Category: Personal Journey

REGARDING ELK AND MORE

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 3 Comments

Monday morning, as I noted at the time:  

I’d thrown the kids off the PC, where they were watching an episode of The Simpsons, only to find out it was actually an assignment for the older one’s upper-level college course, the Sociology of Humor. [No joking.] And then I got around to some poetry submissions, including an acceptance or two.

Glad you like the work I sent. The elk poems arise out of the four years I spent in the desert of Washington state, bordering the “dry side” of the Cascade Range. They’re part of a series, most of which has already appeared in journals. I’m not a hunter, but living as I have most of my adult life in places near forest (even my time in Indiana and Iowa), I’ve had to acknowledge the existence of hunting as a fact of life – and the ways ancient hunting, with its religious/spiritual dimensions (the discipline of meditation, for instance, arises from waiting for the game), contrasts with modern “harvesting.” Even so, some editors have rejected the work out of hand – maybe they thought I’m a NRA member (quite the opposite, in reality – no guns for me).

Among the poems I’ve written are “After the Fact,” which comes out of Native American lore. It turns out that Gary Snyder also has a piece drawing on the same myth – “This Poem Is for Bear” – which acknowledges the aspect of the girl’s disrespecting the bruin before the abduction. I found another piece along this line of my work, “If a Man Goes Mad,” which works along a similar grain.

Finally, as I look back on the period, I reopen a longpoem, my American Olympus, based on a one-week camping trip with a now ex-wife and a former girlfriend who was visiting (who would have guessed they’d actually enjoy each other’s company). As it turns out, I still hear from the ex-girlfriend.

ELK, AS AN EMBLEM

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 5 Comments

Typically, when you first enter a forest, you see very few animals. Maybe a squirrel or two in the shadows, and then flitting birds. It’s mosquitoes or other insects, mostly. You might as well be looking for fish. Even in a desert, where the range is wide open, this happens. Pay attention, though, and they appear, albeit largely second-hand – a snap or cracking branch, the cry of a blue jay or crow, the high-pitched exuberance of peepers in spring, the work of beavers, a feather on the trail, a tuft of fur caught in a snag, the small tunnel opening of a den, a pile of bone, a curl of snakeskin. Tracks and scats, especially. To say nothing of roadkill, along the highway.

Thus it was in my initial forays into the high country west of Yakima, where I was puzzled by deer-like pellets and tracks everywhere in the undergrowth. In time, I learned how widespread elk had become again, after being decimated a century earlier – and how crucial hunting and fishing organizations were to the conservation efforts. Although I neither hunt nor fish, I came to respect those who do so with a sense of humility and admiration. At the office, especially, Jim Gosney and Wayne Klingle told of intimate encounters in the field, while others, speaking of the occasions when they’d eaten the meat, could have been describing a sacramental meal. Heard their derision and disgust, too, regarding others who come only for slaughter. Heard, too, that the best places to observe elk were at the back of the Rez, south of town – an area off-limits to all but tribal members and their guests.

That understanding was only a small step from timeless Amerindian lore, the insights and practices arising where survival or death hung in the balance. Even before my move west, I had begun running across these stories, however haphazardly; by now, the Native American myths directly touched me in ways I found more compelling than the Greek, Roman, and Norse mythologies that fill so much of our literature. More pressing, in fact, than the Hindu and Buddhist stories I’d devoured before heading west. “If a Man Goes Wild” and “True Practice” both draw on this trove, even if some poetic license is applied; besides, the stories themselves no doubt become varied as they pass from one locality and time to another. Here, though, the animals are no longer inferior creatures but can speak and interact in an equality with humans.

From this perspective, whether we’re considering elk, moose, or bear, the reappearance of large wildlife expresses not only a healthy forest or range, but a healthy society as well. I cannot think of elk without also thinking of what’s been lost and is being lost from the North American continent. Recently, returning to my native Ohio in winter, I looked across the shorn corn and soybean fields and realized how impossible it is to imagine the endless forest my ancestors entered, when elk and wolves and Indians were still present – nor the ecological catastrophes that followed in their first years after.

For me, elk are an emblem of what I learned living in the foothills of central Washington state. Here, then, are moments when the intimacy resumes, one way or another. Elk matter, indeed.

The elk farm in Lee offers me reminders of the wilds of the Cascade Range in Washington state, especially.
The elk farm in Lee offers me reminders of the wilds of the Cascade Range in Washington state, especially.

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BLURRING INTO SMOKE

~ Jnana Hodson ~ Leave a comment

The title, drawn from a line in Galway Kinnell’s “Tillamook Journal,” brings to my mind the corkscrew motion of seasons, memories, and time itself across the sequence of landscapes where I’ve dwelled.

My poems arising in this vein rarely stray far from northern woods. Or from the woodpile or fire, even in summer, no matter how unacknowledged their presence.

