Category Archives: Uncategorized

Meditation/Appreciation of Hymn “Light One Candle”

(#221 in UU hymnal Singing the Living Tradition

The Jewish festival of Hanukkah happens about this time each year. It’s a minor Jewish festival compared to the high holy days of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, which typically occur in September or early October.  However, because of its calendar proximity to Christmas, in many Western countries the holiday has been adapted to include some Christmas-like traditions. Even some non-Jews make respectful references to Hanukkah.  

Hymn 221 is the first of three hymns in the UU hymnal for the Hanukkah season. It’s somewhat contemporary, having been composed in the early 1980’s by Peter Yarrow, member of the former folk group Peter, Paul, and Mary. I probably first heard Peter Yarrow when he, Paul Stookey, and Mary Travers performed the Bob Dylan song “Blowin’ in the Wind” at the 1963 civil rights March on Washington. As I grew up and later attended college, songs sung by Peter, Paul, and Mary became part of the soundtrack of my cohort.

This hymn begins with a reference to the Maccabees, a Jewish sect in Palestine during the 2nd century B.C. Depending on which sources you reference, the Maccabees may have been dedicated and self-sacrificing revolutionaries fighting an arrogant Syrian conqueror, or religious bigots bent on enforcing their narrow interpretation of Jewish law, or some combination of the two. Religious observances by Jews of that era ranged along a continuum that placed mostly rural more traditional Jews near one end of the spectrum and urbanized/Hellenized Jews near the other. Sounds vaguely familiar. 

The story most of us hear about the Maccabees is that they reconstructed and then rededicated the main temple in Jerusalem after it had been converted for Hellenistic worship. They wanted to celebrate the temple’s rededication using sacred oil, but had only enough for a single day. Miraculously, this oil lasted eight days, enough time for the worshippers to obtain a further supply. Modern Hanukkah celebrations often use a candelabrum called a menorah, with a central candle and eight surrounding candles, one for each of the eight days that the sacred oil lasted. 

Yarrow, of Jewish background if not active religious practice, asks us first to “light one candle for the Maccabee children with thanks that their light didn’t die.” As the verse continues, it gets more generic: “Light one candle for the terrible sacrifice justice and freedom demand.” Then it offers something of a sop: “But light one candle for the wisdom to know when the peacemaker’s time is at hand.” 

The second verse offers more reasons to light candles; the third asks mostly rhetorical questions about why to light the candles at all:

“What is the mem’ry that’s valued so highly we keep it alive in that flame?

What’s the commitment to those who have died when we cry out they’ve not died in vain?

Have we come this far always believing that justice would somehow prevail?”

And then the zinger:

“This is the burden and this is the promise and this is why we will not fail.” 

All three verses share a rousing chorus:

“Don’t let the light go out, it’s lasted for so many years.

Don’t let the light go out, let it shine through our love and our tears.” 

Several performances of the hymn have been posted to YouTube, among them a 1988 holiday concert the trio performed with backup chorus, which you may find at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3iXadyBSiHQ.  

I had an idealized impression of Peter, Paul, and Mary, so was dismayed to learn when I researched this piece that Peter had much earlier been convicted of taking “indecent liberties with a minor” in 1970 and had served three months in jail. He later got a presidential pardon as Jimmy Carter left office. A legal case has recently been filed accusing Yarrow of a different incident in 1969. 

In typical human fashion, I find it harder to deal with immoral behavior on the part of people I generally hold in high esteem. It’s so easy to fall into the trap of tribalism, condemning bad behavior by those of a different political persuasion or religious denomination while trying to excuse or rationalize such behavior by those I consider “my team.” From what little I can tell, Yarrow is repentant, reformed, and perhaps at age 83 somewhat hazy on what did or did not happen back in 1969. He still performs occasionally with grown daughter Bethany and/or grown son Christopher. Perhaps Carter was wise to realize how far short of the glory of God all of us can fall at times. 

This year’s Hannukah celebration will end well before Christmas, but it’s after Thanksgiving already. Home dwellers, commercial establishments, and religious sites are gradually festooning their venues with candles and lights. 

Because of the part of a time zone I now live in, physical darkness comes early in the evening this time of year. Not a big fan of the dark, I’m counting the days and minutes until our evening light eventually starts lengthening again. In the meantime, I can enjoy illuminated walks in our neighborhood, thrilling to the lights from many more than one candle. 

Now can seem a dark psychological time in our collective history as well, tinged by a pandemic, civil unrest, intermittent resource shortages, and a variety of societal ills. Through it all, may I remember to keep my own candle burning. Please trim and tend yours, too!    

