“Thanks to impermanence, everything is possible. Life itself is possible. If a grain of corn is not impermanent, it can never be transformed into a stalk of corn. If the stalk were not impermanent, it could never provide us with the ear of corn we eat.”
― Thich Nhat Hanh
Wishing my friends who are celebrating Rosh Hashana a very Happy and Healthy New Year!
Copyright © 2022 Carmel Mawle. All rights reserved.
It rained through the night and, when the sun broke through this morning, the saturated forest was suddenly illuminated. In the west, a rainbow appeared against the dark clouds over the yellow-tinged willows along the creek. Patches of gold and reds are appearing among the aspen groves. It is Autumnal Equinox. The earth, the forest, the sky, we are all in beautiful transition.
The Autumn Moon
by Ryokan
The moon appears in every season, it is true,
But surely it’s best in fall.
In autumn, mountains loom and water runs clear.
A brilliant disk floats across the infinite sky,
And there is no sense of light and darkness,
For everything is permeated with its presence.
The boundless sky above, the autumn chill on my face.
I take my precious staff and wander about the hills.
Not a speck of the world’s dust anywhere,
Just the brilliant beams of moonlight.
I hope others, too, are gazing on this moon tonight,
And that it’s illuminating all kinds of people.
Autumn after autumn, the moonlight comes and goes;
Human beings will gaze upon it for eternity.
The sermons of Buddha, the preaching of Eno,
Surely occurred under the same kind of moon.
I contemplate the moon through the night,
As the stream settles, and white dew descends.
Which wayfarer will bask in the moonlight longest?
Whose home will drink up the most moonbeams?
English version by John Stevens
Original Language Japanese
Copyright © 2022 Carmel Mawle. All rights reserved.
“The golden eagle, that lives not far from here, has perhaps a thousand tiny feathers flowing from the back of its head, each one shaped like an infinitely small but perfect spear.”
~Mary Oliver
Copyright © 2022 Carmel Mawle. All rights reserved.
On Memorial Day, I hiked our property’s wildlife trail with Max and my three-year-old granddaughter. We descended the rocky path into the ravine, wove through aspens and the dense stand of lodgepole pine, then scaled the granite formation we call Moon Temple. There, she released my hand to climb from one boulder to the next.
“Are you going to be a mountain climber when you grow up?” I asked.
She nodded, her eyes fixed with fierce determination on her next hand-hold. Watching her climb, my heart ached with love and the knowledge that across the country other families were grieving the loss of their children.
Since the Uvalde shootings, when 19 children and two adults were murdered by an 18 year old with an assault weapon, the death tally continues to rise.
I know many on the right believe more guns in the hands of the “good guys” will protect the innocents that our trained police could not. Gun sales spike after every mass shooting, and we will never get real solutions from lawmakers funded by the National Rifle Association.
I believe in the power of the written word to change minds. I’ve ruminated over taking the approach Jonathon Swift did in his 1729 satirical essay, “A Modest Proposal.” During that time, Irish families couldn’t pay their high rents, let alone feed or cloth their offspring. Much like today, the propertied elite were indifferent to the suffering caused by their greed.
Jonathon Swift proposed that, rather than watch their children starve, the Irish should sell their babies to feed the wealthy. He goes so far as to suggest recipes for infant flesh, “a most delicious, nourishing, and wholesome food, whether stewed, roasted, baked, or boiled.”
Swift’s proposal raised awareness and inspired activism. I thought something similar might shock both the left and right into working together to end this insanity. The parallel to Swift’s satire would be a gruesome scenario something like a “whack-a-mole” game at a county fair, but here the moles are school children cowering behind their desks. The exorbitant fees for this game would be paid directly to the 2nd Amendment-supporting representative of your choice.
But I couldn’t write it.
It was too horrible to imagine. If the facts of gun violence in this country aren’t shocking enough, my fiction never could be.
Are there words that could sway gun lovers, those who value their imagined personal safety (or sport, or collections) more than the lives of innocents?
I suppose this is the dilemma for all writers who hope to change the world through their words. Reading fiction can increase empathy. Writing for Peace was based on that premise. We shouldn’t give up transporting readers to new understanding and compassion, but sometimes the best course is to write and call our legislators, opine in our local papers and on social media.
When our children’s safety is on the line, the most powerful writing we can do is register to vote, to show up at the polls, and to elect representation that will protect our democracy and human rights—representatives who refuse to accept money from the NRA or the gun lobby.
So here is my very modest proposal:
I challenge my writer friends to keep searching for the right words, and to keep working for change…
…for the sake of our dreamers and future mountain climbers.
Copyright © 2022 Carmel Mawle. All rights reserved.
“I have no doubt that, if the attack on Dr. Ford was as bad as she says, charges would have been immediately filed with local Law Enforcement Authorities by either her or her loving parents. I ask that she bring those filings forward so that we can learn date, time, and place!”
