Cancer, Health

The Gate of Guarded Hope

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Imbolc and the Moon of Liberation

Wednesday gratefuls: Samantha. Salivary gland tests. CT w/ contrast. So much bloodwork. Ruth and David, taking me to Rocky Mountain Cancer Care.

Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Ruth

 

Kavannah: Histapkot. Contentment.   Seek what you need, give up what you don’t need.

Tarot: #11, The Woodward. Strength found in facing inner darkness. I read the diagnostic reports, reeling, then steady.

One brief shining: I counted eight, no, nine vials when Angie, the phlebotomist, placed them on the small table. My left arm had the sleeve rolled up since the right one had had an IV inserted a half an hour before. The clinical trial demanded the nine vials including tests for Hepatitis B, C, and HIV. “I’m gonna be about a pint low.”

My final procedure for this round of treatment. After I swished 5 milliliters of lemon juice for a minute, I chewed on a patch of gauze for three minutes. It got weighed. But. Would it support my admission to the trial?

Samantha, Sam, took my medical history. “So. Polio.”  Aortic aneurysm. Arthritis. Labrum tear. Compared to most others in the trial, Sam said, my medical history was straightforward. Oddly comforting. A threshold I should pass.

I texted Done to Ruth. She and David pulled up to the entrance of the Littleton clinic. She had an iced Americano for me and a bag of free beans. As a Starbucks barista, she has perks.

Next week I find out the start date for the clinical trial. I’ve taken all the tests, filled out questionnaires, had interviews. Now it’s the trial’s turn.

Sometime soon, probably next week as well, I’ll be randomized into one of the arms of the trial: one does not hold what I believe I need. I plan to discuss with Christina, a Bupathi P.A. whom I like, what to do if I’m in the arm with no Actinium. Might be admission. Yet with less treatment than I need.

Gatekeepers. Check boxes. Say enter. Or not.

This latest gate, call it the Gate of Guarded Hope, is the most consequential I’ve had to face in a long time. When we stand, like Kafka’s K, outside, the interior is a mystery, yet a mystery in which we wish to invest. Amelioration of a dread disease.

I’m calm now, having given myself over to the protocols of a phase three drug trial. Samantha. Angie. Bupathi. Guardians. Caring for me, yes, but through the trial, for others yet to come.

Standing at the gate.

Waiting to be let in.

 

 

Family, Memories, Minnesota

At the Capital Grille

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Imbolc and the Moon of Tides (2% crescent)

Tuesday gratefuls: Tamales from David’s mom. Ruth smiling. Winds. Melting snow. Final C.T. of this round. The lives of our days.

Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Young love

 

Kavannah: Histapkot. Contentment.   Seek what you need, give up what you don’t need.

Tarot: #4, The Greenman.  “…he brings order, discipline, and the “organized action” needed to manifest ideas into reality.” May it be so for my writing.

One brief shining: Ruth and David came up, their new, tender relationship feeling its way. David, “I’m nervous.” Patriarchs, eh? We sat, David on the ottoman, Ruth in the chair, me in mine, and talked of many things.

 

Do you remember? Meeting the parent or grandparent? I do. When I met Kate’s mom and dad, Rebecca and Merton, I had had, as Ruth said David had, a pep talk.

I was not nervous. At 42 I knew who I was and what I was doing in our relationship. I loved Kate. We were getting married.

Rebecca opened, “So, I hear you’re weaving a story.” Oops. She had taken that line from her loom. She was an accomplished weaver. Her slightly forced smile, her body language. The tone.

Merton, the anesthesiologist, was quiet. He twisted his ring a bit, one he set with a stone from his rock tumbler.

Part of the pep talk prepared me for this. “Mom and Dad think you’re after my money.” Since Kate made four times what I did as a Presbyterian clergy, I could just understand. An odd suspicion. Without evidence.

In retrospect it may be that Kate had told them that after we married I would resign from the ministry to focus on writing, cooking, Joseph.

See. That proves it! He’s taking advantage of her. I could feel certainty behind her not reaching the eyes smile.

I ignored the implication. “Yes, that’s right. A novel, Even the Gods Must Die.”

The booth at the Capital Grille got smaller. The sound of cutlery on China. I shifted my napkin in my lap. She had heard what she expected. I did not then, nor did I later try to dissuade them.

Moral grounding can only show up in deeds. Words are too slippery. Too often shaped to the ears of the other.

They never changed their perception. I didn’t care. Kate and I knew each other. Who we were. What we wanted.

