The monsoons continue to be generous this year, taking the edge off the drought.
I know people who don’t bother to vote, especially in a midterm. I’ve skipped an occasional midterm vote but that was before I understood the system. Next month, just weeks from now, the stakes are way too high to let your vote slide.
After torrential rains last month, erosion at the canyon was dramatic with deep rills carved down the steep walls.
We get to VOTE every two years, for various local, state and national representatives. Each election cycle represents an incremental turning of the rudder of our collective ship. This means that over time, say, eight to ten years, we get to change the direction of our government.
So each election, it behooves us to reevaluate: how well are the people I voted for last time actually representing my personal interests, and how well are they contributing to the collective wellbeing of our [fill in the blank: town, county, state, country] and ultimately, are we moving toward the destruction of life on earth or are we mitigating the accelerating crash of climate chaos?
Wait! Forget I said climate chaos, since I hope that I’m speaking to some climate change deniers. Just forget about the bigger picture for a minute and consider: are you personally better off now than you were two years ago? I don’t know anyone who can answer YES to that. I know ofsome people who can, people who were already filthy rich (or getting there) who have benefited from the current government’s policies: new and forever wars, exemptions, extractions; the demolition of the underpinnings of public health, food safety, public lands, cultural treasures, endangered species, infrastructure, retirement and healthcare; and the ruined lives of immigrant families, military families, poor families, LGBTQ people, wildlife; and so much more.
But me? I was tenuously set for retirement, if I was frugal, before the last presidential election. Now, I’m worried. I am choosing to skip certain doctor visits because I can’t afford the gas to drive one to two hundred miles round trip. I’m cutting back on some of my favorite foods, and reevaluating my staple groceries because I can’t afford my former shopping habits. Vacation is out of the question: Even if I were willing to get on an airplane again (which I have not since 9/11) I can’t afford a flight; nor can I afford the diesel to fuel my camper van.
How about you? If you tune into your true experience of living these days, and ignore unruly thoughts about imaginary horrors you don’t personally experience fed by fear-mongering propaganda, what do you discern? Are your neighbors actually out to get you? Or are they just like you, trying to live their lives without bothering anyone, trying to make an honest living and be happy and not suffer?
Are you spending more on groceries than you ever have? Are you spending more on fuel than you ever have? These are some of the things you should be worried about, not the lies that the current regime spews at you daily.
Yesterday we got a morning rainbow in the west, an afternoon rainbow in the east, and snow overnight.
You should also be worried about your watershed: Where does your drinking water come from, and do you think it’s a bottomless well? Do you think stripping environmental protections means you’ll still have plenty of clean water? Do you live in a tornado alley, or in the path of hurricanes? Do you think your weather forecasts and warnings are as accurate as they were before staggering cuts to National Weather Service? And if you’ve suffered losses from a natural disaster in the past two years, where has FEMA been?
Take a gentle, clear look: Are you better off now than you were two years ago? Do you feel safer, have more financial security, feel less anxious or angry, get along with your community, your family, and yourself any better? This is what it comes down to. My answer to all those questions is no, and I still consider myself pretty fortunate. Only a sweeping Democratic shift in the House and the Senate can put the brakes on the thieving, greedy, corruption that’s ruining the conditions of our daily lives. You don’t have to admit to it, just do it: vote for Democrats down the ticket. Give it eight or ten years, and see if you aren’t better off than you are now.
Are you registered to vote? Even if you think you are, you might not be. Federal interference with state voter rolls may have compromised your status. You can double check here with just a few clicks, and if you’re not registered there may still be time in your state. Don’t let anyone take your voice: your vote matters!
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My heart is moved by all I cannot save: so much has been destroyed. I have to cast my lot with those who age after age, perversely, with no extraordinary power, reconstitute the world.
ADRIENNE RICH
I’ve been reading N. K. Jemison’s trilogy The Broken Earth for a compelling diversion from our current earth-breaking trajectory. As in all good fiction, there are some terribly resonant parallels to our times so it turns out not to be more of a reflection than a distraction. This series followed my reading of Octavia E. Butler’s chilling Earthseed series, Parable of the Sower (1993) and Parable of the Talents (1998), which I’d call prescient except this trajectory was already painfully clear to many visionaries back then.
Poised as we are on the precipice of great changes, one way or another, I’ve been especially interested in the AI thread of our species-wide suicide drive. The Lunch Boyz used to talk about the Singularity regularly, and it took me several patient lunches worth of explanations to begin to understand it. I keep forgetting to ask Philip if it’s here yet, but I’m pretty sure I don’t need to.
