The Road to Diamond, Day 48: Desert Rose

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January 15, 2025- He was never, to my knowledge, at a loss for words. in his search for truth, he frequently spoke of a figure in his dreams, to whom he referred as “the shiny man”. I, too, dreamed of that same figure, on my first visit to Prescott, in 1979. William Sears and I had both dreamed of ‘Abdu’l-Baha. Mr. Sears, who preferred to be called “Bill”, established Desert Rose Baha’i School, along with his wife, Marguerite, in 1988. It was held in various locations, in Tucson, for its first eight years. Mr. Sears passed away in 1992, but Marguerite and a small group of helpers purchased land in 1996. This became Desert Rose Baha’i Institute, occupying about half of the land that Marguerite had envisioned for the Institute. (The other half, still owned by individual Baha’is, faces an uncertain future.)

Penny and I visited DRBI last, in 2007, when we joined a gathering of musicians. The late Dan Seals was among the artists present, and is the only person who has ever persuaded me to sing in a chorus. It was not a bad experience, joining people whose voices were pleasant, in a rendition of “We Are One”. That, of course, was both Dan’s, and Penny’s, last visit to Desert Rose. He died in 2009, and she, in 2011.

I went there today, after visiting Tohono Chul Park, in Oro Valley, near Tucson. That salubrious desert park’s Garden Bistro served up what will now be among my favourite plates: Mesquite flour pancakes, filled with Poblano peppers, topped with fresh berries. It was my second fabulous meal in a row, dinner having been a supremely savoury taco salad, at Benson’s Cafe 86, a homey local favourite, staffed by a hard working couple.

It was thus time for spiritual food to supplement the repasts. I pulled up next to a sign at Desert Rose that said “administration”. A small group was sitting outside a house next to the building. After greeting each other, I got basic directions from one of the ladies, as to the location of Mr. and Mrs. Sears’ memorial sites. (Marguerite passed in 2006, and is buried in the Institute’s Memorial Park.) After a brief stroll around the main property, I stopped at the memorial dome that is dedicated to Bill, reflecting on his life’s work, which ranged from being a sportscaster in Philadelphia to humanitarian efforts, from Mississippi to South Africa. He was ever a stalwart foe of racial segregation, but always worked within the law.

The Memorial Dome for William Sears, Desert Rose Baha’i Institute, Eloy, Arizona.

Here are a few of the other buildings that grace the property.

Round House is the dining hall and doubles as a conference center.
Musician Chris Ruhe manages this small FM radio station, which serves up both spiritual and secular programming.
Hadden Hall is the main conference center.
This is Marguerite Reimer Sears’ resting place. Several other friends are also laid to rest in the Memorial Park.

After saying several prayers there, I went back to my hosts’ house and joined them for a cup of peppermint tea. Telahoun and Brooke Molla were proprietors of an Ethiopian restaurant in Tempe, when I lived in Phoenix. We enjoyed the fare there, a few times, and became friendly with the family. It was a delightful surprise to find them living at DRBI, with their youngest child.

PROMOTION: Desert Rose is looking for energetic, sustainability-oriented xeriscapers or those trained in permaculture. The kitchen garden and a tree-planting campaign are the current foci of self-sustaining volunteers. Spiritual open-mindedness is a plus. So, too, is being able to innovate ways to deal with extended periods of high heat (Upwards of 118 F, in the height of summer.) The adobe homes do offer protection and there are two swimming pools. A large bank of solar panels helps to provide power.

https://drbi.org/facilities-and-rentals#rh

The Road to Diamond,Day 41: Unpredictable

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January 8, 2025- The ongoing saga of people settling in and around Los Angeles, for either a life of leisure or for pursuit of a fine, active regimen, and finding that Mother Nature has other ideas, has reached crisis proportions even more dire than in any past year. Perhaps it is due to the increased density of population, from even the 1990s-2010s, or just a consequence of rising global temperatures, but it seems worse.

Here at Home Base I, there was a brief period of snow, in the higher elevations, southwest of town and in the Santa Marias, to our northwest, but here in the downtown area, just a few sprinkles fell, late last night. We, like, California, are facing a Big Dry-at least until March. There is, of course, plenty of water-on paper, but I digress. The ultimate test of hydration for a community is if the taps start to trickle. Who knows if and when that will happen.

