The 'Nature of Reality' at Lake Piney Z in Tallahassee

View from one of the "fingers" on Lake Piney Z in Tallahassee

"The nature of reality, then, is both discrete and continuous. It is superficially discrete in atoms, stones, planets, stars, and living creatures, but ultimately deeply continuous, because it is everywhere undergirded by consciousness. And individual consciousness is the connection between the transient features of the 'outer' world and the changeless structure of non-local primary consciousness..."

Transcendental Physics, Edward R. Close, Ph.D., Paradigm Press, 1997.

A good friend and colleague of SAM's, Dr. Ed Close, gave us a signed copy of his book, originally published back in 1997. I tried to read and understand it, but frankly, most of it seemed incomprehensible to me. Physics ain't my cup of tea. The book languished on the shelf and was dutifully packed, unpacked, and re-shelved many times over the past 15 years and almost as many moves in that span of time. I'm kidding, maybe.

Whatever kept me from understanding the genius of Dr. Close finally opened the door for me. I was absolutely stunned like most of the "outer world" by what happened last Friday in Connecticut. And then, the news media wouldn't let go of the story. I wanted to know what was going on in the rest of the world, but most channels were clogged, absolutely blocked, like many of the aquifers we depend on for clean, recharged water (click on link for Lake Piney Z). Dams were constructed to hold information in place so that it could be manipulated. For what purpose? To get people talking. At the office, at the gym, at church, around the dinner table...Gun control. So that's it. "Never let a crisis go to waste."  So said the mayor of Chicago at one time, and I believe he and his associates are sticking to their guns. Mind control. So that's it.

Path to restricted area for Indian mound research at Lake Piney Z

But it--mind control--will never happen, at least not completely. The "non-local primary consciousness" would not allow it. You see, there are still people out there who read and think and believe in individual consciousness...and the nature of reality.

Home-Grown Sentiment from Southern Illinois: 'Hurt Not the Oil and the Wine'

Sentiment from a Southern Illinois Oil Field Worker

Whenever SAM and I visit Southern Illinois, we do our best to boost its economy by purchasing some local products. The last time that SAM went up there for work, he came home with wine and apples...

and the shirt pictured above. One of the oil field workers he has known for years now has a little side business selling shirts with some home-grown sentiments like the one pictured. They're fairly popular in certain circles. I wonder if the Oil-Drop Lady (that's what SAM calls her) on this American Petroleum Institute commercial would like it? SAM wishes that someone would hire him to make a commercial. He says he would be the perfect Gas-Bubble Man. I have to agree with him.

I heard on the news this weekend that Larry Hagman, the actor who played J. R. Ewing on the hit TV show Dallas way back in the 1980s, has died. He created a character that people loved to hate, and it's no surprise that this character's slimy behavior was associated with his powerful position as head of an oil company. For some reason, over the years the term "oil business" has become synonymous with corruption and greed. Why, though? The United States' oil and gas industry employs tens of thousands of hard-working people, and the pay is pretty darn good in most cases. These people actually produce something useful. It's valuable, oh-so-necessary to our current standard of living, and marketed worldwide. Remember when one of the most important measures of America's wealth (GDP) was based on the goods and services she produced herself? I do.

Now it seems that our economy is driven by what we consume, mostly products from other countries. You might have noticed just how crazy it is this time of year in the department stores and shopping malls. Black Friday crept back to Thursday this year and interrupted the usually peaceful celebration of Thanksgiving. Workers at stores like Wal-Mart and Target were rightfully upset that they couldn't be at home with their friends and loved ones on a truly American holiday. They had to go to work so consumers could do what they do best. Consume. On Thanksgiving.

I feel a little guilty myself of participating in the consumptive madness. We went out for dinner (gasp!) instead of cooking and eating at home. No shopping was involved, just eating at a local, Pensacola favorite--the Angus Steak House and Restaurant. It was lip-smackin' good! We thanked the server for working on a holiday and gave her a big tip.