So I choose from the endless emails to read articles like this one in The Atlantic, “The Truth Physics Can No Longer Ignore.” How could I ignore that headline? Astrophysicist Adam Frank is optimistic that now that the field of physics has turned its attention to the mystery of life itself, it will be able to help direct the growth of AI. Of course, the article was written almost a year ago, and feels hopelessly out of date now. Nevertheless, it came to my inbox a couple of weeks ago, and this passage intrigued me: “The fundamental laws that govern matter and energy cannot predict another fundamental property of life: It is the only system in the universe that uses information for its own purposes. Plants grow toward light, microbes swim toward rich food sources, animals hide from predators, humans send giant metal contraptions into outer space. Although one can, say, program a robot to search for a wall plug when its battery gets low, a living thing (a human programmer, for example) must hard-code that need into the machine. Life, by contrast, is both agential and autonomous.”
Four panels down, one to go! Inspired by Nature.
A few days later, also in the Atlantic, I read an article subtitled “How exactly is AI supposed to kill us all?” which caused me to wonder, IS Life the only complex system in the universe that uses information for its own purposes? I followed this with a valuable analysis of the threat from SNL’s Weekend Update, an interview with Anthropic CEO Dario Amodei.
The three panels completed over the past month all raised to let in warm sun, and lowered at night.
Before I could get this post finished a new article came out about the hitherto unrevealed extent of rogue AI. The very next day the US president “signed a document drafted by Mark Zuckerberg and approved by the AI oligarchs before it was presented to Trump, who then released it as a White House agreement.” Robert Hubbell went on, “As AI displaces your children and grandchildren from their jobs, gobbles up land and resources in their communities, and drives up utility costs, remember that Trump surrendered to the AI industry in a document drafted by Mark Zuckerberg. And, as a public service announcement, I remind everyone that Trump and the AI industry want to rename ‘artificial intelligence’ to ‘super intelligence,’ to remove any doubt about their belief that humans will be subservient to AI’s alleged superior intelligence.”
The large piñon pine that blew over in the big storm a couple of weeks ago. Brought to you by Nature.
I guess I’m spending the news portion of my attention budget on science-based existential threats rather than political existential threats because, well, been there done that and it broke me after a decade. (Although there’s really no separation at this point.) I’m putting myself back together, healing, by turning the bulk of my attention toward real life, lived experience in this body, on this land where Nature’s intelligent life holds me every day, and inspires my very human creativity, something I refuse to surrender to Artificial Intelligence.
A tiny nest on the forest floor on our walk this morning. I thought it was a hummingbird nest but when I reached to pick it up it felt stuck to the ground, so I left it there.
Also helping me cope with “the colossal scale of so much of what is happening: attacks on the free press, denial of life-saving aid to millions overseas, ongoing ICE killings on the streets and in detention facilities,” are the tactics outlined in the Greater Good Science Center’s recent article Seven Ways to Outlast Political Authoritarianism, recounting the experiences of Serbian activists who learned “how to practice sustainable resistance to authoritarian regimes in challenging conditions.”
Another opportunity to practice Equanimity! After the dish water slowed to a trickle this morning we went out to the utility room to find this: the new ‘automatic’ pressure switch failed. Oh well. They’ve scheduled me for Friday. It’s worse this time because I can’t manually activate the new switch so I’m down to jugs only. Glad I have plenty left! I’m grateful that in this little slice of life that was the worst thing about the day. Rain fell off and on all day, with snow on Mt. Gunnison, and plenty of other consolation prizes.
I went out to bring in the potted lemon tree because it could get below 40℉ tonight, and discovered even more mushrooms. It’s been practically eastern with all this rain, earthworms crawling up on the stepping stones and mushrooms all over the place. I spent the cool, drizzly day inside finally mounting two of the drapes. They’re not perfect, but who am I to let perfect stand in the way of good enough? I learned new skills with each of them which I hope I remember when I mount the next one. As I stood there looking at the instructions this morning I felt a little frustration arise: it looked daunting. And it was! But as a little whine began to whisper I can’t do this!, I calmed it with the reminder, I’ve never done this before so of course I don’t know how, and it’s okay if it takes all day. And it did! And that was okay.
I took a lunch break, and after I hung the second panel I warmed up some cheesy grits to eat with coleslaw for dinner. During dinner I dropped everything and stepped outside to savor the sunset. And then I reclined with the heating pad at my tweaked back, ate some ice cream, and started the next knitting project while I watched the final two episodes of this season of Grey’s Anatomy. I hope many millions of Americans have watched this season, which features some prominent storylines highlighting diverse tragedies caused by this current anti-science, anti-research, anti-American government.
Mendicant Ridge shortly before dinner, above, and during dinner, below.
Needle Rock and Sleeping Indian shortly before, and then during sunset.
Water! And a new faucet that’s been in a box for four years, too complicated for me to install myself. I’m very grateful today for Plumber Chet who showed up promptly afternoon, after texting ahead, and was just as kind in person as he was on the phone. The first thing I did after he left was take an indulgent hot shower. I am usually pretty mindful in the shower, not so much about the amount of water because it goes out to the birch tree, but mindful of the sensations of the shower. Today I felt every single drop that hit my body, which practically sang in gratitude.
