.

 

The ones from the north bring the deep, restorative powers of night's darkness;

their presence renews us. The Santa Catalina Mountains teach us that,

though the past may be fraught with sorrow, it was strengthened

by the prayers of our forebearers.

We witnessed the recent fires the mountains suffered,

and in their recovery we see ourselves on our own journeys.

We understand that we are surrounded by mountains, dziił,

and thus that we are made of strength, dziił, nihí níhídziił.

We are strong ourselves. We are surrounded by mountains

that help us negotiate our daily lives.

 

May we always recognize the multitude of gifts that surround us.

May our homes, schools, and communities be filled with the wisdom

and optimism that reflect a generous spirit.

 

We are grateful for all blessings, seen and unseen.

 

May we fulfill the lives envisioned for us at our birth. May we realize

that our actions affect all people and the earth. May we live in the way

of beauty and help others in need. May we always remember that

we were created as people who believe in one another. We are grateful,

Holy Ones, for the graduates, as they will strengthen our future.

 

All is beautiful again.

Hózhǫ́ nááhasdłíí’.

Hózhǫ́ nááhasdłíí’.

Hózhǫ́ nááhasdłíí’.

Hózhǫ́ nááhasdłíí’.

The shape of time

More and more acorns are dropping from the bur oaks, and being joined on the ground by ripened fruits and berries. Signs of impending autumn increase by the week. “And the seasons they go round and round,” as Joni Mitchell tells us in her wonderful lyrics to The Circle Game. Six months from now, some of us will be praying for a prompt end to winter, but first we have to harvest and store the products of the current growing season. Those who make it through the winter will be able to plant again next spring. The circle continues, though we age as it does. Is our passage through time a straight line? Do we pass through our own seasons as we age? Is there another universe to which we will pass at the end of our time on earth?

bur oak acorn

Photo by J. Harrington

Einstein tells us that space-time is a continuum. I have as much trouble picturing what that means as I do picturing an oak when I look at an acorn or a butterfly when I look at a chrysalis. If a continuum never ends, what was there before the big bang? If the universe is all that exists, into what is it expanding? Can we ask “how big is a light-year?” Or, do we need to stick with how far light travels in a year? Got a headache yet?

I got pulled into thinking about these kinds of questions when I tried to follow a simple direction this morning, “travel sunwise.” My first thought was: Is that clockwise or counterclockwise? Then, I was on to the sun rises in the east and sets in the west, but that’s not actually the sun moving, that’s the earth spinning on her axis. The seasons are caused by the earth’s orbit around the sun, neither days nor seasons are clockwise or counter. See how all of this circles around like a game?

By now you may be feeling as I did the first time I realized that Joni Mitchell’s lyrics from Woodstock aren't simply a metaphor, they're also literally true.

We are stardust
We are golden
And we've got to get ourselves
Back to the garden

I hope you’ve enjoyed this brief excursion through space-time as much as I have. Now, let’s put on our gloves and get back to work. We have a garden (earth) to tend. It’s time to shape up.

Squaring the Circle

By Philip Fried

It’s a little-known fact that God’s headgear — 

A magician’s collapsible silk top hat,

When viewed from Earth, from the bottom up — 

Is, sub specie aeternitatis,

A pluperfect halo, both circle and square,

And a premonition of this truth

Spurred on an ancient philosopher,

Anaxagoras, to make numerous vain

Attempts to approximate the circle

Of his concerns with the square of the cell

He was jailed in for impiety.

Doomed calculations which God acknowledged

By doffing then pancaking his topper.

He was still bareheaded millennia later,

When he learned of von Lindemann’s proof that pi

Is not the root of a polynomial

With rational coefficients, hence

Squaring the circle’s impossible.

God un-collapsed, re-donned his hat!

But — it was 1882,

Progress was a juggernaut

And the public had no patience for “proof.”

From below, God’s gesture looked like a signal

For all hat- and cap-wearing men,

Proper in their headgear, for nations,

Well-stocked with helmets for delicate brainwork,

To take up “the compass and straightedge”

And prepare for a singular all-out attack

On this seductive conundrum, so men 

Enlisted en masse in Geometry’s army,

Tossing up and away all hats

Of cloth, opaque haloes, hurray!

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Guilty as indicted?

Lots of folks fussin’ and fumin’ about the results of US being a country based on equality before the law. For today, I’m going to ask you to follow the link below and read the entire piece from which I’ve extracted the following:

Although MAGA Republicans have tried to paint the indictment as a political move by the Biden administration over a piddling error, Smith immediately reminded people that “[t]his indictment was voted by a grand jury of citizens in the Southern District of Florida, and I invite everyone to read it in full to understand the scope and the gravity of the crimes charged.”

