I am sharing this one on Facebook, as well. I have many friends on that medium, and other sites, who are in a very tender emotional state, for reasons of their own. When they take a risk and share their grief, which, by the way, they don’t have to do, they are sharing the most private areas of their life experiences. I love a good many of these people, as if they are my own family. I believe, to the core of my being, that we each have a bounden duty to follow the Golden Rule, with regard to one another and with regard to our expectations of ourselves. I have several snarky friends, who are mostly of good sense, in honouring people who are clearly in a dark place, emotionally. If they can be civil, so can every one else.
Author Archives: Sagittarian Seeker
Heart of the Black Hills, Part 2: The Two Great Monuments
On Saturday, July 20, I took an evening respite from the wild and wonderful, and joined the masses at Gutzon Borglum’s epic memorial to our nation: Mount Rushmore.
Each state has its flag and a granite slab, set in its honour, along the Grand Concourse.
The mountain, before the monument was carved, looked something like this.
Now, there are vantage points, from which to focus on one ,or several of the presidents.
I had a simple supper in Mount Rushmore’s dining hall, then took a brief hike under the sculptures. After that, the Great Black Hills lodging hunt yielded me a room in Custer.
The next morning, after a delectable breakfast and brief walk around Custer (see next post), I spent an hour or so at Crazy Horse Monument, the memorial to the great Oglala Lakota chief, started by Korczak Ziolkowski, in 1948. As you will note, it is far from finished. The family, and the foundation now guiding its work, continue to carve, blast and fine-tune this magnificent edifice. 
I took some time to look around the Visitor Center, and to walk around the garden grounds, before setting off for Black Elk Peak’s southern slopes. (see post on Saturday).
Driving away, I got one last look at Chief Crazy Horse.
Next: A Morning in Custer, SD
A Year of Respite
This will be a very short post.
In 2011, after losing my wife, I made one moderate change in my life. We had two homes, one in Phoenix, the other in Prescott. I moved out of the first, into the second, and sold the Phoenix house, through a short sale.
I gave myself one year with no major decisions, other than the above. I believe every time someone suffers a catastrophic loss, he or she deserves to be given at least a year’s respite. Some people need two years, or more. That should be okay with everyone who says they love that person.
I had to calm some of my family members down, when they were overly concerned with a temporary cash flow problem I had, in late Summer, 2011. It worked out. Transitional issues surface, the survivor handles them, sometimes with help, and moves on.
The person left behind, no matter what the loss, is a strong person, a survivor, a thriver. S(he) deserves to be able to set the rules, and to have them be honoured. That’s all I can say, at this point.
Thirty Days Hath….
Little over a month ago, I embarked on a heart quest, parallel to my spiritual and physical journey. In the process of sorting out my feelings, faux pas were committed, apologies made and an important friendship was at least restored to the level of cordiality and politeness.
This morning, for the first time since the morning, in March, 2011, my wife’s soul filled our bedroom with ectoplasmic intensity and woke me with an urgency I had never felt, I was awakened by another person’s spiritual energy. As it happens, the energy was full of gratitude, assuring me that all was better this morning, after the utter darkness that same treasured soul was expressing last night.
In only a month, I have gone, in my own emotional space, from mistaking my strong feelings for my best friend for some sort of transgenerational, quasi-romantic process, to realizing it is a far deeper and more enduring set of feelings that are at play. Let me explain.
In the Baha’i Faith, it is recognized that there are many levels of love. The physical, transitory set of impulses, otherwise known as lust, accompanies physical love, but really has nothing to do with what endures. One may easily think otherwise, when the person to whom one is drawn is a very physically attractive individual, with a winsome personality. Infatuation dissipates, though, as it has for me on a few occasions over the past year.
The way it is for me now, the awareness that I have of how I feel about this person, is that there will never be a time when her feelings, her thoughts, her dreams and, yes, her own love for her own dear friend will not matter to me more than my own feelings, thoughts and dreams- about anyone or anything. This is different for me. I felt this, and more, for Penny, my soul mate, yet now my feelings are an odd mix of parental, fraternal and universal regard for one of the most beautiful souls I have ever known.