Donald J. Trump
6:14 AM – 21 Sep 2018
Women across the nation are sharing their own horrifying experiences and the reasons they never reported them to the authorities. I read the stories with a mixture of sadness, anger, and pride. No matter how many years pass, the reliving is still painful and raw, but these women warriors are going to battle for one of our own – Dr. Christine Blasey Ford.
We believe her, not only because she is a highly credible witness, risking her career and personal safety to come forward when this nation most needs the truth, but because her story is ours.
The first time, I was seven years old. I was physically terrorized and sexually assaulted by a babysitter. I didn’t report it because she threatened to hurt me and kill my family. I didn’t report it because I was ashamed. I didn’t report it because I feared that, if the grown-ups got involved, I would get in trouble, too.
I was a shy girl, quiet and vulnerable. There were others after that – acquaintances of my parents, neighbors, and teachers. My parents never knew. I never told.
Until I was nineteen. Waiting for a bus after an A.A. meeting, I was dragged through a hedge at knifepoint. I hadn’t yet started Karate, but I screamed and fought to the best of my ability. Every attempt to escape led to increased violence. He raped me in a muddy creek in a cold dark ravine. I ended up in the hospital, brutally beaten, hair yanked out in chunks, knees grated on concrete, hands, face, and throat sliced open. The police were called.
So this time I did report. I had been minding my own business, waiting for a bus. I was wearing blue jeans and a thigh-length army parka, not remotely seductive. I hadn’t been drinking.
I’ll leave the question of whether it was better to report to the authorities up to you.
They sent an officer to interview me in my home. I was alone when he arrived, a large silver-haired man with a gun. He sat facing me at the table, took out a clipboard, and began questioning me about what I had been wearing when I was raped. Still heavily bandaged, one eye covered with gauze and tape, I found myself trying to justify my choice to avoid panty lines by not wearing underwear that night.
There were a couple of line-ups, another traumatic experience with a hypnotherapist, but they never arrested the man. They never found him.
That was 37 years ago. When it comes to reporting today, many departments have victims’ advocates available. It’s unlikely that female victims will be confronted by a male police officer when they are alone. But, even now, “The Vast Majority of Perpetrators Will Not Go to Jail or Prison.”
I’m not implying that victims shouldn’t report to the authorities. But the decision to keep quiet is not only common, it’s understandable.
Copyright © 2018 Carmel Mawle. All rights reserved.
When I first began the study of martial arts as a young woman, I expected to be challenged to face my fears and learn new ways of moving. I didn’t expect to relearn skills I’d gained as a toddler – like how to stand on a smooth surface.
Not as simple as it sounds. There were things to consider like weight distribution, and how the outside edges, heels, and balls of my feet connected with the floor. From there, that connection radiates through tendons and ligaments, muscles and bone, through sturdy ankles and soft knees. Hip and shoulder angles, and every muscle in between, head, chin, and eye focus – everything I had taken for granted from when I first stood by holding onto the edge of the coffee table – had to be reconsidered.
It was necessary to learn to stand before I could learn to move.
This has been a year of tremendous change. Some have been life milestones – our move to the mountains, a son off to graduate school, a daughter and grandson moved away to start a life with her fiance, and another daughter gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. But there was also a slip on the ice that broke my wrist and tailbone, herniated a disc, and led to severe sciatica. Friend and mentor, Sam Hamill, passed away in April, and a dear loved one was diagnosed with cancer.
Still, there’s work to be done – clearing out twenty-two years of accumulation from our suburban family home and, in our mountain home, clearing our land of fire hazards and stacking wood for the coming winter.
The land here starts from Pan Handle Creek and climbs up the steep mountainside. It’s strewn with moss rocks and granite outcroppings, the picturesque marriage of tectonic plate activity and receding glaciers. A ravine zigzags along one edge, a favorite path for moose, deer and elk. The scourge of mountain pine beetle has left dead trees in its wake – some still standing, some fallen or cut in sections and stacked here and there over the land, their branches lie tangled beneath the undergrowth or in large piles of slash. Fire tender. Living trees sprout from cracks in jagged granite.
My husband and I have pulled sixteen pick-up loads of slash off the land this summer, hauling them to the slash depot where they can be safely burned. We’ll keep at it until October when the depot closes. With my injury, I step carefully, but once I get going l pull my weight.
There is a quiet alertness when moving slowly over uneven terrain. I hear the creek, and the wind rustling the aspen leaves, the low symphonies of birds and insects. Between the colorful lichen-covered stones, wild flowers and berries nestle; there are small holes dug into the nooks and crannies, sheltering mice and chipmunks – tiny worlds I might have missed jogging up the hill to the next slash pile.
As I take in these worlds, my thoughts slow down. Snatches of music and poetry, Sam’s and other’s, wind their way through the rhythm of my plodding boot-falls. Worries recede, replaced by gratitude – for another day of sobriety, for this dazzling world, for the opportunity to share it with this man I love.
Finding my footing on uneven ground is a gift.
Copyright © 2018 Carmel Mawle. All rights reserved.