Ain’t gonna study war no more?

At least we’re not in a tent somewhere camping. Another rainy day in Minnesota is doing wonders for the plants and mosquitos but not so much for many mammals. During one dog walk today, I had seven mosquitos simultaneously on the back of my left hand. I did a variant on the tale of the Brave Little Tailor and killed Seven with One Blow. Don’t both to ask if I felt guilty. If the dragonflies had been doing their jobs and feeding their faces, I wouldn’t have had that opportunity.

four-spotted skimmer dragonfly resting

Photo by J. Harrington

At least there’s several stacks of good books to read or reread and that’s what I’m doing when not out walking the dogs and getting bit by bugs. I just hope none of the mosquitos are carrying H5N1 virus nor anything like it. Part of my childhood occurred before the polio vaccine was approved. I had hoped that pandemics were behind US thanks to Dr. Salk. But then the number of those who don’t believe in vaccinations or science grew and grew. In case you’re among those who do believe in science, here’s a decent resource on herd immunity. That brings us to what I’d like to ponder about today, on the day we remember and memorialize those who served the whole country and are no longer with US.

What if science invented a vaccine that prevented war and supported peace. Would we allow people to claim “It’s against my religion” and not get vaccinated? Is there a herd immunity that prevents war? The question becomes more important when a candidate for president in the upcoming election claims there will be some sort of bloodbath if he loses. Would it be appropriate to require all candidates and appointees to public office to get such a vaccine if it existed? What about requiring it for any who serve in the United Nations? Would getting such a vaccine be equivalent to unilateral disarmament?

I don’t know the answers to the questions I’ve raised. I raise them because, with the growing levels of fractiousness and frictions in this country, and the increasing availability of artificial intelligence without agreed upon parameters for how it may be used and by whom for what, we as a society and a country and a collection of communities are going to be facing issues as complex as those mentioned above and we are not in a good position to develop answers, let alone agreement on them. I hope we’re not headed to even more heartbreaking Memorial Days ahead, when we may look back on a day like today as one of the good old days.

Day Beginning with Seeing the International Space Station and a Full Moon Over the Gulf of Mexico and All Its Invisible Fishes

Jane Hirshfield
1953 – 

None of this had to happen.
Not Florida. Not the ibis’s beak. Not water.
Not the horseshoe crab’s empty body and not the living starfish.
Evolution might have turned left at the corner and gone down another street entirely.
The asteroid might have missed.
The seams of limestone need not have been susceptible to sand and mangroves.
The radio might have found a different music.
The hips of one man and the hips of another might have stood beside
each other on a bus in Aleppo and recognized themselves as long-lost brothers.
The key could have broken off in the lock and the nail-can refused its lid.
I might have been the fish the brown pelican swallowed.
You might have been the way the moon kept not setting long after we thought it would,
long after the sun was catching inside the low wave curls coming in
at a certain angle. The light might not have been eaten again by its moving.
If the unbearable were not weightless we might yet buckle under the grief
of what hasn’t changed yet. Across the world a man pulls a woman from the water
from which the leapt-from overfilled boat has entirely vanished.
From the water pulls one child, another. Both are living and both will continue to live.
This did not have to happen. No part of this had to happen.

—2016

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’Tis the season of looking forward to...

With the unusually warm weather we’ve been enjoying, I started thinking about reconnecting the outside hoses and turning on the water supply. The prospect of grassfires remains moderate in our area so a readily available water source might be advisable. Then again, we can expect below freezing overnight temperatures through the rest of this month. Frozen hoses wouldn’t be very helpful. Then again, I didn’t drain the hoses last autumn when we shut off the water to the outside faucets. Maybe the best option will be to check things out next week if we really get several days in the 60s.

winter woods with leaf-covered ground

Photo by J. Harrington

Even with, perhaps especially with, an almost snowless and coldless winter, I’m feeling pent up and penned in as a consequence of excessive time spent resting on my gluteus maximus muscles during the past several months, combined with day upon day spent looking at a drab, oak-leaf covered landscape.

Sometime, I think last year, the Better Half gave me a copy of Things to Look Forward to. I believe it’s time to reread it, perhaps several times. The next seven+ months are likely to be trying, regardless of the results come November. Many, probably most, of US are going to need things to look forward to and (re)learn to be grateful for. Trials, tribulations and turmoil are likely to beset US until we again reach a more stable balance and restore a modicum of, if not tranquility, at least tolerance for those with variant viewpoints.

Nuns Fret Not at Their Convent’s Narrow Room

By William Wordsworth

Nuns fret not at their convent’s narrow room;

And hermits are contented with their cells;

And students with their pensive citadels;

Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom,

Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom,

High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells,

Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells:

In truth the prison, into which we doom

Ourselves, no prison is: and hence for me,

In sundry moods, ’twas pastime to be bound

Within the Sonnet’s scanty plot of ground;

Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs must be)

Who have felt the weight of too much liberty,

Should find brief solace there, as I have found.