The rest of the excellent analysis can be found here [Letters from an American, Heather Cox Richardson, June 9, 2023]. The last time I checked, it would have been a real challenge for a Democratic administration in Washington, D.C. to politicize a grand jury in southern Florida but don’t take my word for it, ask Ron DeSantis (R), Marco Rubio (R) or Rick Scott (R), Florida’s governor and US senators.

The X Man

By Kathryn Maris

His superpower was that his testicles manufactured sperm

with exclusively X chromosomes & that was ironic because

not only was he a beast to women but his 40 baby girls grew

up seeking men like the father they barely saw unless they went

to his studio to be painted which wasn’t OK with their mothers

who were not only jealous but guilty of giving birth to girls

who were products of an X-chromosome-making monster

& would soon suffer at the hands of other monsters with X-

type sperm thereby assuring the continuation of suffering

& meanwhile all the girls became writers who slouched

from sitting at desks & being daughters & lovers of beasts.

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What color is local?

Two nights ago the moon was a gorgeous deep pumpkin shade of orange. My photography skills aren’t up to the challenge of a worthwhile snapshot of such a nighttime beauty. My writing skills need more practice to capture the view I enjoyed about 4 am~ish. I won’t begin to denigrate what I watched by ascribing a pantone number to it. According to my copy of the book The Color of Nature, the moon I enjoyed in early June was about the same shade of orange as the deep orange of a Sumatran Tiger. If I hadn’t looked it up, I wouldn’t have thought of that comparison.

farmers market: all local?

Photo by J. Harrington

Colors, or, more precisely, the words for colors, are but one of the topics on which we humans often find ourselves in difficulties. I remember some years ago doing a little research on the word “organic,” as it relates to food. Those who were more adamant about the original intent of organic food production believed that the agreed upon definition used by the Department of Agriculture was / is a corruption. The last time I checked, there still wasn’t an agreed upon, explicit definition of regenerative agriculture. According to a recent article in The Guardian, The truth about ‘local’ food in US supermarkets: ‘It’s a marketing gimmick’ A good part of that problem may derive from Congress and the U.S. Department of Agriculture providing a variety of definitions of “local.” 

In developed countries, consumers are faced with a variety of competing products, very similar in nature, and the differences are obscured by marketing and sales terms that are intended to obfuscate as much as enhance a product’s functional pros and cons. Reviews frequently provide some comparative analysis but many consumers fail to have a clear definition of their own needs.

Waayyy back when I was in college, I learned that there are three kinds of lies: “Lies, damned lies, and statistics.” That pretty well covers both language and math as a source of mis and disinformation. I’m thinking that a week long general strike by consumers might get the attention of the corporatocracy and bureaucracy enough to convince them that honesty as the best policy enhances profits more than “caveat emptor!” Do you think we’ll ever agree on what the meaning of the word “is” is?

Letter to the Local Police

By June Jordan

Dear Sirs:

I have been enjoying the law and order of our

community throughout the past three months since

my wife and I, our two cats, and miscellaneous

photographs of the six grandchildren belonging to

our previous neighbors (with whom we were very

close) arrived in Saratoga Springs which is clearly

prospering under your custody

Indeed, until yesterday afternoon and despite my

vigilant casting about, I have been unable to discover

a single instance of reasons for public-spirited concern,

much less complaint

You may easily appreciate, then, how it is that

I write to your office, at this date, with utmost

regret for the lamentable circumstances that force

my hand

Speaking directly to the issue of the moment:

I have encountered a regular profusion of certain

unidentified roses, growing to no discernible purpose,

and according to no perceptible control, approximately

one quarter mile west of the Northway, on the southern

side

To be specific, there are practically thousands of

the aforementioned abiding in perpetual near riot

of wild behavior, indiscriminate coloring, and only

the Good Lord Himself can say what diverse soliciting

of promiscuous cross-fertilization

As I say, these roses, no matter what the apparent

background, training, tropistic tendencies, age,

or color, do not demonstrate the least inclination

toward categorization, specified allegiance, resolute

preference, consideration of the needs of others, or

any other minimal traits of decency

May I point out that I did not assiduously seek out

this colony, as it were, and that these certain

unidentified roses remain open to viewing even by

children, with or without suitable supervision

(My wife asks me to append a note as regards the

seasonal but nevertheless seriously licentious

phenomenon of honeysuckle under the moon that one may

apprehend at the corner of Nelson and Main

However, I have recommended that she undertake direct

correspondence with you, as regards this: yet

another civic disturbance in our midst)

I am confident that you will devise and pursue

appropriate legal response to the roses in question

If I may aid your efforts in this respect, please

do not hesitate to call me into consultation

Respectfully yours,

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And the answer is..., what was the question?