Nor do the poems in this range stray far from crickets, whose fiddling is akin to rubbing sticks together to create a fire. Where I live, their night rasping intensifies in early autumn, as though defying the growing chill and approaching, decisive frost. In a sense, there’s an inverse relationship between the mating songs of birds, so rampant around dawn in mid- to late spring, and the cricket activity. In the end, their music goes where the smoke goes. For now. Before starting over.

A MEDITATION, OF SORTS

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 5 Comments

At the beach the other morning, observing the beauty of the blue surf at low tide on a crystal-clear day, I realized my mind and heart were not in oneness with the postcard view before me. Yes, I was there, but on a mission, and I was all too aware of a desire to be home before my wife left for her afternoon and evening obligations.

My oneness, however, was with the seaweed before me as I put it into buckets and transferred these to black bags in the trunk of my car. The drive home was also a meditation, as was spreading one of the bags over our asparagus bed.

The goal, of course, is to be fully present where I am. Rather than off somewhere far ahead or far behind me.

SLEEPING LATE

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 2 Comments

Back in my college years, I was definitely a night owl. Did much of my best work after midnight, in fact.

But my first job after graduation required me to be at the office no later than 6:30 in the morning most days – sometimes at 5 or 5:15. It was never easy, although I did find that a nap when I got home allowed me to socialize in the evenings.

Moving to the ashram, with its daily predawn meditation sessions, was no less grueling.

In the years after, though, there were many days when I could “sleep late” or “sleep in,” often till noon or so on a day off or when I didn’t have to be in the office till much later. Those were glorious.

When I remarried, however, a new tension arose: my wife is an early riser. No matter how late she turns in, she’s usually awake by 4. On top of it, I wound up going back to the second shift, which meant I’d make a serious effort to be in bed and asleep by 2 a.m. We could have been playing team-tag.

Now that I’m in what’s considered retirement, I’m pretty free to let my natural rhythm settle where it may, apart from mornings or nights when something’s scheduled. What’s surprising is how much I’m turning into an early bird rather than a night owl. I find the early hours conducive to clear thinking and writing – maybe I’ll even get back to meditating and exercising first thing in the morning.

It’s staying up late – even on choir rehearsal nights, with the long commute home afterward – that’s become the challenge.

Never would have expected this, believe me.

Now, if I can only get the power nap going in the early afternoon.

 

 

 

ALONG THE ISINGLASS

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 2 Comments

Quaker4 085

As I said at the time …

After dropping the kid off at school for a rare Saturday session (costume design class), noon, I stop off at Mount Isinglass for a short hike, in part to eat up a bit of time before our customary Saturday afternoon wine tasting and opera broadcast.

While most of our snow has melted, the woods are still covered, even in Gonic. The trail’s quite icy, with a few bare spots for relief.

Amazing how many people rely on their dogs as an excuse to take a walk – as the droppings in the snow attest.

Still, a good exercise, this trek before the snowpack is completely gone, at least if I don’t slip, fall, and injure myself.

Coming down near the river and former bridge, I view a black pool of stilled water brimming slightly over the usual banks, a complete contrast to the two snowy forest hillsides it cleaves. The utter beauty is timeless, and yet totally of the moment. While the water is quiescent, the air resounds with the ferocious chords of the cataract just out of sight.

I approach the top of the falls, the water gaining inevitable velocity and muscle, some of it careening into rockface and then pushing across the current. The narrow, sloping trail down to the base of the cascade, however, remains ice covered, and the places I would normally cross to the river are now mid-stream anyway. I back off, and head back, rather than attempting to scale the cliff to a possible overlook from above.

The temptation becomes too much, and I venture off the return trail, my feet crashing through snowpack that still comes to my knees, until I come to a place where the falls are in view off to the side below me. Rather than the miniature Niagara I’d expected, however, the water’s not rounding off to drop vertically, as I’d seen it in high water here the previous autumn. Rather, it shoots straight out – sometimes into a sheer wall of rock.

All of this wild power – untamed, exuberant, destructive or even cleansing, hissing like strong wind with drumming somewhere deep within. Anyone pulled into the current would be broken by the weight, crushed on the rock, torn by the crossfire. The mill that once channeled this energy has long been swept away by such outbursts, with only a few foundation stones remaining. Downstream, this water will be used at least twice to generate electrical power, but here it explodes for its own glory.

What is it that attracts us to cataracts? The description that comes to mind is “awe,” an acknowledgment of natural, inexplicable power far greater than our own mortal existence. Or maybe the seemingly inexhaustible stream of profusion that outlasts our own span of concentration and observation.

Even so, as the Psalmist noted, “He leads me beside the still waters,” not down to the base of the torrent. I think of two Plain meetinghouses in Ohio, both named Stillwater – one Quaker, the other Old Order German Baptist Brethren. The still water as a place of clarification, the sediment dropping away, a clear drink or safe place to water livestock and wildlife. Waterfowl, too, take refuge. Here the energy is latent and gathering, ready for release. In the meetinghouses, the worshipers gather, still themselves, become clear, preparing for the channel of the week ahead.

