The total lunar eclipse of the full flower supermoon tonight has been captured with super fancy cameras the world over and there’s no image I can add to those that will appear in the news tomorrow. But the joy I derived this evening from sharing life with my friend, then sitting on my deck for hours with a cold martini slowly warming as it waned, and a warm little dog zipped into my sweatshirt and my dear departed mother’s little Audubon Nikon binoculars, acquainting myself with my new husband-camera and his super special lens, at one with crickets and the universe, well… that’s priceless.
Loving may be the healthiest thing we can do. It doesn’t matter so much who or what we love, but that we engage our hearts in connection with other living beings. I love my crabapple tree, and make time to appreciate it every day that it’s in bloom, and as its petals fade and blow off in these planetary winds, settling on top of the pond; and I pay attention to it through its fruit growing cycle, and as its leaves turn in autumn, and as they fall off toward winter.
I love this new little dog, and feel tenderness when I see her fall asleep in the sun while I sit under the crabapple tree sipping morning coffee. I found the original shelter she came from in New Mexico on Facebook, and messaged them to find out more about her. No wonder she’s so well-behaved. She wasn’t a stray, she was an owner surrender: she came from a family with children and cats, but there was another baby on the way and the mother couldn’t manage it all. I look at Wren sometimes and think, How could anyone give up this little dog? And then I remember something I heard the other day: a friend said, “Any time I think of someone How could you do that…?, the Universe eventually says, Lemme show you….” When we judge others for their choices, we often find ourselves before long in a similar situation making similar choices that we never thought we would or could. Roe v. Wade comes to mind…
So instead of wondering how someone could have given up this precious little being, I asked the shelter to please let that woman know, if they had the opportunity, that her dog has found a safe and happy forever home, where she is making an old lady a wonderful companion. She jumps up from her pink princess bed to follow me every time I go outside, and feels safe enough now to explore the yard on her own, but she comes running whenever I call her. She’s progressing well in her turtle-hunting training, and investigates the compost bins more frequently than is strictly necessary.
This evening, in the weird yellow-grey light of dusty-windy sunset, she followed me into the lilac pen, where we circled the blooming shrubs just wishing the phone could capture the heady aroma as well as the shifting colors. This year lilac flowers are profuse, though still fleeting. I make time multiple times each day to spend attention on the lilacs, loving these shrubs in this brief, abundant, drunken season.
I am too tired to write much, except to say that when I was finally ready, so was she!
I found her on Petfinder when I was shelter surfing online a couple of weeks ago, and the stars finally aligned for us to meet. I’m so grateful to GB, who drove me up there so that I could cuddle her all the way home from Grand Junction, and was more optimistic than I that it would work out. She’s very timid, having been first a stray on the Navajo reservation, then in a shelter down there, then shipped up to GJ with a bunch of other puppies and dogs since there aren’t as many dogs available in Colorado.
She was billed as a Chihuahua-Pomeranian mix, but I think they got it very wrong. Chihuahua I can see, but not Pom. Pamela thinks maybe she has some red heeler in her because of her freckled paws; I think she may have Basenji because I haven’t heard her make a sound in more than 24 hours! David says she has coyote ears. Coyotihuahua! We’ll know more later, because I’m interested enough to spring for a DNA test somewhere down the line.
You might think a new little dog for a day wouldn’t exhaust me (even with the slight and dissipating tension of monitoring her interactions with Topaz), and you’d be right. I was already tired when she joined the family because I’ve been ‘fostering’ three little kittens for a different shelter in GJ for a week, up at least once in the night to make sure they get adequate feeding. Two have graduated to canned food but the littlest, Tigger, is still on a bottle, and not thriving.
He’s what they refer to as ‘a fussy eater.’ I don’t think it’s really his fault, or even mine. The shelter didn’t give us ideal nipples at first, but yesterday we took the kittens with us to the city, to get a lesson from the foster coordinator. That didn’t go so well, but we did get a better bottle, and today he’s latched on a few times if only for a few seconds; an improvement, however slight, and I think he may have gained a few grams by morning.