Meditation on “Blessed Spirit of My Life”

(#86 in Unitarian-Universalist hymnal Singing the Living Tradition

Today, November 14, 2021, would have been my sister Sally’s 70th birthday. She died a bit more than 13 months shy of it. For the final few years of her life, she was a sometime attendee at a UU fellowship in Gettysburg, PA, about a 20 mile commute from her rural Maryland farm. For the final several months of her life, once the covid pandemic started causing shutdowns and panic, Sal phoned me regularly on Sunday evenings. We’d catch up on the week’s events, and reassure each other that both of us were still alive. We didn’t discuss religion much. Sal did say that the Gettysburg church was not an ideal match for her, but the closest connection she’d found for her evolving beliefs. Both of us had been raised primarily in an Episcopal congregation. We relished many of its ceremonies and much of its music, if not always its doctrines. 

I did not attend Sal’s memorial service, held at her White Rose Farm on a beautiful autumn day. The timing coincided with the first day of early voting in North Carolina, where I then lived and participated as an election official. I was pretty sure Sally would forgive me for prioritizing election work in an exceedingly fraught year. Family members who were at the service said they were pretty sure that some of the Gettysburg UU’s showed up, and that several had been regular volunteers for the agricultural education project that Sal ran a couple of days a week.

The pandemic was hard on Sal, both financially and emotionally. It cut off much of the income she’d derived from renting out an auxiliary house on the farm as an airbnb retreat. It made conducting her educational events both less income-producing and more stressful—requiring sanitizing protocols, masking, and distancing beyond what would have been the case pre-pandemic. 

The Sunday before Sally died, she phoned earlier in the evening than typical and didn’t sound well. My husband and I were in the car, returning home after getting that year’s flu shots (a covid vaccine was still several months into the future). 

“I’ve been through a rough patch,” Sal said without elaboration, “but I think I’m getting better.” 

“Do you want me to come up?” I said, somewhat grudgingly making mental notes of how I’d arrange an interstate trip during a pandemic and how I’d get hubby primed to take care of himself solo for several days.

“No,” she said. “Talk with you next week.” 

Next Sunday was too late. A friend of hers, an alternative medicine practitioner with whom she’d made an appointment she didn’t keep, found Sally dead in the living room of her farmhouse that Friday afternoon. As best we can tell, she suffered a fatal heart attack or stroke sometime during the night of Thursday-Friday or early on Friday morning. 

It took a while this morning before I picked out what I hope is an appropriate “hymn for Sally.” It was composed by one of the few UU musicians I’ve had a chance to meet in person—Shelley Jackson Denham. I thought I’d heard somewhere that Jackson Denham had died too early as well. It took several rounds of internet sleuthing to validate that this hymn writer and musician born in 1950, a year before my sister, had indeed left us physically. Shelley had succumbed to a fatal heart attack in 2013, several months after the sudden death of her husband. It must have been shortly before then that I’d attended a music workshop where Shelley was a co-presenter. Several singers from our choir had carpooled to The Mountain, a UU conference center in western North Carolina. We’d spent most of a week singing and reveling in the community-building power of music, which seemed also to be a tenet of Shelley’s faith. 

I like to think of both Shelley and Sally participating in a celestial choir somewhere and creating community with this Shelley hymn: 

“Blessed Spirit of my life, give me strength through stress and strife,
Help me live with dignity; let me know serenity.
Fill me with a vision, clear my mind of fear and confusion.
When my thoughts flow restlessly, let peace find a home in me.

Spirit of great mystery, hear the still, small voice in me.
Help me live my wordless creed as I comfort those in need.
Fill me with compassion, be the source of my intuition.
Then, when life is done for me, let love be my legacy.”

May you both rest well, Shelley and Sally, and may we honor and live up to your legacies. 

Choosing Life

It’s rare that I dedicate more than one blog post to a particular topic. Usually, I’ve said all I need to say in a single entry. This year I’ve made exceptions for the ongoing abortion debate, adding this entry to two earlier ones: The Politics of Human Reproduction (March 8, 2021) and Review: The Girls Who Went Away by Ann Fessler (October 26, 2021).  

