Trump’s Treasonous Plan

Unbelievably (and not surprisingly) things are getting worse.

I was devastated when Trump won the election four years ago, but I took some reassurance in the fact that ‘the balance of powers’ and the institutions of our government would contain the worst of the damage. I did not account for the fact that the Republicans in Congress would simply do the bidding of this mendacious egomaniac and allow him to systematically destroy the democratic fabric of our country.

This came to a head on Tuesday when Trump was asked if he would commit to a peaceful transfer of power if he loses the election. “Well, we’re going to have to see what happens,” Trump said. “You know that I’ve been complaining very strongly about the ballots and the ballots are a disaster.” He went on to say: “Get rid of the ballots and you’ll have a very — we’ll have a very peaceful — there won’t be a transfer frankly, there’ll be a continuation.”

Trump’s bald acknowledgment that he has no interest in democracy, only in the continuing of his grip on the levers of power is horrifying and unprecedented. In her wonderful daily dose of perspective, Letters from an American, Heather Cox Richardson reports:

On Facebook, veteran journalist Dan Rather wrote of living through the Depression, World War Two, the Cuban Missile Crisis, the assassinations of President John F. Kennedy, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., and Robert Kennedy, Watergate, and 9-11, then said: “This is a moment of reckoning unlike any I have seen in my lifetime…. What Donald Trump said today are the words of a dictator. To telegraph that he would consider becoming the first president in American history not to accept the peaceful transfer of power is not a throw-away line. It’s not a joke. He doesn’t joke. And it is not prospective. The words are already seeding a threat of violence and illegitimacy into our electoral process.”

I am sick with worry and fear as I write these words. Unthinkable. Impossible. America, the shining beacon of hope and possibility for all people is falling into an authoritarian dictatorship. Of course, as Black Lives Matter has brought to our very selective attention, this country was never what we said we were. Our pretensions and posturings of fairness and equal opportunity have always rested on the foundation of a mass genocide of indigenous peoples and the brutal and the ongoing subjugation of human beings, particularly those with brown and black skin. Our country was never what we thought, and some of us are just waking up to this reality.

I spoke yesterday with a friend who is thinking of donning his priest’s robes and going downtown to bear witness. He said he doesn’t even quite know what that would mean or why he is considering doing it but being reasonable and having conversations is seeming less and less viable. I think we are quickly moving past the point of if we should go to the streets, but when we must go to the streets.

My other new source of information and perspective is Robert Hubbell, a lawyer who writes Today’s Edition. (Thank you to friend, fellow writer and blog reader Fred Adair for pointing me to Richardson and Hubbell’s wisdom.) I hereby (temporarily) cede my bully pulpit and close with Robert Hubbell’s words:

 Every day seems to be more challenging than the last. It is easy to feel overwhelmed by the struggle. But we should remember that the struggle itself is worthwhile. A reader from the Netherlands sent the following story about A.J. Muste, a Dutch-born American clergyman and political activist. Muste was protesting the Vietnam war by standing outside the White House night after night, holding a candle. A reporter asked Muste, “Do you really think you are going to change the policies of this country by standing out here alone at night with a candle?” Muste replied, “I don’t do this to change the country. I do this so the country won’t change me.”

         While it is difficult not to worry about short-term outcomes, we should remember that we are engaged in a generational struggle not only for ourselves but for our children and grandchildren. We can’t let Trump change us. Our acts of resistance are acts of self-preservation, resilience, and faith. They are a bet on the future of America. That is a bet worth taking.  R. Hubbell

Late Blossoming Report

The chill of the past week has vanished and we’re back to mild nights and warm days. So autumn begins in New England. Having narrowly escaped the frost that visited my friends to the north, I’m hoping for another three or four weeks of growing season. And while most everything in the garden is long past its peak, there are some notable exceptions.

The single bare root dahlia plant I planted in the spring now sports two full and impossibly luscious blossoms. Like large chrysanthemums that have been painted by a Hallmark card illustrator, they are almost like plastic flowers stuck among the fall garden’s raggle taggle of leaves and spent flower stalks. This is, until you get close and see the scores of little ants scurrying this way and that in the dream landscape of pastel petals. The ants don’t seem to be chewing the plant so I’m guessing they are part of the healthy ecosystem of the blossom itself. Perhaps, like peonies, dahlias have a covenant with the little ants to work together toward beauty.

