Hiram, we love you... (Part 1)

I sit at one of my favorite picnic spots in the Blue Ridge at Doughton Park along the Blue Ridge Parkway. 

Again, I am solo. The only human in sight or sound. 

No human voices or machines. Only my breath and the crunching of my salad.

The quiet, despite my crunching, is so very sacred.

In my element, one that brings me peace and comfort and connection.  

I feel so at home in this place, in these beloved mountains with her rocks and trees, caves and mile-plus high peaks, rattlesnakes and bears, hawks and vultures, creeks and rivers, forests and high meadows...

Now, what was I gonna write about? 

Oh yeah...

~*~

I sit at the concrete picnic table, eating my salad and food I'd brought along, overlooking an ocean of never-ending mountains. Like I said...in my element.

About halfway through my meal a motorcycle drives up, parks, and off gets its driver. The man was maybe eight years my junior. We talk of our love for this place. He shares memories, pointing to a spot in our view where he used to visit regularly -- his dad's former homeplace. 

As we share stories, I learn he works in construction and home repair. I ask if he services the area where Hubby and I live; we are in need of some major home repairs. (We'd been working with a company for over a decade trying to diagnose and resolve some issues. We were now questioning some of those diagnoses and proposed fixes, some of which we'd already done.) He doesn't service our area, but his friend does. He calls his friend to make sure he has his friend's correct business phone number and lets his friend know that I might be calling soon. Within a week I call his friend, Jody, and set an appointment for the end of September. 

~*~

Hurricane Helene hit western North Carolina on September 26th and 27th. I cry all day on the 27th and into the following weeks. A part of me hears Earth stating, "These are my mountains, not yours." "Yours" referring to us humans and our propensity to "develop" lands. Anymore, I think I mostly agree with John Denver's description: "...Why they try to tear the mountains down to bring in a couple more; More people, more scars upon the land..."

We learn, thankfully, that our friends and family are safe, most with no damage at all. They were out of the "blast zone" as Hubby puts it, an apt description. 

~*~

Jody arrives at our home the end of September. The diagnosis? "You can save the house or save the tree, but we can't save both." 

My heart breaks and I wonder which is the thing to do, Save the house or save Hiram? Seriously, that is what I thought and felt. But obviously, the choice would be the house. 

It was hard blow... 

But at least we have a home, I thought knowing that so many had lost theirs to Helene. 

The tree is our beloved Hiram, a huge red scarlet oak. He is beautifully handsome. His crown spreads out royally providing shade, bird and squirrel homes, nuts for food, beauty and comfort, nourishment and sustenance. He has come to my aid often in times of distress, turmoil, loss, grief. And he has accompanied me during times of joy, bliss, gratitude. 

That week I drew a picture of Hiram in my journal and asked if he could stop growing the roots that are affecting the foundation of our house. I wondered if there was a way to put something like a steel plate to stop the roots' growth on that side of the tree. In my journal, I drew a solid plate across one side of Hiram's roots figuring it was probably just wishful thinking and wondering, even if we could do such, would it harm Hiram. I let Hiram know I do not want to hurt him, but that we do need to save the house. 

~*~

After Hubby and I are settled on our decision to proceed with the proposed work I call our arborist, Drew, to schedule the huge task of felling Hiram. After Hiram is cut down, we'd need to hire someone else to have our beloved porch and deck demolished; they are in a state of disrepair. Then Jody would do his waterproofing, but he can go ahead with a new gutter system anytime. After the waterproofing we'd have to hire someone else to rebuild the deck and porch.

I call Drew and relay to him what all we are looking at...

"Well, I feel certain we can save Hiram," he responds. He knows Hiram well having saved him one time already some ten years ago. 

"Oh my god. Really?!?" I am in disbelief. 

He explains how it can be done. I learn that his crew also does demolition and waterproofing. And one of his crew's dads builds decks and porches. 

He and his business partner, Will, are at our house within a couple weeks...

Yes, they are both confident that both Hiram and the house can be saved...

We would know more after the demolition and a detailed foundation inspection...