According to a Wikipedia article on abortions in the United States (which included 207 citations when I accessed it on November 8, 2021), American abortion laws were codified and made stricter over the course of the 19th century. This changed and laws began to be liberalized starting in the late 1960’s. In 1967, the state of Colorado legalized abortions in cases of rape, incest, or maternal disability. By the time the U.S. Supreme Court handed down its ruling legalizing abortions throughout the U.S. for early term abortions in 1973 (Roe vs. Wade), abortions were already legal under some circumstances in 30 of the 50 U.S. states. However, when the plaintiff called “Roe” had begun her suit in Texas in 1969 demanding the right to an abortion, state law there prohibited abortions except to save the life of the mother.

Prior to the Roe decision, some states with less restrictive laws became “abortion magnets” for women in adjoining areas who needed or wanted the procedure. Abortions were more readily available to women with the financial means to pay and to travel if necessary. In one high-profile case in 1962, a married pregnant woman from Arizona went to Sweden for an abortion after she learned that thalidomide, an ingredient in a medicine she’d taken early in her pregnancy, could cause severe birth defects. It turned out that the fetus she’d carried was badly deformed. Had it not been aborted, it would likely have died at birth. 

Among the statistical charts in the Wikipedia article is one plotting annual rates of abortion in the U.S. from 1973 through 2017. It shows a dramatic increase during the 1970’s, and since then a generally downward trend. By 2017, the rate among women of childbearing age (considered as 15-44) had dropped from a peak of about 30 per 1000 women to only about 13. (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Abortion_in_the_United_States#Number_of_abortions). The vast majority of abortions were being performed during the first 13 weeks of pregnancy.  

By the time of Roe, I’d been married for four years and was successfully using birth control. I have never had to choose whether or not to have an abrupt marriage to “legitimize” a child, whether or not to give an infant up for adoption, whether or not to end a pregnancy to conserve my own health or to forestall the birth of a badly deformed child. Other women have had more difficult choices. Starting in junior high school, I heard rumors of girls who’d “gotten in trouble.” Several very early marriages had taken place by the time I was in ninth grade. The phenomenon of “seven month babies” for new brides was quite common. Through high school and then college, more of my female classmates dropped out or disappeared for several months. Some later resurfaced, still single. A few had an infant; others told plausible stories of family distress or financial hardship that had taken them away.

It turned out just as I left home that I’d lived for most of my teens within half a mile of an illegal Maryland abortion clinic. Our neighborhood’s sylvan setting included many homes built far back from the street. Some were completely out of sight. In 1960, as seventh graders, my friend Ann and I had paired up to visit every house along our one-mile road to help boost our Girl Scout cookie sales. At one secluded house, we almost left because it took a long time before anyone answered the doorbell. Just as we turned to go, a well-groomed middle-aged man opened the door. We didn’t see inside and weren’t asked to come in. He bought four boxes of cookies, though. We were pleased with ourselves. Although we’d never match our troop’s star performer (whose mom worked at a major military base nearby), our efforts had moved us up in the cookie sales standings.

During the summer of 1965, Ann got a temporary job as clerical assistant to our county’s prosecutor. One day she noticed that the criminal case she was typing up included a familiar address—the secluded house up the road where we’d sold the cookies. People at that address weren’t cited for any maternal injuries or deaths, just for performing then-illegal abortions. I never learned, from Ann or anyone else, the disposition of the case, or if the clinic staff were fined or jailed. I recently garnered a few additional details from a former neighbor who’d lived across the road from the clinic as a child. While it was operating, her family had regularly noticed cars with out-of-state license plates going in and out of the driveway. Now I wonder how the clinic operated in those pre-Roe, pre-internet days. How did they get referrals? How did they schedule? What health and safety measures did they use? Were staff members medically qualified? Did they have protocols in place for unexpected doorbell rings? 

Norma McCorvey, whose pseudonym was “Jane Roe” in the 1973 Supreme Court case, may have reflected the ambiguity many of us feel about the abortion issue. By the time her case was decided, the pregnancy she’d wanted to end had long since gone to term. She’d put the resulting infant up for adoption. Once her identity became known, McCorvey was enlisted as a pawn by first one, then the opposing set of pressure groups in the ongoing abortion debate. She died in 2017 in Texas, her legacy as muddled as the current state of our understanding. A documentary filmed during the final year of her life indicates she was used by partisans on both sides. However, she also profited from the inflammatory issue to gain funds and notoriety (https://www.theguardian.com/tv-and-radio/2020/may/22/aka-jane-roe-documentary-norma-mccorvey).  

