02.26.07
Posted in Religion, Personal at 8:47 pm by Dan Jensen
You might say the sky was crying during the morning commute. Paul McCartney was crying out “The Long and Winding Road” on the car radio. Some memories from years back replayed in my head, and before I knew it, dammit, I was crying too…
My daughter’s teacher recently covered Helen Keller, and my daughter developed a keen interest in Helen Keller and braille. This inspired me to order a braille stylus, slate, and paper from Lighthouse for the Blind in the City.
So there we were with the equipment and supplies. And there she was with her blind grandfather (my father) up there in Washington. The rest was, as they say, academic.
She didn’t know what to write. Was his birthday coming up? No. We looked at the calendar. It was Presidents’ Week. Happy Washington’s Birthday? No. I knew of one date that would be on Grandpa’s calendar that she had never heard of. I hesitated, then I told her, “why don’t you write Happy Ayyam-i-Ha.” This was a reference to an upcoming event on the Baha’i calendar, and I explained it to her.
I punched out some braille for Grandpa as well. I chose a passage that he had recited many times when I was young. No doubt you have heard it as well:
Out, out, brief candle! Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
Yep. You guessed it. That there’s Shakespeare!
Brief candle…
I may be the rebel of the brood, but I am not the black sheep. That honor goes to my oldest sister. She left home on a mission for the Baha’i Faith when I was a young boy. Shortly thereafter, she married another young Baha’i, but other than having a wonderful baby daughter, it came to naught. They divorced, and she never had another legitimate marriage. She did marry twice more, but neither was a Baha’i marriage. Mom and Dad disapproved of my interest in going to visit her, but they held out a hope that she and her husband might someday have a Baha’i ceremony.
I didn’t see much of Duska until I graduated from college, a couple years after I privately left the Baha’i Faith. She lived and worked near Yosemite, and I was soon doing the same. I took a bus up to visit her, and after that backpacked from Wawona to the Valley, and got a ride to my new workplace.
Over the years, Duska and I developed a new kinship, and she bonded with my wife and children as well. Duska and I would sometimes sit and laugh about how our parents would avoid us. They would drive within a couple miles or so of my house when visiting a doctor or the Bosch Baha’i school, and they had been avoiding Duska for years. Duska and I would, in contrast, go well out of our way to visit our parents, in spite of our differences, and in spite of the treatment we might get during the visit. There would be constant reminders that religion came first, and we often found ourselves upstaged by what was termed “our Baha’i family”. We laughed it off. We really did.
The Baha’i religion almost never came up, but when it did, you can bet that we laughed.
Duska got some free time a few years back, and decided to fly up to Washington to see the folks and family. She stayed the night with us, and made up a game that she played with our baby boy. It was simple: she would look through the window of a Fisher Price house and say “Hi!”, and he would giggle a “Hi” back.
I was a little distracted at the time—I don’t know what about, but I managed to take her to the airport.
She spent the next night at our parents’ house, and suffered from a massive brain hemorrage in the morning. I was able to speak to her again, but the doctor said she could not have heard me.
Mom made certain that Duska had a Baha’i memorial and burial. Mom said she had once asked Duska if she considered herself a Baha’i, and that Duska had responded in the affirmative. I didn’t want to fight about it, but I was horrified. I understood: Duska was still her daughter. Could I blame Mom if she was in denial?
Still, anger was heaped upon grief: what about the Duska that lived and died? What about her? Was anybody going to remember her?
Our neighbor told me, “Dan, the dead don’t care.”
I don’t suppose they do. But regardless, I still miss you, sister. Yeah, sometimes I see you. At the filling station. I was parked in line behind that tan Ford Escort you used to drive, and I could only watch. You got out, filled up, and then you drove away.
I can see lots of things, but that doesn’t change a thing.
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02.24.07
Posted in Religion, Philosophy at 8:38 pm by Dan Jensen
One of the great themes in religion is compensation for virtue (not to be confused with another great theme: compensation for misfortune).
The classical model of compensation for virtue, Heaven and Hell, is perhaps best attributed to Zoroaster. This model may not seem terribly enlightened, but we should recognize that it was probably conceived for the sake of virtue itself. This doctrine has dominated western religion over the last 2500 years or so, but the general idea of compensation is more universal. It is quite natural to expect, or at least hope for, some kind of payback.
