The School called Good Is...Period

Just for the fun of it I’d like to present my readers with some theological arguments today. If this doesn’t interest you, simply don’t read on, but I myself find it a fascinating subject because it relates closely to happiness. 

Now, let’s write the word God on a piece of paper. Leave a space to add another o and keep the upper case G. Now you have the word as God is understood in several other languages. Let’s call God Good today. 

Here are some questions I’ve often pondered:

1. Does Good exist alone or is it only a word that gets its meaning from something opposite Itself called evil?
2. Can a strict interpretation of Good include exceptions or minor discrepancies?
3. If we accept Good as God must we be obliged to accept evil as a god too?
4. Why do we insist on believing both good and evil?

Here are answers I’ve come up with, not entirely on my own, but with the help of those I consider most wise in the past and present:

1. God, Good, exists alone and needs no opposite to define itself.
2. Good cannot include or allow even the slightest discrepancy to itself for if it could it would self-destruct. (And that explains what all the “bad stuff” in the world is doing when we attempt to validate evil along with good. Not pretty.) What Good does with evil is what truth does to a lie, it obliterates even the suggestion of evil, but only when understood.
3. No more than by accepting the principle of mathematics requires us to say that 2+2=5 or 4+4=6. If we were obliged to validate mistakes in mathematics we’d have relativity and that’s something other than what we’re talking about here, a no-man's-land. 
4. We insist on believing in both good and evil because of the overwhelming testimony of the material senses. By cultivating spiritual sense we can begin to see and prove that good is all and evil is nothing but a negation of good, not worthy to claim our attention, much less our belief. 

Our discussion could be enlarged but let’s keep it simple. I’m a believer that Good and evil are opposites and cannot both be true. The science of mathematics does not allow it, so why do theologians preach the first Commandment requiring us to have no other than Good and then immediately argue for a devil or the power and presence of evil?

Obviously, the answer in mathematics is that only ignorance accepts mathematical mistakes as true. You can write a wrong equation on the blackboard a hundred times and in a hundred different ways but only one way is true. Not discerning the right answer, or accepting the wrong answers, theologians accept the overwhelming existence of lies about one correct equation, that Good is real and evil is not. We battle with evil’s manifestations such as theft and hatred as if they were just as true as honesty and love while we could easily destroy the evidences of these by knowing the truth, namely, that those evidences are mere lies. A lie requires a truth or it could not exist even as a lie, (can anyone declare a lie about nothing?), but a truth can stand on its own and does not require or even permit a lie to validate it.   

Most religions refute absolute conclusions such as these because they find them hard to prove. They excuse themselves for lack of demonstration in the doctrine that only a few were so privileged. The absolute statement that, Good is and evil is not, is too narrow a path to go down, so they think. Thus we’ll live with wars, thievery, murders, adulteries, and all other deviations of good or God so long as we wrestle with them as facts and not as lies that can be corrected in ourselves once we get the facts. 

Which is the easier way? You figure. I think you can guess my answer. Even though I’m a babe in the pre-kindergarten class of the Good Is, Period School, and cannot demonstrate fully the truths I believe in as well as the upperclassmen, I’m not giving up. This school is easy when you learn day by day, hour by hour, and minute by minute. It permits those who wish progress to go as fast and far as they can. By the same token it permits diddlers and dabblers to go as slowly as they choose until they’re disciplined or disappointed in themselves and decide to get with it. 

Even when I’m at my best the going is often slow but I get much pleasure from every little thing I learn both in work and play. When I merit a grade A on some project, - well, that spells 

Happiness!

And that's why each day I start with the prayer that God will help me to do the right thing at the right time. I can carry with me the song and drumbeat of GOOD IS ALL; EVIL IS NAUGHT. That is the easy way. It starts with the desired end. I'm not a tiny something trying to grow into a larger something. I'm at one with the Good is everything and I am a living, practicing individual expression of Good.

All I can say is, it works for me as it's worked and is working for others. See you in School!