The pressures on our court system to rule definitively on abortion are immense. The likelihood of good outcomes is miniscule. Some of our prior national experiments with prohibition may serve as a cautionary tale. Even as abortion rates continue their general decline, rhetoric about the issue continues to escalate. The documentary about McCorvey tries to plumb her successive stints in the “pro-choice” or “pro-life” camp, but it is hardly that simple. As one advocate who’d worked with McCorvey for over a decade put it: “The thing is, we want our stories to be tidy. And humans aren’t tidy.” 

Stuck Between Levels

The only time I’ve been stuck in an elevator, it was more an inconvenience than a catastrophe. A long time ago, in order to finalize a preliminary job offer, I needed to complete some personnel paperwork and then do interviews with two potential supervisors. The personnel office and these supervisors were in the same three-story building—personnel on the first floor, supervisors on the second.  As I completed the needed personnel forms, I noticed that it was almost time for my interviews. Rather than try to find the stairs, I took the elevator I’d passed in the main lobby on my way in. I was the only passenger. 

The elevator got halfway to the second floor and then stopped. I could see the upper floor through a ceiling gap above my head, but had no way to get out of the elevator to reach it. I pushed various control panel buttons to get the elevator unstuck, but nothing worked. I tried not to panic—even if the elevator crashed to the basement, I’d probably survive with only minor injuries. If I didn’t get the job, I could keep on looking—I was well qualified and had gotten a good score on the relevant civil service exam. Something else was bound to open up if this position didn’t pan out. 

After a couple more iterations of futile button pushing, I finally hit the “send help” switch. In a few minutes, a repair technician appeared and solved the problem. Though I was a little late for the first interview, the supervisor was aware of the crankiness of the elevator, having recently gotten stuck himself.  He made light of the incident. I got the job. Exiting the second interview, I found the stairway for subsequent trips. 

Lately it can seem hard to work our way out of the various global difficulties we humans have gotten ourselves into—a viral pandemic, nuclear and conventional arms races, air and water pollution, food insecurity, mass migrations, erratic weather, warming oceans, deforestation, income and wealth inequality. Our problems are sometimes exacerbated by distorted and distorting social media. We can often seem stuck. 

I’ve been exposed to many models that use the notion of levels to describe natural and/or human phenomena. One basic model,  the theory of evolution, describes how simple one-celled creatures have, over long timespans, spawned more and more complex life. On a human scale, models include Maslow’s hierarchy of human needs. At the organizational level, a Capability Maturity Model Integration (CMMI) provides practices for organizational development and process improvement. These models make implicit assumptions that a shift to the “next level” is worthwhile and likely to persist. Left implicit, too, are the chaos and discomfort that can accompany a shift of levels, especially for us humans when the systems are human-based. 

On any given day, I may run up against recent level turmoil in burgeoning communications technologies—land-line phone, mobile phone, text messaging, internet messaging, social media—which mode suits for a particular task or contact? How do I reach others whose communication modes are more limited than mine—maybe by using postal mail or through an in-person meeting? Our financial systems are awash in online trades, cryptocurrencies, international clearinghouses, widespread if illegal money laundering schemes. Trying to get a broader view, I can find it amazing that our highly diverse global society functions at all. Controversies break out ranging from local school boards to the World Health Organization. 

When I was in school, teachers sometimes reminded me of a quote by scientist Albert Einstein: “We can’t solve problems by using the same kind of thinking we used when we created them.” Many of the difficulties we find ourselves in are, I believe, symptoms of ongoing level shifts. We’re undergoing both a shift in our kind of thinking and a shift in social systems we’ve created that no longer work very well, if they ever did. 

Perhaps the best we can do is avoid panic, diminish our need to be totally in control, learn when to hit the “send help” switch, and function as better repair technicians for the pieces of systems we know most thoroughly. 

Review: The Girls Who Went Away by Ann Fessler

Few books have hit me with the emotional wallop of Ann Fessler’s 2006 study, The Girls Who Went Away: The Hidden History of Women Who Surrendered Children for Adoption in the Decades Before Roe v. Wade. I’d recently done an online search for books, either fiction or non-fiction, about the ongoing abortion debate in the United States. Publicity is mounting about increasingly restrictive abortion laws in some states. One or more related cases will be argued before the U.S. Supreme Court this term. I wanted to re-inform myself about women’s options before the 1973 Supreme Court decision in Roe v. Wade. 

Ann Fessler is a visual artist and author born in 1949. She has always known she was adopted. Her adoptive parents loved her and nurtured her to adulthood. However, well into her adulthood, she’d thought little about the perspective of the woman who’d relinquished her for adoption shortly after Ann was born. Then, in 1989, Ann attended an art event where she was approached by a woman who thought Ann might be the biological daughter she’d given up 40 years earlier. Ann began to consider the possible emotional and physical consequences to the original mother of giving up a child. Her subsequent work has chronicled the stories of these child-surrendering mothers. As she continued her research, Ann also began taking tentative steps toward finding her own biological mother.

