A birthright was given away for a tasty tender chop. Since a child, ,that always bothered me, that God did not care that Jacob, the unchosen, the shepherd, the chef, the smoother and younger, Jacob the Trickster, the coyote, bought a birthright for a bowl of stew, and then cos played his brother to fool his own father. So well, in fact that some say that the descendants of Esau are actually Big Foot
I was taught some amount of mindfulness from Catholics. I think it was nuns. The teaching was/is somehow transmuted. Some of that mindfulness may be called brainwashing , but something worked. I see the year and time in a Liturgical sense. In colors on a wheel, with pictures and artistic interpretations of events in a story that apply to my time. Religion helps the mundane catch my attention, the mundane. It challenges more than any painful disruption, crisis, and just as much as trauma. The trauma of the mundane. Do I watch the same early insects awaken, the same sun coming from the same dusty town hall window, the same cluster fuck of cluster flies banging bodies against the solid light? The Passion in Passion week is a bloody and mournful passion. Today is Saturday, after Good Friday. My thoughts of course yesterday, went to Golgotha, the windswept sad hill, the long afternoon that those scheduled to die must spend.
Sharing a meal, a last meal , washing feet, consecrating the mundane, asking to be remembered in an action. “When you do this, do it for me”. The mindfulness or brainwashing that religion can teach is brave enough to ask for action. Action verifies. The Passion is the action, where the transcendence through consecration and betrayal (?!) , plays out in suffering.
Daily. The mundane. Seasonally, the same. In March the color of the dirt is washed with frost and sand, gravel and ash. Much of it is bare, and the surface is hard, pebbly, runed with drips and melt. Brush, ocher and grey and sienna tipped , tangle along the road, in the yards, pushing pushing through the dirt.
It’s too cold to stay out all day, and it would be a shitty time to die, you know, unless you were really tired and ready, or, unless the violence in the heart of humanity decided to drop a bomb on your life. The mundane, which is death, is seen as Passion. The cold stillness as something passionate. Trippy, huh?
So how could this be, this violent mandatory volunteered life, executed. Executed for treason, executed because some higher purpose designed it (? really?)………executed because that is what we do, we execute and cause violence to each other daily, it is our Via Dolorosa, as a people.
What else is going on in the place, in the town, in the state, in the forest and sky and river, during these walks toward Golgotha. Not everyone is along the road, jeering and throwing god knows what. Not all are weeping and offering what comfort they can. The birds are full of song as gray and foggy and drippy as it was yesterday. The yard was alive with them, singing their stories to each other. Business as usual goes on, people are working and buzzing and swarming. Cluster flies banging against solid light.
I buy the Times (NY), and usually let it sit on the dining room table, to mellow, become room temperature, collect local microorganisms. So I read an article explaining a little more about the story of Apple and the FBI. Not my friend Apple.It’s the Apple corporation who is arguing in court about “cracking” a lock that has been built into their iphones. Apparently it is so designed that they cannot get into the data because once a password is set, Apple does not have access to it. So they have to develop a program, to get into their own system. Ingenious.Not only that, if the wrong password is entered often enough, say, 5x, it’s programmed to slow down between tries. If a wrong password is entered often enough, the thing erases all stored data. Boom. It will be an awesome legal discourse. Apple’s last court statement advised that Apple is not an arm of the judicial branch, and so, is not compelled. Of course there are no precedents for either side to draw from successfully. Interesting times.
So far, Lent has been a bust. Yes, Lent. I’ve always been a renegade nun, A roots nun, With my own made to order Canon, dogma defecient, A twisted sister. Lent, it’s a church word, roughly referring to the 40 days before Easter, also on a rootier study of the word, it means “long days”. “Springtime Spring”. Religious Catholic have used it as a time of turning away from self and looking toward a deeper realtionship with spiritual guidance. In this case, Christ. Long days, compared to Winter and Fall. Signs of Spring, it would have been easy to practice fasting, as long as humans hunted and gathered, tilled and harvested, the Springtime Spring would have been a time to ration what was left of the harvest, to slow down with hunting, as it was migration season and some of us humans had wisdom to know that if there would be a good hunt with many animals, they would leave the returning and awakening animals to nest, and eat, and live. So, salted fish and meat and flour made from acorns and stored grains, and bitter herbs. All that is left of the meat is the shank, and the grain doesn’t rise as well, (think Matzo) and the first herbs can be bitter to a person living on salted fish.
It’s a season with more light, and light “illuminates”. Still, it’s cold to be tilling, to be in the dirt, fingers and small spade, turning, opening. It’s a collective time of eagerness, yearning, chafing at the bit. Where to send that energy? The Church dresses it up, makes it sort of punk/goth, what with the ashes and the attention to the wounds, the piercings. When I was a kid, it meant I was supposed to eat fish on Wednesdays and Fridays. There was no fasting involved, except from candy, I tried to give up comic books, but that was a fail also. 40 days in the desert of tunafish and fish cakes and no candy was bearable, but life without DC Comics would not have been. I am not a kid anymore (really). And i look at it this way now. What would I bring into the desert with me to survive one and a half moons? What makes it through and what doesn’t? Some things become easier to do without, while others are more difficult. Samsara, the hamster’s wheel, the perennial return. I want to open all the windows and let fresh air in, but it is 35 degrees outside. I am going to try to observe more and think less about politics, and to self observe every time I become emotional about something I read, I am going to be mindful and watch my heart, and listen to my gut. I am going to be grateful I have food choices other than acorn pancakes and sardine crackers, although some of you may think my personal menu resembles that fare. Have a healthy Springtime Spring, and do something good for the Earth. Namaste.