But payback has its price.
In more reflective circles, there has been a long-running dissatisfaction with the concept of compensation. What is the good of virtue if one expects payment for it? Should not the virtue be the reward? Otherwise, what virtue is there in virtue?
The idea goes back at least two millennia, and has taken several forms:
- Virtue is its own reward.
- The deed is its own reward.
- Worship is its own reward.
- Work is worship.
Perhaps it’s a stretch to bind these equations, but I believe they share a common thread that justifies the grouping. The link between (1) and (2) is obvious.
The oldest explicit reference to this idea that I am aware of occurred in the first century C.E.:
Virtue herself is her own fairest reward. - Silius Italicus
This sentiment probably owes a lot to Stoicism, but I am unaware of any Stoic making this specific statement of equivalence between virtue and reward.
This equation was restated brilliantly in a corollary by the famous Seventeenth Century fisherman Izaak Walton:
Doubt not but angling will prove to be so pleasant that it will prove to be, like virtue, a reward to itself.
The Talmud is known to have made a similar equivalence: the deed is its own reward. This form of the equation was also employed by William Shakespeare, amoung others.
In the seventh century, the Imam Ali, who is generally considered the patriarch of Shi’ih Islam, couched the concept in religious terms:
A group of people worship God for the sake of reward. That is the worship of merchants. A group of people worship God from the fear or punishment. That is the worship of slaves. But a group of God’s servants worship Him solely out of gratitude and thankfulness. And this kind of worship is special to free men.
Nahj al-balaghah, trans. by Fayd al-Islam, p. 1182
Merchants and slaves indeed! Quite an insightful statement. Here we see how equation (3) corresponds to (1) and (2). Worship has no rightful reward; it is its own reward.
It is peculiar that a religion that puts so much emphasis on fear of God, Heaven, and Hell has produced statements such as this.
Here, I think, is where equations (2) and (3) come together to produce (4): The deed is its own reward, and the same goes for worship; therefore, the deed is worship, or as St. Benedict put it, work is worship.
To put it inn more abstract form:
d = r ; w = r ; => d = w
This proves nothing, of course; but I think you might understand the point of the transitive logic: virtue, [virtuous] action, and worship are one and the same, and it follows that, to be an agent of virtue, that is, to love and worship the Good with ones whole being, is itself the ultimate reward.
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02.21.07
Posted in The Sink at 5:56 pm by Dan Jensen
Sinktown folks sometimes drove up to Laton to swim in the River. There was a beach right where Fowler Street crossed the main River channel.
One Spring day, Mehrzad waded along the bank into the shadows under the bridge. He soon noticed that the river level was rising. Mehrzad climbed up the bank, and soon found himself trapped under the bridge. The River continued to rise, compelling the boy into a culvert under the road. The river water soon began to follow him up the concrete pipe. The culvert was longer than he expected. As the water pursued him, the pipe grew progressively narrower, and imperceptibly transformed into a translucent rubber—like medical tubing, filled with ambient daylight. He was pressed ever forward by the water rising up to his head. As the water slipped over his face, he pressed his face upward into the latex tube, until he could press no further.
His body lurched and he gasped. He awoke to find himself in his bed on the enclosed back porch.
© 2007, 2008 Dan J. Jensen
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Posted in Personal, The Sink, San Joaquin Valley at 3:53 pm by Dan Jensen
After Visalia, Grangeville may have been the first town in the Sink. It was a stage stop between Visalia and Stockton, and a center of industry—one might say, as the irrigation systems that make the Central Valley what it is today were just beginning. Even the famous naturalist John Muir had stopped in Grangeville to admire the innovative network of canals in 1875, when Grangeville was booming with a population of 600. That was before the Southern Pacific Railroad bypassed Grangeville and thereby doomed it to obscurity.
Before irrigation and other initiatives, the Grangeville area was a harsh place to farm. Salinity, dust storms, and wild cattle and pigs made for unending frustration. The Last Chance and Peoples’ Ditch Companies were formed in 1873 to bring Kings River water to the Grangeville area, and the town itself was organized in 1874.
We lived in the town that the Southern Pacific Railroad created just east of Grangeville. That railroad town would be named Hanford, though there was nothing to ford at Hanford but the Peoples Ditch and the Southern Pacific.