 

As a girl child born in 1947, I’ve lived through the period of Ann’s research. Growing up in a small Maryland town, I was always somewhat aware of social pressures to conform—“What will the neighbors think?”—but I didn’t understand the full brunt of the ruptures such pressures could cause until I was in my late teens and had started seriously dating. Reading Ann Fessler’s book resurrected insecurities I’d almost forgotten I had.

In the young women’s sexual lottery, I was lucky: my mother practiced birth control and explained the rudiments of sex to me before I became sexually active. Once I did decide to have sex, my boyfriend and I were less careful than we should have been, but no pregnancy resulted. However, there were millions of girls, many from families like mine aspiring to become middle-class, who were not so fortunate. They did become pregnant. Very few had a legal option to terminate their pregnancies. Most had limited financial and emotional resources and were under tremendous societal pressure to conform to the stereotype of the “good girl,” one who presumably did not have sex.

Before Roe, a major option for a pregnant young woman was a rushed marriage, typically to the baby’s father and typically before the bride began to show external signs of the impending birth. Anecdotal evidence from classmates and friends of my generation suggests there were many such marriages, though definitive statistics seem hard to come by. Another possibility was to attempt to self-abort, or to obtain an illegal abortion. Either could have serious legal and health repercussions. Estimates of the number of “stealth abortions” in the U.S. before Roe vary widely, but such abortions did occur, along with related maternal injuries and deaths.  

 

Ann begins her narrative with an estimate of the number of young women who surrendered infants for adoption during the pre-Roe period 1945-1973 (pegged at roughly 1.5 million). She then personalizes the statistics through individual oral histories of the experiences and trajectories of over a hundred of these mothers who were willing to be interviewed about their lives—before, during, and after their adoptive pregnancy. 

Ann tells us: “In June of 2002, I began tape-recording the oral histories of women who surrendered a newborn for adoption between 1945…and 1973. … These years were a time of enormous change for young women. … And though premarital sex was certainly not a new phenomenon, it became increasingly common… For women born after 1949, the odds were that they would have sex before they reached age twenty.

… Fearing that sex education would promote or encourage sexual relations, parents and schools thought it best to leave young people uninformed. During this time, effective birth control was difficult to obtain. … The efforts to restrict information and access to birth control did not prevent teens from having sex, however. The result was an explosion in premarital pregnancy and in the numbers of babies surrendered for adoption.”  

 

The era of the 1950’s and 60’s had a severe double standard about the consequences of sexual activity for young men and young women, some of which persists. As Ann remarks: 

“Hearing these women tell their stories today, one can’t help but acknowledge the unfairness of calling them ‘bad girls’ and of the social scorn that was inflicted almost exclusively on them, and not on the young men with whom they had conceived.” 

 

Through her interviewees, Ann paints a vivid picture of the emotional shaming of young women who “got in trouble”: 

“This was in that period of time when there wasn’t much worse that a girl could do. They almost treated you like you had committed murder or something. —Toni” 

Most girls who acceded to societal pressure were sent to homes for unwed mothers to wait out the remaining months of their pregnancies, give birth, and almost immediately decide on the future of their newborn child. Conditions in homes for unwed mothers varied, but most in postwar America exerted strong pressure to relinquish the infant. Ann found that: 

“The degree of pressure put on the women to surrender sometimes crossed the line from persuasion to outright coercion. Many of the women I interviewed recalled high-pressure campaigns waged by the maternity-home staff.”  

“Nobody ever asked me if I wanted to keep the baby, or explained the options. I went to the maternity home, I was going to have a baby, they were going to take it, and I was going to go home. I was not allowed to keep the baby. I would have been disowned. …Joyce I”

Few women were given any counseling about the sense of bereavement they’d feel on surrendering their infants. For many, this has left lifetime scars: 

“Giving up my son was a seminal moment in my life. People will say, ‘Get over it.’ I can’t tell you how many people say, ‘Aren’t you ever going to get over it?’ Never. You never get over this. Men often go to the military and fight in wars and they never really get over what they see. This is like one of those huge tragedies in your life. That’s how I look at it, as a tragedy. It’s a tragedy because it didn’t have to happen.    —Maggie” 

“I couldn’t (move on) and I can’t. It’s a big issue to those who lived it. There are women out there who lost their firstborn child and never got to grieve. I can’t even put it into words.  —Suzanne”

 

No single solution can heal the scars that remain. Partial palliatives exist: 

—The stigma of unwed motherhood has diminished as societal norms have evolved, so more mothers are keeping their babies.
—Some women’s access to well-paid work has increased to the point that they are able as single mothers to provide for a child.
—Registries for adoptees and their birth parents have expanded.
—Some restrictions to accessing original birth certificates have been loosened.
—More women who relinquished infants for adoption have been able to reestablish contact with their now-adult children, many with families of their own. Most, but not all, reunions have been healing. 

