Faith

The Imbolic

| betweenstops

Today is the kind of day when you don’t want to leave home. It is a cold day and the sun is not shining. It is raining lightly all day long. It’s a perfect day to stay inside, work at my desk and look out the window to my lovely garden, soaked in the grayness of winter time.

Today is the imbolic, otherwise known as Saint Bridgid’s day. It is the day between the winter solstice, and the spring equinox. The pagans had a goddess for it, but she got translated to a saint in the fifth century, and somewhere along the line, it became groundhog’s day in the United States.

It’s an in between day. A day of question: is it going to be more winter or is springtime starting? Curious that the movie had the day repeating itself ad infinitum stopping time.

Generally, Imbolic is considered positive and a move towards the light from the dark. We saw that a bit in the news today. Hostages were released, and contrary to the popular line, the revolution is being televised. People are looking at large screens in big squares, waiting for their person to show up and be freed.

In Germany people showed up in mass to voice their disapproval of Elon Musk and all that he stands for. That’s a step towards the light. Those people have seen this shit go down before.

Meanwhile on the border between the United States and Mexico there are planks of wood long enough to go through spaces in the fence. A Mexican child can sit on one end.

The US kid is on the other end. They can play seesaw on the wooden plank despite the wall between them. When one is up, the other is down. When the other is up, the one is down and so forth, following rules of harmony and balance.

The rain continues to wash down. I am getting up from my desk to play my guitar. Even though I can’t play it well and certainly never in public, I find it soothing. It is an inbetween activity. 

I play some Bob Dylan. Bob Dylan, now more famous than ever, is simultaneously 83 and 21 in our consciousness.

“I’ll let you be in my dream, if I can be in yours.”

Hourglass

| betweenstops

If life is to be measured like sands of time, running from the upper hourglass to the bottom, I think it only fair the sands possess different colors for different periods. Not all of one’s life is the same color.

Once the sands of time have fallen through to a beautiful mountain at the bottom, the hourglass being flipped over to do it’s thing again resembles reincarnation. Even if I were to buy into the idea of reincarnation, (or purgatory for that matter) does it not seem ridiculous that one would have the same amount of time in the next life?

Perhaps the sand measures something else… Love, for instance…. However, if one hopefully were to progress as in evolve, would not there be more love in the next life? Looking at history of human beings on the planet, one wonders. Perhaps it’s the opposite.

Where the alchemical meets the mundane in etchings of hourglasses, they have wings. These wings signify that time flies. But it doesn’t always. We all know that. Sometimes it drags.

Then there’s those shattered hourglasses. Those tragically smashed all over the pavement in sharp shards. Like so many young black guys killed by ignorant policeman. A mad man with a gun in a school or a shopping mall throws that hourglass full of sand in the upper half against a brick wall. Sands released too soon.

Let’s forget about time altogether and consider the hourglass as a female form, in ephemeral youth, temporarily full of wonder.

Yet, maybe there’s something outside the physical realm. It’s like that sometimes. Sometimes things get lucky. Perhaps even magic exists and there is something that is not bound by time.

Race & Religion Lake Temescal

| betweenstops
Lake Temescal

Because of daylight savings time, my walk around the lake is quite a bit darker than usual. It’s Sunday, and a few family outings are ending up. I park a little irregularly, not quite exactly between the two lines because I back up in order to head out easily. I know it doesn’t matter how I am parked because no new cars are going to be coming in at that hour.

Three quarters around the lake, I notice coming towards me and then notice as they walk by me, two people dressed entirely in white. I don’t look closely, but I think they are dark skinned maybe Indian maybe African-American. That’s not the unusual thing. The unusual thing is that they are dressed in white. Part of the Lake Temescal in Oakland appeal, is all kinds of people are happily enjoying the park.

As I get further along the path by the lake, to where the field accommodates larger groups, I see one large group of many many people dressed in white. Not all of them, however. They still look Indian or African-American. There are some stragglers away from the group, people with baby carriages and babies in them and couples without carriages and pairs of friends. The majority of them however are centered in a circle around a sound similar to the hindu chanting I know from Amma’s. A place where people used to dress in white.

The sound I’m hearing is far away so I can’t know exactly what it is. I stop and ask a straggling couple what is going on. The young man doesn’t know exactly what to say so he says, “Church”. “Nice” I say and add “Blessings to you all” before walking on.

The woman with the guy who said ‘church’, disapproves of me. I can see her body grimace, and tighten up when I ask them if I am hearing Hindi. She is dressed in full length white with blue trim around the edge of her head covering. This resembles the clothing Mother Theresa nuns wore in the early 90s going to and from Saint Pauls, where they were housed, near 28th and Sanchez.

Mother Theresa, even occasionally went to that building. I had a boyfriend, who lived a block from there. He broke up with me, and started to become best friends with my housemate. My housemate would, of course go to his house. Once housemate saw Mother Theresa in route. I found that infinitely unfair. I thought I was the one who deserved to see Mother Theresa.

A decade or two before that, I spent a lot of time going to meditation classes and meditation retreats. My best friend was interested in no such thing. She was interested in marijuana and occasionally a lot of alcohol. One night after a bottle of rum or something she teleported to my apartment.

The next day she told me what I was wearing and everything that I was doing the night before. There’s no way she could’ve known that. Again, I thought it was unfair. I was going to the meditation retreats. I was the one trying to reach god. Somehow she was already there.

Funny how the mind works and how I went from the gathering to the blue trim of Mother Teresa to that night.

Walking back to my car, two young men from the group but not dressed in white, stop me on the dark path.

“You come here much?” One asks.

“Yes” I answer.

“Where is there a bathroom?” he asks.

I tell him.

“Thank you so much” The other says sincerely. Perhaps he’s the one in need.

“Of course!” I say.

I realize now, after having a bit more time with these two, that the group is Ethiopian. Not that it matters.

Still, I wonder why they are dressed in white. I could look that up no doubt but I’d rather leave it unknown.

A Matter of Faith

| betweenstops

I recently travelled from San Francsico to England, Spain and France and back.  Going through customs and security varies. The USA being by far the most intense.

I’d think everything was off and out and yet I couldn’t get through the gateway without getting stopped.

it was my “religious” charms setting off the alarms; the guardian angel of dubious, now dull brown medal, given to me at birth and the, bought in Bali, circle dedicated to a Hindu Goddess of creativity. They share a gold chain and are messing things up and at every portal. They and my silver & crystal mala from Amma.

“Oh Yeah, and these.” I say as i lift them off my neck and over my head, into the plastic tray.

dashboard

Without my charms of hope and belief, I pass easily through.