The contrast within one stream couldn’t be sharper, one as the other face of its complement.

On the walk back to the car, an icy beech leaf turns translucent on the snowy trail.

a beech leaf
translucent with ice

floating on snow

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HUNTER-GATHERER DIMENSIONS

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 3 Comments

As I told them: 

Although Jnana does not hunt, he observes points at which ancient traditions – including hunting and gathering – influence modern religious practices, meditation high among them. Jnana also acknowledges the role organized sportsmen have performed in restoring populations of wildlife, and has learned from hunters eminently adept at reading animals’ ways in the field. These days, living in New Hampshire, he keeps an eye open for moose rather than elk along the highway.

IN THE PERSPECTIVE OF TIME

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 9 Comments

As a writer, I love taking a phrase and rolling it around, substituting one word or thought and seeing what happens.

With the Grimms’ fairy tale opening, “A long time ago, when wishes came true,” I began substituting “prayers” for “wishes” and realized many people seem to assume that prayers really did have more effect a long time ago – say back in the time of Moses or King David – than these days.

But that also has me wondering about the depth of our wishes today. Are we too directed by advertising and material possessions to seek what’s truly desirable? The fairy tales and Holy Scripture, as I recall, have a lot to say on that account.

WEATHER REPORT UPDATE

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 4 Comments

Noticed a few months ago I wasn’t checking the weather forecast as much as I did when gainfully employed.

Back then, I faced an hour-long commute each way and knowing the outlook might prompt me to leave earlier or take a less vulnerable route. Trying to navigate a downhill curve in a freezing rain was one experience I never wish to repeat, and I’ve seen enough vehicles slide off the road while trying to go faster than the nasty conditions allowed, well, to keep me from trying to press my luck. Arriving early might also help, since we’d often be handed an early lockup on the first edition of the newspaper to give the delivery crew an extra edge, and anything to lessen the deadline pressure on all of us would be a blessing. A storm might even mean packing for an overnight at the office, as some of my colleagues did during one really big blizzard. The forecast could even prepare me for changing my plans at home beforehand when shoveling out the driveway would take priority.

This time of year, flash flooding, sleet, fallen limbs, or power outages can also be a problem.

This is northern New England, after all.

Now that I’m retired, the commute’s no longer an issue, except for my weekly trip to choir practice in Boston – and if the weather’s treacherous, I have the option of staying home, which was never the case with my job. Since we rarely need both cars on conflicting schedules, it’s much easier to leave them at the end of the driveway to cut down on the snow shoveling. Our biggest weather concern is frost at crucial times in the garden. Or, during the summer, the Atlantic water temperatures when I’m considering a swim at the beach.

This winter, though, has rekindled some of the obsession. We’ve had far more single-digit and zero-degree nights than usual, plus a constant snow covering with more than six feet total by the beginning of March, even as most of the storms have veered south of us. My fascination has come in tracking four different online forecasts and seeing how far off target they’ve been. As for agreement, forget it. You could just as easily toss a coin. (And that percentage thing they throw at us? A 60 percent chance of snow in practical terms means nothing: either it snows or it doesn’t. In other words, it’s all or nothing.)

Considering everything, though, it’s rather nice to not be complaining about the weather itself. I can more or less take it as it comes, thank you, with all of my sympathy to those who must venture forth, regardless. At the moment, I think I’ll put another log on the fire.

MYSTERY OR MAGIC

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 1 Comment

“A long time ago, when wishes came true” is my favorite opening in the Grimms’ collected fairy tales. Much better than the formulaic “once upon a time.”

As I look back at my own “long time ago,” the “wishes came true” part of the proposition easily has me wondering just what I really wished for all along, before landing here? What specifics would have spurred the leap from fantasy into reality and shortened what often seemed an all too long and painful journey?

After all these years, I broached the subject with a longtime correspondent and there we were, reflecting on that point way back when our lives might have taken a different path. Meaning why didn’t we take the leap and marry?

“Well, you essentially believe in mystery while I expect magic,” she said, a reaction that long left me wondering about the difference.

Yes, I could almost hear her peals of delighted surprise at unanticipated happy turns and realized that reflected her idea of magic.

And yes, I suppose I could be labeled as a mystic, in part from all my years of meditation, with its sense of an underlying unity of the universe. (For more on that, go to my As Light Is Sown presentations.) As a mystic, I am instead seeking harmony and rightness that accompanies, well, I’ll just call it the Holy Way for now. Essentially, nothing happens by sheer accident; we just know so little of what’s going on behind the scenes when a miracle occurs.

In contrast, as the commentaries on the fairy tales insist, when good things happen in their stories, it’s a one-time deal, never to be replicated. Except that the good folks live happily ever after.

That’s why I’ll still take the mystical over the magical. I’ll take a miracle any day, while magic can be tricky.