Diffraction and Bricolage

I let myself be swept away this semester - my two jobs, my schoolwork, it all kept me busy busy busy. No time to stop and ...

The semester ended a week ago. I 'handed' my final paper via email. I stopped. I looked around at my self, my apartment, my life. It was all a mess. That's okay. Things fall apart - the center does not hold ... I'm discovering there may not be a center.

As I wrote my last paper I gulped down large bites of different works by Donna Haraway, Bruno Latour, Jacques Derrida, Roland Barthes, Umberto Eco, and others. Honestly, I didn't digest most of what I read, but grasped at half-understood concepts that resonated with ... me?

Earlier in the semester we talked a bit about bricolage in one of my classes. I like the word - it rolls gently off the tongue. I also like the concept - I've talked about it before - my life as a mosaic. Each person, each experience, each thought, each heartache, each aha!, each joy - another tile in the mosaic of who I am. Peer too closely at just one or two - and you lose the pattern.

I learned most about this understanding of life as a mosaic from the man I've been involved with ... on and off ... over the past two years. There is much about him that I delight in - and much that confuses and frustrates me. Like anyone else. I wrote him once that he is as beautiful in his darkness as he is in his light. It's true - to me. And coming to peace with the rich diversity of this man, learning to appreciate ALL the tiles, not just the ones that I prefer, is how I came to understand the concept of bricolage. I'm grateful for that.

In my readings of Donna Harway I came across the concept of diffraction. We all know diffraction - the light shines through a prism and it diffracts into the colors of the rainbow. I haven't explored her writings about it yet -it's on the list for the break - but I'm thinking about what I think she might mean, and I'm making my own meaning as well.

Like the mosaic, diffraction takes into consideration all the colors... voices ... beliefs ... hopes ... of any given topic. Say... wolves. We shine the light through the prism of Wolf and it breaks into many pieces. None of them are more "true" than the others ... none of them are less. They create the whole of this moment in time/space/culture/nature looking through the Wolf prism. I'm looking at the pieces. I'm shuffling them around to create ... not truth ... not a unified whole ... but maybe a new picture.

Meanwhile, I'm taking my days slowly. Waking late, moving quietly, reading, writing, walking, spending time with people who are dear to me, and missing others who are not nearby. I'm listening to music, to the wind, to cars passing by, to the small still voice within. I'm grateful for all I have and hoping for more. I'm looking at all the pieces and shuffling them 'round looking for a new pattern.

In Self We Trust

I've talked about trust and faith here many times over the years. Trust grows from the word for tree - something that is firmly planted, deeply rooted, will bend in the winds of change and, if it is a strong trust, will not break ... easily.

Self-trust is where I find my deepest roots. We can know our strengths and our weaknesses - accept them all - and shape them into the best that we can be. I'll admit, I forget this foundational understanding too often. I look outside of myself for people and beliefs that I can trust. They always fall through - when I don't remember to start with trusting myself.

Trusting myself means that I pay attention to the signs and signals that I receive ... from my intuition, from my body, from my mind ... and those subtle signals and signs that I receive from others. It means paying attention ... and interpreting those signals as best I can.

So ... when my body over-reacts to my insulin - I need to pay attention and allow the communication to unfold so that I can decide what is best for me. And ... when someone make apparent overtures of friendship - yet offers subtle and not-so-subtle insults, I need to pay attention and allow myself to walk away. Not in anger, not in fear, not in resentment - but in trust that I am doing the best for myself - and so ... for the other as well.

Trust begins with the self, and then it flows outward to include others. I was talking with a friend recently about how difficult it can be to develop trust in the beloved - especially for us older folks who've loved and lost and are fearful of being hurt again. We agreed that its well worth allowing that trust to unfold over time. She is in a wonderful marriage with a decent, good-hearted, thoughtful man. We talked about their marriage, which began as a commitment, and has become a covenant.  Because they chose to trust ... and they chose to be trust-worthy.

We also talked about the importance of trusting the community to support the relationship and that commitment/covenant. It's something I've been thinking about recently, because I see, so often, that the community does not always support the trust that develops between two people. In our covetous, I-want-it-right now culture ... many people believe that if they meet someone they're attracted to ... it's okay to pursue a relationship. No matter what. No matter if that person is already in a new relationship or a long-term marriage. Rather than support that good that has been growing ... they come in with their storm of self-absorbed desire, and try to destroy that relationship so that can have it for themselves. Doesn't work that way, though.

