a clear, unified vision

With the guidance of accomplished scholars Jay Garfield and Guy Newland, you’ll come away with a clear, unified vision of Buddhist doctrine and a greater understanding of the texts, scholars, and practices that make up this expansive tradition.

Would that I might open my eyes on any given morning
and see in first light the individual leaves of the maple.

Might I sense the sparrow's flight first to catch the outstretched
limb of the Norwegian Spruce with its bottle brush needles.

From the corner of my eye the glimpse of a 5-lined Skink
skittering from a spot of sunlight to the harbor of the woodpile.

America and I are breaking up.

After a nearly 65 year love affair America and I are breaking up.

Sure, we've had our squabbles and tiffs.  Many's the time we have not seen eye-to-eye.  I have even  taken to the street a time or two to express my contempt of America.  But America always held out the promise.  The promise of a better day.  The promise of ...

That was then.  Now the proffered promises are like moldy bread.  Sure, in the most dire of times even spoiled food will offer some small measure of nutrition.  Echoing the old quote from Joseph de Maistre: Toute nation a le gouvernement qu’elle mérite—“every nation gets the government it deserves.”.   So we are to stomach the rotting banquet before us.  Hold our collective nose and let slide the ripe oyster of the day.

If these are the promises of MAGA then I want a divorce.

Stupidity Pride

FULL DISCLOSURE:  I too am proud of my stupidity.

Without reservation I insist that my views are absolutely, unconditionally correct.  Which in turn establishes a Me-vs.-The Rest of Y'all dynamic.  It also legitimizes the inverse, "without reservation y'all's views are absolutely, unconditionally correct."

There was a time when we, collectively, knew and understood that there was us and then there were really, really smart people.  Yes, we made it through high school.  Some of us even got that 2-year degree at the community college.  A few went on to get that 4-year degree from university.  And then there was the one or two people who were truly smart enough to continue in higher education to become Doctors or Lawyers or Engineers.

Then came the New Egalitarian Society.  Egalitarian was originally defined as, "relating to or believing in the principle that all people are equal and deserve equal rights and opportunities. (Google)  The equality cited here is the reason that the high school graduate's opinions and values are just as legitimate and valid as those of a Doctor or Lawyer.  After all, we are all equal.  Aren't we?

So when everyone's opinions and values are equal then by the further equality of one-person-one-vote then the largest group of like-minded people get to make the decisions.

Well, heck fire, everyone knows that book-learning is just a liberal conspiracy to subjugate folks that don't have enough money to go to college.  I learnt everythin' I ever needed to know when I was in the third grade.  'Sides, what was good enough fer my Pa is good enough fer my kids.  All's they need to know is how to work hard.

Makin' 'Merica Great Again is exactly what its all about.  Don't need no Constitutional scholar to tell us no different.  Just wish all them other folks weren't so danged stoopid.

Wastin' away again in...a conch shell...with my ass in a lawn chair.

Gawd how I loved Jimmy Buffett.    I sank neck deep in the hot-tub of lost salt shakers and pirate dreams.  I savored the literary lines of Quixotic adventures.  I went to Paris, wearing a pencil thin moustache, ran in to a chum and ended up with one more tattoo.

Then I heard Kenny. You might have hear of him, Kenny Chesney.

Then...

Then I heard Zac Brown.

Then...

Then it dawned on me.

I had slipped into a dream.  Having been to one of the "Rocks" in the Caribbean I knew a little about fast cars and tiki bars, bartenders kissed by the sun, clear blue ocean waters.  I had experienced first hand the lure of white sand beaches and tall icy-fruity-rum drinks with little umbrellas.  So I knew exactly how this dream would end.

Yet the songs persisted.  They demanded.  They commanded ... me.  They insisted that my entire existence wouldn't be worth an ol' pickup-dawg-ex-wife song if I didn't sell everything and buy a boat.

Today is Monday.  I was able to steal an extra 10 minutes to sit on the porch this morning before resuming my real world responsibilities.  I suppose the dream is ok for celebrities who can afford to slink off to some tropical get away after a season of stadium shows.  But those extra 10 minutes are worth more than any dream.

Throw back Thursday

Throw Back Post: Quick Sherman, to the WayBack machine...