Life on the ground here remains fairly predictable, but on the larger scale, we may be seeing seismic changes, in short order, and it feels at times like the news cycle is whipsawing, back and forth. I have learned, though, that as long as the markets are open and there are no manufactured crises hitting too close to home, that we can each do our civic duty, show kindness to others-especially those most vulnerable and continue to speak our peace.

These things came to mind, this afternoon, as we considered another strange and unsettling time in our recent past: September, 2001. The teacher recalled his own experiences during that time, as a security guard in Phoenix. His wife was working in the tallest building in the city, at that time. He made a beeline to get her home, as soon as he saw what had happened in New York and at the Pentagon. In my case, I had no work that day, but heard over the radio about the first tower strike and also headed straight home, being glued to the TV screen most of the day. Penny and Aram went to their respective schools, which were let out early, as many parents were beside themselves, with “what ifs” and doomsday scenarios. I was just as glad they came home.

Stay aware, friends, and stay close to those you love-in California, in the frigid eastern half of the country and anywhere else that may be suffering in this winter of heightened challenge.

The Road to Diamond, Day 40: Cherishing

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January 7, 2025- The animated teacher spoke of a calamitous event in our nation’s recent history. He wanted to remind the adolescent students, themselves only vaguely aware of that particular incident, just how fleeting such memories can be, and how easily they can be manipulated by those with ulterior motives. This conversation will continue tomorrow, and perhaps for several more days.

The freedom we have in this country is worth cherishing. So are the love and friendship that have been built, sometimes over decades. So are the gifts that the Divine has imparted to each of us. I thought of these things all day, as once again, I was placed in a setting where I could focus on one or two students at a time, and key in on the boy or girl and specific needs. I will do this for the next two days, as well. Part of the task is to support the teachers in their explanations and foci. Thus do I go forward.

In an evening orientation, for a Baha’i family who are moving to one of the Native American communities where Penny, Aram and I once lived, I also focused on what is cherished by First Nations people. There are friends in that area who I have not seen for several years and others from whom I hear, every so often. The reality, though, is that were I to return to the place, I would be at least welcomed by some, as if I had never left. That is what I wish for this new family, provided they open their hearts to the people.

I will likewise always cherish the friendships I have made here in the Prescott area, over nearly fifteen years. Regardless of what transpires, these next several months, this will always be a Home Base of my heart. The same will be true of the Philippines, no matter how things turn out on my next visit.

Life is for the cherishing, not for the expectancy.

The Road to Diamond, Day 39: Institutional

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January 6, 2025- The day in Washington came and went, with scarcely a murmur. The will of the people, albeit by way of plurality, was acknowledged and for the second time in our nation’s history, the losing standard bearer of a major party was the person certifying the election of a rival. Albert Gore, Jr. did that very thing, on 1/6/01 and Kamala Harris did so today. The institution of the American republic, a form of democracy, was the winner.

It made me think of other institutions: Parenthood, grandparenthood, marriage, community, corporation, formal education, personhood. Each has its rules and practices, which are its underpinnings. Those who challenge any one of the institutions, on its face, are exhibiting an inclination towards mayhem. That does not mean that the institution should be impervious to change. Our Constitution is replete with the amendment process, for the very reason that the government of 1788, or 1861, cannot possibly address all the needs of 2025. Familial institutions, likewise, have the duty to their members, to regularly communicate across the roles of parent, spouse, child, sibling-and even grandparent, so that the personhood of any given member is not trampled or sacrificed.

In the institution of the school, there is a trust between teacher and student. Today, my role as substitute teacher was a special position of trust: A new semester, a new term, was starting. The regular teacher had a last minute emergency, and though today was the start of a major activity, his life had to take its course. I was able to dust off the cobwebs of my technological savvy and get the basic activities started. The task in question was a vocational education exercise, which will last for two weeks. Those who recognized its import-the majority of students, thankfully, set themselves to the task, some choosing to work in small groups and others on their own. Thus are the members of one institution, the school, beginning to prepare for membership in another, the workforce.

It remains my honour to offer support to institutions, holding up their traditions when the good of the order warrants and working to effect change, when the converse is true.