I’m grateful for growing into the mindfulness skills I’ve been learning and teaching. The equanimity lived inside me during this minor inconvenience; furthermore, I actually felt grateful for the challenge. They say most of our growth comes during the hard times, which I hope isn’t true (since, you know, spoiled white girl), and that we should be grateful for even the difficulties in life for that reason. Water rationing this weekend brought that alive for me: It was an opportunity to practice equanimity and patience for my own situation, and compassion for people who don’t have ready access to running water or potable water. The UN reports that nearly a quarter of humans globally don’t have drinking water on premises, and almost half lack safely managed sanitation. There are 2.2 million Americans who still don’t have running water in their homes, and there’s a human rights nonprofit working to close that water gap. This really puts rationing water for a few days into perspective; it’s also good practice for a future in which climate chaos will inevitably lead to water shortages. I’m grateful for the internal and external support through a stressful weekend.
One big accomplishment this weekend was The Fried Fish Sandwich. I’ve been wanting to make one for awhile, and finally had all the elements in place. It was Friday’s planned lunch, and the fish was mostly thawed when the water mini-crisis occurred. I put it in the fridge because I couldn’t deal with the mess it would make right then amid all the uncertainty. (Paradoxically, the minute my water use was curtailed, I wanted nothing more than to wash dishes and do laundry.) The next day, I had jugs and occasional tap water and so I tackled the complex lunch. First, I made coleslaw. I half-filled the Fry Baby with peanut oil, whisked egg with a little water, and mixed a flour, cornmeal, and panko bread crumb to dredge the fish. After patting dry the grouper filet, I then prepared the bun: mayo, ketchup, lettuce, tomato, red onion, pickle.
It was a tall one! But it held together remarkably well. It was a great opportunity to recognize the truth of dukkha, or dissatisfaction. It was delicious; and yet, the crust was a little too crunchy – next time, just flour and panko. It was a little too tall. I forgot to squeeze lemon. I wished I’d made tartar sauce. See how we can find dissatisfaction in even the finest moments? Life is hard enough, especially now. I’m practicing noticing these nagging little dissatisfactions so that I can shrug them off and turn my attention to the satisfying aspects of my life. As for the big dissatisfactions, the only thing that’s gonna turn my attention from them is a massive blue wave come November. (And not the one that’s threatening the west coast. How are we just now hearing about this?)
To keep my mind off the fact that I couldn’t repot houseplants or wash sheets, I stayed focused on the drapery project. The top third of the final panel is laid out, and I’ve resolved the dilemma of the rest of the empty space. I realized last week that birds, reptiles, insects, fish, and frogs are well represented in the panels, but I had not included a single mammal. Inspiration struck: a jaguar! So I hunted down some photographs and made a composite pattern from two. She’ll be standing on a fallen tree. I can’t wait to see how she turns out!
And Sunday there was a basic BLT with cheese for lunch, with one of the Sunfired Flare tomatoes from the garden. I wasn’t optimistic about this variety at first. I planted two, and the first one to flower only set a handful of tomatoes. The second one grew lush and tall but didn’t even flower until mid-August. But then it delivered a couple dozen modest-sized fruits, all of which I picked over the weekend because they were splitting from all the rain. They’ll ripen over the next few weeks. I’m grateful for the abundant water that flowed freely all summer through my hoses to nourish the garden through the extreme drought.
I treated myself to a massage last week, but as usual little Wren claimed Elyse’s attention as soon as she arrived. Later, she jumped up on the table and lay quietly between my knees as I received one of the finest back massages of my life. I had her focus on my back because I’d pulled something (conveniently) the day before our appointment, whilst accidentally cleaning out the chest freezer. I only meant to scrape some of the ice that was impinging on lid closure, but couldn’t stop myself from emptying it all out, defrosting completely, sorting contents into Compost (2018 wax beans, 2016 rhubarb, etc.), Keep, or House, to bring into the house freezer or fridge and eat soon.
I haven’t eaten much red meat for years, but when I did I bought the best: local, free-range, from people I knew who raised their animals with love and care. The only meat left in the freezer was a pair of ribeye steaks, which went into the House pile. I have no idea what year they were from, and knew that if they looked awful when thawed I’d throw them away; if they looked fine but not appealing I’d cook and cut them up small for Wren fud; and if they looked tasty to me I’d indulge.
They did look tasty! But they were huge. So I rewrapped one for later and put it back in the chest freezer, and looked up the best way to cook the other. In the years since I cooked meat, I’ve learned a thing or two from watching chefs on tv or instagram, and my mouth always waters a little when I see Chef Matthew Ryle basting browned meat with butter, which I’d never done. Oh, I’d fried steaks in butter, but never knew to baste them. It just looks so sumptuous.
So I browned the first side in butter, and then tossed in finely chopped shallots, garlic, and sage, all from the garden, and finished cooking while I gently tipped the skillet and basted the steak. I probably should have basted before I put in the flavors but I’ll try that next time.