I was given a tour of the canal system one summer when my older brother Al came to Hanford for a visit after returning from Alaska. He purchased an inflatable raft, and invited me on an expedition down the River from Laton to Excelsior Avenue.
As we floated downstream, the river began to look less and less like a river, and more like a canal. Just after we passed what I later determined was the Lower Kings River Ditch diversion, our way was obstructed by a dam on the river—and just by a lucky chance—an angry farmer. Al had to pull the raft out of the river and carry it down a dirt road to a point downstream where we could get back in the water. We finally reached Excelsior Avenue, where Al’s wife Sanna picked us up.
© 2007, 2008 Dan J. Jensen
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Posted in Igneous Range at 12:50 pm by Dan Jensen
The page cracked with brutal life. The surface of the earth shook as though under the marching feet of a giant, as missiles screamed out of the sky and pounded the cities, dams, and military bases. A cobweb of contrails covered the page. Anti-ballistic missiles would occasionally meet the aggressors up in the paper sky, but most of the time the offense got through. Neither side had any qualms about running up the score. Peace-ships, shaped something like a baseball bat or a barracuda, showered hellfire upon the earth. They nearly filled the page whereon the boy scribbled out the destiny of the world.
At the Mission, they called it the Great Cleansing.
He sat on a pile of bean sacks in the basement of the Mission, as he drew out the mayhem, then laid the prophetic scene aside and slipped off the sacks, down to the floor.
The basement had those small, ceiling-level port windows looking out onto the driveway, and there was a thin, indoor-outdoor carpet on the floor. I don’t recall any furniture, but I remember the large sacks of pinto beans under the windows. The beans were there for emergency purposes, that is, in the case that California got nuked, or whatever means God had at his disposal for cleansing the world. In any case, we’d have been well fed.
Not long after the Mission came to Grangeville, it had some roomers of the sort one might expect to see in those days–a hippie couple, of whom I remember little. What I do remember about them is that they stayed in the basement, that somebody said that one of them died of AIDS or drug abuse or some such modern blight, and that they left us with some music LPs, perhaps as a form of payment; I don’t remember. The core of the collection was a dozen Beatles LPs, that Paul and I would play in the basement on a record player on loan from some foundation or agency for the blind. I’m not sure that I’d been introduced to the Beatles before then, but it wasn’t long until Paul and I had committed those LPs to memory. We’d construct a miniature stage with LEGOs, drop the needle onto an LP, and gawk at the little LEGO characters as though they were about to come to life, and who am I to say: perhaps they did.
Beside the Great One, there were of course lesser kinds of cleansing that would sometimes come from the clouds and turn the Sink into a huge puddle. Our basement, of course, would be one of the deeper spots in that big puddle. The sacks of beans sat under all that water and sprouted en masse. I can still smell the damp, mouldy wall-to-wall carpet that greeted us after the basement drained.
That was the end of the Beatles.
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02.17.07
Posted in Sierra Nevada, The Sink at 3:53 am by Dan Jensen
That morning after the first rain, broad and shallow puddles appeared everywhere, and all the roads were covered with a sheen of wet oil.
He collected his lunch sack and stomped off over the alien, moist earth. As he passed a field, he sensed something off to his right. He turned, instinctively, to see whether something was watching him, and caught sight of a narrow, white banner that stretched across the East, above and beyond the canopy of the neighborhoods behind the field. This was his first acquaintance with the White Divide. Like a great phantom of ice and stone, it had been all but nonexistent since he arrived, and suddenly it appeared, vivid, white, and silent, hovering over the heretofore limitless plain.
© 2007 Dan J. Jensen
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02.15.07
Posted in Personal, The Sink, San Joaquin Valley at 8:44 pm by Dan Jensen
When we arrived, the Sink was a hot, arid place, and it only seemed to become more so as Spring burned into Summer. Autumn, though, was a temperate season right from the equinox. It did not offer the freshness and youth of Spring, but it offered something equally consoling: the peace of gradual decline; that comfort of the old which the young cannot conceive.
Autumn, though, did not endure more than five or six weeks. It happened that the close of October, marked in a child’s mind by the annual festival of Halloween, represented a transformation in the Sink, as it does in a similar manner throughout California.