Lately I’ve been pondering a lot of semi-related questions that leave me more than mildly perplexed. In part they’re due to some reading I’ve been doing in an effort to help with a river restoration effort. I began to wonder about the question of “restore to what?” The first option seems to be: to the condition it was in before settlers dammed the river. Does that mean to eliminate the brown trout that have become naturalized but are not indigenous to North America? Probably not, but then how do we define what will be considered success? Clearly, restoration to the glacial period, when there was no river, isn’t appropriate.

Part of my concerns have been incited by the increasing volatility in what is or isn’t, may or may not be legal or otherwise acceptable. With the overturn of Roe v.Wade, SCOTUS has opened a pandora’s box. Who should decide which, if any, books should be banned and from whom should they be banned? On what basis should bannings be allowed. I seem to recall a past Justice saying something to the effect of “I may not be able to define pornography but I know it when I see it.” I wonder if that Justice ever read much of the Old Testament.

Scientific and Natural Area Rules

Photo by J. Harrington

As individuals, and a society comprised of individuals, it seems to me we have become too sloppy in our use of language. For contemporary evidence, please read Minnesota House bill could cost pain medication patients up to $200 a month in MinnPost with yesterday’s dateline. If it makes any sense to you, please explain it to the rest of us in the comments below.

Back when Congress previously banned “assault weapons” and “high capacity magazines,” the was lots of talk about legally defining an assault weapon. Check the Wikipedia page to see how messy it got and remains.

My point is that too often we undertake vast programs with half-vast ideas and definitions. We then spend unreasonable amounts of time debating terms, conditions and related matters about whether a cup is half empty of half full without bothering to first specify what size cup by volume and or weight. Meanwhile, real problems go unaddressed.

I’d suggest we make the spreading or creation of misinformation and disinformation a capital offense if only I could get consensus on the meaning of those terms. Perhaps one of the newfangled AI-bots will solve the problem by burying all of us in reams of gobbledygook garbage until we return to a pre-language grunt stage and climb back into the trees on the plains of Africa, if there are any trees left. Or, could we, just maybe, try being reasonable and talking to, instead of shouting at, or talking past, each other?

Meaning

Carl Dennis - 1939-

If a life needn’t be useful to be meaningful,
Then maybe a life of sunbathing on a beach
Can be thought of as meaningful for at least a few,
The few, say, who view the sun as a god
And consider basking a form of worship.

As for those devoted to partnership with a surfboard
Or a pair of ice skates or a bag of golf clubs,
Though I can’t argue their lives are useful,
I’d be reluctant to claim they have no meaning
Even if no one observes their display of mastery.

No one is listening to the librarian
I can call to mind as she practices, after work,
In her flat on Hoover Street, the viola da gamba
In the one hour of day that for her is golden.
So what if she’ll never be good enough
To give a concert people will pay to hear?

When I need to think of her with an audience,
I can imagine the ghosts of composers dead for centuries,
Pleased to hear her doing her best with their music.

And isn’t it pleasing, as we walk at dusk to our cars
Parked on Hoover Street, after a meeting
On saving a shuttered hotel from the wrecking ball,
To catch the sound of someone filling a room
We won’t be visiting with a haunting solo?

And then the gifts we receive by imagining
How down at the beach today surfers made sure
The big waves we weren’t there to appreciate
Didn’t go begging for attention.
And think of the sunlight we failed to welcome,
How others stepped forward to take it in.

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On English and other than English poems

Remember the old saying about not saying anything at all if you can’t say something good? Today we’re not going to mention the weather. Instead, let’s talk a little about poetry, since this is national poetry month. I’m in the midst of reading a couple of non-American poets together with a handful of Americans. Sometimes, cultural references can throw me off any sort of comprehension. Other times it’s the English language that does me in. Here’s an example of the latter.

One of the non-American poets I’m reading is Eavan Boland. This morning I started reading Elegy for a Youth Changed to a Swan from her New Collected Poems. The second stanza begins with a line that threw me into momentary chaos: “Urchins of the hurdled hawthorn, sparrows,” created massive cognitive dissonance as I tried to envision sea urchins hurdling hawthorn. I was through the third stanza and into the fourth before the miasmic mess that passes for my brain triggered the recollection that “urchin” is also a term for a playful or mischievous youngster. Only in English(?) would we find such an incongruous combination of definitions. The difficulty in comprehension in this case is, I believe, far more attributable to the language than to the poet.