After a few minutes on each side and a poke with the thermometer I determined it was done to medium and removed the steak to a plate to ‘rest.’ Also something I had never bothered with before. Then I splashed a little red wine into the pan and cooked it down to a lovely quick sauce. I sliced a few thin strips to eat with a baked potato and leftover collards, and enjoyed a restaurant meal in my sunroom.
One reason I cooked the steak was so that I could have leftovers in sandwiches for a few days. Wren got all the fat and gristle chopped up small for topping on her next few meals, and I boiled the bone down to a broth for her also. The first sandwich included deli-sliced smoked gouda and garden tomatoes. Between the luxury of steak and the garden tomato, it made me think again of a phrase that comes to mind occasionally, ‘spoiled white girl.’
Shortly after college, I moved to a southern town and lived miles into the country in the ground floor of a two-story duplex owned by an older black woman in town. We had a cordial landlady-tenant relationship, I thought, until one day when her brother picked all the biggest, ripest tomatoes I had grown in my garden out back. I’d invited him to pick a few, but not all of them! I must have mentioned it to her, because she said “You just a spoiled white girl!”
The words stung, I’ll be honest. I mean, like a hard, full-handed slap in the face. They felt deeply unfair, yet also somehow true. I recall nothing more (maybe it will turn up in my journals when I get back to reading them) but the label has haunted me for four decades. As I begin to learn the importance of self-compassion, and explore the process of cultivating it, that phrase keeps bubbling to the surface. I accept that I was raised as a spoiled white girl, but I believe that I’ve come a long way from my upbringing. I see that this weekend in my equanimity and adaptability to losing the running water in my home. The plumber can’t come til Tuesday but I’m making do with water jugs and shower offers from neighbors.
A dessert last week with strawberry ice cream, garden strawberries, and melted dark chocolate.
I noticed quickly that my baseline stress bumped up a couple of notches, simply from not having reliable running water. In truth, I’ve gotten the pressure tank to fill up a couple of times but the switch is dicey and dying. I’m managing to keep dishes clean with frugal intention and flush the toilet when necessary with the house water, but I don’t think that luxury will last through the next few days. I’m grateful for the kindness of friends nearby. This couldn’t have happened at a better time: plentiful rain and cooler temperatures allow a pause in watering the garden, and jugs will work for the few plants that may need some; I’m not dealing with stomach flu or colonoscopy prep; it’s still warm enough that I’m not relying on a hot shower to thermoregulate. There’s much to be grateful for.
And certainly, I recognize my good fortune that this minor inconvenience is the worst hardship I currently personally face. For one thing, I can still afford to fill up my car, which a friend kindly suggested I do the other day before prices go even higher, though it did cost almost fifty dollars for less than a full tank, and forty is the most I’ve ever paid to fill it from empty. Coincidentally, this sign showed up in an email later that day, with a link to Factocracy.net where you can download this and many more signs for free.
But I’m keenly aware of the suffering of humans and other beings around the globe. Everything changes. All the time. In this moment, all is well in my tiny sphere. I think of people in Ukraine, Gaza, Lebanon, Sudan, Nepal, who once had running water and now live in ruins. You never know what’s coming. I think a true spoiled white girl wouldn’t consider the suffering of others, just as the spoiled white men ruling this country don’t consider, or don’t care, about the suffering they’re imposing on millions of Americans—on most Americans: at the gas pump, the grocery store, the hospital, you name it. I know that, privileged as I am, I’m considerably worse off now than I was two years ago, financially, mentally, and emotionally.
Wren reluctantly sits for a fitting of her new sweater underway.
The only thing that saves my sanity at this point is the practice of mindfulness. I teach a meditation called “Three Thoughts,” and each morning I wake up and remember those thoughts as I make an accurate assessment of my life: 1) I’m very fortunate, and I name some of the many ways; 2) my fortune could change in any way at any moment, and death is certain, time of death uncertain; 3) how can I live each precious day that will never come again so that I can face death when it arrives with no regrets? Every day takes learnin’ all over again how to fuckin’ live.
Insane rains the past two days. One deluge after another rolling through in waves, lightning and thunder, branches blown down, a large dead piñon toppled, and that’s just what I can see within and from the yard. Poor Wren’s heart may give out before the monsoons are through. But we are all so very grateful for the water, even though much of it is just running off the hardpan ground. Some of it’s penetrating. It will be interesting to see what kinds of flash floods emerge in this region with this unusual storm cycle.
I have been gathering a post about 9/11 which I started on the 25th anniversary last Friday, and I just can’t seem to give it the time it needs. My attention touches then glances off it, but I’ll persist. Obviously, like so many, the day brought up a lot of emotions, primarily fear, dread, and grief. I was grateful for many thoughtful reflections and commemorations around the world that came to my screen, and I want to share some of them.
