Eastbound and Back, Day 30: Differences in Significance

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May 28, 2024, Harrisonburg, VA- There are always a few dozen reasons why any given thing can happen. It struck me as odd, that the driver of the dark grey sedan followed me, a bit too closely, from the exit on I-81, to Motel 6, and kept on driving when I pulled up to the office. It was not anything that would have fed suspicion, or paranoia. He actually already had a room in back and apparently just was in a hurry to get back there.

A friend and I had a conversation, this morning, about someone known to both of us, who makes everything about self. It could be something that involves the person directly, or is only tangential to the soul’s life, but this individual is a past master at being front and center.

I, myself, try not to be. Recently, I have conducted a pair of transactions, on behalf of someone about whom I care deeply. These are a bit more complicated than I had expected, so my messaging to the other person has been more frequent than either of us might normally prefer. I was finally able to get the companies involved to correctly address the products being sent, but it made for a nerve-wracking day, at least for me and for a third party who is receiving the items on the other end. Fortunately, not much money was involved; it was just time and energy that were sapped.

I stopped here, in Harrisonburg, because it has been one of those days, when I just could not go any further. H’burg’s significance to me is as a safe haven. I can totally rest here, and not have to concern myself with anyone’s expectations. That started years ago, when a young lady named Jasmin had me sit in the most comfortable chair in her cafe, because it looked at that point like I could go no further. Jas, and The Artful Dodger, are in H’burg’s past now, but the ambiance of the place is still salubrious. Mishawaka and Ocean Beach are in that same vein.

There are differences in the roles that many places of significance play in my life. Prescott and Grapevine are full-on homes, with all the various roles played by a Home base. Exton, the North Shore and Spring Hill are places to connect with family, yet mostly in neutral settings, for various reasons. Grand Canyon, Bisbee, Santa Fe,Victoria, Cape Breton, and now Corner Brook are places to relax somewhat and connect with spiritual kin. Carson City, Oley, Boothbay Harbor and Taos are even more in that category. The jury is still out on the Philippines, but the next few weeks will indicate what significance that country, and some of its people, are to have in my life.

Mostly, though, is what significance I have in my own life and in those of the people I adore. Much depends on what is going on in our respective lives, so I have reached the point where whatever interaction I have with treasured people is golden.

Having had a quiet afternoon and evening to myself, I no longer feel like a stuck pig.

Eastbound and Back, Day 21: Newfoundland Notes, Part VI

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May 19, 2024, Port aux Basques- The screen in the lounge, at Marine Atlantic’s terminal here, was showing “The Perfect Storm”, the 2000 film about a fishing boat disaster. The weather tonight will be relatively calm, and there were no kids watching this, so I’d say we are dodging a bullet.

I got into town fairly early this afternoon, after a light breakfast at Harbour Grounds, a pleasant little coffee shop in Corner Brook. Today was laundry day, so much of the time was spent at First Choice Convenience Store’s laundromat corner. Afterward, though, I decided to search for the places that were recommended to me, east of town, as hiking venues and one, as a dinner spot. The areas in question were the little villages of Isle aux Morts, Burnt Islands and Margaree. I went first to Burnt Islands, checking out the lime-stained rocks, offshore, that vaguely resembled small ice-coated boulders.

Doubling back to Isle aux Morts, I found the Harvey Trail, named for one George Harvey, an 18th-19th Century immigrant from the Channel Islands, who settled with his wife, Jane, a native of the Port -aux- Basques area and their nine children, in this then remote spot, where at the time, no other people lived. George and his eldest daughter, Ann, rescued several sailors from the sinking ships, the Despatch and the Rankin, in 1828 and 1838, respectively. Here are scenes from the Harvey Trail.

Finally, Margaree, a tiny village that lies southwest of Isle aux Morts, has Seacoast Restaurant, with extraordinarily tasty seafood, beef and pork dishes, served by a group of gracious, very unassuming women. The owner brushes off compliments, but I know she is proud of the operation. It was a vibrant Sunday night crowd, made all the more so by the day being Pentecost Sunday AND the middle of a long Victoria Day weekend.

That made the relatively light crowd on tonight’s sailing to North Sydney seem rather strange, but maybe it’s a sign that people want to celebrate closer to home. I leave off here, after successfully dealing with my bug-a-boo, backing the car up longer than ten feet. The patient ferrymen got me to back Sportage up some forty feet-without banging into anything. That’s progress!