“No Ideas But in Things”

Photo by J. Harrington

The other non-American poet I’m currently working my way through, I’m reading in translation from the Polish, is Czeslaw Milosz. I had already read and enjoyed his Road-side Dog and, on that basis and something I came across on the internet recently, decided I should explore his poetry. Unbeknownst to me, the Better Half took my expressed interest and gave me two volumes of Milosz’ poems. I’m not sure it’s the translation that’s giving me heartburn and far be it from me to be presumptuous enough to suggest that a Nobel laureate in literature isn’t writing great poetry, but, so far, most of what I’ve read is incomprehensible. I understand each of the words but the combination and sequence leaves me grasping for meaning, other than experiencing a sense of diminished expectations that makes Beckett seem like an optimist. (Oops, I think I just blew up that old saying about saying something good, didn’t I?)

For today, let’s close with a recommendation that, if you haven’t already, you should find and read Ted Kooser’s The Poetry Home Repair Manual. Mr. Kooser and I have very similar preferences and / or taste in the poetry we prefer. It’s there in A Poet’s Job Description in chapter 1.

A Song on the End of the World

By Czeslaw Milosz

Translated by Anthony Milosz

On the day the world ends

A bee circles a clover,

A fisherman mends a glimmering net.

Happy porpoises jump in the sea,

By the rainspout young sparrows are playing

And the snake is gold-skinned as it should always be.

         

On the day the world ends

Women walk through the fields under their umbrellas,

A drunkard grows sleepy at the edge of a lawn,

Vegetable peddlers shout in the street

And a yellow-sailed boat comes nearer the island,

The voice of a violin lasts in the air

And leads into a starry night.

And those who expected lightning and thunder

Are disappointed.

And those who expected signs and archangels’ trumps

Do not believe it is happening now.

As long as the sun and the moon are above,

As long as the bumblebee visits a rose,

As long as rosy infants are born

No one believes it is happening now.

Only a white-haired old man, who would be a prophet

Yet is not a prophet, for he’s much too busy,

Repeats while he binds his tomatoes:

There will be no other end of the world,

There will be no other end of the world.

Warsaw, 1944

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A hint of decolonization

In [partial] preparation for observance of spring equinox, today I bought a couple of pots of oxalis plants. The green is a nice contrast to the snow outside. It’s improbable we’ll be able too enjoy a fire in the fire pit come equinox, but I’ve reached the point where, living in the North Country, I need to do more to honor the arrival of spring, longer days, sunny skies(?), returning migrants and open, flowing waters.

oxalis, shamrock

Photo by J. Harrington

Tomorrow, at least for a little while, will include flowing water as rain, which will then become ice. Every year spring arrives on stutter steps, some years more quickly than others, but rarely, if ever, smoothly. I may manage to avoid, or at least minimize, complaining about setbacks and focus on improvements in the weather rather than what we’ve experienced the past few weeks and anticipate over the next few days.

Since I’m tired of writing about our local weather, I’m going to share something I found online this morning. For background, I need to tell you that for several years I’ve been pondering similarities between Native American and Irish experiences under British colonialism. Today I learned I’m not the only one who thinks about such topics. The On Being Project has an interview with Margaret Noodin that includes these observations:

Noodin: Yes. Now, I knew that. I taught the Irish lit. class, last semester, which I sometimes get to do. And my friend Bairbre here, who runs our Celtic Studies center, we had some comparisons in language. And we, of course, are very biased, but we felt that Ojibwe and Irish were perhaps the most musical and lovely languages that there are. [laughs]

Ó Tuama: That’s just plain fact, Margaret. That’s not bias at all. [laughs]

Noodin: I would agree. Absolutely, right? [laughs] But we wonder too, sometimes — we joke — we’ve joked for many years, within my family, and it’s not just us. So you have a confluence of history. You have people located in a similar space on the globe and really defined in ways by where the land meets the water. So, whether you are a diaspora centered around this inland sea or whether you are an island within a sea, a lot of your metaphors are similar in the fact that you’re in this northern region. You have a seasonal similarity.

But we have things like Paisake, little beings that have red hair that potentially cause disturbances or teach people lessons. And there are so many ways where, when you get to know cultures and you can make comparison between stories, you can absolutely see that the option is either to believe that they really exist and they’re all over, in every culture, in different ways, or to somehow think that people really connected sometime, long ago; but that’s probably the least likely. I think that people have a need to understand and describe the world through describing both the real and the imagined, sometimes.

