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Beyond All Consolations …
Baruch Dyan Emet!
“Blessed are You, L‑rd our G‑d, King of the universe, the True Judge.”
An ancient Hebrew blessing that we recite upon hearing tragic news. The story behind the blessing is long and torturous, and I will not wander down that path today.
A somber winter day dawns quietly outside of my studio window. A young woman’s life is tragically cut short and her stricken family grieves. We are born, we breed, we die, and in all of that we ponder as to whether that is all there is to life, or if there is more that is just beyond our sight.
I sit mutely with the family, for there are no words of consolation, nor should there be.
Cici … may you be awaiting us.
~r
12,783 pots of perfect morning coffee
Slept in on preparation day. Awake you sleepy head! Today, we gather twice as much, for the morrow is a day of ceasing …
For the moment, however, a cool and shiny Texas dawn greets me in mature greens and purples, and a cup of Snookum’s perfect morning coffee spreads its healing warmth to my sleep swollen fingers.
Sunday will mark
since we were married thirty-five years ago. Times, family, friends and seasons come and go, but neither the coffee, nor the glint in her eye has changed.
Good morning!
Was it worth it all?
When I look at how we have squandered their sacrifice,
I find myself wondering if it was all worth it
… but at least they gave us the opportunity …
The muse at morning …
Monday dawns a bit brighter, but still overcast as the creeks and rivers slowly subside. The dormant rye grasses spring to life in fine, almost invisible spikes, causing a silvery green sheen over the drought burned summer grasses.
The rugged land goes through long droughts and devastating floods. It is only puny man that suffers in the extremes.
It is quiet out there … maybe too quiet …
The sun breaks softly while I sip on this morning’s coffee. The unrelenting heat has relented, and the mornings have become pleasant. Jenna, my white something-or-the-other, hides behind my chair as Snookums clatters about the kitchen. She had been getting meds each morning for an ear infection, but the protocol on them ran out, so no more meds. Still, she hides each morning until she hears her food being set out.
Kippur da Budgie shrieks and burbles with joy for the new day. Air filters on timers click on, hissing in counterpoint as they strain out the allergens.
The spring birds have flown away, and eerie quiet envelopes the garden as it rests up from a hard summer. Yet I find comfort in the stillness as well as I did when spring was a cacaphony of birds and lawn mowers. It is a time to prepare for the long sleep to come.
It is Shabbat, a day when I attempt to return to God. Throughout the week, living takes all my attention, but I also need some time of spiritual abiding to ground me, to cease from all my striving. Proud man, with all his wisdom, cannot quell the world’s want and violence. ‘Wise’ men are a never-ending source of useless solutions to the world’s problems, for they cannot comprehend the source of the problem. Nonetheless, it doesn’t stop them from pontificating. They are every bit as annoying as religious fanatics. Folly follows them at every turn, yet they still boast of their strength, kindness and caring, and are constantly telling you to follow their lead. Then they scoff and sneer when you say uh uh … ain’t gonna go …
But for today … I leave that all with the coffee grounds, putting the whole of creation back into God’s hands.
Good morning, and Shabbat Shalom!
Tumblin Tumblweeds
I was reared in a remote part of the Colorado/New Mexico Rockies. There was one radio station that could be heard during the day. There was a farm report in the morning telling you what the markets were for pork bellies, winter wheat, feeder cattle and such, and whatever national news that came in on the UP wire.
It came on the air at 6:00 am, playing The Sons of the Pioneers songs. Tumblin’ Tumbleweeds and I’m An Old Cowhand led into the morning report that was followed by the Community Calendar.
To get the cool songs, you had to wait at least an hour after sunset before the border blasters came up. XELO, Juarez Mexico was the nearest one to us. Wolfman Jack got his start their playing the top ten.
I’m An Old Cowhand was performed by everybody, it seems. Even Bing Crosby had a shot at it. Of course, Roy Rogers and Gene Autry had their versions. Fierce loyalties were formed around the two movie cowboys, and many schoolyard fights began by defending one or the other.
Anyhoo, for your listenin’ enjoyment, I include two versions here. One by the Sons of the Pioneers that I heard every frikken morning from the third grade through High School, and one by Johnny Cash.