St. James Anglican Church, Port aux Basques, NL
Neighbourhood on north side of Port aux Basques
Burnt Islands,NL
Burnt Islands, NL
The story of George Harvey, Isle aux Morts, NL
Shipwreck capital of Newfoundland
Seacoast Restaurant, Margaree(NL)

Eastbound and Back, Day 20: Newfoundland Notes, Part V

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May 18, 2024, Corner Brook- The giddy photographer stopped, rolled down his car window, and called out to the two moose who were nonchalantly grazing away, in a field adjacent to the road. He snapped a couple of photos, as I was passing by in the opposite direction, to tend to other business. When I got back, the shutterbug and moose had disappeared. Oh, well. They are probably not the last moose I will see this trip. There have been four, so far.

After opting for a light breakfast, this morning, I left Carriage Inn around 10:30. The road back to Corner Brook was generally lightly-trafficked and the weather was delightful. A lone cow moose, grazing off the road, was cause for people to flash bright lights at one another. The big elk could have cared less. She was way off the road and the grass must have been sweet.

Carriage Inn, Grand Falls-Windsor
Meeting with Baha’is of Corner Brook
Crow Gulch mural

I arrived at River’s End Motel, around 2, and was directed to use a code, in order to get into my room. This seems to be an anomaly, as yet, absentee owners and a brief, every-other-day housekeeping service. I am only here overnight, so it makes little difference to me. The room is clean and comfortable, so we’re good.

My visit to Baha’i friends here was more old school-a hearty and joyful conversation, of about two hours, followed by a simple and satisfying meal of pizza and chicken soup. Then, more conversation, focusing on ongoing issues with treatment of First Nations people in certain parts of Canada. I have seen some strides being made in that regard, in the west of the country, at least, and in some areas of Cape Breton, but as in the U.S., much remains to be accomplished.

Crow Gulch was an area, largely settled by Miqmaq families, just above a paper mill, on the outskirts of Corner Brook. It was the object of scorn from those who considered themselves “better off”, as the homes were seen as being haphazardly built, with few having electricity or running water. The community lasted from the 1920s until about 1980, when it was vacated and bulldozed. Crow Gulch is now honoured by a mural and by a book of poetry, written by a descendant of two of its residents. Those looking back on the place today recall it as having been a vibrant community, where the joy of close-knot families outweighed the hardships caused by outward poverty.

It is places like Crow Gulch that are as important to me, if not more important than, any swanky or upscale locales. The spirituality of a given place is its most important feature, and such strength of purpose is stronger, quite often, in rural communities than in areas where the pace of life is more brisk. This is recognized by many, in the video below.

Tomorrow marks my final day in Newfoundland, for this year, at least. It’s gratifying that I would be welcome back here, to stand with those making a decent life for themselves in this beautiful and sometimes harsh land of four seasons: Just another place to call home.

Eastbound and Back, Day 14: Universal Mothers

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May 12, 2024, Botwood, NL- Newfoundlanders seem to be fastidious about not mixing strangers at table,in a restaurant- even when the patrons themselves are amenable and there is plenty of space for relative privacy. I noticed this, the last time I was with friends in Grand Bank and again today, at a small cafe in Hampden, a little village between Deer Lake and Grand Falls-Windsor. I found myself seated alone, at a table with eight seats and the hostess steadfastly guarded my space, making a party of four wait until another table had been cleared. I used to be leery of sitting with strangers. Now, if others need a seat and it’s just me at a large table, I invite them to sit.

Anyway, today being Mother’s Day, there were crowds at all three places I took meals: Carriage House, at Glynmill Inn (nice Breakfast Bowl); interesting Crunchy Burger (crispy cod) at Lisa’s Cafe (above-mentioned) and Dannini’s, downstairs from my room at Exploits Inn and Suites, here in Botwood, just east of Grand Falls- Windsor (a bacon grilled cheese, which I brought up here).

Reading another friend’s post on traditions and our need to get together, I thought of all those who deserve honour today: My Mom, who had us all around last weekend, and hopefully saw some family this time; my sister and nieces, all of whom are exemplary stewards of young lives; Penny, who gave the best years of her life to raise our son; Kathy, still giving her all to her sons who are still at home; and all the millions, or billions, of women doing much the same, worldwide. I thought of all the mothers in war zones, and how there will come a day, when they will arise and collectively tell the politicians that no land and no aspiration are worth the sacrifice of their children’s lives.

I am okay, for now, with being on my own on days like this, or even on Father’s Day, because I was raised by people who thought nothing of sacrificing themselves, for my sake and that of my siblings. I was joined, for so many years , by a selfless woman, who gave all she had for her child. I have the privilege of friendship with another woman who lives for the betterment and well-being of her three children.