Halloween is said to have once been a Celtic New Year’s Eve festival. I don’t know why the Celts chose the close of October to be the close of the year, but it comes naturally enough to Californians, for it is usually soon after Halloween that the winter rains arrive.
We say winter rains, but what one feels if one walks in the midst of the meadows is the conception of a new cycle of life. The reclined rays of sunlight and cooler weather are no threat to life. There is light and warmth enough, but what is in dire need, and what has been utterly nonexistent for six months, is water. November, then, may not be the favorite month of the Sun worshipper, but the meadows love November. This is when the embryo is planted in the womb of California. By bleak January, the hills will have transformed from the dull, grayish brown of death to the bright greens of rebirth.
The October air is polluted with the exhaust of the year. We blame the cars, the farmers, and the great cities for the suffocating soup that masquerades as air, and we are justified in part, but it is also true that the Sink has always collected the exhaust of the year. Man did not invent fire; certainly not in this land of fire.
But come November the exhaust of the old year is washed away, and puddles of it lay scattered about the Sink bottoms. I looked out that first morning of the year, and walked out and smelled the strange mix of dust and chemical and humidity; it was foreign. It was refreshing to breathe again.
© 2007 Dan J. Jensen
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Posted in Personal, The Sink at 6:33 pm by Dan Jensen
The firemen had come to visit before, last year, but that was in another place, so they didn’t know that I had a history.
We just wanted to see the fire do its magic. Our neighbor Andy and I took an old plastic soap dish to the back lot, put it in a coffee can, and through some dry grass on it. It wouldn’t ignite, so we got some lighter fluid; then it lit. The fire shot up out of the can and lept out onto the long, golden grass. A wave of heat and smoke pushed outward, putting a wasp nest into a frenzy. I was stung a number of times as I ran to the house to tell my sister the news. She had been watching us during a visit, and was about to find out how much kid-sitting can be.
I don’t know what stopped the fire from consuming the neighborhood. Maybe it lost its apetite. Maybe it lost interest.
One may not look forward to a visit from the police, but a visit from the fire department is more frightening. When the police come to visit, it’s likely you’ve been naughty. When firefighters come to visit, you may have been a minute or two from burning down the neighborhood.
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Posted in Personal, The Sink, San Joaquin Valley at 12:35 am by Dan Jensen
There are few pleasures more terrible than the waking of the Tulare Basin on a summer morning. The air has warmth that seems to whisper of the heat of the day, yet comforts as it haunts. The light of roads, the farms, the combines, and the trucks are scattered over the flat expanse like boats on a great, placid sea. One imagines the machine of Valley agriculture to be a sleeping dragon, both terrible and beautiful, and like the dragon, never sleeping very deeply on its treasure pile.
Soon a blue glow appears above the profile of the Sierra Nevada. The glow grows imperceptibly brighter, until spears of white light shoot skyward, heralding the impending arrival of the sun. When the sun arrives, everything is blinded, and the soft hues of dawn are usurped by the glare and deep shadows of the day. The driving becomes strained and dangerous. The dragon is no longer feigning sleep.
The drive from Mojave to Tehachapi is surprisingly short considering that the Sierra Nevada lies immediately to the north. One nearly feels as though one is creeping past a sleeping giant. As a child, I had no thoughts for that scaled beast that today occupies my mind. I only looked up at the ridges, wondering whether the distant figurines were all joshua trees, or whether some of them were Indians.
The descent into the Basin, though an easy, almost welcoming descent, is quite extended. There is no missing the fact that it’s a long way down. From the top, one enjoys a serpentine escort, as twin rails wind in broad coils and cut through the mountains. Leaving the breezy high desert behind, one meets a stagnant, purple blanket of trapped exhausts, herbicides, and pesticides. It is nothing new. Smog has been a companion of the Basin as long as fire itself, and it’s not just bad air that it traps.
Summer always arrives a little early in the Basin. The air is hot, dry, yet stale and sticky. I caught the chickenpox as soon as we landed. I sat fevering and itching, looking out my bedroom window into the heat of the day, though there was nothing to see out there but more houses. There was nowhere to go there. I would say “out” there, but that wouldn’t be quite right. Every piece of land had a claim on it. Every house was a fortress, and the streets and sidewalks were only motes, patrolled by bullies that might as well have been crocodiles.
