Labrador

The place, Labrador, must be beautiful, the North Atlantic a swelling gray flow and endless. I am thinking of that place and seeing it in my mind, but then I see my garden and the bright yellow mustard flower. the two images combine and then i see the yellow painted broken line in the ocean.Like a state highway. And everything is paved over with dark wet clouds, chilly, everything damp, especially the matches. It pours and pours and the chill is equal to the chilled produce section at Hannaford’s. Which sounds cheerful to me, but I am just going to sit here and develop gills so I may draw a breath easier.  there are wet spots on the ceiling above my bed and in Gabriels room, but it hasn’t stopped raining long enough to have someone look at it. I would like to have a nice new metal roof, and hear it thunder when it rains.

So I have lived close and right by the Atlantic Ocean before, but never as North as Labrador. Some of the weather we in Northeast Vermont are experiencing is from there, right today and now it is, anyway. It (the weather) came down from Labrador and settled in New Brunswick,  and something is drawing it in, and there you have it.

But by the ocean, these long hours and days of rain are not as dark. And here, in our lush rain forest everything is green, everything except the mammals and birds and human made things . Half of the horizon is one large forest and it is deep green, jade green, forest, (duh), green , olive green, silver green, blue green, emerald green, kelly green, and that does not reflect light as well. And while the ocean moves in a roll, or is choppy, or is flat and still , it is water meeting water, and somehow looks and feels righteous.

Here, among trees and bushes and grasses and mosses and vines, and flowers and berries, we have had enough. The woods seem indeed to want to march to Dunsinane.they are swelled with  water enough to pull up their roots and march right up.

We could be shifting climates, meaning that with the change that is happening, we are too far north to get all that heat the rest of North America will be getting. Heat rises and so as it meets the colder air that is moving because it is being displaced by warming trends, it condenses, it condenses for fucking days on end. The cooler Labradorian air presses down and rides the air trough and stalls. Welcome to Climate change.

I will tell you this, the berries were excellent this year, my potato plants look elegant, peasently, but elegant. The cabbages family, known as Brassicas are loving it. The snap dragons, as I, are growing gills. The beans are numerous but are not really growing up much, the sweet potatoes are also slow, the dill looks like something Martha Stewart would grow and photograph.(I think the gardening is actually done by others, right?).

The silver ocean, the salty wet rocks, and I remember when boats used rope, instead of poly twine,, and that rope was cold and bristly and would have weeds stuck to it, nice bits of brown green kelp, alive. And empty beaches to run my dogs on, because bathers and sun soakers were not there, but for a surfer or two bobbing along, or a surf caster, and that fresh smell of ocean oxygen.

Inland, there are flowers. And maybe Ents. Lamps turned on, warm food and 99% dry shelter (cept for them spots on the ceiling).  An old friend lost her Mom to that place our love goes, in the end. I read the obituary, it was touching because I knew her daughter, when we were all younger and had so many more steps to take. It was mentioned that the woman was an avid swimmer and taught it to others, and just swam. All this water is  auspicious,  for her soul. And ours too. Perhaps she is swimming to Labrador.

The Miasmas

Around the turn of the 20th century, there were no medical facts regarding what sort of disease,virus, or bacteria lurked in the bloodstreams of insects that spawned in swamps.  The weather itself, the climate, was thought to be the bearer of illness. It was known as the “miasmas”, a foul air that lingered in tropical tarns, an atmosphere created by heat, humidity, and rotting vegetation. Food spoils, the air is heavy, nothing dries out, the flowers droop with the constant beating of rain, a short walk with the dogs bring mosquitoes to ears eyes nose and neck. There is mildew and it’s coming for your things .

The miasmas, I think, has not been discounted by the discovery of microscopic entities. There is a “presence” in this sunless steam. The ground is full, she cannot hold water anymore, she has closed herself to hold on to any oxygen remaining. The teaming cities of microbes and bacteria that depend on oxygen are in a state of emergency. Minute rivers have flooded their banks, and small insects and worms are now refugees, seeking higher ground. It is just not me, or you, the ground itself is praying for some sun and a fresh breeze, for air. But the miasma sits like a cloud within a cloud, messing with your moods .

In the small town across the state highway, they are lining up for the Greensboro Funky Fourth, a small parade of wonderful folks, Bread and Puppet, a lawn chair contingent, barbecue, music, babies, dogs ,and summer people. Flags everywhere, New England and New Englanders full of the self satisfaction of being a wonderful inclusive part of americana, lawyers and loggers eating hotdogs together, but never really together, you know what I mean?

The sun breaks through, the clouds won’t give. There is a reason we love the matching of yellow and gray, it brings relief to the eyes, that go directly to the spirit. Dispelling the pollution of the miasma, I will wipe the surfaces with a diluted bleach solution, I will light the soy candle of coriander and rosemary, I will light an incense stick, and pick the wild daisies and think of myself as a missionary.

measurements

As the mother of a young man, I do not know much of men on an intimate level, not in the consenting adult sort of relationship that women have with men. Not in the romantic context,  hardly at all in the professional context,  and not in context of friends, although facebook friends seems to be a thing well established, not there either. I have 3 nephews, a son, I had a father, and my sister was married to two of them.   I had  the beginning of friendships over my life,  but there was always a need for me to remain guarded, due to the sexual energy of men, and their need to remind me of that.  So my closeness to men is not really mainstream social. It arises from my role as mother, care giver,  comrade,  and observer.  Audience, I give some men audience, certain writers, philosophers, actors, musicians, etc.

Men measure, they are very good at it. Impeccable, if you read history of cartographers, engineers, physicists. It seems to be a natural gift, to minimize and lay bare a thing to its numbers. But going back to the men that I know of personally. Every one of them dislikes strongly what they dub as psuedo science.

Listening this morning as I swept and wiped and washed dishes, I went to my PC on the desk to get some music to listen to.Martn had been listening to some Brian Eno ambient  ‘Music for Airports’. That had finished and he was in a receptive mood, so I chose another ambient type recording  from an outfit called AudioMachine. As I felt myself respond to this technologically manipulated music, I listened deeper for what was lacking, ie: instruments, a player of an instrument. And what came to me was that this sort of recorded music is something men are very good at producing, and boy does the audience get held, for a moment

Korban

Or, qurban, it is a Hebrew word. the word is used in Mark’s gospel, quoting Jesus Christ using the example of Korban  to admonish the ruling class about their hypocrisy as religious men. Korban  is a noun, describing a sacrifice , or offering to Yahwa , god, the Hebrew god. Whatever that may be, a calf, a lamb, a coin, a sacred vestment, a temple, wine, bread, because the wonderful thing about Hebrew is it’s scope of thought about language. It is an important enough idea to have made it into the Torah, an intellectual feast of interpretation of the law. Christ points out to the well to do clergy, that as wonderful as that may be, the sacred texts, they are written by men. (sisters, please note).

The idea of Korban certainly exists in Western religions practice, and so does the hypocrisy of it, according to Gospel. Witness all the hungry and homeless and witness the temples empty except for services, which are decided upon by the chief honcho, whatever the denomination. No one is sleeping on the pews or the rugs, at 2 am, when most homeless folks are very tired and probably cold and itchy for lack of water. The contemporary super churches, lacking culture or art (no cantatas by Bach, no Michelangelo, ) make it a base and tacky offering, thus have we plunged as a people.

The very idea of taking a resource from the earth, which is given to us at birth, away from whom it is meant for, and offer it to an idea, while there are hungry people, is so not “God like”. Yet our rituals as people, and our NEED for them, (it’s in the brain, circle stuff, patterns, nuero paths and chemicals existing to react and do stuff) give the illusion we are connecting to something. Ritualism ,  it is so comforting, and, yes, seems to cause some sort of transcendence. So, for this sake, let’s not blame all the  early holy women and men who used them. Once the churches armies had taken enough, the best shit was put away from the people and sanctified as Korban.And used in rituals.

Communism is appealing, because of it’s Christ like belief that resources belong to all, and that those who have more are commanded to share it with those who have less. Property is theft, et.al.  Materialism is the root of Korban, the human need to see or believe that the most beautiful “thing” we behold is not meant for us, and I think, and feel that that interpretation is okay, it lightens something up inside our heads, the feeling of appreciation. If we can put the materialism in the context of” not meant for us,”it is easier to part with things. To share and give away, another kind of circle.

Religion has preserved some very good brain food for me. Thankfully there is a lot that is accessible, and I guess I can thank Elizabeth numero Uno for that.

Sitting on my Asteroid

As I circle, I see my home surrounded in white and ice, walkways indented with the weak heat from winter boots. Most of my friends in the barn survived, except for nutmeg the goat and one poor hen who I named Promise. She passed, and the goat, who was never really healthy, found dead on her side, bloated, dragged to the car for a drive up to the top of the mountain, and thrown over a steep slope, for the coyotes and crows, a sky burial. On the other hand, 2016 took too many young people, took old people famous for their talents.

Now I have purposely resigned from social media, because the daily outrage from the White House is too much to bear and discuss. We are struggling in a dark time, all of the people on the Earth, it is hard to find a reason to be happy. I went to Washington DC and huddled and moved slowly and powerfully with close to a million, mostly female, people.We were there out of a need to be seen with others, to press our numbers to the world saying NO, we may be called Americans but we are not America as you may think of us now.  we are not with those who elected a despot, a flaming tacky cruel unsophisticated rich Baron, does not speak for who we are as a collective group.

I had to turn off the radio on the way to the store, because it was telling the story of refugees from Syria who the city of Rutland were expecting with open arms, they will not come now. They are in something worse than purgatory, I imagine.

My thoughts turn to hoping someone from the CIA will do a dark deed, and thinking that way is a sin, and , yes, I believe that sin exists and that there is a moral code of ethics humans on earth are supposed to follow, because when we do not, we are a dangerous evil entity. Thous shalt not kill is a plain and simple commandment.

In the local store, the New England Bodega, I walked into  a scene where one man was screaming at another, and the other sounded as though he was screaming back with tears in his voice. It was about politics, one of the men turned to me and used me as an example of a person who lived through the sixties, through the horrible wars and pollution and racism. It was an example of one informed intelligent man who was besides himself with rage at who the President is now, and one ignorant not particularly intelligent shop keeper who had voted for trump. It was as ugly as America is now.

 

The big fact is that I do not know what to do except to study scripture and try to believe in God’s endless mercy for Gods creations. And pray and pray and pray and fast and be gentle and hide, yes, i want to hide. That is why i am staying away from social media. I am tired and worn from the endless political discussions, and I find any other subject to be trivial and ignorant.

It is the end of January , and the winter in Vermont is the only evidence we need to attest that climate change is here. While those of us in the North are enjoying having our fuel, our wood that we heat our homes with, not depleted at all, I know that it is not a good thing for many others. we may adjust, because one of Gods gifts is that humans are adaptable, so far.

This is not an exercise in  writing, it is an update from my last post. All I know is that the only thing that will make any change for the good seems to be lost, and I do not know for how long. I am 66 going on 67 and the fight no longer strengthens me, it weakens me. Icicles hang off the bird feeders, ashes need to be spread, and I must go and work now, I have to drive to Hanover with a disturbed man, so he can get his check up. I have used the Jesus prayer a lot, it is my Mantra.

Jesus Christ, Son of God, Have Mercy on Me, A sinner.

Between The Worlds

66 seasons sees me in its cycles This Samhain   In my cycle, my circle, I go to feed the stove, with wood from trees, that give me fire, that keep this box warm. A box made from parts, cheap parts, joists and beams, floors of particle board, floors of cheap vinyl, worn, torn, a box covered in vinyl siding, stained with  molded tree pollen, it is warm inside and the last of October has been dark and chill and wet. Inside the lamps are lit in mid day, with carried electricity. I type these words with carried electricity. I can do without. I know how to, we women who work when we are tired, we know how to do without. Yet my box is full of stuff, and the animal companions, who live and die with me, on land that the bank still owns, in a box warm and enough  for us. I had to learn that myself, because I cannot remember anyone ever asking, “do you have enough?”  Unless it was related to time. Do you have enough time to get this done? No, I am sure I do not. I have enough time to cook an egg, to walk the dogs, to take a bath. I am sure there is not enough time to set it all straight. So much before the ground freezes, and there will be ice, and it will freeze to places I will not see until it leaves. But my mind is not on that, not today, not today when I check on temperatures, begin the daily circle of care. No one and nothing that I care for, and I only care for that which has life, will survive the endless spinning. Death, with skull faces and marigolds for remembrance, a honeyed tea and sweet will be pissed out, flushed.  Children will dress up in masquerade and be given candy by strangers, and that is how the New Year comes in, arriving in an early sunset. there was enough time to get here, just enough. The end of what life was lived through Springs and summer, arrives at the  Inn just in time to settle for the night. The sheets are cold wet leaves, mud and dying off things, full of wood lice . There is no need to eat when all is sleeping and dying. Here is a bowl of candy for the spirits that roam tonight. Honor, it is all so honorable the way nature spins itself, that even in death, she is graceful and asks nothing. The deep cold that I think is eternity is just a thought, an inadequate thought .