I have the honour of being treated well, by Mother Earth.

Robert’s Arm, Newfoundland

Oh, it snowed in some places along the way. Here’s a scene that is not far from Glynmill Inn

Eastward Bound and Back, Day 6: Tenuous

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May 4, 2024, Wakefield, MA- Mom is in stable condition, though her speech is slower. She still has a firm grip and was glad to see me standing at her side, in the dining room of her upstairs wing. My brother and sister-in-law came in, after a bit, and we whiled away the afternoon, watching a golf tournament-still among her favourites.

Driving out from Shelburne Falls reminded me of the drive that I made, between Amherst and Saugus, in my university days. It also, towards its mid-section, reminded me of the days when we would bundle into the car and go furniture shopping, in the small town of Templeton- a premier place for home furnishings, even today. We would invariably end up at Twin Tree Cafe, a family restaurant, owned by “Uncle” Pete Carbone, in Maynard, about forty minutes further east. The Concord Rotary, which used to be a typical Northeast free-for-all, is now regulated with YIELD signs, that temper impatient Massachusetts drivers, somewhat. I didn’t hear a honked horn behind me, until much later today-but that’s a minor detail. The drive up I-95, with moderate slowing at the major interchanges, was not bad at all.

I was glad to get together, this evening, with my siblings and two of their spouses- along with a nephew whom I hadn’t seen in six years. This was a night for a fried clam & onion rings fix, which happens once or twice a year, at best, and can only be done properly in New England-just as crab cakes are best enjoyed in the Chesapeake region, or salmon is best, when in the Northwest. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Our banter this evening reminded me that next to oneself, a person’s harshest critics can be siblings-but so are one’s strongest supporters. It all boils down to the level of caring-which cuts both ways, and is never tenuous, no matter how fleeting our presence is in one another’s lives. As Mom remains on a comfortable plateau, we will take our turns, holding her hands and assuaging her fears, as best we can. In the end, we will honour her by staying close.

Eastbound and Back, Day 3: “When the Stars Begin to Fall”

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May 1, 2024, Goshen, IN- With those words, from the immortal gospel song, George, the Director of the Welcome Center at the Baha’i House of Worship, Wilmette, Illinois sent our spirits soaring. What a glorious morning it had already been, on as afternoon progressed, I was delighted to join the the celebration of the Twelfth Day of Ridvan, commemorating the day, in 1863m when Baha’u’llah and His entourage left the Garden of Ridvan, outside Baghdad, and began the long journey to what is now Istanbul.

I was a bit under-dressed for this occasion, yet the message on my tee was proper: “Created noble”. We all are, don’t you know. I was honoured to be able to convey gratitude to George, after the ceremony, as refreshments were served in Foundation Hall, under the glorious auditorium, where prayers are said aloud on special occasions, such as this, but are mostly offered in silence, by members of all Faiths- and positive thoughts by those of no Faith. I was delighted as well to meet, in person, the distinguished long-time Choral Director of the House, Van Gilmer, whose music has enkindled so many of our spirits, over the past five decades.

This is a phone camera-only journey, my digital camera being given a rest, in advance of a heavy schedule, the rest of this year. So, here are a few scenes of the “Mother Temple of the West”, as ‘Abdu’l-Baha described it, accompanied by scenes of Wilmette’s majestic Gillson Park, which neighbours the House grounds, and of beloved Lake Michigan.

Baha’i House of Worship, Wilmette, IL

Lilacs in bloom, west garden of the Baha’i House of Worship, Wilmette, IL

Wallace Bowl, the amphitheater of Gillson Parl, Wilmette

Lake Michigan, from Gillson Park.

The Baha’i House of Worship, from Wilmette Harbor

So proceeded a glorious day. I felt a bit of disconnect, between my physical state and consciousness- though thankfully not quite on the order described by the author. Salman Rushdie, following his having been attacked by a young man during a ceremony he was attending, a few years back. I felt, all day, as if I was moving in a different realm, while being fully aware of, and connected with, those around me.

Nonetheless, I was able to render some service, during the visit, to guests who were at the Temple for the first time, and to convey thanks and appreciation to George and Van, for the excellent program. After leaving the sacred site, I found traffic along I-94 southbound, relatively light. It took about 45 minutes to get from the Dempster turnoff to the Ohio Street exit. After the I-55 interchange, things lightened up even more and there was virtually no one using the Skyway.