When she came home from work, I had a hot meal ready. The dogs had been fed. I’d written my thousand words for the day. We could be together.

Our life blossomed. Let Rebecca and Merton stay in their xeroscaped home deep in the labyrinth of Sun City, Arizona. Seniors only. Golf carts mandatory.

Here’s the irony. I got the money. When Kate died. I felt sad about her not getting to enjoy more of it. Relieved that I would have enough. So much more than I ever expected.

Rebecca and Merton died long ago. I scattered their ashes into a river flowing into Burntside Lake, near Ely, Minnesota.

Who knows whether Ruth and David have a future. They don’t, not yet. I don’t. If they do, I hope David sees me as welcoming, trusting of his intentions.

That’s all I wanted.

In that booth at the Capital Grille.

 

Feelings, Fourth Phase, Health

Not clear. Not now.

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Imbolc and the Moon of Tides

Monday gratefuls: Health. Diet. Exercise. Weariness. Ruth and David. St. Patrick. Irish Wolfhounds. Shadow of the morning.

Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Taxes

 

Kavannah: Histapkot. Contentment.   Seek what you need, give up what you don’t need.

Tarot: #12, The Mirror.  My neshama lies in the boat, ready for another return (teshuvah) to the homeland of my soul

One brief shining: I missed the mark (hamartia) on Sunday’s Ancient Brothers discussion of health. I found myself confused and ashamed. What is health for me? Have I let myself down?

 

Protein targets. Eat real food.  Low sugar, low salt. Exercise: 150 minutes.

Friendships. Learn something new.

A handbook for living perfectly.

I listen. Have listened. Too many marks to hit. I accused the “culture” of blaming and shaming. Making me feel like a self-abuser unwilling to do what’s good for me.

Not true.

Look at the exercise I have done. Intense cardio. Diverse resistance. The labors of gardening. Wildfire mitigation. Caring for Kate.

Don’t I deserve a break, a time when I can focus what energy remains on what sustains me–reading, writing, time with friends and family?

So what if I’m not the poster boy for diet and exercise? So what if I lose six months, a year of life if I can increase the quality of my life now?

Yeah. OK. But.

What if I’m rationalizing?  What if the simple truth is that the alternative is hard work?

Am I blaming and shaming myself by internalizing our obsession with fitness and perfect diets?

Am I the one guy who can’t lash himself to the mast of the good ship health, wax in his ears when the sirens of red meat and downtime sing?

Over the last year and a half, I’ve found this dance between health and quality of life more and more difficult to navigate. Reminds me of our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow. I seem stuck between what I can do and what I should do.

Health matters. Ask any of us in our late seventies, early eighties.

My calendar fills with visits to specialists and imaging centers. Back pain. Head drop. A labrum tear. Managing the cancer part of me so it doesn’t destroy its host.

Perhaps that’s it.

So much of my time, energy, and money already goes into health. A lot. I work hard to maintain resilience, not let the little craft in which I live get swamped.

When I get home, I need to place cancer back in its place. Sit down to ease my back.

Exercise then? Nah.

Make something to eat? Yes, if it’s not too hard.

I’ve not yet learned how to square this circle.

I want to live. Live well.

How do I balance these competing, valid demands?

Not clear.

Not now.

 

Family, Korea, Memories, Politics, US History

Love it or Leave it.

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Imbolc and the Moon of Tides

Sunday gratefuls: Torah. Luke. Jamie. Galen. Nate. Ruth and David. Tara. Snow, a bit. Colder. Mary and Mark. Joe and Seoah.

Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.

Sparks of Joy and Awe:  Snow

 

Kavannah: Histapkot. Contentment.   Seek what you need, give up what you don’t need.

Tarot: Six of Stones, Exploitation. The Great Work–creating a sustainable presence for humans on Mother Earth.

One brief shining: Ruth plans to come up tomorrow evening with David, her very new boyfriend. She asked if we could have a fire in the fireplace. When I said, “Yes,” she replied, “Great! I’m bringing fixings for s’mores.”

 

Ruth does not want to stay in the U.S. Medical school abroad. Ruth’s middle school friend, Wilson, went to Glasgow for college straight out of high school. He does not intend to return.

Tara and Arjean will be living in Costa Rica this time next year. Marilyn and Irv checked out Costa Rica.

Love it or leave it. The bumper sticker aimed at the long-haired, draft-dodging, pot-smoking, acid-tripping college kids. Like me. Many of us, including Mike Hines, a next neighbor and good friend, did just that.

