Tag: Relationships

REGARDING THE THREE-FINGERED MOUSE

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 5 Comments

I’m inclined to agree with Bukowski in blaming Disney (with all that “happy, happy, happy”) for America’s problems. Or even the world’s. Not that I’d agree with his solution for escaping them, meaning cigarettes and the bottle or a barroom brawl and violent sex.

You see, I’m uneasy when it comes to “happiness” as a goal or a life’s purpose. There’s too much suffering and oppression around us, after all, and no spiritual unity with the universe can exist by denying that. Still, that’s not to argue we need to be pulled under with its negative impact.

As for “fun”? I see that as a self-defeating destination. Its flipside, we should note, is boredom.

Joy, however, is another matter. It’s central to the message of Jesus, as the 16th chapter of John makes clear.

To that we could add bliss or contentment, not in the sense of denying the upheavals and evil of the world but rather in the dimension of accepting a personal inner peace that allows one to labor in furthering the Kingdom of Heaven on earth.

For me, this means learning to be more loving, and that’s a never ending challenge. It’s quite different from being giddy or depressed or self-centered or even blaming, gee, I was at the beginning of this post.

Oops! Back to Square One, once again.

TALKING TO MYSELF IN THE MIRROR OF BLOGGING

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 2 Comments

Me, topical, timely?

Or just lost in another time warp?

~*~

Put another way, you’ve probably noticed the Red Barn rarely comments on current events. We prefer to take a larger perspective. As for all of the posts on gardening, there’s never an actual recipe. Which reminds me about the remaining kale and Brussels sprouts, being sweetened by the frost. There’s always more to do, isn’t there? Now, where was I?

A COSMIC CONNECTION

~ Jnana Hodson ~ Leave a comment

Question: What do you do when something doesn’t work?

Answer: Fix it.

Q: And what if it still won’t work?

A: You throw it in the trash.

Q: But what if it’s not a thing but a person?

A: You fire ’em.

Q: But what if they’re one of the family?

A: Now the situation gets difficult. Really difficult.

NO NEED TO APOLOGIZE

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 9 Comments

Whenever I come across a blog that begins as an apology for not posting lately or even being on hiatus for a few months, several thoughts spring to mind.

The first is simply that there’s no need to apologize. We’re not short of reading material here in the WordPress network, for sure. Nobody’s holding you to those deadlines, and we’d certainly rather have you back with something good to report than to have you mindlessly keyboarding.

The second thought, though, has me reflecting on my own approach to blogging. Rather than constantly being fed by current activity, the Red Barn and its sisters draw on my deep files of writing and, more recently, photography. That’s allowed me to plan ahead and schedule their release in a timely manner, sometimes even spiraling pieces from decades ago and now.

But now that has me wondering. Is that cheating?

Or is it just another example of the maxim, “Age and cunning will beat youth and ability every time”?

CATCHING UP DECADES LATER

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 2 Comments

In moving around over my adult years as I have, I’ll probably never know the destinies of many of the individuals who’ve shared my life at crucial points. In many cases, even their last names slip away.

But I’ve recently learned of how things turned out for one small circle. It produced two women attorneys (one a federal prosecutor), an OBGYN female doctor, a food wholesale executive now turned United Way director, a technical support field manager, a retired six-figure systems analyst … for starters.

Looking at the service club logo behind one of them in a news story photo, it’s difficult to explain how far we’ve come in the decades since the early ’70s. Hippie, eh?

But from what I hear, some of them still like to party.

REMINGTON AND THE BIG DIG

~ Jnana Hodson ~ Leave a comment

Can’t drive through the Big Dig – the tunnels that take Interstate 93 under Boston’s downtown – without thinking of the story of Remington the Rabbit.

Seems his first owner, a teen, named him after her favorite TV show at the time, Remington Steele, in honor of its star. The one she had a crush on.

And then, when she and her mother moved to England, Remington became a feature in another household, at least until they, too, had to move, this time into an apartment that didn’t allow pets.

So Remington, in his long life, spent his final days surrounded by three children who, from all accounts, treated him well and found their delight returned.

And then, when Remington’s days ended, their father provided the crowning touch. Seems Daddy was an engineer working on the Big Dig in Boston. And that’s where Remington was clandestinely buried.

Somehow seems fitting, amid all that steel, knowing there’s a rabbit in the works, somewhere over my head.

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.