Mongolia: temporal vs spiritual conquests

Grandchild #5, John, has become obsessed with Ghengis Khan and the Mongolians. What planted the seed? I can only wonder. It seemed to be connected, originally, to a computer game. The kids have software that allows them to create their own games, and he wanted to create Ghengis Khan and his warriors on the battle field. But why Ghengis Khan? Well, the obsessed wonderings of a grandma are not much different than those of the grandson! But at least the latter can find clean data, thanks to the internet, and also of course the public library. He spurred his mom to find a movie on the subject.

What John doesn't realize is how close to the heart of his grandmother this whole topic is. His mind is occupied with weapons and guy-kind of things. But grandma remembers how the spiritual pursuits of this Mongolian Khan clan resulted in a major alliance between the Mongolians and the Tibetans. The very name of the Dalai Lama was bestowed by this clan. 'Ghengis Khan' means the leader of an ocean (of people), and so this ancestor claimed the Tibetan spiritual leader to be the teacher of that same ocean. And that is how the diverse Tibetan clans came to be united around a 'god king'.

I don't know how to label the frustration that arises. Could it arise from hubris? And so I brashly said, 'Anything you want to know about the Mongolians, I can tell you.' Wow! Did I take a step into the abyss or what? I want to share my interest and admiration of the Mongolians with my grandson, but his ten-year old mind is only interested in 'cowboys and indians', as it was in my youth. My wild claim did have the desired effect, however. He has been coming to me with his questions about good old Ghengis, and we have sat at my laptop and sought answers. We have researched the Mongolian archery prowess in great detail, searched Wikipedia to know the size of his armies.

The crowning jewel was when he said to me, "Grandma, I like coming to you with my questions. You give me straight answers, instead of all the roundabouts."

dark basement musings

It's early dawn. Last night’s fire threatened to cool around 2 a.m. With images of waking up with a cold nose and the desire to dawdle under the covers until the sun warmed my room (that would be April), after flushing the toilet I opened the stove door and stirred the embers. I fed it a couple of tasty mortals, to tease it to wakefulness. Then I hunkered down under the covers again with a good book, to see if it would take the bait. Absorbed in Aunt Ophelia’s terrible discovery of the reality of slaving, a half hour passed quickly without even a word from Uncle Tom. Nor did I hear the comforting cackle of an awakening fire. Nevermind, sweet Eva was just making the acquaintance of the new slave girl bought from the monsters at the tavern; I wasn’t ready to turn the light off yet.

It took a few more pokes, and inevitably the old fallback ploy of a sheet of newspaper thrown over the embers before the fire finally decided to awaken. It was an hour pleasantly spent, nevertheless. With the roar of it comforting my ears at last, I shut down the draft and tamped down the damper, and let my eyelids pull me back into the dark of slumber.

The book, "Uncle Tom’s Cabin" begins in Kentucky, and takes us back there often. And so that is where I went in my dreams. I visited my old friend David, whose tall lanky frame and loose bones fits the description of a number of characters in the book. I think in fact David’s grandfather was actually born in Ohio, not a slave owner of the 19th century, but nevermind, it was my dream and it was sweet.

On my nightstand I have a silly little frail thing of a clock. When I push down on it, it speaks the time and temperature. As the first light of dawn crept through the window, I nudged the clock and found the room temperature had risen to a tolerable 68 degrees. My taste buds stirred up the image of coffee; my limbs responded. Disentangling from the layers of blankets married to the sheet, I swung my feet to the floor and into the slippers in one smooth move. The water was on to boil almost before the jeans were on my legs. What despots, those taste buds!

And so begins another late autumn day in Vermont. One of the last, maybe a handful left, of leisure days before work at the ski resort begins in earnest. Come next week, the pleasant dawn footfalls on the ceiling above me that now serve to remind me that this gypsy woman is, for a frail moment in time, sheltered in the bosom of the family will actually serve the very practical purpose of a wake-up call to the start of a work day.

Dust off the shoes

It is time to dust off this old pair of shoes which has lain forgotten at the back of the closet.

In my mind, the whole blog thing smacks of ego. As if my thoughts, opinions, experiences should matter to anyone! Life is so one off. Early on, if you are watching, you get a reality check when you compare your perception of an experience with someone else's. Were they watching the same proverbial car wreck?

I was convinced that the conclusion I drew from my experience was Absolute Truth, and that she just hadn't gotten it. Then she traced her experiential steps that led her to draw her conclusion, and it hit me. Her truth is as valid as mine, although opposite. Now, though I sound like I know what I'm talking about, any opinion I put forth is a target to be shot down, and I know I want to pay attention.

Maybe it is only the difference between seeing the cup half empty or half full. But maybe it goes deeper than that.

Having said that, I restart this blog with a whole new concept. In the past, while living in China, it was simply a way to put a postmark on my intellectual property. When I was 16, back in the 50s, I wrote a song. The high school band leader said I could get protection equal to copyrighting if I would write the music down, fold the piece of paper, put a stamp on it and mail it to myself. The official post mark from the U.S. Post Office provided legal proof of creation and ownership. More recently, when I saw that the articles I had written and which were published by my chosen venue, Escape From America eZine, were being 'stolen' and posted on various other sites without my permission, I thought I had better create a collection of them here at my own space, giving them as it were an official postmark.

As if it mattered! It turns out, the subject matter was the point of interest, not what I had to say about it or my special gifts as a writer. If the article I wrote with the word 'Kangding' in the title had been no more than a tally sheet of Kangding's demographic statistics, it would have received an equal number of hits.

That having been said, the next logical thought would be to identify this new concept, the new use for this old pair of shoes.

Logically, this should be a place for me to express my opinions. To lay out my experiences, and the conclusions I draw from them, or my punto de vista, how Life looks from here.

That recalls my worst nightmare. Being naked in the school yard, lining up to go back to class.

Never let it be said that I lack courage.

Oh, wait. In truth, the older I get the more unreliable my body becomes. That includes the courage muscle. Let me rephrase that.

Never let it be said that I lack will to pull together whatever courage I can muster.

Knowing that I am talking to myself, and that Self is not all that interested in listening, I will nevertheless make a commitment to post once a week. Here I am, a sitting target; have at it. Naked in the schoolyard, fast forward sixty years? Oh, not a pretty sight!