Memories, US History

My Inner Kid Chose to Speak.

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Samain and the Summer’s End Moon

Friday gratefuls: Alan. The Hummingbird, Josh and Sarah’s new restaurant. The gathering darkness of late Fall. The journey of all men with prostate cancer. Dr. Carter and the medical physicist, developing a plan. The MRI. The PET scan. Tom, his journey. Walking each other home. Bishop Berkley. Leibniz. Hume. All who wonder.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Science Fiction

Life Kavannah: Wu Wei

Week Kavannah:  Chesed.  Loving Kindness.        “Kindness is the language the deaf can hear and the blind see.”  Mark Twain

Tarot: Being a metaPhysician

One brief shining: The Stars above, the Samain Moon, constellations created in the mind, Galaxies, local clusters, the Cosmic vastness, a void filled with the stuff of dreams and wishes, stuff of very stuff, no less part of the one than your big toe or mine. And, no more.

 

When Dad became the editor of the Times-Tribune, Alexandria’s daily newspaper (in a town of 5,000. Can you imagine?), Bob Feemster, who bought the paper and hired Dad, believed he needed a television to keep up with national news, especially elections.

That meant our family was among the first in Alexandria to have a staticky, rabbit-eared box of vacuum tubes and a black and white cathode ray tube that somehow captured something out of the sky, turning it into pictures, moving and talking pictures. Wow.

And so. Saturday morning television. The children’s time with cartoons like Woody the Woodpecker, Donald Duck, Yosemite Sam, and Tom and Jerry. Also, dramas. Roy Rogers, Captain Midnight, Sky King. Captain Renfrew of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and his dog, Lightening, Tarzan, and the Cisco Kid.

That all seems quaint today with streaming services that have pushed broadcast TV into near extinction. No Saturday morning kid’s time because cartoons can be found all day and night, every day of the week. As well, of course, so many dramas, comedies, movies. Just head over to the Disney Channel. Or, if the fare there smacks too much of patronizing adulthood, go to Amazon Prime, Netflix, Hulu.

I know it’s naive to say that my 1950’s childhood was innocent. Those TV shows I listed above were often explicitly racist and certainly sexist, reinforcing the worst of what kids learned in the home and from their friends. Me Tarzan, you Jane. Hey, Cisco. Hey Pancho.

Yet it was simpler, at least in the amount of information we had regular access to. No internet or smartphones or Google, their equivalent in my hometown was the Carnegie Library. Even that had a children’s collection and an adult collection.

Most kids did not have a mother who had been to Europe and Africa though many fathers had fought in France, Italy, Germany, some in northern Africa. So there were those connections, in all their horrifying reality, to somewhere far away.

Then, too, the Cold War. Sputnik. Nuclear weapons and mushroom clouds. No, hardly innocent.

And here I sit, on Shadow Mountains, over seventy years later from the time Bob Feemster brought that little black box into our home. Those days seem so far away, both in time and in the content of daily life. Yet. They shaped much of what I believed was true, much of which I’ve had to unlearn.

We all carry those young kids with us. For life. Mine chose to speak to me this morning.

 

Family, Judaism, Mountains, Paganism, Plants, Reimaging revelation, Wild Neighbors

All Sacred, All One, For All Time

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Samain and the Summer’s End Moon

Thursday gratefuls: Alan. Ablations scheduled. Radiation approved, but not scheduled. Hip injection scheduled. Soft collar orthotics in. My medical October has bled far into November. Tom and his telehealth today. Shadow. Her vitality. Sheet pan meals. Cooking again. Canceling Cook Unity. Tara. Aurora Borealis in Colorado. The Edmund Fitzgerald. Lake Superior. Wolf 21.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: a day of rest

Life Kavannah: Wu Wei

Week Kavannah:  Chesed.  Loving Kindness.        “Kindness is the language the deaf can hear and the blind see.”  Mark Twain

Tarot: Being a metaPhysician

One brief shining: The Aurora, shining shimmering curtains of green and red that dance, flow, shift, grow and fade, took them for granted in Andover where for most of the twenty years, I could go out on our front porch and watch them, that placed against the wonder of Coloradans seeing them, many for the first time after these latest, massive coronal ejections.

