Never Mistake a Clear View for a Short Distance

A big shout out to Dr. King on this MLK holiday. You had the guts to see clearly, to speak bravely, and to point us toward the promised land.  Your courage changed everything.   Thank you.

Dr. King’s example reminds me not to give up when success is doubtful, when the odds are bad, when maniacs run loose and madwomen grab the bully pulpit.  I’m not accountable for grand outcomes – I’m simply accountable for remaining resolute in pursuing what I know is true:  those on the margins deserve compassion; Creation is hallowed; enemies are to be forgiven; and lucre is not a signal of divine favor.   

On a more mundane level, I’m delighted to report that the garage is (almost entirely) clean.  Stu and I made a valiant attack on the forces of disarray yesterday, accompanied at times by Muttley the Dog who supervised us from his perch on old chair cushion with a heater pad on top.  We hauled a bunch of stuff to Goodwill, and will haul more to the dump later this week.  (Does anybody else have fond childhood memories of going to the dump with their dad?  Boy howdy, I sure do.)

Next weekend we’re going to begin to start to commence getting the vegetable garden ready for spring planting.  The wheel turns yet again.

Today’s front yard critter count:

Deer: 0

Raccoons: 0

Time Enough

Weirdly, one of the many things that physicists cannot really explain is time.  Strange, huh? We live embedded in seconds, and years, and centuries, and to us nothing is more natural than time moving forward – the arrow of time pointing inexorably from the past to the future, from youth to age, from birth to death.  Oddly, however, physicists who think about such things tell us that there is no rational explanation for why the arrow of time moves forward – as a matter of the laws of physics the arrow of time could equally well point the other direction (a la The Curious Case of Benjamin Button).   Moreover, physicists have come up with all sorts of theories about what time is and how it works.  For example, as I recall it, one theory is called “block time,” in which all of space-time is a four dimensional block -- both past and future events are all “there” – and the only thing that changes is our sense of the “present” moving forward along that four-dimensional block.
I mention this because I’ve reached that stage of life where time grows a bit short.   Part of me rebels against the transitory nature of what I love.  At least on this earth, nothing lasts forever.  I begin to discern, however, that time’s limits may contain a hidden sweetness.  Gold has value because it is rare.  Perhaps the value of what we love is greater because, at least on this earth, what we love is ephemeral.  Maybe every creature, in its never-to-be-repeated uniqueness, is  more precious because it is not going to be here forever. 

Today’s front yard critter count:
Deer: 0 (although one of the does has been here the last few mornings, spending a chunk of yesterday morning laying relaxed in the front yard, chewing her cud and taking  in the view).
Raccoons: 2
Birds eating leftover raccoon food on the front porch: many.

Flabbergasted Gratitude and Random Thoughts

Topic #1: It’s a crisp, cold, bluebird sky day here in the Pacific Northwest.  Everything glistens, including the air around me.  I’m reminded of a quote I read last week in Kate Braestrup’s wonderful new book, “Beginner’s Grace: Bringing Prayer to Life”, about one of my heroes:

St. Francis of Assisi, who really did walk around in flabbergasted gratitude all the time, wrote: Such love does the sky now pour, that whenever I stand in a field, I have to wring the light out when I get home.

Exactly.

Topic #2: Last night when I got home from work, as I approached the front sidewalk I thought I heard a snuffling sound down near my feet.  I looked down and there, almost touching the toes of my shoes, were the latest batch of raccoon babies, evidently under the mistaken impression that I was bringing them treats from work.  I was reduced to taking baby steps (lest I step on one of them) and waving my arms around, hissing “back up, back up,” loudly enough that they would, indeed, back up, but not so loudly that they would get scared.  Mission accomplished.  I made it to the front door, into the house, and back out with the raccoon chow, all without mishap.  As I’ve said before, their mama has a more relaxed parenting style than prior raccoon mamas, so these babies are much less fearful and more willing to engage with large primates than their predecessors.

Topic #3: Is anybody else out there a perfectionist?  How’s that working out for you?  As for me, being a perfectionist is sure a mixed bag.  Until recently I’ve recognized the inherent negatives (intellectually at least) but my heart was convinced that the negatives were outweighed by the positives.   This is probably another one of those areas where black and white thinking is the real problem.  I probably don’t have to shoot for 100% perfection.  (What hubris to think that’s even possible – I have to chortle at myself for even saying that.)  Maybe I could shoot for 91%?  That’s an A-, right?  Probably good enough most of the time?

