Christmas Eve at First Baptist Church of Denver

This Christmas Eve I met a new neighbor—the First Baptist Church of Denver, just a block and a half away from my apartment on Grant Street. Fortunately, we had no white Christmas this year; I say fortunately, given my aversion to walking on snowy or icy streets. On this chilly but snow-free evening, I walked this short distance, part of the way alongside a string of candelaria, leading to the entrance of the church for the evening candlelight service. Here's a photo of the altar. Imagine the candles lit and the background lighting softer.

 

First Baptist is a small church with a long (150 years) and respectable history. Martin Luther King Jr. once preached here. It has a large pipe organ that people are very proud of. You can hear it if you click here.

Plain setting, unadorned crucifix, no stained glass. Lit candles on the altar gave the space an intimate feeling. I took a seat and soon we were invited to greet our neighbors, the 100 or so congregation members who had filled half the benches that evening. I was warmly welcomed by two attendees who seemed about my age, Nancy and Mike, who sat in front of me. Their bench was strewn with children’s toys and books. It was a good beginning of the evening—also a good ending to a day of companionship among friends in Boulder. 

This evening was the first time I had ever set foot in a Baptist church, and I was curious to see what a service was like. Perhaps there was a taste of the forbidden in this decision, as during my Catholic youth, we were not allowed to consort with Protestants in their churches. I also knew, thanks to a friend who had once attended Northern Baptist services like this one, that this congregation would not fit my stereotypes of Southern Baptists, likely to be anti-pleasure and anti-gay. Not that I had any direct experiences with Southern Baptists either.  

This visit was the second in a new would-be tradition I started last year—spending Christmas Eve in a church in my area. I plan to go to a different one each year, preferably one I can walk to. Last year my friend Roberta joined me for a stroll to the spacious, stained-glass-infused St. John’s Episcopal Cathedral on 14th Street. We enjoyed the beauty, the trained voices of the choir, the flowers, and the message that churches do best at Christmastime: peace on earth and good will to all. Here’s a photo of the interior of St. John’s.

First Baptist was the polar opposite of St. John's. Both setting and service were simple, without frills. Their mission is simple as well. They aim to be “a place that welcomes and affirms all people and their questions about life and faith. We are a progressive, justice-seeking congregation that strives to follow Jesus’ ethic of love.” Amen, I say. 

The service started with music—one of the major reasons I like to be in a church at Christmas. A small choir of 5, informally dressed, stood to the side. There were readings from Luke and Isaiah, interspersed with carols. Early in the service attendees were invited to light a candle for someone and then tell the congregation who and why. Ten or so attendees came up and lit tapers. Grandparents and other family members or friends were thanked or remembered; two men acknowledged their same-sex partners. The service continued with music. After the next carol, my bench-neighbor Nancy—introduced as the Rev. Darnell—got up and came to the front, inviting children to sit near her to hear a story. It was a modern-day story of an adopted special-needs child and family love. Then came more carols, a reflection on Christmas by the senior minister, and finally the scene that stays in my mind: the candle lighting. The candles we received upon entering were lit row by row, and we all filed out to the north porch, facing the dome-lit State Capitol building across the street. We sang Silent Night in unison on this relatively silent evening—no sirens or revelers’ shouts intervening. 

We sang all verses of the song, and afterwards, the minister reminded us of some of the ways First Baptist fulfills its mission: providing meals for those in need, shelter for homeless women, and a job training center for recently arrived immigrants. Earlier this month, the church provided space to The Spring Institute to operate a coffee shop on its premises. Eventually Spring hopes to create a program including ESL classes, something it already coordinates at other locations. 

Perhaps the the activities of First Baptist are not unusual. Not being a regular churchgoer, I don’t know to what extent churches have intensified their traditional role of ministering to people in need—a role needed now, more than ever, as social needs grow exponentially along with social inequalities. In any case, here's one place where that ministry is happening.

Years ago, when I attended Catholic mass with my family, I used to love Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve. But as I’ve grown older, my fondness for late-night events has shifted to appreciation for those that start early. Ninety minutes after the 7 p.m. service began, I was back home, ready to tend to my own personal holiday rituals. These have changed over time. For a number of years, I just had to watch Miracle on 34th Street (1947), one of the earliest film critiques of the commercialization of Christmas and a gentle tribute to the power of fantasy. 

However, my years in Japan changed most of my habits around this holiday. In my first few years there, I worked on Christmas Day, as did everyone I knew. Sometime in the 90’s, a globalized version of Christmas entered Japan. Falling two days after the Emperor’s birthday (Dec. 23, a national holiday), Christmas got included in a winter holiday break that gradually started earlier and ended earlier than the traditional New Year break had.  By the time I left Japan in 2010, Christmas was widely celebrated as a festival of lights and a romantic date occasion for the young. 

Still, Christmas has a limited place in Japan, preceding the real winter holiday celebration—the New Year, when families and friends come together to share special foods and memories, visit a shrine and watch incredibly bad junk TV. I usually used my time off from teaching to catch up with work and visit friends. Before classes ended for the year, I remember teaching lessons on A Christmas Carol as an internationally-known piece of literature or showing A Muppet Christmas in class. In private, I just had to pull out Dylan Thomas’ classic short story, A Child’s Christmas in Wales. 

Perhaps you’ve read it too. It starts this way: One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six…. Later, my sister and brother-in-law sent me a video version which I also enjoyed. You can watch it on youtube.

This year, after my lovely visit to First Baptist, I watched my favorite version of A Christmas Carol on Netflix: the 1938 black-and-white film starring Reginald Owen. It was so satisfying, as this non-colorized version was perfect for ghostly shadows. When it ended, I was still awake enough to watch A Child’s Christmas in Wales. 

Then sleep, and then Christmas Day, a Friday this year, marked by a ritual they say is common among many Jews—going out for Chinese food. I joined Roberta and her sister Bunnie for this, as I’ve done in the past, except this time we chose a Japanese restaurant, one in the small town of Lafayette near Boulder. They were doing a brisk sushi take-out business—perhaps a new ritual for non-cooks on this day. Late afternoon I drove back to Denver for a relaxing evening of Netflix watching, and then finally, snow began to fall. Like Dylan Thomas, “I got into bed. I said some words to the close and holy darkness and then I slept.”

Cold day, warm hopes for a cool planet

We gathered near the City Park lagoon this afternoon, all 500-or-so of us, part of a global series of rallies on the eve of the Paris Climate Talks (COP21). Millennials, boomers like me, even-older folks, a mom with her infant bundled against her chest, young families, a few quiet dogs (in arms or on leashes), campaigners for Bernie Sanders, anti-frackers, members of interfaith or environmental groups. Almost everyone in warm hats and boots, as it was below freezing and patches of ice and snow still covered the ground. My "peeps", in other words. These days I love being in intergenerational groups, a reminder that all of us have a stake in the future of the planet.