Then there are the sunflowers up by the road. A stand of seven is now sporting numerous blossoms on top of thick tall stalks that belie their recent appearance in the world. I started them from seed this spring. (‘I remember when they were just tender green sprouts emerging from the ground,’ says the proud Papa gardener.) I kept them many weeks on the porch to protect them from the fierce and hungry bunnies that roam the Temple grounds in the early summer. When they were two feet tall, I transplanted some up to the sunny patch near the sidewalk. I protected the lower stalk with small wire mesh cages and prayed. Later on I transplanted a few more without the wire mesh. Whether the bunnies had moved on to other territory, the proximity to the road was discouraged them or the stems were thick enough to resist chewing, I’ll never know. In any case, my prayers were answered.

The sunflower blossoms themselves are flat and round. About the size of a dessert plate, they hold scores of juicy and nutritious seed. Each blossom is framed and advertised with a ring of petals ranging in hue from yellow to deep burgundy. I don’t think the birds have yet discovered the blossoms. While I protected the seedlings from ravaging bunnies, I’ll be happy for the seed to go to birds that inhabit the area. It might be one way to pay them back for their morning songs that have graced the garden all summer.

We gardeners are fussy and unpredictable. A garden is about saying no to some things to be able to say yes to others. No to cute bunnies that would eat my seedlings (though they did feast on my cosmos patch, eating every single plant there) and yes to birds that would eat my seeds. I suppose if I grew blueberries, I’d be conniving ways to keep the birds away so that I could eat the berries myself.

So yes to dahlias and sunflowers. And, of course, yes to my beloved morning glories. Three or four chapters of my book This Truth Never Fails were devoted to the morning glories. (Including the concluding chapter that in re-reading I find to be almost scandalous in its depiction of the imagined sensual delight of the bees visiting the azure blossom.) That was the first year. And all of the ten years since then, they capture my imagination with their rising spiral growth and the impossibly soft and momentary blossoms. I can’t resist singing their praises and unfolding their morning glory meanings.

The mass of morning glory foliage that I have reported ealier finally began blossoming a week ago. The first two days each produced a single blossom. Then there were half a dozen the third day. Then came the cool weather with just a straggler or two showing up late in the day. Yesterday was in the seventies and last night was in the high fifties. I hoping for a profusion of blossoms over the next week.

We’ll see.

Gardening is always a mixture of intention, work and hope. Because the results depend on so many factors out of my control like bunnies, rain and small children, I try to make sure to focus all these three aspects that pertain to me. Then I practice noticing and appreciating (and sometimes complaining about) whatever happens.

More Forgetting

It was a memorable class on forgetting—beginning with an error on my part that had me waiting outside of the metaphorical school building long before school started. My brother and I used to do this. In junior high school, we somehow decided that it was important to be near the head of the line when the bell rang and the school building opened.

We would walk the half-mile to school and wait in the parking lot with a gathering horde of youth while the teachers, including Mr. Levernight, my 7^th grade English teacher, drove up and walked past us into the school.

Mr. Levernight was a scary man who used to yell at us when we misbehaved, and I mean red-in-the-face yelling. Once, early in the year, he had to leave the class on some important matter and told us all to wait quietly for him. As twelve year olds, we did our best but naturally fell into unruly chatter. He came back suddenly and was furious that we had disobeyed. He asked everyone who had talked to raise their hands. They did and then were given some kind of punishment which I can’t remember. All I remember is not raising my hand, because of course I would never disobey or do something to make an adult so angry. Later on, one of my friends said ‘Why didn’t you raise your hand?’ I said, ‘Because I wasn’t talking.’ He said, ‘Yes you were.’ I was shocked that he would say that. But then I thought back and realized I had both talked and then, in the moment of confrontation, I had utterly convinced myself in an instant and without even knowing that I had done so, that I had not talked. I can’t remember whether I could admit this to my friend or not, but I was shaken by my own duplicity and capacity for self-deception.

But each day, my brother and I would wait with friends. I think we sometimes played handball against the side of the building. We would be there a good ten or fifteen minutes every morning, in our freshly ironed shirts (thanks Mom) and partially combed hair. It’s not that I liked school so much, but I guess we liked the waiting. A little before everything started, we got into lines according to our homeroom. Then, precisely on the hour, a loud bell would ring, the doors would open and we would file, into the building and our school day would begin with me near the head of the line.

