April 27, 2022- The fire found itself blocked, north and east. “Aha”, thought the conflagration, “I see the enemy is only concerned about property. Thus, I shall head west and south, and burn the campgrounds!” It also had visions of doubling back outflanking the firefighters, and burning the towns! “Ha, ha, silly humans! I was here, in the craters and pits, long before any other form of energy. There was no water, no solid land or rocks, just the molten lava and meeeee! Thus, shall it be in the end!!
The craven demagogue looks upon the masses and thinks, “How right Lenin was, with talk of useful idiots! I have them in the palms of my hands. All I need do is tell fanciful tales, demonize the other side and tell the crowds that only I truly understand them, and only I can get them what they need.
The firefighters look at the wind prognosis, and plan for the long run. One crew will work the north, another, the east. A third crew will focus on the west, a fourth team, the south. Then the aerial team will pound the fire from above. They will out-stubborn the force of doom. They will lead the way for rebirth and regrowth.
The voice of reason ponders all options. Freedom and the right to choose for oneself apply to everyone. This is a long, drawn-out process, he knows. His team knows this too, even those who dawdle and fret. All in the room are ready to out-stubborn the dark. All in the room are embracing the light.
April 25, 2022- A co-worker spoke of her husband’s having to wrestle with the uptick in rental rates, and the pressure it puts on those who, like himself, have genuine compassion for their clients who risk being put out on the street. Large scale rental agencies try to do their tasks efficiently, yet are more susceptible to macroeconomics than are individual, or small-scale, landlords, who can choose to cut their own costs or at least negotiate trade-offs with their tenants.
Masculinity matters, just as much as femininity. It hardly needs to come across as ungainly or overbearing, any more than femininity need appear as flighty or sappy. Both forms of energy are needed, in their time and from the same persons, both male and female. My father was tough when he had to be, and the epitome of gentleness and kindness, when those were in order. The same is so with my mother.
Pairings of males and females are essential to society, and even gay couples take their essential relationship cues from their heterosexual fellows. Everyone has a forceful element and a nurturing element. To ignore either one is to hobble in imbalance. Although I am doing well on my own, a keen interest in the well-being of both male and female friends and family is a very basic core of my being.
April 23, 2022- The strong woman winced, just a bit, as she recounted the story of her husband’s struggles. A few minutes later, fortuitously, he called and said that he was finally feeling symptom-free. I felt relieved for both of them, as she did a bit of Happy Dance.
It has been a long and not always comfortable struggle, but I have reached the point in my journey of growth, that the turmoil faced by those of even casual acquaintance is of deep concern to me. Listening with genuine, not just passing, interest has become a daily occurrence-and it strikes me as being high time. Once upon a time, it was my job, and one I did quite well. Now, generating healing energy is a feature of daily life.
It is a relief to me, that the people dearest to my female friends are, without exception, my friends, too. Recognizing that a person’s whole circle is deserving of unequivocal support is actually energizing, not debilitating-as I used to tell myself. So, I look out for the husbands and significant others, as well as the children, of my nearest and dearest; listen intently when an interesting stranger opens up about topics that I have only considered in passing; and ponder decisions that are run by me, a lot more deeply than I did, even six months ago.
Part of this may be due to age. It may also be that knowing more keenly that we are all part of the same team has become de rigeur, not just a personal goal or buzzword. I am comforted by this thought, while preparing for a second night of supervising a fire shelter. Even in crisis, life is sweet.
April 22, 2022- It’s been fifty-two years since environmental activists gathered, en masse, to protest the policies that contributed to the Santa Barbara oil spill, which happened less than a year earlier.
We have, as a species, gone back and forth on the environment vs. economics issue, over these past many years, and a relative handful of entrepreneurs have engaged in “greenwashing” practices, which look like they are contributing to the improvement of the environment, but do little or nothing to actually help things along. There is also the microplastics aspect, to say nothing of their larger refuse, which has considerable long-term validity, in that the residue of plastics does settle in the stomachs of people and animals, finding its way into the bloodstreams and tissue, of those who ingest it. We can be more discerning, in dealing with the former. The latter, by contrast, will take much more research, as to how to safely capture microscopic plastic residue, store it, reverse engineer it into a usable fuel, and so on.