The Road to Diamond, Day 34: Year of The Open Gate

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January 1, 2025- The format of the opening gives its message loud and clear: This is a place where YOU decide to go forward, or not. The half-gate, in Coconino National Forest, behind Sedona Red Rock Junior/Senior High School, offers entry to trails leading up Scheuerman Mountain and along the Scorpion-Pyramid route. Hiking Buddy and I chose to do the Scheuerman.

The gate that isn’t a gate.

So began the Year of the Open Gate. What I do this year is totally open-ended. I have plans and goals for the the first four weeks of the year: Spend next week working, in Prescott schools; visit friends in San Diego and Orange County, the following week; focus on Racial Healing and Justice, during Martin Luther King Day and its preceding/following days.

It is the end of January and the first half of February though, that will set the tone and the agenda, for the rest of the year and beyond. I will be in the Philippines, from January 28-February 18. That could well be the precursor to a major change in my life. The central message of a show I just finished watching, (“The Outpost”), is that each of us is responsible for making wise and independent choices, but I knew that. We will see what choices are made at that time.

Regardless, this year will see me constantly on the move-no surprise there-and ever in the company of family and friends. Plan A involves one set of moves and downsizing. Plan B involves other travel, and still some downsizing. Details will come as we go along, for reasons of prudence. This is not a year for announcing grand plans ahead of time.

In closing, here are some scenes from Scheuerman Mountain and Vista.

The icons of Sedona: Cathedral Rock, Bell Rock, Courthouse Butte, Chicken Point and Airport Mesa are all visible from Scheuerman Vista.

The Road to Diamond, Day 15: Hats and Antlers

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December 13, 2024- It was Acker Night, tonight, in downtown Prescott. This is an annual fund drive for Music Education, supporting programs in everything from dance to choral singing and a jazz quartet. The second Friday in December is thus an especially heartwarming night, the chill air aside.

I walked around downtown, stopping first at American Legion Post 6, to listen to a few songs by a couple of Post members and starting my “rounds” of contributions to the fund. After being admonished that “downtown is a long way”(It is a half mile from the Post to Courthouse Square), I walked down the hill. As long as I still can manage, walking is a joy. I feel for those who no longer can, though.

In a small alcove, at Lifeways Book Store, a bilingual singer offered several tunes with a Southwest flavour. In his rendition of Ray Charles’ “Seven Spanish Angels”, he sang both the English and Spanish lyrics. The singer told of his having studied the songs in his repertoire, and having “corrected” Mr. Charles’s Spanish translation-to make it flow better. Since he lived and worked for a time in Veracruz, I figured he knew what he was doing.

I walked the south side of the Square for a bit, listening to a choral group doing Christmas carols, then walking around to the north side, where a dance ensemble was doing a “Rockette-style line dance, to Kay Starr’s “The Man With The Bag”. A couple of beginner dance groups followed with “Silent Night” and “White Christmas”.

Finally, it was off to Raven Cafe and a bowl of cream of mushroom soup, which soothed whatever remnants I had of Wednesday night’s stomach flu. The featured artist for the evening, Kendra Vonderheide, gave a solid hour of mostly original tunes, saying that these were her way of releasing pent-up energy, after a three-hour drive from her hometown of Bisbee. Kendra complimented those who wore Santa hats and reindeer antlers. Arizona’s “Christmas City” would offer no less. It was another fabulous step forward for music education in our area.

Here is Ray Charles, with Willie Nelson, performing “Seven Spanish Angels”.

Subtleties

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October 29, 2024- I “worked” today, basically being a warm certified body, covering for a friend who needed to be in another room at her school, so as to focus on Individual Education Plans (IEPs), which I well remember are the bane of a Special Needs teacher’s existence. (Penny was a long-time SPED teacher.) My biggest challenge was to keep myself occupied, as the long-time and well-regarded Paraprofessional tended to all the instructional activities. I re-read just about all of H.G. Wells’ “The Time Machine”, (one of my favourite novels, in my teenage years) and took a couple of surveys, regarding my daily routine as a High Functioning Autistic person. Seems I have few of the issues that I once had, especially in connecting with other people and in staying on task.

