"Harrowing"...not field work. :)

    Recently I finished reading Tim O'Brien's The Things They Carried.  It seemed logical to follow that by reading his In The Lake of The Woods. The New York Times Book Review called it the best book of 1994....see how far behind I am in my reading?  Harrowing is what I would call it. The Book Review said about it "At bottom, this is a tale about the moral effects of suppressing a true story, about the abuse of history, about what happens to you when you pretend there is no history."
    John Wade is tormented by his alcoholic father. In Vietnam he is complicit in war crimes...atrocities.  Eventually he is found out illustrating the danger of toxic secrets. The book is a morality tale about the psychic damage done by abusive parenting leading to a character defect which is critical under the stress of combat.
     O'brien tells it well but it's not book to read if you want a resolved finish. The mystery has several suggested hypothesis but no definite conclusion.  Yes, I'd recommend it.

Takk for alt,

Al

The Things
by Donald Hall

When I walk in my house I see pictures,
bought long ago, framed and hanging
— de Kooning, Arp, Laurencin, Henry Moore —
that I've cherished and stared at for years,
yet my eyes keep returning to the masters
of the trivial — a white stone perfectly round,
tiny lead models of baseball players, a cowbell,
a broken great-grandmother's rocker,
a dead dog's toy — valueless, unforgettable
detritus that my children will throw away
as I did my mother's souvenirs of trips
with my dead father. Kodaks of kittens,
and bundles of cards from her mother Kate.

Couldn't resist posting last night's pond picture.

"Detour, there's a muddy road ahead."

     Well, actually the sign didn't say "detour" it said "ROAD CLOSED."  My need for rescue brought to mind Paul Westmorland's Country Western song from the '40. The mudhole was obvious, a serve right instead of left? probably would have made it. Four wheel drive locked in? probably would have made it. Joanne would have thought "That was dumb" but would have said "now what." A mobile phone call to big brother who appeared with his truck and he pulled me out.
    All because I wanted the view of the lake from the top of the hill. Helmer Quail's place, now under water except for his silo, can be seen from the road. Helmer's is an island with fishing boats often just off shore.  Ah yes, today's adventure. Fortunately brother was near and willing. Thanks!
   Two-fers on my morning walk. Two pelicans (see picture) fishing near the road, two kingfisher's skimming the water for insects and two deed, doe and fawn, bounding away. Wildlife sightings are a gift of the season.

Shoulders

by Naomi Shihab Nye

A man crosses the street in rain,
stepping gently, looking two times north and south,
because his son is asleep on his shoulder.

No car must splash him.
No car drive too near to his shadow.

This man carries the world's most sensitive cargo
but he's not marked.
Nowhere does his jacket say FRAGILE,
HANDLE WITH CARE.

His ear fills up with breathing.
He hears the hum of a boy's dream
deep inside him.

We're not going to be able
to live in this world
if we're not willing to do what he's doing
with one another.

The road will only be wide.
The rain will never stop falling.

Takk for alt,

Al

Two fishing.

Beautiful grass.

Story Telling

     Over several blog posts I've written about how writing has helped me with my grief work. Two features have been mentioned in that regard. First, writing helped me recognize and name what I was feeling. That's not always the most natural situation for me. Second, posting my writings on a blog created an online community in the land of grief.
     "By telling stories, you objectify your own experience. You separate it from yourself. You pin down certain truths."  P. 152 The Things They Carried, Tim O'Brien   Perhaps that's part of the explanation for the healing I received from blogging about my grief. In some way the grief was objectified giving it less power over me.
    Many years ago I read O'Brien's Going After Cacciato and had long intended to read The Things They Carried. MJV kindly sent me a package of books including The Things. Published in 1990 and called a novel it's more a 'war diary' of O'Brien's experience in Vietnam. MJV called it "interconnected short stories" and that's an accurate description. The book is a powerful witness to the banality and senselessness of war.  But, then, I'm perhaps the last person to read it but I recommend it.

Takk for alt,

Al

A study in blue and green.

On a cow path!

