Adrift without a routine … any advice?

~ Jnana Hodson ~ Leave a comment

Have you ever wondered how some individuals, liberated from the daily 9-to-5 or similar constraints, manage their lives? I mean, just everybody I’ve known has always envied that “free from it all” possibility, but what does that mean in reality? Even retirement?

As for someone who’s “financially set,” how do they arrange their lives?

The last thing I’d want to do is squander my time in front of a TV screen. The computer monitor, by the way, is a different matter. It’s more like a command post, not that my doctor would agree. You know, the new form of “couch potato.” If you’re reading this, you’re likely also guilty. Maybe we need to join ranks.

For years now, there was always the paying job to contend with. In addition, I’ve always had a big writing project at hand, as well as the rhythm of Quaker Meeting. There was also contradancing. Retirement added blogging, daily swimming and then Spanish drills, along with weekly choir rehearsals, at least before Covid.

 

SOMEWHERE IN THE PAST two or three decades I had an annual year-end practice of blocking in my goals for the coming year, as well as a five-year plan. That’s faded away since my leaving the newsroom, but when my wife first came across those, she was both amused and annoyed. Seems I left out a lot of important things, even in a single day, meaning the plans weren’t especially practical or entirely focused.

I’ve recently come across a file of those aspiration but find I’m unable to get very far in rereading them. My plans were grandiose, ambitious, regimented, even militant, and besides, I no longer have the energy to keep up that kind of pace.

On the larger scheme, I broke out each season with Personal items like birthdays, vacations, auto inspections and license renewals, routine medical affairs, maybe even a reading binge or a recognition that I needed to get some exercise, at least by hiking or some such. There was a Domestic category to remind me of getting the furnace cleaned, paying insurance, tax deadlines, setting aside time for snow shoveling or getting garden stuff moved, even ordering firewood. Creative was the one that set goals for writing, revision, and submission. Spiritual was mostly Quaker activities. And, for a while, there was even Astro, to keep me apprised of what the heavens indicated I should be aware of.

Retirement was when I was finally going to be able to go Literary in a big way.

On the smaller scale, I tried envisioning daily and weekly routines in which I would block out so many hours for each of my larger categories and goals.

The problem was that there were never enough hours to work it all in.

 

RELOCATING TO EASTPORT was initially a writer’s retreat where I could focus on the Dover Quaker history book, but now that the project’s wrapped up, apart from getting it published and promoted, I’m feeling adrift.

No matter what time I wake up, anywhere from 3 to 6, usually, I can’t get away from this keyboard and screen until after 10. So much for the early morning meditation and study I originally envisioned! Well, these are the hours I’m finding clearest for writing and corresponding.

But from there? That’s the problem. Nothing feels structured, much less directed.

The introduction of an hour of walking in the school gym may change that, though it means moving some of my computer “butt time,” as writer Charles Bukowski put the practice. OK, back in college, I was a night owl and found midnight to two or three to be prime time. (Not so any more! Eastport is in the “land of the dawn” or Sunrise County.)

A big cooking day? Say, Wednesday? As for cleaning? A set amount of time daily or instead a big round on a specified day?

Well, that’s what I’m looking at now. The one big difference is whatever emerges will be more flexible than the earlier incarnations.

Any advice or specifics, especially things that work for you?

 

Let’s acknowledge another annual turning point

~ Jnana Hodson ~ Leave a comment

Looking at the low temperature here and then the ten-day forecast, I observe a turning point in the season. This may be the last day of the year that our low reading is near zero, much less in the negative range. We’re heading upward into the teens and above as the minimum.

It may be cold, but no longer bitterly so.

Not that we’re anywhere near getting warm.

What’s the equivalent where you are?

An orange is an orange is an orange orange

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 2 Comments

The mystics and traditions I’ve encountered are anything but airy-fairy. In fact, they can be pretty down-to-earth and practical, based on personal experience and testing rather than empty speculation or dogma.

As George Fox said at the beginning of the Quaker movement, “This I knew experimentally.” That is, by first-hand experience including trial and error. Or as was said a few years later, “Some of the best barns in Rhode Island were designed during Quaker Meeting,” during quiet meditation.