Certainly, he’s gained a friend. I was beyond delighted this morning when I had fed Tigger, and Ready jumped into my lap and curled up, letting him snuggle. As tired as I am, I’m realizing the nourishing potential in physical connection with these warm little lives. If I had four new mechanical things or four new work projects that required this much time and energy, I’d be thoroughly depleted. But I get a lot back from caring for these animals, and am soothed by a steady two-way flow of oxytocin. And bless little Topaz, who has tolerated these intrusions with surprising equanimity. I’m making sure she still gets all she ever wanted from me, which is a couple of walks a day, full food bowls, a treat game in the evenings, and to sleep in bed with me at night. It’s a little challenging right now, but I’m confident it will smooth out over time into a new, sweet, balanced family.
It’s been a long, cold, lonely winter, did I mention that before? I had a lot of recovering to do from the drawn-out demise of Stellar, which was physically and emotionally grueling; and actually quite a bit of settling into a new normal without some of my closest friends who also died over the past two summers, from Ojo to Auntie to Michael and more. This spring does feel a bit like a resurrection for me, and what better day to acknowledge that than Easter Sunday?
I pulled out the new husband-camera which has also lain dormant all winter, and realized I had no idea how to use it, so I also pulled out the manual and spent some hours today figuring out all the knobs and buttons — most of the bells and whistles will have to wait for another day. I haven’t even attached the ‘good’ lens yet but still got some pretty pictures. The two nights of deep freeze last week did not destroy all chance of apricots this year, at least up on this mesa. The tree was loaded with buds, and while most of them had just opened before the freeze and are now toast, it seems that many unopened buds survived and are blooming in this next round of balmy weather. I hope that the valley orchards fared as well.
“At times our own light goes out and is rekindled by a spark from another person. Each of us has cause to think with deep gratitude of those who have lighted the flame within us.”Albert Schweitzer
The Mindful Life Community daily guidance this morning brought suddenly and vividly to mind the journalism teacher in high school, Dottie Olin, who became a lifelong friend. She inspired me then, and I became editor of the paper. For three decades we stayed in touch, visited when I was in town, and her joie de vivre and boundless joy in life grounded me in unstable times. I was grateful to visit her often during the months I lived in Virginia while my mother was dying, and we became even closer. She continued to inspire and support me well into her 80s. Shortly after my mom died and I moved back home to Colorado, I got a note that she was dying of lung cancer. She said, “It’s nobody’s fault but my own,” as she had smoked all her life. She was at peace because she had lived fully and with so much love. I was devastated to lose her as well as my mom in the same year, 2004. I hadn’t thought about her recently, and love that she came to mind so vibrantly as someone who lighted a fire in me and rekindled it through the years. Just the thought of her this morning lifted my energy and got me outside and moving around in the garden, motivated to make the most of this beautiful spring day, this precious day that will never come again.
Birds return. This is the first evening grosbeak I’ve seen here in decades. Neighbors with feeders have flocks of them. My feeder tree used to regularly host black-headed grosbeaks, but even then the evenings were rare. He squawked his plaintive question a few times before flying off. I was grateful I happened to be outside as he was passing through. Also this past week, the first robin lit in the budding apricot tree, and last Saturday, joy of joys, a phoebe sang his descending syllable seductively from treetops. He’s flown afield seeking his mate, but I’m sure he’ll return.
After watching a video I can’t find again on economically filling a new raised bed, I started with a layer of punky aspen someone delivered a few years ago. Light as balsa wood, these ‘logs’ weren’t fit to burn, but laying them into the bottom of the raised bed provides bulk that will decompose over years. On top of the wood, a layer of fine wood chips, and on top of that some old pots’ worth of soil. Good organic growing soil will fill the top 8-10 inches for planting. As years go by, I’ll amend the top as the bottom materials break down.