    Cattle and bison are quite different. Cattle will 'yard up' around trees in shady draws stamping down the vegetation. Bison don't do that, they prefer standing on top of the hill. Cattle will walk the same path making a "cow path". Bison do not make path's which is more helpful ecologically.
    Today I took advantage of the cow paths in the native pasture as I pursued wild cedar trees and other pests. That's the pasture Steve uses for his cattle until July 4. The cattle graze back the invasive grasses allowing the summer native plants, such as big bluestem, to thrive. Gradually, over 20+ years, the native grasses are emerging.
    Norwegian, Torbjorn Ekelund, turned to walking after an epileptic seizure ended his ability to drive. In his book In Praise of Paths: Walking Through Time and Nature, he tells the story of his new life, a life of walking. He never says it in so many words but I suspect he'd not take up driving again even if he could. Walking has enriched his life in many dimensions. The book also includes much information about paths, walking and walkers. It was a very timely read just I've decided to walk more...very inspiring. Walking those cow paths this morning offered good opportunity to reflect on Ekelund's ideas. Yes, I recommend it.

Takk for alt,

Al

Sunset over my pond.

A bison rubbing rock in the prairie pasture. The rock stands where the glacier left it.

Musk thistle, my late brother suggested it would be better horror movie than birds.

The Bard

All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

As You Like It, William Shakespeare 

  My little place on "the stage" at this moment took me on a sunrise hike to the cemetery. Several broods of ducks, teal, mallards, wood ducks, paddled away as we walked by. A cormorant fixed me with a suspicious eye, swimming a few yard out in the water ready to slip quietly beneath the surface if I threatened. A turtle poked his snout above the water, perhaps the one I lifted off the road yesterday so it wouldn't be smashed under a tire.  A muskrat left a little V wake as it swam with just its nose above the surface. We startled a deer visiting the graves in the cemetery...one look at Trygve and he bounded out past the evergreens that ring the sacred ground. Walking always seem best in the early morning.

Takk for alt

Al

Sunrise at the cemetery.

Murdoch again.

"'Let it all go Monty. The resentment and the jealousy  and the reliving of it all. Sophie is dead and you must respect her death, and that means not tearing away at a memory of her personality. Death changes our relation to people. Of course the relation itself lives on and goes on changing....Sophie is dead and you are alive and your duty is the same as any man's, to make yourself better." P. 296  The Sacred and Profane Love machine., Iris Murdoch.
    This book was my introduction to Murdoch. Now I know what all the fuss was about and certainly will read more of her books. The book cover says THE WITTIEST PROFOUNDEST AND MOST COMPULSIVE BLACK COMEDY.  It's mindful of Walter Scott's "Oh what tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive."  Much of the story weaves around Blaise and his extra-marital affair. His deception strews destruction across the landscape. It's a great illustration of the destructive power of toxic secrets. Persons interested in family systems would have a great book to illustrate the various concepts; toxic secrets, the family mobile, etc. It is engrossing and often humorous. It lives up to the deep philosophical reputation for which Murdoch is famous.
    Any readers out there have suggestions for the next Murdoch book?

Takk for alt,

Al

The principal addresses students before class at my Thai school.

That's a first!

       As a lifelong hunter, outdoors man, sometimes farmer, I've had much opportunity to observe wildlife. Observing is always the best part of hunting. When I was a teenager doing field work I took my lunch to the south, sunny side of the shelter belt...trees planted as a windbreak...out of the cold northwest wind. As I sat eating my lunch with a fence post as a backrest I looked up to see a skunk approaching. It was to close for me to safely move away so I sat very still. The skunk came and sniffed of my boots then ambled away in the direction it had been moving. A few years ago I sat resting in a snowy abandoned farmstead. A weasel, wearing it's winter white with only a black tip on it's tail and nose. came bounding by me. Today provided me with a first.
      Lisa and I were doing the "farmer thing" this morning, driving around inspecting crops. (I know a retired farmer who bought a new car with a guidance system so he can more safely look at crops.) Lisa and I were stopped on a dead-end road, considering property boundaries, when a young mink came loping toward us on the track.  A few feet in front of the truck he stopped, stood on his hind legs for a better look and then ran into the grass. Mink are extremely wary, largely nocturnal and seldom show themselves. A few years ago I was on the back of motorcycle in Thailand going to school and one ran across the road in front of us. (The proverbial "I saw a mink on the way to school."  😃 The mink didn't give us much time but Lisa did get a picture. (See below.)

   CROP REPORT:  Any self-respecting farmer would shudder to have corn than looks like mine. The lack of moisture early in it's growing means the corn is very uneven; some is tasseling while some is knee high. The slow growth means that the ground has not been shaded so there is much weed growth. Deer are not into delayed gratification so they've been grazing the young corn rather than waiting for the ears to develop. Regardless, there will be enough to provide a wildlife banquet this winter...which is my goal.