But again, they feel sure they can build something to save Hiram and the foundation...

They'd done this same work on other homes...

Hubby and I think about it for a few weeks, weighing any pros and cons.

But there really weren't any cons to weigh.

We let Jody know we had decided to go with Drew but that we still wanted his company to install the new gutter system, which they did within a couple weeks. His company did not know how to build what Drew and Will had proposed which could possibly save both our home and Hiram.

Little did we know at the time what Drew and crew would find once they dug out around this 60-year-old home...

~*~

John Denver with Rocky Mountain High...
I've only been to the Rockies once(?)...

I've been to the Blue Ridge at least 10,000 times...

The same sentiments apply...

Substance ~ Frankl on growing old... (a repost)

This afternoon as I was composing an email, the quote below from Frankl came to mind which prompted me to look up the quote on my blog, having recalled that I had written about it in the past. The same quote had also popped into my brain yesterday, prompted by Ben Rector's song, The Richest Man in the World. 

Below is a repost of the blog piece I looked up this afternoon...

~*~ ~*~

Substance - Frankl on growing old...

3/14/18

"I should say having been is the surest kind of being." ~Victor Frankl

~*~

In a previous blog post I quoted a paragraph on "transitoriness" from Victor Frankl's book, Man's Search for Meaning.
Not until a day or so after I blogged that paragraph did I read beyond it in the book.

As I read...
My heart grew wings.
My being was lifted.
My cares were lighter.
I felt at peace with the past and the present and the future.
A line from John Denver's song Rocky Mountain High rolled through my head, "you might say [s]he was born again."

Frankl's main theme on life is finding one's purpose and meaning, even in suffering.
The question is not, what is the meaning of life?
But rather, what is an individual's purpose or meaning?

In the Life's Transitoriness section, Frankl shares an analogy of a person figuratively tearing off calendar pages day after day and writing a few notes about one's life on the back of each torn-off page, and then filing the page neatly away with its predecessors.

When I read his analogy I thought, "I've done that, literally...with journaling."
In that moment, my journals meant something.
They have substance.
They aren't meaningless and nothingness.
It's okay that they sit on my book shelves.
It's okay that I don't commit them to ashes, as some well-meaning people (and I mean that sincerely) have suggested.

Frankl's words give my past a substance I don't think I'd previously felt.
In a sense it's like one can live in the past, present, and future simultaneously.
All three happen almost simultaneously.

Below I've transcribed the section entitled Life's Transitoriness from Frankl's Man's Search for Meaning.

~*~

Life's Transitoriness

Those things which seem to take meaning away from human life include not only suffering but dying as well. I never tire of saying that the only really transitory aspects of life are the potentialities; but as soon as they are actualized, they are rendered realities at that very moment; they are saved and delivered into the past, wherein they are rescued and preserved from tansitoriness. For, in the past, nothing is irretrievably lost but everything irrevocably stored.

Thus, the transitoriness of our existence in no way makes it meaningless. But it does constitute our responsibleness; for everything hinges upon our realizing the essentially transitory possibilities. Man constantly makes his choice concerning the mass of present potentialities; which of these will be condemned to nonbeing and which will be actualized? Which choice will be made an actuality once and forever, an immortal "footprint in the sands of time"? At any moment, man must decide, for better or for worse, what will be the monument of his existence.

Usually, to be sure, man considers only the stubble field of transitoriness and overlooks the full granaries of the past, wherein he had salvaged once and for all his deeds, his joys and also his sufferings. Nothing can be undone, and nothing can be done away with. I should say having been is the surest kind of being.

Logotherapy, keeping in mind the essential transitoriness of human existence, is not pessimistic but rather activistic. To express this point figuratively we might say: The pessimist resembles a man who observes with fear and sadness that his wall calendar, from which he daily tears a sheet, grows thinner with each passing day. On the other hand, the person who attacks the problems of life actively is like a man who removes each successive leaf from his calendar and files it neatly and carefully away with its predecessors, after first having jotted down a few diary notes on the back. He can reflect with pride and joy on all the richness set down in these notes, on all the life he has already lived to the fullest. What will it matter to him if he notices that he is growing old? Has he any reason to envy the young people whom he sees, or wax nostalgic over his own lost youth? What reason has he to envy a young person? For the possibilities that a young person has, the future which is in store for him? "No, thank you," he will think.