Case in point?  The photo above.  I didn’t have a tripod with me (a failing that should be the subject of another blog entry) so the photo isn’t crystal clear.  But  I love it anyway.  So there it is anyway, posted for all the world to see.

Today’s front yard critter count:

Deer: 0

Raccoons: 1

Stellar Jays: 2 (eating raccoon chow on the front porch)

I Was Lost But Now I’m Found

For several weeks we’ve been hosting a stray cat in our back bedroom. Last night we transferred Sam, a sweet shorthaired black tomcat, to his lovely new home with our dear friend Mike.  Sam was the most recent in a long line of homeless felines who were initially attracted to the raccoon chow on the front porch but who, sooner or later, settled down enough to be rescued.  Some of them took more than a year to tame, while others -- like Sam – essentially fell into our arms after a very short courtship.  One characteristic common to all of the strays is that  after days or months of being afraid and silent,  a day comes when they suddenly decide that we’re safe.  We always know that day has arrived when the stray starts to talk to us – never just a few words – speech pours out of them like a water over a waterfall – words, sentences, and paragraphs describing what’s in their hearts and their loneliness and their joy at having found friends to care for them.  Little Sam will be very happy with Mike – he hadn’t been in Mike’s house for 10 minutes and he was already going to Mike for head skritches and comfort.

The good news is that we get as much from our animals as they get from us.   Creatures teach us to love, to live in the moment, to have compassion, to live without guile.  Two excellent very short and very funny books that express this truth from different places on the theological/philosophical spectrum are “Guardians of Being” by Eckhart Tolle and Patrick McDonnel and “God and Dog” by Wendy Francisco. 

Today’s front yard critter count:

Deer: 0

Raccoons: 0

Towhees:  lots

Small Victories and What Autumn Teaches

After months of successfully uploading photos to this blog, today I was stupendously unable to do so.  The little upload circle just keep spinning and spinning around, as did the circle of increasingly hot steam over my head. I’ve never had to fix technology problems by myself due to Stu’s skills and patience (“Here Stu, fix this….”) but Stu is in Alaska helping to stop the damned Pebble Mine (see the latest issue of National Geographic magazine for more on this particular abomination).  So I was thrown back onto my own devices.  As you can see, I successfully tracked down the answer and solved the problem.

Snow is predicted for the weekend here in the Pacific Northwest, which will put paid to autumn.  Autumn is probably my favorite season – I love the subtle palette of colors, the return to warm winter nests, fires in the fireplace, woolly afghans on the sofa, and permission to sit inside and read a book.  It can be a melancholy time though, as the wheel of the year turns, as leaves fall and as life becomes more fragile, or ceases.  This autumn has been harder that its predecessors in this regard -- it seems like every day brings news of another friend facing loss. 

So how do we harmonize our deep and abiding love for this sweet earth and its creatures, with our certainty that all we see, all we love, is temporary?   I’m convinced that the struggle to hold both things in our hearts – at one and the same time embracing in love and letting go – is a central task of becoming fully human. I think the paradox must be squarely faced, eyes wide open, without taking premature refuge in philosophical or theological answers.  (Note well the word “premature.”) 

As I've thought about these things this autumn, here is what brought a measure of illumination (from, as usual, my hero Mary Oliver):

Lines Written in the Days of Growing Darkness

Every year we have been
witness to it: how the
world descends
into a rich mash, in order that
it may resume. 
And therefore
who would cry out

to the petals on the ground
to stay,
knowing as we must,
how the vivacity of what was is married

to the vitality of what will be? 
I don’t say
it’s easy,
but what else will do
if the love one claims to have for the world
be true?  
So let us go on

though the sun be swinging east,
and the ponds be cold and black,
and the sweets of the year be doomed.

Today’s front yard critter count:
Raccoons: 2 (a couple of last year’s babies)
Stellar jays: 2 (eating left-over raccoon food)

Leaves, Dogs, and Poetry

Fall is here.  The swallows have passed through the nearby prairie on their way south, the Big Woods are full of mushrooms, and there's a hint of a chill in the air. 

Muttley wonders if poets write about dogs.  The answer is yes:

         Percy (Nine)

Your friend is coming I say

to Percy, and name a name

and he runs to the door, his

wide mouth in its laugh-shape,

and waves, since has one, his tail.