Never underestimate the importance of the disciplined circle of fellow practitioners, either. Anyone who says “I’m spiritual, not religious,” but lacks that communal base is headed for trouble.

I learned that 50 years ago in a yoga ashram – see my novel Yoga Bootcamp for unorthodox examples of how it works – and have seen it in other traditions since, especially my Quaker circles.

One of my favorite stories comes via fellow blogger Tru-Queer, who relayed the incident this way:

A Tibetan lama and a famous Korean Zen master in the Rinzai school were to have a debate.

The Tibetan lama sat meditating, counting his mala. The Zen master produced an orange from his robes and asked the lama, “What is this?” It was a famous koan. Waiting for a response, the lama continued meditating. The Zen master asked again, “What is this?”

The Tibetan lama spoke with his translator for a moment, who said, “Do they not have oranges where he is from?”

~*~

I suppose I should explain that a koan is a kind of mental puzzle intended to push a student beyond rational thought. Zen is essentially black-and-white ascetic, while Tibetan Buddhism is full of colorful esoteric teaching and drama. Yet here the roles are reversed, in a great joke.

But it doesn’t end there. When’s the last time you really looked at an orange? How many varieties can you identify, much less their differences in uses or subtle flavors? Does your recognition that it’s “an orange” put a stop to regarding it fully? That is, when’s the last time you had an “OH WOW!” moment with something so seemingly commonplace.

Gertrude Stein was aiming at something similar with her “A rose is a rose is a rose,” which blows open when you learn she was also speaking of a friend named Rose and not just the metaphors associated with a specific flower that somehow too often gets lost in the entire equation.

So just how do we live full of wonder – a state a Friend hailed as the Holy Now?

I’d say having dear ones who share it with you does help. Even if they’re Zen Buddhists.

You don’t need a weatherman to tell which way the wind blows, nosirree

~ Jnana Hodson ~ Leave a comment

Not when you have one of these.

The heart of the station is this unit, joined by a rain gauge nearby. They send data via Bluetooth to a digital monitor indoors.

Thanks to this Christmas gift of a personal weather station, I’ve been watching the local weather direction and speed closely, along with the fluctuating temperatures, barometric pressure, and humidity indoors and out. Rainfall will be fun to observe, but snowfall – alas – is a problem.

 

Hola Orlando

~ Jnana Hodson ~ Leave a comment

talk of spiced sausage all you want or the angelic art of seduction all come clean in the springing but circle the wagons or your ways if you will sometime when riders approach, demanding their due we’ve no cavalry to the rescue what runs on the line honestly, not since the divorce have we sensed any mid-afternoon vehemence comparable to that blazing dirty bird union . let me tell you of the plagues of Moses . invest the rest wisely

My encounters in a yoga ashram altered my perception of life

~ Jnana Hodson ~ Leave a comment

I stepped out of my journalism career three times in my life before retiring for good. The first was when I decided to move to the ashram where I could immerse myself in yoga philosophy and practice. Responding to Swami’s invitation to settle into her rural setup was something I did slowly and deliberately, with a large degree of trepidation. As I relate in my Yoga Bootcamp novel, the daily life was intense and evolving. Leaving the ashram was a different matter, with others largely resolving the outcome – out you go. For weeks afterward, I felt myself falling helplessly through space. Eventually, I reestablished my feet on the ground and then headed off for a new life in a town I call Prairie Depot.

The paperback cover …

What happened for me during my residency was life-changing. I regard it as my master’s degree and my introduction to psychotherapy of an amateur sort. Among other things, it led me to the Society of Friends, or Quakers, which turned out to be the faith of my Hodgson ancestors from the 1660s down through my great-grandfather.

In the novel, I chose to confine the structure to a single day, in part because I had so many lingering questions I could not answer. Yes, within that day individuals could look back on their previous history, but the focus was on the NOW. And a lot could happen there in a 24-hour span. Besides, as I later learned through some candid discussions with a former Episcopal nun, monastic life has some commonalities of its own. As she said, some of the most intense interactions came in trying to choose the flavor of ice cream when the rare opportunity arose. I’ll argue you’re the most human under such rarified circumstances.

