Weed Wisdom Wednesday

I don't know if I will make this a recurring column on Here Cat. Let's just call it a possibility.

I love this snippet from "Star Power," Joel Achenbach's 2014 Smithsonian article about Carl Sagan's life and legacy:

"Sagan was a compulsive dictator, delivering his thoughts into a tape recorder that never seemed far from his lips.  The conversational nature of his writing owes much to the fact that he didn't type, and literally spoke much of the material and had a secretary type it up later. He also liked marijuana. Sometimes the pot and the dictation would be paired.  A cannabis brainstorm would send him dashing out of a room to speak into his tape recorder, his friend Lester Grinspoon told one of Sagan's biographers, Keay Davidson.

The Sagan papers aren't organized by High and Not High, but there is a lot of material filed in a category with the peculiar name "Ideas Riding."  That's his free-form stuff, his thought balloons, dictated and then transcribed by a secretary.

. . . Sagan did not reveal much of his inner life in his letters, but sometimes in 'Ideas Riding' he lets down his guard, as was the case in July 1981: 'I can talk about my father in ordinary converstation without feeling more than the slightest pang of loss. But if I permit myself to remember him closely -- his sense of humor, say, or his passionate egalitarianism -- the facade crumbles and I want to weep because he is gone.  There is no question that language can almost free us of feeling. Perhaps that is one of its functions -- to let us consider the world without in the process becoming entirely overwhelmed by feeling. If so, then the invention of language is both a blessing and a curse.' "

A parting treat, featuring a contemporary astrophysicist whom Sagan enthusiastically encouraged --

Holy Thursday's Period Piece

TMI* warning: This is a literally drippy "female issues" post. You have been forewarned.

I'm approaching 54, but apparently my body still wants to menstruate about once a year. And what I've noticed in these past few years is that Aunt Flo is a total trickster about when she decides to show up.

A couple of years ago, for example, she showed up very unexpectedly while I was on a Greyhound bus from coastal California to Tucson, about a 10-hour ride -- the first leg of a journey helping my birthmom move to the Northwest. The one saving grace was that I had some ancient, though frighteningly limited, emergency supplies in my purse. It was a serious challenge. The Greyhound I was on was in terrible shape. (Sadly, they are no longer the luxurious "Scenicruisers" of years past.) The bathroom was basically a port-a-potty with no soap, water, paper towels, or toilet paper. Plus, the bathroom door was broken and held together with duct tape. Ancient, stained, cruddy-edged duct tape . Anyone using the bathroom had to ask others to keep the door closed for them, because it generally swung loose on those duct-taped hinges. The entire bus sloshed and smelled like a port-a-potty. Worse: None of the bus stations we stopped at (until nearly Phoenix) had any towels or TP in their bathrooms either (although at least there was water flowing through the faucets). Two hours into this particular ride was when my body started having the mother of all periods. On the way to be with my blood mother -- so I suppose it was quite fitting. I was a grimy, bloody mess when I finally made it to Tucson. But I made it.

Then there was last night. I went to Holy Thursday Mass at 6:00 pm.. Our church encourages people to host in-home potluck dinners after these masses as a way to communally commemorate the Last Supper. I have never participated in these after-mass dinners before, but for some reason, I decided to do so this year. I had signed up to be a guest at an older couple's home with four others, and I was to bring the hors-d'ouevres. Aunt Flo arrived early enough in the day for me to be relatively prepared -- although I did consider calling in sick because I was feeling so whuped (and,again, Flo was totally unexpected). Alas, I talked myself into going, and, wouldn't you know it, as soon as I sat down at church things got to really . . . FLOWING. Of course: it's all about the Body and Blood, right? I began to worry if I'd brought enough supplies in my purse to last the entire evening, and was grateful for black pants. But oh, the potluck. This lovely meal of three hours was held in a swanky, gated-community home ... very clean and pristine, with all white and pastel furniture & carpet. The dining room chair I sat in was fucking velvety-plush-SNOW-WHITE. I kept getting up to make sure I wasn't starting to leak. I used the guest bathroom at least twice, and one time ended up dripping blood in several spots (look, people, I told you this was TMI*) in the cleanest, fluffiest, whitest, Eastery-ish lavatory I've ever set foot in -- decorative white bunnies and yellow chicks peaking at my blood-dripping body from all angles -- sending me into warp-drive cleaning mode . . .  Cold water gets blood stains out of pale plush things, but you gotta act FAST.

To quell my nerves, I sipped a tad more of the copiously offered red wine than I'm accustomed to drinking in the later evening and came home with a splitting headache. A hangover BEFORE falling asleep. My half-snoozing husband, bottle of Excedrin, and multicolored, dingy-sheeted bed were sights for my sore eyes and cradles for my bloodmooning body.