My Friend, Pinwheel

The pinwheel I bought in Ojai came with me to my new home by the creek about four years ago. A few days ago I thought it had bit the dust. I was only going to put it in a different pot but it had been stuck where it was so long that when I pulled it out the stick broke.  "You’re too short now to stick in another pot." I told it, "and your colors are quite faded.” I came that close to tossing the little fellow in the trash bin. Then I saw a spot up near the crook of the shepherd’s staff pole that holds the hanging ivy where it could accommodate Pinwheel if I tied it there. Now I get special pleasure out of seeing Pinwheel from any of the chairs I choose to sit in. He did squeak a bit after the change but a squirt of WD40 took care of that. 

It’s always fun for me to give things I’ve enjoyed a second life when they appear to be headed for the end of their story. I like to think of things as thoughts. It gives them more dignity. Even the French do that in their language. Nearly everything is considered either male or female. I like to learn lessons from them too. That’s one of the perks of growing older. I allow myself time to sit and think, enjoy my solitude in the place I love most, my home. Should have done more of that all my life. Having a tablet and pen with me also helps. When a thing gives me a lesson I can jot it down right away. 

This morning as I sat out on the patio little Pinwheel spoke to me. “Thank you, J.D., for saving my life. (He knew I'd like his use of my artist's name, Joyce Darling. The Darling part came from my mother's maiden name.) He went on, "I know what those county dumps are like. Don’t ask me how, but I do. Now I’m really enjoying my high perch. What a view!  I suppose some people might think it would be boring to be a pinwheel but I like my lot in life. I have many secrets that you humanoids can benefit from. First, I respond to Breezes and Gusts and even high Winds. You might say that something you call Spirit is a lot like what causes the movements of air. It has its effects on everything and everyone. You can’t see it. You can only see what it does to us. It makes us move, it gives us ideas and purpose and pleasure. Sometimes we get the brunt of bad spirits like tornados or hurricanes. None of us, not even I, can explain the whys of bad winds or bad thoughts. (Who do you know can explain why 2+2=5?) But it’s something to think about, the way Spirit moves us for pleasure and good purposes, and it's up to us not to feed the baser elements of those bad winds that always get their power from ignorance and fear." Obviously Pinwheel had been doing some thinking too. 

The dawn was hinting its arrival when I had this little conversation with Pinwheel and it was time for me to do a few things like wash my face, get dressed, clean the bird cage, have breakfast and drive Katie to work. The day has gone by and I got a few things done. I ushered by the front door at church. That’s always pleasant. Reminds me of the Bible passage, “I’d rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my Lord than to dwell in the tents of wickedness.” Then I patronized the pet shop by getting in supplies for Tommy, my canary. Stopped at Costco to fill the gas tank, had a little lunch, caught up on the latest news on TV, and mended a tank top for Katie. I think I can credit Spirit for moving me to do those things.

Right now I’m going to take a cool glass of water out to the patio again and enjoy the dusky side of the day. If Pinwheel starts up another conversation or gives me another lesson about Spirit, I’ll let you know, but I’m hoping he’ll just do his thing, keep spinning and let me be. One good lesson a day is enough for my mind to chew on. I’m glad for P.W.'s second life though. If his spinning round the clock were by his own efforts I'd feel sorry for him but as it is he must like it about like I like breathing. Breathing and spinning are great. They take no effort on our part but they are essential to our happiness and well-being. Pinwheel has one perk he said he enjoys quite frequently. He can be perfectly still when Wind is sleeping on the job. Spirit just never quits.

Bacon or Sausage?

My breakfast menu was different from the usual this morning. Instead of cereal, fruit and milk I had bacon, eggs and toast. I ate it out on my patio and maybe because the sky was dark and overcast my thoughts picked up the mood. As my readers know, I usually border on what some may think of as “La la Land.” I like to risk that accusation because I do subscribe to the counsel of Paul in Philippians 4:8 King James Version,  “...whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things.” While there may be no loveliness in what I’m about to write this morning, there might be some justice to it. 