Yesterday I waited with the one friend who I had told about the forgetting course. We both, on our separate computers, clicked the link and appeared together on the screen. At the top of the hour, when the class was supposed to start, we were still the only two people waiting. I was about to email the teachers to see if we had the right link when my friend realized that the course, which began at noon Pacific time would actually begin at 3:00 Eastern time, not 9:00 as I had told them.

It was quite a moment. Of course I know that the west coast is three hours behind us, not ahead of us. I have regular meetings and conversations with people out there and never have any problem with adding the three hours. This time, however, was different. I had reversed the formula. It was an ‘aha!’ and an ‘oh no!’ moment at the same time.

On the one hand, realizing my mistake made sense of a confusing situation. Why was no one else in the Zoom room? I felt a sense of relief as the situation suddenly made sense again. On the other hand, I was embarrassed and apologetic. I had been so sure in my mind that the class began at 9:00. I had read the information, sent in the registration and relayed the information to my friend. We had both rearranged our schedules to be free for these two hours—beginning at 9:00.

And now, it turned out that I had gotten it all wrong. What I thought was the obvious truth was now evidence of my incompetence. My friend and I were both upset that I had gotten it wrong and that we both now had to re-arrange our schedules to be available for the class that began six hours later. It took some time, but we managed to reschedule our afternoons and did indeed appreciate the class that began at 3:00.

In the class we talked about our forgetting, and our parents’ forgetting—about the challenges of communicating when communication through the normal channels is not available. We spoke of the fears of our own growing incompetence and our natural irritation when others don’t behave like they used to or like we would like them to. All of this is normal and natural.

The invitation of the class was to make a bigger space in our hearts for ourselves and others as we go through the stage of life called growing old or when any of us move into altered states of confusion and disconnection. Consensual reality—all our appointments and shared understandings—will always be breaking down. Misunderstandings, mistakes and miscommunication are woven into the fabric of our days. Can we meet these moments of disorientation with kindness? Can we trust our connection even when the words are no longer there?

One of the teachers suggested that these challenging moments are actually opportunities to enter into the sacred ground of life. All we have to do is stay present and learn to follow whatever is happening. That’s a big ask, but it’s reassuring to know that even in extreme states, the heart can be the bridge.

The Possibilities of Forgetting

I’m taking a class on forgetfulness later this morning. Not that I need much help because I’m already getting better and better at it. Over these years of my mid-60’s, I’m noticing a natural loosening of my mind. I still care about everything, but I can’t seem to hold it all quite so tightly. Mostly, this feels good, as I can’t contain enough details in my head to worry quite as much as I used to. But sometimes it’s a little inconvenient and embarrassing.

I read a wonderful book last year about forgetting. I’d like to look up my notes on the book this morning, but I can’t remember who wrote it or what the title was. Let me try the old trick of waiting. These days my mind has less interest in performing on command. Synapses need to warm up a little—to do a few stretching exercises and jogging in place—before they’re ready to fire up and go looking for that book or word or thing I’m trying to locate.

Sometimes I have to find another path to the destination. When one word is lost for the moment, usually there is another nearby that will suffice. It’s an odd feeling. Familiar terrain shifts and is suddenly askew in the tiniest way—a gap or bit of fog appears in an area that used to be quite unambiguous. Life used to be fully continuous, or so I like to imagine. Now there are clearly patches in the continuum that are slightly frayed or missing altogether. Sometimes I go around these problematic gaps. Sometimes I just wait a few moments and terra firma reappears to cover over the missing material.

Now I remember! The book on forgetting was written by a man named Hyde. This is enough for me to look up the notes and quotes I made because I was so moved by the wisdom and insights from the book. The book is: A PRIMER FOR FORGETTING and the author is Lewis Hyde. As I look over my notes, I find a wonderful few paragraphs that I copied out in full:

         Writing about the cosmology of the Trobriand islanders, the anthropologist Susan Montague tells us that the Trobriand universe is a vast disembodied space filled with both minds and energy. Cosmic minds are all-seeing, all-knowing, and all-powerful, able to manipulate the energy of the universe toward whatever end they desire.
            But in spite of, or rather because of, these remarkable endowments, cosmic minds have a problem: cosmic boredom… they sit around bored to death or, rather, bored to life, because as it happens, they have invented a way to relieve cosmic boredom: it is to play the amusing game of life.
            To play, you must be born into a human body, and to be born as such, you must forget the fullness of what you knew and work only with what can be known through the body. A human being is someone who has abandoned the boring surfeit of knowledge so as to come alive. 