 

Mother Earth, Great Sol. Yin and yang. Visible when the protective magnetic field of our Mother receives bursts of highly charged particles released during a coronal mass ejection.

Awe. Wonder. Desire. That is, desire to remain here, by this Pond, clothed in the majesty of existence by all that’s holy and sacred.

Another moment, in looking back, when the sacred oneness revealed itself, said look here, can you not understand that the Largemouth Bass, the Goats on the farm, the Trees in the wood lot, Judy, yourself also dance, whirling like dervishes endowed with the holy, connected and interdependent for all time?

Each time I drive home from Evergreen, I drive by Kate’s Valley and her Stream, and further on, past the Upper Maxwell Falls trailhead, the spot where the Elk Bull appeared to me drenched in the Rainy Night, standing on the Forest’s edge. In both places I nod, see them in their apparently mundane clothing, the light of Day suggesting nothing special to see here. A small Mountain Valley, a stand of Aspens along Black Mountain Drive.

Yet. I know. These places revealed their sacred nature to me when I turned over the Bresnahan urn with its flame signatures glazed in earthy, russet colors and spilled into the clear Mountain Stream the final remains of my love, my wife, my soulmate. As that Bull Elk did on a Rainy May night.

They have taught me, in their every day appearance, that no the sacred is not only there in moments of heightened emotion or sudden clarity. Rather, her Stream runs sacred in the light of a November morning, no more and no less sacred than the White Pines and Lodgepoles that line its banks along with the holy Wild Strawberries, the sacred Raspberry. The Water. The Rocks. And the Sky above them. All sacred, all one, for all time.

 

Commentary on the news, Dogs, Health, Politics

Made My Heart Glow

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Samain and the Summer’s End Moon

Wednesday gratefuls: My son. Seoah. Murdoch. Hanna at Panorama. (Ha) Driving. Sitting with no neck support. Seeing Alan there, too. Forgotten. Tom and Mayo. Hold the ketchup. Mary and the creatures of Oz. Swooping Magpies and the horned Lucifer Bee. Among many others. Gabe’s beautiful photograph. Ruth and her A-basin ski pass. MVP w/o me.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Hanna

Life Kavannah: Wu Wei

Week Kavannah:  Chesed.  Loving Kindness.  “Kindness is the language the deaf can hear and the blind see.”  Mark Twain

Tarot: Being a metaPhysician

One brief shining: A forty-five minute drive from home, back and hip flaring, to Panorama Orthopedics across from the Taj Mahal (Jefferson County Building), using my still new handicapped placard to get a bit closer to a clinic devoted to folks with bad knees, arthritic hips, and bum shoulders, only to find that the medical assistant who made my appointment failed to register it in the scheduling system.

 

It was that sorta afternoon. Got sorted by putting me at the end of Hanna’s patients for the day. Which left me sitting in a waiting room chair, no neck support for an hour. Called back. Another waiting room chair. So achy I crawled up on the exam table while I waited and took a nap.

Hanna came in. The third beautiful, young well-dressed woman P.A. I’ve met through Dr. Patel’s practice. I’ve never met him. Her silk blouse and gold bling, watch, bracelets, fancy engagement ring all working well for her.

Very kind and candid. Probably nothing to be done except hip injections. In 80 year olds (and 78 year olds, too) labrum tears are common, wear and tear of old age and exacerbated by arthritis. Surgery usually not done. Same for my hip. The plan: a second steroid injection, see if we can eke out four/five months instead of three. If not, we’ll have to revisit it. Next Tuesday after my visit to Evergreen Orthotics for my neck brace. A long day on the road.

Too exhausted after all that to make it to MVP. And, I cooked the Cabbage and Butter Beans sheet pan meal! First time in a while I’d made something for the potluck. I missed going because I love that group. Too knackered.

 

Just a moment: Caving. Here’s what I think. The Democrats had proved their point. Republicans don’t care about affordability. Of health care premiums. Of food for the poor. Of food. Trump and his Republican sycophants do what they damn well please with no regard for the rest of us.