On top of everything, when I was drafting the book, I was out of contact with the place and its people. Critically, I had refused an order to return to the ashram after I’d married and moved to Washington state and a follow-up stipulation of heavy financial support was out of the question. A half-dozen years later, back on the East Coast, I had an opportunity to stop by but was not admitted into the house. I did learn that Swami had died and I sat by her grave. So much for making amends.

… and the back cover.

Since then, I’ve reconnected through social media with some of the key players and had a few assumptions, not in the story, deflated. In addition, Devan Malore’s “The Churning” reflects life there a few years after I’d moved on.

The story itself could have gone another way, if I hadn’t wanted to present the ideals that drew us together and kept us going. Especially the humor and playfulness.

More compelling for many readers would have been a more sordid tale of just one more “new religion” outfit run into scandal of a sexual or financial sort, preferably both. There were enough elements for that, as I’ve since learned.

The story first came out as a pioneering ebook in PDF format only and was later updated to Smashwords and its affiliated partners. A more recent, quite thorough recasting (again, blame the influence of Cassia in “What’s Left”) changed Swami from female to male and introduced Jaya as one of the eight resident yogis, thus linking her to the heftier Nearly Canaan novel. Besides, the transformation made Swami more acceptable to the expectations of many readers and allowed the Big Pumpkin and Elvis dimensions. The role was already unconventional enough, and this was more fun.

Am I still doing yoga? If you mean hatha, the physical exercises, let me say rarely and embarrassingly, at that. As exercise, I’ll substitute my daily laps in the swimming pool, and as meditation, my weekly Quaker meeting for worship. And no, I’m no longer vegetarian, other than when I voluntarily follow the Greek Orthodox “fasting” of Advent and Great Lent (again, blame Cassia), though I also eat much less flesh than most Americans. Actually, in these seasons, the Eastern Orthodox Christians are stricter than we yogis were.

I do wish there were a similar haven for youth today, one freed from the burden of student college debt. I’ll let “Yoga Bootcamp” stand where it does.

 

No, the settlers don’t own the land – they can merely hold it and pay rents

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 2 Comments

It’s hard for modern Americans to understand a basic reality of European colonies in the New World.

None of the players in the story own the land they’re dealing with.

Not the settlers, even though they’re clearing it and building on it.

Nor the proprietors or investors, either. They’re more like developers who offer leasing opportunities. Think of rental agents.

Nor the Indigenous tribes, surprisingly, even though many of the settlers also negotiate a payment to them for their land. The use of their land, more accurately. Admittedly, the payments are largely symbolic – a bushel of corn a year, for example.

No, quite simply, all land “belongs” to the king, and he allocates the privilege of using it as a means of leveraging his own prestige and power.

Under the feudal system, that would mean grants to barons and other lords in return for their fealty.

They, in turn, could dole some out to knights, who then become wealthy, as well.

Add to that the gentlemen farmers, living off the rents to their estates.

And then yeomen, who are still free on their own tenants, as their small holdings were called.

And husbandmen.

And, somewhere below that, the serfs who are bound to the land and its holder. Well, by this point in time, they’d been freed but were still at the bottom of the ladder.

King James I

~*~

THIS IS THE MODEL OF LANDHOLDING – not landownership – up through the American Revolution.

Its assumptions are quite different from those of modern Americans. What do you mean? I don’t own the ground under my house and barn?

No, you don’t. And you still have to pay rent on it.

~*~

AS A FURTHER COMPLICATION, charters could be revoked or rewritten.

Falling out of the king’s favor would have costly and dire consequences.

As my upcoming book describes, this land arrangement affected Dover and the rest of New England through a series of realignments and controversies and attempted evictions.

In fact, it almost leads to a rebellion in Boston Harbor against the king a century-and-a-half before Paul Revere’s midnight ride. Well, that’s one aside I don’t develop. There’s too much else going on along the Piscataqua.