Sometimes, with people my own age, it’s easy for conversations to bog down in the failures of the past, the many efforts at social change that we’ve participated in or watched, either derailed or co-opted. Buddhists might say we should not be "attached to outcomes". Yet, we need, if not successful outcomes, signposts that we're part of the good fight, the struggle, the human need to nourish the sprouts of a better world. We might see short-term results, but not the long-term results. As my former grad school prof, the late Dr. Marie Wirsing, used to say, “If you’re going to work for social change, you’d better be in it for the long haul.” A decade-plus older than I was, she had seen even more failures, but at the same time the value and necessity of standing up for what’s right and what’s possible.

It seems like thousands of people were doing that today around the world, and there are many photos of them at this site. No Denver photos at the time I posted this, but there should be later. My favorite is this news photo from Paris, where all demonstrations were banned following the recent terrorist tragedy. Shoes took the place of people. Likewise, perhaps every person who marched represents someone who could not, for one reason or another. 

In Denver, the bandshell was draped in Tibetan prayer flags, filled with notes and hopes and intentions from community groups and schools, dating back to ’09 when hopes were riding on the Copenhagen climate talks. Lots of talk at that one. Today the same sentiments infused hopes for the COP21, which starts tomorrow, convening in a climate-worsened world. There were two banners, one from Fossil Fuel Free Denver, a group working working to push the city toward more renewable energy, and the other from the Colorado chapter of Interfaith Power and Light, “a religious response to global warming”. The group whose mailing list I’m on—350.org—was one of the 10 sponsors of this event. Many other signs popped up amid the woolly hats, including those with puns I never tire of: “Don’t say frack to your mother”, and “There’s no Planet B.” Host emcee was Rev. Peter Sawtell from Eco-Justice Ministries, who promised that the rally would be exactly one hour long, and it was, a relief to those of us who found our fingertips and toes giving us grief near the end point. 

I thought back to the pre-Internet era, starting in the 60s when I came of age politically. The digital age has brought benefits amid the distractibility it promotes. I mused on rallies I had attended, usually starting on “anarchist time” or “feminist time” or whatever other time signaled it wouldn’t start at the appointed time. Speakers often spoke way too long on subjects the audience already knew about. The end point was usually on “counterculture time” also. Today’s event featured a number of speakers, all of whom spoke succinctly. Organizers were ready for the inevitable sound system glitch, which was fixed promptly. During the fixing process, we were distracted with chants, such as, “What do we want? Climate action! When do we want it? Now!” Back in operation, the mike was handed to a woman who had trained with Al Gore (remember An Inconvenient Truth in ’05? Click here for recent fact-checking of this landmark documentary). Later came a young woman from Environment Colorado, who reminded us we’re the first generation (or did she say generations?) in history to have this crucial opportunity to impact the climate of the future. Listening to her connect with us, call-and-response style, reminded me of Dr. Wirsing’s words. Each era has had losses;  any future course will encounter setbacks, but there is also opportunity to make a difference. 

The last 15 minutes or so was involved in photographing and recording a 30-second video which would be sent to President Obama, who will arrive in Paris tomorrow. Yes, clearly we were in the Internet age. No worries about the lack of TV cameras. No worries about the relatively small turnout; rather we were told the rally was even larger than last time. The important thing was the Facebook, Twitter and other digital coverage, the fact that our video would be sent, and that our photos would appear alongside those of the thousands of others around the world whose hopes for the future were also pinned on climate action now. Five speakers each said one sentence for the video. Afterwards the crowd yelled, “Yes, we *can* do it, now, now, now!” We rehearsed this 5 times. Earlier, we had been encouraged to whip out our cell phones and take a picture of our friends to post digitally. (I had left my non-smart flip phone at home.) Many complied with this request, friends huddling and leaning into smiles, duly recorded. Finally, video mission accomplished, the rally ended. Really, it's just the beginning, Rev. Sawtell reminded us. Some participants were headed over to Colorado Boulevard to wave their banners, but most of us looked headed for home, hoping to defrost our toes, encouraged and warmed by the event.

Journeying through time with the film characters in Brooklyn

Spoiler alert: Reading this blog entry will give you plot of this film. 

Brooklyn is a beautiful and powerful movie. It’s the story of Eilis Lacey (Saoirse Ronan), a young Irish woman who arrives in mid-20th century Brooklyn to begin a new life. She’s left behind a mother, a devoted older sister, and a small town in County Wexford that feels too small for the life she wants to create. After an initial bout of homesickness, she has a remarkably good first year in Brooklyn, where she rents a room in a boarding house and starts a job at an upscale department store. Thanks to a kindly priest, she has the tuition for a bookkeeping course in night school. Then one day, at a parish dance, she meets Tony, a sweet Italian charmer with an eye for Irish girls. They fall in love—and then the plot turns. The sudden death of her sister brings Eilis back to Ireland, where she faces a dilemma that forms the crux of the film. Should she stay in her beloved Ireland—where her mother is now aging alone—or should she return to her life in America, the life she has begun to love.

Brooklyn, based on Colm Toibin’s novel, touched me deeply. It goes back to a time half a century ago or more when a labor-needy US welcomed a huge number of immigrants—no background checks required. The film’s protagonist embodies one of thousands of young Irish who emigrated during a spike in unemployment at home. Most went to the London or other places in the UK, but a good number came here, passing through the same Ellis Island where my own maternal grandparents arrived more than 100 years ago.

The art, more than the history of the film, shaped my response. Brooklyn has top-notch acting, a well-adapted screenplay, beautiful photography, and excellent direction.  A friend  of mine who follows the Oscars, bets this one will get it’s share of Academy Award nominations; it’s already a film festival favorite. It’s the subject matter, though, that made the film so powerful for me. Brooklyn is an immigration story that is relevant to all of us who leave our hometowns to make lives in other places. What is the nature of the life left unchosen? What is the cost of leaving it behind? 

There is no real doubt about the choice Eilis will finally make, but the film does present a choice. It’s the choice every immigrant faces—at least those with the option to return home: to continue making a life in a new and promising though unfamiliar world or to remain in a world where one is known and loved. Things looks different when Eilis returns home for her sister’s funeral. The limited life she had foreseen in Ireland before she emigrated seems different now. She has been offered her sister’s old job, the landscape seems open and uncrowded, and most crucially, she connects with Jim, a shy young man who wants to see more of the world and of her. She comes to like him a great deal. Jim also has prospects—the large house and family business (a pub) his parents are leaving behind, and he is clearly getting ready to propose. Her mother wants her to stay. It looks like she might. But then an encounter with a mean-spirited former employer reminds her of why she left in the first place: the petty cruelties of gossip and social control in this small town, the future life that could be finer than the one she once envisioned, but limited all the same.

As a 3rd-generation descendant of immigrants (from Poland and Ireland), I should have had no issues with the choice the protagonist makes in this film. On feminist grounds if nothing else. A look at Irish history circa 1950 almost no job opportunities for women. And a powerful and restrictive Catholic Church made life there much worse for women who transgressed social norms. The films Philomena (2013) and The Magdalene Sisters (2002) come to mind here. Watching Brooklyn, I should have been cheering for the protagonist’s return to the possibilities of freedom. Yet, I wasn’t. I sat there during Eilis’ stay in Ireland, silently willing her to stay there—until it was clear she could not. 

