STEAMING CUP OF 'JOE'

  Growing up I never drank coffee; why I don’t know. I never wanted to smoke either, except for that week when I was ten. It took a week of sneaking smokes from my dad’s open pack before I begged the gnawing question: Why am I doing this? It was my friend’s idea and being a follower I went along. It still reminds me of a joke (if you will) where a man who is beating himself on the head with a hammer is asked why would he do such a thing. His reply; “Because it feels so good when I quit.” My curiosity with tobacco smoke was satisfied in short order and forever since I’ve never, ever been tempted to repeat that folly. 
On the other hand, drinking coffee can sneak up on you. It smells good to begin with and part of its appeal is that little hint of ‘bitter’. Still, if I wanted it hot and dark then hot chocolate was preferable; until one cold December day in 1958. I was in Basic Training (U.S.Army) at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri. It was our final week before graduation. We were in the field for several days and nights, putting all of our Grunt-training to a final test. It was cold but we were dressed and they kept us busy. But the second or third night it plunged down into the 20’s and there was a lot more waking up cold than there was sleeping. The next day was gray and windy and the temperature stayed stuck down in the (cold as a witch’s tit) zone, or maybe  a (well digger’s ass)? Whichever is colder, that’s how cold it was. 
We marched a while and navigated the obstacle course which put us at the rifle range. Until then we had been moving which helped but on the range it was a lot of ‘Hurry up & wait’. When your turn came it was shooting in either the upright or prone position and the cold wouldn’t leave you alone. No hot lunch, only cold C-Rations but they had plenty of hot coffee. Portable heaters hung on the sides of galvanized, 50 gallon barrels like outboard boat motors. I don’t know how they brewed it but the closer to the bottom of the barrel there were more grounds to chew up or spit out. We walked by in line with our empty canteen cups for a fill up and if you came away with more than half a cup you were lucky. It was steaming, too hot to drink. So on cold days I went through the line and used that steaming cup to warm my hands and face. On a subfreezing, windy day; hot coffee in an aluminum cup doesn’t stay hot. So you take your gloves off and switch hands until it cools a bit, then when the steam subsides you press it to your cheeks and move it across your mouth. 
On that frosty-cold day in 1958 my bias against coffee gave in to another conditioned response, the one to sip from the cup’s lip and it was good enough. It crossed my mind even then, “For something I don’t like it tastes pretty good.” I went back for a second cup, repeated the steam first, bare hands, cheeks and mouth in that order but had to chew & spit more coffee grounds than with the first cup and it didn’t matter. Now it’s been sixty five years and I don’t like coffee cups at all. If I can’t hold a proud mug (even a large insulated paper cup) of steaming ‘Joe’ in both hands, elbows on the table, up close to my face; I feel cheated.
For me, those three years in the Army were like the extra but critical last few minutes for a loaf of bread in the oven. The Army didn’t need me but I was a warm body with feet on the ground and they needed that. My part from the mutual benefit was, I stayed out of trouble and out of debt while I browned in the oven. Whatever else I learned in those short years was that the alcohol buzz isn’t worth the hangover. I learned that I could only spend my dollar once and that hurt me once, shame on you; hurt me twice, shame on me. The Army put me in the right place to mix airplanes with parachutes, which turned out to be the catalyst for a true sense of self worth. I became very good at something that others respected. In the end it translated out to be (if not great then) good enough: And (Good Enough) has been the needle on my compass ever since. So here I am a content old man reflecting on my (coffee from a mug) experience and the rewards of living well and knowing when squat and when to move my feet. 