This ‘potato bin’ seemed like a great idea years ago when I bought it, but I didn’t understand potato cultivation back then and ‘it’ failed. After increasing success with potatoes the past couple of years, I think I know what I’m doing with it this year. We’ll know more later!
Garden Buddy shared a video and some sweet potatoes, and we’re both experimenting with rooting organic sweet potatoes to grow slips to plant, in hopes of a harvest. This distinctly southern tuber may not grow well here, but we just like to experiment with all kinds of things.
Above, raised beds amended and fluffed are ready for planting. Below, perennial onions are already providing scallions.
Organic straw is hard to come by these days. Any straw that hasn’t been sprayed and labeled ‘weed-free’ is hard to find. I love to mulch with straw, but mulching with straw that’s been treated with herbicides doesn’t make any sense to me. I think it’s one reason my earliest gardens failed to thrive: I failed to question what certified weed-free signified. Duh, of course it’s been sprayed! So this year I’m trying sawmill waste that GB located. I hope these fine, lightweight wood shavings will have essentially the same effect. Peas are already planted along both sides of the trellis here, and a few of last year’s kales that came up and had to be lifted were transplanted to the center where when peas climb the trellis the kale will have shade. It’s all trial and error, live and learn, curiosity and equanimity.
Onions, fennel, leeks and snapdragons coming along under lights; a new pot of eggplants just sown, as well as a ginger experiment. Below, the tray of pepper seedlings almost all sprouted.
Here at Mirador, we are all grateful for the big thaw, for the little rains, and so far for abundant sunshine. Does come less frequently to pillage the yard as fields green with variety far and wide. Birds sing outside, Biko has emerged from torpor and spends most days in his round pen basking and grazing, Topaz demands a walk every day; the promise of spring wakens this dormant body as well. Emerging from my own shell, spending more time outside, I find myself missing a dog more than before. It is almost time. Speaking of dogs…
While I don’t feel the need to defend owning a gun, I do feel inclined here to respond to a little pushback about the shooting blog. First, numerous people in the neighborhood, including me, have asked the owners of those bad dogs to contain them, to no avail. The sheriff has been called on those dogs, to no avail. So attempting to scare them back home with a couple of shots was in no way rash or unreasonable. Second, in this county as in much of the west, it is legal to shoot to kill a dog who is harassing wildlife or livestock. It’s not uncommon, and while I may not agree with that law, I understand it. Anyone who knows me knows how dear dogs are to me, and knows I wouldn’t have hurt those bad dogs. And now you know it, too! May all beings be free from suffering, including the bad dogs and their careless, overwhelmed owners.
It’s been a busy week in the kitchen. I’m grateful I don’t need to hear or speak while I’m cooking. The poor ears are still not back to normal a week after the pistol mishap, but I remain optimistic. Meanwhile, it’s all I can do to keep up with the dishes generated by the food frenzy. Last week I baked a Cookies n’ Cream cake for a small birthday dinner, and saved some to finish off at Boyz Lunch.
Before their cake, though the Boyz got a spicy potato and green pea curry over Basmati rice, recipe thanks to Honey Badger. That lasted me days longer in various iterations, including cold with mayo (an impromptu Indo-potato salad), and a couple more meals supplemented with curry-roasted cauliflower.
Another exciting gustatory treat that provided several meals was sheetpan Bibimbap. I’ve never had Bibimbap before but it looked easy and fun–and it was both! The kale came out like chips, the Lions’ Mane mushrooms were succulent and crispy outside, sweet potatoes tender, and red onions perfect. The instructions were very particular (like some people I know) about not mixing things together on the pan or in the bowl: “divide the vegetables evenly… placing them in four neat piles over each portion of rice.” Topped with a fried egg, the whole pile is drizzled with sesame oil and a dollop of gochujang.