So the Dems chose Senators not intending to return and said, end this. We’ll kick and scream, but this way we restart payments to Federal employees and SNAP recipients, plus we get a vote on extension of health care premium subsidies.

 

Dogs: Yesterday, after a long day outside, Shadow came in, laid down and went to sleep. Her legs moved as they will in sleeping dogs. But this time, every so often, her tail would wag softly, briefly. Made my heart glow.

Family, US History, World History

A Military Family

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Samain and the Summer’s End Moon

Tuesday gratefuls: Dr. Patel. MVP. Cabbage and Butter Beans. Shadow and her dreaming. Paul. The Maine Coast. The St. Croix. The Bay of Fundy where the Tides sometimes reach a height of eighty feet. New Brunswick. Champlain Bubbles. The Camp. The Farmhouse. Findlay. Toby. Lobster pots. Lobster rolls.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: MVP

Life Kavannah: Wu Wei

Week Kavannah:  Chesed.  Loving Kindness.  “Kindness is the language the deaf can hear and the blind see.”  Mark Twain

Tarot: Being a metaPhysician

One brief shining: Feeling the stirrings of another novel, or novel revision, perhaps both, rereading my work featuring the Edmund Fitzgerald, learning about Wolf 21 and unzipping Superior Wolf to focus on Lycaon and his descendants, then adding the Rockies and the Denver metro, anyhow it feels good to have something bubbling, rising.

 

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Veterans Day:  The first Ellis in the New World, Richard, who came here in 1707, (no, I can’t explain the birth date on this headstone) fought and attained the rank of Captain in the Revolutionary War. His father was a Captain in the occupying army of William and Mary in Ireland. His mother sent him to an uncle in Virginia from Dublin, but the ship captain, in a practice apparently common at the time, kept his fare and sold him into indentured servitude in Massachusetts. As you can see from his headstone, he founded the town of Ashfield, Ma.

The first Spitlers (my Dad’s mom’s maiden name) fought on the side of the British as Hessian mercenaries. They never went home and became respected woodworkers in Virginia. And owned slaves.

I have relatives whose names I don’t recall who fought in the Civil War. Don’t know about WWI.

Both of my parents and my Uncle Riley (cousin Diane’s Dad) were veterans of WWII. Joseph, when he retires, will be a veteran. Neither Mark (my brother) or I served, so we’re outliers in this family history.

My mom served as a W.A.C. in the Signal (intelligence) Corps. She spent time in Algiers, Capris, Rome, and, I think England. My sister Mary found her name on a veteran’s memorial wall at her alma mater, and mine and Mary’s, Ball State University.

Dad flew liaison planes, spending his whole time in the U.S. He dropped bags of flour on troops in training to simulate bombs and ferried from place to place many of the key players in the Manhattan Project. He never flew afterward.

A military family. Patriots. Who served their country at critical moments in their young lives.

When I and so many others opposed the Vietnam War, we mistakenly and wrongly put the blame on those men and women now veterans of that war. Our opposition should have focused solely on the old white men in Washington sending among others, poor Black men to die for their sins. I regret that error.

My son’s military career has given me a chance to be on many Air Force Bases from Georgia to Korea. On those bases I’ve met his fellow officers who have been, to a person, thoughtful, kind, and devoted to the U.S. They have humanized the military for me in a way even Mom and Dad did not.

So this day I honor all those who served, who fought, who gave portions or all of the lives to defending this county.

Cooking, Politics, Science

What was the right choice?

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Samain and the Summer’s End Moon

Monday gratefuls: Joy. Simcha. In late Fall, in morning darkness, for Artemis and her children, in Shadow’s eager hugs in the morning. Joanne at home. Shrimp Broil. Cooking. My kitchen. The many trails of our lives. Mule Deer in the yard yesterday. Dr. Patel. Torn labrum. MVP. Evergreen Orthotics.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Cooking the Shrimp Broil

Life Kavannah: Wu Wei

Week Kavannah:  Chesed.  Loving Kindness.  “Kindness is the language the deaf can hear and the blind see.”  Mark Twain

Tarot: Being a metaPhysician

One brief shining: Though darkness obscures Black Mountain, the Lodgepoles, Derek’s house, the night also offers an advantage to those  Animals with eyes made to see in its limited illumination, so the night falls not as fully as it seems to our human, diurnal eyes; yet, Great Sol’s light which returns Black Mountain to our eyes, his very light obscures and hides completely Stars and Galaxies that make up our Universe, which is the greater veil, night or day?