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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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Grown old isn’t always grown up

Winter in Minnesota often makes me feel like a five or six year old stuck in the back seat of the family car on a too long drive to somewhere nice. I get testy and tease my fellow passengers, causing friction, while asking in a whiny voice “Are we there yet? When will we get there?”

maybe if I had a sled?

Photo by J. Harrington

The problem isn’t that I don’t know better, it’s that I find it quite difficult to do better. I’m bored! There’s nothing (fun) to do. If I go out to play, it’s too cold to have fun, especially with a runny, drippy nose. Is it April yet? When will we get there?

Fortunately, I have some toys to play with inside where it’s not as cold as outside. But, for example, there’s not enough room in the house to practice fly casting so when I get a rod, reel, and line cleaned up and ready to go there’s nought to do with it but put it away again. That’s irritating.

I fully realize that my complaints are petty and trivial in the context of the world’s problems. There’s food on our table, a roof over our heads, the heat makes the house almost comfortable. Now, try selling that to a bored six year old.

I’ve managed to grow old(er?) without growing up. That may make me like most Americans. We appear to have become more petulant and self-centered as individuals and a society as we’ve aged and prospered as a country. If you listen carefully, you’ll hear lots of “me, me, me, me ....” that isn’t a singer tuning up or practicing.

As an example, many in Congress are upset that POTUS notified Congress of the military strikes in Yemen but didn’t ask permission. Those are members of the same Congress that’s setting records for lack of accomplishment? Perhaps they should take a look at the US Constitution, Article 1, Section 8.

President Biden’s statement appears to me to be compatible with probable authorizations under several provisions of Section 8 and with historical precedent. If you want to delve into how messy this topic can get, try researching the “Gulf of Tonkin” resolution.

My point here is that I’ve previously expressed concern over Biden’s age but now must acknowledge that he has acquired maturity and experience as he’s aged. Unfortunately for the country, that’s more than I can say about any of his potential opponents in either (any) party.

The Wise King

By Kahlil Gibran

Once there ruled in the distant city of Wirani a king who was both
mighty and wise.  And he was feared for his might and loved for
his wisdom.
 
Now, in the heart of that city was a well, whose water was cool and
crystalline, from which all the inhabitants drank, even the king
and his courtiers; for there was no other well.
 
One night when all were asleep, a witch entered the city, and poured
seven drops of strange liquid into the well, and said, “From this
hour he who drinks this water shall become mad.”
 
Next morning all the inhabitants, save the king and his lord
chamberlain, drank from the well and became mad, even as the witch
had foretold.
 
And during that day the people in the narrow streets and in the
market places did naught but whisper to one another, “The king is
mad.  Our king and his lord chamberlain have lost their reason.
Surely we cannot be ruled by a mad king.  We must dethrone him.”
 
That evening the king ordered a golden goblet to be filled from the
well.  And when it was brought to him he drank deeply, and gave it
to his lord chamberlain to drink.
 
And there was great rejoicing in that distant city of Wirani,
because its king and its lord chamberlain had regained their reason.

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Fly fishing for whirled peas?

I’ve grumped enough about seemingly endless cloudy skies that it would be irresponsible of me to fail to mention today’s blue skies and sunshine, being brought to US by an impending bitter cold Arctic blast and snow storm starting tomorrow. At least for some of US, winter in the North Country is like being asked which eye we want the sharp stick in. It would be logical to ask why, if I’m so disgruntled, I don’t go back where I came from. Were I asked, I’d reply with a different question: Have you seen what the East Coast weather has been like the last few years? We’ve created a world in which almost everyone only gets to jump from a frying pan into a fire. Much the same also applies to politics.

could any of these lure you into fly fishing?

Photo by J. Harrington

Is it possible that hyperindividualism, plus neoliberal, global capitalism feeding consumer-driven economies may not be the healthiest combination for longevity of the species? I’m asking for a friend and their prospective descendants. One of the issues with all the choices available to many of US is that in lots of instances, we may be looking at distinctions without a difference, as my lawyer friends would say. Personally, I don’t feel like spending five or six minutes looking through toothpastes to find the version I want. Most days I find software updates provide counterproductive changes, especially since there’s rarely, if ever, a chance to turn them off. If you think I’m being too harsh, take a look at what AI (artificial intelligence) is doing to many sectors of the economies and to intellectual property.