The mountain streams from the Kings to the Kern once knew the Lake like other streams know the ocean. The lake itself would spill over its natural spillways into the San Joaquin River in spring, keeping its water relatively free of salinity. It was not a park-like place. The lake was a massive breeding ground for malarial mosquitoes. Every summer, as the river flows dropped, the retreating shores of the lake would leave a plain of rotting fish carcasses where the lake had previously been.
Ever since the harvesters reclaimed the lakebed, it’s been hard to think of the lake in the same way. The maps today might represent the lake, but there’s no reason to label the Basin. It’s just the southern San Joaquin Valley today, but if you spend any time there, you can still tell the difference. You can still feel the lake water in the air every time you inhale.
After I got over chickenpox and overcame my fear of crocodiles and automobiles, I would set out to explore, but there was little to be explored. The farms weren’t far away, but they were industrial farms, no more welcoming than a switchyard or a cement plant. Over time, I abandoned the expeditions and settled indoors.
It was not long until the Mission gained a good following. Mom and Dad found a Mission-style house that they could rent as a residence and an office on one of Hanford’s busier streets, Grangeville Boulevard. Business was good; good enough to afford bicycles.
Not having much experience with such childhood skills, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to ride a bike. At age twelve, I felt a little old to be learning such things, but this I did learn, and it changed my world. It transformed the Basin. Suddenly, that immense grid of roads became a frontier, as the desert had been years before. The farms were still forbidden, but at the scale of the Basin, the towns, parks, canals, and other landmarks were a worthy frontier.
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02.14.07
Posted in Igneous Range at 5:54 pm by Dan Jensen
Darkness swallows the East Hills almost utterly, even today, on the edge of the great agri-industrial complex of the Great Valley. The startling exception to the darkness and silence is that interstate artery called “5″ that seems, to a bystander or a pedestrian, to be a channel of rockets, roaring and flashing in two opposing streams, utterly enclosed in the black silence of space. Sometimes the streams will vanish. The thunderous pulses echo between ones ears, while the void closes in. And just as the echoes are almost swept from the mind, the lights appear, and close behind, the nerve-shattering thunder.
One rocket pilot floated through the darkness, bathing in the green glow of the control panel. He reached down to his right and lifted a stainless steel thermos, and watched lights approach along the opposite stream. He reached again to the right, pressed a button, and suddenly a chattering of voices filled the chamber. Coast to Coast. Art Bell. Unidentified flying objects. Alien abductions. White light beamed into the chamber from the left, and a roar from the outside overcame the chatter, as the thunder and light rushed past. The red glow of tail lights flooded the cab, as the chatter resumed its dominance of the chamber.
He turned toward the east, and noticed the sky had changed from black to midnight blue, just enough to silhouette the mountains. Igneous Range, he half-mumbled and half-thought. He remembered the story the old cowboy had related on that charmed evening by the campfire.
“Watch your fires up here. Up here, this is what they called the Igneous Range. This place will catch on fire in a hurry if you let it.”
“Who—who called it the Igneous Range?”, he had asked the cowboy.
“It was the gods themselves.”
The word gods echoed through the teenager’s head.
The cowboy chuckled. “That’s quite alright, son. You go right on.”
“Why’d they call it that?”
“‘Cause that is what it is.”
The cowboy picked up a large stick and turned a log. “Right near here is where the Creator himself came to fetch fire. He came from across the sea on a whale, and he walked right up this canyon …”
The pilot glanced again to the east, and noticed the glow was not so dim as it was.
“Excuse me, sir, but why would the Creator need to come all the way to California to get some fire? Couldn’t he just create some?”
“Well, that’s simple my friend. I’m talking about our creator, not the creator. He isn’t almighty.”
“Right,” the boy lied.
“Yes, I know. You’re atheist schools would have you believe the gods are only tales of the ancients.”
“Atheists?”
“What else would you call somebody that can only worship a nameless, disembodied, almighty abstraction?” That, my friend, might be a philosophy, but it’s not religion. Folks used to call that blasphemy.
The pilot drove on, as the dialog in his memory was drowned out by a vision. He had played out the cowboy’s story so many times since that night in his youth, it was as though he’d been there himself. Daydreams, one sown into the soil of his thought, and tended to throughout the seasons, had matured into real memories.