If the roots of the relationship are deeply embedded in self-trust, and in trust of the other, that storm will be weathered - though some leaves and branches may break and fall. And, those of us who are not yet fully enlightened can hope that the lightening strikes at the rotten heart of that storm.

Passages

Yesterday I took a new, big step and gave myself my first injection of insulin. My doctors have been trying to convince me to add that to my treatment plan for diabetes, and I've been resistant to insulin (ha ha). But this doctor is Machiavellian. She would simply stop prescribing my usual medication unless I agreed.

I have many, many issues with the medical industry. I have issues with the fact that they hold us hostages to their decisions about prescriptions and referrals. I have issues with the way that I'm considered a non-compliant patient because I ask questions, I research their suggestions, and I make my own decisions. I have issues with the way I'm labeled "phobic" because I choose not to medicate myself 'just in case' I develop other problems.

I have issues with the fact that every day, and now at least twice a day, I'm required to engaged in self-mutilation - blood sacrifices on the altar of the priesthood of medicine - that is called "blood sugar testing". I have issues that I now know how to inject drugs into my system. I've been bullied into becoming an insulin junkie. I have issues that I, too often, buy into the belief that I just didn't try hard enough ... and it's my fault.

I know ... there are other ways of looking at this situation. I see those too.

I was diagnosed with diabetes almost 20 years ago - and I have tried and rejected some of the medications on the market because of their side effects ... or simply rejected many them because of their main effects! I can accept the possibility that after all these years, my body is simply no longer able to use the simple medication that I've used in the past to control my blood sugar. I can accept the possibility that now I've entered the menopause years, my body needs assistance for homeostasis. I have complicating factors with lupus and severe anemia. I'm growing older, and I'm fine with that.

And I'm grateful.

I'm grateful that, since I'm well below the poverty line for the US of A, I get my medication for $30 instead of $170. I'm grateful that insulin exists as a treatment for this imbalance and that it will probably extend my life and its quality. I'm grateful that the technology is moving along quickly and I don't need a syringe, but can use a pen that allow me to try, ever so hard, to pretend that it isn't a syringe. And, depending on how it goes, I might even find that I'm grateful for my Machiavellian doctor.

Crossing Over

Two years ago today I crossed over from Wyoming into Montana on my westward journey. Here's what I wrote:

There was a moment when I came 'round a bend and there in front of me were mountains - the real thing - snow capped and distant - so that they almost seemed like a dream at first. I had the sense that we were checking each other out. The expansiveness of South Dakota is immense, but I immediately felt as if I were already part of it as I passed through. These mountains today ... I felt like they were considering me ... "who do you think you are, young lady, to enter on our turf?".

And then, as the sun began to sink toward the western horizon, I crossed over into Montana, the landscape changed once again, and I felt at home. I sped through the shifting of the light and I saw the dark gathering behind me. It was moving faster than I was, and it spread its arms to surround me from behind, catching up with my back windows ... my driver's window ... and still I sped on ... toward the still golden horizon, toward Billings, toward my last night on the road.

It was one of the most glorious and deeply peaceful sunsets I've ever experienced.

I can remember it clearly even now. I can remember that sense of mystery and possibility that accompanied me on my travels across the country.

It hardly seems like two years could have flown by. And yet, I also feel that I've packed more experience in these past two years than in the preceeding twenty. As if I moved from a quietly flowing stream that opened, unexpectedly, into some pretty intense rapids.

Happy Birthday, Dad!

My dad was born on October 13 1935 in Bronx, New York. His mother, Rose, was the daughter of immigrants from Sicily and his father, also Lawrence Howard, was the son of coal miners in the Appalachian hills of Kentucky.

Unfortunately, I never knew any of them well, though I did love each of them dearly.

My grandmother was a short, bustling, round woman - I remember her smiles, her food, her carved Chinese jewelry box. My grandfather was a tall, slender, quiet man - I remember his smiles, his pipe, the smell of whiskey (or bourbon?), and some of his stories.


When I was a child, I believed my dad was the smartest person I knew. He taught me to love the search for knowledge and understanding. He tried to teach me to stand up for myself, but that was less successful.