It was a tired, but happy, Schroeder family who greeted me for a short dinner respite and some catching up, from my last visit. Things were bustling and chaotic, for Val and Sparky, so I did not stay long, once dinner was done. I was also dragging a bit, by then, so the choice was made to settle into the Super 8, in this fine community, about an hour southeast of Mishawaka. Other friends here are also indisposed, so it will be on to Ohio and Pennsylvania, tomorrow afternoon. I am sorry to have to pass up Indianapolis this time, as well, yet it is critical to be where Mom is, by Saturday.

Let’s close, for now, with this rendition of “When The Stars Begin to Fall”, by the ’60s inspirational group, The Seekers.

The Myth of Finality

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April 28, 2024, Gallup- As I was walking to breakfast, at Post 6, this morning, one of the dogs who customarily run up to their owners’ fence and barks his head off, was true to form. A raven began flying in circles, above the dog, and cawed loudly, mimicking the dog’s bark. Animals can hassle each other like that.

So, too, do we humans seem to think it is our due, to hassle one another. I give you the current version of “Forward, into the past!”-Right-wing students, mixing with peaceful protesters and yelling for a renewal of “The Final Solution”. There is no real concern about the Palestinians who have suffered, no desire to see justice for Gaza, just a re-hash of Nazi propaganda-blaming Jews in this country and around the world for the destruction that has come from two groups of extremists fighting one another. Palestinians, in Gaza, have asked that the hatred against ordinary Jews be stopped. It is, they note, not helping their search for justice.

I have relatives who are at least a quarter, or half, and in a few cases full-blooded Jewish. I have many more, both Arab and Jew, who I count as friends. None of them hate the others. Growing up, my parents counted both Arabs and Jews as friends. It is thus second nature.

In Creation, there is no permission given by the Divine, for one group of people to slaughter another. The deluded young man who called for the deaths of all Jews can quote Mein Kampf all he wants, but if he follows through, he deserves full punishment, under the law. I say the same applies to anyone calling for the deaths of all Arabs. Enough is enough! If someone, or a group, attacks a Jew, or an Arab, in my presence, I will stand for the intended victim-nonviolently, mind you, but I will stand in defense of the one being attacked.

Today is the anniversary of Baha’u’llah’s Declaration of His Mission, to unite mankind, both spiritually and materially. We Baha’is celebrated, worldwide. There are fellows in Faith who are of Jewish descent, as Penny was and there are fellows in Faith who are of Arab descent-in fact, there are Baha’is in virtually every ethnicity, across the planet. We stand for the oneness of mankind. There is no room for anyone to act on genocidal thoughts, of any kind. There is no such “final solution”.

In a few days, I will be at the Baha’i House of Worship, in Wilmette, Illinois, north of Chicago. I try to visit there, each time I head east, for family visits. The magnificent Temple helps me ground self spiritually. This time, I hope to see both Jewish and Arabic visitors, among the multitude that is there, on any given day.

The only finality should be love.

Diligencia

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April 25, 2024- The rain came down in buckets, ending three weeks of dryness and keeping the fire danger down for another month or so. I had a room full of Kindergarten English-language learners, who noted that it was raining-again (“Otra vez”) and they hadn’t been out all day. They continued to work on their foldable stories, we read them, they highlighted their sight words, the first letter of each sentence and the punctuation mark at the end of each sentence-and then we played. They built little “forts”, by moving chairs and cushion pillows, while a timer counted down. When the time ran out, the screen said “Poof”, and the hamburger on the screen disappeared. Then the kids did-actually, just going back to their classrooms, after putting everything back.

The others, first and second graders, were equally diligent. Even those, especially those, who had minimal competency in English, applied themselves to their tasks with a drive that people in high school would do well to emulate. They let no time elapse, when finished with one task, before asking what was next, and diving right into it.

That made me think. What happens in the lives of children to turn a hard worker into a dodger, a slacker? Some who go through a slacking phase, and then get their bearings and turn into productive adults, can say it was due to the adults in their lives being alternately overbearing and overindulgent. Others gave in to peer pressure, and others were just testing the limits. In the end, though, those who’ve turned themselves around have looked back at the real “good old days”, when their classmates and they were getting satisfaction from learning, going home to parents who were genuinely proud of their achievements.

The fog of insolence can sink in as early as 7-years of age (I saw one, a scowl on his face, as he waited for his teacher to open the classroom door, while my students and I were walking towards the ELL room). It will likely take a lot of diligence, on the part of educators and social service professionals, to turn his life around. Such a shame. The high achievers will walk on past him, but the smartest among them will stop, turn around and hold out a caring and insistent hand.

Viva diligencia!