A few thoughts of Eilis’ future started flitting through my mind. Success, we know, won’t depend on the choice of place alone. The key involves the very specific people and experiences that populate it. In New York, Eilis could well be part of a fun-loving Italian family, the wife of a man who loved the Brooklyn Dodgers and had big plans to start a construction business on undeveloped Long Island. We can imagine a happy life filled with family and financial security. Or not. It was the 1950s after all. Would she disappear into the kitchen, while Tony and his brothers watched baseball and ran the show? Would the sweet young man who adored her stay true? As the decades passed, would she see Ireland grow and prosper while America’s problems seemed to multiply? Would she bring her mother to live with her—or would her mother insist on finishing her life in Ireland? Would Eilis ever see her mother again and would that matter to her when she became old? Conversely, would life necessarily be so limited if this spirited girl married Jim? Perhaps they’d travel together or move to London or do something else that neither could envision at the time. Her mum would likely become a grandmother who knew her grandkids. Or not. Pub work could lead to alcoholism, and life in Wexford could become lonely or bitter. The future remains remains hidden, not yet created. No doubt this uncertainty is why choices can be so wrenching, especially when we’re young. We don’t know how they’ll turn out. We can only guess and hope. The screenplay leads us to see that Eilis was making the best guess possible.

It took me awhile to realize that in watching Eilis in Ireland,  I was reviewing and mourning the places I had left behind. The character of Eilis in Brooklyn was taking me back into my own un-lived life choices. Good movies can do that—draw us in and make us a part of a parallel story.

I left Chicago for Colorado when I was 27. Somewhat like Eilis, I had lost sight of how to build a life in my hometown. Moving to Colorado brought a new set of freedoms for me—a chance to live outside of Chicago for the first time, to test my mettle in a new place—a beautiful place, where I quickly took to hiking and backpacking and exploring The West. Though I missed my family and friends, I made new ones over time. I got a job in Denver, a city that was starting to develop from cowtown to metropolis. Then a year after I moved, my father died. I returned for the funeral but did not stay. No one expected that I would. Years passed. I was part of a vibrant feminist community, I had a partner, a job, and then after 4 years of night classes at the University of Colorado at Denver, a master’s degree in education with a specialty in teaching English as a second language. After struggling with the job market and a changing relationship with my partner, I went to Japan for a year or two to live and work. It was exhilarating to live in such a very different culture, working in a field I had trained for. That year stretched into many more—20, and during that time my mother passed away. I came back for the funeral and then returned to Japan. Paula, my former partner, died a year before I left Japan and returned to Colorado.

I can imagine the fictional Eilis looking back on her life in America when she was an old woman, content that she had made the right choice by following her heart and instincts. But I’m guessing she would also mourn the loss of her unlived life in Ireland, her separation from her mother and the relationships that might have been nurtured there. As do I, though the feelings are never quite in balance. On some days the mourning washes over the contentment. On others, it’s the reverse. And on still others, I just accept the past and wade into the future—wondering and hoping.

Photo credit

Healing connections at Tierra Sagrada

Yesterday the City of Denver joined a growing number of cities that have declared October 12 Indigenous Peoples' Day. In a year that saw the removal of the Confederate flag from many public places, the celebration of Columbus Day is being deconstructed as well. A long overdue event! The anniversary of the so-called "discovery" of America by Christopher Columbus has now been reframed as a day to acknowledge the tragedy that ensued for Native Americans after the European conquest and a day to celebrate their cultures. Therefore, it seems like a good time to write about a neighbor, who lives five miles down the road from me. She honors indigenous cultures just about every day of the year. Her name is Patricia J. (Pati) Turner and she is the founder of the Tierra Sagrada Foundation.

I met Pati several years ago after I retired from teaching and returned to Colorado. I learned then that she's a retired marine scientist from California and that she was looking for land in this area to follow what has become her new life's calling--honoring the wisdom of indigenous cultures. Eventually, she bought an 8-acre forested parcel in the Echo Valley Subdivision of Florissant and began making that place a center for healers and artists from different indigenous traditions. She called her place and foundation Tierra Sagrada, which means sacred earth. The foundation is a non-profit "dedicated to the conservation of indigenous cultures, protection of their territories, and preservation of their wisdom". In an article she wrote for the September issue of The Ute Country News, she quotes a Kallallit Eskimo Shaman from Greenland, who believes the greatest goal in the world "is to melt the ice in the heart of man". The greatest distance in the existence of humankind is not a matter of land geography, he says. Rather, it's the distance "from his head to his heart." Our task is to bridge that gap if we wish to know "our own immensity within". This way of thinking resonates with me.

Pati has sponsored guests from various countries over the years, offering workshops, sweat lodges,  initiations, or festivals. Although I joined her mailing list and read about her programs, I never attended one apart from an evening fire circle in 2010. Sometimes the dates didn't work for me, but even when they did, I felt that working with shamans wasn't, well,  quite my thing. I'm more of a politico in my approach to ideas and social change.

Then, last month,  came notice of Music and Magic in the Mountains festival last, and I decided to visit Tierra Sagrada and get a sense of what it's all about. The day included music of all kinds, artisan booths, a small blessing ceremony led by Pati, and various workshops, mostly related to healing or dance. Some sessions took place in Pati's house, but most things were outdoors on that beautiful autumn day. Two friends from Denver joined me, along with local friends Linda and Barbara, and the day proceeded as a festival day should: lots of time to set up lawn chairs, eat our picnic lunches, watch kids and dogs, listen to music, and chat with artisans. Wandering down to a food truck for a bowl of hemp broccoli soup, I spied a hammock from which I could gaze at the aspens, and nearby, a beautifully-decorated tree.

I think I realized then that participating in events there had nothing to do with "believing" or not believing in shamans. It had more to do with just being open: open to different forms of wisdom and beauty and healing. It's not an intellectual process, but rather one of spirit. You can see that in this photo of Pati (from her website) and feel it when you meet her.

Pati was introduced to this path she's chosen through the anthropology courses she took when she returned to college in mid-life. She became deeply interested in ancient cultures, especially the Huichol people of Mexico, with whom she spent short periods of time during her college years. She was impressed with the joy she experienced in their community--one with no running water or other Western amenities. In contrast, she says, those of us brought up in consumer culture often experience stress and disconnection rather than joy.

I'd love to visit Tierra Sagrada again soon, and events are scheduled this month and in November. But this week I'm going back to Denver, where I live most of the year. Next summer, when I hope to return to my cabin for most of the season,  I will make time for a return visit. Meanwhile, thanks to Pati, I feel more sensitized to the opportunities around me for connecting with the wisdom of indigenous cultures.

In Denver, there's a monthly indigenous film showing at the Museum of Science and Nature, and I attended several last year. The Internet has brought other opportunities. This year I've been following Honor the Earth, an organization founded by Winona LaDuke and friends/allies to unite Native communities in working for energy justice and protecting their lands from fossil fuel pipelines. There are a number of ways to contribute to their efforts, such as buying the wild rice they harvest. (I'm already preparing for Thanksgiving!) Also in Denver are the state's majority Native American population: 56,000 people if you count those who identify solely as American Indian/Alaskan Native, or nearly twice that if you consider those of mixed race heritage. I should have many opportunities to participate in the struggles, ceremonies, wisdom and art they share.