In the meantime, we have many tasks ahead, in saving both the Earth and ourselves. Alternative sources of energy are in their relative childhood, as electric cars are still prohibitively expensive for a good many people, disposal of spent batteries for such vehicles needs to be addressed-as does the safe disposal of the rare metals that go into such batteries. Every innovation that helps relieve one problem has its drawbacks that need to be addressed, preferably before the innovation becomes a mass-produced item.
That said, there is no place for throwing up our hands and just continuing down the road that we’ve been bumping along, for the next century or more. Every energy-wasting practice needs to be evaluated, and either reformed or discarded, based on the availability of viable alternative practices. Thankfully, there are solutions, some yet not articulated or made practicable, which will go along way towards alleviating the distress of the planet once the bugs are worked out.
Tonight and tomorrow night, I will man a shelter for those fleeing a sizable wildfire, southeast of town. During the day tomorrow, it’ll be time to help man a couple of booths at the community’s Earth Day event. I will cat-nap my way around these and have time to rest afterward.
As a one-time psychedelic band advised in the late ’60s: “Wake up, it’s tomorrow.”
April 17, 2022- I begin this post with a song by the contemporary Christian duo Cassandra Star and Callahan, who are sisters.
Certainly, a worthy sequel to Kaylee Rodgers’ 2018 Christmas version of the Leonard Cohen classic.
All told, I’m certain that there were millions of households where families and friends gathered in a feast to commemorate the Resurrection of Christ, which many regard as having occurred literally and others regard in a symbolic sense. Millions more will do the same, in two weeks or so, when Orthodox Christians mark the Pasch. The most important thing, to me, is that Christ was showing humanity that the Supreme Being does not forget His Creatures, especially not those who are conceived in His image and likeness- in terms of spiritual qualities. As Jesus was given spiritual renewal, so are we able to receive it, not through entitlement or deserving, but through Divine Grace. It has always been thus, and has ever been disregarded by humanity as a whole. Therefore, God the Patient offers us the Example of His Messenger, time after time.
I joined with Christian friends, this afternoon, to mark this splendid event. Baha’u’llah, too, suffered enormously that we might not endure the rotting fruits of our fecklessness and waywardness. “God hath forgiven what is past.” is what He tells us in Kitab-i-Aqdas, or Book of Laws. As Creation is eternal, so too is the learning process. Yet, little by little, day by day, I believe we are getting there. Our Creator is waiting, patiently waiting.
April 12, 2022- Gilbert Gottfried died today, at age 67. His was a classic New York voice, brash and direct, thinly masking a huge heart that cared for many of the same people he was “trashing”. My encounters with his work were relatively few: There was Iago the Parrot, in the animated “Aladdin” movies of the 1990s; an occasional Groucho Marx or Jerry Seinfeld imitation, on a talk show seen in a doctor’s office waiting room and there were his appearances on various celebrity roasts-each mirroring the work of his role model and mentor: Don Rickles (who he also would tear apart, on certain routines). The word is, Gilbert could take it as well as dish it out, in the Noo Yawk style. There is no one left who is quite like him, on the stage of comedy. He traded in political “incorrectness”, to remind us all that no one is perfect.
I have personally evolved into maintaining a modicum of “political correctness”, primarily out of common courtesy. Certain words, especially racial or gender epithets, have never been in my repertoire; others, when I felt forced by peers, in young adulthood, came chokingly out of my mouth-in private conversation. I felt sick afterwards, and those pejoratives were soon gone from my very consciousness. Then again, my sense of humour is dry, situational. I would not be one who could pack the house-or clear it, when deemed necessary. Gilbert Gottfried could do both.
For most of us, the ebb and flow of courtesy towards others is a balancing act-between offering the respect that human beings inherently deserve and the admonitions that are frequently needed. It helps to be generally nonjudgmental, as well as to have the moral compass that offers judgement when it serves a purpose.