I was only five years old when I witnessed a killing. I’ve often wondered why my grandmother, a gentle farm woman, would have allowed me to see the slaughter of pigs that day. I’d been allowed to watch Grandpa feed the hogs and enjoyed their greedy squeals and unmannerly mealtimes, but this was different. The terror, the unholy squeals of fear that those creatures uttered that day seemed aimed  directly to me. "Please help! Have mercy on me!"they called and their extremity was palpable. Grandma's hand was on my arm. I could only stand helplessly by. Then the gunshots, the last wiggling of their bodies, the knives, the blood, the absolute horror of it all left an indelible impression on my child’s mind. Maybe Grandma wanted me to carry that scene all my life to urge me into a step of higher humanity, a further rung in the ladder of the commandment “Thou shalt not kill.” It’s the only thing that makes sense to me now. She was  a devout Bible loving, good woman, a practical pilgrim but with a crusader’s heart.  Maybe Grandma thought my innate child mercy would help lead humanity upward from such things as farming animals for food. A step she would not be able to take herself.

If that was her reason, I let her down. That ugly incident in my childhood did not prevent me from eating pork or any other meat. Nor did it keep Grandma from cooking and canning the meat and serving it at her dinner table. We’re caught up in a food chain and it just happens that we’re on the top. I suspect that if each one of us were required to raise the beasts we’re about to eat, kill, wash away their blood and prepare their bodies for the frying pan or oven, we might then reconsider the justice of it all. We’d be too merciful then, maybe. But our mercy is silent when we go to market and casually pick up a neatly wrapped package from the meat counter. 

Living on a ranch for eight years and caring for young animals, then sending them to their sudden sad end was enough to make a vegetarian out of me. That is, for a while. After the ranch I turned a blind eye to all of this, went back to joining the others at the table, and carefully keeping my conscience in check. I have placated myself for the time to the thought that most creatures raised for meat have, at least, a life here on earth that they’d never have had were it not for meat-eaters. Maybe they really were meant to feed us? It's easier to compromise conscience than be a pioneer. 

I don’t think of this often but perhaps the usual delight in my surroundings this morning got punctured by that old nightmare of the killing of pigs so long ago as I ate my crisp slice of bacon with relish. Was I being reminded of that childhood scene for a reason? Perhaps I should write about it in my blog. This one not quite from La la land.

I remember reading a book years ago called Animal Liberation by Peter Singer. I think I’ll stop by the library today and see if they still have it.

Write for Your Own Amusement

“You should write your life story, Fanny. Even how you got your name. Tell it like you would to a good friend.” We oldsters hear that a lot. Often it comes across with subliminal implications like “You’re not long for this world and your memories will be lost to your descendants if you don’t get them down on paper.” It sounds like a horrendous job. We get it, acknowledge it, but we’d rather not think about it. Not now anyway.

Well, I’m going to put it another way. Write for fun! Writing about your favorite memories can brighten your day. Never mind how you get it down. Forget punctuation, precision, all the rules. You can talk without reminding yourself of that, so write the way you talk. If you’re writing in a journal you don’t need to edit. Publishing? That’s the time to get help if you need it. 

I’ve heard all the excuses. “I’m not a good writer.” “I haven’t time to write.” “I’ll get to it someday.” “Nobody would be interested in reading it.”

 OK, now I’m asking you this: If you could read a first hand account of a great great great grandmother of yours, how she lived before she came to this country, where she came from, what the voyage was like, where she landed, how she met your great great great grandfather, what he did for a living, how their children came along... would you consider such a thing boring? Wouldn’t you rather be glad she took the time, even got pleasure in writing it all down? 

To write your memoir can seem overwhelming to begin with but once started it can become a joy. Really. The best memories are the ones you should choose first and write about randomly. Become a story teller like the one you were when the grandchildren were left in your care and they’d always ask you at bedtime to tell about “the olden days.” 

Blogging is a great way to feel connected when you’re well into your eighties and nineties. We survivors are often alone much of the time and stepping into the past to re-live a happy time is like telling a friend about it. You’ll want to be sparing about the bad times. Readers might latch onto them like they do gossip but they’re not good for your own soul. Bad times were bad enough to experience once. They don’t need to be dragged up for rehearsal! You can tell them if you must, but it will not make you a happy writer and likely not inspire readers to open your blog. I know some will say don't whitewash your past. Tell it honestly. I agree, but again I say, start with the good stuff.