Then the directions enthusiastically recommend mixing everything together before diving in!
The last best savory indulgence was “the gnocchi that keeps on giving.” I made a large batch of sweet potato gnocchi weeks ago and froze it in batches. I sautéed sliced Lions’ Manes with Penzey’s chicken and fish seasoning (Lions’ Manes are apparently a good substitute for crab so it seemed like a good match) and set them aside, then threw in more butter and oil along with the slightly thawed gnocchi and some fresh rosemary. After the gnocchi browned and crisped I tossed the mushrooms back in, then served it up for lunch. So simple, so delicious!
I don’t use mixes often, but am trying to master homemade baked doughnuts, and the pan came on sale with three flavors of mixes. It’s taken numerous tries, but I finally succeeded with some high altitude adjustments to the mix, and a special baking spray from King Arthur. This was the first batch of chocolate. They’re getting almost good enough to serve guests!
Perhaps the piéce de resistance from the kitchen this week was focaccia. I learned some things about the sourdough and the resting state with the last batch, and was ready to dress up this one. It definitely wants fed sourdough, not discard, to get the requisite puffy rise; and plastic wrap works better to keep the dough soft overnight. I also refrigerated this batch as directed, since the mudroom is no longer cold enough. All evening and well past bedtime I dreamed about how I would decorate in the morning.
I knew I wanted our mountain silhouette and a rising sun, and used grapefruit zest for the outline and red onion for the sun. I made a big one for the birthday girl next door, and a small one for me–I mean, to practice on. Then I made cattails with perennial onions (already sprouting in the garden) and kalamata olive slices. Rosemary represents the conifers on the ridges and a dusting of flaky sea salt just like the snow up there now, with bonsai sage leaves for the sagebrush on the slopes. Closer in, a broccoli tree with red pepper fruits, Thai basil flowers, parsley and various herbs and spices completed the tableaux.
I delivered the large one along with a cream cheese spread made with leftover bits of herbs, and sat down to enjoy the same for lunch. It tasted even better than it looked! All that, and I still managed to get some work done today, and a couple of things going for the garden. Stay tuned next for “This Week in the Garden.”
I blame gun culture: in the news, in TV shows and movies, in games. I’m just another stupid American with a gun. To be clear, there was nothing wrong with what I did; just with how I did it. It’s three days this morning, and my hearing still isn’t right. It’s much better—but not all that much. MFC was right, I never should have fired that second shot. It turns out one gunshot can do permanent damage.
Now that I understand what I actually did to my ears, I am even more chagrined. With one violent act I brought instant karma down on my poor ears, and I blame the normalization of guns in our culture. Because they never show, in news of mass shootings, of cop killings or cop killers or ‘stand your ground’ murders, in movies with wild west gunfights, gangsters, or the mob—they never show a shooter stop to put in earplugs or pull down their earmuffs, no, they just whip out a gun and start shooting. Like an elk hunter suddenly attacked by a bear—even bow hunters carry a gun for that, just in case.
So that’s what I did. Whipped out my gun and took a quick shot to the ground behind the last of the two big dogs patrolling my east fence like they owned it. I’m tired of these brutes, who have troubled me and Stellar at the end of our own driveway, charged across the road into our space menacing me and my decrepit old dog. I yelled at them and shooed them away a couple of times before we just quit walking to the mailbox.
I know they’ve been around all winter, I’ve seen their tracks in the snow. But I couldn’t be sure it was them until the other morning, when I saw them both trotting along just outside the yard fence, in the heart of my safe zone, the very woods I walk for peace and solace with my tender cat. I decided to give them a piece of my mind.
And mind only. It was never my intention to hurt one. Like I’ve seen Chris and Dave fire their guns into the dirt to break up a dog fight (and even they didn’t stop to put in earplugs) I pulled out my .357 revolver, braced it on the deck railing, waited until the second dog was just past the south fence, and shot downward well behind it. I never heard or saw the dogs after that—well, I didn’t hear anything for awhile, but I didn’t see them run off so don’t know if they got the message, but I assume so.