I also have reflected on my recent journey to the Philippines. A few times, I felt that things were a bit too rushed, especially the last day. K, though, was more concerned about my getting to the airport on time-and on most occasions, it’s well-advised to allow four hours, prior to an international flight. So, my beloved was acting out of love, as she has for the past year. I am in love with a complete human being, not with an idea, as I explained to someone who had said “Maybe you’d be better off with _____________, than with K.” No, I wouldn’t, necessarily. Kathy communicates in subtleties and in statements of loving concern. I am more effusive with my terms of endearment. Her love is expressed in her eyes and smile.

I have mentioned that, when traffic signals change, the pedestrian signals, both red and green, are timed. Filipinos, both on motorcycles and in automobiles/trucks, are careful to NOT hit pedestrians. There is a subtle communication between driver and walker, in most cases. When I am crossing the street with Kathy, though, I am between her and the vehicles, and my outside hand goes up. No one will hurt my beloved. Otherwise, I rely on that subtle communication.

When in a community, I participate in events that are dear to my friends. Thus, I was at the funeral of a woman I never met. She was one of Kathy’s Baha’i mentors, which alone made it important for me to be present. She was also a major contributor to the well-being of the Philippine Baha’i community. Thus, I had lunch with the renovation crew at the Manila Baha’i Center, every day that I was in the neighbourhood. Mom taught us that no one was either above or below us, in terms of occupation or social status. I have lived this, for seventy-three years.

Attention to subtleties is also good for the mindfulness that helps to avoid dementia. That, and a diet based on fresh and unadulterated foods and beverages, has kept me pretty sharp, at least for the past forty years. There is no accounting for how I was as a child or teenager, not to mention as a young adult.

I am just about done with the jet lag that seemed to be more intense, this time around. Still, I haven’t missed any subtle hints.

Nampo Garcia- A Street Kid Story

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October 9, 2024, Manila- (Any connection between the characters in this tale and real people is purely coincidental.)

I felt the blade at my back,as I retrieved the cash from the ATM. “Now, you will give me the due that you refused, back at the Light Rail station!”, snarled a voice at the other end of the knife. “Will I, now?”, I responded, in my best fake Irish brogue. I looked at the wad of bills, then glanced over at the small pair of hands to my right, cupped and ready.

I tossed the folded bills to a chuckling, triumphant street boy. The hapless beggar took off after Nampo, dropping his knife and momentarily forgetting about me. The boy, little more than 3’8” and 50 pounds soaking wet, ran around the floral planter that graced the front of my hostel, all the while holding the cash, in a teasing manner, as the half-addled thief continued to pursue him, like a cat chasing its own tail.

Nampo knew the drill. He ran up to the hostel’s security guard and stood still, until I came up the steps. His meal depended on not running afoul of Steven Morales, who had often graciously provided the boy, and his little sister, with one of the hostel restaurant’s signature burgers or at least one of its ample rice bowls. Tonight, though, as Steven handcuffed the foolish beggar, I took Nampo inside the cafe, and for once, the Chinese owner did not wince and start fussing in Mandarin, about “a mouse being in the house”. Nampo had a full meal and was allowed to take an order to go, for his sister, who was waiting at their makeshift cardboard and plywood hut, off Dominga Street.

“Uncle Rama”, Nampo queried, as we ate, “do you have a friend like me, back in Bengaluru?” “Actually, I have several such friends, Nampo”, I responded. “You see, not so long ago, I too was sleeping under rattan and cardboard, frequently crying myself to sleep and keeping one eye open. The street bandits back in India are not so easy to elude, as the drugged up fiends here in Manila.”

“Not all the thieves here are drugged up”, answered Nampo, “in fact, the only reason I can leave Shakira alone is because we have Auntie Jinja looking after us. Her son, Raul, is also here, visiting his mother and taking her to see a doctor, for her diabetes. Raul said that if he needs to take his mother back to his house in Sucot, we will go with them-and he will make sure we go to school every day.”

I felt relieved at this news and as I walked Nampo back to his encampment, thought of how lucky this resourceful little boy was, to have found Jinja, and by extension, Raul, in the first place. Then again, it was Nampo’s heart energy, taking care of little Shakira, and his pluckiness at cultivating a security guard and a tourist as his friends, that most appealed to my own heart. As it happened, Raul had gone to the hardware, on P. Ocampo, and purchased a few folding chairs. His mother was sitting in one, and he, in another. The dutiful son beckoned me to sit for a while. “Would you care for a cup of iced tea?” “That would be heavenly”, I replied, taking the last empty chair, as Nampo sat down on a bean bag seat, which Raul had also purchased. Shakira was asleep on a small cot, covered with a clean sheet, again provided by the dutiful son.