Takk for alt,

Al

Mr. Mink (or Miss)

Friends

     In my life there are friends who have been with me as long as I can remember. Calling them "long time friends" seems more helpful than "old" friends. It's a delight to remember events from shared childhood. Other friends have been special to me for decades, so again, there are precious memories both past and present. There still other friends who've been known to me for some years but not many decades. Then there are recent friends who bring special-ness, in part, becasue they enliven a stage in later life that can often be lonely.
     Dogs brought us together. Peter and Sandy, recent friends, residents of my condo building were often out walking their dog while I was out with Trygve. One thing led to another and eventually we were doing weekly coffee outings. Literature is important to me, and to them, but they are far beyond me as frequently published authors, their books being sold on Amazon. Peter is a frequently published poet and he sent me a copy of his recently published book of poetry: Adding the Subtractions:Poems of Love and Grief, P.M.F. Johnson, copyright 2020. The book is available from Amazon. Sandy writes under the name Sandra Rector and her novels are sold by Amazon.
    In a section of Peter's book of poetry called Adding the Subtractions this poem appears. P. 65.

                                                          Evidence

                                                        (For Al N.)

                                    The butter dish is always empty,

                                     he noticed aloud. Not with any

                                     superior intent. That he noticed

                                     in himself, anyway. But her reply 

                                     came quick: and you never put 

                                     the toaster cover back on.

                                     It was embarrassing and amusing

                                     as he apologized.

                                     But now on these late summer mornings

                                     he carefully puts the cover on.

                                     Not out of guilt exactly,

                                     more a disquiet 

                                     to fulfill a request

                                     that only mattered then.

                                     If he responds, she still matters.

     Thanks Peter!   Readers may expect to see more of Peter's work in this blog.

Takk for alt,

Al

   

                     

Iris Murdoch writes...

"He (Monty) must, he thought, now somehow switch himself off or else move on into some new and even more awful mode of being. But even as he composed himself into slit-eyed immobility and called upon the stillness beyond stillness where the fretful struggle of self and other is eternally laid at rest, he knew that he could not thus achieve what was needful. Such wisdom as he owned had told him that he could only survive his grief by giving into it entirely, and though that way might seem to lead into madness there still appeared to be no alternative." P. 201 The Sacred and Profane Love Machine
      Monty is grieving the recent death of his wife, Sophie. He's tortured with many regrets and seems to have been totally unprepared for bereavement. He's correct in thinking "...he could only survive his grief by giving into it entirely..." Parker Palmer was terrified of heights. In an Outward Bound course he was rappelling down a cliff when he panicked and froze. His instructor called up to him "Parker, if you can't get out of it, get into it." That captures my understanding of grief..."if you can't get out of it, get into it."
      With Joanne's diagnosis of terminal cancer and subsequent death I did my best to "give into it." Raw, excruciatingly painful, seemingly hopeless grief overwhelmed me. Family and friends stood by, writing helped me focus my feelings and I was buoyed by the online community that developed. Now the presence of absence in the land of grief is an ache but counterbalanced by other gifts of life. It seems to me that it was the right decision to avoid any form of denial.

Company's coming and I so I did what any host might do; I cleaned house! 😀

Takk for alt,

Al

Several times a week I visit Joanne's grave.

Poetry of grief...

The Thing Is

by Ellen Bass

to love life, to love it even
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you’ve held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
your throat filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you, its tropical heat
thickening the air, heavy as water
more fit for gills than lungs;
when grief weights you like your own flesh
only more of it, an obesity of grief,
you think, How can a body withstand this?
Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again.

    It's been 27+ months since Joanne died; forever and yet only yesterday. Life is transformed. A dweller in the land of grief I think much about Joanne. One of my wonderments is how she would cope with quarantine. Would the telephone conversations, that sustain me, be enough for her. As an introvert it's quite easy to fill my 'people bladder.' Her need for people was next to insatiable, would telephone suffice?  We'd certainly have opportunity for conversation and she loved The Little House. 

 I can say with the poet "yes, I will take you I will love you again."  I have and I do!

Takk for alt

Al

The scene as I stepped out my door this morning.

More from literature re: grief.

