Category: Personal Journey

MOSTLY FROM A LAST TRIP TO ENFIELD, MAINE

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 1 Comment

I was on my way to  the Metzlers’ farewell reception in the Grange hall as they wrapped up 19 years’ service in a rural community. As I often do driving solo, I slipped into a meditation and jotted down random thoughts and observations on the five-hour drive. Here they are.

31 May 2009, unexpectedly staying over and returning Monday, before an evening shift at the office:

Wells, Maine, en route – so long since I’ve gotten AWAY! (Excepting Ohio.) The commute … toll … York … driving a lot, same old loops for starters. And then beyond the usual fringe.

A pilgrimage. Saturday night major revisions to “On the Broad Penobscot,” which I would read at the reception – and see at that time it’s as much about marriage as kayaking.

Summer in New England:
When the air temperature
finally reads higher
than the open-roadway
speedometer.

 Driving the Maine Tpk. same time as Meeting for Worship: a driving meditation.

Tide way out, Fore River and Casco Bay – mud flats.

Seems so natural now.

No CHECK ENGINE light on for the past month or two, and then, sometime around Brunswick, on a tank of Mobil rather than Irving, on it comes again – and stays on.

Losing another Friend: Heather Moir. (Morning e-mail.)

Just before Bangor: What the hell am I doing? This long, gust-torn drive? So many emotions and memories stirred up! So I’ve been here almost 22 years now – NH from Balto – and they’ve been part of it most of that time. The one lover’s wounds still fresh and intense, then another.

Their efforts to establish a medical practice and to be ordained. The kids. So much time, so many lost years! The barn they took down, the crowded kitchen, the introduction to homebrewing, the treehouse. The trip taking Megan to China Lake and then R and I continuing to an overnight in Orono – and Carolyn’s “She’s a keeper.” (Our canoeing across the lake and, on our drive home, the long loop up through Rangely and down through Berlin.) Much sadness here, this transition.

I find myself running way ahead of schedule. Stop at the Weathervane in Waterville, and find the contrast between their fish and chips and those at the Shanty in Dover a revelation; the later doing everything right, the former cutting every corner. At the next rest area, I phone R and tell her she’s spoiled my appreciation of food – it’s like discovering great champagne, I tell her.

I skirt a serious thunderstorm, get only sprinkles, and then it’s sunny again.

Stop at Borders in Bangor, find a collection of Andre Dubus stories and Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer, as well as a Keith Jarrett trio CD.

In Enfield, I kill time along the Penobscot, where the sky has turned gray and the wind is kicking up whitecaps.

Clouds reflecting
in the pollen-covered
Penobscot current

(the river a mile wide in places?)

Passadumkeag
water striders
and sedge (reeds)

 – the public access landing

 river mussels

(A few days earlier, Sherry told of attending Andre Dubus’ funeral: he had insisted on being buried in the backyard, which created a controversy in the town. The coffin had a copper plate on top, which all of those present at the graveside service were to sign before the burial. It was all quite strange, she said, but there was lots of food.)

In the Grange hall, their motto: Unity in essentials, liberty in non-essentials, charity in all things – the Pilgram Marpeck!

In one conversation, a man was telling about his three-year-old grandnephew’s first reaction to the paper mill in Lincoln: Who farted! (How accurate! Who am I to complain, writer – user of paper?)

Only a portion of paper mill production is newsprint, office paper, or book/magazine stock. So much cardboard, tissue, etc. instead. Just for perspective.

Before entering the Grange hall, I drove down to Cold Spring Pond, looked across. R and I canoed that far? Amazing. With all of its clarity that day and the big boulders 20 feet down.

Their Jesse was in Budapest, but Margaret was quite present. As were Bill and Barbara – both after all these years. Other than that, I knew no one.

Was surprised D wasn’t present. Didn’t get a chance to inquire, either.

Good thing I went. Sense of closure. The poem went quite well.

Carolyn’s sister, Marsha: “You’re a deep thinker.” She should see what happens with Carolyn.

Raining during the gathering and through the night.

But next morning clear and bright.

A perfect day for driving – after the rain.

How dramatically the drive changes from Portland south – no more of the same rural quality.

~*~

How vivid all this, these years later! And how precious the friendships and memories!

NO CAUSE REPORTED

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 2 Comments

None of the accounts mention it, though as I find in online searching, none of them had an actual obituary, either. But within the span of a year, three special acquaintances – all in their prime – had died of what appears to be suicide if you read between the lines of the news releases.

One was my best friend ever of my adult years, until our lives turned in much different yet somehow parallel directions. The second, a high school classmate of deep intellect – a shared rarity where we were in that troubled period. And the third, someone who stayed a week with us before returning to some truly horrific visions in the realms of international policy.

All three were remarkable and important individuals.

Anais Nin once posited that each of us has a demon to battle, and my response remains, “Only one?” On another level, I wonder about those individuals who have never felt the despair that prompts suicide.