Graceful Living on the Gulf Coast: Expect the Unexpected

SAM with lucky redfish (it's not a keeper/outside of legal "slot size," so released) on 11-11-2012, Pensacola Beach Pier

It seems that no matter where you go these days, you are subjected to someone else's taste in music, usually not to your liking. Restaurants, shops, and workplaces want to hurry you along, stir you into a buying frenzy, or lull you into complacency with your lot in life. I usually tune out the tunes I hear. Lately, though, I've been hearing a song played at work that gives me a lot to think about: Tim McGraw's Live Like You Were Dying.

It certainly does not lull me into complacency with my lot in life or anything else for that matter. It's reminding me to notice things--expect the unexpected.

When you live near the sea (or maybe it's when you've lived for more than a few decades), you get used to having marvelous, unexpected things happen. The wind picks up, and the waves crash with increasing intensity and frequency. Life is charged with possibility.

Body of electric ray (?) found on beach near Destin, 11-3-2012

It's been happening a lot lately for some reason--the unexpected, I mean. Most of it has been good, and that's even more unexpected. What have we done to deserve it? Absolutely nothing. Can we expect it (the "good") to continue? Of course not. Life is nothing if not full of grace, even in death....

Several years ago, on a day not unlike Veteran's Day 2012, SAM, son, and I went to Pensacola Beach, expecting to have a sun-and-fun-filled day on the water, kayaking and relaxing on the sand. The wind and waves had kicked up a notch more than we expected. Kayaking in the Gulf was not an option so we relaxed on the beach and watched some adventurous souls venture into the chilly and choppy sea. There were rays of some sort darting to and fro in the water, and some people on the beach were following their progress.

Not more than an hour had passed when we heard some commotion happening nearby. Apparently, some swimmer was in trouble. People were yelling, ambulance sirens announced the arrival of emergency responders, and presently the body of a young man was dragged onto the beach from the crashing surf. We stayed where we were, not wanting to get in the way of some form of help arriving every few minutes from the parking lot nearby. A group of young men fell to their knees and began to pray. What was happening? We talked to some other people nearby who had ventured close to the tragic scene and then returned to their beach blankets, all of them with a stunned look on their faces. Apparently, a young man visiting the beach with a group from a local Christian college had a sudden heart attack and collapsed in the water. We all watched as a helicopter swooped down, creating a sudden, unnatural sandstorm. It collected the body of the young man along with a couple of his companions and disappeared in a cloud of noise and sand.

We could learn nothing more than speculation from the people we encountered as we walked toward the water's edge. The rays were still swimming back and forth along the beach, seemingly more agitated than before, and the swimmers were all beached. No one seemed eager to take a chance on meeting with something else dangerous or unexpected in the water.

The young man who was airlifted to a nearby hospital was never revived, we later found out. We have often wondered what could have happened to him. Finding the body of an electric ray (at least that's what we think it was) on the beach last weekend brought to mind the young man's demise. Somehow the connection of rays and a young man's sudden death made sense. Really? Death makes no sense. Neither does the wind, nor do the waves. Grace is nothing if not full of life, even in death.

Return to Eseldorf and a Strange Ending for Pecan Shells in My Garden

On my way home from attending a class at UWF last Friday afternoon, my cell phone rang. It was a call from SAM.

"Guess what, honey? I have a surprise for you. It's something we've been wanting for a long time!"

What could it be? I wondered. A million dollars? Another grandchild on the way? No, there was something even more special waiting for me when I got home. It was a truck-bed full of pecan shells from the Renfroe Pecan Company. Can you believe it?

I rubbed my eyes because I had trouble believing what I was seeing. We were told earlier this year by the nice young man with the pecan-shell-mulch ad on Craigslist that he had an exclusive contract with the company to pick up their spent shells. So how did SAM finagle a truckload of the stuff? FOR FREE? Well, it turns out that the nice young man must have prevaricated. He stretched the truth. He told a fib. There was no contract with the company, and anyone can pick up a load of pecan shells.