When I was a child, I believed my dad could do anything, and he was patient enough to let me work beside him with carpentry, masonry, even some electrical work. He let me tinker, take things apart, and helped me to put them back together. He could throw a ball so high into the sky that it disappeared - and he knew the coolest trick of making it seem like his index finger could split in half. When I had nightmares, I would creep into my parents bedroom to the protection of his presence. There was never a doubt in my mind that he loved me.

As I grew older, I saw more of the man and less of the dad. I saw his flaws clearly, and I understood that he was not the best of men. I saw the he moved through life according to his own set of values - and while they were not consistent with societal norms ... or mine - they were consistent with his own. I respected his consistency, if not his actions and choices. As I became a young woman with a life and family of my own, his choices shifted him onto a path that rarely brought us together. It was a loss for both of us.

In August of 2006 he called to say that the doctor had found cancer in his lung. They did surgery in September to try to stop the spread - but it was too late. Or, the surgery itself had spread the disease. It was small cell carcinoma and quickly spread through his body.

I traveled down from the Berkshires to Manhattan to visit him after that surgery. The room was filled with my sisters, my brother, and my father's wife. The nurses came and went. It was busy and loud. He was trying his best to be self-contained, in-control, and fearless. I'm not a person who competes with others - for attention or anything else. I waited. Eventually, the room emptied and we were left alone, together.

On the train ride down into the city, I thought about what I could say to him. I thought about what I might want to hear from my daughter if I were in a similar condition. And so, I took his hand and said, "I want you to know that I love you. I want you to know that there is peace between us. I want you to know that I'm okay and that you don't have to worry about me - my life is good and getting better." He squeezed my hand in response and that was that.

Six months later, my dad passed on. I had gone to visit him as often as I could during that time span, while dealing with my own illness. I wasn't there the morning he died, but I felt that we had made our peace in that quiet moment together.

I visited with him for Christmas that year, and gave him a diary to keep track of his thoughts and stories. I'd hoped to read it one day. I never saw it again. It was a loss for us both.

Earlier this evening, I sat with some friends and colleagues. I sipped a glass of whiskey in honor of my dad while engaging in some good conversations, and shared some laughter. I've kept my promise to him. I have a good life, it's getting better, and he still doesn't need to worry about me.

Feral Smiles

In the past week or so I've been in situations where a few different people I know have offered me a feral smile. It's a smile that says "I've got you".  Not in a fun, playful sort of way, but with a sense of power-over. I didn't like it. When I could, I spoke out - when I couldn't, I left the situation. No reason to stay. I'm learning to take better care of myself.

I remember reading some time ago about an animal, I think it was a stoat or a polecat, that kills - not for food - but for (what seems to be) enjoyment.  The smile I experienced with these people was the kind of smile that I imaged seeing on the face of a predator after catching its prey - but before killing it. Imagine their chagrin when I slipped out from under their nasty paws and strolled away.

This afternoon, I walked the sidetrails west of Tech and thought about animals that kill for enjoyment and not simply for nourishment. And how we judge them.

Just an aside (as if this whole post isn't one long series of asides ....) earlier today I taught a class for one of our professors who was otherwise engaged. The class conversation moved to a discussion about hi-tech surgery: robot who do the actual cutting, etc. while directed by a human surgeon. We were all viscerally opposed to it because, we said, computers and robots can make mistakes. I mentioned that we were "prejudiced" against the robots. The students were shocked to hear the word in the context of something non-human.

And so, with that experience fresh in my mind and ruminating (in a non-predatorial way) on the feral smile, I thought about stoats and polecats and killing. Killing for fun. And our distinctly puritan prejudice against that kind of waste of (our) resources.

We prefer our predators to be mannerly. Like an owl, wise. They're hungy, or they need to feed the owlets, so they swoop down on a little critter, kill it, and eat it. Very utilitarian.

But when a predator oversteps its bounds (according to our standards of polite predator behavior) we take action. Recently a rancher lost 120 sheep in one night to a pack of wolves. The sheep were slaughtered and left out on the range. It must have been a nightmarish experience to look over the landscape turned into wasteland and see that much death and destruction. For no apparent reason! The wolf pack was destroyed.