 

Cooking: Finally. Made the shrimp broil sheet pan recipe, enough for four or five meals.

The standing. Even with my rubber anti-fatigue mats, which help, I had to sit down often after I powered through gathering the ingredients, Shrimp thawed from the refrigerator, sweet Corn, too, baby Potatoes, extra virgin Olive Oil, paprika, cayenne pepper, Old Bay seasoning, and Himalayan pink Salt, and cut the baby potatoes in half, throwing them in the large mixing bowl with two tablespoons Olive oil, and two minced garlic cloves. Stir to coat. Then dump onto the new Nordic Ware half sheet pan.

Knackered with dehusking the Corn and cutting each ear into four smaller pieces, buttering each one, setting them aside. I put the Potatoes into the 425 degree oven, set the timer for 20 minutes, and sat down. Not long, less than five minutes.

Pat the Shrimp dry and toss them with more Garlic and more Olive Oil. Put seasonings into the bowl and stir to coat. Sit down.

Ding. The Potatoes were finished so I placed the Corn on them and put the pan back in the oven. 2 minutes and out, turn the Corn, and add the Shrimp. 2 minutes later, turn the Shrimp. 2 more minutes and done. I sat for each interval.

That first plate tasted so, so good. I love cooking.

 

Just a moment: Caving. Eight Senators. one independent and seven Democrats, voted to end the shutdown without extending health insurance subsidies. A reasonable person can make an argument of compassion. SNAP returns to normal. The military gets paid, National Park rangers along with other  Federal workers, many of whom worked, like the military, with no pay for a month plus, get paid.

A reasonable person could also make a compassionate argument for holding out for the subsidy extensions. Millions of ordinary Americans, including many, many Trump voters will have to pay greatly elevated health insurance premiums. In effect a tax on a necessity, further weakening the cash flow of the middle and working classes.

I don’t know what the right choice was. Do you?

 

 

Garden, Greenhouse

Go now, the growing season has ended

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Samain and the Summer’s End Moon

Sunday gratefuls: The Trail. Ancientrails. The Abyss Trail. Burning Bear Creek Trail. The Kalalau Trail. The trail into the Haleakala Caldera. The trail in Waimea Canyon State Park where I almost died. The trail along the Rum River where I used to exercise. The trail in the Woods behind the Andover Library where I snowshoed. The trails in Turkey Creek State Park where I ran out my grief. Upper Maxwell Creek and Lower Maxwell Creek trails.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Shrimp Broil

Life Kavannah: Wu Wei

Week Kavannah:  Chesed.  Loving Kindness.  “Kindness is the language the deaf can hear and the blind see.”  Mark Twain

Tarot: Being a metaPhysician

Before the Fall

One brief shining: Picked up my new garden shears, an old favorite style from the Andover days, released their spring, and started cutting the thick stalks of now withered Tomato Plants after I severed the twine holding them up; a few frozen Roma and Cherry Tomatoes, most red but a few green still clung to their branches, snip, snip, snip, snip then with gloves on I began to pull, the interlaced Branches making the task of removing all of them easier, a few Tomatoes fell off, but I piled up the Plants outside, went back inside and picked them up, one smashed by my foot, its Seeds spilled on the greenhouse floor, tossed them on the pile and Artemis’ first year had ended. Almost.

Hanging the Mezuzah on Artemis: Irv, Marilyn, Gabe, Tara, Me, Rabbi Jamie

Artemis: Go now, the growing season has ended. Not quite though. Nantes Carrots still grow in the east facing raised bed. Probably should say they were still growing yesterday. 17 degrees right now. That might end them though Carrots can survive a lot of chill, becoming sweeter as they do. They are the last with the exception of that Russian Garlic I planted over a week ago in the west facing bed.

May plant Lettuce, Arugula, Kale, and Chard where the Tomatoes grew. Need for Nathan to install the insulation panels before that makes sense. Also need to procure a better heater, probably propane.

