TIME : Too Little, Too Much, and Never Enough

~Seeking Kairos~

When the sun slides ever Westward, drawn to the horizon, rolling down to a distant night, there is a point where the veil twixt this world and all others grows thin, easily breeched. The twenty (or so) universes lie close to one another as pages in a book, separated by a mere breath of thought. The mind wanders across the threshold. Spirits slip back and forth and sometimes forget which side they tread. Time as we know it grows meaningless.

Golems, Grendels and wraiths wait in that place twixt the worlds, shadows ready to slip into mischief. Some come unbidden, some are called. Fear is their greatest weapon. Darkness is their being. 'Tis primeval...as C.S. Lewis calls it:

"Deep magic from the dawn of time."
Young children understand this instinctually. Those who hunt and fish alone in the wild understand....And many of the ancient ones among us know it well.

Most modern "adult" humans don't understand, they are out of tune...or they dismiss it as some physical or psychological abberation. As Scrooge scoffed: "...nothing more than a bit of undigested potato! "....Until at some point while wandering into old age, that vision rises up, unfettered by reason, modern societal sensory overload and the ability to dismiss the sight of an angelic spectre sitting on their life partner's headboard, beckoning them homeward...

Or the Magnolia which puts out a singular, spectacular bloom in late September as a southern gentleman departs from the broken, used up vessel that carried him for near 90 years on this wicked ol'earth.

Those of you who read this blog with some frequency understand the concepts of Chronos and Kairos.

- Chronos is Man's time. It is created.... the inevitable ticking of the clock leading us all to that one point when the clock stops and we cease to exist on this plane, this planet, and in this "TIME."