Unfortunately, I can compare that scene easily to other images I've seen as I research the history of white men and wolves in the American west. I can imagine the native peoples (and perhaps the wolves) with a similar sense of shock and despair when looking out over the landscape and seeing the buffalo slaughters - or the wolf and coyote slaughters - piles of animals that you could climb up like a small hillock. A waste.

Killing for fun. Killing for the pleasure of the stalk, the hunt, the kill. This is primarily a human occupation. I understand the pleasure of the stalk ... the hunt ... even the kill. But, I also buy into the utilitarian mindset. I am prejudiced against trophy hunters, against killing wolves, bears, mountain lions, eagles, and other competitor predators. I believe it should be a useful activity as well - bringing home meat for the family table ... ridding the village of a predator that gets out of hand ... or even our practice of catch and release for fish.

I like to believe that this kind of behavior is somehow fear based - I like to believe it as a kind of mercy and openness to understand the behavior of "the other". But, I know that there is a kink, a twist, something out-of-place in some people and they enjoy, not just the stalk and the hunt, but the kill. Kill comes from the German "qualen" and means: torment.

I could see the little flame of enjoyment in the eyes of my feral smilers as they anticipated some show of torment - in myself, and in the others who were part of these experiences. It was distasteful, to say the least.

Naming

It is said that if you hold the true name of a person, place, or thing then you have power over it. You can find this in different forms of shamanism as well is the best (and worst) scifi/fantasy novels and other kinds of speculative fiction.

I'm reading a novel about the power of holding names - the power of language. One of the characters says "... language is not a simple act of communication ... it is transformative. What you say becomes what you are, and if you say it well, and clearly, and with will, it will transform the landscape around you." He's talking about magic ... but ...

Today I'm working on my midterm paper for Rhetoric and we are asked to discuss our personal theory of communication. I wrote this before I read the words above: Communication is an interaction within an individuals or between two or more individuals which causes a change in thought, emotion, or behavior.

Language is magical and transformative. It will not necessarily create a floating light in a dark room when the electricity goes out - but it will create the light of understanding in the darkness of confusion. Any time you use language - with yourself or with others - you are creating change. Sometimes imperceptible and sometimes its enormous.

It was the magic of language that drew into reading as child. The authors I read created new worlds for me - Jules Verne taught me to love exploration by bringing me deep into the sea and deeper into the earth; Cherry Ames, Nancy Drew, and the Bobbsey Twins faced dangers and solved mysteries that helped others; C.S. Lewis, Isaac Bashevis Singer, Jerzy Kozinski, and Elie Wiesel asked me to look even more deeply into my self and my beliefs than I knew I could; I followed Taash and his Jesters to magical lands and stayed there with George MacDonald and JRR Tolkien.

I wanted to learn how to use language to create worlds that would give that same pleasure to others. But first, I needed to learn to hold the names of all things with both power and love. I'm still learning. And one thing I know is that when you hold the name of another - not only do you have power over them - they have power over you.

I have mixed feelings about learning the official (scientific) names of the landscapes around me - I could learn the plants and rocks and grasses and trees - but once I do - I am both expanded and limited. The power of naming is often the power of limits.

The naming that I'm learning now, the vocabulary of this profession, allows me to succeed in school and will help me if I choose to go on for a doctorate ... to teach others the mysteries of signs and symbols, of krisis and kairos, of ethos, logos, and pathos. But, I can also feel it reining in the free ranging of my mind. Good? Bad? Neither - it is what it is. I pay attention and decide when to corral my thoughts and when to allow them to run into the unknown distances.

Twilight

In little moments that I can steal, I've been re-reading Louisa May Alcott novels: Work, Eight Cousins, Rose in Bloom, An Old Fashioned Girl. I hadn't realized how deeply her work had influenced me and my thinking. From behind her characters I see Emerson and Thoreau peeking out with subtle smiles on their faces, waving an acknowledgment of my discovery of how my young self soaked up their philosophies. Some days I feel like a character in one of her stories with my odd combination of old-fashioned and quite radical thoughts.

Last night winter blew into Butte and it lingers into this night. I decided to forego my evening stroll - the sudden jump from the 70s to the 30s was more than I wanted to deal with. Instead, I cooked up a stew with organic Montana beef and potatos from the farmers market. I settled onto the couch with a warm bowl and looked at the piles growing around me ... semiotics ... rhetoric ... wildlife management ... intercultural communication theories ... ethics. On one side of the desk is the Jesuit, Michel de Certeau writing about every day life and on the other side is the radical feminist Donna Harawy with her manifesto on companion species. Everywhere I turn, I have the opportunity to immerse myself in a different universe of thought.