Even with good temperature control it’s possible winter crops will be hard to grow given the weaker light of Great Sol. Learning. I love having all these problems to solve, things I understand. A real hobby.

Which reminds me of my painting I’ve not gotten back to. And cooking. Which I also enjoy. I’m hopeful that the nerve ablations, when they happen (still unscheduled), will free up some energy, some stamina for both of them.

Stamina becomes an issue because pain in my lower back does not take long to wear me out. I had ten Garlic Cloves to plant, for example. After digging their holes, putting in the fertilizer, placing the Clove, and covering each one with Soil, then more potting Soil, I had to stop at six, come in and rest my back before I could finish. Same with removing the Tomato Plants. Took two sessions.

Working with Plants, with Soil, with the raised beds, the greenhouse, painting, and cooking all require standing. Which taxes me. A lot.

Politics, Wild Neighbors

A One-Antlered Elk Bull

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Samain and the Summer’s End Moon

Shabbat gratefuls: New electric blanket and duvet. November. Late fall. Aspen leaves still visible on the ground, their golden color now faded. Elk Cows and three Bulls along Cub Creek at the turn into Evergreen. Alan and the Dandelion. Joanne back home. Shadow eating her breakfast. Torah study. Cutting out the Tomato Plants. Planting Lettuce, Arugula, Chard. Cooking. Sheet pan meals. Alan.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: That one-antlered Elk Bull, all grown up

Life Kavannah: Wu Wei

Week Kavannah:  Chesed.  Loving Kindness.  “Kindness is the language the deaf can hear and the blind see.”  Mark Twain

Tarot: Being a metaPhysician

One brief shining: Have you ever seen the slimy evidence of a Banana Slug as it chews its way through Lettuce, Tomatoes, Bean Stalks, or the delicate imprint of two cloven hooves, perhaps a yearling Mule Deer, maybe the segmented three toed evidence of Wild Turkeys in the Snow, perhaps the imprint of a small rubber rainboot heading not away from the big puddle but into it, if so, you have witnessed the presence of another by the trail they leave behind.

 

Wild Neighbors: On June 6th of 2019 I began my first day of 35 sessions of radiation. Before I left for Lonetree that morning, I looked out back and there were three young Elk Bulls in the back yard, hundreds of pounds each, dining one by one on the yellow dandelions I encourage to grow there. One of the Bulls had only one antler.

These same three, the one antlered one among them returned for three more early June sessions over the years, sometimes staying the night to resume their meal; then they stopped coming. I figured they’d been shot or died an early death of one sort or another.

When I turned off Brook Forest Drive yesterday on my way into Evergreen, several, maybe as many as twenty dark brown Elk Cows lined the banks of Cub Creek, resting in the yards of two small houses, eating grass, drinking from the Creek. A not uncommon sight there.

Watching over them were three Elk Bulls, one with only one antler. Of course I can’t be sure they were the same Bulls who ate yellow flowers in my back yard, but in the almost eleven years I’ve lived here, I’ve only seen one one-antlered Bull.

Most often, too, I see only one Bull with a harem of this size. There were three. All grown up. They stood proud and watchful while most of the Cows reclined as if in a pillowed room of a Caliph’s inner sanctum. In my imagination anyhow these are the same three, deciding to live their best Elk lives together, breaking the usual rules and sharing their duties without antler clacking acrimony.

Made me smile.

 

Just a moment: With Tuesday’s heartening election results still resonant, I cringe even more at the Supreme Court allowing (temporarily, they say) red tie guy to intentionally starve millions of our impoverished fellow citizens. If only cruelty and meanness were bread and meat, no one would go hungry in Trump’s America made great again.

Cooking, Judaism, Torah

A Comedian God?

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Samain and the Summer’s End Moon

Friday gratefuls: Morning kisses from Shadow. Her vitality. Joanne. Tara. Alan. Sarah and Josh, their new restaurant. Newalins style. Dandelion. Deeper darkness. Orion, my Winter friend. Whom I have neglected. Pregnant Cows, Does, Black Bears, and Mountain Lions. Among many others. CBE. Its origin and its present. The Trail. The Ancientrail.

