October is a golden month here in California – it is the light that softens, allowing for golden hues. This ordinary midweek day ends with a balmy evening. The sunset turns golden, endlessly golden… The air is still, the bay lies calm – our Atmospheric River on the weekend has cleaned out all harshness… The neighborhood is quiet, my cicadas in the front patio are chirping steadily. Their loud polyrhythms add another level of magical contentedness. Pleasing moisture in the air soothes each breath and makes me forget the never-ending brutal dryness of the long long summer months. As the night falls, shades of pink and light blue in the sky paint moments of timelessness and endings…fading into darkness… alive with cicada song….
The Shards of my Papa’s Story The elements of my Papa’s initiatory story as a teenager can easily be detected in our fast-changing world in America. These days, I hear myself spontaneously sharing with friends and strangers an abbreviated version. In the past I did this very rarely. Even in our family, Papa’s story had been a taboo. My father evoked the traumatic events only two or three times. Listening, it would pain me to witness the toll the remembering took on him. So why share now? First, to honor my father as a man of peace, justice, and integrity. Second, to make clear to others, that I know in my own blood and nerve strings what these coming scary times might bring us. Seeing things early, before they are obvious, visible, palpable. Third, as a warning to those around me to take things seriously. As shocking as it might be. Good luck might keep many of us unchallenged, unscathed. We might stay under the radar, quiet. Perhaps serendipity will save our life. O...
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