What do I want to do? Drowse in front of a fire with music playing and my beloved nearby. I want to watch the flames dance and fall into a reverie that leads me into my own world.

Instead, I quietly wash up the dinner dishes and sit down to outline a chapter in one class, to fill out the outline of a paper for another class, I see a journal article on Red Riding Hood peeking out from my notebook that is hiding another article on the Greimas analysis and I want to read them both.

I do appreciate all this. I am deeply aware of what a privilege it is to be sitting in a warm apartment that I have, over the past year and more, made more beautiful for me with plants, curtains, artwork, and and more. To be faced with the choices of scholarly pursuits rather than faced with the choices of how to put a roof over my head and food on the table.

I sat talking with a professor today about the meaning of meaning and I wondered to myself - what will I be suited for when I leave this place? I have already been changed so much by the glimpses of these different worlds. I know that so much more change is on the way. In another class we talked about our culture shifting away from a belief in unstoppable progress and growth to an understanding and acceptance of our limits - as individuals as well as culturally.


I've been thinking about my own limits and learning to not just respect them, but appreciate them. I'm not yet 'old' and I'm no longer young. Approaching the twilight of life perhaps? Perhaps. It is my favorite part of the day - that time between day and night. Here in Montana, the twilight seems to last for hours the sky slowly slowly emptying of color to leave the stark shimmer of stars in the black endless skies of night.

I enjoy the borderlands - the in-between states of being - neither here nor there - always leaving... always coming home.

Equinox Musings

Yesterday I had an evening meeting in Jackson (Montana). It's not so far as the crow flies - but instead the road meanders along the Big Hole River and around the Pioneer Mountains. If all goes well (as it always does) it takes just over 1.5 hours to get there. The 'traffic' I might encounter is generally a rancher moving a herd of cattle across the highway from one grazing field to another and might increase my drive by half an hour or so. It's a soothing ride and a wonderful opportunity to allow my mind to wander from topic to topic spurred by the landscapes that I pass through.

It's usually dark by the time I go home, so rather than return along the meandering road, I continue on toward Dillon and then head back up the highway - home to Butte. Last night, halfway between Jackson and Dillon, I stopped the car, turned off the lights, and turned my gaze upward. The stars spilled across the sky and filled it to the brim - and I was filled with awe and a sense of grace.

We've been talking about the sublime in my rhetoric class. And the (to me) obscene question of whether advertising can evoke the sublime was raised. No, says Emma, it cannot. It cannot be created opportunistically by another - it is a deeply personal moment, like last night, that takes you unawares and never leaves you. That sky, unexpected in its richness and fullness, will never leave me.

There have been other moments sublime - some inspired by my experiences in the natural world - some evoked in simple experiences with others.

The experiences yesterday of my sauntering drive along the river, the meeting of people with different perspectives who are able to listen respectfully with one another, and my star-filled drive home was important to me. I had, recently, lost my balance - my equilibrium - and began careening off-course. In fact, I could barely remember the course I had chosen beause I allowed my days to become filled with too many tasks and responsibilities and too little joy or laughter.

Sometimes a gentle reminder will be enough to adjust my course back toward myself. Sometimes I have to come up against something harder. Like a visit to the emergency room a week or so back, alone and frightened. Like a request to edit an article that had been written about me back in the spring - an article written about a me who was filled with hope and courage.

So the pendulum swings for each of us in our own personal ways. The sun swims east to west on her daily journey and shifts from north to south and back again as season follows season. We also move into our own west, shifting back and forth as we adjust our course after each experience pushes us one way or another.

I am grateful that I have the insight to be aware of when I am off-course and I am grateful that I have the courage to make the necessary changes rather than continuing walking down the wrong road.

And as I write, Bruce Cockburn sings out:

One day I walk in flowers
One day I walk on stones
Today I walk in hours
One day I shall be home

Remember

Wow - has it really been that long?

On the one hand - I can say that my life is richer and fuller than it has ever been. On the other hand - I can also say that my life is pretty crazy with running from one activity to the next project to the next committment.