Under the light of the stars, he had stealthily walked with only his walking stick, up the Grand Canal, a linear, u-shaped glacial canyon that slices through the mountains as though a great, dull axe had hewn the range from North to South. This was before forests had moved down the cliffs and into the canyon bottom. It all remained naked as the god that ambled up along the glacial torrent that crashed down toward the sink west of the range. His lips moved occasionally, but whether he was speaking even he could not know, for nothing could be heard but the thunderous roar of the stream.
When he reached the junction at the head of the canyon, he turned east up a ridge between two tributaries, and ascended the bald slopes to the barren, boreal plateaus. The icy flank of the Great Divide towered above him, and blocked out his view of the eastern heavens. When he at last saw the sleeping hump of the granite fire tower, he straightaway turned east again and began his ascent, watching the heavens to gauge the passing of time.
His exhalations steamed out into the frozen air and crystallized. He felt the continuing sting of the alpine cold. Thin laces of ice highlighted his eyebrows and locks in the starlight, but the warm, immortal blood of the Titan admitted no frostbite. His breathing grew more and more labored as he ascended the back of Damavand. Though he could not see eastward, he could sense the daybreak, so he pressed onward and upward.
Once he mounted the tower, he lifted his walking stick and stumbled hurriedly across the stony platform, racing against the oncoming sunrise. Suddenly he felt a rush of warm air, and found himself perched over the East, just as Phoebus with Helios broke the horizon. The hot light of the sun cast a wave of steam across the plateau as it melted the nocturnal icing. The Titan held up his walking stick to Helios, as he and the stick began to warm. He turned his gaze back to the west, and saw the clouds of Zeus boiling up and approaching from the Great Western Divide. He looked up at the oiled stick, now hot with sunlight. In an instant the staff was ablaze, and thunder pounded down upon the granite from heaven. The Titan, turning to see Zeus over his shoulder heaved the staff into the abyss. Zeus, outraged, hurled bolts down upon the mountain, throwing the Titan into a frenzied, writhing dance of electrocution, utterly without self-control or even will, until he fell lifeless onto the stone.
The immortal awoke prostrate, far beneath Helios, and enclosed by mountain daemons binding each of his wrists to a chain. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the great vulture soaring and circling, and at that he passed into sleep. But he awoke just as suddenly to a stabbing pain in his torso. He looked down to see the raptor’s bald head buried in his abdomen. It raised its head, oblivious to the Titan’s startled gaze, and tossed a piece of liver down into its gullet.
Prometheus lunged up, and swung his thigh at the immortal beast. The raptor flapped its broad wings, and hovered up above the Titan, who desperately rolled in an attempt to flee the raptor. On his second turn, he felt the ground give out from under him, as he slipped into a free fall down the face of the mountain, and just as instantly, he felt the ropes jolt against his limbs as he stopped suspended between two towers of the eastern face of the mountain. Overcome by the trauma, he lost consciousness once more, only to awake to that same cutting tugging sensation in his gut. He opened his eyes heavenward, but did not venture to face the raptor at its grizzly task. He winced, and tried not to blink. At last, he would fall asleep again. His immortal liver would then regenerate while he slept. It would seem like an instant to him until the return of the eagle would jolt him back into consciousness.
Far below him, smoke rose from a distant patch of nascent woodland, where the burning staff had at last found rest. Shouts of primitive men echoed against the mountain, as they circled around the wood in wonderment and excitement. The fire made its way from village to village and from nation to nation over the millennia, while their loyal Creator hung in unremitting agony betwixt two spires of the mountain that came to bear the name of fire, and on Olympus, the name of the Titan who released its fire to his mortal children.
Every so often, the tortured Creator might smell the smoke and hear the shouts of a ceremony far below. Perhaps a dance or a sacrifice intended to summon another bolt of fire from heaven. They would search the mountains, and on rare occasions they would find a fire burning, ignited by an ember from that first fire. On occasion, a stray bolt from Zeus himself might even provide the gift of fire, but there was to be no mercy for the rebellious Titan, and no immortal would dare attempt to free him for fear of the wrath of the Almighty. Only a mortal, it would at last be shown, would have the courage necessary to face the wrath of the Almighty.
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