I started a blog this morning about the new room I’ve added to my house. It’s been there all along, that new room. It's my patio. Now I call it a room. It's a room with a towering ceiling and no walls! Yesterday I bought a large rug along with two smaller matching area rugs. The rugs practically cover the cement, leaving potted plants on the cement borders. Along with my Amish rocker and the other little rocker I bought at a consignment shop plus the glider that came from Lowe’s Hardware, my patio is a room. Here in Southern California we seldom, if ever, get rain in the summer season, but if rain is predicted I can easily roll up the rug. By the way, the rug looks, yes, it actually looks like a fine Oriental rug but I bought it at Big Lots for $49.00!

In the blog I started I invited you, my readers, to come and sit in the other rocker, have a cup of coffee or tea and a few of those dainty cookies I also bought yesterday. If you were here I wouldn’t be talking about myself so much. I’d be interested in hearing your stories, what you think about this and that, how your family is doing and what you’ve been up to. As it is, when I’m alone and want to write I have to write, as they say one should, about things that you’re best acquainted with. That’s myself.

Occasionally I am bound to say something of more interest. Now I must say, Bye bye!

From a Lump of Clay an Old Soul

The year was, as I recall, 1988. I’d moved to Orange County to be near my daughter, Robin, after the passing of my husband, Wally. I was a widow, but not exactly a merry one. Not a gloomy one either. Just finding myself free to do whatever I wanted with my life. Something different, I hoped.

So, when I saw an ad for the Laguna Canyon Art Academy I called and asked about sculpting. Yes, they had a night class coming up. They named a price, I got off the phone, wrote a check and dropped it in the mail. And then the first night of class I found myself there early and sat in the car wondering. Should I be here? Facing the unknown is never easy, but it was exciting.

Inside I was directed to an empty room. Empty of people, that is. There were large bare tables, a few high stools, Shelves with strange objects drying out. And then a young man came in, laid a big pouch on a table, looked around and said, “Guess we’re early, huh?”

“Not really,” I said. “I’d expect a teacher to be here. You’re here for sculpting, right?”

“Nope, I’m doing pots.”

After a few other people came and I learned that they all were there for pots I was about to walk out, but just then a young woman came in loaded down with supplies and breathlessly greeted us with an apology. Must be the teacher, I thought. She seemed friendly. Maybe this would be fun after all. 

“Now, if you’ll give me your names I’ll check them off my list,” she said as she took a pen and pad out of her bulky purse. After each name she’d ask, “And you’re here to throw pots?” Everyone said yes but when I said, “No, I want to sculpt,” she looked surprised.

“Oh, I don’t teach that,” she said sadly. I was relieved. It was a perfect out. I picked up my purse and started for the door. “That's OK,” I said, “Sorry, I must have made a mistake when I signed up.”

“No! Don’t go!” Her face, so young and fresh, and her eyes, - “I can get you started. Please wait and if you’re not satisfied you can go.”

Well she did. She got me started. “Now see this wire? This is for cutting off a chunk of clay.” I held the wire, pulled on its small wooden handles through the big block of clay, and a chunk peeled off.   “Now,” she said, you need to work it in your hands to be sure there are no bubbles of air inside. They would heat up and blow the piece open in the kiln.”  She brought me a revolving stand, slapped the clay onto it and showed me how to use some tools. Then she laid a few sculpting books beside me, opened one to a certain page. “This will get you started. You can have this room to yourself and I’ll be in the next room with the potters but I’ll stop by now and then.”

Have you ever felt clean fresh clay in your hands? Maybe as a kid you worked with Play Dough. Not the same. There is no feel quite as good as a lump of clean clay. It yields unconditionally to your touch. When you first feel it something primal begins to happen. I felt it then as she walked away. 