But mostly, in this moment, I want to offer thanks for the insane rain, and reflect on how unsettling it is after what seems like decades since I’ve experienced anything like it. A lot of these thunders have made me jump. It’s enervating enough for me: I can only imagine how unnerving it is for little Wren. I worry for her bladder as well as her heart, as I have to coax her out between storm bouts, with more forecast through the next week. Topaz was out in a thunderous gale for awhile tonight and I was so happy when she finally came bedraggled and mewing to the window.
Gathered at the strawberry patch in sunnier days, like Saturday. We’ve been getting two or three ripe berries a day, which naturally I have to share. I get one good bite, and one of them gets the stem end with a generous bit of berry left on.
A few more modest harvests from home, and some treats from the farmers’ market. It took awhile but I finally made bread and butter pickles with the cucumbers from the farmers’ market last time. Just two pints, so I didn’t bother canning them, just put them in the fridge. They won’t last long.
I was grateful for a gorgeous day today, and for the help of Good Tim in the garden. Here he’s cutting suckers from the wild plum with Wren’s help. She adores him and follows him around when he’s here like a—well, like a puppy dog.
I learned a new technique for bread scoring, where you do the decorative scoring only (wheatstalks, here) and bake for seven minutes, then you take the lid off and do the expansion score (straight lines) so the loaf can rise to its full potential, replace the lid and bake the rest of the covered time, then remove the lid as usual until done. Pretty pleased with my first attempt.
The shades are coming along, I spent hours this weekend on several panels in varying stages, and I’m happily absorbed in completing the appliqués. (I’ll iron out the wrinkles before assembly.) I’m grateful I’ve rediscovered the joy of sewing. I heard just this evening on Forrest Hanson’s ‘Being Well’ podcast that when you don’t find joy in things you used to it indicates depression.
While I was designing a trumpet flower on the lower section, little miss Topaz did her cat thing. These are impressionistic shades, not ecologically or geographically accurate, so I anchored this panel with a bunch of cypress knees, checking my memory of them against photos from an Ecosia search online. Yes, they really do look that strange and otherworldly.
I had a couple of errands to run, including swinging by the lumber yard to buy the 1×2 strips for mounting the shades, so I saved them for Farmers Market day. Paonia is an interesting town, with the strongest Blue streak in a Red county. As US politics gets ever more bizarre and divisive, I found this interesting piece on the right’s attacks on Jon Ossoff somewhat enlightening.
Wren came to town with me, and her day got very interesting. She met Huckleberry at the lumber yard. Then she heard fire engine sirens up close and personal at our next stop. Then she met Huckle at the Farmers Market, and she was so excited to see him that I think she must have spent some time with him before, at the Bad Dog Ranch where he’s a neighbor.
Today was an extra bright day for me after the rough week the world just finished. Losing Dolly Parton was the first blow. I know there are a lot of ‘good millionaires’ out there just living their lives and not being greedy; but it does seem that the wealthiest people on the planet are the hungriest ghosts. There are some notable exceptions, among them Dolly, who spent her wealth freely for humanitarian causes.
Thankfully many of the worst fires in the US West are under control or out, though fires in Washington State continue to create unhealthy air, new fires burn in California, and some fires remain in Oregon, Nevada, Arizona, and New Mexico. Colorado, which kicked off the season well ahead of other states, now, blessedly, remains almost fire-free. The Guardian published this article last week about Josephine County, Oregon, which has the highest rate of deaths from wildfire smoke of any place in the country. It’s a sad testament to the obvious effects of climate chaos, and at the same time it validates my experience of our smoky days here and their effect on my breathing.
I’m thankful that the COPD that afflicts me does so only moderately, not severely, but I understand that it’s an irreversible illness that, without adequate precautions, will worsen and could eventually kill me. Oh well! This is how it is. I’m taking the precautions I know of, and always open to more helpful measures. In so many ways, I’m more fortunate than most people on the planet.
Certainly my good fortune far exceeds that of those poor people living along the Trishuli River on the border of Tibet and Nepal. A dear friend has lived in Nepal, has friends there, and has been watching developments in this climate-fueled mega-disaster closely. She shared this link to a fascinating in-depth analysis of the geological and climatological conditions that factored into the seismic ‘debris flow’ or, as some are calling it, ‘inland tsunami’, the effects of which will be felt for a long time to come. A lot of survivors I’ve seen interviewed said there’s no reason left to live: they’ve lost so much that life has no meaning anymore. Many expressed survivors’ guilt. The grief and trauma the entire remaining population of those demolished communities are suffering is almost as unfathomable as the mind-boggling catastrophe itself.
Holding tragedy and grief in my heart, holding the world and all beings in compassion, how else can I live but by appreciating all the small joys as they arise? And every day they arise one after another after another, though some days I notice only a few, and for awhile there I couldn’t see any. Today overflowed with lovely moments.
I spent more money than I should have at the market, including $20 on a pizza to support The Learning Council, a community advocacy group who offers wood-fired pizza and an organic full meal each week for any donation. I enjoyed a couple of slices at a picnic table, listening to the lovely music, before heading home.