Emigration to Canada appealed. No draft. English spoken. Nearby. Friendly. Even so, I never wanted to leave. Stay and fight. My country, not right or wrong. Hardly. Home though. Worth trying to change.

So many of my former friends in the anti-war movement slid out of their draft exemptions into the job market. White privilege keeping us safe for at least four years.

I tried. Wasn’t any good at it. An apprentice manager for W.T. Grant. What was I thinking? After a move to Wisconsin, Judy and I bought a house. Settled into blue collar work.

I moved eight-hundred pound bales of Munsingerwear scraps, left over from cutting out underwear and t-shirts. Put them on a conveyor belt and ran them through a cutting machine. Preliminary to making rag-bond paper for the U.S. Treasury. Much better than W.T. Grant. Even so. Canada looked as good then as it ever did for me.

What does it take to dislodge a person from their home country? Economic collapse.  The Irish potato famine. War. Call these push factors.

What can pull young, bright minds away from their homeland? Foreign students, especially from China, came here for a more open and innovative education. Others for the American Dream. A house. Kids. Decent income.

What about, though, the Ruths and the Wilsons? Perhaps it is the stranglehold on money and power of the older generation. Mine. Perhaps it is a more general unease. Government in shatters. Bigotry ascendant. Climate change imminent. Or, perhaps these same factors have, over time loosed the mystic bonds we call patriotism, made them less, much less, compelling.

Ruth fell in love with Korea. Great medical schools. I hope she finds a good spot. Our kids are leaving not only home, but country.

I will miss them.

So will the rest of us left behind.

 

 

 

 

Cancer, Health, Judaism

Content?

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Imbolc and the Moon of Tides

Shabbat gratefuls: Rabbi Jamie. Rabbi Rami. Teshuvah. Tikkun. Talmud Torah. Bagel table. The Mishkan. Shabbat. Colder.

Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.

Sparks of Joy and Awe:  Torah

 

Kavannah: Histapkot. Contentment.   Seek what you need, give up what you don’t need.

Tarot: Page of Stones, Lynx.  “Begin something new that supports your health.” Clinical trial for me.

One brief shining: Each night before I go to bed, I say three things. Hands over eyes, I first say the Shema. Then, hand on the mezuzah, “I am content with who I am. I’m content with what I have.” Last: “I love that little Shadow–all to pieces.”

 

When I say I’m content with who I am, I mean histapkot. This body, linked to all that becomes, has been, is, will be enough. The Shema says that plainly, yhvh is one.

The second part, “I’m content with all that I have.” has become a challenge. Money? Yes. Shadow Mountain Home? Yes. Shadow? Yes.

But. Am I content with cancer?

Cancer and contentment. What about those days I read unwelcome news? What about all the treatments, all the uncertainty?

I am content with having cancer. It can churn my stomach. Yes. It cannot be cured, so it’s a permanent resident. We are not two. We are one. When I eat, the cancer part of me eats. When I sleep, cancer rests with me. I am not content with cancer killing me. I do what I can to prevent that. Then again, I am not content with my heart killing me either. I do what I can to prevent that.

Railing against the cancer. Fighting it. Struggling with it. All those war-like metaphors. No. Why? Because they bind me to self-hatred, stir the anxiety pot until it overflows.

I refuse to live a life where cancer consumes not only my body, but my mind, my spirit as well. Like Medworld from yesterday, I will not allow cancer any more room in my mind and heart than it already has. I do not forget about it. Neither do I focus on it.

I turn to the lodgepole and the aspen. To life with Shadow. To improving my writing. Life is for living, not for waiting to die.

An enduring lesson of the Shema. The oneness of all becoming.  All is part of the one. Nothing lies outside it. Not cancer. Not war. Not crime.

Oneness challenges me to calm myself. To not let life be colonized by fear or self-pity. That’s why saying the Shema can act as a shield against anxiety and discontent. Stay here. Stay now.

Seek what you need.

Give up what you don’t need.

 

Fourth Phase, Health, Shadow Mountain

Medworld

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Imbolc and the Moon of Tides

Friday gratefuls: Scans. Their news. Wind, speaking. Tara. Jordan. Aorta. Prostate cancer. Trump. Iran. Mark. Mary.

Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.

Sparks of Joy and Awe:  Writing

 

Kavannah: Groundedness. Yesod.    Yesod is about establishing oneself in reality, refusing to rely on comfortable illusions.

Tarot: Four of Vessels, Boredom.  A current difficulty. Cancer thoughts+Fatigue+Back pain=low mental energy. Not boredom, but lassitude, a close relative.