Gilbert Gottfried lived by making that distinction.
April 7, 2022, Abilene, TX- The tiny dancer showed me all of her gymnastic moves-including the one where she “split in two”. That, of course, was the split, a mainstay of young girls’ gymnastic shows, as far back as I can remember. She and her mother were going to San Antonio, to take part in Fiesta, the city’s signature event, since 1891. It started on March 31 and will end on April 10. They showed me their fiesta gowns, as elaborate as any Quinceanera or bridal attire.
The comely Ukrainian woman and her lively daughter also taught me a good series of stretches, to go along with the calf stretches and twists that I customarily do, after a long period of sitting. N is a free spirit, who regularly travels with her daughter, whom she home schools, across the southern tier, from their home in New Orleans to San Antonio, Tucson and Atlanta.
The Fiesta now in its last days is an apt description of their lives, and may it remain so, as long as the world does not encroach too much. I know N is worried, frightened, about the events in her homeland. She has family there, and while they reassure her that the Russian occupiers of her home area are not destroying the place, reports from the ground tell a far more harrowing story.
I meet people like N, wherever I find myself-including at Home Base Prescott. Being of an open mind is in itself a magnet for the quirky, the unusual, but most of all for the truly beautiful in spirit. I am not sure what category I would put the forty-something cross-dressing man, clad in pink dress and red slippers, with a red sash tied around the waist. His beard indicates an interest in having a certain take on the best of both worlds. He seems a gentle soul, forlorn by the decrepit state of the restroom in the 7-11 where we stopped, here in this resurgent former cow town, that is showing signs of being a far exurbia to Dallas-Fort Worth. The clerk, an adult in his early twenties, is nonplussed by his flamboyant fellow citizen-almost in an “every town has one” manner.
There surely are different forms of Fiesta. In the meantime, the bus ride that replaced a ride on the Sunset Train, goes on into the wee hours of tomorrow.
April 4, 2022, Atlanta- I set out in mid-afternoon, to pay respects to Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., on the 54th anniversary of his assassination. I was not able to reach the actual memorial site, but that is just part of the overall wholeness of this day.
I started out by returning the vehicle that had taken me so many places, in three states, over the past fifteen days. Driving a nearly state-of-the-art automobile was a fine new experience-even with the shrill noise, when another car was in the lane to which I wanted to turn(very useful) or when the car in front stopped short(even more useful). All that was missing was EV status-but someday….
Metro Atlanta Rapid Transit Authority (MARTA) has a very full system of stations, from Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport, in the south to Doraville in the northeast and Sandy Springs in the northwest. There is also an east-west line, branching in each direction, from downtown Atlanta. This system took me from the airport to North Avenue, from which I walked up Peachtree, to this gem of a coffee house.
Land of a Thousand Hills Coffee House, midtown AtlantaMission Statement of Land of A Thousand Hills Coffee House
From there, it was a clean walk, across midtown, to Georgia Institute of Technology. One of my nephews is an alumnus of this vibrant, expanding school. It’s grown a lot since Nick was here, as have a good many colleges and universities. One place that has stayed the same is The Biltmore. Once one of a chain of deluxe hotels, it is now a luxury apartment complex.
The Biltmore, midtown Atlanta
Technology Square is the heart of GIT. It extends for three or four city blocks.
The Heart of Georgia TechThe Language Institute and Administration Building, GIT’s equivalent of Old MainDogwoods in bloom, midtown Atlanta
It wouldn’t be spring in Georgia, without the dogwood flowers.
Wimbish House, aka Atlanta Woman’s Club
My afternoon walk, in the Peachtree area, yielded a few gems. Walter Downing built this masterpiece, Wimbish House,in 1922. Women from across Atlanta meet here, to launch projects aimed at civic improvement, in several areas of community life. Not far down the street is the Federal Reserve Bank of Atlanta.
