DON’T BLAME EVE

You know the usual slant on the Garden of Eden, that it’s all Eve’s fault.

Look more closely, you’ll see it’s the Apostle Paul and Augustine’s reading.

That’s it, blame the woman.

But it’s wrong.

Give me a breather. There’s Jewish tradition, after all. Listen up!

For all of its brevity, it’s a complex story. It’s where humanity – and history – begin.

For my part, I believe it’s only one of many similar gardens – where else do you think their sons found their wives? The only one we’re told of, all the same.

Eden 1

~*~

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A PLEA FOR REASONED DISCOURSE FROM ANOTHER SIDE OF THE AISLE

One of the breakthroughs we’re finding in this world of blogging is the emergence of original voices that would otherwise never appear in the larger commercial-media market. Many of them are quite better than some of the nationally syndicated newspaper columnists we’re seeing these days and definitely those vacuous suits on Fox News. Or should I start with my surprise that my own postings get reactions from so many other countries rather than just the USA, as my previous training would have anticipated? That, in itself, is a revelation.

Add to that the range of perspectives that become available, especially through the WordPress Reader as we follow fellow bloggers. Each day, I tap into a world of fellow spirits, from beginner writers to the highly advanced. It’s quite a community of discourse!

My wife has her own circles of bloggers she reads more or less daily. As she says, “I’m very interested in interesting people who think differently than me,” and that ranges far beyond her thoughts of gardening, cooking, and – well, let’s leap ahead to radical education and home-schooling. It’s become a joy to sit together each morning as we peruse the Web and then read aloud to each other passages we find especially insightful.

One of her favorites is the bearing blog by a devout, conservative Roman Catholic mother in the Twin Cities who would initially appear miles apart from us in our daily lives.

But two recent posts have my utmost endorsement.

The first introduced me to the term “cultural bundling,” in which people assume if you take position X, you favor or oppose a whole stream of other issues. In this case, it was her reluctance to put a bumper sticker on her car – any bumper sticker – even if this one was Black Lives Matter. For her, such brief statements lead to stereotyping that has prejudicial consequences and that, in turn, hampers efforts to resolve issues in public. Put another way, a lot of blind intolerance can flash into play, and I know it comes from both the right and left side of the political divide. As I’ve felt all too well, my liberal circles can be embarrassingly close-minded and even nasty in some of their assumptions. It’s not all “them,” after all.

E.G. Arlinghaus presents her rational in her post, “A Little Knowledge.”

A more recent post tears into a subtle flaw in the argument of “voting for the lesser of two evils.” To my surprise, her deft and conscientious examination takes its stand from a nuanced argument in Roman Catholic ethical and political thinking. Take a look at what she has to say about “Intrinsic” matters.

Her own observations on the importance of nuanced thinking resonate with me. Throughout my career as a newspaper editor I fought for longer articles, whenever possible and deserving, even if that meant cutting many other dispatches into briefs. For me, the “why” and “how” could be more important than the who-what-when-and-where specifics or posturing.

For example, from my side, pro-life does not necessarily mean pro-abortion but rather an acknowledgement that back-alley abortions lead to the deaths and mutilation of desperate pregnant women without any similar consequences for the men who put them in this condition.

It’s a huge difference, one that looks at the consequences of policy.

Arlinghaus’ detailing, based on a piece by Bishop Flores of Brownsville, Texas, admits the nitty-gritty realities of politics and conflicts of conscience but turns the argument in new ways.

Hope this helps.

WILDLIFE, CLOSE TO HOME

more squirrels than girls – and there are a lot of girls in this neighborhood

two horny squirrels on a tree

neighbors report a large groundhog … where are those dogs?

possum … how funny they look, running
their back arches, and both ends drop
nearly to the ground
how laborious!

a possum in the bottom of one of our plastic barrels
furrier than I expected
turn the cylinder on its side, still takes a while
for the critter to move off … injured? stunned? no idea

a young porcupine crossing Hill Street four doors down …
a neighbor watching from the stoop …

next night, a dead adult porcupine in the street

on our apron by the back door
a small snake, whip motion,
ever so slowly

Rachel awakens me
for a scurrying, gnawing noise
inside the wall, beside our heads

in the morning, I realize we haven’t heard
the house sparrows nesting in the eaves overhead, either

none of our plans come off as planned
but we keep readjusting

poem copyright 2016 by Jnana Hodson

~*~

Rat Tat 1

For more of my home and garden poetry, click here.

CRITTERS

Reprise

The amount of wildlife in our yard continually impresses me,
especially compared to Oakdale Avenue or Woodbine.
The abundance of squirrels, of course, and possible rats
but also skunks, opossums, the groundhog can be added in
plus snakes and insects.
We must be doing something right, or just be in the right location.

A first: amid a throng of blue jays chasing a crow, a mockingbird:
was its nest raided or threatened?

~*~

Home Maintenance 1

For more on my home and garden poetry, click here.

ENTWINED IN THE DETAILS OF PERSONAL FINANCE

I’m not sure any lover could have accompanied me all the way in the repeated moves from the orchards of Washington state to the seacoast of New Hampshire. The Rust Belt relocation came in part because my now ex-wife’s only aunt and uncle lived there, and we needed to be near family; as it turned out, what I really got from that stopover was an experience of Old-Order Quakerism and the swirl with another, in the aftermath, who I later followed to Baltimore.

Curiously, without her, I could have relocated anywhere in the Northeast while working as a field representative, but I wouldn’t have developed any of the Mennonite sides that continue. Events often are a mixed bag, aren’t they?

All of that got stirred up returning to the recorded files years later, well into my remarriage. You know, that part about applying to schools.