The preceding gives us an opportunity to share one of Margaret Noodin’s et. al. wonderful poems and to confess that we’ve not read as much of her work as we would like and hope to.

Meshkadoonaawaa Ikidowinan: Exchanging Words

By Kimberly Blaeser, Molly McGlennen, and Margaret Noodin

baazhigwaadiziwin—persistence

Ningii-bazhinemin, we have barely escaped

nightly, a threshold looms in the cold.

Again, we sing ourselves strong—

Anishinaabikwewag, women of history and persistence.

Observe: constellations have long illuminated patterns,

relentless stories, adizookanag,

of who we might be, noongom aawiiyaang

gemaa waa-aawiiyang, or become.

Across skies trace belonging, ezhi-dibendagoziyang

in the land of wiindigoo-cannibals, awaken the crumbling spirit.

Become swirling light, motion—where Bagonegiizhig

still lives. This ancient portal a promise.

Become the shadow others expect—aagawaatesen

hiding in significance. Like stars, anangoog, excluded.

Anyone could read this.

No matter this bitter

winter, still.

wiingashk—sweetgrass

How she stitched the rim, gashkigwaadan.

Leaf blades and needle fingers circled,

smallest curve, waaganagamod, of song—

endless like the scent.

Held, there are, atenoon, some parts

one cannot see—

but she knows, gikendaang, what they hold.

Words from bogs and marshes.

Heaven fits neatly, mii gwayak, under

the snug lid, shut tight as lips

long used to gaadood, keeping secrets

of grandmothers and crane companions.

Notes:

The authors write about the collaborative process behind this piece here. 

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Peek at color

Overnight, each night, more of the chlorophyll in some leaves breaks down. Green disappears; yellows, oranges, maroons, and other colors that had been hidden by the chlorophyll, appear. The development of peak color seems particularly noticeable this year but perhaps that’s just because I’m paying more attention. It looks like each day we get a peek at more and more color until we reach peak color and then they all fall down. Isn’t English a wonderful language?

take a peek at tamaracks in color

Photo by J. Harrington

Up the road from our property there used to be a tamarack-filled wetland. Something has killed those tamaracks and their golden leaves no longer brighten autumn views. That’s an example of a shifting baseline that’s occurred in just the time we’ve owned our house.

A recent article by  Aaron Brown talks about  a different kind of shifting baseline, one that is disturbingly widespread in our country these days. Take a few minutes and go read his Fascism from Italy to Hibbing and back again. We’ll wait. It’s an important read, especially before we decide for whom we’re going to vote next month, and why.

Back already? Did you read all of it? Did it make sense? Does it worry you? Here’s a different perspective on what happens when the folks in charge aren’t willing to accept the outcomes of elections because they didn’t win:

The Calvinball cartoon reminds me of the refusal of the Minnesotae Republican Secretary of State candidate to commit to accepting the outcome of next month’s election, and of how many GQP politicians want to see US function as a government of laws.

Democracy

by Leonard Cohen

It’s coming through a hole in the air,

from those nights in Tiananmen Square.

It’s coming from the feel

that this ain’t exactly real,

or it’s real, but it ain’t exactly there.

From the wars against disorder,

from the sirens night and day,

from the fires of the homeless,

from the ashes of the gay:

Democracy is coming to the U.S.A.

 

It’s coming through a crack in the wall;

on a visionary flood of alcohol;

from the staggering account

of the Sermon on the Mount

which I don’t pretend to understand at all.

It’s coming from the silence

on the dock of the bay,

from the brave, the bold, the battered

heart of Chevrolet:

Democracy is coming to the U.S.A.

 

It’s coming from the sorrow in the street,

the holy places where the races meet;

from the homicidal bitchin’

that goes down in every kitchen

to determine who will serve and who will eat.

From the wells of disappointment

where the women kneel to pray

for the grace of God in the desert here

and the desert far away:

Democracy is coming to the U.S.A.

 

Sail on, sail on

O mighty Ship of State!

To the Shores of Need

Past the Reefs of Greed

Through the Squalls of Hate

Sail on, sail on, sail on, sail on.

 

It’s coming to America first,

the cradle of the best and of the worst.

It’s here they got the range

and the machinery for change

and it’s here they got the spiritual thirst.

It’s here the family’s broken

and it’s here the lonely say

that the heart has got to open

in a fundamental way:

Democracy is coming to the U.S.A.

 

It’s coming from the women and the men.

O baby, we’ll be making love again.

We’ll be going down so deep

the river’s going to weep,

and the mountain’s going to shout Amen!