Federal Reserve Bank of Atlanta“Let Me Share The Sky With You”, by Amanda Phingbodhipakkiya
It struck me that this is exactly the sort of scene that Dr. King would have loved to have seen, had he lived into his seniority. It is fairly easy to pronounce Amanda’s family name, if one takes the time to look at it and absorb the power of her work.
I found the GPS on my phone was not enamoured of giving directions to someone willing to walk 1.5 miles from Peachtree to the King Memorial. It is definitely a vehicle-oriented system, even in this day and age. I headed back to my hotel, in plenty of time to join my brother for an evening at a Basque-style tapas restaurant, Cooks and Soldiers. San Sebastian, in Spain’s Basque region, is widely-known as a gastronomic paradise. The presentation of exquisite pintxos (Basque for “tapas”), was one item at a time, allowing us to savour each dish. We ended with a hot beverage and a shared piece of Orange Pie. As our conversation dealt with spiritual matters, this heavenly meal was apropos.
It has been a truly rewarding, and hopefully productive journey, in terms of small acts of service and kind energy put forth, for the most part. Tomorrow, the train leaves for a brief stop in New Orleans, then back to the Southwest.
April 3, 2022, Atlanta- I left Heart of Dixie Motel, the fixer-upper that did not even have its own towels. (I had my own, for just such an eventuality.) It was mid-morning and I had plenty of time to get up here, to mid-town Atlanta, by the time I was to host a Zoom call. So it went, and the two paradigms of life in America stood in contrast to one another. Rural Dadeville, with mostly comfortable single family homes and a motel or two to house migrant workers, just up the road from the aspiring surrounds of Lake Martin-a fishing and boating mecca that gives east central Alabama a much-needed boost, versus Atlanta, the symbol of the South that rose again, with every amenity that one could call upon.
I find myself in a Sonesta Hotel, one of those which have become part of the system first established by A.M. Sonnabend, a Boston-based entrepreneur, of whom I heard as a child. Mr. Sonnabend lent the first three letters of his name to the brand-“Son”esta. I worked in a Sonesta, in Bangor, Maine, for a few months, in 1976-7, while simultaneously feeling my way in the newly-emerging field of educating the emotionally-disabled. I held my own in that motel job, and may actually have been better off sticking with the field, at least until I got my head on straighter. Things happen the way they should, though, and here I am, 46 years later, glad to have reached equilibrium in my life and impacted a fair number of children and youth in a positive way.
The next day or two will find me bidding farewell to the Hyundai Sonata, which safely took me to Miami Beach and back, via Brunswick, Amelia Island, Kennedy Space Center, Key West, Big Cypress, Naples (FL), Lake Okeechobee, Tampa-St. Petersburg, Spring Hill, and the Carter Country of southwest Georgia. Thinking things through, in the safety of a comfortable hotel room, is not hard. I have Celtic music gently playing and the knowledge that, although the faith-based activities I hoped to have included in this journey were eclipsed by lingering pandemic-related restrictions, I did right by family members along the way and made new, if fleeting, friendships-with people I may very well encounter again in the future. I kept the online meeting commitments I had, that either did not conflict with family engagements or get rendered cumbersome by lack of a proper venue at the time they were scheduled.
Above all else, I did not fold, did not collapse or get shaken by either aloneness or by the ignorance of others who did not honour my presence, even though I did theirs. March was both a hard energy month and a stage filled with opportunities for growth. April, May and June will bring more of the latter-mostly around Home Base, but with another likely journey of observation and service, towards the end of Spring.
The flutes and strings are telling me to be gentle with self and re-group, in any way that such is needed.
April 2, 2022, Dadeville, AL- “Behold a tree. Does it speak to us thusly: ‘Don’t you see that God is not working Himself into a frenzy in me? I am calmly, quietly, silently pouring forth my life and bringing forth fruit. ‘ Do thou likewise.”-Clarence Jordan
Mr. Jordan was one of the founders of Koinonia Farm, an intentional experiment in Christian living, which began in 1942, west of Americus, GA. Together with his wife, Florence, and colleagues Martin and Mabel England, he built a community based on the brotherhood and sisterhood of all people. This brought hostility from those who were afraid of racial equality, with Ku Klux Klan attacks and drive-by shootings, as well as bombings in the 1950s.