"Instead of possibilities, I have realities in my past, not only the reality of work done and of love loved, but of sufferings bravely suffered. These sufferings are even the things of which I am most proud, though these are things which cannot inspire envy."

~*~

[Victor Frankl developed "logotherapy" which is "a form of psychotherapy that is based on helping clients to find a sense of meaning and purpose in their lives."]

~*~ ~*~

Ickies and shutters...

I lay on the couch watching the idiot box on mute; I regularly mute commercials.

This one? A commercial advertising online purchase of US stamps.

A gymnast cartwheels, handsprings, and gracefully maneuvers through an office, flexibly with ease distributing mail to its proper destinations. 

I thought, I used to be able to move like that...

 

As a child I loved to run and jump...

Tag was a regular pastime, especially Werewolf and Sardines...

Tackle football too; pick-up games in our neighbor's back yard, elementary school-aged boys and girls...

Bicycles galore; we'd line the street and race down the hill...

Snow sledding down that same big hill in the winter; sometimes in a train as we lay on the sleds with arms outstretched and our hands holding the back rails of the sled in front of us. The last person in the train got a whipping wild ride...

Ponies and horses; mounting them "Indian style," meaning we ran up behind the pony and jumped on its bare back by using our hands and arms to springboard ourselves from and over the pony's rump. Other times, we'd hang upside down around a pony's neck. The ponies seemed to enjoy it as much as us kids... 

"Camping" outside; we didn't really camp, we just slept outside. Sometimes I'd sleep outside alone in our side yard. I'd star gaze and pray for an outer space being to reveal itself to me or whisk me away to another planet. One night as I lay in a state of quasi-sleep in my sleeping bag, I felt something in the bottom of it. I pulled my legs up in my half-sleep state and dozed back under. The next morning as I pulled back the sleeping bag to get up, a little mouse ran out. I laughed. It stayed warm all night long... 

Hiking, mainly the Blue Ridge Mountains. Oh, how I still love the trails and mountains. Even if I'm never able to hike them again, I did at one time. A plethora of memories. Wide open spaces, an ocean of mountains. Bear, deer, snakes. Coyote, raccoons, possums. Hawks, buzzards, songbirds. Snow, ice, sleet. Rivers, creeks, lakes. Blueberries, blackberries, mulberries. Trees, wildflowers, downed logs. Winds, sunrises, sunsets. And other hikers...

Basketball, swimming, tire swings, skiing, cheerleading, dancing... 

I loved to move my body...  

All those visions ran through my mind as I watched the gymnast on the screen. 

And then the thought, Hm. That gymnast may not even be real. She might be AI generated.

A slight shutter flowed through my body.

~*~

I reckon I've always been a quasi-luddite...

When email began invading my life in 1999, I did not like it. But I eventually gave in...

This coincided with pay-at-the-pump gasoline.  I thought, Geez, someday we won't have to interact with humans at all to buy, trade, sell. As an act of rebellion, I'd walk in the store to pay. But I eventually gave in...

When flip cell phones arrived on the scene, I said "I will never have a cell phone." But then, I needed a cell phone to transact business as an MLM distributor for a nutritional product. So, in latter 2003, I gave in... 

After smart phones became the thing, I said, "I'll never have a smart phone." But then I needed a smart phone as a business owner of a pet sitting service. The maps app helped me map routes for myself and those who worked for me so we could visit clients in a timely manner, and some clients preferred texts as a means of communication. So, in early 2011, I gave in...

And now "artificial intelligence" is forefront on the invention train. I've thought of my blog as an act of rebellion; I own my typos, weird punctuation, run-on sentences, and unclear wordage. I recently thought that I may start looking up information in my hardbound set of Encyclopedia Britannica instead of depending on the screen for information. I say, "I'll never give in to AI (as far as composing my scribblings)," and maybe I won't... 