Just about the time you think the academic institutions know every intimate detail of your life and history, they want yet another detail. At least our younger one was accepted at her only early choice, which also came through with a huge scholarship.

Such a relief, after the tony prep school she’d applied to a few years earlier.

As said, all the details. I was beginning to think they knew more about me than I did. Ever feel humiliated? Or simply groveling?

WHY I’M SKIPPING MY HIGH SCHOOL REUNION

With the 50th anniversary of my high school class graduation coming up next month, I’ve found myself debating whether to attend.

Some of the conflict is spurred by tight personal finances these days – the event’s 900 miles from where I now live, a 15-hour drive each way in an auto that already has 270,000 miles on its odometer. Flying and then renting a car would be more practical but also more expensive. And that’s before we get to the event admission and related costs. Frankly, I’d rather spend the money on a couple of weekend escapes with my wife.

Scheduling adds its own complication. The reunion’s set for shortly after the annual session of New England Yearly Meeting of Friends, where I’ll spend an intense week in Vermont attending to Quaker business. Add to that that my local Friends Meeting is planning its own retreat right the same time as the reunion. That’s a lot of time away from home just about the time the ocean here is finally warm enough for some brisk swimming. Why would I want to be in hot, humid Ohio when I could be at a refreshing seaside in nearby Maine?

When I broached the subject with a fellow choir member, he turned the focus slightly by asking if there was anyone I particularly wanted to see and talk with and then told of his own experience at his 10th anniversary class reunion where he found himself brushed off by those he wanted to speak with and was then stuck amid those with whom he had nothing in common. This had me realizing I’ve been out of touch with everyone for decades now, and when I tried to reconnect via email a decade ago – after the 40th reunion – there was no acknowledgement. My curiosity about what’s happened to many of the members has found answers online. More than anything, I’m sensing, is that any inclination to attend is being compelled by a perceived duty – I did hold some leadership roles as editor-in-chief of the newspaper and in a handful of clubs.

As I ponder the event, I’m also realizing my high school years were not particularly happy or even intellectually stimulating, apart from a few special teachers. Do I want to open those emotions, then?

Or would I want to go simply to brag, “Look how far I’ve come since!” I’m not sure that would be particularly welcome or rewarding.

Any advice? Or similar insights to share? Is this even a necessary rite of passage? Do tell!

WITH GRATITUDE FOR THE INSPIRATION

You know the disclaimer, “Any resemblance of the characters to real people living or dead …” Something along the lines of purely unintentional.

But let’s be frank. The fiction is that you can create a character without having someone real in front of you, somewhere in your past or present. No, you need flesh and blood somewhere. Anything else would be a caricature.

It’s a special problem when you’re composing in a semi-autobiographical vein. You’re trying to be true to the dictum, Write about what you know. The details, especially.

(Oh? What, then, makes it fiction? Other than changing a few dates?)

Admittedly, the personalities work best when you take your inspiration and abstract it, so that a real individual would no longer recognize himself or herself – or those who were no way involved will imagine they, themselves, were.

And, by way of further confession, I’ll note that my most recent outings have led me to new characters lacking immediate introductions for me – but I’ll know them when I meet them if I haven’t already come across them here and there in pieces.

But back to the argument at hand.

I have one character, Nita, who runs through four of my five Hippie Trails novels and is a major character in the new one I’m writing, set years later. She was inspired by impressions I had of a friend’s girlfriend – or more accurately, mostly his impressions conveyed to me at the time – as I sat down to draft a half-dozen years or so later. She becomes a catalyst for much that happens around her.

In reality, we all drifted away.

And then, a few years ago, I met her again.

Nothing like I’d remembered. Or the idealized character in my fiction, now infused with another two or three people I’ve met. The lines blur.

I can say this person never did X, Y, or Z, unlike the character. Or that these two worked together on a controversial project or became known for certain accomplishments. In fact, she doesn’t resemble the other one at all, not anymore, if she ever did.

Still, it’s an eerie feeling. Something other than deja vu. Something still spurring gratitude for the inspiration.

For more on the series, click here.

~*~

CHIPPING AWAY

It started when we had some trees removed – the box elder that was shading a third of the Swamp, another shading the kitchen garden, and then a dead elm. We kept the flakes from the cutters’ chipper, rather than having them go to the dump. Repeatedly since, when we hear tree cutters in the neighborhood, we ask if they could give us the truckload, and they oblige, grateful to be spared the city dump charge.

Those chips work great for lining the pathways through our garden or around the yard. Eventually, of course, they decompose and enrich and soften our clay soil. It’s just another of the many lessons we’ve had in assuming an old house and barn and reclaiming a garden and grounds. I’m glad I’ve collected those stories, an indication how far we’ve come over the years, as well as reminders how far we have yet to go.

~*~

Home Maintenance 1

For more home and garden poems, click here.

 

SHOT OUT OF A CANNON, IN A WAY

As I said at the time …

What’s amazing that I was able to somehow go from oh-so-white-middle-and-working-class high school to the hippie realm in a span of just four years. Could it even be the same person? Damn, I’ve been lucky at times!

Here she was, the three-day (or however many) cheerleader from the Biggest City in America, now with me, the Eagle Scout and one-time biochemist hopeful turned flower-child yogi from a place I thought was hilly. Me, the one some had hoped would become a minister, now turned agnostic/logical positivist, with someone who’d grown up at leftist rallies. Sounds like something they’d shoot out of a cannon at the circus while you applauded.

Should we talk about who was greener, in the sense of naïve, when we met?

But she came at the turning point. One where our shared idealism met at a crossing. And we were soon off, our own separate trajectories.

Fortunately, we parted on speaking terms. And still do.