Rest beside the weary road

Remember . . . even when the moon is waning, it’s never actually changing shape.  (Yazawa)

Within each of there is a Child . . . (Jung)

Remember BessieJune, the wise child from The Yella Rose Schoolhouse down Texas way, the narrator of the Yella Rose Schoolhouse stories?  (See blog entry, 6-13-19)  As I immersed myself in my early-morning reveries this morning, she reminded me in no uncertain terms to get off my butt and go outside, that there was a full Wolf Moon in the sky to be seen.  And so I ventured forth into the frosty pre-dawn in my wooly robe and slippers to commune with it for a few minutes in 15 degree temps.

She was right.  It was indeed spectacular, and the slightly frozen photograph that I share with you above doesn’t do it justice.

Full moons occur when the moon is on the far side of the sun, 180 degrees opposite Earth, and getting the full reflection of the sun.  The Wolf Moon supposedly got its name from the wolves hungrily howling outside of Native American villages in the depths of winter.  Myth suggests that it calls us to release those things which no longer serve us well, and to set new intentions.

Never one to let a good myth pass without honor, on this morning I let go of (or at least resolved to make a valiant attempt to do so) all those anxious thoughts that interfere with my seeing life as the astonishing adventure that it is.

BessieJune was pleased.

 

. . . Perhaps that is where our choice lies . . . In determining how we will greet each new beginning.  (Arnold)

-creativity lies in connecting the seemingly unconnected- (Plomer)

It has been a week of allowing body parts that weren’t recognized as being tense slowly relax, and letting grace-filled words like “not broken, simply unfinished” (Gorman) sink into a troubled heart.

The pandemic still rages.  Vaccine distribution is problematic.  Political games by power figures still appall, while lives hang in the balance.  Economic anxiety and pain.  Mental and emotional stress take a toll.  And on and on . . .

But even as sleet falls today, I sense a hint of spring, a touch of green pushing upward from somewhere deep in frozen earth.  And a call to create, to connect the unconnected, to see opportunity in even the seemingly deepest injustice.

The seed catalogue lies opened on my table, and I am dreaming of masses of flowers and new varieties of vining spinach.  Even a steaming cup of tea offers new possibilities for conversation that has never been before, even if it is only with ourselves.

 

 

 

 

 

 

A write-your-own-story pictorial essay from Suzy Bell and the Wolf:  In Praise of the Eternal Things

Signed:  Suzy Bellisimo and Wolf. (See The No-named Story: The Road North, 4-29-19)

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A reminder:  you do not need to fix yourself or anyone else.  You need to support and take care of yourself.  (Me)

Not to be a drama queen or anything, but —- Oh, woe.  In this January, 2021 fragile moment, divisive rhetoric and behavior is all too often a process we find occurring.  Maybe it’s always been this way, I don’t know, but it sure seems like we’re more polarized than we’ve ever been in my life.

Pluralism means allowing for a reality in which we can all hold different beliefs, and recognizing that we shouldn’t impose our beliefs on other people.  Extreme ideologies usually maintain that other versions of reality aren’t acceptable.  Accepting pluralism when one is deeply ideologically committed is difficult.  If one feels like they’re being told they are wrong, “psychological reactance” kicks in and we then dig in and become even more committed to the extreme idea.

Rather than getting involved in this vicious cycle, perhaps we need to step aside from the temptation to convince anyone else of the absolute rightness of our position, and instead encourage ourselves and others to engage in acts of self-care, and caring for others in our families and in our communities.  Engaging in kindness every time we feel that all too familiar temptation to sound off . . .

It might be an alternative that can’t go wrong.  And maybe, just maybe, in extending that kindness to ourselves and others, we will realize our deep and absolute kinship with all others, humans, plants, animals, the earth.

The best way to ease anxiety is to move into your alter ego.  (Ghosh)

You grow up the day you learn to laugh —- at yourself.  (Barrymore)

In Shrinkese, we blather on a lot about the population of inner characters we each have within us.  You could call ‘em character or personality traits, your inner congregation, your alter egos, whatever. Lots of them you’re aware of, some of ‘em I hope you will have the gift of still discovering.  They can be good, bad, indifferent . . .  To call on these characters when you need ‘em can serve you well.  And the cool thing is that they are all part of the wondrous and unique person that you are.

