Musings from Deeptime

  December 24th, 2 Christmas Eve, the last day of the days before... Today is Christmas Eve. The moment of "just before...". Like the split-second before the sun shows above the horizon it is, "Not yet, but almost".  It is pregnant with possibility, for the quill has yet to touch the parchment.  If history be a guide then, much of what will be written of this day will be much of what was written of the yesterday's that have come and gone.  And that is a sad thing, for we live in a time where to build walls, opaque and dark, to crawl into the barren void deep within the wall, then to pull the door and lock it, is to be the actions of a wise and prudent man.  Though we may not see it or feel it, we live in a time of unimaginable wealth, even for the poor this is true.  And what does wealth bring with it?  Fear.  Common sense plainly tells us, what can be amassed can be scattered.  What can be vaulted and locked away, can be stolen.   The worst prisons we build for

August 18th, 2 Meditation in the shade of a hollow tree. I said, "I Feel I've Been Lied To". My Politician whisper, "It was Not a Sin to Lie, if The Truth is Not Expected". "Don't worry, we have your backside of covered", our military leadership will inform their civilian oversight committees...Through back channels, of course. Those who stand in the shadows behind the thrones of power in our capital, will slide a one page memo across the table, and say, "Don't worry. We can really make hay with this. This is how we will play this in the off-year election campaign.  My people gotcha covered". And the religious leader told his autobiographer,  "...Gee I dunno, somewhere along the line, my vision began to fail me, but I knew the routine by heart. I knew which sacred texts to use. So I just continued on... as if nothing had happened". And on the hillsides surrounding our capitol, the sheep, in unison, raise their heads and look

Waiting for the Return Migration  With chains of polished steel, they wait. A radio in the distance, the muffled sound of laughing children, quiet conversation of daughter and grandmother still occupy the space. The moment came like an afternoon shower, out of nowhere, and unannounced. One by one, launching from the swinging pendulum, a ball of baby fat, wrapped in holey blue jeans, fueled by a free range curiosity, following a course set in motion long before they were born. The Great Migration to futures unknown has begun. Red ink falls on wet, white paper, at first scarlet, but leaving only pink as curiosity pulls each molecule to the edge of it's universe, and as the ink, so the children. And you reckon, what of mother and grandmother? One became the other and the other became an Angel, And the migration goes on. bobb

  Monday evening,   October 4th, ano 2 Corn and bean harvest, after an early start 2 weeks ago, the farmers  are sidelined with 3 days of on-again-off-again rains.  Retired after almost a 50 year career playing in the annual "Harvest Super Bowl", I find myself no longer giving it much thought.  My dad ran the Hales & Hunter feed mill in Mentone and long before I was legal, dad "hired" me to help unload corn during harvest.  One-lunger tractors pulled in with wagons that had a capacity of 200 bu...maybe.  They look like toys compared...well, lets not go there.  My school buddies whose families farmed, were riding shotgun on picker/shellers,  tractors ferrying wagons, manual shift grain trucks that were about the size of today's long bed F350.  At school, we eagerly compared notes waiting for last bell, eager to step back into the sacred role of seasonal harvest help.  Fathers, uncles, big brothers taught, mostly by example, moms and sisters took over chores,