    Sam kindly sent me this from A Gentleman In Moscow. 
 When the Count is talking to Sophia, whose mother Nina has disappeared, he says: "No matter how much time passes, those we have loved never slip away from us entirely."  In the novel the Count is under house arrest in a hotel in Moscow. He befriends a girl, Nina, who gives birth to Sophia. During the Soviet purges Nina leaves Moscow to follow her husband who is banished to Siberia and she disappears. Before she left, Nina entrusted Sophia to the Count. This is the context for the Count's quote. (A very good book, incidentally.)
     Another quote from Iris Murdoch's The Sacred and Profane Love Machine. "How insanely obsessed he was even Harriet, who cared so much to find out his thoughts, had not the faintest idea of. Of course bereavement is a darkness impenetrable to the imagination of the unbereaved, and later forgotten when the bereaved on recovers."  P. 40. The first half of the sentence is clearly true but is it "later forgotten?"  Perhaps the time since Joanne's death is too short for me to forget, but, will I ever?

HAPPY CORN!  Yesterday when I visited one of my  corn fields it was dying of thirst. The other field is 8 miles away and has a few little showers of a tenth of an inch or so...it's thriving. Last night the dryer field got 2.25" rain and the other 1.6". My friend, the late Ted Thompson, always said "it rains 5 minutes before it's too late." However, Ted farmed in southern Minnesota where that was probably true. I know it wasn't always true in South Dakota in the '40s and '50s when I was a boy.  Corn is in the pollinating stage now when moisture is critical. Some of the commercial corn was showing some signs of stress. Soybeans, unlike corn, are more capable of waiting for rain. Both crops are benefiting from subsoil moisture from last year's excessive rain.

Takk for alt

Al

4 of my Noble Academy scholars outside during a fire drill.

Grief in literature.

  In Iris Murdoch's The Sacred and Profane Love Machine,  Monty is grieving the death of his wife, Sophie. Murdoch writes "An awful separateness had come upon him in the later days of Sophie's illness.  He could not bring himself to take his wife in his arms, not (as she thought) because her illness made her hideous: it was that death had already taken hold of her and he could not bear the sense of utter loss which her still-breathing body inspired."  P. 34
     This is another form of avoidance. When 'Jane' lay dying her good friend 'Mary'  told me she would not go to visit her. Her excuse "I want to remember Jane the way she was." What about Jane's needs? Do her needs not count? When my mother was dying, but alert, I brought her life long friend, who was also her sister-in-law, to the hospital so they could say goodbye. These two women, aged 89, shared a poignant farewell informed by their mutual faith. It was one of the most touching conversations I ever witnessed and made possible by my mother's 'good' death allowing for farewells.

    SMALL DELIGHT: Across the street from The Little House is a pond, called a slough in South Dakota. When my parents retired from the farm they bought the house across the street, also across from The Little House, and their back yard met the pond. Dad built a little screen porch at the back of the house overlooking the pond. Mother spent hours on the porch enjoying the pond's wildlife, she lived there 27 years.  Now the pond brings me delight. There are several broods of ducks, both early and late hatches, there. Seeing the ducklings swimming behind their mama is sooooooooo cute. In addition to the ducks there are also geese, grebes, egrets, great blue herons and even an occasional pelican.
   
Takk for alt,

Al

The view from my front yard this morning.

"3rd times's a charm"

   For two nights, Thursday and Friday, I drove to the hill north of town looking for NEOWISE, but clouds obscured the view. Last night there wasn't a cloud in the sky and there was NEOWISE moving rapidly from west to east. No tail was visible without a telescope. The speed it traveled across the sky surprised me. If there are no clouds tonight I may seek a return engagement. It's not coming back for 6800 years so.........

"An amazing comet that thrilled early-morning stargazers earlier this month is now visible in the evening sky, and it's a sight you won't want to miss. After all, this comet won't be back for 6,800 years, NASA says. 

Comet NEOWISE can now be seen just after sunset for observers in the Northern Hemisphere, according to NASA. (Sorry, Southern Hemisphere skywatchers, it's not visible there.) The comet made its closest approach to the sun July 3 but was only visible before dawn until now.

"If you're in the Northern Hemisphere, you can see it," said Joe Masiero, deputy principal investigator of NEOWISE, the NASA space telescope that discovered the comet, in a NASA Science Live webcast Wednesday (July 15).  "As the next couple of days progress, it will get higher in the evening sky, so you're going to want to look northwest right under the Big Dipper." (The Big Dipper is a ladle-shaped star pattern that is part of the constellation Ursa Major, the Big Bear.)"