Sparks of Joy and Awe:  Sheet Pan Meals

Life Kavannah: Wu Wei

Week Kavannah:  Histapkot.  Contentment. Acceptance.                       I’m comfortable with who I am and with what I have.

Tarot: Being a metaPhysician

One brief shining: Filled up my copper watering can, picked up a handful of dog treats, went outside into a Mountain late Fall day where the difference between sombre et sol could be fifteen degrees or more;  I watered my brave Carrots, their delicate, frond-like Leaves swaying back and forth in a light morning Breeze, then turned to play with Shadow, following the Sunlight to stay warm while I put treats on the ground or asked her to sit, down, or touch. She smiled, tail wagging.

 

Two Nordicware half sheet pans came yesterday, making my old docent colleague, Linda Jefferies, a few cents richer. Linda’s grandfather invented the bundt cake pan.

Though once a cake baker myself at the Party Cake Bakery in Appleton, Wisconsin, I no longer delight in mixing huge bowls of cake batter and squeezing precisely one pound of it into cake pans sitting on a small scale.

These sheet pans are for my new cooking venture, sheet pan meals. First will be Cabbage and Butter Beans followed by a Shrimp broil. Gradually closing the book on Cook Unity. At least for a while. Either today or tomorrow.

 

Parashat Vayera for tomorrow morning’s bagel table. This important segment of Bereshit (Genesis) has the prophecy to Sarah, at which she laughs. The destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah. The exile of Hagar and Ishmael. And, the Akedah, the binding of Isaac.

Not sure which direction Luke will take the morning since it’s impossible to cover a whole parsha in one hour and a half session. Lots of wonderful mythic tales. Sarah, in her late nineties, is told her barrenness will come to an end. She laughs as Abraham did in the previous parsha at the same news. God as the first borscht belt comedian? I love that those sages who stitched together all these different stories included a couple that feature laughter. A pregnant near centenarian? What’s not to laugh at?

But poor Isaac. Sarah’s only son. Whom God instructs Abraham to sacrifice. The Akedah. A test of Abraham’s faith? Therefore our faith in ourselves to handle even the most demanding expectations with which life presents us? I like this idea that each of us may have an Akedah which asks us  to sacrifice what is most dear to us in the name of love.

The midrash. One says the Ram that appears in the bush as an alternative sacrifice for Isaac gives its two horns as the first shofars, one blown at the foot of Mt. Sinai when the wandering Jews receive the Torah and one blown for the coming of the messiah.

Another suggests Satan told Sarah who died of shock and grief.

Yet others see Isaac as older, some see him as old as 37, and a willing participant who tells Abraham to bind him tightly so he won’t struggle and invalidate the offering.

What kind of midrash could you offer?

 

Cancer, Friends, Health

The Missing Hour

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Samain and the Summer’s End Moon

Thursday gratefuls: Nurse Marissa. Dr. (Kirk) Harter. Dr. Garapati. The Radiology Tech. The MRI machine that I never saw. Swedish Hospital. Kate, always Kate. The view from a hospital bed. Tara, my sweet friend. Eleanor, who played all day with Shadow. Being driven. Being helped. Rabbi Jamie’s birthday on the fourth. Mayo, helping my buddy, Tom.

Sparks of Joy and Awe:  Propofol

Life Kavannah: Wu Wei

Week Kavannah:  Histapkot.  Contentment. Acceptance.                       I’m comfortable with who I am and with what I have.

Tarot: Being a metaPhysician

One brief shining: A ritual of infantilization begins with go to this room on this floor, continues with a nurse telling you to remove all of your clothes, put on some of ours that tie in the back and let your butt hang out, now lie down in the bed and I’ll bring you a nice warm blankie before asking you so many, so many questions they will seem like a lullaby. Which they were.

 

The missing hour: After all of Marissa’s questions had been asked, the IV placed, an oximeter taped to my finger, and a blood pressure cuff attached to my arm, plus one more warm blankie for good measure, Dr. Harter, barely old enough to shave, came by my bed and asked me many of the same questions again. We chose conscious sedation and I signed a temporary reversal of my DNR just in case the anesthesia stopped my heart. That’s something easily and non-invasively fixed. Or so Dr. Harter promised. Happy to observe that was not necessary.