It’s coming like the tidal flood

beneath the lunar sway,

imperial, mysterious,

in amorous array:

Democracy is coming to the U.S.A.

 

Sail on, sail on ...

 

I’m sentimental, if you know what I mean

I love the country but I can’t stand the scene.

And I’m neither left or right

I’m just staying home tonight,

getting lost in that hopeless little screen.

But I’m stubborn as those garbage bags

that Time cannot decay,

I’m junk but I’m still holding up this little wild bouquet:

Democracy is coming to the U.S.A.

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Time to replace lawyers in politics and government?

Many of the lawyers I’ve known, or known of, prided themselves on their ability to split hairs. Politicians frequently share the same inclinations. I remember a former occupant of the White House noting “It depends on what the meaning of the word ‘is’ is.”

There are at least two major issues right now where clearer legislation, regulations and judicial orders could have benefited all fo US a great deal. I’m sure you’ve heard something about the Feeding Our Future fraud allegations and the corresponding debate about who said or did what and why. The Star Tribune had  a clarifying article about it, followed by today’s editorial: “Hungering for clarity after food fraud.” I take exception to the editorial calling out Walz and Ellison since the same editorial cites two distinguished, uninvolved, legal talents who imply different assessments of the situation:

David Schultz, a Hamline and University of Minnesota professor and political observer who reviewed but is not involved in the case, told an editorial writer that it looked like a classic administrative law case in which lawsuits are filed to force government agencies to issue permits or licenses or, in this case, approve partner sites promptly.

"I don't see anything that says the court compelled MDE to resume payments," he said.

On the other hand:

Former Ramsey County Attorney Susan Gaertner, who also isn't involved in the case, told a Star Tribune reporter this week that although there was no formal order from the judge, she could see why MDE could take Guthmann's comments during the hearing to mean that the agency would be hard-pressed to stop payments.

"The bottom line is that Judge Guthmann did not order them to continue payments. At the same time, it is understandable why the Department of Education felt like they had to continue paying," Gaertner said. "A fair reading of the federal regulations seemed to require it, and more importantly though, they had to feel constrained to not in any way interfere with the FBI investigation."

 

WOTUS or not?

Photo by J. Harrington

The second issue has to do with a piece of legislation that will celebrate its 50th anniversary next month, The Clean Water Act Amendments (of 1972). The piece of legislation failed to clearly define “Waters Of The United States” [WOTUS]. So, in addition to various interpretations over the decades, we now have two federal agencies (Army Corps of Engineers and Environmental Protection Agency) working toward a redefinition at the same time that yet another case is headed toward the current “Supreme” Court. We all know the old definition about what flows down hill but governments and legislatures seem to have a real problems grasping that water, surface, atmospheric and ground, all flows as part of one system. There was a recent article about PFAS being in each drop of rain that falls, as one example. But, in addition to the federal mess, in Minnesota the Supreme Court reached a decision on one “public water” but kicked that can back to the legislature to clarify the broader application questions.

Is this the best we can expect when we elect amateurs to represent US in at the state and federal level? A mishmash of conflicting interpretations of legislative intent compounded by a failure to agree upon the facts of a case? There are other examples that I’ll save for another day. For now, remember this other piece of advice to lawyers from a journalist and poet who must have watched lawyers carefully:

“If the facts are against you, argue the law. If the law is against you, argue the facts. If the law and the facts are against you, pound the table and yell like hell”

― Carl Sandburg 

 

If we got rid of the lawyers in government, we could be better served by replacing them with poets, but that seems like a sorry misuse of the talents of such a wonderful class of people. Do you have any suggestions on how we can “cut to the chase”  instead of splitting hairs?

The Abracadabra Boys

By Carl Sandburg

The abracadabra boys—have they been in the stacks and cloisters? Have they picked up languages for throwing into chow mein poems?

Have they been to a sea of jargons and brought back jargons? Their salutations go: Who cometh? and, It ith I cometh.

They know postures from impostures, pistils from pustules, to hear them tell it. They foregather and make pitty pat with each other in Latin and in their private pig Latin, very ofay.

They give with passwords. “Who cometh?” “A kumquat cometh.” “And how cometh the kumquat?” “On an abbadabba, ancient and honorable sire, ever and ever on an abbadabba.”

Do they have fun? Sure—their fun is being what they are, like our fun is being what we are—only they are more sorry for us being what we are than we are for them being what they are.

Pointing at you, at us, at the rabble, they sigh and say, these abracadabra boys, “They lack jargons. They fail to distinguish between pustules and pistils. They knoweth not how the kumquat cometh.”