I'll close with some words from Thoreau--my favorite person to quote--in Walden.* Thoreau had a strong aversion to housework and the tendency of humans to cling to heaps of possessions. He especially admired the customs of the Mucclasse Indians, who had a yearly "custom of the busk" in which they burned all their old possessions (having previously gotten a modest number of new ones). After 3 days of fasting and abstinence, the fire was extinguished, a general amnesty was called permitting all "malefactors" to return to town. And then came the feast of new corn and fruits, which involved 3 days of feasting and dancing and singing. Mercifully, they had no plastic.

Such wisdom there is in downsizing--always an ongoing process for me, when it's a celebration rather than just a list of chores. No doubt some ideas for prison reform in there too.

*Thoreau admired Native American culture a great deal, and there are more than 50 references to it in Walden.

Looking back on the Pope's visit

Just two weeks ago, I was sitting in front of a TV, fascinated by the words and images of Jorge Mario Bergoglio, known globally as Pope Francis, during his 3-day tour of the US. Had I blogged about this fairly soon afterwards (a habit I’m trying to develop), I would have focused on this fascination. Puzzling to friends perhaps, as I’ve long since left the Catholic culture I grew up with. Still, watching the Pope speak about climate change and poverty and peace and acceptance and many other things coming from the heart of Christian teachings, I felt tears brimming. Whatever reasons I could have come up with were overshadowed by emotion: relief that finally the right man was in the right job at the right point in history--and hope that he could make a difference.

Much of the time my feelings about the future are quite the opposite. My reoccurring image is that we—humans one and all—are orphans, strapped into the back seat of a car, while the grown-up drivers have wandered off to quarrel among themselves. They've failed to notice that the car is moving and the brakes don’t work. Finally, in Francis, I saw an adult leader who got the quarreling grownups to listen, who said important things, and who said them in a way that made all of us look at what we need to do to survive in this world. We were not lectured; rather we were inspired to connect with our best selves. Even so, I realized then that the experience might be what I call “the Christmas Effect”: business as usual comes to a standstill for a short time and we all focus on what we say are the really important things in life. Then the date passes and business as usual returns--or almost business as usual. Sometimes, some of us really do change if only in small ways. The image of House Speaker John Boehner crying as the Pope spoke and then resigning his position the next day is still with me. No doubt there are countless others in the crowd who cheered Francis and then went home and started to do things just a little bit differently. In the photo below, it's interesting that the word "honeymoon" from another story seems to extend to this event.

After the Pope returned to Rome, it didn’t take long for the honeymoon to disappear, especially among a number of people in the LBGT community. The Vatican confirmed that Francis had met with Kim Davis, the notorious Kentucky official who refused to issue marriage licenses to same sex couples. At that point, my fascination shifted to curiosity and reflection. (How did the meeting with her--she was one of a group-- really come about? Was the Pope “set up” by a loyalist to a previous pope? What did he actually say?) I thought about the crucial question of freedom of conscience—something every religious leader should uphold. I decided that if Francis had indeed conveyed approval of Kim Davis’ choice to honor her own conscience, he was only doing his job. If he had lobbied for a change in the law, that’s another matter—a matter best left to Caesar, not to God. Likewise, his visit with the Little Sisters of the Poor, who are opposing the birth control coverage provision of Obamacare, was another example of the same thing. For those of us who feel strongly that same sex marriage is a right, as is affordable birth control for women, our job remains what it’s always been: supporting political efforts to make those things happen.

In watching the coverage of the Pope’s visit, I also became fascinated by the story of Jorge Mario Bergoglio, the man he was before and after he became the head of the Catholic Church. Here is a man who has truly practiced what he preaches—who rejects the trappings of luxury, who has a human touch, who washes the feet of prisoners. I was also intrigued to learn that he considered himself an arrogant person at one point in his early Jesuit years. Demoted by his superiors and sent off to another city, he prayed and meditated—and emerged as a man who had learned to appreciate humility--the quality that has most characterized him during the past two years.

Nevertheless, you can argue that all admiration of Francis should be tempered by the fact that he heads a religious organization still mired in medieval doctrines. Birth control, euthanasia, priestly celibacy, ordination of women, all are at the top of the list. This week Francis is enmeshed in the politics of the Synod of Bishops on the Family. A key issue is whether divorced and remarried people should be allowed to participate in holy communion, which Francis supports. As of today, however, it looks like the conservatives will win on that. My admiration—now mixed with sympathy—for Francis continues. My own parents were affected by this issue, after my Dad, a divorced man, married my mother. They were excommunicated—a deep loss for my mother—until years later, when a sympathetic priest blessed their marriage. (Dad’s first wife had died by then). No doubt there are many couples today who are affected by the synod vote this week. Thanks, Francis, for fighting the good fight.

Today, with Francis still on my mind, I listed to the Democracy Now interview with musician/writer Patti Smith. Smith—who is not Catholic—talked about her admiration of St. Francis of Assisi—“truly an environmentalist saint” of the 12th century. Two years ago, when the College of Cardinals was choosing a new pope, Patti watched the coverage with her daughter Jessie. How wonderful it would be, Patti remembers saying, if the new pope took the name Francis and became an environmental pope for our century. Mother and daughter hugged each other when the decision was announced that the new pope would be Francis I. “We were like jumping up and down as if we were at the Kentucky Derby and our horse came in. So, I was quite happy, because I knew anyone who took on this name was taking on a great mantle of responsibility,” Patti told DN's Amy Goodman.

Today, Jessie Smith is involved with a huge concert to be performed as part of Pathway to Paris, the lead-up to the international climate talks in Paris, France, this December. Patti Smith will be performing there too, most likely including her signature People Have the Power song. She and everyone else will know that even if there’s no such thing as having God on your side, the next best thing is having Francis there. Maybe the Christmas Effect will work some magic too.

Top photo: photo credit: the way were love ourselves : magazine covers, san francisco (2015) via photopin (license)

When the tears are coming, take my handkerchief

“When the tears are coming, take my handkerchief.” Jurgen Moltmann, 89, a highly respected theologian in Germany, wrote these words in a letter, in which he enclosed a white handkerchief. The letter went to Kelly Gissendaner, who lives in Georgia, and who thought it was the most touching gift she had received in a very long time. Moltmann understands tears. As a young man during World War II, he joined Hitler’s army and later spent 3 years in a British POW camp, where he had much time to reflect on his country’s crimes and the horror of the Holocaust. His remorse was so great, he reported later, that he wished he had died on the battlefield. He began to read the Bible, and later said that Christ found him during this prison term, which was an “existential experience of healing our wounded souls.”

It’s not surprising that Moltmann and Gissendaner made a powerful connection. Kelly read his work in a theological studies program for women prisoners. She found his writings--especially The Theology of Hope--to be a powerful catalyst in her own healing. Kelly, who is 47 years old, has been on death row for 18 years. She was convicted of convincing her lover to murder her husband in 1997, a crime she has expressed deep remorse for. “I lost all judgment,” she wrote in her petition for clemency earlier this year. “I will never understand how I let myself fall into such evil, but I have learned firsthand that no one, not even me, is beyond redemption through God’s grace and mercy”.