Of course, the fact that I have more books than I can read, and more coffee than I can drink, and more clothes than I can wear, even on a really cold day, is a different set of issues, right? (cf. hyperindividualism) Once upon a time, our politics were supposed to lead to compromise or consensus. Remember something about “the greatest good for the greatest number?” Remember when cities and hinterlands recognized their interdependence? Remember what civility and tolerance were like? One of the things I like about fly fishing is that organizations and anglers who participate in it continue to acknowledge ethics and codes of conduct. Maybe we need to convince more and more folks to become fly fishers as a way to bring back some essential behaviors. What do you think?

My Heart Leaps Up

William Wordsworth
1770 – 1850

My heart leaps up when I behold 
   A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began; 
So is it now I am a man; 
So be it when I shall grow old, 
   Or let me die!
The Child is father of the Man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.

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’Twas 10 days before Christmas

I bet at least once you’ve gone down a flight of stairs that had one more, or less, step than you expected. It threw you off balance for a bit. That’s how I’m feeling every time I think we’ve finally got squared away for Christmas. This morning we nearly ran out of packing tape. Spare C cell batteries had been placed in service, so backups were needed. Another package of Christmas cookies needed a ride to the post office. (The union for Santa’s elves is starting to nag me to join.) And, since we burn candles more at this season, candle lighters are getting exhausted with spares needed. Maybe next week will be more quiet.

my preferred kind of snow flake

Photo by J. Harrington

The Better Half informs me that most, but not all, the Christmas cookie baking is attended to. I keep reminding myself that cloudy, rainy weather could be worse. It could be snow or ice (freezing rain). Anyhow, tomorrow morning we’ll visit the Granddaughter and I’ll attempt to read a solstice book to her. Several years ago we picked up a copy of The Shortest Day, and I’ve come to really enjoy it, even if I’m the closest we can come to pass for a young’un to read it to.

Many years Christmas has brought wonderful presents such as clothes, books or food, but no toys for me to play with. This year I’ve figured out a solution to that issue. I will have dug out of storage and have set up, ready to play with, several fly-tying kits I bought a year or two ago and never got around to assembling. Post-Christmas tying will keep my hands, eyes and mind busy and provide something to fantasize about when warmer weather comes. After all, a guy can only wear so many clothes, each so much food and read so many books at one time. If this seems strange in a Christmas posting, take a look at yesterday’s blog.

We’ve cut it close, but today is the best available time for today’s poem, just like the best time to plant a tree was twenty years ago and the second best time is today.

The Twelve Days of Christmas

By Anonymous

The first day of Christmas, 

My true love sent to me 

A partridge in a pear tree. 

The second day of Christmas, 

My true love sent to me 

Two turtle doves, and 

A partridge in a pear tree. 

The third day of Christmas, 

My true love sent to me 

Three French hens, 

Two turtle doves, and 

A partridge in a pear tree. 

The fourth day of Christmas, 

My true love sent to me 

Four colly birds, 

Three French hens, 

Two turtle doves, and 

A partridge in a pear tree. 

The fifth day of Christmas, 

My true love sent to me 

Five gold rings, 

Four colly birds, 

Three French hens, 

Two turtle doves, and 

A partridge in a pear tree. 

The sixth day of Christmas, 

My true love sent to me 

Six geese a-laying, 

Five gold rings, 

Four colly birds, 

Three French hens, 

Two turtle doves, and 

A partridge in a pear tree. 

The seventh day of Christmas, 

My true love sent to me 

Seven swans a-swimming, 

Six geese a-laying, 

Five gold rings, 

Four colly birds, 

Three French hens, 

Two turtle doves, and 

A partridge in a pear tree. 

The eighth day of Christmas, 

My true love sent to me 

Eight maids a-milking, 

Seven swans a-swimming, 

Six geese a-laying, 

Five gold rings, 

Four colly birds, 

Three French hens, 

Two turtle doves, and 

A partridge in a pear tree. 

The ninth day of Christmas, 

My true love sent to me 

Nine drummers drumming, 

Eight maids a-milking, 

Seven swans a-swimming, 

Six geese a-laying, 

Five gold rings, 

Four colly birds, 

Three French hens, 

Two turtle doves, and 

A partridge in a pear tree. 

The tenth day of Christmas, 

My true love sent to me 

Ten pipers piping, 

Nine drummers drumming, 

Eight maids a-milking, 

Seven swans a-swimming, 

Six geese a-laying, 

Five gold rings, 

Four colly birds, 

Three French hens, 

Two turtle doves, and 

A partridge in a pear tree. 

The eleventh day of Christmas 

My true love sent to me 

Eleven ladies dancing, 

Ten pipers piping, 

Nine drummers drumming, 

Eight maids a-milking, 

Seven swans a-swimming, 

Six geese a-laying, 

Five gold rings, 

Four colly birds, 

Three French hens, 

Two turtle doves, and 

A partridge in a pear tree. 