    With the musical, and now a movie, Hamilton, as in Alexander, has been all the rage.A good companion piece is Elizabeth Cobb's, The Hamilton Affair: A Novel. Cobb has her PHD from Stanford so is a serious historian who tried to remain faithful to history while writing a novel about Alexander and Elizabeth Hamilton. Jim Lehrer writing on the book jacket: "Historic scholarship and creative music have suddenly turned Alexander Hamilton into one of the hottest of the nation's Founding Fathers. The Hamilton Affair promises to turn up the heat even further. Elizabeth Cobb's superb novel about the many lives and perils of Hamilton and his wife Eliza adds delights and insights that are as fascinating as they are fun. Think of it as a terrific-and must read-companion to all things Hamilton."  

   I agree and heartily recommend it.

Takk for alt,

Al

Just for fun, more students.

A role model!

      Today is Nelson Mandela's birthday. This quote is from today's Writer's Almanac.

"He spent 27 years in prison, but refused to carry a grudge against his captors. He later said of his release from prison, "As I walked out the door toward the gate that would lead to my freedom, I knew if I didn't leave my bitterness and hatred behind, I'd still be in prison."

He also said: "A good head and good heart are always a formidable combination. But when you add to that a literate tongue or pen, then you have something very special."

     "Prison" pops up again. Yesterday it was Alexander Hamilton saying that prejudice and ignorance imprisoned. Today it's Nelson Mandela  "I knew if I didn't leave my bitterness and hatred behind, I'd still be in prison." That's quite an accomplishment for someone wrongly imprisoned for 27 years. He refused hatred and bitterness becasue he recognized that they hurt him not his captors

    All this make me reflect on my prisons. What grudges do I harbor? What are my prejudices? When I discussed prejudice with my students at Noble Academy I used the definition that 'prejudice is non-factual opinion.' The students had a good grasp of the difference between fact and opinion so that definition resonated with them. Often prejudice and racism are linked but that's only one form of non-factual opinion. Openness to others can be a reality check on our prejudices. Early in my ministry Addie Vig challenged me on my defensiveness. She was courageous enough to give me a great gift.

     When COVID shut down the school systems in March, I was working with a group of 8th graders at Noble Academy in Brooklyn Park. With some in the group we'd been together for 5 years. Noble only serves students through grade 8, so I would have had to say goodbye to them this spring. With COVID school closed so quickly there were no 'goodbyes.'

Takk for alt,

Al

Some of those 8th graders.

Prejudice and ignorance.

    Historian Elizabeth Cobbs' novel The Hamilton Affair, is about the relationship of Alexander Hamilton and, his wife, Elizabeth. Historical novels are one approach to history and at the hands of an historian who writes well it can both delight and inform.
    During Hamilton's struggle to establish a banking system for the fledgling United Sates, Cobbs writes "But as often happened, stubborn assumptions impeded comprehension. In Alexander's experience, prejudice and ignorance were brick and mortar of men's prisons."  P.170
    "None are so blind as those who will not see."• According to the ‘Random House Dictionary of Popular Proverbs and Sayings’ this proverb has been traced back to 1546 (John Heywood), and resembles the Biblical verse Jeremiah 5:21 (‘Hear now this, O foolish people, and without understanding; which have eyes, and see not; which have ears, and hear not’). In 1738 it was used by Jonathan Swift in his ‘Polite Conversation’ and is first attested in the United States in the 1713 ‘Works of Thomas Chalkley’. The full saying is: ‘There are none so blind as those who will not see. The most deluded people are those who choose to ignore what they already know’. 
    Hamilton is correct about the role of prejudice and ignorance. Certainly we are imprisoned by by both our prejudice and our ignorance. None are so wise as those who sincerely ask "help me understand."

     Yesterday, in posting my random picture of the day which featured last year's grade five, I was struck by sudden sadness. In January I taught this group for the third year. There has always been a special spark in this class. It saddens me that it's unlikely I'll be able to return to teach them next year.   After 6th grade they will scatter to different schools so, likely I'll not see them again. ☹️☹️

Takk for alt

Al

Losing Battles

       "Well, that was different!"  This phrase was often said as a euphemism by the people in my childhood. It could mean something was bad, stupid, unhelpful, silly, etc. It kept the speaker from dangerous commitment either positive or negative.