What a delightful image—that we have forgotten the fullness of what we knew in order to play the amusing game of life. Perhaps our limitations—our forgetfulness—are not the problem but rather the source. This perspective turns our fantasies of power and control upside down. Usually when I come up against evidence that I am not ruler of the universe, I am disappointed and irritated. But maybe it’s the gods, who have everything they want, who wish to incarnate as limited living beings in order to know the fullness of life.

I suspect we’ll all be continuing our study of this topic of forgetfulness as we move forward on our life journeys. As long as I remember, I’ll keep passing on whatever I learn about forgetting.

Disturbing Dream

In my dream I felt so bad I started asking my friends for names of psychologists and psychiatrists I could go to for help. And I couldn’t figure out how to get from the first floor to the second floor of the house I was in. You could walk part way up the stairs, but then you had to reach high and pull yourself up over the wall. I could do this, but others in the house seemed to have a way to go between the floors that didn’t seem to be a struggle for them. And I couldn’t find my two little daughters. And I wasn’t sure if the two little toddlers were mine or I was just supposed to take care of them. They were on the second floor, but in childcare sometimes. I wanted to see them and see how they were doing, but I couldn’t.

It was one of those really believable dreams. In the middle of it, I wasn’t even suspicious that I was in a dream. It all seemed quite plausible. There were lots of people in the house. The woman in the room next to mine was being interviewed by a magazine writer. I tried to look busy so they wouldn’t notice how sad I was. I was trying to find a studio where I could work with clay. I didn’t have a job and I knew I was going to need money soon. I wandered around a studio and found a few old pieces of clay that I had worked on. One of them looked like a rock so I decided I must have been trying to make it look like a rock. I tried to put the finishing touches on it, but it broke into smaller pieces while I worked on it. I put it back in the water bucket with the rest of the recycling clay. I wanted to make some mugs but there was no wheel and the studio was closing down anyway. I didn’t know where to go or what to do.

The anxiety of our times touches us both in waking and sleeping. The disturbance is intensely personal, appearing in the shape of our particular demons and unearthing our primal issues of trust, competence and safety. But the source is not just personal. The zeitgeist of the moment finds expression and seeks resolution through each one of us. The fear many of us feel is not just our own. Our society is going through a period of deep disturbance. Our carefully curated sense of ourselves as a reasonable people of good will and fairness has been shattered.

Hence my jumbled and anxious dream. What to make of these bubblings up from the deeper regions? How can we dream into our dreams and receive the messages from the unknown?

One of the strongest images in my dream was feeling I was supposed to take care of these two young toddling daughters, but not being able to find them or even really know what my relationship was to them. So I wonder about the tender and feminine parts of myself—the parts that are not competent and responsible – but innocent and vulnerable. They need protection and care. In the dream that they did not seem to be in any danger, they were doing fine. It was me, the responsible one, who did not understand the system of care that was already established. Maybe the tip is to trust that even in these times of unrest, my inner daughters are doing just fine – being cared for by the daycare of the universe.

The other powerful feeling for me in the dream was being in the studio and not being able to find good clay or a potter’s wheel and wanting to make mugs. Over the months of my writing, I have often felt that these small essays are like mugs. They are small products of the moment that rise from my wheeling fingers on the keyboard. I spend time with each one, shaping and appreciating, then I let it go. Not a big production. Not perfect, but something nice to pass on to someone else. Maybe this dream is a reminder of the importance of these small acts of creation. When so much is out of my control, to continue to craft things of interest and beauty is a solace to me.

Perhaps this dream is about the book I am trying to put together. The first floor is the blog – all these disconnected pieces and the second floor is another published book that can go out to many more. Hard to get from here to there. Is it just another collection of these morning writings? What is the organizing principle? And who are the professional helpers (editors and writers) I might need to help me find my way? Maybe these are the psychologist and psychiatrists I need to consult.

Homework: (optional) Write down what you remember from the last dream you had. I hope you may be inspired and relieved by the disorganization of my dream—bits and fragments are fine. Then give yourself ten or fifteen minutes with a cup of tea to dream into your dream. What touched you? What is most alive as you remember? And what tips might this dream have for your waking self? Trust whatever arises and enjoy a little break from it all with a cup of tea.