The twelfth day of Christmas 

My true love sent to me 

Twelve fiddlers fiddling, 

Eleven ladies dancing, 

Ten pipers piping, 

Nine drummers drumming, 

Eight maids a-milking, 

Seven swans a-swimming, 

Six geese a-laying, 

Five gold rings, 

Four colly birds, 

Three French hens, 

Two turtle doves, and 

A partridge in a pear tree.

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Why? Fish!

Here’s an early holiday present for those who celebrate Hanukkah, Solstice, Alban Arthan, Christmas, New Year’s, or anything else at this time of year. File it under Nature Bathing, Self Care!

the charm of fishing is that it is the pursuit of what is elusive but attainable, a perpetual series of occasions for hope

Photo by J. Harrington

Testament of a Fisherman

I fish because I love to. Because I love the environs where trout are found, which are invariably beautiful, and hate the environs where crowds of people are found, which are invariably ugly. Because of all the television commercials, cocktail parties, and assorted social posturing I thus escape. Because in a world where most men seem to spend their lives doing what they hate, my fishing is at once an endless source of delight and an act of small rebellion. Because trout do not lie or cheat and cannot be bought or bribed, or impressed by power, but respond only to quietude and humility, and endless patience. Because I suspect that men are going this way for the last time and I for one don’t want to waste the trip. Because mercifully there are no telephones on trout waters. Because in the woods I can find solitude without loneliness. … And finally, not because I regard fishing as being so terribly important, but because I suspect that so many of the other concerns of men are equally unimportant and not nearly so much fun.

— Robert Traver, Anatomy of a Fisherman

The Song of Wandering Aengus

By William Butler Yeats

I went out to the hazel wood,

Because a fire was in my head,

And cut and peeled a hazel wand,

And hooked a berry to a thread;

And when white moths were on the wing,

And moth-like stars were flickering out,

I dropped the berry in a stream

And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor

I went to blow the fire a-flame,

But something rustled on the floor,

And someone called me by my name:

It had become a glimmering girl

With apple blossom in her hair

Who called me by my name and ran

And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering

Through hollow lands and hilly lands,

I will find out where she has gone,

And kiss her lips and take her hands;

And walk among long dappled grass,

And pluck till time and times are done,

The silver apples of the moon,

The golden apples of the sun. 

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As Solstice nears

For those of us in the Northern Hemisphere, Winter Solstice is three weeks from today. Druids celebrate it as Alban Arthan (The Light of Arthur). By December’s end, days will again be growing longer, although we in the North Country still will face several months of cold and snow.

If you visit this blog with any regularity, you’ve probably noted by now that I’m not much of a winter person. In my younger days I enjoyed ice skating, tried skiing, both downhill and cross-country, rode a snowmobile once, and even drove on ice a couple of times. I have also put a four-wheel-drive vehicle into a full skid twice on snow-covered roads. I do better with boats, shotguns and fly-fishing rods when temperatures are well above freezing. If the weather we’re enjoying this week continued until April, you’d not hear a peep of complaint from me, as long as the lack of snow didn’t cause the septic system to freeze up.

cardinals often look their best in winter

Photo by J. Harrington

Winter, for me, is a wonderful time to try playing with any Christmas toys Santa left, and reading poetry, and reorganizing and repairing gear for next spring, summer and autumn’s outdoor activities. It’s also prime time for reading poetry, tying flies, baking bread and recuperating from the aforementioned three seasons’ activities. This winter we’re also trying to organize and thin out our almost excessive book collection. That will depend on the amount of time we need to spend blowing and/or plowing snow, walking dogs, and other winter chores, all the time looking forward to the arrival of Spring Equinox.

Winter in all of Our Lives

There is a winter in all of our lives, 
a chill and darkness that makes us yearn 
for days that have gone 
or put our hope in days yet to be. 
Father God, you created seasons for a purpose. 
Spring is full of expectation 
buds breaking 
frosts abating and an awakening 
of creation before the first days of summer. 
Now the sun gives warmth 
and comfort to our lives 
reviving aching joints
bringing colour, new life
and crops to fruiting. 
Autumn gives nature space 
to lean back, relax and enjoy the fruits of its labour 
mellow colours in sky and landscape 
as the earth prepares to rest. 
Then winter, cold and bare as nature takes stock
rests, unwinds, sleeps until the time is right. 
An endless cycle
and yet a perfect model. 
We need a winter in our lives 
a time of rest, a time to stand still 
a time to reacquaint ourselves 
with the faith in which we live. 
It is only then that we can draw strength 
from the one in whom we are rooted
take time to grow and rise through the darkness 
into the warm glow of your springtime 
to blossom and flourish 
bring colour and vitality into this world
your garden.
Thank you Father 
for the seasons of our lives.