Despite some progress, we as a society have much remaining work to do, both to help heal past wounds and to reduce the extent and severity of the new wounds we create. Further restricting abortions will not make abortion go away. It may further fracture an already fractious society around this difficult issue. 

Perhaps we could work more consistently and conscientiously to create social structures to reduce the likelihood of unintended pregnancies:

—provide better sex education 
—provide more widely, more equitably available contraception
—withhold judgment of those whose prior sexual conduct we may disagree with
—learn to listen better
—instill in young women, and young men, a sense of self-worth
—instill in young women, and young men, a sense of responsibility for their sexual conduct

Then, we could support whatever decisions a mother-to-be is able to make, with as little coercion as possible. If the mother (and maybe the father) decide to keep the child, we could provide extra mentoring and support for the young parent(s). 

 

Abortion law in and of itself will remain a very small part of the work that needs to be done. I’m most grateful for Ann Fessler’s pioneering work at helping us see a bigger picture. 

The Weather of Mysteries, the Mysteries of Weather

I grew up on mysteries, both televised and in book form. Though I mostly ignored the Nancy Drew series (part of every preteen girl’s book shelf?), by the time I finished high school, I’d been steeped in Agatha Christie and Erle Stanley Gardner. I had vague images of the little English village where Miss Jane Marple solved murders. The Orient Express and a tour boat on the Nile seemed exotic and thrilling places for sleuth Hercule Poirot to twirl his mustache and exercise his little gray cells. Though I didn’t expect Perry Mason ever to lose a case, I enjoyed weekly TV evenings watching Mason and prosecutor Hamilton Burger match wits in courtroom dramas.  

Once I left my family home and moved around the country and overseas, my personal library went through several changes.  Lately, it’s been downsized, but I’m still within range of a public or university library. I’ve consistently gravitated toward the mystery section. Over time, my tastes have evolved. I’ve concentrated more often on women novelists who feature women protagonists and who define their settings in meticulous detail, often including the weather. 

At the suggestion of a friend, I began reading the Susan Wittig Albert series about the fictional Texas hill town of Pecan Springs. Her “cozy mystery” part-time detective and full-time herb and plant store owner/operator China Bayles tapped into a love of landscape that had been dormant in me for a while.   

Not long after I moved to North Carolina in 2007, I came across a holiday story by local author Margaret Maron. Before long, I’d read everything I could find by this self-taught writer, whose fictional East Carolina milieu of Colleton County, presided over by bootlegger’s daughter Judge Deborah Knott, sometimes seemed intriguingly, uncomfortably real. I especially remember Storm Track, a 2000 murder mystery with an Atlantic hurricane built into the plot. 

Now I’m a recent transplant to southern California, trying to find my way in this semi-desert climate partially filled with retirees like me. No hurricanes here. Muted seasonal changes so far. (Luckily) no significant earthquakes since our move. The other bane of this area is wildfires. Locals with longer pedigrees than mine have told me scary stories of past area fires and evacuations. This year’s outbreaks have already set records for size and ferocity.  Therefore, I was only a little surprised when a summer library visit produced a wildfire mystery, Martha C. Lawrence’s Ashes of Aries. The plot was a tad out of my usual range, but the description of a Rancho Santa Fe neighborhood in flames was almost too vivid. 

Lately lots of pundits have spent lots of print and air time expounding on a changing climate that is likely to include an increase in drastic weather events, some unpredicted.  I’ve found a blog post, but not yet an Albert novel about the great freeze-up of February, 2021, when much of Texas discovered the limited reliability of its electric grid under winter stress. I’m sure there are other novels with wildfires, others with hurricanes. Our reality may be approaching or exceeding the weather limits of popular mystery fiction. 