 

Microclimates? Dress accordingly

~ Jnana Hodson ~ Leave a comment

My awareness of microclimates – ways weather conditions in small spots differed from the wider scene – came early one spring when I was dwelling in an orchard in Washington state. There were critical hours once the trees began blossoming when a frost could devastate a year’s crop. Cherries were particularly susceptible, but the apricots, peaches, pears, plums, and apples were also at risk. Remember, a whole year’s income could be wiped out in a few hours.

Frost-fighting measures, such as smogging pots, propane heating lines, airplane propellers pulling the slightly warmer air aloft down into the groves, or spraying the trees with water to form a protective ice coating around the blooms, were all costly. Essentially, it was a gamble. The orcharists relied on alarms sent out on special radio frequencies, usually in the wee hours, before taking action. Sometimes three feet of elevation made the difference in whether to act or simply ride it out – or, in the other direction, whether any action would be futile.

Years later, in New Hampshire, I encountered something similar, where a band somewhere between Manchester and the seacoast could vary by ten degrees within a mile or five. It could mean setting out in shorts and being uncomfortably cold on arrival. Or setting out in long pants and sleeves only to be sweating.

Once, in Dover, I saw an 11-degree drop – plus a cloud bank – between one side of the bridge into Newington and the other. Another time, I left for work in 39-degree favorable conditions only to encounter freezing rain and a hill that took a half-hour to go down midway to the office.

Now that I’m living on an island in Maine, I hear a common saying that our temperature is typically ten degrees cooler in summer and ten warmer in winter than it is even at U.S. 1 on the other side of the causeway, just seven miles away.

The differences were even more dramatic one morning when I checked last month. Our reading was plus 4, but inland had minus 8, on one ridge an hour’s drive away, or minus 14 at a lake a few miles away. Close by us but inland only 15 to 20 miles away were readings of minus 12 and minus 15.

A few days later, we had a minus 3, but Calais, 25 miles north and on a tidal river, was minus 25!

Do you experience anything similar where you live?

Add or subtract 22 degrees from 70 to get an idea of how much the impact can be. I mean, the 90s are usually miserable while the 50s mean keep the furnace running and maybe the car windows rolled up. Unless you’re a native New Englander. (I’m not.)

Well, it is Groundhog Day, which is really the end of Solar Winter, by one calendar, or the halfway point of Calendar Winter, another. Either way, we’re entering a stage when things warm up a tad but can produce some horrendous snowfall in my part of the universe.

Once again, I’m ever so glad I’m no longer having to commute to an office, day or night.

Just from one storm

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 2 Comments

We had generally cleaned up from earlier snowfalls, with only a light covering left in town, before last weekend’s blizzard blew in. And, oh, my, did it!

Officially, we had 19 inches, though stiff wind and wicked gusts left some patches surprisingly bare, along with most roofs, but then piled the offset precipitation in the lee.

We were also hit with a widespread electrical outage, which fortunately was repaired in about only an hour or a bit more. I was braced for two or three before getting worried. Oh, I do miss having a wood-fired stove, though one is in our plans. And we do have a generator on order, one that would have been in by now if only we weren’t trying to relocate its proposed placement to allow for a tiny future full-sunlight garden, which is, in fact, now buried by the snow plow driver. Life gets complicated.

Shoveling out the front entry allowed for lighthearted conversations with passers-by, not all of them walking dogs. One woman even showed me a phone picture of her son or son-in-law’s back door, which was floor-to-ceiling snow when they opened it. Yes, I was deeply grateful ours wasn’t anything like that theirs.

So far, according to the weather service, we’ve had about 48 inches so far this season, but this last storm was the doozy, as you can see from our digging out. But, wait, there’s more, as the cliche goes. Tomorrow and the day after are expected to deliver another foot or so, the figures are still bouncing around. Dial up, scale back. Yeah, folks around here are skeptical of the forecasts, for good reason, but not stupid, either.

Reminds me of the guy behind me at the IGA checkout before the last blast. He had baby spinach and some related healthy ingredients followed by an impressive selection of wine. And you thought it was always milk, bread, and canned soup that got cleaned out?

Now, the big question is this:

If we get hit by this much snow in the days ahead, where we will put it?

 

Note the raised porch.

Traditionally, February and March can bring the big whammies in New England and neighboring Upstate New York. This could get interesting. Or even tedious.