Tag: Life

PRIVILEGE … OR RESPONSIBILITY?

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 3 Comments

Having all of the presidential hopefuls at hand, as we in New Hampshire do during our unique primary season, comes at a price. Not just the traffic congestion as candidates race from one site to another or the advertising that clutters on the airwaves or the willingness to venture as outsiders into hotbeds of supporters. No, the more vigilant and responsible of us spend hours of personal time and gallons of fuel driving to scheduled events to meet the hopefuls in the flesh and see how they respond to public concerns. It often means arriving early to get a seat while knowing all too well the star of the show will arrive late, and not just by minutes.

And then, sometimes, you get there only to find the parking lot’s empty – the event just got cancelled. We could name names here but won’t.

Let me say, though, you get a much different view of them up-close and in-person than what you’d otherwise obtain. Especially when they’re off-camera and pulled away from the script.

YOU’RE ALLOWED TO MISS A SELF-IMPOSED DEADLINE

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 1 Comment

It’s mildly amusing to see how many of my fellow bloggers apologize when they haven’t posted anything for several days. Or weeks. Or months.

I want to cry out to them, “Don’t worry!” And then, “No need to apologize!” After all, there’s no shortage of material on the Web or even here in our WordPress networks. Nobody’s paying you to write, there are no hard deadlines you’re required to meet, you’re not being graded. The whole point is to have fun and then, if time allows, share your experiences and insights. In reality, few of us are keeping track of who’s posting daily … we just enjoy reading good stuff when it’s there, especially when it’s coming from a circle whose company we enjoy.

That, I should emphasize, is the crucial detail: post when you have something to say, not just to fill space.

Unlike many of you, I have a whole lifetime of writing to fall back on, but as you already know, the Red Barn is a different kind of blog, one with its own mission. And accept my thanks for stopping by when you visit. Especially those of you who leave comments, where I never know what to expect.

Now, what’s on the menu for tomorrow? We’ll see. Maybe I need to step out and check the garden.

 

PLAYING ALONG WITH TEMPTATION

~ Jnana Hodson ~ Leave a comment

The race for New Hampshire’s First-in-the-Nation presidential primary, currently set for February 9, has barely entered its pregame activities and already our phone’s ringing. Not just the candidates, either, but the surveys, especially – rarely does a day go by without at least one.

OK, some of the surveys are no doubt fronts for candidates or campaigns, but the frequency of the bona fide pollsters is also troubling. Ideally, the statisticians are sampling a legitimate cross-section of likely voters or, in an era of unlisted cell phones, they’re turning to a very small fishbowl regardless of its ultimate match. I fear the later.

It’s also raising the temptation of playing with the game itself. Say, with four registered voters in our family, we decide to tell everyone this week we’re backing X, and thus inflating that hopeful’s ratings, only to totally ignore X a week later. You can imagine how the pundits would react to the fluctuating numbers.

~*~

My larger concern has to do with leaving room for the process to actually occur without all of the Big Media tampering. Let the candidates meet the public without having hundreds of reporters tagging along – especially the intrusive television cameras and sound bites. Yes, I want a few journalists to be there for the unscripted moment that can enliven or derail a campaign – I just want the general public to be there as active participants rather than merely as an entertainer’s backdrop. That is, the journalists should be invisible rather than part of the celebrity-style entourage.

~*~

Well, one thing we do know. All of this is about to speed up. And how!

QUERIES IN THE SOCIAL HOUR

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 3 Comments

Some of the most profound and lasting messages I’ve received among Friends have come outside of the Meeting for Worship – and often as questions. It may surprise many of you to learn that in my first years with Quakers, I was generally pretty hostile to anything smacking of Christianity. And yet seeds were planted. I recall, for instance, Norris Wentworth’s observation while giving me a lift in his car – something to the effect that because America has an underlying Christian mindset, Eastern religions would have trouble taking root here.

Or “What do you think of Jesus?” during my clearness session for membership in what turns out to be one of the most universalist meetings in America. (Our preparative meeting was about 150 miles away in the desert of Washington state.) Followed by a remark to me, “I fear that we’re losing our Christian connection.”

A few years later: “What do you think of the Bible?” as an elderly Wilburite Friend in Whittier, Iowa, drilled her eyes in my direction. I doubt my analogy of a sharpening-stone wheel satisfied her.