What you wish, my friend, may it be granted. What you strive for, may it be achieved. What you dream, may it come true. There is no daylight between these, and what I would do to make them happen. I will defend your honour, your dignity, and all that you hold dear, until the end of time. Thanks, my friend, for just being you.
A Successful Relationship
One of my dearest friends shared a TIME article, with us today, on another social network:
The Key to Happy Relationships? It’s Not All About Communication
By Francine RussoAug. 16, 2013
This topic has been much on my mind, of late. I reflect that my marriage, while not perfect by any means, was solid. We knew, and honoured, each other’s tastes, likes and dislikes. Our family members were ALL family. My parents treated Penny’s family as their own, and vice versa. She and I were committed to the idea that communication was important, but so was respect for feelings. Talking had to be accompanied by listening, by hearing, and by taking each other’s feelings into consideration, when making decisions, as an individual and as partners in one of the most beautiful of all human institutions.
Society has cheapened the marital bond. I’m not talking about things like open marriages, “swinging”,or even viewing of adult pornography. Those practices, while neither necessarily nurturing of a marriage nor particularly harmful to it, are mostly honest attempts by one or both partners to make up for aspects of his/her life that were absent from adolescence or young adulthood. No, the marital bond has been given short shrift by a general feeling that life is so transitory, that nothing matters much. Odious terms, like “baby mama (or daddy)”, “Best Friend, with benefits”, or even “fuck buddy”, have replaced more conventional and respectful references to one’s significant other, mate, spouse, life partner. I consider my wife, two years deceased, to be my soul mate. I consider the person who shared this article with me, and others, to be my best friend in this world, sans “benefits”. I’m just glad to know her and to share in her life, to the extent she sees fit.
When I am in a relationship with a woman, I try to know as much about the person as she is willing to share. I do not pry, snoop, or stalk. If she has a preference for certain things, I honour it, and do what I can to bring about her happiness. The same holds true, to a lesser extent, for casual or platonic relationships. It’s just good form, and increases goodwill between those who claim to be friends.
I hope married couples in general, and particularly those whose bond is “on the rocks”, will avail themselves of the TIME article and discuss these concepts fully, then put them into practice. It’s always better “late” than never.
Heart of the Black Hills, Part 1: Black Elk Peak’s North Side
I decided to have a 3-4 hour look at the northern, less-traveled slope of South Dakota’s highest peak, on the bright and sunny Saturday afternoon, July 20. There’s a Horse Camp nearby, but I found myself the only person on the trail, which is clear as far as a small waterfall. This was a perfect place for me to turn around, after three hours on the trail.
Here are some views of this wilder side of the Black Hills. I credit a family of horsefolk for showing me Trail #9.
Limestone and granite abound here, as they do in the Southwest, as remnants of glacial movement and volcanic thrust.
A lone butterfly was resting in the ash-coloured soil, as I passed carefully by.
The fruits of the butterfly’s, and other pollinators’ labours, are much in evidence here.
Monster-faced rocks added to the legends of the Arapaho, Shoshone and Crow, as well as the Siouan nations who occupied this area in more modern times.
Greeting me, and anticipating the next day’s visit, were the spires of Black Elk Peak’s summit.
Some smaller spires were well-hidden by the forest.
Others very proudly thrust their chests out.
I arrived at the falls of South Fork, Spring Creek, as the five-thirty “click” signaled to me that it was time to head back.
Tomorrow, I would be full-on, along the south slope of this magnificent peak, and would reach the top. In between, the more settled gems of Mount Rushmore, Custer and Crazy Horse Monument awaited.
Deadwood
I drove into South Dakota, around noon on Saturday, July 20. Stopping in the town of Belle Fourche (“bel foosh”), I found the Information Center closed, and moved on, past Spearfish, to South Dakota’s rendition of a town too tough to die: Deadwood. There was certainly lots of life there, that sunny afternoon. A shootout re-enactment was going on, uptown, and children were being given the chance to be “sheriff’s posse”.
As always happens in Deadwood, the situation was resolved with a meeting of the minds. Please note, I heard no cussing that day. Al Swearingen must still be away on other business. Main Street was a bit quiet, beyond that point. No matter; I was concerned with getting to Main Street Espresso, and Wifi. Along the way, I spotted the site where Wild Bill Hickok was shot, in 1876. Sheriff Bullock’s hotel is also still prominent.