I certainly got the message: guns are incredibly loud. It’s not like on TV. You really do have to stop and don ear protection, even for just one shot, if you don’t want to wreck your hearing. In my foolish, spontaneous urge to teach those rogues a lesson, I forgot everything I ever learned in the few shooting tutorials I was given years ago (all of which included ear protection). The kick alone could have knocked me over: I hadn’t braced nearly enough, and I’d done it all wrong. I know what a powder burn is now, too. I got one on my left thumb along with a cut from bracing too close to the barrel.
I only took the second shot to do it right—well, also to drive the point home with the marauders. I held the gun straight out, sighted well away from my face, braced the base with my left hand just the way I was taught, took my time to aim at the plastic dogloo in the pen, a big fat target, just to see if I could hit it. I didn’t. It wasn’t as loud as the first shot when I’d had my elbow bent, my ear twice as close to the gun. It somehow escaped me that I also had half the hearing I had before. And I didn’t think to put in earplugs the second time, because it didn’t occur to me that I could be doing permanent damage.
A simple explanation of the complex, miraculous process of hearing is described here. 80 decibels is considered loud. Hearing loss can occur with sounds above 85 dB. Last night, falling asleep, I remembered a party at the home of a former boss in the Park Service. At his frequent parties, he routinely played Pink Floyd at top volume on huge speakers, likely well over 100 dB, and that night his little girl came in her pajamas into the living room, crying because her ears hurt. He told her to go back to bed. I learned years later that she had eventually gone deaf. The 165 dB shockwave my pistol produced for 2 milliseconds was the equivalent of working a jackhammer for a forty-hour week without ear protection.
A bomb can register more than 200 dB, well beyond the threshold of “deadly shock waves.” Weeks of exposure to bombs and gunfire… I cannot imagine the trauma of sound shock alone on the people of Ukraine, those who survive the bombs and artillery assaults. Contemplating with painful compassion how any war causes such unutterable suffering.
I am in the throes of Temporary Threshold Shift. Immediately after shooting, every sound was deeply muffled, as though I had a down comforter stuffed in my ears from both outside and in. For the next two days, my own voice sounded like I had a mouth full of custard. External sounds are gradually improving but I still can’t hear myself clearly. At rest, my ears burble with the faint sound of water boiling in the next room.
My poor stereocilia are still recovering from their traumatic flattening, and here I’ve been talking on the phone, listening to music, watching TV, zooming for work, further assaulting my inner ears for most of my waking hours the past two days just trying to force things back to normal. It’s time for a break. At least one full day of silence, no talking, no music, TV only with closed captioning if I watch it at all. A great opportunity for a silent retreat, reading the book club selection, appreciating nature. This could take weeks to heal, if I’m lucky.
I’m optimistic. I just blew my nose and my left ear whistled. That could be a good sign. Let’s pretend it is. And outside, I can hear bluebirds faintly chirping as they fly over, and the whoosh of raven wings. I’m grateful for these sweet subtle sounds, and the silence that surrounds them.
Just a few highlights from my birthday week. I’m grateful for another turn around the sun, and for all the loving good wishes that came my way. I worked through the whole weekend, but paused frequently to appreciate the uncanny, glorious days, and a handful of visitors who dropped by with cards and gifts. A gorgeous bouquet was delivered Friday, Saturday brought earrings, a lemon tart, and a plate of hors d’oeuvres ready to cook. Various balms, candles, candies, and other goodies arrived over the next days in the mail or in person. I feel truly blessed to be so cared for. “Somewhere in my youth or childhood, I must have done something good.”