Degrees of Separation

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April 23, 2024- The individual, always congenial and engaging in the past, did a complete 180 today, glaring at all but a few chosen co-workers, and tersely responding to well-wishes. Fortunately, this turnabout did not get directed towards children, but was rather puzzling to the rest of us. It was hopefully just the result of a random bad day.

Things like this put me on guard, though, as there were many mercurial and unpredictable people in my childhood, mostly teenagers, but several adults as well. I learned to be very guarded, a tactic my mother also stressed was essential for my safety and well-being. That mantra has played in my background ever since. It was playing today, though fortunately the children with whom I worked were co-operative and appreciative.

This brings me to the matter of the separation, the barriers people put up, even against those who clearly mean no harm. Groups do this also, and with a vengeance. In the worst cases, there are laws, ad hoc groups and social customs that enforce separation. More commonly, language speaks to the barriers: Prefixes, like “anti”, “un” and “non”, meant to enforce “Us vs. Them”; Nouns and adjectives, like “alien”, “illegal”, “filthy”, “degenerate”, even “homeless” are employed to suggest that someone’s presence is an impediment to the well-being of the dominant society.

Arguably, none of us can be sweetly all-accepting of all behaviours. Yet, I can’t get past the notion that, in the Divine Creation, there is no other-unless the construct that Jesus the Christ called “Satan” or “the devil” is somehow to be maintained as a competitor to the Creator. The lower nature of the human mind, which is what was really meant by that construct, is also behind the us vs. them mindset. Without fear, hate and envy, there is no “other”; there is only us, only we.

When the out-of-sorts individual gets past whatever caused the anger shown today, perhaps there will be one less person towards which my guard will need to be maintained. That is the joy of not seeing anyone as “the other”.

Power Language

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April 19, 2024- When I was a child, the concept that every blow delivered would be followed by an equal and opposite retaliatory strike was alien to me. I thought, naively, that a simple exchange of blows was enough for each boy to express his annoyance at the situation. My opponents uniformly believed that there had to be a winner and a loser.

There has been much discussion, over the past five years, about Love Language-the way in which an individual gives and receives love. My love language, for example, is acts of service. Words of affirmation, quality time and physical touch are secondary love languages-expressed only to a certain few.

Power is also a concept that is expressed in “languages” of sorts. (These are only my thoughts on the matter.) The power languages I have ascertained are persuasion, coercion, diminution, guilt-mongering and inclusion. The first and last are positive means to power. The second, third and fourth are negative, if not neurotic, power languages.


Both persuasion and inclusion involve patience, flexibility and a regard for others that is equal to one’s self-regard. Persuasion entails a commitment to a lengthy engagement with those whose agreement and co-operation are desired. Inclusion entails an inherent regard for the other person’s, or group’s, sense of self-worth. Inclusion is a longer game, in which the perception of power, coming from within the self, is large enough a reservoir that the individual sees others as being of the same worth as self. The two power languages do not entail a lesser view of either oneself or any other human being. They may even extend to non-human animals, plants, funga and spirits.

Coercion, often involving physical force, but also including bribery, co-opting, blackmail and obfuscation, is the most common historical power language. Even in modern times, the cynic’s Golden Rule, “He who has the gold makes the rules”, has silenced those whose financial or time-management skills are sufficiently wanting, that a keen observer who is hungry for power can leverage the person’s weakness and buy or intimidate them into giving up their agency.

Diminution, the convincing of social groups of their own unworthiness and of the superiority of others, is a second very common historical power language. It is the modus operandi of the plantation, of the colonial system and of patriarchy. Diminution depends on a top-down decision-making apparatus. It goes beyond the sensible system of parenthood, infantilizes women, disempowers adolescents, and instills a sense of superiority in members of a dominant culture. This is most obvious in the notions of White Supremacy and Male Superiority, but is also true of any culture where a dominant group trivializes the contributions of marginalized communities.

Guilt-mongering is the “when all else fails” power language of dominance. It features self-as-victim, gaslighting, false equivalence and an “after all I’ve done for you” pitch, each of which is like a rock in a shoe, designed to nettle and disrupt the other’s concentration and sense of well-being. It manifests itself in endless legal appeals and slow-walking of valid processes, just enough to create doubt and suspicion. It is a favoured tool of those among the well-connected who lack a moral compass. It is also a favoured tool of those in the media whose primary concern is generating revenue, at the expense of morality.

We are seeing a slow, but inexorable, move towards persuasion and inclusion as preferred power languages. The futility of coercion, diminution and guilt-mongering is being seen by more and more people around the world, as their perceived value is recognized, more and more, as impermanent, ephemeral and of scant overall value. The language of power will, in time, become linked to the language of love.