Emerson, I am trying to live,

as you said we must, the examined life.

But there are days I wish

there was less in my head to examine,

not to speak of the busy heart.  How

would it be to be Percy, I wonder, not

thinking, not weighing anything, just running forward.

                            -- Mary Oliver

Today's Front Yard Critter Count:

Raccoons: 7 (the 4 squash-sized babies and their mama, Crabby Mama's youngest daughter, and one more)

Deer: 2 doe, here to eat nectarines.

More Owls Than You Can Shake a Stick At

I haven't seen very many owls in the wild so I'm feeling very fortunate that this summer I've crossed paths with two.  Recently Stu and I were hiking the Rampart Ridge trail at Mt. Rainier and as we approached the top of the ridge we happened to look up and see this little fella. We think he's a Saw Whet Owl.  A few weeks before that, as I took Muttley for a walk early one morning, I caught sight of something big and brown gliding from the roof of the house to a tree limb just inside the Big Woods.  Much to my delight it was a gorgeous Barred Owl.  She and I watched each other with great interest for about 10 minutes until she flew deeper into the woods (probably because she didn't want her picture taken).  I saw her again briefly the next day but haven't sighted her since.

Here's a piece of woodsy wisdom that we tried out this summer -- with great success.  Next time you're out in the woods and get stung by nettles, look around for a sword fern with pollen under the fronds.  Rub the fern pollen where you've been stung.  The sting will feel 20% better immediately, 90% better in 5 minutes and in 30 minutes the sting will be permanently gone. I don't know how or why this works but it does. Cool, huh?

The four eggplant sized raccoon babies are now the size of  medium winter squashes.  Their mama continues to be more easy-going about mothering than Crabby Mama and Not-So-Crabby Mama were with their babies last summer.  As a result, these babies have a lot more freedom to explore -- which makes me nervous but so far so good -- they appear to be healthy, happy, and full of mischief.

Today's front yard critter count:
Deer: 2 (the little buck and his mom)
Raccoons: 5 (the eggplant babies and their mama).

Sorrow, Glory, and a Mouse

Friday morning as Stu and I were sharing a ride into town we came upon a gravely wounded juvenile bird sitting in the road, hit, hurt, and too damaged to save.  In an act of deep mercy, Stu took its life.

No one has ever given me an adequate explanation for the pain in the world.  Easy answers make me crazy and even the Book of Job artfully mocks those who, sitting in safety, offer facile answers to the ones who suffer.

Oddly (or perhaps not so oddly) I have a mental block whenever I try to remember the word defined as "an explanation of how a good Creator can allow suffering and evil."  The word is "theodicy" and I have to look it up EVERY SINGLE TIME I want to use it.  "Epistemology" I've got.  Ditto for "apocalyptic" and other hard words that are fun to say but "theodicy" always slips away like a burglar through the back door.

So I'm not even going to try to offer an explanation.  I do, however, have an observation.  I saw Stu's ashen face after the bird was dead.  Only love leaves such a mark. Love wins.

Next subject (that's actually related if you think about it):  The wildflowers are rampant in the mountains right now -- rhododendrons that appear to be lit from within, bear grass, Indian paintbrush, columbine, wild raspberries (that look exactly like strawberry plants), twin flowers,.  Glory and more glory everywhere you look.  Exhibit A is Reflection Lake at Mt. Rainier (see photo above).



Today's front yard critter count:
Deer: 1 doe
Raccoons: 2 (Crabby Mama's youngest, smallest, and sweetest daughter and Old Tailless Guy's Little Woman without her 4 eggplant-sized babies)
Mice: 1 (sheltering underneath the wellhead cover)

Great Stories and a Banana Slug

I firmly believe that humans are wired for meaning and thrills.  We all live for something, whether it be money, politics, public service, God, art, ferrets, liquor, resentment, or a weed-free lawn. 

I'm convinced that folks who join extremist movements -- Islamists, John Birchers (do they still exist?), or the crazy wing of the Tea Party -- are motivated by a search for meaning and excitement that has been derailed by laziness and fear.  Join any of these three movements and your life has an immediate scoop loader full of meaning coupled with thrills up the wazoo. What could be more fun and fulfilling than banding together with a clot of like-minded collaborators to battle a conspiracy of evil adversaries?