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Between anarchy and autocracy

Let’s see: past the Summer solstice; temperatures again exceeding 90℉; thunderstorms in the forecast for the evening hours; seems like Summertime! I’ve been observing that, just as one of the problems with being more than school age is one doesn’t get the summer off, one of the problems of having reached retirement age is that retirees don’t get holidays or vacations. The laws of nature and the laws of humans are far from immutable but we keep acting as if we all know what’s best and what those laws are, or should be. Should everyone get to vote on everything all the time? Would that work? Here’s an item we’ve been back and forth on depending on who’s been elected: mining near the Boundary Waters..

In case any of you want to read the Environmental Assessment report supporting the withdrawal of the Rainy River watershed from potential federal mining leases, here’s the link, courtesy of the Star Tribune’s Jennifer Bjorhus. I’m looking forward to reading the whole thing myself.

Laurentian Divide, Birch Lake

Photo by J. Harrington

As I’ve noted from time to time in these postings, I am not a lawyer but I spent many of my younger years hanging around with some. It didn’t come up at the time, but I’ve read and observed that laws are not sacred, not even sacred laws. Laws are what those in power state and interpret them to be. There’s what the law says, what proponents and opponents claim the intent of the law was or is (have you ever read a “legislative intent?”), what many police and prosecutors and plaintiffs claim the law means, and often what a jury of peers or a judge or judges assert the law means as applied to a particular set of facts. Plus, at a minimum, there’s also what happens when one law conflicts with another.

One of the better rules of thumb I ever learned was: “If the law is against you, argue the facts. If the facts are against you, argue the law. If both the law and the facts are against you, pound on the table and yell like hell.” I believe the Republicans invented the last part of that tactic.

Many people react as though they have studied law, practiced law, understand legal processes, when, in fact, listening to or reading their opinions makes one question if the person exponding is functionally literate. [Have you noticed I’m back in a “why do I spend so much time on social media?” mode?]

All of the preceding happens in ways that we as citizens rarely get to directly affect. Our voters turned down an amendment to the constitution that would have allowed Initiative and Referendum. We do have the ability to recall elected state officers. We still are struggling to find the balance between anarchy and autocracy. The best way we can do that is to vote, but before we vote we should really spend more time talking to those with opinions that differ from ours. That would, I believe, be a healthier approach than paying attention to the stupid, misleading, attack adds that too often sway our perceptions. Remember, if we give up on voting, “They” win.

Self-portrait

By Edward Hirsch

I lived between my heart and my head,

like a married couple who can't get along.

I lived between my left arm, which is swift

and sinister, and my right, which is righteous.

I lived between a laugh and a scowl,

and voted against myself, a two-party system.

My left leg dawdled or danced along,

my right cleaved to the straight and narrow.

My left shoulder was like a stripper on vacation,

my right stood upright as a Roman soldier.

Let's just say that my left side was the organ

donor and leave my private parts alone,

but as for my eyes, which are two shades

of brown, well, Dionysus, meet Apollo.

Look at Eve raising her left eyebrow

while Adam puts his right foot down.

No one expected it to survive,

but divorce seemed out of the question.

I suppose my left hand and my right hand

will be clasped over my chest in the coffin 

and I'll be reconciled at last,

I'll be whole again.

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What purpose, then, is served?

This morning, as I drove out of the drive,  I looked across the road to see fields of purple lovegrass, covered in dew, made glowing white by the rising sun. It was indeed awesomely beautiful, triggering remembrances of some of the old descriptions of heaven. Sometimes beauty can bring us to a state of awe, enthralled, bedazzled, mesmerized. I recommend trying to begin and end your day with such an experience. It’s a far better beginning than by reading the  morning paper, which may contain such items as finding that the third degree murder conviction of Mohamed Noor has been overturned by  the Minnesota Supreme Court. According to the Star Tribune:

The court's unanimous ruling written by Chief Justice Lorie Gildea focused on the mental state necessary for the legal standard of a "depraved mind," defined as a "generalized indifference to human life."

The state's highest court said such a state cannot exist when a defendant's conduct is aimed at a particular person. The ruling affirmed what Noor's lawyers have claimed since trial — that third-degree murder didn't apply because his actions were focused on a single person.

Alpha Stock Images - http://alphastockimages.com/

The Minnesota Statute is two paragraphs long. The second makes sense. The purpose of the first paragraph is, in my humble opinion, obscured in incomprehensible language. The individual words might make sense, but not when strung together. Here’s the paragraph:

(a) Whoever, without intent to effect the death of any person, causes the death of another by perpetrating an act eminently dangerous to others and evincing a depraved mind, without regard for human life, is guilty of murder in the third degree and may be sentenced to imprisonment for not more than 25 years.