- Author Unknown

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Seasoned giving, this hard thing

Here in Minnesota, today is “Give to the Max Day.” My email inbox and our snail mail box have been getting loaded with notices about how much we can help everyone and everything by donating early or today. I’ve contributed to a few organizations and rejected more opportunities than I’ve supported. Many requests don’t do a good job of explaining what the organization actually accomplishes. That’s unfortunate. I realize that we’re better off than many and feel an obligation to help, but I also feel an obligation to be responsible in my giving.

At one point I must have supported an organization that sold my name and email address because I’m getting requests from folks i’d never consider giving a donation and, as I get more and more of them, I become more critical in my screening of all potential contributions. That’s not really how I like to enter the giving season. Of course, I also fail to understand why “moderate” Republicans and all Democrats haven’t made it clear to the dozen or two radical Republicans that they’ll never get any support because they’re making everyone look bad.

what are you hoping for under the tree?

Photo by J. Harrington

On a brighter note, I’m thankful we’ll get through the holidays before the country faces the next government shutdown crisis. I’m thankful things aren’t worse than they are. I’m looking forward to being thankful that governments throughout the world have become more responsible, less warmongerish, and more focused on addressing climate change and loss of biodiversity. (It doesn’t cost any more to wish big than small.) The package I’m looking for is me, happy and healthy; plus the same for those in my family, my friends, my home state, my country, and my (our) world. We can do it if we all try. Just ask Carrie Newcomer.

You Can Do This Hard Thing

by Carrie Newcomer

There at the table

With my head in my hands

A column of numbers

I just did not understand

You said “Add these together

Carry the two, now you."

You can do this hard thing

You can do this hard thing

It′s not easy I know but

I believe that it's so

You can do this hard thing

At a cold winter station

Breathing into our gloves

It would change me forever

Leaving for God knows what

You carried my bags

You said "I′ll wait for you"

You can do this hard thing

You can do this hard thing

It's not easy I know but

I believe that it's so

You can do this hard thing

Late at night I called

And you answered the phone

The worst it had happened

And I did not want to be alone

You quietly listened

You said “We′ll see this thru"

You can do this hard thing

You can do this hard thing

It′s not easy I know but

I believe that it's so

You can do this hard thing

Here we stand breathless

And pressed in hard times

Hearts hung like laundry

On backyard clothes lines

Impossible just takes

A little more time

From the muddy ground

Comes a green volunteer

In a place we thought

Barren new life appears

Morning will come whistling

Some comforting tune for you

You can do this hard thing

You can do this hard thing

It′s not easy I know but

I believe that it's so

You can do this hard thing

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May a peace full season be upon US

Briefly, very briefly, this morning’s sunrise was spectacular. Then the clouds finished closing in and the array of pinks and roses and tangerines disappeared. Speaking of the loss of vibrant colors, today is the final day of firearms deer season in our area. Tomorrow the fluorescent orange (and pink) goes back in the closet until next November. Now we can really focus on the reds, greens, and whites of the impending holiday season.

Photo by J. Harrington

As an early present to myself, and for which I’ll be truly full of thanks, I’m going to minimize the attention I pay to politics and world affairs for the rest of this year, unless the topic is something about which I can do something other than fuss and fume. I’ve let the crazy MAGAts squat rent free in my head too much for too long and I’m hereby evicting them. As insensitive as it may seem, the last time I read the Bible, it was full of stories of the peoples of the Mideast making war on and/or enslaving each other. So what else is new? I wonder if we could make current warring inhabitants of the region sit still and listen to all of the many, different, artists performing covers of Pete Seeger’s Where Have All the Flowers Gone?

A good part of the problem is evidenced in Congress and its continuing demonstration that it doesn’t take too many self-centered, greedy, extremists to wreck things for everyone else. When I was young, we used to refuse to play with kids like that. Why can’t “grownups” remember that lesson? Properly done, shunning, isolation, rejecting obstreperous obstructionists could have a beneficial effect on the rest of US and the world.

Gates of Eden

Written by: Bob Dylan 

Of war and peace the truth just twists
Its curfew gull just glides
Upon four-legged forest clouds
The cowboy angel rides
With his candle lit into the sun
Though its glow is waxed in black
All except when ’neath the trees of Eden

The lamppost stands with folded arms
Its iron claws attached
To curbs ’neath holes where babies wail
Though it shadows metal badge
All and all can only fall
With a crashing but meaningless blow
No sound ever comes from the Gates of Eden

The savage soldier sticks his head in sand
And then complains
Unto the shoeless hunter who’s gone deaf
But still remains
Upon the beach where hound dogs bay
At ships with tattooed sails
Heading for the Gates of Eden

With a time-rusted compass blade
Aladdin and his lamp
Sits with Utopian hermit monks
Sidesaddle on the Golden Calf
And on their promises of paradise
You will not hear a laugh
All except inside the Gates of Eden