    "Well, that was different" also sums up my reaction  to Eudora Welty's Losing Battles.  Others, far more erudite than I, have said "it's important literature. Reading it caused me to violate one of the rules I've adopted from Joanne...give it a chapter. A writer in newspaper's book section recently wrote that pursuing a book in a bookstore she reads page 17. If page 17 engages her she buys the book. I was well past page 17 and the first chapter before Losing Battles engaged me. Even then engagement was sometimes tenuous.

     The book, set in Mississippi during the 1930's, is the story largely of one family. Very little happens and it's mostly dialogue. Occasionally it is quite funny though it strains my credulity to the point it seems too ludicrous to seem plausible. Some English major reading this could offer a helpful corrective to this curmudgeonly report. Anyone???

      The quotation below come from Richard Rohr's daily meditation,

"Genuine mystics, like Buddhist bodhisattvas, don’t renounce the world for the sake of a private spiritual illumination. Rather, they use the enlightenment they’ve achieved to do something about the world’s ills.

The reason for this, says Soelle, is that mystics have been liberated from the three powers that typically hold humans in bondage: ego, possession, and violence. They recognize that the standardly accepted division between I and not-I is an artificial one born from overvaluing oneself and competing with others for possessions . . . [which] in turn sets the stage for the “onset of violence.”

      With the accumulation of possessions over the years I've recognized how our possessions own us. Linking self, possession and violence is a key insight. "Foxes have holes, birds have nests but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head." 

Takk for alt,

Al

Grade 5, last year.

The Key To Happiness

In her novel, The Nice and the Good (1968),  (Iris) Murdoch wrote: "Happiness is a matter of one's most ordinary everyday mode of consciousness being busy and lively and unconcerned with self. To be damned is for one's ordinary everyday mode of consciousness to be unremitting agonising preoccupation with self."  From today's Writer's Almanac

     How true! This is an addendum for yesterday's post about perspective.  What keeps you happy and engaged during this pandemic?  MB once said to me that in retirement a person needs a daily focus or the day disappears with little to show for it. This rings true with my experience both in retirement and in quarantine.  There is something deep with in me that feels a need for some type of accomplishment. It needn't be anything major but some project worked on or accomplished. One of the gifts of quarantining here is the availability of such projects which also keep me safe from COVID.
      Today, being another 'June like' day I began with a good walk. Trygve's tickled to accompany and I've always like walking. I've made a personal commitment to at least one longer walk every week.
     Life remains good at The Little House and I'm grateful!

Takk for alt,

Al

My Thai students are much on my mind.

Life with people!

The visible and the in-

by Marge Piercy

Some people move through your life
like the perfume of peonies, heavy
and sensual and lingering.

Some people move through your life
like the sweet musky scent of cosmos
so delicate if you sniff twice, it’s gone.

Some people occupy your life
like moving men who cart off
couches, pianos and break dishes.

Some people touch you so lightly you
are not sure it happened. Others leave
you flat with footprints on your chest.

Some are like those fall warblers
you can’t tell from each other even
though you search Petersen’s.

Some come down hard on you like
a striking falcon and the scars remain
and you are forever wary of the sky.

We all are waiting rooms at bus
stations where hundreds have passed
through unnoticed and others

have almost burned us down
and others have left us clean and new
and others have just moved in.


“The visible and the in-” from MADE IN DETROIT by Marge Piercy. Published by Alfred A. Knopf. Copyright © 2015 by Marge Piercy. 

We all are waiting rooms at bus
stations where hundreds have passed
through unnoticed and others

have almost burned us down
and others have left us clean and new
and others have just moved in.

      The twin realities of retirement and COVID quarantine offer the opportunity of reflection. Much reflection is also occasioned by lurking in cemeteries. Frequent subject of those reflections are the people who have touched me, almost all for good and very, very few for ill. Often I've remarked about an interesting facet of old age is the opportunity to see how so many have lived their lives. There have been many surprises along the way.
      Joanne "moved in" which made my life immeasurably better. That's why her departure, her death, was the cause of such profound grief.  Two plus years since her death the presence of absence remains real but less intense.
      Among others things for which I'm grateful today is the .5" of rain this morning. 😊

Takk for alt,

Al

My school in Thailand is now using the new building.

So fickle!