CHURCH OF THE HIGH MEADOW

  M-22 is a scenic stretch of blacktop that runs up Michigan’s west coast from Manistee all the way up around Northport and down to its other end in Traverse City. Without a litany of awe inspired endearment, that ‘hundred mile shoreline is what every sandy little berm on every coast wants to be. There is a spot near Glen Arbor where the woods give way to hayfields, to century-old barns and long abandoned orchards. Beyond them a high meadow and steep glacial moraines left there from the last ice age are overgrown with beech and maple forest. The first time I saw it I knew; This is the place. To my surprise it was part of Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lake Shore. As a taxpayer I am an owner and I can be there, hike there, climb in the woods and sit in the tall grass whenever I please. 
Four hundred years ago Shakespeare penned the lines “all the world’s a stage. . .” and we (all of us) are actors playing out our roles. What a wonderful metaphor. But there is no script, we have to improvise and ad lib as we go; and it’s all one act, no intermission, no prompters, no do-overs. Each of us has to find our way and deliver our lines over and under, in between and around every other actor on that stage. That part is often taken for granted as if we (the protagonists) are upstage with everybody waiting anxiously for us to speak. When I first drove by the hayfields and the high meadow I knew it would be my center stage and my story should unfold from there. 
Whatever I might have been before, I am by now an old heretic. It doesn’t take much imagination to imagine primitive people and their helpless fear with every thunder clap and lightning bolt. Creating a mythical god was their only-best course of action. It must have eased their anxiety in the moment and it still underlies western religion but I don’t believe any of it. I didn’t chose to be that way but too much to believe is just that. I fit in very neatly with Secular Humanists. In lieu of a long, wordy manifesto our commandments tell us to Cooperate, Be nice and Play fair. All we need to maximize and fulfill our righteous potential is programmed in our brain at birth. An all knowing, all powerful god isn't necessary. Some seeds never germinate, some sprout, some go back into the food web, some feed on the same food web and make more seed, lay more eggs, birth more babies, enough to replace themselves and sustain their species. I’m lucky to be here, a minuscule but relevant link in the web. 
The human brain is a marvelous instrument but needs a skilled artist to make music. It works like a high centered, short wheelbase little jeep with big tires and a 600 horse power motor. It can take you places nobody dreamed we could go. But if you drive with imaginary insurance and reckless abandon it will, without a second thought, leave you upside down in the ditch. 
I don’t really know why I fleshed out this idea today; maybe just the Muse and me, doing what we do. That would be me going along with whatever it tells me. I have to believe in something that resonates to a high moral principle, something Right (Righteous). It’s part of the human paradigm. In my case, I find that at the Church Of The High Meadow. I go there when I can and it looks like that will be this summer. Rain or shine, I will take comfort in the natural order of gravity and photosynthesis, sit in the shelter of pine trees and marvel at their seed cones in the grass beside me. I’ll walk, checking under gnarled, old apple trees for deer beds in the tall grass and a few green apples too high up for them to reach. 
I have taken a page from Christian tradition in my own self interest. Communion for a pagan would be to ritualize the sacred interdependence of all things. It has nothing to do with (God so loved the world . . .) and everything to do with wildflowers, bees, honey, me and the flowers I plant around my patio. I do communion anytime I feel like it, alone at the kitchen table or with loved ones at the Church of The High Meadow. It takes a little brandy in a paper cup, raise it in thanksgiving to honor the Cardinal Points of the compass, our Mother Earth and Father Sky. Sip the brandy slow, wash it over your tongue, breathe in through your nose and swallow. When your head is clear, raise up a piece of chocolate, repeat the ritual and crush the chocolate against the roof of your mouth. Savor that blessing for as long as it takes and wash it down with the last bit of brandy. I finish with a benediction borrowed from the Lakota Sioux. Hard to pronounce but profound none the less; (Mitakuye Oyasin) which means, (We are all related) or if you prefer, (All My Relations). I take the Liberty of borrowing from another language and another culture after all; we are all related. 
I have done enough here for today. Cooperate, be nice, play fair, take care of our Mother and take care of each other.

EVEN BABY BIRDS

Being compulsively curious with a short attention span I spend more time ‘down the rabbit hole’ than most. It would seem maybe I should be more focused on my achievements and credit rating but I missed that train. When Alice followed the White Rabbit down into its burrow she discovered a strange and surreal, even nonsensical world. I don’t know if it was by choice or by chance that I stumbled down that same rabbit hole but the situation there hasn’t changed. Like Alice, I feel like an alien in my own culture. 