I'm not complaining too much. This all seems to be stirring some writerly juices, at least.

*TMI = too much information.

The Gift of Pagan Homage

At yesterday's Mass celebrating the Epiphany of the Lord, our pastor spent part of his homily reflecting on the significance of the biblical Magi, the "three wise men" who came to see the infant Jesus and pay him homage. Though the legend mentions only three "kings," there were likely many foreign dignitaries at the time, traveling in these desert regions in search of some divine figure (an ancient Persian legend claimed that the appearance of a star would predict the birth of a ruler, and the term "Magi" is derived from an old Persian term that refers to a priestly caste within Zoroastrianism). 

At any rate: Father M emphasized that these dignitaries were astrologers and 'pagans' -- that is, non-Jews. And that "they sought as pagans, they gave homage to Jesus as pagans .... and they returned home as pagans." Not as converts to Judaism or Christianity (which, of course, didn't exist yet). In other words: God, or the Light, or (for those who prefer nontheistic terms) the meaning-generative yearning deep in our hearts speaks to us through the languages and contexts in which we've sprouted and bloomed, whether we are Christians, Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, Hindus, Pagans, pantheists, atheists, agnostics, spritual-but-not-religious, or interspiritual ... One of the meanings that emerges out of the story of the Magi is that the primary goal of authentic Christianity (and other "heart" paths) is not to proselytize or convert, but rather to love others through our actions and choices, and to seek and follow the light that guides. 

Our Lady of Guadalupe

O Mother of all grace, all beauty,
you are the paradise of God. 
From you springs the fountain of living
water that irrigates all the universe. 
I stand before you, your child: fill me with You.

~Bernard de Clairvaux

Pope Francis' "Big Heart Open to God"

Today's national evening news broadcasts announced that Pope Francis "has sent shockwaves through the Catholic church" for admitting that the institution had overfocused on the condemnation of abortion, gay marriage and contraception at the expense of open-heartedness and compassion. The media's paraphrase of his words is based on an interview with the pope ("A Big Heart Open to God") in the Jesuit magazine America. This is the pope's actual quote: 

"We cannot insist only on issues related to abortion, gay marriage, and the use of contraception methods. This is not possible. I have not spoken much about these things, and I have been reprimanded for that. But when we speak about these issues, we have to talk about them in a context. The teaching of the church, for that matter, is clear and I am a son of the church, but it is not necessary to talk about these issues all the time. The dogmatic and moral teachings of the church are not all equivalent. The church's pastoral ministry cannot be obsessed with the transmission of a disjointed multitude of doctrines to be imposed insistently. Proclamation in a missionary style focuses on the essentials, on the necessary things: this is also what fascinates and attracts more, what makes the heart burn . . . We have to find a new balance, otherwise even the moral edifice of the church is likely to fall like a house of cards, losing the freshness and fragrance of the gospel. The proposal of the Gospel must be more simple, profound, radiant. It is from this proposition that the moral consequences then flow."

Happy as I am to read these words, I also want people to see that there has been no change in church doctrine per se -- it's more like he's aiming for a much-needed re-prioritization and attitude adjustment. To my mind, he's saying that the institutional church must focus much more on the basic teachings of the Gospel: love, compassion, mercy, humility, sacrifice, kenosis...  With the Gospel -- Christ's teachings and actions -- at the center of the church's motivation, "moral consequences then flow."  

And this is why -- despite the fact that there has been no change in Catholic doctrine (and, as you know, I frequently disagree with these doctrines!) -- I am joyful today. For a long time I have felt that a focus on doctrine puts the cart before the horse, and emphasizes legalism over Love. Such a priority saddens, discourages, and deadens. Heavy-handed doctrinism makes for a narrow-minded, closed-hearted, harshly judging, and increasingly out-of-touch church. When the church puts open-hearted gospel love first, however, love-rooted principles and standards appropriate to this day and age can emerge. I see this happening already, on a small but significant scale, in several loving and "rule-breaking" Catholic communities that I've had the privilege to be a part of. 

So thank you, Pope Francis. Your words and actions make me (and many of my friends) feel a tad less "heretical!"

Prayer for the World

From hunger and unemployment, and from forced eviction:

    Merciful One, deliver us.

From unjust sentences and unjust wars:

    Merciful One, deliver us.

From neglect by parents, neglect by children, and neglect by callous institutions:

    Merciful One, deliver us.

From cancer and stroke, ulcers, madness and senility:

    Merciful One, deliver us.

From famine and epidemic, from pollution of the soil, the air and the waters:

    Merciful One, deliver us.

From segregation and prejudice, from harassment, discrimination and brutality:

    Merciful One, deliver us.