Tonight, though I’m alone in my cabin, sitting at my computer,  I feel part of vigils taking place throughout the country, particularly outside the prison where Kelly will be executed if her last appeal fails. Earlier today the Georgia Board of Pardons and Paroles held another clemency hearing. It ended with another rejection of her petition to change her sentence to life in prison—despite a last-minute appeal from Pope Francis. He  had asked the board “to commute the sentence to one that would better express both justice and mercy.” Hours after that decision, Kelly’s three children and many other supporters wait and hope and pray.

I’m not sure why Kelly’s story touches me so deeply. It’s not a matter of having my religious beliefs validated.Though I have a Catholic background, I am no longer a part of a Christian institution or community.  I describe myself as a secular Buddhist—again, not part of a sangha (group of practitioners), but a lover of the Eightfold Path nonetheless. Like many Christians, Jews, Muslims and Buddhists, I do think there is a great power in forgiveness and recognition of the human ability to heal, change and grow. Kelly’s story, which I first read in the news earlier this year, is an illustration of this. She graduated from the theology program in 2011—Moltmann attended the ceremony—and she has since counseled many other women prisoners, making a difference in their lives. No one disputes this.

Nor is my strong interest in Kelly’s story a result of direct experience with the US death penalty system. Yet, somehow the existence of the death penalty horrifies me in a way I can’t quite explain. No doubt it’s partly the idea of state-sanctioned premeditated murder. Tonight it feels like an armed stalker is on the loose and most likely cannot be stopped. Sister Helen Prejean, whose work was portrayed in the film Dead Man Walking, likens the process to a freeze-frame. “The state is freeze-framed in killing.”

During the past year, I’ve learned much from the Coloradans for Alternatives to the Death Penalty Foundation (CADP), which hopes to make Colorado one of the growing number of states that ban capital punishment. Already 19 states have done so, and others retain it without using it. There are about 3000 inmates on death row in the US and about 40 are executed every year. A handful of states are responsible for most of the executions. There is much evidence that the death penalty is unfair and ineffective. Since DNA testing became available, 330 prisoners have been exonerated, 20 of whom were on death row, according to The Innocence Project. As CADP asserts, “Colorado’s death penalty is a failed public policy that is beyond repair. The death penalty risks the lives of the innocent, exacts a huge toll on the families of murder victims, traumatizes the guards and wardens forced to perform executions in our names, is unfairly applied, and costs millions in taxpayer dollars.”

With the growth of the anti-death-penalty movement, I wonder how far we can be from a time when the U.S. joins the long list of countries which have banned capital punishment (140). That time will probably not be in time for Kelly Gissandaner. It's now past midnight in Georgia, and the latest CNN report says a new execution time has not been set. The last appeal—centering on the concept of proportionality—is still pending. There is still hope, faint as it might be. If and when the State of Georgia executes her, as they will likely do soon, I hope she will have the white handkerchief from Jurgen Moltmann, along with the certain knowledge that she is loved and has lived well. For her mourners, the tears and the struggle will continue.

Yoga and flowers at Paradise Gardens

The season turned this past week, officially shifting from summer to fall on the calendar—a process that started much earlier and still continues, as colors turn and temperatures drop. I’m enjoying both, while at the same time, taking out summer memories, like smooth stones in a pocket. Today I’m turning over one of my favorites—visits to Paradise Gardens here in Florissant. Here I love to indulge two of my passions—garden appreciation and yoga.

Paradise Gardens is the name of the home and garden of Karen Anderson and her husband, Mike McCartney. They’ve been living on this forested land for 38 years. For the first 18 years, they lived in a small house, without electricity or running water—an accomplishment that Thoreau would certainly acknowledge and applaud if he visited our consumer-driven century. Karen started small with gardening, planting in a space that is now her herb garden.

Over time, the cabin and amenities developed, and Karen brought their high altitude acres into bloom. She’s known locally as “The Plant Lady”—deservedly so, as gardening is her passion. She has shared her knowledge and plants with just about everyone who consults her about growing stuff in rocky soil at 9000 feet. Would-be gardeners can attend a class, phone for an appointment or come to one of her open houses. My first visit was a couple of years ago during the annual greenhouse tour sponsored by the The Harvest Center. I was totally charmed from the moment I stepped onto her winding paths.

There are structures too, including a small shed, where Karen displays her artwork as well as plants. 

Raised beds contain outdoor plants, and a greenhouse is essential for extending the short growing season here.

For Karen, gardening involves much practical attention to the needs of plants—location, soil, nourishment. It’s also a spiritual practice. She’s approaches her work with awareness of The Great Law—or seven-generation concept. “Plant it Forward”, in other words. Basically that means thinking about how our actions will affect others—and the planet—through the next seven generations. Accordingly, that means gardening nature’s way, without the use of chemical pesticides or fertilizers, focusing on organic ways to build the soil and conserve moisture. 

Karen’s spiritual orientation also drew her to yoga. Her long-time friend, Debbie Winking, teaches yoga classes locally. I attend them as often as I can during the summer. At least a couple of times during the season—often at the full or new moon—they have a yoga day (or eve) at the gardens. Participants come from Debbie’s classes and the number is usually small—10 or fewer. That allows us to gather around the pond (a converted satellite dish) or in open spots on the lawn, where we lay our mats. My last visit was in August, the evening full moon. In July we stretched one morning under the sun after introductions and a sharing circle.

Yoga outdoors feels special. So many things do, but a practice designed to promote relaxation and gratitude feels, well, especially special. Science backs up that common experience.  Beautiful scenery stimulates those pleasure-enhancing endorphins in our brains. Ester Sternberg, in her book Healing Spaces: The Science of Place and Well-being (Harvard University Press, 2009), asserts that touching green or a sandy beach produces even more stimulation, which in turn promotes healing.

At our yoga sessions, Debbie reminds us that standing barefoot on uneven ground helps with balance—an important component of yoga practice for so many of us. Standing in the Tree Pose, I realize that my balance is not nearly as good as I want it to be. I vow to do this more often. 

Sometimes evening yoga events are rained out, but this August we were lucky. No drops at all, as we saw the moon rise, glimpsing its travels as we continued stretching or holding poses. The evening ended with our going inside Karen and Mike’s comfortable home for tea and snacks and conversation. Then came my 40-minute ride back home through the darkness, keeping an eye on the moon and all attention on the road and deer-inhabited roadside. A yoga mind was essential for that.

This photo, taken in 2014, shows Debbie (left) and Karen holding Buttons, her canine companion. 

Writing this September day in 2015, I turn that yoga day memory stone over in my mental pocket, thinking back with gratitude and forward with hopes for another season of yoga and flowers next year.

Toys weRen't Us

One thing about entering early old age is the realization that your childhood was a very long time ago—well over half a century. Like most memories, it eventually fades into a series of moments, snapshots of times connected to salient emotions, usually happening in summer. I was a lucky kid, with many happy mental snapshots to muse over now. I grew up in the 50’s, in Hammond, Indiana, a satellite city of Chicago. My parents moved there when I was 5. They bought a small house with a front and back yard, and in an era of free-range parenting as the norm, I spent most of the summer outdoors. My sister, Joanie, was almost 6 years younger, so I remember hanging out mostly with other little girls my age who lived across the street from me.