E.O. Wilson (Sociobiology) was one of the first to notice: Not until hunter/gatherer society gave way to cities, agriculture and living together in large numbers, about (7,000 yrs ago) that civilized priorities turned away from Mother Earth’s nurturing influence. It marked the beginning of civilized wealth & power with no inkling for the planet’s greater good. From down here in the rabbit hole, I can see how civilization is digging itself into another hole. In the 1986 movie Top Gun, the Air Boss was chewing hero, Tom Cruise, a new asshole. He growled, “Your ego is writing checks your body can’t cash.” Collectively I think we are writing checks our society cannot cash. Too bad for my descendants. 

Dinosaurs ruled the earth for over 150 million years, and got wiped out by an unavoidable meteor strike. Humans on the other hand have only been around for maybe 2 million years and most of that time as an insignificant species, barely able to sustain themselves. Not until roughly 500 years ago (Christopher Columbus) could we have qualified as a significant species. Only in the past 300 years (Industrial Revolution & fossil fuels) could we be considered the dominant species. I will not allude to writing checks but I will observe; even baby birds know not to sh*t in their nest. 

 

THERE BUT FOR . . .

  How do you deal with beggars at intersections with disclaimers in magic marker on scraps of cardboard; God Bless, Viet Nam Vet, Haven’t eaten, etc.? I will vent my own disclaimer here: I give up. I do not give money to desperate people who may or may not be what they appear to be. But my mother did a thorough job with me. Any time, every time we encountered someone who needed a helping hand or suffered a grim affliction she whispered in my ear; “There but for the Grace of God go I; and you too.” I got it; the only thing between ‘Lucky’ me and a wretched beggar was God’s Grace. At our house charity and forgiveness was the price of God’s Grace. The downcast suffer enough, don’t send them away hungry.
So I don’t give money to downcast people but I do feel compelled to feed them. Today my appetite called out for chicken salad. I didn’t have any celery so I drove across town to the grocery. Just down the line a young woman stepped out from between parked cars. I don’t think you can grow this old and not see a shakedown coming. She was clean and dressed to fit the weather, a little chunky. Her hair had been bleached some time ago and the dark brown had grown back in several inches. Well spoken and very proper she began a story how she and her little girl had not eaten since the day before yesterday. I watched her lips move but I was paying attention to body language and to my own dilemma, what should I do? I believed her then and I believe her now; she was hungry, what ever else she might have been I couldn’t know. I told her I don’t give money to strangers, period, then asked her, “If you had money, what would you buy?” She thought for just a moment and told me; bread, eggs, milk and some apples. I asked her if she was safe, did she have a safe place to stay and she volunteered that she was safe and that things should get better next week.
Then I asked her, “If I go in and buy your groceries for you would you wait here for me to bring them out?” She said she would; I added her items to my list and told her, “You wait here. Don’t go away. I’ll be back in 20 minutes.” As I walked away she added, “White bread.” It took all of 20 minutes but when I got to my truck she was nowhere to be found. I waited for another 20 minutes and still no-show. I felt a little foolish but why so; she may have thought I would report her to store security or she may have been with some other person who didn’t like the deal. But she was hungry and I believe she had a hungry little girl somewhere, I’d bet on it (I guess I did). 
Now I’m stuck with a large loaf of white bread and a half gallon of 2% milk: who in the world eats white bread! I volunteer with a (Hunger Outreach) group that puts sandwiches together one night a week for the homeless and food insecure. We host a big picnic feed twice a week at a downtown park and our Thursday night assembly line turns out maybe 300 (maybe more) ham & cheese sandwiches from donated supplies. Sometimes we feature lasagna or stew along with the sandwiches and we don’t hear any disclaimers, just ThankYou, up and down the line. That’s when I hear my mom’s “There but for the Grace of God.” She was a true believer. I think it a metaphor and a good one for people at their best, for the convergence of charity and forgiveness in the same space. The eggs and apples will keep several weeks and I can work them into my diet but the white bread will probably be enjoyed by the birds and squirrels. 
 

