Approaching The Realm of the Ides

Today, the sun is pouring out of the sky onto the greening grass and the resurrecting branches of the trees. The weeping willow out front looks as lush as it usually does in high summer, and the peach trees are decked with lovely pink blossoms. This being early March, I know that a killing frost or two will arrive and dull down the lively colors, but for now, it is an enjoyable sight. The breeze is somewhat stiff, which keeps a chill in the air if I’m not in direct sunlight, but this is nothing compared to what we had a few days ago. On Thursday, a strong windstorm system swept through the region and we ended up losing power for about 12 hours after the gales dropped a tree on a power line. I was standing on the back porch that afternoon, watching the high trees up in our woods as they swayed under the battering of wind. Crack! Pop! Pow! I saw at least two trees go down, and when I went up the next morning to investigate, I saw a half-dozen big tulip poplars on the ground, enormous root  balls exposed to the air. I stared at the earth beneath the roots of one tree for a long time, fascinated as I always am at the rocks beneath there, knowing that no human being has seen or touched those particular stones for many years. Looking at those newly-exposed hunks of mineral reminded me of the Kensington Runestone, and I wondered again just exactly who and what lies beneath the stony soil of this farm, the former realm of the red Indians and the leather-tough pioneers.

I took a week’s vacation last week and Mrs. Orr and I spent the time enjoying each other’s company and taking care of several sizeable tasks that needed completing. The weather was nice, so we were able to do a bit of prep work in the yard, and we set up some new outdoor furniture on the front porch. We’ve been enjoying the new comfort of the furniture, and savoring the mild temperatures and the activity of all the birds. I look daily towards the south and wait for the hummingbirds to return next month. They will be most welcome.

Over at a blog I enjoy, many of the readers are former military and/or police officers (I guess I’m supposed to say law enforcement officers, but I bitterly detest and resist new fancy-dancy phrases for traditional roles…see my 850-page book on the term “human resources,” for example). A recent topic of discussion on that blog was favorite war-themed novels. A book that came strongly recommended by several of the readers was Matterhorn, by Karl Marlantes. Marlantes is a Marine Corps veteran of the Vietnam War, an officer wounded in combat and highly decorated, including a Navy Cross. I asked for the book for Christmas, and my wife got it for me. I finally started reading the massive tome, and I came close to abandoning it several times after failing to get engaged with the story. I stuck it out, and now am racing through it after the plot picked up steam. Part of the problem was that my yardstick for Vietnam war novels — in fact, any war novels — is James Webb, whose seminal Fields of Fire I devoured in the late Seventies just weeks before leaving for Marine Corps Recruit Depot, San Diego, CA. Webb’s prose is taut, muscular, and literary. Mr. Marlantes has a writing style that I would describe as more… florid. But at this point, I’m enjoying the book and looking forward to finishing it. After this is done, I’m going to tear into the second and third books in Cormac McCarthy’s Border Triology. I read the first book, All The Pretty Horses, more than 20 years ago but never got around to the other two until I saw them in our local library this past weekend. I also watched the movie based on the book, directed by Billy Bob Thornton and featuring a memorable soundtrack by the great Marty Stuart.

The other library finds were two books by noted “dog whisperer” Cesar Millan. I had heard of Millan in the past but knew nothing about him. We happened upon one of his tv shows recently and ended up watching several episodes, dumbstruck at how he approaches, bonds with,  and guides difficult dogs. His method is highly intuitive, but it seems to work. Mrs. Orr and I put a couple of things into practice with our dogs after watching the shows, and we were amazed how how they responded to subtle little things. So I grabbed two of his books at the lie-berry and am reading the first one now. Interesting stuff, especially his views on how Americans treat their dogs, spoiling and catering to them. His philosophy is “It’s your pack — lead it.” Lord knows I’ve been waaaaaay too indulgent with this sorry pack of mutts. We’ll see if I learn anything from Cesar’s way.

It feels odd not to be observing Lent or the Church calendar this year, but not necessarily bad. I do feel a tad adrift, but mostly I feel very serene inside as i walk through my days. I do still observe little personal rituals that are of comfort to me, but they are no longer tied to a sense of strictness or incurring God’s displeasure if something about my observation of them is less than pristine. More than at any time in my life, I am aware that I must walk my own path, and that not one single living human being has the ability or the liberty to admonish me about how I must walk it. There was a time when such words, if someone said them to me, would have sounded rebellious and belligerent. I now understand why some people say the things they say, and why they refuse to do certain things. Still, there is one saint whom I continue to reverence and I do not think any earthly event can ever mar my devotion to her. I hold her close to me, secret and talking to her in whispers that come from the lips of a man who has talked too much, lied too much, promised too much, cursed too much, questioned too much. As someone once said in a crime drama, I tell myself that I bear witness.

Every one of us is aware that we are living in an unprecedented age, a time of chaos and mistrust and confusion on all fronts. Aside from the insane and narcissistic posturing of politicians, we must contend with the low-grade fear permeating American society, turning normal-looking people into a nation of informants who will rat-fink their neighbors for not wearing a mask or not giving sufficient enthusiastic applause to whatever perversion is being pushed in the public square. And while all this nuttiness is going on, the Church and the various sects are rushing headlong into the abyss in an attempt to model themselves on the world and the filth and foolishness parading before us. What is truly distressing to me is the too-obvious lack of masculine presence and leadership in these matters. We need look no further than the recent incident aboard an airliner, in which a greasy maladroit stood up in the aisle and pulled out a broken plastic utensil and announced that he was going to kill everyone aboard the plane. If you’ve seen the video, I’m sure you noticed that the men on the plane sat with their faces frozen, eyes downcast, doing nothing. If you have any iota of telepathy, you could read the males’ minds: Don’t move and you won’t get hurt. Don’t do anything and you won’t get in trouble. I’ll bet if you took a poll of the men aboard that airliner, the majority of them are churchgoers, or at least nominally professing Christmas & Easter Christians. Christians who claim to believe that the afterlife is better than this life, that protecting the weak and defenseless is a noble, manly thing, that to die is to be with Jesus in Heaven. And yet there they sat. Obedient, passive, weak. But they lecture others on the need for their wives to submit to their oh-so-impressive “authority.”  Finally, after the idiot stabbed a crew member in the neck, some of the passengers reluctantly drifted down to the fore section of the plane and finally subdued him. Heroic, for sure. A story to tell down at the sports bar, right, ye mighty men of oak? And indeed, the churches are gelded and usually run by the ladies, except for figurehead clergy. Average churchgoing men are as passive and compliant as is possible to imagine, and the level of self-loathing is terrible to observe. A good friend and I have been having an extended conversation about all the things we see, and we are in agreement that feelings of guilt and superstitious dread are not valid reasons to be In Church, as people like to say. So we follow our own paths and encourage each other, and we endure the (perhaps) well-meaning remarks from other folks, folks who equate being able to glibly string together bible verses with true interior holiness. And holiness IS important; sin in any form does corrupt the inner man and it does have consequences. But where is the Church, where is the spiritual man who can give counsel and guidance or just provide a mature and seasoned listening ear?

This is the age of spiritual dearth. And in the silent gap between the time when men once truly believed and acted on their beliefs and this present darkness in which few seem to know what, how, or why to believe, I continue to watch the daffodils raise their amarillo heads to the sky, and to smile at the scurrying chipmunks, and to tsk-tsk at my spoiled canines, and to listen to the wind in the tops of the fragile trees. I don’t know many things, but I hope several things, and I hope the spring will roll in like a cherished friend in its due season, and that life will feel immediate and the earth will vibrate with its own holy hymn.