One brief shining: Another whap across the forehead. Increased metastatic disease. Latest PET scan. So many tests. Medworld can consume life, spreading beyond its confines and colonizing the day-to-day. I don’t want that.

 

The steady, slow beat. Since last May.

With five diagnostic procedures in less than two weeks, their reports, it is as if I live in Medworld.

Medworld is not the day-to-day world. It’s a world of white coats, big parking lots, expensive machines. A world dominated by regimented time: show up a half-an-hour early.

Hallmarks of big science. Sophisticated, intricate machines.  Acolytes of the white coats to run them. Take off your shirt. Any metal in your pockets? Lift your legs.

Followed by the abstruse report: Widespread osseous metastatic disease is substantially worsened from 1/28/2026, with numerous new lesions identified. Means, uh-oh.

Turning, turning this new information. Wondering, again, about dying. About new treatments. How will I respond to them?  The critical factor at this point. Moments. Projections. Moving away from today toward a bed-ridden, supportive-oxygen dependent patient. Loss of agency. Who will be by my side?

Winching myself, one ratchet at a time, back. To the present. Where I have no bone pain. Where I am weak, yet mobile. Where I can still write. Where I live my non-Medworld life.

Stuck. Sometimes. Forgetting that Medworld supports, is only adjacent to: walks in my backyard. Making supper. Laughing with the Ancient Brothers.

I push it back. Not repressing. Rather. Putting those thoughts in Medworld where they belong. Why? Medworld can only slow the coming of the scythe, not prevent it. As a doctor on NPR said, “The death rate for each generation is still 100%.”

Writing. Friends and family. Marriage. Death. Episodes of a life. The final days for me are not yet.

Only one episode.

 

 

Cancer, Fourth Phase, Health

Machine Medicine

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Imbolc and the Moon of Tides

Thursday gratefuls: Mariposa. Andres. Alan. Bubble study. A long walk. Morning darkness. Ruby. Gas prices. Iran.

Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Resilience

 

Kavannah: Groundedness. Yesod.    Yesod is about establishing oneself in reality, refusing to rely on comfortable illusions.

Tarot: Knight of Arrows, Hawk. I need to look at the big picture, see cancer as only a part of a long journey.

 

One brief shining: A cold gel. A sonar wand. Andres took the measure of my heart. Possible shunt. A walk, long, to the Evergreen Building for my PET scan. Pleased with how I held up. Once again radioactive tracers. Lounged in the recliner for an hour, reading a Joe Pickett novel. Kindle app on my phone. Lie down.

 

My body, investigated. Bone scan. Echo. PET scan. Baselines for the clinical trial. No more even mild claustrophobia. Too familiar.

Wearing the soft brace around my neck while out and about. My head drops. Not as far. Doesn’t strain my back. I don’t get as worn out. Though. Feels clunky. Odd.

Second Uber back from Sky Ridge. Mariposa, a squat Latina with six-inch all black nail extensions. Drove eighty m.p.h. Quiet. As I prefer due to my poor hearing.

Shadow greeted me with wiggles and kisses. I remind myself, don’t take this for granted. Remember how long it took. How much heartache.

Getting ready for this clinical trial is a trial of its own. Organize rides. Co-pay. Not cheap. A volunteer guided me each time, the hospital a maze. Sit. Again. Wait.

Charles? I’m Andres. Charles? I’m Andrew. Out of the waiting room. Lie on your side. Lie on your back. Do you want a warm blanket?

No results yet. The doctors sit in their offices far away. Reading scans. Looking at results. I sit at home, tired and lacking information.

The life. Chronic disease. Periods of being home, petting Shadow, reading. Periods of whirs, hums, the stick of a needle. Data. Learning what happens next.

Like that frog. Warming water. I grow accustomed to each test.  One of these tests. One of these days. There’s nothing more we can do. The cancer has gone too far. Earlier, that would have been unwelcome news. Now? One point on this path. I’ve had a long life, one not marred by disease or disability. Enriched.

Punctuation marks. My cancer diagnosis pushed me over the line into life’s last phase, the fourth phase. In the fourth phase I acknowledge my mortality. Not as distant. No longer with that slight hesitation. Maybe not me?

I lean on friends and family. Feel my body gradually giving way.  Everything is harder. Yet. I would not change this time. I’m writing my way into it.

I sit in my chair. Calm.