- Kairos is God's time. It knows no bounds. It is the mind of God, the moving will of the great Creator.

~~~~~

I mentioned C.S. Lewis and his statement about deep magic from the beginning of time. The irony is that this "magic" of which Lewis speaks, is tied to Chronos. It is:
" ...from the beginning of time."

This concept is predicated upon the fact that there is something else. Lewis calls it:

" Deeper Magic from Before the Beginning of Time "

This is Kairos, God's time. It is uncluttered by any of creation... or reason or scientific exploration and the laws of physics...or any other construct of mankind.
It is not Gaia, the earth mother.
It is not Mars, the bringer of War.
It is not the entertwined planetary aspects of astrology.
It exists outside the universe twisting theorem of quantum physics.
It is not Wicca, or Muslim, or Methodist, or Shinto, or Bhodidharma- Bhodisatva Hindu.
It is not any creation of mankind.....

It is found in direct relationship with God thru His only Son.

And that is the conundrum, the inescapable, implausable, ultimately unknowable God desiring with his whole being to reconnect with imperfect, broken and sinful creation, and with mankind.

He shows up in the most uncanny of places. I saw this shoe. It belongs to my Mom and was dragged out of the closet by the youngest of her dogs as a chew toy. Set on the table, someone placed a feather in the heel socket. I walked in the door and the image impaled my spirit. Mom's flight is nearing ready to call her and take her home.

Does that mean she will die tomorrow, or next week or next year?


OMG!!!


And that, beloved is the imposition of my Chronos on God's Kairos.
Her pewter and lace and fine antiques will remain for some "time" after she has gone

Her 200 year old square grand piano will continue to sing for another 200 years, long after we all have gone....in Chronos time.

None of that matters to God. His will is outside of and encompasses all of creation from the moment that Chronos began burning the wick of creation until He, the Master, chooses to snuff it out.



What matters to him is relationship. Y’all might want to plop down on your knees and have a little talk. God, the great Creator, He is waiting, hoping you will come and walk outside of Chronos for a little bit. What? You are too busy, too distracted, too involved? OK, He will wait and call to you. After all, He has all the time in the world.

Pacific Winds, Pacific Monsoon

~The Monsoon Flow ~

Yesterday, the monsoon clouds lay low after a spectacular sunrise...most of which I missed dealing with the whole process of rising to the morning. Mom's dogs were not happy about another day without their Pack Leader. Their inability to relax and rest most of the night reflected that.

Mom is not happy. The docs will not allow her to eat until they find the blockage or whatever it is that is causing her illness. Test upon test upon test with no definitive answers have left her frustrated, fearful.

Nothing can be done. We simply must wait.

It rained in Tucson. The clouds piled up into a pewter mass, pushing against the Santa Rita mountains. A slow, soft and steady rain began to fall. And that made Mom angry. She could not sneak outside and have her smoke.

Yep, the world is against her... AND....The sullen sunset sky reflects her mood:

The evening before yesterday's rain, clouds rolled in and created the most magnificent sunset.

The range of brilliant raging brush strokes to the subtle delicate pastels never ceases to amaze me.

I forget, when I am not here, just how magnificent these skies can be.

Arizona Highways

~Green Valley Summer~

Last Wednesday night I received a call from my sister Martha. Mom had been taken to the hospital in Tucson after collapsing in a faint while having dinner with friends. The devil in the details not necessary, yet an historic background will help.

Mom has had trouble with her gut off and on for years. Chronic problems with stomach, intestines and liver have plagued her late adult life. She is now almost 82. She lost Dad Anthony, her husband, the love of her life in 2005. The last four years have not been easy for her.

The phone call from my sister, though a shock, was not unexpected. One of we three siblings needed to go to Green Valley / Tucson with all haste. Martha and her husband Jim own and run a successful fly fishing shop and guide service in Evergreen. This is their busy season. My brother John just began a major cabinet and interior job which could not be put aside. I, on the other hand, am unemployed. I drew the short straw by choice and by chance.

Last Friday, the 12th, I flew out of Denver, heading southwest through the growing afternoon clouds and foothills turbulence, over the mountains and high desert and down into the gusty Sonoran winds dancing in the canyons and pecan orchards and city of Tucson.

This is not about Mom's illness. Its about the life of this Valley infused in the lives of one family...our family.

Mom and Dad moved to Green Valley in 1985/86. Dad had retired in 1979. They sold the old homestead in Wheat Ridge, Colorado some three or four years later and moved to Guatemala. Central American politics being what they are... The folks decided to move back to the states. They picked Green Valley, bought a three bedroom patio home and settled into retirement.

Mom's love of vibrant colors that compliment the climate and culture are clearly evident in how she has decorated with palette and plant. She and Dad worked slowly and with intent to turn the little home into a refuge and welcoming destination for friend and family alike.







Green Valley was founded as a designated retirement community in the early 1960's. It sits off to the west of Interstate 19 about a half hour south of Tucson in the Santa Cruz River Valley. It has grown into one of the Sonoran Desert's premiere places to retire.

There are spectacular sunsets and at least one great restaurant:


http://lavenderrestaurant.com/


AND...Sonoran desert weather mitigated by 3,000+ foot altitude and two distinct monsoon seasons make it very desirable almost all year round.





There are golf courses..heh.... Ask my brother about that, as I am not a golfer. I like the hikes and the skies and the birds. Literally thousands of dove make Green Valley their home year round, White Wing, Mourning, Eurasian and Aztec.

A goodly variety of desert trees, both deciduous and coniferous, native and transplants make the Northern Sonoran NOT your typical desert environment. My favorite is the Mesquite. This one Dad transplanted the year they moved here.

It is a beautiful place. Soft and vibrant, it has a very feminine feel to it. Unlike the Mojave in California and Nevada, which, to me seems very coarse, brazen and strident, and at times, enraged, engorged with anger.

The Sonoran is harsh in heat and sun, yet there is a yielding to the rugged mountains and dry river valleys. It seems to be an acceptance of the earth beneath, twisted geological turmoil that formed this land. It is laughter at the rolling, everchanging weather feeding and watering, blowing and freezing, nurturing and killing with beauty and deadly charm.



That is the Sonoran Desert I know here in Green Valley where my parents made their final outpost of their physical life on this broken ol' planet.

Berättare Natt

Mitt-Sommar Natt Dröm

When Midsummer's Eve arrives, when the sun rolls high to the north, and darkness is driven away, the Swedes celebrate the longest day. Herring and Cheese, Smoked Eel and Sausage, Beer and Gamel Dansk and Vodka meet fresh herbs and spices...fruits and berries...rye bread and potatoes. Flowers appear in liquid, flashing eyes and laughing lips... and twine in fragrant locks, bright as morning as smiles. Desire deep as the North Sea roars at passion's gate. The long wait is over. The long twilight shimmers with flowers and nightburn, belly deep and strong. The age old, undertow speaks, seeking this one summer night.


The elders recollect memories unsullied by long years . Lyric voices share them in the tales turned legend. For a singular night, darkness is banished. Light reigns supreme....Ah, and then, beloved, the cycle begins again.




Generations listen, intent on tales they have heard since childhood, certain that nothing has changed. Only they who tell the tales change. Thinning white hair and lined faces, uncertain steps grow ever more ancient. Yet eyes glitter, undimmed by age as the sing-song Nordic voice recalls tales of sea and bird, elk and moose, flowers and fish.






Youth and that ethereal, Scandinavian lightness of being, beauty blooms in the early summer, glows in the fertile breast and belly. Haunted by the long winter dark, this, this is the night when all the Grendels and Goblins and dark, skulking creatures are driven from the heart and land and summer reigns a season long.

Currants, gooseberries, raspberries, loganberries, cloudberries, strawberries, blueberries first to punctuate the green on green undergrowth. Then color bowls of clotted creme, whipped creme and light golden breads.




In the old city, written words come alive. The tale of a witch dancing in a mortar, living in a shack that walks the dark night on chicken legs. A troll, exacting a toll under a stone bridge hungry for a goat leg joint. Men who are bears who eat men live in the earth mother's womb. All the dark underbelly whispers are driven away. This is the night, midsummer night light stays and does not stray.



Another family, fed on the tales and the bounty of that northern finger of land nestled 'tween her Skandi neighbors. Sweden remains.

And I the gardener, half the world and all the culture disperate. I, the "trädgårdsmästare" turn this new found soil. Its fertile fragrance rolling deep, pulling at my core. Heat from the sun and heat from the deep meld and twist in a long inner serpent coil. It's no wonder the Beltane fires are still lit and the May pole, the "midsommarstång" still rise and burn, ecstatic fire on the night when darkness is banished. Both the sweet summer soil and summer's lass look to take seed to self and grow ripe a new generation.

One of the wonders of God is this deep and diverse fecund Spirit that he has breathed into all of his children across this broken world. The rich stories and deep longings, so alike and yet, so unique. I stand in awe at depth and breadth of God's creative power. His Spirit burns bright in Mankind's heart and mind.

Qvack ~ Qvack!