Right now, it feels quite icky...

Another shutter...

~*~

In 1999 when Hubby and I were lay leaders in The Way, our leadership asked me, "Did you get our email?"

I was perturbed and answered, "No. I haven't checked my email."

"Well, that's how we are going to be communicating now. So, you need to start checking it regularly." 

Eventually I did...

But I did pen a poem, perhaps as an expression of rebellion...

Hm. Perhaps that rebellion was a seed, combined with lots of journaling, that eventually blossomed into my decision in 2005 to leave The Way after 28 years of loyalty...

Ode to Email 

  

Twas a middle-aged lady who lived in a house.

Her functions were many; she wasn't a souse.

She was secretary, cook, cab driver too,

activities planner, home maintenance guru.

Doctor, nurse, janitorial clerk,

counselor, teacher, overseer of work.

Just a few of the functions for which she stayed perk.

Then to add to her list? The computer pimple.

Pop ups and adds, wrinkles and dimples!

Upgrade! Upgrade! It makes your life simple!

But beware of viruses; you need that program too!

And identity theft; so, your name is who?

Got too much spam? Pay more and it's through!

First there was junk mail to take up her time

and now more info to boggle the mind.

This middle-aged woman stepped back and breathed deep,

"It's time to make simple this communication heap."

She decided, yes, her email to keep

but now only checks it every two weeks.

So, if her attention you immediately need

please call her by phone to get sooner heed.

me

1999

~*~

Keb' Mo' with Keep It Simple...

~*~

A couple essays, worth the read, imo....

The AI Curse is Coming for the Creator's Economy by Peco and Ruth Gaskovski

Intelligence in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction by Charles Eisenstein

~*~

One a day...

Yesterday as my appointment ended with my herbal/qigong/meditation practitioner, she stated that 2025 is a Nine year.

My eyes lit up.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

She answered, "When the digits are added up, they equal nine. Nine is the completion of a cycle bringing in a new cycle the following year."

"Wow. I just wrote a blog piece about the number nine," I responded.

We both discussed our love and fascination with the number nine.

I then opened my journal and showed her my recent reduction calculations of the first day and last day of each month through the years 2023 and 2024. 

I'd handwritten them in columns; it was easy to see the patterns from month to month and year to year.

When each month or day reduces to 9, the pattern begins again at 1.

This all started for me on June 24th.

I wrote the date at the top of my journal entry: 06/24/24. 

The number 24 equals 6 when reduced by adding the two digits: 2 + 4 = 6.

6/24/24 became 666, which caught my attention and made me laugh.

Thereafter, I started adding the digits every time I dated a journal entry.

And a pattern emerged. 

A few months later, I learned that I was calculating using the Pythagorean theory of reduction. 

(I write more about the process here: Mighty Fine Number Nine...)

~*~

I typically don't make New Year's resolutions. 

However, I do typically think in terms of a theme for the year. 

Sometimes I'll remember the theme through the year; sometimes not so much, until something happens that brings the theme back to consciousness.

A few days ago, I thought, "I want to be ordinary." 

I chuckled, "That'd be a good goal and theme for the year -- to be ordinary." 

But there is a twist...

My "ordinary" is in the context of all the ordinary miracles that surround us every day...

From sunrise to sunrise and all that happens in between...

Life itself is an ordinary miracle...

As far as scientists can supposedly calculate, one human body contains 36 trillion cells...

That's pretty miraculous...

~*~

Currently, as I endeavor to grow/transform/alchemize my morning-wake-up-to-another-day-of-struggle dread into wake-up-to-another-day-of-mystery gratitude, I've set an intention to note and be aware of at least one spontaneity or serendipity each 24-hour period and to write it in my journal at the end of each day.

So, for yesterday, the unsolicited (and thus spontaneous) subject of 2025 being a Nine year was added to my serendipity list, and it prompted me to look up that subject today.

I landed on a website about Numerology.

From what I read: "The foundation of Numerology is the single digits 1-9..."

The practice uses the reduction method with which I have become so intrigued.