I’ve been hoarding my Christmas grapefruit, but have been promised another shipment for my birthday, and so indulged in the last of them. Amy told me how to ‘supreme’ a grapefruit and it sounded like a lot of trouble and a waste of fruit, but I tried it, and (except for a little nick of a finger) it is by far the best way I’ve found to get the most fruit, juice and enjoyment out of a grapefruit.
Little cat, big cat, walking in the snow… I know I’ve mentioned before that I’m grateful to live where there are lions. It’s been a couple years since I’ve seen sign of one, so it was a thrill to come across a line of tracks.
Last night I went out to turn off the generator, and there was a huge moondog. As I stood marveling at it, I heard coyotes northeast of the house along the canyon. I haven’t heard them like that for years. There was a pack, singing like their little hearts were full. They would sing a round, then the dogs across the canyon would bark, and I’d hear the reverb of all those dogs roll up the canyon and stop when it hit the end. It was magnificent. It was just one grand thing after another all week long.
I’ve had a series of dog dreams since Stellar died. Symbolic or otherwise, they have featured greyhounds, a Great Dane, others I’ve forgotten, and dear old Stellar, younger. People ask me now and then if I’m thinking about getting another dog. Of course, I reply. But not until after winter. What kind, they ask. I don’t know. Whatever kind shows up at the right time. Maybe a puppy, maybe an old dog, or maybe two whose people died and they need to be adopted together. Maybe a dog that just shows up in the yard, or on the side of the road, or maybe I’ll go to a shelter–when I’m ready. But for now, I’m enjoying not having to get up at the crack of dawn and go outside in the freezing winter morning; enjoying lots of quiet time while no one is depending on me.
And frankly, I’m still recovering from the intensity of the mutual devotion during Stellar’s last months, even years; in fact, of his whole life. He was like no other dog, no other relationship. We were continuously connected at the heart and the soul from the moment I first held him. I still look up from the kitchen counter sometimes expecting him to be lying there across the living room; I still jolt a bit when I drive home from somewhere and he isn’t here to greet me. So I’m not in a hurry to get another dog. So don’t send me anymore dogs on Facebook that need a new home, or even mention a catahoula pup.
However, there’s been some comfort in the dreams. I had another one this morning. Stellar and Raven and the new dog were romping in a field as I watched. Suddenly Stellar took off like a streak across the field and I called after him but he didn’t stop. Raven looked at me, then took off running after him, and the new dog followed them both. “Hey!” I yelled, “Stellar! Raven! Come back here! Hey–!” I realized I didn’t know what to call the new dog. I didn’t know his name yet! He looked a lot like Stellar, almost a clone, just a lot younger and a tiny bit smaller. “Hey! Come back!” But they all disappeared over the hill.
Fred and Mary pulled up in their blue VW bug, and I got in, and we started tracking the dogs. We drove for endless miles up the east coast, catching sight of them once in a while and then losing them. Hours… We drove by a big-box store parking lot, and saw a few people around a couple of pickup trucks who were trying to round up three dogs and collar them. “We’ve gotta check,” I cried, “those could be my dogs!” But they weren’t. We drove on through the parking lot, and there on the far side, frolicking along a stream, were Raven, Stellar, and the new dog.
“Stellar, come!” I called, and he did, and I called Raven, and she came, and I tried to call the new dog but remembered that I didn’t know his name yet, but that was okay because he just followed the other dogs right into the back seat of the VW bug, and they all piled on top of each other with me in the middle, and I was so relieved. We were all laughing. I said, “I don’t even know this guy’s name yet.” Fred mentioned a friend who had looked after him a couple of times, and said, “She told me his name.”
“What?” I asked, “What’s his name?”
And Fred said, “Ready. His name is Ready.”