Specialists and knowledgeable folks agree that olfactory stimulation can promote the most evocative memories. I am here to tell ya...

I opened a package of Archer Farms Apricot 100% real fruit strip (Target house brand) ... took a bite... and was transported to my grandmother's apricot orchard outside Hollister California.

There is nothing closer to God, nothing more dear, than walking down through the orchard early in the morning and picking a ripe plump apricot from the tree. God points out the one you should choose by highlighting it with a glistening drop of dew. Turning it gently, breaking it along the seam, laying open the halves. Then that first glorious bite into the soft succulent flesh. Ah, ambrosia!

When the fruit is just-so ripe, as only Grampa Ray can tell then it is harvest time. He will go off to Tres Pinas and hire a crew of migrant workers to come in and pick. Then the cutters begin to drift in. One older couple have come down every season for the last 12 years to cut apricots. They say it is good retirement money and besides it is a chance to get out and do something they love.

So we stand around 3'x10' foot wooden trays with a lug of fresh picked apricots at our side and we cut. And we chat. And we cut. Grandma always gets a couple boxes of those fruit knives. Some with the small pointy blades, some with the longer squarish ends. Just depends on which one you favor.

And you cut. Starting at the stem hole, following the seam down one side and back up the other side. Gently split the apricot apart, flick the pit loose into a coffee can and then lay the halves face up on the drying tray. Repeat. Again...and again...and again.

But it is all good.

After 7 or 8 feet of stacked trays of cut fruit are assembled they are wheeled into the sulfur house. Grampa Ray carefully sets the the measured pile of sulfur alight and then seals up the tar paper 'house'. The next morning the house is opened and the trays are taken out. All of the fruit is still round and wobbly. Grampa drives them slowly to the lower end of the orchard and lays them out on the ground in the direct sunlight. When I peak there are trays covering every open patch of ground as far as the eye can see.

Good bye Stephen W. Hawking

Stephen W. Hawking died today.

The cosmos will be a little smaller today.

Our lives are so much greater today.

No matter what you thought, saw or believed Stephen W. Hawking challenged you.  Whether it was the very simple acknowledgement of a brilliant mind held in the antithesis of the David male form.  Or the multidimensional perspectives that Mr. Hawking saw so clearly.  His vision of our reality brought us to new frontiers.

The cosmos has lost a true pioneer.

Good bye Stephen W. Hawking.

55 Hours of Shakespeare - Open Culture

Open Culture is one of the most engaging sites of our times.

Here is a great example: 55 Hours of Shakespeare

Note: I used to post these links on Fazebook - time to wean myself off digital crack.

The Quieting of America

It is paradoxical that I should suggest that America becomes quiet while writing a blog posting.

Thoughtful, conscientious, concerned, caring Americans need to pause.  Take a slow deep breath and promote silence.  In their thinking, in their hearts and most importantly in their voices.

Corruption, deceit and deception flourishes in the reverberating echo chamber of our collective psyche.  Our "leaders" rely on this audio earthquake to keep us in a constant state of reactivity.

In our quiet, non-reactive state, we can clearly see the manipulation.  In our quiet we can begin to center on the real values of our lives. 

Trump, Guns and Money = More Prison/Schools

My initial response to learning that Donnie was going to speak at Parkland; it must be on the way to the golf course.

Schools are not the sacred hallowed halls that they should be because... parents have failed to raise their children with a sense of personal self worth, compassion, imagination, intellect, curiosity, understanding, and most lacking, a desire to learn.

Instead they have shirked that responsibility.  "Oh, its too hard, let's leave it to the professionals."

America's teachers are among the lowest paid (in our economy).  They are poorly resourced - what other job has employees bringing supplies from home at their own expense?  Teachers are expected to manage and control large groups of unruly young people without any recourse but to take the forthcoming abuse.  Abuse that the un-parented students know they can impart with impunity.  (Reads: They know they can get away with sh*tty behavior and not be punished.)

So what are America's answers?  Let's start by turning already minimum security prisons Schools into medium security prisons Schools.  Let's add more prison School guards.  Let's make sure the guards are equipped armed to "manage" any perceived threat circumstances.  Let's borrow from the existing penal system and practice "Lockdowns" as a way to "protect" our precious children.

Let's take all the same precautions that as a society we take to protect ourselves from criminals.