I seem to remember saying that this semester I would take on less .. and yet ... I'm working 40 hours/week between two jobs and I'm taking 13 credits of course work. Yes... 3 credit are not official - but there's still plenty of time, energy, and effort invested in it.

Is it worthwhile? Yes. Every single bit of it. Is it overwhelming? Yes. Almost every single day.

The mix is a little complicated by obligations from the summer that have lingered into the semester. I just (almost) finished a website that I took on for an acquaintance (check it out: www.nativeplantsmontana.com).

Yesterday I sat with two of my professors and they asked "What is your thesis? What are you working on?" I didn't know what to answer. I haven't taken the time out to figure it out. And that phrase "take the time out". Wow. Take the time out of what? My life. My busy, running here, running there, always-on-to-the-next-thing life.

I know that I'm fulfilling my obligations to everyone else. I do the coursework, I get my tasks done for the Watershed Commitee (www.bhwc.org - I did that website too!) and for my on-campus job. But, I'm not fulfilling my obligations to myself. Sure ... I still go each evening to the trail to walk - but there's been a less appreication than in the past. My head is full of worries and the occasional woe. Instead of allowing the silence, the winds, the ravens, and the grasses to enter my experiences - I take along my phone and try to fit more into what should be the time for less.

This afternoon, I left campus early. I came home to fix myself a good and simple meal. I took the time to finish the native plant website that's been hanging over my head, and now, I'm taking the time for this. A little self-reflection. A little self-consideration. A reminder of what I love.

Last night, instead of rushing on to my next project - I stopped. I realized that I've just been stuffing myself full of information and not taking the time to integrate it into my knowledge base, or myself. I picked one class and reviewed my notes. I made a committment to ME to do this every day. Stop. Breathe. Reflect. Consider. Integrate. Remember.

Last night, instead of falling asleep to rhetoric, or semiotics, or image politics ... I picked up my new book of Mary Oliver poems - Red Bird. It's been sitting in my apartment for well over a month now - and I had not even opened it. Each page offered me ravens and bears, turtles and ducklings, clouds and wind, rain and flowers. Each page reminded me - yes... stop ... breathe ... reflect ... consider ... integrate ... remember .... who you are.

Tenure

July Ghosts

Halfway down the trail I paused, sat on one of the small rocks that are not entirely successful at keeping 4-wheelers off the trail, and I simply experienced the twilight. The sounds of the highway were muffled, and the birdsong was sporadic. The wind rustled through the grasses, and then, a fox rustled by - he too paused when he caught sight of me - and then he moved on. A few moments later, two smaller foxes scurried by in the other direction, glancing at me out of the corners of their eyes.

On my way back up the hill, I like to sit for a moment at the crossroads by the mining museum - there's a little metal bench that gives a perfect view of the Pintlers and every evening it's different and beautiful. This evening did not disappoint - the skies a rosy pink just above the horizon. That time of evening is full of rich silhouettes - and I noticed something unusual up the road - a bird on a fencepost? No .. a deer had paused and was just stepping delicately across the road to disappear into the evening.

The past week has been busy - friends visiting, the folk festival, and the annual picnic for the watershed committee. I appreciated the rising heat today - the slower day - the time to do what I needed to do at my own pace.

July has, in the past, been a challenging month for me - and this past weekend - a challenging set of memories for me. July 10th is the anniversary of my first husband's death, and the 12th is the anniversary of his funeral. July 11th, oddly enough, is the anniversary of the divorce from my second husband. When I received the notice of that particular court date - it sealed my understanding of the finality of the ending of that relationship - bookended, as it was, by the memories of death.

I've written about the re-claiming and re-invention of self that has gone on for me since I've settled into Butte. Many others have noticed a similar experience as they make a new home, a new life here. Last year, my first summer in Butte, was the first year that the 10th - 12th of July wasn't centered around mourning - but instead - centered around joy and celebration. The folk festival was a significant part of that, as was my involvement with the arts foundation and the community that I'd discovered.

This year - I again celebrated Life rather than death. The opening night I danced to the rich Chicago blues - I was surrounded by the landscape that I have come to love so well - and I reconnected with a friend who has also become dear to me. The memories I carried gently through the weekend were no longer bitter - they were simply sweet.

Whale Watching

And for another perspective ... read this fascinating article in today's NYTimes on Whales.