I also bought a couple of tomatoes, some pickling cucumbers, and three skeins of yarn. I only intended to buy two. I was entranced by the colors of these hand-dyed wools last time, but I can’t wear wool, it itches. So I pondered what I could do with some, and realized that Wren can wear wool! And I call her Wrenbow, so I planned to get some rainbow wool to knit her a new sweater.
I was grateful to snag the last two skeins of the most rainbow yarn. Then I had a lovely chat with Tonya of Wooly Colorado as I perused the rest of her wares, and she pointed out “Those two are cotton, I spun them. Dyed with indigo.” Something happened. I picked one up and teared up. Emotion overcame common sense, rationalization reared its lovely head, I can wear cotton, and I bought one. Just holding it, carrying it to the car, telling someone about it on the phone later, tears and tingles kept coming. My heart is open again.
Sunset the other night was gorgeous. The woodshed is full before autumn. And the desert 4 o’clocks are blooming their psychedelic purple.
Another delightful thing was an illusion the other morning: a scrub jay perched on the peach trunk that looked azure-teal, an amazing color that I first thought for a split second was a genetic anomaly, until it flew off and I realized the color was an effect of the light shining through something green onto the tree, transforming the blue jay into an astonishing teal jay.
Im glad I took the garbage out late tonight, around 10. I stumbled upon a lunar eclipse. For just a second I experienced the confusion that must have struck early humans before they knew what it was. I was grateful for science and that I understood quickly what was happening. I’d had no idea there was a near total lunar eclipse—96.2% according to space.com, and the best one anywhere on earth until the last day of 2028. I wonder what our world will be like then? After I drove the garbage up the driveway I made a cup of chamomile tea and sat out on the deck with a happy pup on my lap and stars in my eyes, watching the earth’s shadow melt away revealing the bright full moon, meditating on the miracles of this universe.
It was a good week in the kitchen, starting with Boyz Lunch, though we’re down to just two of us now. We toasted John with iced coffees then enjoyed philosophical conversation, homemade french fries and a herring salad sandwich on fresh rolls.
Later that day I went to the Arbol farmers market in Paonia which was a festival of color. I was specifically seeking mushrooms.
I came home with three kinds of mushrooms and a mushroom-honey liver tonic, four tomatoes, a dozen ears of corn, roasted green chilis, and a bowl full of Indian supper. The next day it was a plain and simple, delicious tomato sandwich for lunch.
Thursday it was time to make the long-anticipated Gourmet tuna-noodle casserole. I chopped up the brown oyster mushrooms and sautéed them with an onion, then added soy sauce and sherry.
For the topping, I used the last few slices of sourdough to make breadcrumbs and tossed them with grated cheddar and set it aside.
I cooked a quick roux for a white sauce, added one can of tuna and the mushroom mixture to it, tossed in the cooked noodles, spread the mix into the ceramic dish, and topped with the breadcrumb mix and baked it.
It was delicious, not exactly simple, and almost as much trouble as it was worth.
The next day, lunch was a smoked salmon club with refrigerator pickles and another market tomato.
Saturday was Zoom Cooking with Amy, and I had asked to make ravioli. She chose a recipe with mushroom filling, and I chose the Lion’s Mane for mine.
Sizzling butter just because.
Minced shallots in the butter, then the mushrooms, then a splash each of Vermouth and cream. We made our filling ahead, and mixed the pasta dough and rested it in the fridge, so when we got together in the evening all we had to do was make the raviolis and a simple sauce by simmering tomatoes in brown butter.
I’ve only used the pasta roller a couple of times but I’m so grateful for the gift of it. I think making pasta dough daunted me, but this recipe was so easy and worked so well, and it was so much fun, that I’ll be making a lot more fresh pasta.
I lacked the right tool for the job to cut the pasta—I was sure I had a pasta cutting wheel but couldn’t find it—but I found a reasonable facsimile in the potato crinkle cutter. I froze some, and the rest cooked in about four minutes. By the next time I try ravioli I’ll have the right tool for the job. Practice makes perfect, or close enough.
I only used half the dough last night, and probably should have frozen the rest but didn’t think about whether the raw egg in it would be ok overnight in the fridge. This evening I took a chance and rolled the remainder, then took the adventurous step of attaching the fettuccini cutter to the Kitchenaid. I’m grateful for the drying rack, too. Tomorrow I’ll bag up my dried noodles and figure out the best way to store them. I’m grateful for a great week in the kitchen.
Today’s post is a little different. It’s the transcript, essentially, of my final podcast, “Suffer Less with Mindfulness,” which aired last week. You can listen to all episodes for a few more weeks wherever you get your podcasts or on my website, before I cancel my subscription to the Captivate platform at which point it disappears forever from everywhere, except possibly Apple Podcasts, and maybe Insight Timer.