Why does this resonate so completely with today's horrific news?

Because we, as parents, have allowed our children to behave like the criminals we insist on putting in prisons.

My apologies to

Warren Zevon - Lawyers, Guns and Money - YouTube

Unfortunately the premise of this song is exactly why we face out current problem.

An Open Perspective: Folk Theosophy

God.

This one word is a complete sentence in the English language.  "God" is both a noun and a verb.  As a noun the word "God" requires no modifier or descriptor.  There is no way to embellish or add to the meaning of the word "God".  In the same way the verb "God" requires no conditional reference.  God is unconditional.  God is incontrovertible.

As reverently as I utter the word "God" I have done God a disservice.  The fault stems from my desire to communicate something that I can know of but cannot fully quantify, truly understand or in the vernacular, "really know".  I cannot say how big God is.  I cannot say what gender God is.  Even my use of the word "God" limits my ability to express the concept of God.

Faith.

In the same way that God is, faith is.  Faith in an unconditional God is unconditional.  Faith in a God that I can know of but not "really know" is faith that cannot be defined or limited.  Faith is simply the belief that God is.  To have faith is to accept everything about an unconditional, unknowable God.

... an orphan left at the doorstep of the universe.

The Blank Page

I knew it would be here waiting patiently for me.  Virginal, white in its vast emptiness.  The mirror that offers no reflection.  I have felt its allure now for days.  Its siren calling.  I've caught glimpses of it, out of the corner of my eye, when I was daydreaming about something else.  I've felt its pull.

Perhaps it is a painter's canvas, drawn tight, gesso'ed white.  I am told the picture paints itself, the artist merely holds the brush.  Colors call out to be stroked, chiseled, fanned and blurred.

Cord Cutting - so 15 min. ago.

Yeah, I know, cord cutting is sooooo 15 minutes ago.  OMG!

Here is a subtle little American-ism slithering through the rank&file psyche - without regularly scheduled social "TV" events to stand as milestone or markers - the cord cutter's days are bereft of "what did you do" moments".

The other Saturday I found myself in the middle of the afternoon wondering just what it was that I should be doing.  Upon reflection I realized that I didn't have "The Game" to tune into.  I didn't have the pivotal match-up to reference so that I would have the appropriate Watercoolr ® highlights.

In fact I began to realize that I didn't have any of the "media markers" to matrix my life around.  I don't have the "Morning Shows" (Mourning?), I don't have the midday talk/gossip programs, I don't have the "Evening News".  Hell, I don't even have the late shows.

I have managed to shipwreck myself on this barren media-less island.  All I have to look forward to are the birds, at the feeders, outside in the snow, through the kitchen window.

"Honor is not ..."

The following quote attributed to Herbert Hoover popped up on my IFTTT email feed of daily quotes.  My initial read offered an underlying sense of discord.  Why is it that what he said and what he most likely meant are like two trains on the same track running in opposite directions.

"Honor is not the exclusive property of any political party."

My assumption is that Mr. Hoover most likely meant that any [one] political party did not have Honor exclusively.  Unfortunately Mr. Hoover's use of a seeming Orwellian twist of phrase leaves rise to a much more sinister result.  He suggests that Honor is not the only property of any political party.  As we have seen in current politics each party, not being held exclusively by the property of Honor, has taken the liberty to use any and all nefarious tricks available to them to reach their desired ends.


Herbert Clark Hoover (August 10, 1874 – October 20, 1964) was an American politician who served as the 31st President of the United States from 1929 to 1933 during the Great Depression. ( Herbert Hoover - Wikipedia )

The Obit Ritual

Idle curiosity
slowing down in life traffic
to rubber neck
sightseeing the posted
accounts of issues and accidents

Morbid curiosity
fine sieve filtering
each salient detail
grasping for correlations
between the moment and the future

Mortal curiosity
soleful recollections
of cherished shared memories
embracing the comforts
of our anticipated passing




(Cross posted to 2Voices)

Learning new Scampi

I have developed a fondness for America's Test Kitchen.  Clear and concise recipes and techniques bring new found nuance to my culinary skill set.

Served in the Hoover Bowls

Prior to the Seafood Supper episode my limited understanding of Shrimp Scampi was just that, "limited".  I would have ended up with rubbery shrimp in a broken butter sauce.  Then Elle Simone opened my eyes.