Nostalgia? Who needs it!
Æons ago, years far beyond counting, I spent most of my youth in a high mountain valley in Colorado called the San Luis Valley. It actually extended into New Mexico, but for some reason they call it the Sunshine Valley. The oldest town in Colorado is there, named, of course, San Luis.
I don’t talk a lot about the area. Except for family events, most of my memories there were not happy ones. But I did spend a lot of time alone there, and learned to be alone.
The mountains surrounding the valley received a lot of moisture, but the valley itself was more arid than the Sahara Desert. However, artesian water sprang up over wide reaches of the valley, and until the agricultural interests began pumping water, there were wide stretches of timothy grass that is excellent horse feed.
At the north end of the valley is the Great Sand Dunes National Monument. The prevailing southerly winds piled up the sands at the base of the 14,000′ Crestone Range that forked off the Continental Divide. The floor of the valley was around 7,500′ above sea level.
The valley is part of the duck and geese flyways. Spring and fall bring a huge number of birds that stop and forage for a while before continuing their journey.
The valley also is the headwaters of the Rio Grande River. At the southern end, it cut a deep gorge through northern New Mexico. My family mined gold from the sands at the bottom of the gorge after the spring runoff.
Near the end of the gorge is the once sleepy village of Taos, New Mexico. It is now a busy artist community and resort. But when I was young, it had few tourists.
During my High School years, we lived in Alamosa. Alamosa was founded as a railroad camp in the center of the valley. It became the business hub of the valley. But the happiest day of my life was when I saw that garish art-deco horror fade away in my rear-view window. Later on, the building was demolished to build a grocery store/shopping center. Had I known, I would have taken the time to drive down and watch the wrecking-ball smash that pretentious façade.
We lived a half block away from the roundhouse, where little narrow gauge engines were tended. The once extensive narrow gauge is still alive in two small sections now, the Cumbres and Toltec Gorge Scenic Railway, and the Durango and Silverton Railroad. My house is located below the tops of the cottonwood trees over the roof edge.
My alma mater, Adams State College, now Adams State *ahem!* University is there. It was trying hard to become a university at that time. Through some very generous but anonymous donations, it built a planetarium, science building, music hall, student union and new athletic field. Alas, one of the Front Range cities got the go ahead to become a university and poor Adams State moldered for a few more years before finding its place in the sun.
Odd, isn’t it. I will share all this with you, but for me it was a meh! experience that I am glad is behind me. For me it was the bright lights, sleek wimmen, and shiny cars. Never did quite get that far in the city though.
Why I do what I do
Friday I drove a short leg for three rescued dogs going to Canada to be adopted. Among the three was Bruce, a mix of some unspecified parentage. At the transfer point, Bruce was so terrified that he lost control of his bladder and bowels.
His was an especially important rescue for me. He had a rescuer who abused him.
The only place he felt comfortable was inside the traveling kennel, so before I could take him to the next leg of the journey, I went and got a kennel that was left with me from a previous transport, and Bruce was carried crate and all to a new home in Canada.
I don’t often know the history or fate of my transports, and I am a little grateful for it. My heart couldn’t stand it.
Anyway, I got a message from the travel co-ordinator of this particular transport. Here it is.
===============
- Today
1:13pm
nnnnnn nnnnnnnnnnn
Just wanted to let you know that your wish for Bruce came true smile emoticon Not quite going to a fellow like you but going to a good home – he has adopter who will be picking him up across the border today.
Per rescue: Bruce is going to a wonderful lady who just lost her husband last year and is lost too.. They will be able to support one another and find happiness again
1:37pm
You don’t know how good that news is to me, nnnnnn! Thank you!!
Home of the 4H Rodeo
The dust has settled on the old rodeo grounds sitting next to an abandoned brick schoolhouse. Battered public address horns that once called out riders by name sit mutely on light poles, and bird nests are tucked in the brackets. The lights have not lit up the arena in years beyond counting. A rusty sign proudly proclaims: Home of the 4H rodeo.
Does the 4H even hold rodeos anymore?
Rusty's Armory 