Of course, lying comes so naturally to the human race, especially when money is at stake. Or witches, for that matter. Huh? You'll have to forgive me. Halloween is next week, there's a presidential election the week after, and I've been reading Mark Twain's account of The Mysterious Stranger. Or was it his biographer's account? There is a dispute over who really wrote the tale, and that's probably as it should be. As it turns out, the mysterious stranger is the Great Prevaricator, the Father of Lies, known in one version of the story as No. 44.

Once we got over the shock of being "misled" (it sounds so negative to call it being lied to), we were delighted to find nuts in the mix. Lots of them in fact. Five pounds (about $45 worth if purchased at the grocery store) at least by my reckoning. I have to wonder why there were none in the previous load from the pecan-shell guy. It took us a while to sort through this pile. The neighbors were sure staring, but we were past caring.

The nut pile was growing, but spreading of shells sure was slowing. Wait! I thought. Grandson is coming over for a visit. We will offer him the chance to help. And he did, quite willingly. As a reward, Grandpa SAM offered him the choice between a stack of five quarters and a crisp dollar bill for his efforts on finding more nuts.

"Can't I have both?" he asked.

He's pretty sharp, that one: another good knife in the drawer, a chip off the old block, or a nut that didn't fall far from the tree. SAM said his great-grandpa would have been delighted with him.

Getting back to Mark Twain's story setting of Eseldorf ("ass-ville"), I have to wonder why there was nothing like a good fish story in the midst of it. Animals did play a big part. A faithful dog and a magic cat were presented but no fish. Well, except for the ones that kept multiplying in the frying pan when unexpected company showed up for dinner. That's even better than a whopper of a story about the fish that got away. Or trying to convince someone that some fish have teeth like we do. Yes, sheepshead have human-like teeth. Or do we have sheepshead-like teeth? If Darwin's theory is correct, then the fish were here first, right? Humans came much later. If only fish could talk. I'm sure they wouldn't lie. They have no Moral Sense. Strange. That's what kept getting Twain's Eseldorf-ians in trouble. It should be what keeps us out of trouble.

Autumn Leaves Time for a Visit to Dixon Springs State Park and a Friend 'In the Garden'

Secret Aging Man and I were on our way to work for him and a family visit for me when I saw the sign. "Dixon Springs State Park." We weren't far from the border between Kentucky and Illinois. "I just have to see it again," I said. What age deletes from my memory, Southern Illinois replaces. Leaving Interstate 24 for a two-lane highway, SAM in the driver's seat, I leaned forward with anticipation. Would I find the place just as I had left it that summer in high school? Of course not! I've been back to it since then, the summer I took a field botany course and learned more about human nature than Nature nature.

Certainly, the contours of the land were the same, not much different there. And silly rules were still posted: a "No Swimming" sign in the very place where swimming would seem most appropriate--the catch-basin for a natural spring.

The cabins were there or at least they were standing. A "Dead End" sign seemed more than appropriate for them now.

The cabins' window-blinds were sagging and wrinkled like the lids on an old woman's eyes--hey, I'm beginning to resemble that remark. No signs of recent life appeared. Still, I thought I heard the ghosts of loud whispers and giggles from girls sneaking over to the boys' cabin in the middle of the night. Rules and raging hormones somehow cannot coexist in the mind of a teenager. Our teacher, Mr. R, surely must have known that nothing short of a barb-wire fence surrounded by punji stakes could separate the girls from the boys at the end of a week-long field trip away from parental supervision. Back then, I guess school authorities and parents giving their permission were fairly naive about such things. Mr. R and his 18-year-old daughter were our only chaperones for the trip.

Nothing "naughty" happened, of course. I think the presence of old church buildings in the park must have made some impression on a group of youngsters raised in the Heartland or Buckle of the Bible Belt. Or it could have been the fact that none of us trusted Mr. R's daughter to keep her mouth shut about our shenanigans. She was nice, but none of us really knew her. We were high school freshmen, and she had just graduated high school. She was officially a "grup" and apparently wise in matters of the heart. She already had a steady boyfriend. We were newbies on that scene.