Koinonia’s response was nonviolence and prayer. The founders, and the community, survived nicely, and the enterprise remains as it was founded, rooted in love and prayer. Clarence passed away in 1969. Out of Koinonia’s ministerial efforts have come Habitat for Humanity, and The Fuller Center for Housing. Koinonia remains a fully-functioning cooperative farm.
Here are some scenes of the property, which I visited this morning.
Koinonia Farm Welcome Center, west of AmericusView of the Main Campus, from Welcome CenterDried mud beehive oven, Koinonia FarmJubilee House-one of several residences and guest houses on KoinoniaKoinonia Chapel, across the road from the farm.
An example of an unreasoning individual showed up, as I was preparing to turn left into the chapel’s driveway, and passed my car, on a double yellow line, in the opposite lane, seconds before I would have turned, had I not felt the energy telling me-“WAIT!” The vehicle must have been moving at 50 mph, leaving the road and bouncing back on it, about fifteen seconds later.
Jimmy Carter, the 39th President of the United States, is still alive, at age 97. He lives with his wife Rosalynn, on a private compound, in Plains, GA, where they grew up. Plains proudly holds its favourite son and daughter to its heart. The small downtown bears the imprint of the U.S. National Park Service. While not everyone on the block is a fan of Mr. Carter, those who grew up there are.
The east end of downtown Plainsand the west end.Downtown Plains Park
Two very positive shop owners were the proprietor of a peanut butter ice cream parlor, who is a native of Plains and a small cash dispenser/convenience store owner, who comes from Sri Lanka. The owner of Plains Trading Post has one of the largest troves of political memorabilia and media, in the nation. I will leave it at that. He has several rare books on various historical topics. I bought one, as a gift to a family member.
At the Jimmy Carter National Historical Site, on the campus of the former Plains High School, it was noteworthy that one of the strongest influences on Mr. Carter was his school’s lead educator, Miss Julia Coleman-who was a pedagogically active Superintendent. Miss Coleman (She rejected the title, Ms.) was active in community gardening and took a personal interest in both the white and black schools, and their students. It dismayed her that there was so much resistance to integration of the two student bodies, even as late as 1965.
The Friendship Garden of Miss Julia Coleman
The fullness of Jimmy Carter’s life is well-depicted in the 25-minute video that is shown in the historical site’s auditorium. I hope to learn more, at the Carter Center, his Presidential Library, in Atlanta-but not until my next visit in the area. (Mr. Carter believes on keeping the Sabbath, so the facility is closed on Sunday). Needless to say, his legacy is already one of the most genuine and consistently enriched, of all the Presidents.
Tuskegee Airmen National Historic Site is situated at the very field where the men trained. Just north of the city of Tuskegee, Alabama, it is a spacious area, and is still used as a training site for pilots of small aircraft.
Main Gate to Tuskegee Army Air Corps Training FacilityThese skeletal structures represent the Army Supply Building (foreground) and the Cadet House (background).Hangar # 1, Tuskegee Army Air Corps Training Field
This hangar contains examples of two training airplanes, a plane motor and has audio presentations of several different players in the endeavour. Women served as security, parachute preparers, and aircraft mechanics.
Homage to Dr. Robert Moton, who fostered this airfieldReplica of a training biplaneView of Tuskegee Airfield training complex, from the upper parking lot
It was a full day, and I admit to being a bit less energetic than the various people zipping along the backroads of Alabama, while I headed to and from Oskar’s Cafe, and Heart of Dixie Motel, Dadeville. Oskar’s has modest, but very filling portions-continuing in the spirit of Georgia and Florida. Madolyn was another very focused and energetic server. The motel needs a lot of work, but it’s clean and safe.
Tomorrow, I head back to Atlanta, for a day or two.
A Sagittarian Seeker 