When I heard that the History Colorado Center in Denver was holding a Toys of the 50s, 60s and 70s exhibit this year, I wasn’t sure it would be all that relevant. What I remember more than toys were activities. During my first 10 years of life, I jumped rope, rode my bike, roller skated, played hop scotch, splashed in an inflatable kids’ pool, spent hours searching for 4-leaf clover or watching grasshoppers on the fence, took our dog Ginger for walks, twirled my hula hoop, or poured sand in the sandbox. On hot summer days, my mom would turn the sprinkler on and Eileen and I would run through it. Here we are, with me trying to make a funny face that turned into a grimace, yet I was having just as much fun as my friend. When I was older I played badminton in Cheryl’s backyard across the street, regrettably the only sport I practiced.

I did have some toys, however. When I was very young, I had this baby doll. 

Other dolls came later, though I don’t remember being that obsessed with them, except during a paper-doll phase. For the most part, I enjoyed being a little tomboy.

Of course, you could say my hula hoop and jump rope were toys. Both of these icons are now in the National Toy Hall of Fame. In addition, I had Tinker Toys, jacks, pick-up sticks, marbles, and a yoyo, plus various games such as playing cards, Chinese checkers, Cootie, and Mr. Potatohead. So yes, I had reason to go to the History Colorado exhibit last month to see what childhood memories might be teased out. The exhibit is divided into decades. As I walked in, I re-entered the 50s and was entranced. For my readers who also grew up in the 50s, take a look at these images:

Cootie—still selling into the early 21st century(!)—is a roll and move tabletop game, where chance not skill rules. In 2003 it was added to the Toy Industry Association’s Century of Toys list—a list of the “100 most memorable and creative toys” of the 20th century.

Paper dolls were offered in McCall’s magazine each month, and many other cut-out books followed.

The hula hoop, a product of the late 50s, is definitely a crossover—from century to century, from child to adult. Wikipedia has a fascinating account of the postmodern revival of this toy with ancient roots. In this photo, I was more like the girl in the center, swiveling my hips inside just one hoop.

Special mention goes to this one: Mr. Potato Head. Special because it was the first toy marketed directly to children through TV ads; that was in 1952. Though the admen were rank amateurs compared to their counterparts today, it worked. Millions were sold (at 98 cents each) in the first year. I had one of the early versions, which required me to get a real potato from my mom. Later the kit came with a plastic body and parts conforming to toy safety regulations of the early 60s.

Were yesterday’s toys better or equal to the toys of today, produced in far more colors, with  far more sophisticated bells and whistles? It’s tempting to say yes. A friend who teaches pre-schoolers says classic toys were good for kids because they were simple; they only did one thing. We were required to manipulate them ourselves, using our imagination. That seems true enough, as the list of award-winners in the National Toy Hall of Fame confirm the value of many. Criteria for induction include icon status, longevity, discovery, and innovation.” Some of my favorites among the inductees: marbles, Monopoly, the Duncan yoyo, Tinker Toys, Etch a Sketch, jump rope, Mr. Potato Head, the jigsaw puzzle, Checkers, the cardboard box, and playing cards.

However, looking back, we can see that the 50s were not toy paradise—at least not for everyone. As the History Colorado exhibit points out, there was no concept of “culturally sensitive” toys. Cowboy and Indian games were prevalent—with all of the stereotypes reflected in the Westerns shown on TV. (I confess I loved many of those shows, especially the singing cowboy, Gene Autry, as well as Roy Rogers and Dale Evans.) 

I like to think my stereotypes of Native Americans were at least positive ones. After a Wisconsin family vacation when I was 10, I became fascinated with moccasins, deerskin dresses, and the long black hair on an Indian doll my parents bought me. 

Only one black-skinned doll was marketed during this era. In 1949 Florida businesswoman Sara Lee Creech wanted to make a doll that promoted positive images of African-Americans among children of all races. She had watched a group of black kids playing with white dolls and thought they should have other choices. Her efforts drew praise from many, including author Zora Neale Hurston and former First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt.  Unfortunately, the doll did not sell well and there was also a problem with the materials used. But for a time (until 1953), parents could order one from the Sears catalog for $6.95. In those days, no one talked about gender stereotyping either. Fortunately, my doll stage pre-dated hyper-feminine Barbie, and my literary heroine—the intrepid sleuth Nancy Drew—never dressed as a princess. 

Today parents have thousands of choices in Toys R Us or other retail shops—with higher price tags, of course—but also with far more sophisticated materials and technology. Not to mention electronics. (Anyone remember the first electronic toy? Yes, “Simon” in 1978!) Are kids today engaged in more complex ways than we were? Do they have more fun? Do they feel more frustrated because their parents  can’t afford the toys they see advertised? Do they tend to be more or less active? Are they totally spoiled because there are fewer kids and more doting relatives? Do they see accurate representations of gender or ethnicity in the toys they receive? I’d love to hear your opinions, no matter how partial.

I make no judgment about the toys of the 21st century, as I haven’t shopped for toys in a long while. Such a profusion of choices would probably make me dizzy if I entered a store. For assessments of value, we might just have to wait for the test of time—the Toy of Fame inductees of the future.

If you’re in or near Denver, try to catch the Toys of the 50s, 60s and 70s exhibit before it closes October 4.

Leaving on the hummingbird highway

There are only two hummingbirds remaining near the cabin today. They made brief visits to one of my two feeders and now-scraggly hanging basket of flowers. This scene is a far cry from a week or so ago, when resident broadtails were crowding the feeders, draining them in a day. They were getting ready to migrate, and now most of them have, flying off on their long journey to the central highlands of Mexico, where they’ll spend the winter. It seems so quiet. During the summer, when I slept with windows open, I woke up to their chirping/whistling/buzzing as they began to soak up sugar-water carbohydrates before a morning of insect-catching. Now if I want to hear their distinctive sound, I’ll have to go online for a brief recording; until, that is, they and I return next spring.

Next spring, they’ll be here first, at least the males will, searching for a territory. They arrive in Florissant in early May. Hardy little birds, as snow is not uncommon in the high country in May. I’ll probably arrive a few weeks to a month later. I too will migrate this fall—north to Denver, where I’ve had a small apartment since last fall. Though I enjoy city life very much, I truly love this country cabin nest, where I spent most of this summer. The hummers’ departure reminds me that I’ll be leaving soon too—a bit later, though, probably mid-October.

For me and the broadtails—which among all hummingbird species live at the highest elevation—summer at 8700 feet (2650 meters) provides a perfect habitat. There are nectar-filled wildflowers and a small cottonwood grove—food and proper nesting shelter for them, and lots of beauty for me. Wildflowers were plentiful this year due the above-average spring rainfall, but even in years when they aren’t, the returning hummers can count on a network of human servants who run up a shocking sugar tab at the supermarket on their behalf.

Though I’d love to have a true scientific mind, I don’t. Mornings, coffee cup in hand, I’ll watch the birds at the feeder, admiring their beautiful colors—the metallic blue-green of the females’ backs and the bright red gorget (think gorgeous) of the males, sparkling in the sun.