Considering the present state of Illinois' economy, the park's condition wasn't too shabby. But I did find the lack of signs about the park's history somewhat shameful. Who, for instance, built this wall?

And what was the origin of this ancient well at which SAM is pointing his finger? Was it the foundation of a bath house? The state website link at the beginning of this post indicates that 19th century visitors to the area used to bathe in the mineral springs for health reasons.

Maybe a better question is why don't we utilize our state parks for similar purposes today? Why did traditional forms of therapy such as hydrotherapy and massage therapy fall out of favor with people interested in maintaining good health?

Thank goodness the end of the week-long trip that SAM and I made wasn't plagued by unanswered questions or shrouded by the mists of time and fading memory. We stopped on our way home to visit a gardening friend, one I'm sure that many of my visitors are familiar with: Tina of In the Garden fame.

She and Mr. Fix-It had an answer for every question, a wonderful supper for hungry guests, and warm hospitality for visitors who forgot how cold Tennessee weather can be in early October.








And of course, they had plants to share: asters, irises, cannas, and variegated Miscanthus.

I hope we can repay their kindness someday soon. It's been nearly four years since our last meeting in New Harmony, Indiana. I pray it's not so long until the next one.

Hummingbird on my cold-hardy ginger

Water That Moves: A Catalyst for Commotion in Motion

Fountain at Lake Ella Park in Tallahassee, 9-15-2012

You know what they say about a body in motion? It not only tends to stay in motion but could also become a catalyst for commotion. Well, that last part is not what "they" say. It's something I added. I put myself in motion this last weekend to visit Daughter in Tallahassee. There were plenty of reasons for the visit:

1. I hadn't seen Daughter in a few weeks.
2. It was my turn to make the 3-hour-each-way journey by car.
3. Recent telephone conversations with Daughter have been almost as sketchy and unsatisfying as some versions of text messaging. "How u been? OK. Me 2. Wassup w/wrk? Same ol same ol. Same here. OK. Luv u. Luv u 2. Bye." (Would you believe I can't bring myself to text like that? I have to spell it all out. It can be agonizingly slow, but old writing habits are hard to break.) 
4. A massage CEU course was being offered at Core Institute on Saturday. Interestingly, it dealt with movement--the Feldenkrais approach to it. Huh? That's what I thought when I received an e-mail from the Big Bend Chapter of FSMTA. Something massage-related I'm not familiar with and two credits for my effort and curiosity? I'm game. Count me in. Same for Daughter. Plans for the weekend? Too bad. Mom's comin' for a visit.

The trip wasn't all about serious stuff like learning. Really? You can learn a lot from a soul that's been dipped in the icy waters at Wakulla Springs. There must be something in the minerals or the constant movement of the water.

Whatever it is, someone needs to bottle it and call it "Commotion in Motion." Or maybe "Endymion Energizer."

Endymion

The rising moon has hid the stars;

Her level rays, like golden bars,

Lie on the landscape green,

With shadows brown between.

And silver white the river gleams,

As if Diana, in her dreams,

Had dropt her silver bow

Upon the meadows low.

On such a tranquil night as this,

She woke Endymion with a kiss,

When, sleeping in the grove,

He dreamed not of her love.

Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought,

Love gives itself, but is not bought;

Nor voice, nor sound betrays

Its deep, impassioned gaze.

It comes,--the beautiful, the free,

The crown of all humanity,--

In silence and alone

To seek the elected one.

It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep,

Are Life's oblivion, the soul's sleep,

And kisses the closed eyes

Of him, who slumbering lies

O, weary hearts! O, slumbering eyes!

O, drooping souls, whose destinies

Are fraught with fear and pain,

Ye shall be loved again!

No one is so accursed by fate,

No one so utterly desolate,

But some heart, though unknown,

Responds unto his own.

Responds,--as if with unseen wings,

An angel touched its quivering strings;

And whispers, in its song,

"Where hast thou stayed so long!"

(Henry W. Longfellow, 1807-1882)