As it turned out, being on my own was just the way I liked it. If the teacher had been hovering over me every minute I’d have been self-conscious. As it was it seemed like the clay was teaching me. By the end of the three hour session I had a young girl in a straw hat well on her way. I had her eyes, her turned up nose, her mouth, and even her teeth! She was smiling in just a little shy way and her long hair hung gracefully around a bare shoulder. The teacher was impressed. She called in the potters to see what I’d done. They were impressed. I, myself, was impressed. It had simply happened. I felt no pride, just delight. I wasn’t finished, of course, but by the end of the first week my "Maud Muller" (the maiden raking in a hayfield in an old poem by John Greenleaf Whittier,) was ready to be set aside to dry out for the kiln.

That’s the way it’s been ever since. The clay does it. My hands and fingers seem like things apart from me, as if I were watching someone else at work. As long as I don’t struggle, don’t get myself in the way, a face emerges. It may be young or old, male or female, beautiful or not. It may be aged and wrinkled, have a double chin or missing tooth, but none are ugly to me. 

Of course, my expertise may leave something to be desired. I may wish I’d done my face friend better, but he or she seems always glad to be out of the lump. I know because they all smile.

As my former blog explains, that’s the fun part. Now that I’m into offering them for sale I cringe. After my first attempt years ago when I had a showing at a Fathers’ Day picnic “Art in the Park” in a small Minnesota town, and no one bought a thing or even gave my faces much more than a passing glance, I was stung. When I overheard one of two women who had stopped to really look stand back and whisper, “Wow!” that alone made my day. I gathered up my faces at closing time and took them to a cousin’s house where there was a family picnic going on. As I laid the faces out on a table I said, “Now, don’t feel obligated, but if you see one, just one, that you really honestly love, you can have it for nothing. Then I saw delightful connections take place. Each one went to its rightful home. I was happy. 

Now this gallery venture I’m in may be profitable or it may be a bust. I didn’t want to go commercial, but my daughter had offered my work to a new gallery and the faces begged to get out of the house. What better place than The Cottage Gallery?  I hope they sell, not only for me, but for the owners of the gallery and for the sake of the Old Souls, as I call them. They are tired of hanging all over my house. There’s no space left but the ceiling! 

I hope my heart isn’t holding them too tight. Although I take little credit for their coming out of their lumps of clay, I am in love with them, each one. If no one else feels that way then I’d wish the Old Souls that don't get adopted could go with me into the Hereafter. Eventually we all, flesh or clay, will go wherever it is Old Souls go.

Back in Your Own Backyard

Happiness grows “Back in your own backyard,” so the old song goes. I believe it. Talents long neglected or struggling to stay alive, may spring back to freshness and vigor if we let them, right in our own backyards. I’m finding this out with the help of my daughter, Robin. 

Robin is a thriving artist. Her medium is watercolor. She finds happiness and paints it. People love it and buy it. So far she’s doing well enough financially to earn her living that way and she definitely has prospects of going big time. Whether or not there’s a big time ahead she’s finding happiness right now in her own backyard. She lives and breathes art, noticing every sign of beauty and interest and capturing the bits and pieces of it with paint.

Robin picks up the spirit of an old gnarled tree, a bird on a fence post, an old man feeding the pigeons from a park bench. The old man painting came from an art abroad vacation she had in college. He’s sitting on a bench in a London park, bent over, talking softly to the birds and feeding them seeds from a paper bag. He probably knows the feathered ones by name. It’s a public park, yes, but its also his “backyard.” His happiness grows there. It’s visible. It’s felt.

People stop to talk. Robin talked to him.  She asked if she might photograph him. And she talked to him more. Robin likes people, all people, but some she loves without hesitation and she can put it all on paper. The person, the place, the mood. That painting even turned into a large stained glass window that hung for years in the Ashland Oregon Library. Think of the children who stopped to look and felt the magic!

Nowadays Robin and I live practically in each other’s backyard. We’re both in the Quail Creek area here in Laguna Hills California. The other day Robin said, "Mom, I found just the place for your faces! It's a new gallery that hasn't quite opened yet in that old historic section of San Juan Capistrano called Los Rios. I'll be showing my paintings there and the owners said they need more sculpture so I showed them some pictures of your work and you're in!" 

We'd often talked about such a thing but all of a sudden it's done! Sculpting faces has been my hobby for years, a sort of on and off thing, but so rewarding when I get into it. I've turned globs of clay into people, had them fired, and they've covered my walls, spread out over every flat surface they could find. Only the ceiling is left! They've been begging to get out and see the world, maybe find homes of their own. Now it's got a chance of happening.