But the problem is that this choice is ultimately a dead-end.  What do all the great stories tell us?  Choose a risky path that challenges your preconceived notions and end up braver, stronger, and more compassionate (and maybe save the world).  Choose a path that justifies your preconceived notions and end up just as selfish, ignorant, fearful, and self-satisfied as you were when you started out.  And that's a ginormous wasted opportunity.

Next subject:  here's an enthusiastic high five to the theology geeks who knew the answer to my last quiz question.  The correct answer was: "Nothing."  Jesus had exactly nothing to say about homosexuality. He did, however, have quite a bit to say about compassion and reconciliation.

Next next subject: the picture at the top of the page is of 3/4ths of Crabby Mama's youngsters.

Today's front yard critter count:
Deer: 3 (a doe and her two spotted spring babies).
Raccoons: 3 (Old Tailless Guy's Little Woman and her 2 eggplant-sized babies who seem to communicate with their mama by chirping)
Swainson's Thrushes: Lots
Chipmunks: Two
Slugs: 1 (a very handsome Banana Slug streaming across the front porch)

Friends and Firelight

Last summer we (well, Stu) built a small fire pit in our yard.  We had visions of friends gathered around the campfire, sharing food, laughter, and conversation.  I'm happy to report that the fire pit has worked out exactly as we hoped.  Yesterday evening we hosted some dear friends for dinner prepared under the stars: fresh wild salmon cooked over the flames on cedar stakes, accompanied by potatoes and apple crisp cooked in two Dutch ovens over charcoal.  I swear that food cooked outside tastes better than food cooked indoors. Plus nothing beats seeing friends' smiling faces lit by firelight.  Everything about the evening was a most welcome antidote from the head-exploding aggravation of the ongoing oil "spill" in the Gulf and continuing crapification of American politics. Sometimes it's grand to just focus on the blessings near to hand.

On a different subject, here is a quiz for my friends with an interest in theology:
Question: What did Jesus have to say about homosexuality.
Answer:




Today's front yard critter count:
Deer: 2
Raccoons: 5 (Crabby Mama and her young adult children are healthy, happy, and still hanging out together.  They stop by occasionally in hopes of a snack.  They occasionally get one.)
Chipmunks: 2 (living in the fenced vegetable garden)
Squirrels: many (still loud)
Rabbits: 1
Stellar's Jays: 2 (probably with a youngster stashed in a nest nearby)

Illumination and Homer Simpson

Sometimes juxtaposition can beget illumination.

On Friday I learned that the manatees may need to be rescued from spreading oil in the Gulf of Mexico.  As you probably know, manatees are large, goofily lovely aquatic mammals known for their friendly nature, their big flippers, and their frequently losing battles with power boat propellers.  Already endangered, unseasonably cold weather in the Gulf last winter decimated an additional ten percent of their population. Biologists have no idea whether they will be able to successfully relocate the manatees before they're harmed by spreading oil and it goes without saying that BP has no contingency plan to address this eventuality.

On Friday I had also just about completed Nicholas Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn's excellent book, "Half the Sky" about the worldwide scourge of female sex trafficking, honor killings, genital mutilation, maternal mortality, and mass rape.  The glaring truth is that across a substantial portion of the globe the profound ongoing suffering of millions of women and girls matters not one whit.

To say my heart was heavy would have been an understatement.

Then on Friday after work I went to dinner with two women friends.  We ate, and drank, and talked, and laughed. Afterward we walked out of the restaurant into a balmy, golden Pacific Northwest evening, free as birds, happy as larks, with the scent of summer in the air.

This juxtaposition damn near killed me.  Glory here, sorrow there.  Delight here, anguish there.  Lusciousness here, barrenness there. How to hold both in my heart?  How to simultaneously love the good and face the bad?  "Simple" came the answer, an answer both old and new, "it's simple."  "The riches you've been given, the riches of education, safety, freedom, work, food, water, aren't yours to keep.  They are yours to give away."

Doh!  Homer Simpson head slap!