ESSENCE

I get a good feeling sometimes when a predictable but unanticipated signal flashes on my radar; not a great feeling but certainly a good one. When I stand at my front door looking out across the patio I see the little Chokecherry tree not twenty feet away. I think it too grown up to call it ‘little’ but I planted it maybe ten years or twelve ago and it was little then. Now it’s over twenty feet tall with its trunk radius of 10 or 11 inches. On April Fool’s Day this week I opened the door and that little tree was covered with buds open enough to see green unfolding. That little sign is the precursor to another Spring unfolding. The Chokecherry is the first tree within sight of my door to bloom. It won’t be long now. One evening just before sundown, while all the other trees stand there naked, totally uninspired, I will step out my front door on my way to roll up truck windows or put a shovel inside the garage and the sweet smell of cherry blossoms will make me forget everything, absolutely everything; and I’l suck in one deep breath after another, and another. That is when I usher the same metaphor that I do every year, “Maybe there is a God after all.” I don’t have to be reminded that the God thing is a metaphor, that the god of punishment & reward, of war & peace, of forgiveness and revenge has been resigned to the same status as Rudolph the Red Nose and Spyder Man. I just use it for effect, the same way I use, “The Devil made me do it.” 
Cherry blossoms will be out like clusters of little white grapes and their essence simply cannot be replicated. That essence only lasts a day or maybe two but it is a signal that Spring is an irresistible force and it will have its way. It moves me to an optimism that seemed to be terminally ill just a few months before. I set my alarm so I can repeat the ritual again the next morning. By the sunrise after that the petals will be dropping to the ground. Tiny white circles that stick to your face and in your hair and I feel blessed again. When it’s done and the essence is just a magical memory it won’t be all that long before fully open leaves turn from vibrant green to a dark reddish-purple and you know that summer is not far off. I can live with all that.  

CHORUS OF CROWS

The last thing I want is to be dismissed because of my age and the implied irrelevance that goes with it, the assumption that I have nothing of value to offer. But experience is still the best teacher and it can unfold in two dimensions. The first is with a flash of intense, profound insight and the other is cumulative, in small bites over long stretches of time. To my advantage or to my misfortune (depends on what you believe) I spent six decades growing up in another (different) century. I like to think that many good life-lessons and difficult truths were rolled out from WW2 to Y2K. Add on another two-plus decades in the present century, you get the long stretch of experience that cannot be acquired any other way. It seems to me there would be a stretch after premature naiveté and before senility where one’s views should be considered. 
I have been listening & reading the news again, something I gave up a few years back due to an overload of hyperbole, bad news and misinformation. To that extent, not much has changed. In the meantime I have been studying the evolution of civilization; reading, taking notes, read again, review and reframe notes. I have learned to be skeptical of everything that has winners and losers, even if I want to believe the Story. It is no longer theory, rather a compelling truth that the subconscious desire to believe one Story or another is strong enough to overcome both contrary logic and overwhelming evidence. So my uncomfortable dilemma is challenging my own belief in what makes me feel good, even more stringently than what irks me the most. If I can’t defend my beliefs convincingly, credibly, I should consider changing my beliefs; otherwise I am just another "Caw" in a chorus of Crows. But common sense would have us cling to what makes us feel right, as in Righteous. I side with Albert Einstein who said, “Common sense is a list of prejudices one acquires in their youth.” I guess that means I feel better about Albert’s quote than a thin attempt to validate some baseless, wannabe wisdom. Reversing one's own beliefs can be a patient, natural process that slowly assimilates with a new paradigm, a drawn out revelation. In any case it is not a decision, rather a discovery. Intelligent people (unbelievers) get religion late in life. People change their politics, change their favorite football team. They un-love the one they have loved all along and some even give up mean spirited greed in favor of compassion. 
I have wanted to believe that organized religion is no better than any other corrupt, man made institution. That came as a mid life discovery but I’ve had to rethink my thinking. If we believe that human kind is superior and civilization is a good thing, then man made religion is a good thing that not only exercises control over large numbers of otherwise strangers (which in many ways is a good thing). That Story and its sanctified rituals strengthen ties of loyalty and a higher purpose. Humans are hard wired to seek a supernatural (magic) entity who can control nature to their advantage and ease their pain. It was true 5,000 years ago and it is true today. If you are an unbeliever you are part of a minority, too few and too little to change the course o civilization. 
The Story I am processing now is not exactly what I believed at the start but its pieces all fit in a plausible scheme. Like Yuval Harari said, “What we believe doesn’t have to be true, it only has to work.” and that (work) clause can be for the individual in their narrow little niche or for the greater community’s collective best interest. That subtle difference between (individual & collective) is a major stumbling block for most common sense junkies.
I am part of the minority that questions the worth of humans in general. Every other natural system on the planet has suffered degradation or loss of habitat with humans calling the shots. I think we are high functioning animals. I am not a misanthrope, I don’t hate mankind but neither am I impressed with our self worship, ego & greed that seem to partner seamlessly with clever tricks. I am not pitching a conspiracy, not trying to convert anybody or sell memberships. If others think my Story is too much to believe, that’s alright. I may have to change mine should I stumble onto a better one. Still, I don’t want to be dismissed as an old crank who has lost his mind. It doesn't have to be true, it just has to work.  