What’s your understanding of equanimity? Mine includes the idea that we can find balance under any conditions, and we aren’t constantly being jerked by our emotions or external circumstances or our own thoughts or other people’s actions from one extreme of joy and excitement and positivity to the other extreme of despair or rage or negativity; maintaining an even keel. It includes the idea of seeing all humans as having equal value, not judging people until we know them, and then using discernment, not snap judging. It includes the idea of not labeling, of being open to seeing, to understanding that each person is who they are, and they bring to each encounter all the causes and conditions of their life up to that moment, just like we do. It’s embodied in the idea that I’ve mentioned before, and we’ll swap out mindfulness for equanimity: “Equanimity is not about feeling better, it’s about getting better at not making things worse.” And it’s so much more than all these things.
One rich ground for equanimity practice is the fact that Death is certain, time of death uncertain. In some ways my whole life, my whole mindfulness practice since I began it 20 years ago, has been about learning to die. I’ve been afraid of death, afraid of dying, since I was a child and first learned of death. For the past year, I’ve been preparing to die. This last month, as part of that, I’ve been doing a life review, reading my old journals starting from the first one in high school. Partly so that I can burn them or send them to the dump so that they’re out of my house when I die; and partly to shift my perspective. I’m getting some resolution, some equanimity with who I was in the past. Who I am right now is not who I was even yesterday. I’m making peace with the process of growing and changing, and remembering that every moment I’m choosing ‘how do I wanna be?’ Equanimity can really help us make those choices with wisdom and compassion.
I’ve dipped into some of these journals through the years. Occasionally I’ve looked back at a certain event or a certain timeframe, and I’ve read it and been disgusted with myself, judging harshly: Same old patterns, same old complaints, same old, same old. This time I’m looking back on my life systematically with a different lens: the lens of compassion, which I’ve never used before.
‘How was it for younger Rita?’ Can I offer her kindness instead of judgment? Can I bring curiosity to reading these journals, to see what she might have been going through, get a healthier perspective on the conditions around her, and bring a sense of acceptance, equanimity, even gratitude, to the life I’ve lived so far?
I’ve found some tragically silly little love poems. I’ve read of my aspiration to be loving and kind repeatedly, yet also how I remained in vicious and constant judgement of others. I’ve recognized my tendencies of projection, labeling, exaggeration, and many more afflictions that mindfulness practice diminishes with awareness. I’ve seen myself back then from morning to night, bouncing from absolute giddiness to utter despair, from feeling really good about myself because some boy thought I was cute, to feeling worthless, to feeling high as a kite because of some fun party I went to or ice skating or a kiss, to feeling total confusion and contempt. External influences, mostly boys, swung me from one extreme to another emotionally with zero equanimity, though there were occasional insightful moments of awareness. I now recognize this as the condition of adolescence, puberty, being a hormone-addled teenager; I see my past self with tenderness instead of scorn, and see all teenagers now with compassion.
I’ve come across a few striking instances that illustrate the malleable nature of memory. I was stunned to read that I got the part of the pregnant girl in the local TV station PSA in sophomore year. All I’ve remembered for as long as I can remember was the humiliation of the audition. I sat in an empty classroom with my head on my arms pretending to cry. The scout team wanted actual tears. I went to great lengths to generate tears, pinching myself, recalling my cat’s death, even asking for a slice of raw onion from the cafeteria and breaking that up under my face. I didn’t get the part. Shame. Yet in my journal, I read that I got the part! I got my current crush to play my boyfriend, kids in the halls called me ‘movie star’ for weeks afterward, and I felt respected by the cool kids for awhile. Why did I take away, or reconstruct, a memory of failure?
I’ve been surprised also that through those years I found three instances where I describe almost verbatim a terrible pit in my stomach, a gnawing emptiness, a burning hole in my gut, clearly physical. What was that about?
One thing that helps us cultivate equanimity and also feeds equanimity is this idea of perspective, and the more we can exercise a flexible open mind, the more we gain a broader, more open-hearted perspective. Now, as I’m learning about the influences of being raised by immature parents, of growing up in a home with constant bickering, a father who was power hungry and a broken-hearted mother, and nervous system development, I have a lot more perspective. I’ve already found some closure, some resolution, some equanimity and compassion with who I was then. I just wanted to be seen and loved.
There are those whose opinions differ, but it seems painfully clear that the human species over the past 400 years or perhaps our entire evolution has set in motion the collapse of our planetary systems. Climate collapse is a no-brainer. I live in the US west where for the past decade average temperatures have been rising in all seasons, and concurrently wildfire season has grown from a few months in late summer to encompass more than half the year. There is really no time of year, where I live, that a random lightning strike couldn’t provoke a cataclysmic fire, except a few months in deep winter if there is adequate snow cover, which is no longer guaranteed.
The Gold Mountain fire 60 miles south of here that burned 38,000 acres, now they’re having flash floods as a result of the monsoon storms coming through and washing down the burnt bare hillsides, carrying rocks and mud and wiping away houses at the bottom that survived the fire. The Elk fire just a few miles east of that continues to grow, making it unhealthy or impossible to spend time outside. Spokane, Canada, Oregon, France, Spain, whoever is next… The planet is burning.