As my hero, Bono, sang almost twenty years ago:

One love
One blood
One life
You got to do what you should
One life
With each other
Sisters
Brothers
One life
But we're not the same
We get to carry each other
Carry each other

One...life

One

Today's front yard critter count:
Deer:1
Raccoons: 0
Chipmunks: 1
Squirrels: 1
Manatees: 0 (but they can come live with us - we have a spare bedroom)

If I Had a Rocket Launcher

One advantage of middle-age is the acquired ability to compartmentalize.  As life piles up sorrows and disappointments, the capacity to say "I'm not going to think about that" becomes an essential life skill.  In recent months, my method of preserving some level of equanimity in the face of brainless political grandstanders, power-hungry media hacks, avaricious financiers, and other loathsome bit players on the American stage has been to simply ignore them.

But the oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico has overthrown my ability to look away.  Every headline is an ax in my chest. I'm breathless with grief and fury.  Up to 798,000 gallons of oil are gushing into the Gulf every day.  The top kill fix has failed and BP's next "plan" (or should I say "irresponsible wild ass guess") is a modified version of attempts that have already failed twice.  According to a story in yesterday's New York Times, BP knew there were problems with the well casing and blowout preventer almost a year ago but nonetheless approved construction in violation of the company's own safety policies and design standards.  Yesterday morning a BP executive said that the real "end point" is a relief well which won't be in place until August.  Yes, you saw right -- August.

This calamity is only the latest piece of evidence that corporations like BP should not unthinkingly be given the same legal rights that you and I have.  The Supreme Court was dead wrong in January when it said that restrictions on corporate spending on elections are impermissible. Unlike human beings, corporations pair unlimited life spans and resources with a single goal: to make as much money as possible for their shareholders.  They are created as amoral entities with no obligation whatsoever to be caring neighbors, respectful employers, or protective stewards of our shared planet.  To the contrary, when their obligation to their shareholders requires it, corporations must be intentionally heartless, harmful, and destructive.  Pro-business interests constantly agitate for the elimination of government regulations, arguing that corporations are fully capable of self-regulation.

To which I reply,"No.  They're not."  And, as our friends on the Gulf Coast are learning to their sorrow, treating multi-national corporations as anything other than potentially lethal creatures is suicide.

I look at the ruin in the Gulf and say to myself "face this."  And "remember."  Remember and vote for leaders who won't be bought by the oil companies.  Remember and hold government accountable for real corporate regulation.  Remember and when told by oil company shills and their media lackeys that less corporate regulation is good for me, reply that I've seen the fruits of their labors in a desecrated Gulf.  They're criminals and as my hero Bruce Cockburn said, "If I had a rocket launcher, I'd make somebody pay."

On a lighter note, the picture above is a beaver lodge in an alder woods near Mt. St. Helens on a spooky beautiful overcast day. We didn't see any beavers although we did see some sort of unidentified small mammal swimming toward the lodge and clambering up onto the roof.

Today's front yard critter count:
Raccoon:  1 (Old Tailless Guy)
Deer: 0
Neighbor cat: 1

The Love You Take is Equal to the Love You Make

For all my friends and acquaintances who give a damn and live that out by making good art, good writing, good photographs, good science, good kids, good government, good food, good health, good music, or good-whatever-you-were-created-to-do, I offer this gorgeous poem by Mary Oliver.  Blessings on you all!

When Death Comes

When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle-pox;
when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,

and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.

When it's over, I want to say; all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it's over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.

I don't want to end simply having visited this world.

                                                  -- Mary Oliver

Today's front yard critter count:
Deer: 2
Raccoons: 0
Squirrels: 2
Chipmunk: 1
Frogs: bazillions

Risk and Willed Ignorance

I learned as a young lawyer to consider risk when making plans.  There are two parts to risk: the odds that something will happen and how disastrous that something might turn out to be.  A 1% risk may sound small until it's a 1% risk of, oh I don't know, getting gunned down in the next 60 seconds.  Then a 1% risk sounds pretty darned high.

I mention this because I'm puzzled about comments some friends have made recently on Facebook.  On days when the weather is unseasonably cold here in the Pacific Northwest, I see gleeful postings like "Must be global warming.  NOT!" or "Global warming, WHAT global warming?"

The actual problem is global climate change and not simply global warming, and weather that's weirdly cold can be evidence that the climate is indeed changing. This winter Rush Limbaugh announced that climate change was a hoax because the weather in Washington, D.C. was cold, all the while failing to notice that the Vancouver Olympics had to truck in snow and Seattle had its warmest January on record.  The problem is the larger trends over time in multiple locations around the globe, not just what we see when out the kitchen window.  So at a superficial level what troubles me about these blithe triumphalists is that they appear to getting their scientific information from featherbrained bumper stickers and bad sermons.

