March 15th 2017

Writing into this black-holed Blogosphere often feels like shooting in the dark. It revives the sense of—how-did-so-many-years-pass-by-already? I am incapable of fully realizing just how much tempus has fugitted!
I look beyond the lilac leaves that have turned brown in the frigid air, watching wind blow rivulets across the snowfield.
A good news miracle: I have managed to resupply the two Midwest Titanic museums with multiple copies of Starboard at Midnight, AND received payment. Thank you Lisa Eby at Yurchak printing! My wish: To find another publisher who would take my book under wing.
Overriding optimism is fear that we are at sea with Captain Ahab. Ok, I know millions of us are concerned, crazed and cranky. So here is a small piece I wrote about my many months in 1976 with Libby:
We traveled the world with just our backpacks, as many fortunate souls have done. In an embarrassment-of-riches kind of way, I was seeking something intangible that I could bring home within myself. When I returned to the farm I had grown up on, knowing it would never be the cradle of fascination it had once been, I realized how much I had come to value continuity and self-sufficient living among an unbroken chain of generations of inhabitants dwelling on the mountain slopes of Nepal—growing rice on the terraced fields, sending their children off to walk for two hours to the school house, draping their homes in chains of marigolds—all so far removed from “civilization.” Also, the turquoise-wrapped women who mirrored the turquoise kingfisher birds on the forested banks of Lake Dal in Kashmir. And the self-described blessed Balinese who lived behind double-walled entries to keep evil (and change) at bay in Ubud.
Yes, it is impossible not to be carried down river, and 1976 is a long time ago. But I remember now that the most important thing I discovered was that the vast world I was privileged to see was largely filled with people buoyed by reverence for love and peace. And that—I like to believe—has never changed.