I suspect this is one of those areas of our spiritual quest and practice we rarely discuss. Where could we even begin? How can we possibly define life fully, much less death? We can speculate, of course. Yet the darkness and accompanying numbness are, for me, inarticulate as the void described in Genesis 1:1.

There are no answers, in the end. Only the dawning of Light, when we can greet it.

JUST THE NORMAL WHIRLWIND

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 2 Comments

A comment from my sister got me thinking. “Sounds like you have a complicated life,” as I recall. Or maybe it was a “complex” life, as if there’s a difference.

My initial reaction was that my schedule’s always been that way, a balancing act of job, relationships, literary endeavors, spiritual practice, outdoors activities, personal care, and so on – sometimes more successfully than others, perhaps, and sometimes better integrated rather than segmented into less than harmonious compartments. And that’s even before we get to the piles and files.

Not that I think my situation’s unique. As I’ve asked before, “Do we ever get caught up?” Often, wondering how other people do it, seemingly so much better, at that, I’m left in awe.

Even so, Sis’ quip had me reviewing the itinerary for the past month or so.

There was painting the front of the barn and one side of the kitchen el, both of them flaking from their facing the direction that our nor’easters blast in from. Glad I got that project done before wet weather and early cold kicked in. (I could go off on a rant, though, about the complications of getting the right replacement paint, a consequence of one brand playing hardball with its dealers and leading to one more coat than I intended.)

Still, there’s something about working outdoors on a crisp autumn morning. As I was moving a ladder into place, I looked up to see a bald eagle circling low over a neighbor’s treetops. Each round, backlit by the sun, the tail would flash white and then, a half-revolution later, the head. The next morning, an eagle circled high overhead. And then there’s the honking of the geese and their checkmark formations above me.

Outdoors also includes a host of garden-related projects in a race before the first killing freeze and, a bit later, deep cold and snow kick in. I see now I haven’t blogged much about the garden over the summer, at least since the groundhog invasion, but I did capture two of the varmints and relocated them to another state and the third finally moved on in its own time. In defrosting a freezer the other day, my wife was surprised by the amount of strawberries, raspberries, and blueberries we put up, along with the green beans and peas.

For now, we’re wrapping up the last of the tomatoes (Juliette’s been our workhorse out of our dozen-plus varieties), roasting them down to something that resembles sundried and then freezing them. And the eggplant gets a similar treatment.

The way the bounty of produce cooks down so much continues to amaze. A full pot of tomatoes, for instance, can reduce to a few cups of soup. How has humanity ever survived?

We’ll soon observe something similar with the kale.

In the meantime, I’ve been a bit hampered by something the doctor tentatively diagnosed as either plantar fascitis or a bruised heel bone, which requires icing and hampers my mobility while it (uh) slowly heals.

My Quaker activities, meanwhile, have included committee sessions in central Maine and on Cape Ann in Massachusetts, plus clerking a wedding and our Meeting’s first-time booth at the city’s annual Apple Harvest Day festival – and each event could be a story in itself.

One pleasant break came in the all-too-short visit of my old roommate from after college – our first time together in nearly four decades (ouch!) and a delightful introduction to his “new” wife of 25 years. (OK, we lost touch for a number of those, but the Internet’s been great for reconnections.) He may have lost his natural ‘fro, but his twinkling blue eyes and goofy humor are as sharp as ever. Again, this could be a story in itself.

The choir, meanwhile, is back in gear with weekly rehearsals that have become my regular outings to the big city. We’re excited to be preparing for performances in Boston’s Copley Square and Faneuil Hall at the end of November, which now looms closer than I’d like.

As for the writing? Well? Never enough to keep up.

No wonder I’m feeling a lack of balance or even focus. After all those years of wondering what “retirement” would be like, I’m still, uh, puzzled.

VIEW FROM THE HAY DOOR

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 2 Comments

Through much of the summer, the sun on the barn roof makes it difficult for anyone to spend much time in the loft, and later, the depths of winter add their own limitations. But there are stretches of spring and autumn that can be heavenly when it comes to a time and place to retreat.

Yes, we’ve discussed remodeling the loft to make the space usable year-round, but frankly I rather like it as is, with all of its rustic charm.

My favorite moments often come in the afternoon as I call an early happy hour, pour myself a martini, and nestle into the papasan in front of the open hay door. The view over the garden or out either window at the ends of the barn can be delightful, and in many ways I feel I’m in a tree house. This fall I’ve been catching up on issues of The Paris Review and a host of symphonic tapes, so it can even feel uplifting.

As we slip into the second half of autumn, though, I’m all too aware this pleasure’s about to come to a close again. Already we’ve had a few evenings of sitting in front of a wood fire and watching the flames dance.

Long ago I discovered how essential such seemingly short breaks are to my sanity. And then it’s full-bore back into the vortex.

