Potpourri

Buddha on our deck: snow beginning

Potpourri as used here refers to a miscellaneous collection of events and reflections. As winter settles in I begin with comments about the November 5th Zoom held Mindful Man retreat attended by 18 men and me. We have met for several times a year to study topics and practice mindfulness. This was the18th year and the final retreat. Thank you David and Hal for your energy, leadership, and teaching. 

Through talks by David and Hal, meditation, and guided activities, we focused on losses in our lives and how we use them to grow and move forward. Steve, the third leader, led us in Qigong, developed in China thousands of years ago as part of traditional Chinese medicine. Qigong involves slow movement exercises that optimize energy within the body and mind while connecting these with the energy of the earth. Thank you Steve.

During the open session as an introduction to the day, Steve shared the following poem.

Along Lake Wingra before the snow.

 Allow by Danna Faulds

There is no controlling life.
Try corralling a lightning bolt,
containing a tornado. Dam a
stream and it will create a new
channel. Resist, and the tide
will sweep you off your feet.
Allow, and grace will carry
you to higher ground. The only
safety lies in letting it all in –
the wild and the weak; fear,
fantasies, failures and success.
When loss rips off the doors of
the heart, or sadness veils your
vision with despair, practice
becomes simply bearing the truth.
In the choice to let go of your
known way of being, the whole
world is revealed to your new eyes.

While walking along Edgewood Drive bordering Lake Wingra, I noticed this note attached to wiring protecting an  oak sapling. The sapling replaced the fallen "towering oak sentinel."  Its "old limbs started to fall."

For me, the note and Faulds' poem provide cues for responding to losses. Both underscore accepting that life is unpredictable, acknowledging the truth of a loss, and letting go. The note adds another dimension to letting go; "we welcome this new-comer", whatever that may be. More may be required when we face deep grief after the death of a loved one, for example, support, patience and forbearance. 

 

The impact of the historic midterm elections is still unfolding and is an example of unpredictability or to quote Faulds, "There is no controlling life." I like this New Yorker cover titled "Low Tide", which tells what happened despite all the predications of a Republican "Red Wave."  Karen Tumulty's Washington Post opinion article entitled "The expected red wave looks more like a puddle" is another accurate assessment. 

I agree with the pundits who said that the election showed that many voters could think about other issues beyond the effects of high gas prices. To paraphrase one pundit, American voters were capable of chewing gum and walking at the same time. Other pundits noted that decency in politics may be returning because most losers from both parties conceded. 

More remarkable, despite heated rhetoric and implied threats, elections nationwide went smoothly and without predicted violence or massive protests. Problems were minor. Kari Lake, Republican candidate for Arizona governor, is the only loser who claims, without any evidence, that her defeat was the result of "disenfranchisement" of her supporters in Maricopa County.   

Personally, this election marked the passage of time. The first president I recall was Dwight Eisenhower. In 1952 as an eight year old I accidentally voted for him in the mock election held at our one room schoolhouse.  I tearfully asked the teacher if I could change my vote. My teacher refused; no election fraud here. My family was strongly Democratic. My older sister Barbara recalls our Dad praising Franklin Roosevelt and expressing great concerns about Hoover.  

I have always voted in all elections since reaching voting age. I worked on many elections after we moved to Wisconsin in 1986 until this one. While Ann and I contributed financially, I did not volunteer.  Mitigating factors included aging and still being cautious regarding COVID, which eliminated door-to-door canvasing. I once did phone and text banking but increasingly doubted the effectiveness. In 2020, Ann and I wrote many letters through Vote Forward but not this year. 

I don't look forward to the already unfolding 2024 presidential political season. The constant campaigning is tiresome. Sometimes I wish for a return to the time when extensive campaigning began  after Labor Day. The incessant television ads, text messages, and emails, all asking for money, are irritating. I recall when disinformation was not part of the political discourse. Supposedly we all trusted Walter Cronkite, that venerable CBC newscaster, with his infamous signoff: " And that's the way it is."  His sign off expresses my sentiments about our current politics.

The following poem embodies my aspirations for our political culture and our society. The frequent use of the word "vote" peaked my interest. A Google search revealed that "vote" is derived from the Latin word votum, meaning ‘a vow, wish’, and from vovere ‘to vow’. The verb dates from the mid -16th century.  You may want to change "vote" to "vow" or "wish" as you read and reflect on the poem.

Election By Alfred K. LaMotte  

I voted.

I voted for the rainbow.

I voted for the cry of a loon.

I voted for my grandfather’s bones
that feed beetles now.

I voted for a singing brook that sparkles
under a North Dakota bean field.

I voted for salty air through which the whimbrel flies
South along the shores of two continents.

I voted for melting snow that returns to the wellspring
of darkness, where the sky is born from the earth.

I voted for daemonic mushrooms in the loam,
and the old democracy of worms.

I voted for the wordless treaty that cannot be broken
by white men or brown, because it is made of star semen,
thistle sap, hieroglyphs of the weevil in prairie oak.

I voted for the local, the small, the brim
that does not spill over, the abolition of waste,
the luxury of enough.

I voted for the commonwealth of the ancient forest,
a larva for every beak, a wing-tinted flower
for every moth’s disguise, a well-fed mammal’s corpse
for every colony of maggots.

I voted for open borders between death and birth.

I voted on the ballot of a fallen leaf of sycamore
that cannot be erased, for it becomes the dust and rain,
and then a tree again.