Relationships of ownership
They whisper in the wings
To those condemned to act accordingly
And wait for succeeding kings
And I try to harmonize with songs
The lonesome sparrow sings
There are no kings inside the Gates of Eden

The motorcycle black madonna
Two-wheeled gypsy queen
And her silver-studded phantom cause
The gray flannel dwarf to scream
As he weeps to wicked birds of prey
Who pick up on his bread crumb sins
And there are no sins inside the Gates of Eden

The kingdoms of Experience
In the precious wind they rot
While paupers change possessions
Each one wishing for what the other has got
And the princess and the prince
Discuss what’s real and what is not
It doesn’t matter inside the Gates of Eden

The foreign sun, it squints upon
A bed that is never mine
As friends and other strangers
From their fates try to resign
Leaving men wholly, totally free
To do anything they wish to do but die
And there are no trials inside the Gates of Eden

At dawn my lover comes to me
And tells me of her dreams
With no attempts to shovel the glimpse
Into the ditch of what each one means
At times I think there are no words
But these to tell what’s true
And there are no truths outside the Gates of Eden

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Will we soon be able to give thanks for peace?

Early this morning, the dogs and I saw a beautiful crescent moon almost cradling Venus in the predawn eastern sky. It was beautiful enough to make it worthwhile to be up and out at that hour walking the dogs. Perhaps an even bigger surprise was that the sky was finally clear enough to see the moon and Venus and the stars. Even the wind had a temporary lull in its howling. A rare moment of peace in our corner of the world. Would that others could share moments like that for even longer periods.

Tamaracks have turned golden. Many have shed half or more of their needles. Our local swamps, bogs and wet lands are looking somewhat shorn and forlorn but ice free so far. The local big box grocery store already has Christmas greenery for sale. (They might have had it on display before today but I’ve not been there for a week or more.) Thanksgiving is two weeks from today so the greenery is almost in season. Not only have I not started Christmas shopping, I’ve barely begun a Christmas list for me.

may all enjoy the peace of Nature

Photo by J. Harrington

Looking ahead, one of my wishes for the season, and a great reason to get a jump on the season, is for peace on earth, good will toward men, especially in the region where Christ walked the earth, and anywhere else ravaged these days by war or hatred. Although we’re still in the phase where days get shorter, may those with good will hope for a solstice that brings not only longer, but truly brighter days for all. That would obviously be something for which men of good will would give thanks. That’s how we can tell if they’re men of good will.

Perhaps the World Ends Here

Joy Harjo     1951 – 

The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.

The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.

We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.

It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.

At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.

Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.

This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.

Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.

We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.

At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.

Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.

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Peace, not piece, of mind

So far we seem to have survived Halloween and the loss of Daylight Savings Time. Next comes election day on Tuesday, November 7, followed by Veterans Day, and then some breathing room until Thanksgiving, at which point we’re well into the Christmas season. Something for which I’ll be thankful this month, yet ask Santa for more of come Christmas, is peace of mind. I’m slowly learning that giving others a piece of my mind is usually contrary to enjoying my own peace of mind. Unfortunately, many, many, aspects of life are easier said than done. Practicing “live and let live” does not come easily to me after many years of acting to the contrary.

peaceful November dawn

Photo by J. Harrington

Getting through the next year, until the next election and thereafter, is likely to be a trying time for many of US. So have many past years been painful and stressful. My hope is that this time things will feel bad enough for enough of US that we’ll engage in real transformational change rather than taking two aspirin and putting a band-aid on, as if we only had an “owie." The world’s leading democracy has come frighteningly close to becoming a political autocracy as well as a corporate oligarchy. I doubt very much that wall to wall high-speed internet, augmented by Artificial Intelligence creating and distributing mis and disinformation will help.

If we look at our evolutionary history, it’s clear that, for the most part, the rate and quantity of change to which we’ve had to adapt has been much less for most of our history than that which we’ve been facing for the last century or so. I have real doubts that we’re genetically equipped to catch up. To get a better feel regarding the basis of my concerns, please go read about the Sorcerer’s Apprentice. Think about how few of US are truly masters of anything, beginning with ourselves.

There are signs about which we can be hopeful: the dams on the Klamath River are coming out; the Biden administration is beginning to get serious about economic development and rural development. Now, if we can get them to support and promote the Green New Deal, things will look much better, but first we have to unelect Republicans and repair their damage. That’s what a lot of the next twelve to sixty months are about.

Making Peace

By Denise Levertov

A voice from the dark called out,

             ‘The poets must give us

imagination of peace, to oust the intense, familiar

imagination of disaster. Peace, not only

the absence of war.’

                                   But peace, like a poem,

is not there ahead of itself,

can’t be imagined before it is made,

can’t be known except

in the words of its making,

grammar of justice,

syntax of mutual aid.

                                       A feeling towards it,

dimly sensing a rhythm, is all we have

until we begin to utter its metaphors,

learning them as we speak.