The planet is burning because of people’s choices. It’s largely been the choices of people in power in corporations and in certain countries. It’s systemic. We can’t solve this individually. They led us to believe that recycling would fix it, that solar panels would fix it. None of those things ever worked because they were intentionally deluding us all along, and we were letting ourselves be deluded. Meanwhile, they can’t quit blowing shit up.
Seeing reality clearly, can we acknowledge that this is a really hard time? The planet is burning. Cultural collapse seems imminent as evidenced in the decline in reading, the inability of younger generations to write in cursive, and measurably shorter attention spans in students. Loss of human contact is prevalent in the ascendance of AI, in the proliferation of self-checkout, in the tacit permission to be cruel in online trolling, in person now, and in our institutions. Loneliness is pandemic. Societal collapse is underway and all you need do to see it is look around you. These days I experience more and more moments where I feel compassion for the tragedy of the human condition rather than anger and resistance to the way we are as a species. What a seething mass of parasites we are on this planet, and the sad part is — we simply couldn’t help it.
Yes, it’s true that at other times in human history, in other parts of the world, there have been civilization collapses and ecological collapses, and it’s also true that there are many good people around the globe working hard in many ways to stem the tide, to improve conditions in very many ways. But this current poly-crisis planetary collapse is different in scale and in momentum.
How do we live in such a world? How do we bring equanimity, compassion, and kindness out into the world? It doesn’t hurt to start with a healthy comparison of myself with those suffering worse than I, like climate refugees, brutalized immigrants, all manner of oppressed people from BIPOC to trans and queer people to people living in poverty or without homes. This leads to a healthy appreciation of the current conditions of my life, despite its challenges. Next, remember to be kind. “It’s so easy to be nice,” said my friend Kathleen as we discussed this the other day. Why expend the energy to be hateful?
It is hard to have equanimity in this time that we find ourselves. It takes conscious effort. It takes intention, and it takes choosing where we place our attention. And this is why these four heart qualities, the Four Boundless Attitudes of Equanimity, Compassion, Kindness, and Appreciative Joy, are so important: because life on earth is just gonna get harder. The more we can find peace, equanimity, compassion, and wisdom in ourselves, the more we can be islands of strength and resilience in our lives and for the people around us. And then we can turn our strengths into actions in our groups and our communities, and make our voices heard, and vote right.
We can do all those things and more; but can we also practice equanimity in this very dicey time? Well, what are our options? We can suffer and be miserable and be scared, and every emotion is contagious. So if we are going around angry and scared, we’re gonna make other people angry and scared. If we can have even moments of peace in any situation, we can share that peace. We can calm and soothe others.
We find this capacity in ourselves through our mindfulness practice, and in whatever spiritual grounding we each have. We find equanimity not only internally, but also in the groups of people where we can share in this ‘seeing reality clearly,’ share our broken hearts, share the anger and fear, and share the commitment and the intention to keep practicing. Keep practicing.
I don’t expect to die any time soon, but … death is certain, time of death uncertain. In the past year I’ve experienced an unusual number of health challenges, some of which can be managed with medications or lifestyle adjustments, and the rest I can adapt to. These actually started piling on after I set the intention to prepare to die, and for awhile they eclipsed that aspiration. Now as I’ve tamed some of them, they serve as motivation to accelerate my preparation.
There are so many things I’ve left undone in my life, and it’s winding down. At best I’ll have another twenty or so productive years. At worst, I could go tomorrow. If I only get a few good years before my lungs are too compromised to remain at this elevation, I’d like to at least finish some of the domestic projects here at Mirador, like the series of five quilted, tropical-themed warm-window drapes begun twenty years ago to keep the sunroom warmer in winter, and now more essential to keep it cooler in climate-intensified summer heat.
That’s just one of dozens of undone creative projects. Not to mention PG&D: personal growth and development. I’m finally acknowledging that being raised by parents with narrow, rigid minds, functional alcoholics who were exemplary products of the military-industrial colonization culture, wasn’t just a mismatch for my sensitive temperament, it was a constant low-grade trauma to my nervous system. As a result, there’s a lot of healing to do before I die, so that I can live more fully in alignment with my values, bring more meaning to this fleeting existence, in the time left to me. I’m on the right track. In some ways I’ve always been on the right track. Because it’s always been the path that has opened before me, each remarkable step of the way. Now, navigating that path involves withdrawing some of my externally-oriented energies and turning inward even more deeply.
So, this is the last episode of this podcast for the foreseeable future. Mirador Eco-retreat is essentially a single-person business without much capital, and I can no longer afford to produce a podcast. The cost isn’t sustainable either financially or energetically. Thank you for listening, and I hope that you have derived some benefit from the lessons and meditations I’ve shared over the past four years. You can support my ongoing mindfulness work or join the Suffer Less with Mindfulness virtual sangha at this membership page: miradorecoretreat.org.