This night would pass safely for the makeshift family, and soon the four of them would head past the Ninoy Aquino International Airport, through Paranaque to the seaside community of Sucot. I would be heading home to Karnataka, in a few days, and thought that I would make more of an effort to help the urchins in my home city, in honour of Nampo and Shakira.

(The street children of Manila are definitely winsome and engaging. It is their sheer number that prevents meaningful individual assistance, but there are a number of organizations, such as Children International, which I use as a vehicle to help two families, and Save the Children, that can provide assistance to destitute children and their families. Nampo and Shakira are fictional characters, but there are people who fit their description all over the streets of Metro Manila-and other Philippine cities.)

Navigating

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October 6,2024, Manila- The day started and ended with rain. Thus, the nice picnic devotional we had planned for late morning became an indoor affair. I brought chicken fillets, topped with dinakdakan sauce. Kathy and her male cousin contributed a rather good pizza. Others brought a regional variation on pancit- a generic Tagalog name for noodles. There was also a seaweed dish, brought by one of the young men. I have been a fan of seaweed since the days we lived in Jeju, Korea. It is a powerhouse of nutrients. I will describe dinakdakan, which I find tasty, upon request. (No, it is not made from insects).

The afternoon was spent in study of aspects of Huquq’u’llah, which I have discussed in earlier posts (see especially Sept. 16, 2024). It was not dry and intense-no Filipino would sit through such boredom for long, but it was done with attention and focus. Kathy knows what she’s doing, especially when it comes to academic presentation of financial matters. I was honoured to sit at her right-hand side and contribute a fair amount to the discussion. Much of it was in Tagalog, but I had everyone’s attention when offering thoughts in English.

Towards the end of the meeting, K’s cousin pressed me to extend my stay- “permanently”. She and I exchanged knowing glances, smiled and I said I would need to go back to the U.S., for six months. There are several things needing attention at Home Base, in Carson City and back East-not excluding the possibility of time in the Southeast, given this year’s sudden explosion of hurricane energy-shades of 2005. Brief visits to San Diego and Jalisco are likely in February, and I will want to get to Massachusetts and Pennsylvania, in April.

So, we have pretty much agreed on a May return. How “permanent” will be influenced by things like the birth of one or more grandchildren-still to be determined, BTW. Today, though, I learned that any mixed signals I may have sensed, over the past day or so, were mainly in my mind. This beautiful, compassionate, intelligent woman, whose friendship I am so privileged to secure, is for real.

Seventy Years Ago….

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September 30, 2024, Puerto Princesa- An ecstatic woman, in Long Island City, NY, screamed with delight, at the news she had just been given. Her first granddaughter, after two sons and a grandson, was born. For the Fellmans, of Long Island City and Jamesburg, NJ, the birth of little Penny righted a top-heavy ship.

She would go on, transcending a congenital defect, for over 45 years, building an Intelligence Quotient of 161, graduating summa cum laude from the University of Virginia and earning three Master’s Degrees-all in the field of education. As a member of the Baha’i Faith, from 1977, she would serve with distinction, as an educator, on the Navajo Reservation, in Jeju, South Korea, and in El Mirage, AZ. In the latter town, she would be led out to retirement, gently and with gratitude from the Superintendent’s Office, even as she was attacked by those within the school who had no understanding of her struggles.

I met Penny in December,1980, as the snow swirled around Zuni, New Mexico, as a house blessing ceremony, called Shalako, took place in a cozy, but crowded home. We took turns sitting in a single chair and became enamoured of one another. We would date, off and on, for eighteen months, and married in June, 1982. We met some auspicious milestones-Valentine’s Day engagement, marriage on the sixth day of the sixth month-and welcoming our son on the seventh day of the seventh month. Marriage was often stormy, but never rocky, and through her final eleven years, she had her men beside her-to her last breath.

Penny missed joining the Seventies Club by thirteen years and seven months. I could tell that she would have loved this day, though she was adamant about not making a big deal of her birthday-or mine, for that matter. There was always that twinkle in her eye, when she was honoured. I feel her light, shining through the veil-telling me to continue on my path. So, on I go.