~~~~~*~~~~~

Colorado weather has settled into a Monsoon pattern. Prevailing westerly winds are flowing north and east out of the Gulf of California and the Sea of Cortez. Lazy low pressure systems rise and spin in Nebraska and Kansas, wandering into Wyoming, Colorado and Northern New Mexico.

It rains almost every day.



The garden is drinking up the moisture, delighting in the days of sun. Everything that has sprouted is flourishing. Those who have not yet sprouted, will do so soon and strong. I have staggered the plantings in order to make a prolonged harvest.


It is almost intolerably green! Tis' Ohio River Valley green, Ireland's finest Kelly green, bright young apple green. And I know only too well that this will not last. It's Colorado fate, particularly the eastern slope, to be in the rain shadow of the great Rocky Mountain spine. When the monsoons dry up, so will we. Heat and desert dry will return. Irrigation will be required and the fecund green will turn pathos shriveling, sage and dull. Fruits will grow heavy, with water stolen from the great river basins. Water caught in man-made basins, piped and stored in reserviours, bought and sold. A commodity, some would say, more precious than gold.

The last two years, snow pack has been extraordinary. A wealth doubled by the strong resort, snow based industry. Once it melts come late spring, the reserviors fill and the irrigated fields flourish.

The following two photos, taken from the approximately the same spot, five weeks apart show the drastic change that occurs when the snow melt comes on, exacerbated by the monsoon rains. The river is Clear Creek, which flows down along the Interstate 70 corridor from Georgetown and Berthoud Pass.

Five weeks ago, this was the view looking upstream from the center of Golden.

This picture was taken yesterday from the same point.

~~~~~*~~~~~

Fishing, at this point in time.....is relegated to the lakes, ponds and reservoirs. There are some of the tailwaters below dams whose reservoirs are filling with snowmelt and rainwater. These tailwaters, which are still low and gin clear, are full of trout gorging themselves on hatching larvae and pupae...and the steady chain of hatches and mating rituals, Mayflies and Caddis. -AND- they are full of fishermen lined up shoulder to shoulder. Not what I would call good fishing.

Perhaps, by the first week of July, we will once again don waders, stretch lines and leaders and ply the waters......"standing in a river, waving a stick."

Allow me to introduce you to the man who coined that phrase, using it as the title of a book on flyfishing.

Gentle reader, meet John Gierach:The book to which I refer:

http://www.amazon.com/Standing-River-Waving-Stick-Gierach/dp/0684863294

John lives in Northern Colorado. He fishes the world in a pair of leaky canvas waders, with handmade bamboo fly rods and writes as though Samuel Langhorn Clemens were whispering words in his ear.

He is a true Trout bum...following the seasons and the hatches. Writing of good times and poor, whiskey and women and trucks that have all passed through his life. Yet those cold, trout stream waters and the fish in them still remain.

"I am haunted by waters."

A River Runs Through It - Norman Maclean

God must know that I love this odd thing, flyfishing. He certainly speaks to me whenever I stand in the river casting to that hypnotic four count rhythm, all other sounds washed away by the coursing flow of the water rushing over rock and sand and pushing hard against my knees, washing clean, this old sinner's heart.

~ADDENDUM~

After the rains leave us cool and damp... Sunset calls. I tossed the ol' wooden ladder on the cook table outside the reloading shed and hopped up to take a few picks.

Later, a full moon, far to the south, will pour its magic elixer light into the deep night.

Right now, its clouds and sun and the deep Colorado sky: