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 .
The best diet is eating 70% less than I do and using quality vegetable protein in fresh fruit smoothies (organic). juices made from raw organic vegetables, broths of miso, water and lemon juice, and a personal arsenal of supplements. Here we go again, and this time, increase just water by a quart a day at minimum.(Other liquids being consumed add up to at least 2 more quarts).
I like to begin new seasons with ritual of some sort, it keeps life for me, sacred. And food and how I nourish myself and others is aesthetically and ritualistic for me. The attention to color and chemistry and history I can get into borders on a schizophrenics ideation of reference, minus delusions (I think, therefore I can imagine micro nutrients dancing with the soil microbes as I interrupt their wedding by washing them off and making a salad.)
This is the honey season, and I see the bees for one of the last times before I search for them in the garden next Spring. I love them and send them that on a warming late September morning.
I also rely on my cells to shed and rejuvenate , strengthening for the change. I pray that is not delusional, and so I change my eating with that in mind. And so I have spent oodles of time researching diets to make me feel better, the only one that ever has is the one I began the writing piece with.
All this stuff on facebook about religion, gender, laws, america, economy,.There is not enough time to learn enough about the topics raised in order to really understand anything but the gist. There is enough written material, but everyone is texting, everyone just wanting the gist.
I never went to a higher school of learning, although I was interested enough in one form of it to have made a decision to move where I now sit. economically I was very wispy as soon as I was of legal age. I had to work to eat and have a bed. And once I did have more than I had ever had before, I spent the entire inheritance on my home here. But I had come to pursue a higher knowledge.
Not choosing to do that did not change my economic reality much at all, I would have had to work hard at a job requiring physical stamina and with no heed to my joints and back and neck and knees and ankles. I would be doing that sort of work no matter where I lived, unless of course someone I was deeply involved with had enough income to support me, in which case I would have been a student of art, either the fine arts or writing or both.
And if I had been supported long enough, and come to this age, I would have chosen theology, because I am inclined, and called to. Well actually I was searching and I was found, but I was searching because I was called to by a desire to be home. I put a God in my home wherever I ever lived, so that is seeking I suppose. Her image is in many forms, and I acknowledge her son, so that male image and those of saints are also around. And then there are the angels, who are disproportionally male . I just learned what exactly cis gendered means the other day. And as a lesbian feminist, I find it ridiculous to have these titles. I have eyes and my own senses and that tells me what a persons gender identification is. I call people by their name. I prefer women in most settings and roles in my life. But I am comfortable and can find brief rapport with males, albeit very few.
Mostly i prefer the company of my own little family right here in my home, with my God, and my angels, and my saints. we are very gender free here. Not gender fluid, like God may be, and the angels, and the saints, and yadda yadda ya.
But the gender thing led me to think about sexism, and that led me think about politics, and then I had to get back to nature and God and in what image am I made? SO the image as we understand it in our heads has a corporal form, and corporeal forms follow images imprinted in our mind, and that leads to a visualization of a human being, and that human being has most 99% of the time, an identifiable gender.
The tenet of Faith states we are made in gods image. An amazing concept that could lead to a lifetime of contemplation.(well for me anyway.)
What if, that concept of being made in God’s image is taken in another way? What if it means that we are created not as a mirror image, but within this god’s imagination? In the beginning was the word, and the word was with god. So first comes the word, and then comes the image, and the idea of god being a wordsmith so turns me on, She didn’t just say , “Tree”, in whatever language she speaks, she also said Birch, Ash, Linden, Beech, Oak, Hickory, ? And in those words an image was formed, and the root system and the bark and the branch formation, and the ability to dance in the wind at 100 ft tall.Mystics have devised that Angels do some of the tasks, not the imagery, but they are the technicians, so it’s good to know god has helpers. And so Tree is made in gods image. And so am I. I am not stamped out of some template that says “Short female”. The image of what a human is, is ” a little above the angels”. I take that as meaning we are given the work of making ourselves to some extent, thus, “free will”.
Now, on to trade agreements. If all of this in the physical world , the physical world of nature, which is designed by angelic forces, is meant to flourish in a beautiful and vital way, each “thing” giving sustenance and sustainability to the other , should we not, in the spirit of things, want to sustain each other also? Not in some national sense, trees and birds and fish do not have nationalities, that is a construct.Each sustains and is co existent with each other depending on the system it lives in, Boreal, Plains, river, Ocean, Desert
If humans have created money, and that is the reality we live in, and if we were to put god in that house, in the earthly temple, the gospels of the church(christian) tells us that god was certainly angry and upset about that, which did not help him very much at that trial.
So we serve money, not god, because if money was ever to be a good thing, it must be distributed in a way that everyone can eat and have a bed and have a roof, and that this ability to generate money would then sustain those humans that lived in that environment. Except we use enviroment up for its resources. Which we exchange for money. And we do not give back and we certainly do not support those who live and work around it.
So what if a good people, a people driven by the fact that in some dim and distant past, we were formed in the IMAGInation of a god? A good and merciful and genius and all powerful and mighty god?
Would we make it a thing about nations, or would we just make it about the environment we found ourselves in. Southern Hemisphere, African continent, the mini continent known as Australia, and within each land mass, the people that lived in certain geographical areas, would have a say and share with other places the resources ? Like the mycelium in the forest floor creating for the trees, the trees creating for the forest floor, and on and on, what if we operated ourselves like that?
And then, the opportunity, whether or not it comes to a peasant, a worker, a “maintainer” is fair, and it goes where needed, not just to some area that is defined by national borders and government and military.
And so, I cannot jump on the cart and carry slogans to be against a deal that may raise the standard of living for some family in Bangla Desh. If I have enough, and someone else has much less than that, I must share according to my advantage, my privilege.
I think that would be in god’s image of me. Because god is all knowing and all innocent, like an infant. It is possible to live and be vital , god is god exactly because of the imagination god possess. god can only create, create and then the goodness that flows from life sustains. Our rebellious nature , our laziness, does not create and sustain. There are slime molds that are more advantageous to the life around them.
Being mindful of whose image I am entrusted with, is a gift of the spirit. “And there was light”.-
It SMELLS like summer, you know what I mean? Yesterday morning early I noticed it, smelling different. Not the smell after a rain, or dry dusty manure and combustive engine smell of early haying and spreading, and the vehicles that do it, not the leafy smell, or the sweet blossomy lilac and apple blossom smell. I wonder if that is what so many writers describe as “smelling the ozone in the air”,except usually the phrase is used in conjunction with stormy weather. Anyway, it smells like that again today, maybe its the smell of dew and vegetation in a perfect balance for an hour or so, as the day wears on it becomes more complicated, and where you go and how strong the sun is changes it again. Maybe the corn talks and you can smell the language .
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.