I did not know that; maybe I'm a closet Numerologist. 

I know little about Astrology and even less about Numerology.

Do I believe either influences our lives? 

I'm open to the idea, but I can't say I believe it as an absolute truth, can I?

~*~

Another major serendipity this week happened Sunday evening...

Two bucks in the back yard battled for their territory...

They fought and one ran away...

Then he ran back and fought again until he submitted, again running away...

Another wild-kingdom moment in our backyard...

The serendipity?

A real-life, real-time example of an observation from a film I watched last week, Things Hidden: The Life and Legacy of René Girard. 

In the film, Girard shares one difference between humans and animals.

Animals (typically?) do not fight to the death with their opponent (within their own species, I assume).

One animal always gives up before death, granting dominance to his competition.

Humans, on the other hand, will kill their own species to conquer a given territory or to win a desired outcome.

~*~

So, Carol, be aware of... 

The "spontaneities," the "serendipities"...

The "ordinaries," the "miracles"...

One a day...

I guess it is a goal and a theme...

But would I call it a "resolution?"... 

~*~

Sarah McLachlan with Ordinary Miracle...

~*~

In looking up the etymology of resolution, I discover another serendipity: "a process of reducing things into simpler forms."  

Brings to mind the reduction of numbers. Ha. 

Source: The Etymology of “Resolution":

"To loosen, release, explain"...

"A breaking into parts"...

"Resolution’s earliest 14th century definition drew from its direct Latin source resolutionem (perhaps via the Old French resolution), which meant 'a process of reducing things into simpler forms,' drawing from the notion of resolvere as a word for 'loosen' or 'untie.'"

"The phrase "New Year's resolution" was first used in 1780 (or perhaps earlier)..."

~*~

Mighty Fine Number Nine...

06/24/24... 

I wrote the date into my journal...

Oh wow. That equals 666. 

Ha. I wonder if others notice that. 

Surely some do. 

Thereafter, I habitually began adding up the month + day + year for each date.

As I tallied the days in my journal, a pattern emerged.

When I add together 6 + 6 + 6 (derived from 06/24/24), the sum equals 18; 8 + 1 = 9. 

Once a day reaches the reduction sum of 9, the pattern begins again the next day with the reduction sum of 1.

The next day after 6/24/24 is 06/25/24 = 6 + 7 + 6 = 19; 1 + 9 = 10; 1 + 0 = 1; a sum of 1.

This continues -- each reduction sum of the following day increases by 1 until it reaches 9 and then starts over again with 1. 

There is also a pattern that appears from the first day of a month to the first day of the following month, and there is a year-to-year pattern. 

I have not yet found a pattern from the last day of a month to the last day of subsequent months. 

"Huh?" a reader might ask. 

Here's an example of the monthly pattern: 

1/01/23 = 7. 

2/01/23 = 8. 

3/01/23 = 9.

4/01/23 = 1.

And the pattern continues until we reach a sum of 9 (again), and the pattern starts over with 1.

Here's an example of the yearly pattern:

1/01/23 = 7.

1/01/24 = 8.

1/01/25 = 9.

1/01/26 = 10 = 1. 

And the pattern continues until we reach a sum of 9 (again), and the pattern starts over with 1.

~*~

One morning a few months after discovering these patterns, I was listening to a guided mediation that uses Solfeggio sounds. 

Curious, I looked up Solfeggio frequencies and came across an article about their possible origin/discovery. 

The article mentioned the Pythagorean theory of reduction. My soul lit up! 

Oh! There's a name for this [this reduction of numbers]! All the way back to Pythagoras!

(I'm a mathematician and didn't know it. Ha.)

I've been intrigued with the numeral 9 for decades.

I enjoy playing Sudoku, usually based on the number 9.

But what I really like is the practice of "nine overs," also called "casting out nines," which is an old-school method for checking addition. 

And I discovered casting out nines provides a short cut to the reduction method I was using for dates. 

Example: 

7/17/24. I can add it up long hand (so to speak), such as 7 + 17 + 24 = 48 = 12 = 3. 