                                              A line of peace might appear

if we restructured the sentence our lives are making,

revoked its reaffirmation of profit and power,

questioned our needs, allowed

long pauses . . .

                        A cadence of peace might balance its weight

on that different fulcrum; peace, a presence,

an energy field more intense than war,

might pulse then,

stanza by stanza into the world,

each act of living

one of its words, each word

a vibration of light—facets

of the forming crystal.

********************************************
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Please be kind to each other while you can.

Feeding frenzy

This week I gave myself an early Christmas present. I bought a copy of Peter Kaminsky’s Fly Fisherman’s Guide to the Meaning of Life and started reading it. In one of the first few chapters, he describes striped bass in a feeding frenzy in terms that reminded me of years ago when I fished for stripers and bluefish off Cape Cod and Martha’s Vineyard.

“Bass! Thousands of them, all around us.Mad with bloodlust. Heedless of our boat. They banged against it with their bodies as they  chomped their way through  the ball of bait...."

the charm of fishing is that it is the pursuit of what is elusive but attainable,

a perpetual series of occasions for hope

Photo by J. Harrington

Unfortunately, it also made me think about  the way too many of us are reacting to various bits and pieces of news these days. No matter which group we’re in, we seem to be in a perpetual feeding frenzy over the wrongs committed by the other side. One example: there was a photo of a group of House members kneeling in prayer on the House floor and social media promptly became enraged about the start of a christo-fascist era. The series of reactions online was distressingly like bloodlust, and yet...

Doesn’t each house of Congress have a chaplain? Doesn’t our money claim “In God We Trust?” Should we be offended by those expressions of belief? As long as such belief doesn’t become mandatory, I think not. I’m a devout agnostic so I’m sensitive about that.

The Hamas-Israeli war seems to allow no acknowledgement that there is a long history of hostility that remained unresolved for too long. Now there is little tolerance for acknowledging degrees of fault on either side or with world powers for lack of leadership.

Will we now move from book banning to book burning? Isn't distorting and failing to acknowledge history part of what’s triggering Middle East hostilities? Shouldn’t we focus on teaching our children how to think rather than what to think? As we continue to be in each other’s faces and at each other’s throats, have we ever stopped to wonder who it is that thinks they benefit by keeping US in a feeding frenzy on each other?

I’m not here to propose solutions as much as I’m trying to point out we seem to be getting played, and have been for a long time. I grew up in a neighborhood where we kids taught  each other “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.” If that’s not good enough, let’s remember that our “Judeo-Christian” culture is largely based on the teachings of someone who proposed “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.” That  leaves me out. What  about you? Never mind tenderness and love, Let’s try to start (again) with a little tolerance.

This Morning I Pray for My Enemies

Joy Harjo     1951 – 

And whom do I call my enemy?
An enemy must be worthy of engagement.
I turn in the direction of the sun and keep walking.
It’s the heart that asks the question, not my furious mind.
The heart is the smaller cousin of the sun.
It sees and knows everything.
It hears the gnashing even as it hears the blessing.
The door to the mind should only open from the heart.
An enemy who gets in, risks the danger of becoming a friend.

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Peace, Salam, Shalom

THIS MAY BE MY LAST  POSTING HERE SINCE GOOGLE INSISTS ON TRACKING ME IF I  WANT  TO ADD A PHOTO. “DON’T BE EVIL" MY ASS! 

If I can post text without having to sign in to a Google account, I’ll try that for a while as I look around for an alternative platform.

Now, to today’s post:

*****************

There's too much stupidity and anger in the world these days. The closest I can come to an effective response is:

1. Spend more time as a part of Nature
2. Listen more to Carrie Newcomer
3. Read and think about today’s poem.

That’s it for now.

Making Peace

By Denise Levertov

A voice from the dark called out,

             ‘The poets must give us

imagination of peace, to oust the intense, familiar

imagination of disaster. Peace, not only

the absence of war.’

                                   But peace, like a poem,

is not there ahead of itself,

can’t be imagined before it is made,

can’t be known except

in the words of its making,

grammar of justice,

syntax of mutual aid.

                                       A feeling towards it,

dimly sensing a rhythm, is all we have

until we begin to utter its metaphors,

learning them as we speak.

                                              A line of peace might appear

if we restructured the sentence our lives are making,

revoked its reaffirmation of profit and power,

questioned our needs, allowed

long pauses . . .

                        A cadence of peace might balance its weight

on that different fulcrum; peace, a presence,

an energy field more intense than war,

might pulse then,

stanza by stanza into the world,

each act of living

one of its words, each word

a vibration of light—facets

of the forming crystal.