The gallery is new, (opening day is tomorrow!), but the house was built in the 1800’s and it sits among others of its vintage on a famous old street called Los Rios in San Juan Capistrano. It’s called The Cottage Gallery. Robin thought my Old Souls would like to meet the people who come in there. "They will fit right in, Mom. The whole area is vintage. 

I said yes and now it's up to the powers that be. My faces are not just pretty ones. They are character studies. They just emerged of their own volition when I took off my rings, sat down at the bench with clay and rolled up my sleeves. Some of my faces are young, even a baby or two, but a lot of them look old. I’m old too and stepping into a new world is not easy.  Robin has the savvy. She's helping. She’s full of ideas about how to show them to the best advantage. 

Dennie Hahn and Leslie Avalos own the Cottage. They are wonderful artists themselves. They were gracious enough to accept me and gave me an ideal space in the cottage, a tiny room where people have to stand up close to view the work. If they stop long enough, they may be compelled to read my faces. There’s Cozette, The Magician, Great Aunt Phoebe, The Medicine Man, and all the rest. I love them all and hate to see them go, but it’s a little like life, - we need to make room for others, or at least to offer. 

No one can know the behind the scenes angst an artist goes through. Marketing is hard work. It takes a business head as well as great talent. It takes listening and trotting around, connecting with others, and making messes in one’s own house. And it takes an emotional toll as well. With mine, there will be no copies. I'll keep them only in photographs. Which is where I am today with a few hours to bring order out of chaos here at home, getting rid of scraps, sorting out tools. The gallery room with the Old Souls is ready though. It is waiting and watching for the faces of those who come to look at them. It’s exciting. It’s scary. Maybe it will be fun. The vibes say it will be. 

Robin and I plan to take our turns sitting the gallery together on certain days. We may set up our easel and work bench out on the front porch to let people watch a painting creep onto a canvas and a face emerge from the clay. In that way we may share the really fun part. Whatever comes of it I believe that old song, happiness does grow “Back in Your Own Backyard.”

I’ve visited London and Paris, Switzerland, Austria, Italy, Germany, and even China. It was fun going there but these days I’m having too much pleasure here at home right in my own backyard!  

"Quiet Desperation"

Look up the word desperation and it sounds bad. My thesaurus says “despair abandons oneself to fate,” and it suggests to put emphasis on "Abandon." It means to cease, leave, give up.  I looked up fate also and it means final outcome or destiny. Destiny is “the seemingly inevitable succession of events.” 

The words “quiet desperation” refer to Thoreau’s famous quotation, 

“The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.” 

Thankfully, he ends this assessment with these words: 

“...it is a characteristic of wisdom not to do desperate things.”

So we go on living our lives as we will and leaving the outcome to the powers that be. I’m beginning to think that the “outcome” is where we are at this moment. Past and future may be obsolete because everything relevant to the present is in the present, the here and now. 

Take death. Look around and we have to say that everything dies. Even our sun will die but most scientists agree that death in the natural world is merely change. We’re stuck with life, but we can choose to be desperate in that life or to embrace hope and confidence.

When people say, “I’m depressed,” (even if I should say that at times,) I hear another voice saying, “Why do you choose to be that way?” I believe we really do choose our thoughts, our destiny, and by these choices we construct our fate. Every day of our lives, regardless of circumstance, we can find something to cheer about if we don't abandon our search. 

Mr. Thoreau, you may be right, but I suspect you are also wrong. I believe there’s a quiet majority out there who have the wisdom to make right choices and they do not do desperate things. They don’t make it into the daily news, but they’re there and they are not desperate. They have hope and faith and I think I hear their voices singing on another frequency. Can you hear them too? It sounds like, “Yea! Yay! Yes! and “Way to go, bro!!!”

Since I have this blog I'm adding my voice to the "masses" and I say,  Tune into whatever station you like. Join whatever "reality" you wish for and don't let mass thinking rob you of your choice. Be glad, be sad, but just remember, you choose!