From the concentration of power in the hands of ignorant, threatened, or hasty leaders:

    Merciful One, deliver us.

From propaganda, fads, frivolity and untruthfulness:

    Merciful One, deliver us.

From arrogance, narrowness and meanness, from stupidity and pretense:

    Merciful One, deliver us.

From boredom, apathy, and fatigue, from lack of conviction, from fear, self-satisfaction and timidity:

    Merciful One, deliver us.

From the consequences of our own folly:

    Merciful One, deliver us.

From resignation and despair, from cynicism and manipulation:

    Merciful One, deliver us.

Through all unmerited suffering, our own and that of others:

    Merciful One, deliver us.

Through the unending cry of all peoples for justice and freedom:

    Merciful One, deliver us.

Through all concern and wonder, love and creativity:

    Merciful One, deliver us.

In our strength and in our weakness, in occasional success and eventual failure:

    Merciful One, deliver us.

Alone and in community, in the days of action and the time of our dying:

    Merciful One, deliver us.

Deliver us, Merciful One, by opening our eyes and unstopping our ears,

that we may hear your word and do your will.

    Merciful One, deliver us. Amen. 

 --Modified from "A Litany of Modern Ills," The Covenant of Peace, compiled by John P. Brown and Richard York. Wilton, CT: Morehouse-Barlow Co., 1971.

The Particular is Unavoidable

One common question: why belong to one particular religion or follow any specific path? With all the corruptions and abuses that occur within institutional religion, wouldn’t it be better to divorce oneself from such systemic sickness and simply cull what is of value from these lineages, or, better yet, rely on one’s own inner resources and guides? If the tree has produced some wonderful fruit but has also become diseased, isn’t it a healthier choice to savor the good fruit and abandon the tree? Let that old tree die and start afresh?

There is wonderfully sound logic in this. With that good fruit, there will be healthy seeds which might be used to plant new trees in a new time and place. With what we know now, we might eventually produce a more disease-resistant tree, or have in place various early warning systems to stop any pathology before it spreads. Or perhaps choose to live far from trees, and enjoy the openness and expansiveness of the savannah, the desert, the tundra, the ocean. I love such wild and wide fields myself. But then: wouldn’t this choice still be a choice for something specific, something particular? The decision to avoid the old paths and particulars is itself a new path and particular. Pathlessness is a path. Treelessness is a specific geography.

(Brief related tangent: If, as one scholar-friend puts it, religion/spirituality is more widely defined as individual and communal “meaning-generative pursuit,” there really is no way to avoid “religion” if we embrace our creaturely drives to yearn and seek and struggle and deepen. Thus, even atheism and agnosticism – when understood as meaning-generative pursuits – are religions.)

The particular is unavoidable. We are born of a certain mother, in a particular place and time, in specific circumstances. The kind of nutrition, care, and experiences that befall us affect how we grow and who we will become. And this brings me closer to the heart of the original question: isn’t a healthy desert a better “particularity” than a sick tree?

For many people: yes, absolutely! Some people have been forced to eat toxic fruit and need to purge themselves of its poisons. Others have developed debilitating allergies to the tree’s pollens, and need to situate themselves far away from forests and wooded lands. Still others have had to escape rotted-out branches full of decay, fungi, and parasites in order to simply survive. To flee from wooded territories is to live and to thrive. 

And then, of course, there are those who are native to the desert.

But for some of us, there is still great value in a venerable-yet-ailing-and-dying tree…

Perhaps I find myself most “at home” near a border of sorts, basking at the edges of lush tree-shade while perusing the fields and wilderness just beyond it. I know that the tree is both both diseased and healthy, both dying and rising. I recognize that some diseased and decaying branches must, and are, being pruned away in a process that frequently feels too slow for me and for many. But in this life that I have been given, I seem to have been called to tend to this particular tree. The open fields beyond this tree – as well as other trees in the vicinity -- are beautiful and I am welcome to visit them and savor their beauty and nourishment. But my path is to always return to the tree that sheltered and sustained me before my first inklings of awareness about the nature of trees and woods and fields. I ponder the mystery of the surrounding savannahs, streams, star-fields and silences as I sit under this particular tree that has been given to me.

And ultimately, this tree is not a static, stable entity anyway, but rather a series of creative turns and movements, a flow-ering, a cosmic dying-birthing-changing process involving elements and energies seen and unseen. As I tend to this tree and as I value the beauty of other trees and other geographies, I participate in a great current, a shimmering forth, of Being. I recognize myself, along with all others, as that which blooms and dies and transforms.

But this I do from a particular place: this moment that I have been given, this spot near the edge of the shade of one branch of one tree, with a view of fields and sky.