Human hubris is not something I’m grateful for, let me be clear. But it seems to be a fact of life and a condition of our species’ nature. So I just want to name it. It’s time, as a friend said today, to call it ‘climate catastrophe’ instead of ‘climate change.’ It’s been time for awhile. Extraordinary drought, extraordinarily high sustained winds, and apparently a downed power line, today led to an extraordinary wildfire in the Boulder/Denver suburbs. By the time I turned off the TV an hour ago, more than 600 homes had been destroyed. No count yet on loss of life. Not to say this could have been avoided, given the human population of the area, and the trajectory we’ve been on sabotaging our planet’s climate for the past 150 years. Thinking, somehow, that we were in control!
As someone who lived in one of those decimated neighborhoods said to me twenty years ago, “They’ve got to put ’em somewhere.” I had picked up Girl Scout cookies at her house, and asked how she felt about the new subdivision under construction across the field behind her cul de sac. Hers was a neighborhood about twenty years old, small homes separated by quarter acre yards. The new subdivision was McMansions jammed together wall to wall, hundreds of them in the same area that dozens of homes occupied in her neighborhood. She smiled with generous equanimity and said, “They’ve got to put ’em somewhere.” A symptom of my privilege, I suppose, or my good fortune, that her answer surprised me.
In my neighborhood, where homes are separated by ten, twenty-five, or forty acres, and could also all be incinerated by a wildfire, I get grumpy that a new neighbor leaves on a glaring ‘security’ light overnight, shining right into one of my windows. If you can’t stand the dark, why move to an area like this? I wonder. We who’ve lived here awhile are grateful for our dark skies, and find these new spotlights a distressing intrusion. As, I imagine, do the wild animals whose land we share. Ah well. Worse things have happened, like the Marshall Fire. I live with the keen awareness that a single lightning strike, or careless cigarette, or rogue firework, can destroy my neighborhood. And still it feels, watching these planetary winds, these astonishing wildfires, these unprecedented floods, tornadoes, and hurricanes, that I live in the safest neighborhood I possibly could. And for that, I am grateful.
I’m not grateful that the US Congressional representative for my neighborhood is psycho criminal insurrectionist Lauren Boebert, and I was super surprised to get a robocall from her–note that the transcription typo is Siri’s error, and the voice sounded right, and the message was on her point–from a number apparently registered to the Palestinian Territories. WTF? Did anyone else in this district get such a robocall? I could go on about that.
It might seem as though my three day break from the gratitude blog has soured my disposition! In truth, I’ve done a heroic job of staying positive over the past year, I’ve enjoyed a few days of going to bed early with a good book, and I’m still just as grateful for all the good things in my life, and in the world, as I have been. But I am experiencing a lack of patience today with stupidity. And I’m allowed a lapse, we all are. I spoke with one friend today who zoomed with a bunch of triple-vaxxed friends the other night, and a third of them had Covid. I spoke with another friend whose Trumpista family had gotten together for Christmas and half of them now have Covid, from her 4-year-old niece to her 70+ lung-cancer-missing-two-lobes sister. She is enraged at them all, and I can’t blame her. Equanimity, acceptance, compassion, and loving-kindness are not easy to practice. And yet, the alternative realm, in which I used to dwell, is just dark and pointless. I finally had to turn off coverage of the fires, and stream “Drag Race Italia” to reset my attitude.
There is so much beauty, grace, and kindness in this world, human and otherwise, that we can sense and experience if we choose to focus our attention on those things. There is so much that is out of our control, from the weather to the choices of others, that will only make us sick with despair if we choose to focus on that. Mindfulness is a balancing act: to be able to know the truth of all that is dark in human nature at the same time as knowing all that is good and bright. We maintain our sanity, our compassion, our humanity, by choosing to turn our attention to what we can influence, and letting go of all that we cannot. We can always affect those around us in a beneficial way by acts of generosity, kindness, compassion; by remaining calm in the shitstorms–or firestorms, or wind or snowstorms–around us; and by appreciating the most basic gifts our lives provide, from electricity and running water to enough food and the other species who share our world: cats, dogs, birds, deer, trees, bees, bunnies, wallabies (depending where you are!) and so many more, even spiders and snakes.