Because I was prepping for just B and myself we took a few liberties with the recipe.  Using 12 ounces of  "Extra Large" (26-30 per pound) means more bite-sized shrimp per serving.   Reducing the 3-2-1 ration of salt, sugar and water to 3 cups of water, 2 teaspoons of salt and 1 teaspoon of sugar worked just right.  Turns out we should have reduced the red pepper flake by about two thirds as well.

This version of Shrimp Scampi can very easily stand on its own merits.  Not being one to leave well enough alone I pushed the envelope.  Exercising the absolute luxury of adding just the tips of Asparagus in the last couple of minutes of finishing the shrimp and sauce added the green compliment that I am always looking for.

Then, as if that were not enough, adding in Buitoni's Linquine Pasta to complete the meal.  Let me rave about this pasta for just a moment.  Buitoni Pasta and Sauces are most often found in or close to the Dairy section.  There is good reason for this.  This is fresh pasta, not dried or frozen.  This pasta cooks very, very quickly.  This pasta is light, flavorful and has so much integrity that it even does well the next day, refrigerated of course.  Bellissimo!

I am not Facebook

The depth of my depression and the height of my anxiety regarding the current state of our union has gone from outrageous to nearly debilitating.  My faith in government is non-existent.  My faith in our political system is shaken to its very core.  Even my long standing belief that society will right itself and steer a moral course has been called into question.

Initially I expressed my frustration on Facebook.  I railed against our current president believing that adding my echo to the cacophonous outrage of the multitudes [would in some way make a difference].  Then I began to notice two distinct things.  The cacophonous outrage of the multitudes was just that, 'sound and fury signifying nothing.'  Moreover, Facebook was no longer fulfilling.  Each visit left me just that much more empty, dissatisfied.

So here I am.  Sitting alone.  Feeling better for having gotten that off my chest.

Moving forward... (never straight).

Cooking, for me ... The distance

Cooking, for me, is a form of meditation.  Before all else it requires intentional presence, the act of my being present.  Alert with all my senses.  Cooking is about my being in the moment.  Cooking is about entering into a full and rich relationship with food which I will prepare and eventually consume.  Cooking requires time.  Cooking should not be done in haste.  In cooking there are no real short-cuts.  Eventually I must do everything well.

Like a dancer, when I am preparing food I must be aware of my relationship with the cooking space.  As well I must be aware of those around me such that we compliment each other.



The distance between us rends my peace
shadows my silence
spears my solitude

In your stead I have planted
Iris

soft licking splashes of memory
held hands with craving hearts
singing softly over walks
facing the night
the same moon in different skys

the perfume of yeast rising
kneading your hands
hungry for warm baked
enveloping hugs

bitter sweet tailings of
wine upon your tongue
taking my breath
catching

the last scent

Thoughts on time...

Damned electric analog clocks with their ceaseless ticking. Never any real silence. Just the imposed mesh of sequential marks. I wonder what it would truly be like to be without time. Certainly there would remain the light of day and the darkness of night. But what would it be like to lose all sense of seconds, minutes and hours. No alarm clock impositions of meaning in the day; wake up, be here, go there, remember to take those. No time stamps on emails or Facebook posts. No little synchronized little digital clocks in the lower right hand corner of computer screens. No business hours. Or calls to prayer. No traffic lights or even speed limits, measured in miles per hour. There would be no recipes calling for temperature over time. Time would become the duration of things. Lightness and darkness. The phases of the moon. Ebb and flow of the tide. Seasons of warmth and of cold. Menstruation and lengths of gestation. When certain foods become available. We would ask if there was enough light to travel to the next destination. Or we would acknowledge that it takes Soup amount of time to prepare and cook it. Or how long it took doing something to become tired or sore.

Not so Still Life

While the title of this post is an homage to Richard Brautigan's "Still Life with Woodpecker" here at the Flying Pig Ranch & Thistle Farm life is not so still.  Rummaged around in the shed and finally located that little green cage thing with its hanging chain.  Remembered to get the suet block the last time I was in the bird feeder section.  Rewarded this afternoon with a Downy Woodpecker...

Spent about ten minutes clinging to the cage and hammering the suet block.

Life is good, but not still.