After a half an hour or so of watching people and beds come and go in the Ambulatory Care Unit, a Radiology tech kicked the lock off on my bed and pushed me, pretty fast and confidently, to a large bed-sized elevator to go down one floor to imaging.

A small bay in the room with POWERFUL MAGNETS ALWAYS ON, as the sign read, was the last thing I saw before my missing hour. The tech, an older woman, late sixties I’d say, hooked me up to a machine to read my vitals: heart rate 69, bp 119/72, O2 sat at 97 with a canula, a few other numbers I couldn’t understand. She then came over and pushed some saline into the IV.

Dr. Garapati mused about the advances in medicine I’d seen in my lifetime. I really wasn’t as aware of them as he seemed to think. Still, he seemed nice.

Dr. Harter came on my left, or IV side, and attached a line to my IV, then that line to a hanging bag. This will take just a minute to act…and then I was in recovery, wondering where my missing hour had gone.

A strange sensation, to have no memory at all of the MRI, a good sensation for claustrophobic me. If I have to have another MRI, this is the method I’ll choose. How many times in life can we bypass something terrifying (to me) with the help of so many nice people?

 

 

 

Reimagine. Reconstruct. Reenchant., Reimaging revelation

The MetaPhysician Is In

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Samain and the Summer’s End Moon

Wednesday gratefuls: Tara. MRI. Swedish. Kate, always Kate. Shadow, who greets me. Carrots, strong in the cold nights. Joanne. Rehab. That Spider walking across my hand this morning. Super Moon coming. Evening darkness. Tom and Paul. Diane. Joe Greenberg. My son. Mark’s photo of Hafar at night. Mary’s of her Melbourne neighborhood. Seoah.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Chatgpt on neck braces

Life Kavannah: Wu Wei

Week Kavannah:  Histapkot.  Contentment. Acceptance.                       I’m comfortable with who I am and with what I have.

Tarot: Being a metaPhysician

One brief shining: At Bivouac I got a Cortado in a small blue glass; the barista put it on a wooden tray with a sweet biscuit and a short glass of seltzer water which I carried to a table outside in Great Sol’s late fall warmth; Joe followed with his cup of regular coffee and a similar tray, sat down, and we began the delicate dance of getting to know one another.

MetaPhysician: Gonna put a sign up outside my house, metaPhysician for hire. Ontologist available with sufficient lead time. Got this idea riffing with one of my friends, I think Paul.

Partly comes from the idea of no longer wanting therapy, self-improvement books, notions for polishing the psyche. We’ve graduated from all that, having done the work, thank you.

Does not mean though that there aren’t still mysteries and flaws. Just that we know about them, allow them to be without the globalizing judgments of our second phase lives.

I decided I could be, maybe have always been, a metaPhysician, a healer of Cartesian worldviews, a friend who would stare into the abyss with you, a companion on the long, strange journey from the mundane to the sacred. Need a reminder that body and mind are one? Come to me for short or long sessions.

Having an existential crisis that requires getting to the depths of the Marianna’s Trench of your inner world? I’ll dive with you. Beginning to suspect that reality is not as discreet and separate as your senses suggest? I can help with that.

Yes, you can pay me in the golden leaves of Rocky Mountain Aspen in the fall or a clear glass of sanitized Maxwell Creek Water. We also accept Water from any of the Great Lakes except Ontario and Erie. Mushrooms of the edible or hallucinogenic variety. Morels in particular. The metaPhysician loves beef tenderloin with Morels cooked in butter.

Have you had an experience of the oneness of all things, but don’t know what to do now? Our Ontologist who is on retainer can reassure you that far from having gone mad, you’ve actually gone sane.

Having trouble believing the chair you’re sitting in is mostly empty space? Our Ontologist can explain. Feeling sad for Schrodinger’s cat? We can both comfort you. We’re sad about it, too.

In closing. The world is not what it seems to be. It’s so much more. And all of it is right here for all of us always and in all ways.

Fallow time special: two visits for four nice Morels or a sack of golden Aspen leaves.