Just a few of the characters who live inside of me who have graced these pages over the last three years —- Suzy Bell.  Gertie.  The Unnamed “Ghost” of Old Country Store and Post Office and Little Yella Schoolhouse fame.  Miz Suze.  Remember ‘em?  They’ve afforded me lots of amusement (and maybe at times even given you a smile or wakened a thought.  Or not.)

In the midst of pandemic and social and political confusion and bewilderment, I decided now would be a fine time to call upon some alter ego escapism,  So I am contemplating who offers the best resources upon which to draw right now . . .

Or maybe even . . .

Stay tuned . . .

 

 

 

 

 

Question:  Why do you never see elephants hiding in trees?  Answer:  Because they’re really good at hiding.  (tv commercial)

And the elephant in the middle of the room is? (Almost anyone)

I can do no other than be reverent before everything that is called life.  I can do no other than to have compassion for all that is called life, that of plants and animals, as well as that of others.   That is the beginning and foundation of all ethics.  (Albert Schweitzer)

There is an academic tradition called “the last lecture” —-Hypothetically, if you knew you were going to die tomorrow, what would you say in your last lecture to your students?

Over afternoon tea yesterday, my sister and I were talking about a Native American (Appalachian Cherokee) myth that parallels the Garden of Eden story which tells that the consequences of we folks missing the mark was that, rather than being tossed out of the Garden, we would no longer be able to understand the speech of animals.  The enormity of what the loss of that kind of communion would be like struck me anew.

Although animal behavior has always been a special interest and very close to my heart, I’d never thought a great deal about elephants until I received a donation to the Elephant Sanctuary in Tennessee in my husband’s honor following his death.  Since then, what I’ve learned is that elephants, like humans, run to meet family and friends, play in water on a hot day, have close bonds between mothers and daughters that can last for over fifty years, mourn for their loved ones, and even engage in empathetic and altruistic behaviors such as  making repeated attempts to help a baby rhinoceros stuck in deep mud (psu.edu).

I think if I were going to deliver a “last lecture,” it surely would have to do with affirming and encouraging respect and caring and awe for all of the life that shares this beautiful and fragile planet with us.  And then acting in accord with that . . .

My own  personal “elephant in the middle of the room”?  I find that I am most irritated and distressed with myself when I get so caught up in my own short-sighted concerns and self-absorbed preoccupations that I forget that reverence.

There is a plaque on my kitchen wall that reminds me always:  Just to be is a blessing.  Just to live is holy.

 

 

 

Agility is to learn, de-learn, and relearn all the time . . . (Zhu)

. . .catch life with the agility of a dog trying to get a hold of the flying frisbee . . .(iLdan)

She stood in the storm and when the wind did not blow her away, she adjusted her sails.  (Edwards)

Subsidence:  the gradual sinking or caving in of the ground.  (Dictionary)

Reading an article in the Smithsonian this morning about the accelerating phenomenon of subsidence throughout the world gave me pause.  While obviously this is far more significant in other areas of the world than it is on our 35 acres of mountain foothills, we too, are “sinking.”  Perhaps because of the subterranean lair of Eddie, our underground troll (see blog entry of 12/29/17, Finding Gold in Hidden Places)?

At any rate, perhaps this phenomenon is at least partially responsible for the swampy, spongy feel to the earth that I’ve described here before, and gives a reason for paying close attention as we walk on ground over which we had previously hiked without thought.

Which of course, since I will speculate about almost anything to distract myself from disturbing ongoing outer events (which I won’t name yet one more time), led me to wonder about the symbolic significance of “the gradual sinking and caving in of the ground.”  Sayings such as “as solid as the ground on which I stand,” or “standing your ground,” or “finding common grounds” come to mind . . .  And makes me think about how often we use the word “ground” to symbolize something that we think of as unchangeable, solid, something that we count on not changing . . .

It also reminds me of the little ditty we used to sing as children in Sunday school:  The wise man built his house upon the rock   . . . The foolish man built his house upon the sand . . . And the rains came tumbling down . . . The rains came down and the floods came up . . . And the house on the rocks stood firm.