But at a deeper level what troubles me is the apparent absence of any sort of risk analysis.  As Bill McKibben recites in his wonderful new book "Eaarth: Making a Life on a Tough New Planet" (and no that's not a typo), in October 2007 the Arctic ice cap was 1.1 million square miles smaller than it had ever been in recorded history.  In 2009 scientists saw the first tundra fires ever.  The tropics are moving north and south, pushing the arid subtopics ahead of them, causing droughts for millions of people.  As a result of droughts, worldwide wheat, corn, and barley yields are down by 40 million tons a year.

And so on.

And so on.

Given these sorts of facts, I wonder what sort of risk analysis is going on in my friends' heads.  Many of them have children and grandchildren.  Assume for the sake of argument that the facts Bill McKibben lists are not actual facts but merely "might be" facts.  Assume furthermore that there is only a 1% chance that these "might be" facts are true.  (They actually ARE true but we're just playing with a hypothetical here.)  It seems to me that a 1% chance of ruining the one and only planet we've been given is a colossally unacceptable risk.

So I wonder if for some people critical thinking and risk analysis might be entirely beside the point.  Is it possible that folks start from the premise that they don't WANT to change a damn thing and they therefore construct a narrative in their own heads so they don't HAVE to change a damn thing?  Risk analysis? WHAT risk analysis?  Don't need no stinking risk analysis.  I want my S.U.V!!!  I want all my cheap plastic crap!  I want strawberries in January!  And to hell with everyone else....

On a lighter note, the picture up above is of a series of stair-stepped beaver dams near Mt. St. Helens.  We counted five big dams and two little dams.  Three vultures circled up above, checking to see if we were still moving (we were), followed by two ravens checking to see if we had bologna sandwiches to share (we didn't).

Today's front yard critter count
Deer: 0
Raccoons: 0
Squirrels: 1

Thinking About Borders. And Laws. And Fear

I'm feeling in need of some fine poetry this evening.  For your viewing pleasure I offer the following:


                        Confession

The Nazi within me thinks it's time to take charge.
The world's a mess; people are crazy.
The Nazi within me wants windows shut tight,
new locks put on the doors.  There's too much
fresh air, too much coming and going.
The Nazi within me wants more respect.  He wants
the only TV camera, the only bank account,
the only really pretty girl.  The Nazi within me
wants to be boss of traffic and traffic lights.
People drive too fast; they take up too much space.
The Nazi within me thinks people are getting away
with murder.  He wants to be boss of murder.
He wants to be boss of bananas, boss of white bread.
The Nazi within me wants uniforms for everyone.
He wants them to wash their hands, sit up straight,
pay strict attention.  He wants to make certain
they say yes when he says yes, no when he says no.
He imagines everybody sitting in straight chairs,
people all over the world sitting in straight chairs.
Are you ready? he asks them.  They say they are ready.
Are you ready to be happy? he asks them.  The say
they are ready to be happy.  The Nazi within me wants
everyone to be happy but not too happy and definitely
not noisy.  No singing, no dancing, no carrying on.

                                           --Stephen Dobyns

Today's front yard critter count:
Deer: 0
Raccoons: 0

Grifters and Pundits

My friend Ginger alerted me to the latest incident of Fox News brazenly falsifying what the network humorously refers to as "the news."  This time the whopper concerned President Obama's nuclear arms treaty with Russia -- evidently Fox reported that the treaty leaves America defenseless by eliminating all nuclear weapons when, in fact, the treaty leaves two thirds of the weapons unaffected.  As despicable as this sort of counterfeit reporting is, the dance of deception requires two partners -- the grifter and the easy mark.  It's apparent what the deceivers get out of the transaction: power, money, the win, the sly superiority of the liar.  But what do the willfully deceived get?  They get to escape.  They (and by the term "they," I sometimes mean "me') get to escape knowledge of the truth.  Knowledge, and the responsibility that comes with knowledge -- the responsibility to be accountable, to risk one's own preconceived notions, prejudices, and comfort, in the interest of what is true and good.  If we want this flight from accountability, the dance of deception requires us to pretend to believe what the network pretends is the news.

Where is Samaria Anyway?