********************************************
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.

Blowing smoke about blowing snow

Snowblower’s gassed, oiled and ready to go. Several years ago I bought a new Husqvarna. I can’t recommend them but haven’t carefully checked alternatives. Oil changes are difficult to almost impossible; the heated handle has never really worked; the dip stick is located right under the exhaust discharge, and the manual scatters the info needed to do an oil change over three widely separated pages. 

October 20, 3 years ago

Photo by J. Harrington

Will being ready for snow buy an extended, snow-free autumn? We’ll see. The snow flakes that were in the extended weather forecast have disappeared. so that’s a good sign. It looks as though this weekend will bring peak leaf color to our neighborhood. Local woods are looking gorgeous. Not everything is a royal pain and at least we don’t live in the Middle East or Jim Jordan’s gerrymandered district.

As I write this, I’m nursing several new holes in my hide. A “check up” trip to the doctor’s this morning ended up with a couple of blood draws and a COVID booster. That’s the end of this seasons shots: Flu, RSV, and today’s. I suppose the progress is that there are vaccines, not that three classes of diseases have become annual threats for some of US.

Reviewing the front pages of international newspapers, it appears the only thing missing is an alien attack from space. Stay tuned. Slashdot notes an increase in UFO reports. The chaos in the Republican caucus in the House is pathetic and an indication of serious stumbling blocks obstructing eventual funding of the federal government. Plus, farmers are in a world of growing hurt without reauthorization of a farm bill. Meanwhile, retailers continue to prematurely install Christmas decoration exhibits. If I were a Christian fundamentalist, I could well believe these are signs of End Times. Since I’m a student Druid Bard, I’m going to study storytelling, poetry and the like and offer prayers and spells for better days.

Peace Walk

By William E. Stafford

We wondered what our walk should mean,

taking that un-march quietly;

the sun stared at our signs— “Thou shalt not kill.”

Men by a tavern said, “Those foreigners . . .”

to a woman with a fur, who turned away—

like an elevator going down, their look at us.

Along a curb, their signs lined across,

a picket line stopped and stared

the whole width of the street, at ours: “Unfair.”

Above our heads the sound truck blared—

by the park, under the autumn trees—

it said that love could fill the atmosphere:

Occur, slow the other fallout, unseen,

on islands everywhere—fallout, falling

unheard. We held our poster up to shade our eyes.

At the end we just walked away;

no one was there to tell us where to leave the signs.

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Courage, wisdom, serenity

Tomorrow has the makings of an interesting day, especially in Florida. I suspect I’ll be busy with some personal business and will only check in on any goings on from time to time. I do find it fascinating that Hitler committed suicide before he could be brought to justice. Does giving any credibility to a claim that a federal indictment is baseless suggest that the US has gone soft on law and order or just that not as many folks died of COVID and sharing top secret national security tidbits as were murdered in gas ovens? The fact that an orange monster is the “front runner” for a major party presidential nomination certainly adds credibility to rumors of the failure of the American education system. Whatever happened to root cause analysis and critical thinking skills?

no rain, no sun, no rainbow

Photo by J. Harrington

A long time ago I learned a short version of a sweet prayer that I’ve been repeating more and more often recently. It’s called the Serenity Prayer and it goes like this:

God grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change;
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference.

It’s the third part that most often gives me a hard time. I have a feeling this week I’ll need all the wisdom and grace I can get my hands on, as may most of us who are thinking and caring people.

My Wisdom

By Naomi Shihab Nye

When people have a lot

they want more

 

When people have nothing

they will happily share it

 

*

 

Some people say

never getting your way

builds character

By now our character must be

deep and wide as a continent

Africa, Australia

giant cascade of stars

spilling over our huge night

 

*

 

Where did the power go?

Did it enjoy its break?

Is power exhausted?

What is real power?

Who really has power?

Did the generator break?

Do we imagine silence

more powerful because

it might contain everything?

Quiet always lives

inside noise.

But does it get much done?

 

*

 

Silence waits

for truth to break it

 

*

 

Calendars can weep too

They want us to have better days

 

*

 

Welcome to every minute

Feel lucky you’re still in it

 

*

 

No bird builds a wall

 

*

 

Sky purse

     jingling

           change

 

*

 

Won’t give up

our hopes

            for anything!

 

*

 

Not your fault

You didn’t make the world

 

*

 

How dare this go on and on?

cried the person who believed in praying

God willing     God willing        God willing

There were others who prayed

   to ruins & stumps

 

*

 

Open palms

     hold more

 

*

 

Refuse to give

   mistakes

      too much power

 

 

*

Annoying person?

Person who told me to stay home

and do what other girls do?

If you disappeared

I still might miss you

 

*

 

Babies want to help us

They laugh

for no reason

 

*

 

Pay close attention to

a drop of water

on the kitchen table

 

*

 

You cannot say one word about religion

and exclude Ahmad

********************************************
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