Here’s an illustration of a male and female by Arthur Singer from The Life of the Hummingbird (A.F. Skutch, 1973).

After watching these birds for awhile, likely as not, I’ll then cross the living room to watch the clouds through the sliding glass doors or head out to the greenhouse or go on a walk with Linda and her dogs. In the early evening, I do pretty much the same kind of viewing, as likely as not, as the broadtails arrive to fuel their metabolism for a cool night in torpor at high altitude. 

By scientific mind, I mean curiosity, passion for learning, observational skills, and patience. To the extent that I have those qualities, they show up in other areas. Fortunately, there are many bird lovers, trained scientists and citizen-scientists who have contributed knowledge I would most likely never discover on my own.

One of the first studies to support the idea that a hummer can eat twice its weight in sugar every day, was done by Althea R. Sherman. In 1907, from her doorway in Iowa, she trained free ruby throats to drink a sugar solution placed in an artificial flower. Measuring carefully, she found that a single bird drank syrup containing from 4.5 to 5.8 grams of sugar. She misjudged the average weight of a bird, however, leading to what was later shown to be an overestimate. Years later another experimenter found that a bird could drink twice its weight in syrup, but less than half its weight in pure sugar. 

During the height of my hummers’ feeding frenzy, I wondered if I were creating sugar addicts, like encouraging teenagers to gulp soda instead of water or juice. Fortunately, experts have dispelled that fear. According to the popular website, hummingbird net, a solution of 1 part sugar to 4 parts water is very similar to the sucrose content of nectar. Even more reassuring was the fact that ordinary white sugar—the bane of human health—is the best choice for hummers. Turbadino, a kind of raw sugar sold in health food stores, may contain a toxic level of iron, while honey ferments too rapidly.

Scientists have learned a lot about gender in hummingbird life also. Female broadtails spend most of their nesting time incubating and then feeding their (usually) single clutch of two eggs. Once hatched, the helpless nestlings need frequent attention before they’re able to fly away 21-26 days later. My broadtail females are definitely “sistuhs doin’ it for themselves”, as males make no pair bonds with them and play no part in chick-rearing. The males’ summer is spent in guarding their feeding territory.  They’re known for their dazzling displays during mating, when 2—3 males form a group called a lek and fly in loops through the air. Females make their choices and mating commences. As the females enter motherhood, the males continue trying to mate with other females. Who is the most successful? I wonder. Most aggressive? Prettiest gorget? Surely there’s a study somewhere that answers that question.

I should mention that I have other summer visitors in addition to the Broadtails. Rufous hummers show up at my feeders in early July. 

They’re known as an aggressive species, seeming bullies who try to dominate the feeders. I hate to speak badly of a bird, but….by July I’ve bonded with my innocent broadtails and find myself feeling quite hostile to the newcomers. I’m not sorry that they’re the first to leave as summer slips by. Scientific migration studies have given me some respect for them, however. They nest as far north as Alaska (!), migrating south, and then continuing on south after their summer stay here—adding up to the longest range of any of the more than 300 identified hummingbird species. Most of them live in the tropics and all are native only to the Western Hemisphere.

Most of the hummers spending the summer here are well on their way to Mexico now. I trust my two stragglers will feel the same hormonal/seasonal tug very soon, as signs of fall are already here—aspens turning gold and night temperatures dipping into the 40sF. According to Bill and Ella Thompson of Enjoying Hummingbirds More (1992), “At least one species of hummingbird is likely to fly over any garden in any state in the US or in southern Canada”. That comforts me as I think of “my” hummers on their aerial highway. Perhaps they have a network, a kind of overground railroad of backyard feeders, familiar to the older birds who’ve made the journey before. I hope so. Their August nectar-guzzling here won’t be enough to get them through the whole trip. Incidentally, hummers live an average of 3–4 years, although a 12-year-old banded broadtail was once observed in Colorado. That’s the current age record.

Later this month The Third Annual International Hummingbird and Birds of Guanajuato will be held in Mexico, in San Miguel de Allende in the State of Guanajuato. There will be festival events for the public in this city where I had the good fortune to sojourn for some extended time during two recent winters. I wish I could be there this year, if only to see the surprise on the tiny faces of any of “my” birds in the vicinity :). There will also be a conference of scholars and students ready to report their latest findings. That’s another comfort—that with human impacts on habitat everywhere, there are scientists and conservation activists monitoring the situation. 

Broadtail hummingbirds are not endangered at this point. With the growth in citizen science and the availability of online data bases, information is emerging that birds are adaptable, perhaps more than we thought. For example, a recent study showed that calliope hummers have been sighted 350 miles off their traditional migration routes. In The Human Age (2014), Diane Ackerman notes an Audubon Society study finding that roughly half of 305 North American birds are wintering 35 miles north of where they wintered 40 years ago.

With my own upcoming migration in mind, I’ve already started making notes for next year, when I hope to spend, once again, much of the summer here at Little Horse. More hummer-friendly flowers near the cabin, for one thing. Meanwhile, I’ll continue to read. One of the most interesting sites I’ve found is birdwatching bliss. It’s maintained by Sonia, an avian scientist who lost her full-time employment in a budget cut. (Fortunately, her husband kept his.) Working part-time as a wildlife technician now, she’s put her passion into this website, which offers concise, up-to-date information about many different birds. Perhaps by next year I’ll be a little closer to having a scientific mind after all.

A conversation with author Joanne Greenberg

Monday was a special day for me and other friends in the Guffey Library Book Club. We had a special guest, writer Joanne Greenberg and her husband Albert. Traveling from their home in Golden, they have been coming to Guffey every year for several years now. Last year’s plans fell through, though, so we were all anticipating this year’s visit. It was special for another reason: Joanne and Albert were celebrating their 60th wedding anniversary and we wanted to join the celebration. Here they are before we cut the cake, icing to an excellent potluck lunch and lots of talk about books and reading.

I first heard of Joanne's writing under her own name in the mid-80s when In This Sign was published in paperback. That novel explored the dynamics of a deaf couple and their hearing daughter, a story told from multiple viewpoints. Despite my having a deaf cousin, it was my first real entry into deaf culture and I learned a lot from it. A check of reviews on Goodreads shows it’s still being read and sometimes assigned in sign language classes.

Joanne, now 83, continued to write—both short stories and novels. One Publishers Weekly reviewer called her “a shrewd observer of human nature and societal differences”. That can be seen clearly in No Reck’Ning (1993), set in post-World War II Colorado. It’s the story of Clara, a young woman from an abusive home who pursued her dream to be a teacher, succeeds, and then encounters conflict with a powerful, wealthy parent. A very positive Library School Journal review, said “Young adults will be intimately involved with Clara’s struggle to succeed”.  However, Joanne told us matter-of-factly, “It sank without a trace” in sales, and “my publisher has rejected me ever since.”

Nevertheless, Joanne continues to write, and to me, her ability to be a “shrewd observer” of human behavior and cultures is still up front and center. At our gathering Monday, we talked about some unpublished works she had sent us. She read two of them aloud.  "Geography" concerns the loss experienced by a long-time rural woman who no longer knows the local geography because she no longer knows people on once-familiar roads. "Diversity" uses the loss of an expensive ring as the focus on class differences between a working class narrator and a rich neighbor.