     Perhaps it's not unusual to want what one want's when one wants it no matter what. Today I was reminded of how fickle I am. Strong winds wear me out, seeming to just beat on me. Yet, today I welcomed the 20 mph south wind that usually I'd resent. Why the flip?  One field seems infested with horse flies which inflict a nasty bite. Thanks to the wind today my work in that field was free of flies, so the wind was welcome.
     Such a minor issue just serves to make the point of how self centered I am. "It's all about me" don't you know. Many years ago an experience was a revelation of the depth of my subjectivity. While living in Mohall, ND, our basketball team made it to the regional tournament. The tournament was held in the Mohall gym and our team was to play in the first playoff game. The other team was home to a pastor friend so we invited the pastor and his wife to join us for dinner before the game. After dinner the four of us went to the game each couple sitting with fans for their team. Mohall won the game. After the game our friends came back to our house for dessert. Our friends had a seen a very different game from the one we saw; key plays, reffing, everything was opposite. These friends were in every way our equal or better so the differences in perspective could not be explained by some lack of equality.  No, the difference was subjectivity. Both perspectives were highly subjective.
    That experience has always served as a cautionary tale for me. It's not easy to see from another's perspective but it is worth the effort. Recognizing my little fickle episodes is a reminder of my subjectivity.
      Hoping for rain.......

Takk for alt,

Al

Lake Joanne

"What is so rare as a day in June, or July?"

    A 'June like' morning invited me out for a nice 2.5 mile walk, which was also thoroughly enjoyed by Trygve.  This was followed by blueberry pancakes which exclude Trygve. Such a contrast to Sunday mornings during the 39 years of my congregational life.
    The newsletter from my first congregation, Zion Lutheran, Mohall, ND, caught up with me. Included in the newsletter were congratulations to two couples on the the 50th anniversary of their wedding. It was of particular interest to me becasue I presided at those weddings. 😊 What's more I remember both of their weddings and details about the preparation. That's a bit surprising. When I was still in seminary I saw a pastor's record book for tracking baptisms, weddings, funerals, etc. In my naivete I thought "Why would I need that? Certainly I can remember all those events."  Wrong! Sorry to say there are many I've forgotten, but not  those two. Likely the pandemic meant a muted receptions for them at this milestone. It would be fun to attend the 50th wedding reception of a couple I married. Besides the pandemic there's distance; Mohall and The Little House are 500 miles separated.
    So it is for me, comfortable, blessed and grateful!

Takk for alt,

Al

Trygve, after our walk.

Back again!

     Well....social isolate or not, I'm back at The Little House. While I puzzle at those who refuse to take COVID seriously, I choose not to be one of them. It was a good quick trip to Minnesota allowing me to see my family and a couple of friends.
      The current weather pattern in South Dakota is bringing back memories from childhood of waiting for rain. About a  hundred miles west of Minneapolis there is serious field flooding. A bit farther than that I drove through a heavy thunder shower. But here? no significant rain for weeks. Because last year was exceptionally wet and crops are thriving on sub-soil moisture.  How long will that last? I have no idea, but now the corn and beans look as good as I've ever seen them on July 11.
     It's a blessing to have this little place and also a condo which can be safely, and easily, left. Truly I'm one of the of the most fortunate.fortunate.

Takk for alt,

Al

View from The Little House.

Joanne's fear!

      Though she never said it to me, Joanne's conversation with many of her friends, while she was in hospice, gave evidence of her fear for me. The contrast between her extreme extroversion and my introversion was evident throughout our married life.  Finally, a book helped us more fully understand our difference. Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking is a 2012 non-fiction book written by Susan Cain. Cain argues that modern Western culture misunderstands and undervalues the traits and capabilities
of introverted people, leading to "a colossal waste of talent, energy, and happiness".  Joanne's fear was that after her death, given my introversion, I'd become a social isolate, huddled in my condo avoiding people altogether. Quite contrary, without her I needed regular contact with others and acted accordingly.
     So now I wonder, has the COVID quarantine created the social isolate of me that Joanne fearfully anticipated? Clearly the isolation has not been very difficult for me and that's a gift of my introversion. Apart from almost daily conversations with Lisa and Lars, I make 1-3 daily phone calls to converse. That seems enough to fill my "people bladder."  Apart from grief over the presence of absence I don't experience loneliness. Solitude becomes me and that's totally different from being lonely.
      This is my story and I'm sticking with it. 😃

Takk for alt,

Al

A random picture for those who appreciate such. :)