It seems as if the strides made in the past century or so toward being able to predict weather more consistently and reliably are getting undercut. Hurricane predictors talk about “rapid intensification.” States and regions in the U.S. West declare drought emergencies. They try to evolve contingency water resource plans on the fly. Wells run dry. Power grids fail or are shut down to reduce the chance of spark-ignited wildfires.  

It makes sense for those of us who can to get more serious about resource conservation. Per author Jonathan Safran Foer, in his recent non-fiction book We are the Weather, our personal choices do have an impact: we need to eat less meat, do less driving, travel less by air, have fewer children. For me, the child part is over and done, but I’m working on the remaining three issues. 

Once, in the few months I’ve lived in San Diego, I experienced an unexpected dividend of our less predictable weather: a brief but intense rainbow.   

Elegy for a Middle Child

We couldn’t always give her the acknowledgment she craved.
Through storms, droughts, and pandemics, she tried her best to remain brave.
Her passing leaves a hole that’s proving very hard to fill.
I miss her a year later, in some sense I always will.
Safe journeys for your spirit, blessed middle child.

This prissy older sister too soon went off on my own,
And boisterous twin brothers claimed bloodlines theirs alone.
She learned to be the centerpiece, with entrances so grand,
A core of wretched loneliness none could quite understand–
Safe journeys for your spirit, blessed middle child.

Not quite three score and ten since she first started to live,
A heritage to take up, precious friendships to give,
A brief, tempestuous marriage helped provide her with a son.
Through counseling, prayer and solitude, some peace she finally won–
Safe journeys for your spirit, blessed middle child.

Her dad once was a farmer, so she also longed to try.
When siblings tried to thwart her, she threw tantrums, told some lies.
To flourish and to prosper, some abundant, varied schemes–
A late-life farmer partner a final unmet dream.
Safe journeys for your spirit, blessed middle child.

Her resting place a windbreak, along a gentle slope,
With white rose bushes ’round her, in memory and hope.
Her triumphs and her heartbreaks will temper with the years,
We’ll remember her with fondness when spring’s new shoots appear.
Safe journeys for your spirit, blessed middle child.

Our (Flawed) Experiments with Truth

Recently, rereading some personal journals I wrote nearly forty years ago, I came across a reference to the English-language version of a famous autobiography I was then reading, Mohandas Gandhi’s The Story of My Experiments with Truth. I’ve since lost my copy, and didn’t journal much of the content. Skimming a current online summary, I learned that Gandhi first published the work in his native language, Gujarati, in weekly installments in his newsletter in India during the latter 1920’s. Then, he was actively engaged in the struggle for Indian independence from Great Britain. In his work, he described the first forty some years of his life, with emphasis on the evolution of his concept of satyagraha, often rendered in English as “non-violent passive resistance.” The book has been translated into 15 regional Indian languages and at least a dozen European ones.

The title of the work has stuck with me. While Gandhi’s definition of “truth” has a strong spiritual component, somewhat different from many Western perspectives, the gist of his argument seems to me to be that one may approach “truth” but cannot codify it or force it into any set system. To a Westerner, his search sounds something like our use (and misuse) of the method of scientific inquiry. My understanding of scientific method is that we can only approximate “whole truth,” never totally pin it down. Nevertheless, we conduct successive experiments to align our understanding more closely with expanding portions of truth. Sometimes old explanations are disproved. No theory or explanation is ever final, but only as good as its ability to describe and predict actual phenomena. 

The current rancor about multiple cultural and political issues seems to me to be partly due to a misguided attempt to force “truth”  to remain static. We watch coverage of the evolving covid-19 pandemic as if there must be one definitive solution to the burgeoning number of infections, hospitalizations, and deaths. We want to reduce a complex set of public health issues to simple “good guys/bad guys” scenarios. 

“Tell us the answer,” we demand. 

We may frame successive revisions in advice from the CDC or the WHO as evidence of unreliability, rather than as responses to changes in viral variants, levels of contagion and community spread, and mortality/morbidity rates. We may try to assign blame for the initial spread of the virus, as if calling the pandemic the “kung flu” could impact the pandemic’s current global trajectory or destruction. We may try to discount scientists wrestling with a hugely complicated global health challenge as “elitist,” preferring to believe whichever online media pundit best fits our preexisting biases. None of these reductionist ploys coincides with the “truth of covid-19” as we know it so far.