FIRST CIVILIZATIONS

  So far this year I have not been very faithful to my journal or the blog it feeds. Mark Twain wrote; “If you have nothing to say, say nothing.” and that seems to be my dilemma. Posterity is no longer a concern. I’ve spoken to just about everything I am remotely versed in and coming at it from another direction has worn thin. It would be like a politician with a new necktie and the same old speech, thinking maybe the tie will make the difference, winning approval this time around. So now, when I struggle to find something worth saying, maybe I take my hero’s advice. But then I do like playing with words.
There is some wannabe wisdom that goes; The traits you cannot tolerate in others are the same ones you indulge in yourself. I think it a cautionary reminder. I know a man, a good guy who is stuck in one of those recycling loops. No matter where the conversation is going he finds a way inject his tedious fixation on (Bernie Sanders) politics. Then I realize that I can get preoccupied with the (Human condition/civilization) debate and live in fear that I might be dragging others with me down into my own rabbit hole; and I don’t want to do that. Still, I find myself digging in the same old places, looking for anything that makes the story more digestible. I like to think I am following an unfolding saga rather than pushing an agenda. I want the story to stand on its own legs and not be riddled with creative license. 
Today I am reporting on a PBS Documentary, a four part mini series titled, ‘First Civilizations’. I came across it by chance on the Amazon Prime menu, watched it, took a few notes but will go back and watch it again. It touches most if not all my (Human Condition) buttons and brings things together in a way I hadn’t considered before. Each of the four episodes is framed in a different dynamic (force/control factor): War, Religion, Cities & Trade. It makes connecting the dots easier:, correlating what seem too be unrelated, independent scenarios and discovering consistent, recurrent patterns that emerge. The four dynamics unfold in sequence as one is necessary for the next to find itself. They (War/Religion/Cities/Trade) overlap, good for managing great time gaps, centuries to millennia and back. 
I guess this is my recommendation for the series. The science is good, the dialogue has an unrehearsed, natural feel and the people themselves are not selling anything. I think a few hours to watch this series will leave you with more to think about than you had before you hit the Play button.
‘First Civilizations’ qualified everything that would develop by separating Stone Age culture (small, transient, hunter gather clans) from the earliest evidence of Civilization. The trigger that trips this ongoing adventure was the Agricultural Revolution. Clan culture stretches back a million years while Civilization has been moving its feet for only about 6 thousand (+ or -) years. It is easy to presume change happened everywhere at the same time and that somebody had a plan. Civilization evolved, it was not engineered. It would be like having the windshield blacked out and all you can see is in the mirror, no way to know where you are going, only where you have been; and it is a real challenge for one to comprehend a process that takes a dozen human lifetimes to gain significance, or even ponder where they happen to be in the timeline. As a footnote, the 3rd episode ‘Cities’ did more for me, drawing things together.