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The Autumn Moon

September 23, 2022 admin

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

Rocky State of Mind

October 11, 2018 CarmelMawle

Over the last couple of days our Moon Mountain palette of deep greens and golds has transfigured into crystalline whites. Against the snow, the evergreens look nearly black, shadows glow in shades of blue, and the faded yellow of dried grasses and aspen leaves stand out in sharp contrast. The sunrise is reflected in the snow caught on branches, and outside my window, individual snowflakes sparkle on the thick blanket of white.

I started the fire this morning, and sat in the dark with my hands wrapped around my mug as pink light slowly defined the horizon. And then I threw on my coat and boots and stepped into the snow to capture the colors with my camera, just as a bull moose strolled by.

I’m soaking up all this beauty like hot spring mineral waters. The last couple of weeks have left me feeling like many survivors – triggered, sad, and depleted. In the aftermath of Dr. Ford’s brave testimony, I’ve felt again the silent and helpless little girl within. I’ve been shocked and outraged by the corruption and cruelty of this administration, felt the gut-clenching response of my karate training as I watched a victim of sexual assault be mocked by the president of our United States. It’s not a self-defensive response to physical danger, and the adrenaline surge leaves me further drained. But I am grateful for that ingrained reaction. It is a reminder that I am not helpless, that powerlessness is an illusion.

Years ago, I became consumed with a situation in Iraq. A group of Kurdish men, women, and children, locals who had aided the U.S. during the first Gulf War, were hiding in a barn as Saddam’s troops rolled through the village in tanks looking for traitors. They had a limited supply of food and water, and mothers were covering the mouths of their babies in fear that their cries would give away their location. I couldn’t sleep for days, trying to rally the city’s church council to support a bipartisan effort to save these people. As the minutes ticked by, then hours and days, they were running out of food and water, waiting for help from a government that had deserted them, and I increasingly lost any sense of distance or perspective.

Most of the activists I know have suffered some degree of burnout. Empathy may be a gift that allows us to connect with others, motivate us to compassion and activism, and lead to a kinder, more peaceful world, but it takes a toll on our bodies and mental health.

In Alcoholics Anonymous, they say “don’t get too hungry, angry, lonely, or tired (HALT).” It’s a saying activists would also do well to remember. In order to maintain the energy levels needed to keep going in the face of what can seem at times hopeless, the body, brain, and soul must be nourished. It may be tempting to grab fast food on the way home from the protest, but what our bodies really need is healthy proteins and colorful foods rich in antioxidants and complex carbohydrates. Anger and despair lead to sleepless nights and loneliness (we’re not alone, we’re in this together), and all of these will deplete energy reserves, leading to depression and burnout.

For generations, nurses have told new mothers to sleep when their babies slept. While it might be tempting to use that quiet time to clean the kitchen and do the laundry, if we don’t take care of ourselves first, we won’t be able to take care of anyone else.

I learned something about myself and my limitations in that experience. Just as my grandmother used to say “garbage in, garbage out,” I had to examine where I was spending my energy. Instead of focusing entirely on the negative – war, famine, climate disaster, injustice – I needed to find a way to shift my energy toward solutions, developing the skills in myself and others to work effectively for peace and justice – writing for peace.

I’m not always successful, but shifting my focus towards positive change, away from the explosions and death cries, I am able to hear that still small voice warning me of low reserves. And that is when I stop and look around at this mountain where I live, or listen to snow-melt dripping off the roof, or Max’s quiet snoring.

Beauty and goodness and love are food for the soul, and they are all around us. We are not alone. We are not powerless. Far from it. So do what you need to do to replenish and stay strong. Eat your vegetables, get a good night’s sleep, meditate or pray, seek out your friends and loved ones, and find the beauty that is all around you. Moon mountain is a state of mind.

November is just around the corner. When and how will you get to the polls? Do you need to take the day off? Daycare? Do you or anyone else you know need a ride?

Take care of yourself, and start making plans.

Thanks for visiting me in my Moon Mountain home. I hope you’ll join me here regularly by subscribing to my Rocky Mountain blog. Wishing you strength and resilience… Carmel

Moon Mountain

October 4, 2018 CarmelMawle

Recently, one of our grandsons came to visit. He’s four, and pulling slash (the highly flammable dead wood) was a grand adventure. He was a mountain man, a biologist, and a geologist, pointing out every unusual moss rock and bright fallen leaf he came across.

Hiking back up the steep incline after dumping a load into the pick-up, I asked him what he thought we should name our hill.

Without hesitation, he said, “Moon Mountain,” grinning ear-to-ear with the kind of uninhibited confidence every child should have.

So now, we live on Moon Mountain in the Colorado Rockies. At the top of the hill, next to the ravine, is a granite outcropping where fissured boulders stand like Celtic ogham stones. Craig and I had already begun calling it the temple; Liam renamed it Moon Temple. I like it. If you were to nestle among those stones, you could see the moon rise, travel unfettered through the star-filled sky, never creeping below the dark forested horizon until it sets into the west. It’s a fitting name.

The aspens are turning. Many of the leaves have fallen, but the trees stand in communities, and when they shed their leaves they all do it together. Where a road separates an aspen community, you’ll see one side barren-branched, their shining bark fully exposed, while their neighbors across the road are still in full color. Do they retain memories of the time before the bulldozers came, tore apart their root systems, and created the winding dirt roads? Are they lonely? It’s possible. Scientists are increasingly finding evidence that the trees do communicate with each other.

But, while they have been cut off from the larger forest, they still have their close families. From the outside, they appear to thrive magnificently.

When I think about the children locked in our for-profit detention centers, I wonder what they have seen before they were torn from their mothers and fathers and other family members. As they crossed the miles, did they name the hills, trees, or rocks? Did they marvel over the beauty they passed, stockpile those memories so they could turn to them, hills and valleys, trees and rocks and flowers, during bleaker days? Or did they enter those walls and cages with only memories of the traumatic events that sent them fleeing to the hope of a safer future? If so, I pray that hope will sustain them.

Dear children, you can’t see it from where you are, but outside your walls the world hums with color. The trees cry out to each other. Leaves are falling. Not in sadness, but in the ongoing natural change of a beautiful globe rotating on its axis. If you have lost hope in a nation that once declared, “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,” then put your faith in this. Outside your walls, change is happening. We, the people, are working for justice – for you, for your mothers and fathers, and for all our families. Like the aspen communities, you deserve to thrive. Name your mountains and temples.

Cry out your truth, the world is listening.

And don’t give up hope.

#WhyIDidntReport, and What Happened When I Did

September 26, 2018 admin

“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.

Finding My Footing on Uneven Terrain

September 14, 2018 admin

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.

Carmel Mawle

Writing in the Rockies

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