General

Following Spring through Europe

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Imbolc and the Moon of Tides

Wednesday gratefuls: Alan. Jamie. Sky Ridge. Echocardiogram. PET scan. Uber. Tom, 78. 1990. Kate and me. Married. Yesterday.

Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: MVP

art@willworthington

Kavannah: Groundedness. Yesod.    Yesod is about establishing oneself in reality, refusing to rely on comfortable illusions.

Tarot: Seven of Arrows, Healing.  May it be so.

 

One brief shining: 36 years ago today Kate and I landed in Rome. Our wedding thank-you notes written on our PanAm flight. Partners already. Ready to mail at the Vatican post office. Which we did the next day. A beginning, a love story, a mutual story decades old.

A true honeymoon. Italian coffee and croissants at the top of the Spanish Steps. Evening meals in a trattoria. Nights exploring our relationship. Further.

Our first, but not our last, trip outside the U.S. Well. Except for those two days in Thunder Bay.

While touring Pompeii, unbeknownst to me, Kate carried, uncomplaining, two two-liter bottles of water. A first glimpse of a trait I learned: Dogged. Stubborn. Stoic.

Those bottles of water were her Joseon Palace. Her back began giving her trouble. As mine did after the Palace in Seoul.

In Florence. The Uffizi. We both loved Primavera. Kate hunted for jewelry. A passion of hers. I found out there.

Venice. We walked on the wooden pathways to stay above the water in St. Mark’s Square. Went to an evening Grand Canal side concert. A classical trio. Our meeting at the St. Paul Chamber Orchestra echoed in Venice.

That first view of the Grand Canal after leaving the train station. We put our luggage down to take it in.

From Venice a long train ride through the Alps to Vienna. No food on the train. Hungry when we arrived at 10 pm. The concierge at the Hotel Astoria pointed us across the Ringstrasse to a cozy Viennese restaurant. Red checkered tablecloths and wiener schnitzel. Kate loved the spaetzle, a marriage long favorite.

In the Kunsthistorische Kate discovered a favorite artist, Arcimboldo. He of the vegetable portraits. Kate’s love of whimsy surfacing.

In the afternoons when we rested a trio of Bolivian pan pipers played below our balcony.

Mozart’s home town. Salzburg. A restaurant begun in 890 by Irish monks. A tacky tour, which we mistakenly signed up for, of several sites featured in The Sound of Music. The Wedding Church!

Paris. The left bank. The owner of a laundromat where we did our clothes loved our honeymoon glow and gifted us a poster. Which hangs now beside my bed.

London. Bath. A special picnic put in the boot of our rental car. Wicker basket. Table cloth. We ate near the Wookey Hole in Somerset.

Edinburgh. A whole day in bed at the Caledonian. Tired. We’d been following spring north for almost three weeks.

Our final stop on our northward itinerary: Inverness. Long walks in the fog along the River Ness at night. Taking a taxi to see the blooming heather. A tartan mill where one man arranged the spools of wool on a large iron rack so they would come out on the loom a specific tartan. Kate, ever the seamstress and quilter, found his memory astounding.

Back home. 32 years together. Dogs. Kids. Travel. Gardens and bees. Then, the Rocky Mountains.

Life. Together.

Always.

Mountains, Paganism, Reimaging revelation, Shadow Mountain
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Imbolc and the Moon of Tides

Tuesday gratefuls: Safeway pickup. Shadow, muster dog. Ana. A clean house. Alan, my chauffeur. Shadow Mountain. Artemis

Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Yogurt

 

Kavannah: Groundedness. Yesod.    Yesod is about establishing oneself in reality, refusing to rely on comfortable illusions.

Tarot: Queen of Arrows.    “…represents intellectual mastery, logic, and honesty.”

 

One brief shining: The meaning of a mountain. Altitude. Peaks. Valleys. The crust of Mother Earth folded, compressed, lifted up from its underground slumber. Black Mountain. Shadow Mountain. The Rockies. Geological time made visible.

 

Each time I drive down toward Evergreen on Black Mountain Drive, I follow the declining northwestern flank of Shadow Mountain. Black Mountain rises to my left, ten thousand feet high.

The valley between Black and Shadow Mountains has four creeks that drain their snow and rain: Cub Creek, Maxwell, Blue, and Kate’s. As I go down toward Evergreen, I see snow melt flowing fast, filling, and sometimes spilling over the banks of Maxwell Creek. In winter snow-covered ice.

Shadow Mountain slopes up until it levels off at the top, giving me and my neighbors almost flat lots.