Perhaps it’s because my college degree is in English, and I am not a lawyer, that I am deeply troubled by, to the point of not being able to assign a meaning to, the phrases "by perpetrating an act eminently dangerous to others and evincing a depraved mind, without regard for human life,...”

According to one law firm’s web site, "Examples of depraved mind murder include violently driving an automobile ², the accidental discharge of a gun during a fight³, and Mohammed Noor’s widely publicized charge of shooting a woman while on duty as a police officer.”

Now that the Minnesota Supreme Court has eliminated the third example, I continue to struggle with the question of what does it mean to be violently driving an automobile (is that reckless driving?) and how does one accidentally discharge a gun during a fight? What if one’s opponent causes the discharge? Was it a depraved mind that brought a gun to where  there might be a fight? What is an example of a “generalized indifference to human life?” Is that like weapons of mass destruction that no one can find?

I’ve known many lawyers over the years and often been fascinated by their ability to split hairs at the subatomic scale. As far as I’m concerned, Minnesota’s use of the phrases “evincing a depraved mind” and “act eminently dangerous to others” belong with Schrödinger's cat and not in the realm of jurisprudence. Let’s not even get started on how, per the second paragraph, there’s supposed to be any sort of equivalency between sentenced to "not more than 25 years [in prison] or to payment of a fine of not more than $40,000, or both.”

The Murder of William Remington

By Howard Nemerov

It is true, that even in the best-run state

Such things will happen; it is true,

What’s done is done. The law, whereby we hate

Our hatred, sees no fire in the flue

But by the smoke, and not for thought alone

It punishes, but for the thing that’s done.

And yet there is the horror of the fact,

Though we knew not the man. To die in jail,

To be beaten to death, to know the act

Of personal fury before the eyes can fail

And the man die against the cold last wall

Of the lonely world—and neither is that all:

There is the terror too of each man’s thought,

That knows not, but must quietly suspect

His neighbor, friend, or self of being taught

To take an attitude merely correct;

Being frightened of his own cold image in

The glass of government, and his own sin,

Frightened lest senate house and prison wall

Be quarried of one stone, lest righteous and high

Look faintly smiling down and seem to call

A crime the welcome chance of liberty,

And any man an outlaw who aggrieves

The patriotism of a pair of thieves.

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Welcome our new Poet Laureate, —— Gwen Westerman

 I have, for some years now, been a member of the Academy of American Poets. It was not until today that I discovered they have multiple pages about Minnesota poets and poetry on their web site. The  discovery was made after I received an email notice from the Minnesota Humanities Center that:

Governor Tim Walz and Lieutenant Governor Peggy Flanagan will announce Minnesota’s next Poet Laureate. This event is only available to credentialed members of the press. 

At 2:00 p.m. the Humanities Center live-streamed the announcement. Our new Poet Laureate is Gwen Westerman (@gwenwesterman on Twitter; her page in poets.org; her page at Poetry Foundation)

From the Academy:

Gwen Nell Westerman is the author of Follow the Blackbirds (Michigan State University Press, 2013), a poetry collection written in Dakota and English. She is a Professor in the English Department at Minnesota State University, Mankato, and lives in rural Blue Earth County.

From the Foundation:

Gwen Nell Westerman is Dakota, enrolled with the Sisseton Wahpeton Oyate, and a citizen of the Cherokee Nation through her mother. She is author of Follow the Blackbirds (Michigan State University Press, 2013).

 

Follow the  Blackbirds, Gwen Nell Westerman

One of her poems is included in When the Light of the World Was Subdued, Our Songs Came Through, edited by Joy Harjo, current  Poet Laureate of the US. You can learn more about her at her own web site.

Give-Away Song

Gwen Westerman

This is my give-away— 
            not because I don’t want 
                  it anymore, 
            not because it’s out of 
                  style or 
                broken or 
                useless since it lost 
                its lid or one of its buttons, 
            not because I don’t understand 
                the “value” of things. 
This is my give-away— 
            because I have enough 
                  to share with you 
            because I have been given 
                  so much 
                    health love happiness 
                    pain sorrow fear 
            to share from the heart 
            in a world where words can be 
            meaningless when they come 
            only from the head. 
This is my give-way— 
            to touch what is good in you 
            with words your heart can hear 
            like ripples from a pebble 
            dropped in water 
            moving outward growing 
            wider touching others. 
            You are strong. 
            You are kind. 
            You are beautiful. 
This is my give-away. 
     Wopida ye.    
          Wopida ye. 
                Wopida ye.

 

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