One of my more recent reads touched on the equally divisive issue of climate change. In A Climate of Crisis: America in the Age of Environmentalism, historian-author Patrick Allitt quoted former climate scientist and member of the Intergovernmental  Panel on Climate Change, Stephen Schneider. Schneider, until his death in 2010, was for many years a professor of biology at Stanford University. An early advocate of reforming public policies to mitigate and adapt to human-induced climate change, Schneider nonetheless recoiled from efforts to pin down exact consequences or remedies or to demonize climate skeptics. Schneider tried to explain, using terms that got and can get quoted out of context to support a variety of views:

“As scientists we are ethically bound to the scientific method, in effect promising to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but—which means that we must include all the doubts, the caveats, the ifs, ands, and buts. On the other hand, we are not just scientists but human beings as well. And like most people we’d like to see the world a better place, which in this context translates into our working to reduce the risk of potentially disastrous climatic change. …This ‘double ethical bind’ we frequently find ourselves in cannot be solved by any formula. Each of us has to decide what the right balance is between being effective and being honest. I hope this means being both.”  (A lengthier version of Schneider’s views is available online at https://stephenschneider.stanford.edu/Mediarology/mediarology.html.) 

As I try to shield myself and my loved ones from the worst impacts of either potentially deadly viruses or equally deadly weather events and climate shifts, I take some solace in imagining Gandhi and Schneider in a vibrant afterlife, sharing insights and learning from each other’s experiments with truth. 

Multi-layered Identities

Because I don’t live under a rock, it was probably inevitable that I’d eventually be exposed to the term “intersectionality.” As I understand it, the term was coined to express some of the complexity of our identities. It was originally proposed in 1989 by law professor Kimberlé Crenshaw to describe how race, class, gender, and other characteristics “intersect” with one another and overlap. Like so many terms that can get polarized, intersectionality has sometimes become a catch phrase, used to stigmatize people rather than to empower them. 

Part of me wants to resist being characterized as part of any group—evidence of the individualism, often overdone, that can be both blessing and bane in American society. Because I’m older, I remember that most labels we’ve used on each other and ourselves have changed over time. They can be used for praise or derision, construed differently by different people—European-American, white, honky, cracker, trailer trash; mixed race, African-American, black, colored, Negro, n*****; straight, gay, lesbian, gender-nonconforming, queer, fairy, fag; able-bodied, physically challenged, disabled, blind, deaf, gimpy, crippled; rich, poor, middle-class, economically challenged, worthless, parasitic; young, old, middle-aged, mature, over the hill, elderly, has-been, etc. etc. Especially since September 11, 2001, we’ve too frequently tended to conflate “Moslem” with “terrorist,” and/or to label immigrants as trespassers. 

Some of the labels applied to me put me in a “dominant” or advantaged group; others put me at a disadvantage. It can get confusing and irritating at times. It helps if I can recognize myself as a complex, flawed, redeemable human being. I’m better than the worst things I’ve ever done, yet rarely as good as my best self. I’d like to be able to answer to a characterization as an aging seeker capable of occasional flashes of humor and perspective.   

Having recently relocated to a new physical environment, I sometimes attempt here to go nameless and label-less. If pressed, I tend to respond with my given name, and then to ask, in what I hope is a neighborly way, “Who are you, and what would you like to be called?”  

Dragonfruit


A welcoming presence in this new locale—
A community garden an easy walk away.
Most mornings, a garden elder greets me,
Shares stories of other gardeners and of
The plants growing under her watchful eye.

Along a trellis just outside the garden
Gate sprawls a droopy set of greenery—
Half cactus, half vine, it shades the
Garden’s tool shed behind it.

droopy cactus?



“What’s that?” I ask the first time
I see this mystery plant, splaying pale
Cream-colored blossoms along
Its width. “A dragonfruit,”
Explains the elder. “It’s not officially
Part of the garden, but one of
Our gardeners asked to put it there.”

Most of the time, the blossoms are
Already spent by morning. The plant,
I learn online, usually blooms at night.
Bats and nocturnal insects pollinate it.

On subsequent visits, I find that spent
Blooms have fallen off, replaced by growing
Orbs, at first pale green, then pinkish,
Then red. As they get bigger, they
Sprout what look a bit like scales—
Hence the popular name.

My most recent trip reveals a new sign—
“Large fruit, $3; small $1; proceeds to
Help buy supplies for next spring’s planting.”
I remember having eaten some once in a fruit salad:
White inside, with black seeds and a mild flavor.

I think I’ll buy some and try to find creative
Uses for them. If nothing else, they can remind
Me, in this pivotal time, when so many
Preconceptions have been turned
Inside out, to nudge my inner dragons
Away from seedy black and white,
Toward a more scaled and colorful reality.

halved dragon fruit

pink-red dragon fruit