Blossoms

In Butte America, the big public fireworks display is held on July 3 over the Big Butte. It's also the highlight of the community fireworks season - when the public display is over ... the private displays respond ... and the entire city is full of the thunderous delight in what Barbara Kingsolver describes as "men trying to mate with the sky".

Last year on the fourth of July I had the good fortune of being caught up in a thunderstorm that led me to take shelter on the porch of the World Museum of Mining. Yesterday evening, I walked down the trail at sunset and watched the skies in the west full of lights and clouds and glorious beauty. I turned back up as darkness began to settle in the valley and watched the city, spread out below me, begin to blossom with the colored lights. I listened to the sounds from the 'flats' that was like popcorn in the microwave and the louder blasts of the uptown celebrators in the neighborhoods surrounding the trail.

I decided to take shelter, once again, at the Museum. I settled into a chair, put my feet up, and watched the blossoms of color below me in the city and above me from the Butte. The fireworks were non-stop, bursting out and fading away - the sound following the the light. The child in me delighted in the experience. The adult in me considered ... how many of those celebrators gave any particular thought to the meaning of the day - a decision by famous men (and mostly unknown women) 233 years ago to take hold of freedom. Freedom from what they considered tyranny. Freedom to choose for themselves. At each blossom created by hundreds of unknown souls - did they think of anything more than the freedom to set fires in the night?

Earlier in the day I walked over the weekly farmers' market and was enticed by a 50% off sign - I brought home a new plant. This led me to look over the plants I'd been growing in the apartment over the past year and more - and I realized that they needed a little freedom themselves - freedom to grow! I ran down to the flats to pick up potting soil, planters, and yes - I was tempted by yet more plants.

I spent the afternoon happily gardening in the shady comfort of my kitchen. Separating and replanting my old friends and creating healthy homes for my new friends. This past winter solstice I planted a hope ... it grew, but never flowered, and finally died. Some hopes are like that. So ... I put it into the compost bin, washed out the planter, and put a new plant in its place.

This plant was already full of blossoms - some were fully open to the sun - others were still tight buds waiting for the right touches to open. The blossoms were the same tawny color as my favorite fireworks from the night before.

The rabbi and the provacateaur

I've had a bit of a summer flu the past few days - not enough to really knock me off my feet - just enough to slow me down, muddle my thinking a bit, and keep me a bit more quiet and contained.

I've been thinking about being more quiet and contained anyway ... well, maybe not actually contained - maybe a bit more focused on refining / redefining where, how, and with who (whom?) I spend my time.

It's been a whirlwind of a year (and a bit more) since I settled myself into Butte. I've had the great joy of befriending many - some who've become integral to my life, and others who've fallen by the wayside. And, it seems that each week there are more who enter onto the stage of my life - bit players, leading men, supporting ladies - we play together for a time - and for that time - it's good. Some have left the stage too soon for me ... others have overstayed their welcome ... and on the whole, the stage is full and rich and interesting. My days are full from when I wake in the morning til I finally sleep at night, and most of it is fascinating to me - my work, my studies, my friends.

But ... I miss me. I miss the long hours rolling by when I can write and dream and walk and contemplate and simply be. I have images and poems in my mind that want to come out, stroll around, and find a place to live together. I have songs that want to be written, played, sung aloud. I feel the pull toward solitary spots where I can watch the river or the clouds flow by me and my mind can follow along.

I read an article in the NYTimes yesterday on six reasons to grow old. It's written by a 90-year old rabbi. Now, he's got 40 years on me - so there are things I agree with ... and things I don't (yet?). Gratitude and tranquility are both states of mind and being that I enter into more easily and freely than I have ever before. There is so much in my life to be grateful for - and - those moments of tranquility are what allow me to enter into the experiences of my life more freely and passionately.

He writes of the "cooling of passion" which I don't see as a benefit. I find that the older I get, the more passionate I feel about being engaged with the process of living ... of being awake and alive in the world. In this world.

In the Sunday book review I came across an article about "The Vindication of Love" where the author speaks about how failure can be more sumptuous than success ... where success is seen as drifting along in a dull, safe life and failure are those moments where we engage in the blaze of passion that may not last ... but those moments change us forever.

There is - I know - a balance between the rabbi and the provacateaur. Maybe that will be my summer journey.