I voted for more fallow time to cultivate wild flowers,
more recess in schools to cultivate play,
more leisure, tax free, more space between days.

I voted to increase the profit of evening silence
and the price of a thrush song.

I voted for ten million stars in your next inhalation.

My aspirations were exceeded, as Ann and I hosted a celebration on October 22nd of my brother Lou's and sister-in-law, Corine's 50th wedding anniversary. That day we also hosted the annual University of Wisconsin Homecoming gathering for the 36th year, attended by my older brother Tom, his wife Todd, Lester, a friend since 8th grade, and his friend, Eunice. My 2 brothers, Corine, and Todd went to the game, while Ann, Eunice and I watched on TV.

The couple exchanged vows on October 21, 1972  in our hometown church, The Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary, Pulaski, WI. I am on the far right of the picture. A reception was held in the parish hall, starting in the evening. 500 hundred guest first enjoyed dinner, followed by dancing and an open bar until midnight. 

The dinner was prepared under the supervision of the head cook Mrs. Kabara and with assistance from her crew. Mrs. Kabara was booked well in advance because of her popularity. Corine peeled many potatoes before the wedding. Family and neighbors often assisted at these large Polish influenced weddings. However, I don't recall any other stories of brides peeling potatoes. 

Fifty years later, Ann prepared the same meal of chicken, ham, stuffing, mashed potatoes, gravy, and green beans. The cake came from Metcalfe's, and of course, served with UW made Babcock ice cream. A four foot golden helium-filled number "50" balloon floated in the corner of the dining room as we sat around a 78 year old table purchased by Ann's Grandma, Anna, just before the 1944 wedding of Ann's parents, Ethel  and Charlie. Grandma Anna prepared and served a Hungarian dinner for the wedding party seated around the table. I imagine toasts were made in the honor of the happy couple.

We toasted Lou and Corine, wished them well, reminisced, and enjoyed the warmth of family and friends. Corine and Lou were delighted with the celebration. The Badger's win over Purdue added to the festivities. Lou and Corine are avid Badger and Packer fans.  

You may enjoy this novel by Quan Barry, the Lorraine Hansberry Professor of English at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. She was born in Saigon. The suspense filled and yet gently told tale involves two youthful twin brothers who become monks in the Tibetan Buddhism tradition. Both are capable of reading each other's minds.  

Chuluun is a novice monk awaiting his final vows while his brother, Mun, considered a reincarnation of a famous monk, has disrobed. Mun adopts a western lifestyle, has a cell phone, and an MP 3 player with ear buds. He also idolizes Genghis Khan, the founder and first Emperor of the Mongol Empire, which eventually became the largest contiguous empire in history. The Great Khan reigned from Spring 1206 – August 25, 1227.

The tale takes place in Mongolia and in 2015. Chuluun, along with two senior monks, go on a quest to find the child reincarnation of an important monk somewhere in the wilds of Mongolia.  Chuluun has deep doubts about his spiritual path, which he eventual resolves during the quest. His western seeking brother joins the quest. 

The two senior monks are also intriguing personalities, adding much to the story. The travel is dangerous, introducing the reader to the vastness and beauty of Mongolia while encountering the lives of the three possible child candidates. 

I especially liked the novel because of questions Chuluun wrestles with are for everyone and appropriate for the 21st century. For example, he asks, “Why do we need to believe that our lives add up to some grand narrative?”  For a review see  https://www.washingtonindependentreviewofbooks.com/index.php/bookreview/when-im-gone-look-for-me-in-the-east-a-novel

On October 29th,  Ann and I prepared Prospect Gardens for the winter with the help of Laura, a long time volunteer. Thank you Laura. This experience lacked the suspense and drama of Barry's tale. Instead, I felt contentment as the 13th season of caring for the Gardens was drawing to an end. This year, we left more plants intact, on the advice that doing so provides seeds for birds and shelter for small animals. About a week later, Ann and I put up the orange plastic snow fences that prevent city snowplows from pushing excessive snow into the Gardens and cleaned both ramps before winter sets in. 

Here are five pictures of the Gardens taken before we the current snow cover. Included are chapter titles from Barry's enchanting book.

"The Earth and Sky Never Meet"

      

 "There are Times When We Must Walk Towards the Darkest Dark"

  

" The Beautiful Arrives in Its Own Time"

"You Are Not Who You Believe Yourself to Be"

"We Rely on Nothing but What We Carry Inside Us"

Snow continues to cover the Gardens, offering protection against the elements. Thank you to the neighbors who volunteered this season, West High Leo Club members, and the Operation Fresh Start crew. What happens until spring is uncertain but we know that the Garden's future depends on the generosity of volunteers. 

Meanwhile, may you be well and have pleasant holidays as we continue on our collective and interconnected journey. I end with another poem that Steve shared at the end of the November 5th Mindful Man Retreat. 

Sonnet 2 from “The Autumn Sonnets”

by May Sarton

If I can let you go as trees let go
Their leaves, so casually, one by one;
If I can come to know what they do know,
That fall is the release, the consummation,
Then fear of time and the uncertain fruit
Would not distemper the great lucid skies
This strangest autumn, mellow and acute.
If I can take the dark with open eyes
And call it seasonal, not harsh or strange
(for love itself may need a time of sleep),
And treelike, stand unmoved before the change,
Lose what I lose to keep what I can keep,
The strong root still alive under the snow,
Love will endure—if I can let you go.