After a refreshing frappe and some time catching up with my world, I said farewell to Deadwood, and headed on towards the heart of the Black Hills, past Pactola Reservoir. 
The fisherfolk were out in abundance that day, but I kept my camera lens off them, so they could concentrate on the important stuff.
Next: Heart of the Black Hills, Part 1: Black Elk Peak’s North Slope
A Deva Evening
This morning, when I went to Prescott Farmers’ Market, I saw a poster for the Grand Opening of Deva Healing Center. A young woman with a rescue dog greeted me and explained this was her center, established to help women and teens, in the manner of a sanctuary. This has been sorely needed here, as it has elsewhere. The mission is to help women of all ages “heal from trauma, pain, abuse and addiction through yoga, expressive arts, and therapeutic wilderness adventures.”
The Grand Opening was this evening, and I went for an hour and 15 minutes, being one of 32 people to help Bri Boertman in the launching of this most worthy effort. While there, I received a chair massage, watched, and joined in, interpretive belly dancing. Yes, I became the 62-year-old male belly dancer, joining five women and a little girl, in various gyrations, hip shakes and arm waves, for one of the more interpretive of the selections. Bri dancing in high heels was a bit painful for this everyfather to watch, but she seemed okay with it, for three minutes. Several women won raffle prizes, the group gathered for one last belly dance, in honour of the women of the world, and I headed back home, for an evening of listening to Celtic music, while those who knew each other previously, stayed around to support each others’ struggles and successes.
This will be a major focal point of what promises to be a concerted effort to help the women of Yavapai County, in raising their voices for curbing the disempowerment of their sisters, mothers, daughters and nieces. There are a few of us men on the team, also. We follow Bri’s lead.
Out-of-Bodyness
The night before last, around 2:30 AM, I had my first out-of-body experience, in nearly 25 years. When I’ve had these before, they lasted 30 seconds-2 minutes, and were just my spirit pulling out of its host long enough to realize this gig won’t last forever.
This time, it lasted for about five minutes, Penny was with me, and she showed me where she was- in a seeming pin point of bright white light. She told me to stay on my present course, and to be patient with others. She is also advancing, it seems, to a higher spiritual level. I pray for her, as well as for my corporeal friends and family, every day, so I felt great joy at this.
My present course involves being here until the end of this academic year. Beyond that, who knows? Penny said it was up to me, and to serve my friends in the way they want; to assume nothing, without asking first. This is a lot to pack into five minutes, yet I found myself relaxed and back in my body, in what seemed a split second.
I’m always amazed at these events, as infrequent as they are. My health is excellent, says the doctor: Heart , kidneys, liver and knees of a 35-year-old; strong lungs; brain still operating on all cylinders. That there is something beyond, far down the road, is nonetheless comforting.
A Brief Diversion Along A Spiritual Arc: The Aladdin Tipple
No, it’s not THAT kind of diversion. I don’t take alcohol, and this is not that sort of “tipple”. Aladdin was a coal-mining community, and a tipple is a system for sending coal down a hillside. Aladdin Tipple is no longer in use, but it is preserved by Crook County, WY, as an historical place. Informational signs are placed appropriately, so we may know this aspect of our heritage, whether one likes the idea of burning coal or not.
Here are some views of the equipment that is preserved in the park, 1 mile east of the Aladdin Store.
A short climb up the stairs brings one to the top of the sluice, now being reclaimed by nature.
This was Wyoming’s swan song, for this trip. I will be back in the Equality State, someday soon. It has given me more than I can ever repay. Now, on to South Dakota- the Spiritual Arc leading through the Black Hills, to Black Elk Peak and Crazy Horse Monument. An iconic diversion will be covered: Mount Rushmore. We will consider the brilliant prairie sunsets, Corn Palace and decaying farm structures, as well as the openness and camaraderie found in small wayside cafes. The human warmth found in a town named for one of America’s most controversial military commanders also radiates well for the Artesian State.
Thank you, Wyoming, for honing my spirit.