Orogeny. Mountain building. An example, the Laramide orogeny. A long, long time ago. The Rocky Mountains. The Wind River Range. The Black Hills.

I find the mountains mysterious. Their age. The Lodgepole and Aspen forests that clothe them. The wild neighbors who call them home. The fact that their rocky massiveness once resided in the earth’s crust. In a garden a weed is a plant out of place. Mountains are rocks out of place.

I often ponder my Mayfly life compared to the age of these mountains. How can I live here amongst these rugged mountains and not compare my life to theirs. It will take the creeks millions of years to drain them into the world ocean. We’re a blip. A lit match, soon snuffed out. This comforts me. Puts my ups and downs in a larger and longer context.

I am the universe experiencing these wonders it has built. I can feel their rough granite when I sit overlooking Maxwell Falls. I can smell the pines on a clear morning, wandering in my backyard. I can hear the wind racing through the trees, crying out, make way, make way. I can taste wild strawberries and wild raspberries that grow along Kate’s Creek.

I may be, certainly am, a blip. But to me. A day, this day, is a life full and overflowing. Nourished by the forests, creeks, wild neighbors. Sustained on my steady, stable mountain.

We may be short-lived creatures. Our lives weightless compared to a mountain. The mountains take our breath away. Yet. We sing songs about them. Write poems. Run away to them when press of urban life overwhelms us.

I-Charlie. Thou, Shadow Mountain.

The meaning of a mountain.

 

Great Wheel, Paganism, Reimagine. Reconstruct. Reenchant., Reimaging revelation, Shadow Mountain

A Druid

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Imbolc and the Moon of Tides

Monday gratefuls: Morning darkness. Tomato seeds. Gladiolus bulbs. Iris rhizomes. Lily bulbs. Artemis. Spring. Shadow, gnawer of toys.

Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Gumbo

 

Kavannah: Groundedness. Yesod.    Yesod is about establishing oneself in reality, refusing to rely on comfortable illusions.

Tarot: Knight of Stones, Horse. A strong connection to mother earth. Yesod. Year of the fire horse. Dramatic, even revolutionary change.

 

One brief shining: Ordered from Seed Savers Exchange–Moonglow, large red cherry, and Cherokee purple heirloom tomato seeds. From Eden Brother’s Nursery–Dark purple reblooming Iris bulbs, Gladiolus, and Star Gazer Lilies. Grounded. My gardening Yesod. Co-creation.

 

Paul sent me an article: Paganism Popularity Grows in Maine. I read it with my usual combination of gratitude and unease.

Grateful for the spread of Earth-centered affection. Reverence for Mother. God (pardon me) knows we need it. Many follow the Great Wheel, as I do. Organizing rituals. Seeing the sacred in a seedling, a garden plot, the changing of the seasons.

My unease comes from paganism’s splintered and often invented roots. Rabbi Rami Shapiro answers the question: Who is Jew? Anyone who says they are a Jew is a Jew. Rattling many rabbinic cages. His point? There is no one, no text that defines who is a Jew. Q.E.D.

The same applies to paganism. Anyone can claim to be a pagan. My unease increases when Asatru and other pagan gatherings claim Northern European supremacy. Read: White.

Long ago. Perhaps 1988, I had a spiritual director, Rev. John Ackerman. A Presbyterian clergy. As I was then. Starting to write novels, I’d gone deep into what I then thought was my Celtic ancestry.

Sitting in his office in the staid Westminster church, I told John transcendence and the usual notions of God felt patriarchal. “Charlie,” he said, “You’re a druid!”

That transformed my self-understanding. I left the ministry two years later.

OK. Maybe I’m being too much the scholar, too much the adherent to religions with provable ancient roots. Why should it matter where a faith comes from?

Consider Jim Jones and his Kool Aid eucharist of death. Moonies. Or this: “‘President Trump has been anointed by Jesus to light the signal fire in Iran to cause Armageddon and mark his return to Earth.’”

Pagan and heathen. Rural folk. Those who held on to the old ways. True of the Celts when the Roman Catholic Church built cathedrals over Celtic holy wells.

I need no text to find the sacred. It’s right there: In the lodgepole growing toward the sun. In a tomato seed, bearer of life. In photosynthesis.

I’m too harsh. Let a thousand pagan faiths bloom. Yet. Critique and reject. Paganism as a cover for bigotry and violence.

Artemis will be my temple.

In her I will plant tomatoes, garlic, beets, iris, glads, and lilies.

With the vegetables I will practice the only true transubstantiation: eating.