Like I say, I’ll think of almost anything to distract myself, but on the other hand, it really is interesting to think about those “rocks” in our lives that we count on . . . Our families?  Relationships with friends?  Our faith?  The things we love to do?  The sociocultural-political-religious institutions we’ve always known?  Geography?  Science?  Devastation and poverty and injustice and strife?  Or perhaps kindness and generosity and reconciliation?

Within this fragile hour of our history, it would seem that many of these things are shifting as well.

Maybe the only thing we can really be sure of is impermanence.  If we accept “shifting ground” as a reality, maybe we’ll become much more adept in walking across it.  Now there’s a thought that gives me hope  . . . And makes me smile to think that in the process of becoming more agile and resilient, we’ll discover some cool stuff as we navigate the shifting sands of life.  Like Eddie!

 

Nature looks dead in winter because her life is gathered into her heart.  (Macmillan)

I walked in the garden yesterday.  The damp cold of an Appalachian mountain winter has settled into a rhythmic freezing and thawing of the earth, so there was a spongy, swampy feel underfoot.  Most of the raised beds had been cleared in the fall, and lay brown and bare,  but a few dried stalks of tomatoes still hung crazily on their stakes, and tall desiccated cosmos formed eerie sculptures.  Everything else, even the perennial herbs,  was washed of color except for the green glow of boxwoods, and even they seemed withdrawn somehow, as if their souls were off somewhere far away doing boxwood-y sorts of things . . .

My tidy piece thought of clearing the remainder, while another part of me was kinda awed by these ghosts of a garden past.  Oh, yeah, I remember that tomato, an heirloom that gave me only two tomatoes all summer, but those two were absolutely ginormous.  And that lavender, wow, it bloomed three times during the summer . . .  Maybe worthy of leaving a few more months before clearing, and besides, I’m not too crazy about that swampy ground.

I was especially grateful for fresh garden produce during this pandemic summer, and still feel maybe a little strangely attached to the generosity of a garden that coped with a mega crop of stink bugs and cabbage worms, strange and quixotic weather, sometimes neglect, and lotsa four-footed hungry critters, and still gave me large, even if gnawed-upon, crops.  And don’t get me started on how excited I was about all the volunteer flowers —- from what Magic did they come??

A winter walk in the garden, however brief, gave me lotsa gifts yesterday, not the least of which were memories.  My mother planted a large garden right up until her death at 87, even as she hobbled about, bracing herself on a wooden tomato stake with which she dug holes in which to drop grains of corn.  She said to plant a garden was to plant hope.

I won’t clear it till spring.

 

 

Happy New Year!  (all of us)

December 31, 2020.  The last day of a year that will truly live in infamy.

I was raised with a lot of old mountain sayings that probably could describe it pretty well:

That dog don’t hunt . . .

A rusty ole halo an’ skinny white cloud an’ wings full of patches . . .

Gettin’ your horse in a place where you can’t turn around . . .

A pot so crooked that a lid won’t fit it . . .

Won’t miss it no more than a cold draft after the door’s been shut . . .

What can’t be cured must be endured . . .

Betwixt the devil and the deep blue sea . . .

Out of the fryin’ pan and into the fire . . .

Like tryin’ to herd cats . . .

And one that I wasn’t raised with, but have decided to adopt because it speaks perfectly to the futility of some actions:  like tryin’ to pee through six inches of clothes with a three inch penis (by a Mt. Everest climber).

But you know, lots of good memories run through my stream of the year’s memories as well.  Times on the porch swing in the soft warmth of fragrant spring and summer mornings.  The first fresh garden tomato sandwich.  Afternoon teas with my sister.  Walking in circles and more circles and feeling myself getting fitter.  The sense of safety and comfort in watching absolutely trivial repeats on tv with my husband.  Enjoying the animals and the garden and my painting and quilting and all my projects, accomplished or not.  Hiking across the hills and smelling hot sun on the cedars.  The change of the season . . .

But always, a thread of a different kind of anxiety running through it . . .

For better or worse, it’s (almost) over as I write.  If wishes were horses, beggars would ride, but nonetheless, my heart is so full of good wishes in this year ahead for you, me, the people I love, the animals and the trees and on and on.  The world.  You know what they are, and likely wish the same.

May it be so.