Is she working on something now? Yes. She teaches Biblical Judaism classes and is writing an article about the dynamics of conversion. “Judaism is a strange religion,” she explained. “It makes no promises about the future. Things that Christians look for are not religious issues for us.” She’s also working on a book about “what happens when people are cut off by an avalanche.”

Joanne’s interest in what I think of as “elemental things”, as well as in psychology and cross-cultural encounters is evident in her book recommendations. One long-time favorite of hers is Devil in the White City (2003) by Erik Larson. It juxtaposes the history of the 1893 Chicago World’s Fair with an account of a serial killer. Excellent book, but one that still haunts me, as I have a low tolerance for psychological terror. Given that predisposition, I will probably not add Kitty Genovese: the Murder, the Bystanders, and the Crime that Changed America (2015). But I can trust that Joanne knows a good story when she sees it. I’ll look up the reviews for the author’s take on bystander behavior, which I’m curious about, and read about what really happened on the night of this 1964 murder that really did shock America.

Two other recommendations, both dealing with wolves in some way, interest me:

1. Wolf Totem (2008) by Jiang Rong. This bestseller in China is based on the author’s experience of going to the Mongolian Steppes as a young boy and living with the nomadic Mongols during the Cultural Revolution. As one Goodreads reviewer noted, “What matters most to (the) story are the depictions of the untamed steppe,” which “does not passively give what human life needs, but everything must be taken from it.” The story details how the Red Guards tried to “push back the last of the wolf hordes, threatening to destroy this way of life forever.”

2.  Ordinary Wolves (2005) by Seth Kantner. Again, a reviewer who gave it 5 stars puts it succinctly: “This book is a stunningly honest and unsentimental look at contemporary life in Alaska. The book touches on big issues (racism, loss of wilderness, alcoholism), but it is fundamentally a coming of age story (semi-autobiographical, I think) about a white boy whose father drops out of the mainstream to raise his three children in a sod igloo in a remote part of Alaska. It is beautifully written, and will stay with you for a long time.”

She had other recommendations too—The Jew in the Lotus and Reading Lolita in Tehran, for example. She would have had more had she not forgotten to bring her notebook of copious notes on everything she’s read this year. (She’s promised to send them to us.)

Shifting to talk about our favorite reads, Joanne was not shy about expressing her dislikes as well as likes. The author Sue Monk Kidd came up. She wrote the modern classic, Secret Life of Bees, which I loved, thinking it should be on every high school reading list. Joanne’s reaction? “I nearly died of sugar poisoning.” The discussion moved on to Jane Eyre and the 19th century. Joanne: “The gothic novels (pause). The men had the IQs of grapes.”  Wuthering Heights: “It was the best book when I read it at 15, but later… “These people needed jobs.”

The afternoon progressed. It was past 3. We cut the cake, wishing Joanne and Albert more years of happy marriage. Book club friends packed up their potluck leftovers, perhaps, like me, content--but wanting to go home and read something before dinner.

Summer stroll among the trees

There are few trees on Little Horse. A dozen still-small evergreens planted by Linda when she first moved here and a small grove of established cottonwood trees. I regretted that sparseness when I first started to live here, but came to appreciate it later, especially when wildfires came uncomfortably close to us one summer, not to mention realizing the preference of bears for tree cover. However, I love trees and sometimes just need to get up close and personal. An excellent place to do that is the forested property across the road.

Sunday was a cool, sunny day, ideal for a stroll there. It’s one of the most beautiful properties on the road, full of Ponderosas, my favorite pine tree. From the road, you can walk up an incline with a perfectly framed view of the south end of 11-Mile Reservoir, which functions as a kind of “borrowed scenery”. This photo shows the view from the top of the incline.

There’s a cabin on the land too, built by Leonard, who has passed away. His grown children own it now. They come for getaways from the city as often as they can, and in the interim, Linda and I try to keep an eye on it for them. We usually do that by walking the dogs there some mornings.

On Sunday I went on my own, to stretch my legs and enjoy the scent of the Ponderosas. Summer sun on pine needles produces an aroma that brings me back to my first days in Colorado in the late 70s. I think I fell in love with the mountains of Colorado at least partly through that aroma.

On this visit I left the path to the cabin and headed to a small grove, where I simply listened to the wind blow through the trees—a blissful sound—and watched a mountain bluebird flit from branch to ground to branch. I channeled Thoreau for awhile, especially the sentiment behind this quote describing some of his summer mornings: “I sat in my sunny doorway from sunrise 'til noon, rapt in a revery…in undisturbed solitude and stillness, while the birds sang around…(until) I was reminded of the lapse of time.”

I didn’t stay all morning; can't remember the last time I let myself lose track of time, actually.  But I wondered why I hadn’t done this more often. I vowed to return as much as possible, without the dogs as well as with them. I came on my own today—this quiet Tuesday before Labor Day, when the reservoir, a state park popular with campers and fishing boats, will draw a lot of visitors. Once again without dog company, I returned to my favorite sitting spot. Again, the weather was sunny and perfectly cool. Taking deep breaths, I felt my limited scent-sniffing human nose was quite adequate for pine aromatherapy. I sat down on the same lichen-covered stone to see, hear and inhale. A few buzzing dragonflies, a noisy raven, distant sound of the road grader, sun through branches, the familiar scent of the Ponderosas. Those moments were so calming—a feeling Thoreau well understood: “Every morning was a cheerful invitation to make my life of equal simplicity, and I may say innocence, with Nature herself.”

Here’s a photo of my spot. Wish it were a video to show the interplay of light and breeze.

Moving away, I walked through the trees and noticed a Native American medicine tree. There's at least one other near the path, and they’re not uncommon in this area, once home to four different Native American tribes. They’re plentiful because Ponderosas were one of the most useful trees around for indigenous people. The inner bark was a highly nutritious food, which could be eaten raw, baked, dropped into stews or peeled and dried. The bark and sap were also used as a medicine and waterproofing material.

This photo shows the scar on this CMT (“culturally-modified tree” in the language of archeologists.) I prefer medicine tree, reminding me how previous inhabitants were nourished by this land.

Aspen trees haven’t started to turn colors yet, but the first signs of fall are already here. Glancing down, I found this a pleasing arrangement.

Finally I reached a sunny clearing where the pine aroma was even stronger, and I could hear more bird song in the trees on the other side. On my “must do” list for next summer is to spend more time observing and listening to birds. My bird ID skills are embarrassingly low—perhaps a reflection of some general disinterest in the task of naming or plain old laziness. Some, though, are just so obvious, like mountain bluebirds and ravens. And hawks. Looking up, I saw this one flying overhead.

One of the great advantages of coming to the high Colorado country in the summer is the relative lack of mosquitoes, especially after the summer monsoons are gone and there are fewer standing puddles of water. Not a single buzzing insect found me today, and I regretted I hadn’t brought a book and a blanket.

Not able to lose track of time, I got up after a short while and wandered back home across the road, feeling refreshed, slightly hungry, and inspired to write this. I thought of Thoreau, who had these experiences too, and who left his viewing spot, at some point, to make lunch.