Or, a year or two later: “And just what spirit was thee speaking of?” Mary Hawkins, an elder at Middleton Meeting in Ohio, before adding. “there are many spirits – anger, envy …” Since then, I have since been careful to say, Holy Spirit or Spirit of Christ.

The most influential Friend, though, was Myrtle Bailey, a recorded minister at Winona, Ohio. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about her asking me what I considered the perfect meeting, and my response, which seemed to surprise both of us. Rather than looking at meeting as the experience of worship, I looked at it as a community – a woodpile, in fact. We need good pieces of seasoned wood, as well as kindling; but also green wood, to begin seasoning. Here at Dover, we seem to be falling behind on the green wood supply. Which leads us to the next question.

ALONG WITH THOSE ARTISTS WE KNOW

~ Jnana Hodson ~ Leave a comment

As I said at the time …

For too long, there’s been a huge gap between the blockbuster superstars and the rest of the practitioners, many of them far more innovative or penetrating.

Paris for American ex-pat writers? Again, I smile. By the time you and I came along, the destination was Seattle or San Francisco or Greenwich Village. Or some mountainous terrain, for those of us who couldn’t afford anything better. (Or thought so.) And then Minneapolis and, of all places, San Antonio. As it turns out, New Hampshire has far more than its share of authors, probably because of its proximity to both Manhattan and Boston, in addition to its tax structure – so again, I’m in a decent spot.

Especially compared to many of the others.

REVIVING THE FAVORITE SON OPTION

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 4 Comments

Looking at the lack of traction of any of the candidates in the Republican presidential field, maybe it’s time to suggest returning to a once common strategy, one known as the Favorite Son – or, on today’s scene, Favorite Daughter.

Here’s where the large states like New York or Ohio could wield their clout, throwing their primary election weight behind a candidate from their state who would then negotiate at the national convention. Well, we do have Pataki and Kasich as a fit. Add Rick Santorum, Pennsylvania, and Chris Christy, New Jersey.

Florida becomes more of a problem, split between Bush and Rubio. As for Texas, still Rick Perry?

Could be interesting, if they can muscle their delegations. But California keeps drawing a blank for me. Keep wondering who I’m missing.

Well, why wouldn’t conservatives want to return to the past? Seems a rational option at the moment.

BRUISED DESERT

~ Jnana Hodson ~ Leave a comment

Three hundred sunny days a year in a fertile land may seem like Paradise.

But it’s surrounded by desert.

~*~

Desert turns everything to bone. That, or to stone. Even the scattered tufts of cheat grass and the isolated clusters of flowers turn into straw skeletons. Social conventions, too, dry away. In pursuing clarity, which parched spreads possess abundantly, I also enter an order of madness. Paradoxically, to preserve my sanity in dealing with people, it becomes periodically necessary for me to revisit this incomprehensible delirium. Settle back on this my bedrock, readjust to my own frame. Here, then, I return afresh to spaces within and without. Wait. Listen. In this place, wind is a clearing, spiraling on itself. Then, when this twisting reverses, screwing into bony alkaline soil, we give praise. At times, I even see my own heart clearly. As I come to know my way around more securely, I lift a cup of clear spring water and pour it on bleached parchment at my feet. Selah. The next day a bouquet of tiny flowers rises like fingers bent by wind. Always somewhere, wind.

 ~*~

For a free copy of my newest novel, click here.

Kokopelli 1

WESTERN HARVEST

~ Jnana Hodson ~ Leave a comment

With its cloudless skies, it could be an ideal agricultural cornucopia. If you had water.

~*~

In other climates, you commonly overlook the element of space, unless looking into the heavens on a brittle night. You observe objects, and space becomes the measure of distance between an object and you, or else some arrangement of objects. In contrast, desert appears more as a vacuum — a juxtaposition of surfaces, of sky and earth extending outward not to some imaged convergence (such as the perspective point where the twin rails of a train track become one) but rather away from any focus, and thus outward around both of the observer’s ears. Here, space itself becomes obvious, as if turned upright, like a wall in your face. So often in life, what should be most obvious is the hardest to see. The spider is on the window; the spider is on this page.

~*~

For a free copy of my newest novel, click here.

Kokopelli 1

FALSE ALARM

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 1 Comment

Five volunteer departments responded, “The whole hill is on fire!” – only to discover a brilliant sunset in the woods. Five, all of the members dropping their daily activities to dash off on an emergency mission.

Now the caller was running for sheriff.

~*~

All these years later, I can’t remember who won.