NOT EXACTLY A BOOM

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 9 Comments

I’ve never really liked the “baby boomer” description. Besides, I think there’s a major barrier between the early experiences of those born before ’47 or ’48, and those after. Around ’48, my wave, was when TV sets were present from the very beginning of our exposure to the world. We can’t remember ever not having one at least somewhere in the neighborhood. (Suddenly, I remember being three or four and having the Sullivan brothers show up to watch “Howdy Doody” with me. They didn’t yet have a tube of their own.)

Every year as our class advanced, our new round of teachers was baffled. All they knew was we were “different” from the previous ones. So to some extent, the TV influence feeds into the hippie outbreak. We were, in effect, wired differently from our seniors. Still are, for that matter.

But the other big shortcoming in the boomer classification is the way it ignores the huge fissure within our generation between those who supported the Vietnam Conflict and those of us who opposed it. That’s something that’s never fully healed, and it’s certainly crippled our ability to come together to advance the ideals some of us, at least, so passionately embraced. I suspect there are many politicians and corporate executives – the dreaded Establishment, that is – who actively worked to keep the wound festering.

So here I am, calling for a renewed vision of our legacy. That’s been one of the promptings of the novels in my series Hippie Trails. You’re welcome to come along on the trip.

 

 

A LITERARY CREDO

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 1 Comment

I read – and write – not to escape the world but rather to more fully engage it. So literature for me hardly falls into the Entertainment category, even when it’s entertaining.

Likewise, my goal in the written word is to perceive some basic or essential connection with new clarity, understanding, and compassion.

This makes a world of difference, page by page. Maybe I’m just looking for holy scripture, even of a secular sort. Or at least the Holy One along with the mundane.

Often, my approach to writing and other fine arts resembles the essence of a dream – one foot in the present, the other in the past. Or, in another way, one foot in concrete reality, the other in fantasy of some sort, such as surrealism, as a way to engage more than I’d otherwise apprehend.

SWEPT OUT TO SEA

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 2 Comments

The stupidity of some people never fails to impress. You hear of those who refuse to leave the path of disaster or see pictures of families standing by an ocean churned by an approaching hurricane. You know, the foolish ones who then expect emergency personnel to come to their rescue (at personal risk and public expense).

I’ve learned to respect the moodiness of the ocean and its quick changes – the summer thunderstorms that come out of nowhere, for starters. If the Coast Guard or lifeguards say “Get out of the water,” just do it rather than ask questions. If the captain of the boat says “Get down under,” just do it.

Even before the hail or power outages.

How quickly it all passes, too, and everything looks perfectly serene again, with no hint of what just happened.

My wife and I once watched a deluge approach, strike, and return to normal all in the course of a seaside lunch. Fortunately, we were indoors, our table beside the window.

One of my first lessons came a few months after the 1991 Halloween nor’easter now known as the Perfect Storm. In New England, a nor’easter is akin to a cold-weather, slow-moving hurricane. One moonlit night three or four months after this one, I was driving along Cape Ann in Massachusetts and was awed by the depth of sand still piled along the roadway – like plowed snow, in fact – up on ridges out of view of the ocean. Such was the impact of the Perfect Storm.

But this was a calm night and coming to an overlook, I pulled over, got out of the car, and walked out on a ledge a good 20 or 30 feet above the water. I was still back from the edge when a large wave crashed up behind me and swirled off just to my side. I realized the current could have knocked me off my feet and into the brine below. I’m a good swimmer, but fully clothed in icy water driving into rocks would be a fatal combination.  

Yes, I’ve learned to respect the ocean and be wary.

ON THAT COMMITTED JOB, TOO

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 3 Comments

You can name those who jump in quickly, volunteering to tackle any new task their supervisor proposes. (“Sure, Boss, we can do it.”) And you can name those who are more cautious, evaluating the time commitment and resources.

I’m thinking, too, of all the people who join a committee and then fail to follow through.

Or the coworker who’s muttering under his breath once we’re overloaded with the additional project. Or all the other tasks that get slighted.

How many others do you know?

FLATBED

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 1 Comment

Returning to my native corner of Ohio, I’m astonished by its flatness; what had seemed to be large hills or significant valleys now appear embarrassingly horizontal.

On the other hand, as I’ve uncovered my ancestral roots in that land, I’m finding a lost and untold richness in what was essentially a Pennsylvania Dutch heritage continuing in western Ohio. Feel free to take a look at my findings at the Orphan George Chronicles.

RUNNING WHILE I CAN

~ Jnana Hodson ~ Leave a comment

So we’re having coffee once again, one of my favorite authors and I, and while he’s a decade younger than me, I still marvel at his relentless output.

Why do you pace yourself that way, I ask.

Because time’s running short, he answers.

As I said, he’s a decade younger.

Maybe we should talk to an older painter we know, a good decade-and-a-half ahead of me. The one who’s still painting furiously. Quite possibly better than ever.