Like a passing motorist who can't drag her eyes away from a bad accident, I continue to watch with astonishment the more feverish reactions to health care reform playing out across America. What I find most puzzling are people who call themselves Christian but nonetheless seem to have forgotten the Parable of the Good Samaritan and similar mandates to care for the oppressed and the stranger.   If faced with a gravely ill child in their workplace, neighborhood or church, even the most vehement health care opponents would probably throw a bake sale or pass the hat to pay for treatment.  Is the problem an inability or unwillingness to make the empathetic leap from a child in their own tribe to a child in another tribe? Or do they just love their tribe more than they love their God?  I'm mystified.

I don't have a parable to share, but I do have a poem from the most excellent Wendell Berry.  I offer especially the last stanza.

              Questionnaire


1. How much poison are you willing
    to eat for the success of the free
    market and global trade? Please
    name your preferred poisons.

2. For the sake of goodness, how much
    evil are you willing to do?
    Fill in the following blanks
    with the names of your favorite
    evils and acts of hatred.

3. What sacrifices are you prepared
    to make for culture and civilization?
    Please list the monuments, shrines,
    and works of art you would
    most willingly destroy.

4. In the name of patriotism and
    the flag, how much of our beloved
    land are you willing to desecrate?
    List in the following spaces
    the mountains, rivers, towns, farms
    you could most readily do without.

5. State briefly the ideas, ideals, or hopes,
    the energy sources, the kinds of security,
    for which you would kill a child.
    Name, please, the children whom
    you would be willing to kill.


Today's front yard critter count:
Raccoons: 6
Deer: 1
Llamas: 0

If Ignorance is Bliss, Why Aren't More People Happy?

Whew! These have been a tough couple of weeks in America.  Snake mean and brick stupid aren't anything new around here but it's been quite awhile since we've had our national patience tested by this many overwrought, ill-informed fellow citizens. Hurling slurs at congressmen, making death threats, plotting to kill police officers  to spark a religious war. Please, people, go crack open an icy beer, put a cold washcloth on your heads, read the Sermon on the Mount, scratch the dog behind his ears, and relax. 

In honor of taking a deep breath and pausing between stimulus and response, here's a poem to ease you into tomorrow:

O Karma, Dharma, pudding and pie,

gimme a break before I die:

grant me wisdom, will, & wit,

purity, probity, pluck, & grit.

Trustworthy, loyal, helpful, kind,

gimme great abs & a steel-trap mind,

and forgive me, Ye Gods, some humble advice --

these little blessings would suffice

to beget an earthly paradise:

make the bad people good --

and the good people nice;

and before our world goes over the brink,

teach the believers how to think.

                                    --Philip Appleman

The Tombstone List

Do you ever hear an aphorism and think "Yes!  Exactly!  I want that on my tombstone! (No? Perhaps you're not as enamored of getting in the last word as I am!) One of the big contenders for Ann's Tombstone List is "never mistake a clear view for a short distance." I like the heady split second of mental suspension before the meaning of the adage clicks into place.  I also like the way it honors aspiring to the heights while warning that getting there may not be easy.  The maxim spares us from false optimism and teaches us what real change can require.  I find that sort of realism to be downright bracing!

Today's front yard critter count:
Raccoons: 5 (Crabby Mama and the 4 Young Adults)
Deer: 4 (all does)
Mouse: 1

Money Talks and Sometimes Money Also Walks

Ever wondered what you can do about the economic crisis?  In the March 2010 issue of Sojourners Magazine, Jim Wallis said:

Clearly, the financial crisis is a structural meltdown that calls for increased government regulation of banks and other financial players.  Members of faith communities around the country are helping to push for this sort of reform.

But at its core, this is also a spiritual crisis.  More and more people are coming to understand that underlying the economic crisis is a values crisis, and that any economic recovery must be accompanied by a moral recovery.  This should be a moment to re-examine the way we measure success, do business, and live our lives; a time to renew spiritual values and practices such as simplicity, patience, modesty, family, friendship, rest, and Sabbath.

Yup.  On a more pragmatic level, why not move your money out of a bank that helped caused the mess to a bank or credit union that has been better behaved? Check out moveyourmoney.info for a searchable database of options close to you.

Today's front yard critter count:
Raccoons: 5 (Mama and the 4 young adults)
Deer: 2 does..