Legacy

(you can click to enlarge)

Marbles

It was one of those unexpectedly perfect days that that ease into life when you're not looking.

I headed over to the Farmers Market a little later than usual and found some beautiful kale at the Hmong vegetable stand and then headed over to the 'new' Venus for tea, a chat with Dan, and to sit out on Main Street to listen to Marko and write.

For a small time, the corner of Park and Main was the picture of a small, vibrant city - with music, arts, crafts, eager and hopeful vendors, happy customers and browsers moving through the area. The sun was warm, the air was cool, and I was entirely content.

I walked home, packed up my knapsack with water and cd's and headed over to Divide to pick up Jeanne and then down to Melrose to visit a while with the folks from the Big Hole River Foundation. I sat at the river's side chatting with Michelle and Alyse, Hans and Steve, Sheila, Mike, and Corky. We ate bbq venison and drank home-brewed beer and shared stories and jibes, laughter and silence, and I let the sound of the water carry my cares downstream.

At one point, Sheila handed a lovely blue marble to Jeanne and Michelle handed one to me. It's part of a celebration of those who 'live like they love our blue planet'. (you can check it out at bluemarbles.org) Here in Montana, I've been privileged to befriend and work with many who live this way - loving our planet - doing what they can in small and large ways to contribute to the ongoing creation of a better place for us all.

Jeanne and I headed out after a while to visit with Linda at the Wise River Club to set up lunch for an event later this month, and then back to Jeanne's place. It was wonderful to sit with her on the deck, listening to the river rushing by, chatting about this and that. Her husband and son headed off to float down to Melrose - and we declined - not wanting to be caught in the possible rainstorms that were hovering nearby.

This morning, I ran into a friend I hadn't seen in months. When I told her about the busy semester I'd had - the commitments I'd made - I could see the judgement flowing across her face. "I would never take that much on" she said. And I understood. I might have said something similar a few years ago. I would have said it believing that "that much" was somehow separate from me, apart from me. Now, I understand that its all me. Expressing myself.

I can choose to commit to weeks like this past one where I worked most of the day and late into the wee hours of the night/morning - and yet found time to take breaks for chatting with friends, long walks, going out for a beer. I worked because it was interesting - it was fun - it was my way of contributing to my love for this planet ... in the ways that I'm able. Work ... school ... volunteering ... playing ... its all me. I'm not taking on too much ... I'm just living my life.

Sometime in the next day or so, I'll run into the next person who will claim this little blue marble sitting in my pocket. I don't know who's hands it's passed through - or who it will go to - but I know it will be moving among those who truly care. I like being part of that community.

Beauty

Yesterday evening I was out on the trail - the sunset was gorgeous - the colors rich, the clouds reflecting light and shadow - the air was cool ... almost chill ... and the birds were calling out their evening songs. It was ... beautiful.

I spent the weekend at Yellowstone - almost three full days driving through the park, stopping often to witness the wildlife, the landscape, the sun .. rain .. snow. It was ... beautiful.

Monday, I spent most of the day touring the lower Big Hole River - I drove through stunning landscapes with the river high and wild below and beside me. It was ... beautiful.

So last night I wondered, as I watched the sunset over the Pintlers and soaked in the experience as fully as possible - can there be so much beauty in my life that it becomes ... common? So that it no longer moves me?

I don't think so. What I came to understand was that this is how it 'should' be. For me, anyway. Surrounded by beauty - bathed in beauty - open and enjoying beauty each and every day. The grand beauty of mountains and rivers ... the tiny beauty of desert wildflowers ... the intimate beauty of a handclasp ... the commonplace beauty of the sparrow.

Here is a segment of the Navajo Night Chant that we've seen so often:

In beauty may I walk.
All day long may I walk.
Through the returning seasons may I walk.
On the trailed marked with pollen may I walk.
With grasshoppers about my feet may I walk.
With dew about my feet may I walk.
With beauty may I walk.
With beauty before me, may I walk.
With beauty behind me, may I walk.
With beauty above me, may I walk.
With beauty below me, may I walk.
With beauty all around me, may I walk.
In old age wandering on a trail of beauty, lively, may I walk.
In old age wandering on a trail of beauty, living again, may I walk.
It is finished in beauty.
It is finished in beauty.

And here are a very few of the photos that I took on Sunday morning as the snow fell heavily around us.