7/17/24. I can add it up short hand (so to speak), such as 7 + 8 + 6 = 21 = 3.

7/17/24. I can cast out nines. 7 + 2 = 9. That leaves 7 + 1 + 4 = 12 = 3.

What difference does it make, Carol?

None. "Difference" is a result in subtraction, not addition. Haha.

But seriously, what difference does it make?

What is the point?

Why does there have to be a point, other than I enjoy it?

Ha, maybe that is the point.

Yet, the myth part of me wants to believe there's more to it.

For one, patterns are all around us.

I've read we are pattern-seeking creatures.

Maybe all creatures seek patterns. 

~*~

I also tried the above with full dates, such as...

7/17/2024 = 41 = 5.

7/18/2024 = 52 = 6.

Though the sum is different (obviously by 2 because of the extra "20" which, when reduced, equals 2), the pattern continues.

~*~

Here's an example of using "nine overs" to check addition...

I chose the addends at random...

      712 = 1

+   634 = 4

+ 8216 = 8 

               4

                 

9562 = 13 = 4

First you add up the three numbers which equal 9562.

Next, with each addend, add together (horizontally) any digits that come to the sum of 9 and cross them out.

Next, with each addend, add together (horizontally) the rest of the digits that are left after the 9s have been cast out; add again if necessary, until the sum is reduced to one digit. 

Then add up vertically those sums and reduce their sum to one digit, or, as a short cut, cross out any digits that when added together equal 9. [The short cut is in the example: 8 + 1 = 9, so those two digits (8 and 1) are cast out.]

Go through the same process for the original sum (9562): add together (horizontally) any digits that come to the sum of 9 and cross them out, and then add together (horizontally) the rest of the digits that are left after the 9s have been cast out; add again if necessary, until the sum is reduced to one digit. 

If you have added correctly, the reduction sums will be the same (as shown in the example above where both reduction sums equal 4).

Walaa! Addition is checked. 

Ain't that cool!?!?

But it's not foolproof; if numbers are accidentally inverted, it doesn't work. 

Such as, if I accidentally wrote 9526 instead of the correct sum 9562, the reduction would still equal 4. But 9526 is incorrect. Thus, not foolproof.

~*~

NUMBEROCK with Skip Counting by Nine Song

 ~*~

    

I also thought of The Beatles song, Revolution 9 from The White Album which I owned as a teenager.

Here's some tidbits about the significance of The Beatles and the number 9: The Beatles and the story behind Number 9.

 ~*~

"Is There an Architect?"

I received this song from a friend via email recently...

It tied into what I've been pondering about the year ahead...

It might be a good theme song for me...

I cannot deny my doubt...

That said, I am open to Trust...

And practice It daily...

Though I may always be in the agnostic camp...

I still seek beyond its perimeter...

And part of me answers...

There must be an architect...

Kacey Musgraves with The Architect...

Lyrics, by Kacey Musgraves:

Even something as small as an apple

It's simple and somehow complex

Sweet and divine, the perfect design

Can I speak to the architect?

And there's a canyon that cuts through the desert

Did it get there because of a flood?

Was it devised, or were you surprised

When you saw how grand it was?

Was it thought out at all, or just paint on a wall?

Is there anything that you regret?

I don't understand, are there blueprints or plans?

Can I speak to the architect?

Sometimes I look in the mirror

And wish I could make a request

Could I pray it away? Am I shapeable clay?

Or is this as good as it gets?

One day, you're on top of the mountain

So high that you'll never come down

Then the wind at your back carries ember and ash

Then it burns your whole house to the ground

Is it thought out at all, or just paint on a wall?

Is there anything that you regret?

I don't understand, are there blueprints or plans?

Can I speak to the architect?

I thought that I was too broken

And maybe too hard to love

I was in a weird place, then I saw the right face

And the stars and the planets lined up

Does it happen by chance? Is it all happenstance?

Do we have any say in this mess?

Is too late to make some more space?

Can I speak to the architect?

This life that we make, is it random or fate?

Can I speak to the architect?

Is there an architect?