Riding Point

When I learned that Ken Kesey had died, I wrote a poem and sent it along, which Ken Babbs was gracious enough to acknowledge and say he liked.

Riding Point

Kesey’s son went over

in a cosmic instant, in a car wreck,

and later Kesey sent a book

“to Jed, across the river

riding point.” I always liked

what that showed he knew:

that death is change, not end;

that Jed remained himself,

if also something more; that

all our trails cross a river.

 

Yesterday, perhaps they met

and shared a fire, and coffee,

and, Kesey still being Kesey,

perhaps some hash. It’s dusty work,

riding drag; good to change over

and finally ride in,

across the river

– Ken Kesey died November 10, 2001

Track record

A friend mentioned that I am not posting regularly anymore, which of course is true. It set me to remembering when posting was a daily occurrence, over many years. How many posts? Over how many years? I looked at the site’s dashboard for statistics:

My first post was on March 9, 2007, nearly 17 years ago. Since then:

  • 4,356 posts, of which all but three are mine, or are credited to me. (Sometimes people would write something I would use as a guest posting, but the stats still attributed it to me.)
  • These posts have drawn 7894 comments, of which 1833 were mine, presumably in response to something someone said.

March 2007 to now makes 201 months. Divide 4,353 posts by 201 and you get an average of a little more than 21 posts per month, the equivalent of one every business day for nearly 17 years. That’s a lot of postings, enough to make something of an afterthought of anything that may follow.

 

Cheering thought

i happened to be re-reading “The Rubaiyat” by Omar Khayyam, and was struck among other things by this quatrain:

“Why,” said another, “Some there are who tell

Of one who threatens he will toss to Hell

the luckless pots he marred in the making. Pish!

He’s a good fellow, and ’twill all be well.”

Amen, brother. it boggles the mind to think how many people must have lived their lives in fear of hell, even while thinking they loved the God who could play so unfair a game.

BTW if you haven’t ever read The Rubaiyat, you can easily find it online. It’s great. You already know some of its verses, i suspect, and many of its phrases (well,  Edward FitsGerald’s translation of them, anyway).

Certainly you will have seen this one:

A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread–and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness–
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!

And perhaps this one:

Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring
Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To flutter–and the Bird is on the Wing.

but to see how they all fit together, take a few minutes, read the whole thing. It will brighten your day.:

http://classics.mit.edu/Khayyam/rubaiyat.html

Virtual Memorial Celebrating Jill Kuykendall

Friends, this via my long-time friend Rich Spees, who was also a friend of Hank and Jill. The original had photos, but I couldn’t figure out how to get them here.

Rich said: “Jill has made her transition. Thought you may want to see this announcement. It has been a crazy several days…. Hopefully now things will start to settle down. A bit of a fire-drill trying to get everything together for the virtual memorial, which will be on Hank’s birthday, the 20th.”

From: “SharedWisdom” <contact@sharedwisdom.com>

Subject: Virtual Memorial: Celebrating Jill Kuykendall

Date: August 14, 2023 at 12:47:25 PM HST

Aloha to you,

In the early morning of August 10th, at her farm in South Kona, Hawai’i, Jill peacefully made her transition across the rainbow bridge to be with her beloved husband of 42 years, Hank Wesselman.  Jill was 71 and of strong spirit. With fierce determination, great self-knowing and compassion, Jill wrestled with multiple myeloma for 10 years, vastly outliving the prognosis. She is remembered for her effervescent laugh, great good humor and strong knowledge of the healing arts, most especially, her Soul Retrieval work.

Jill received a Bachelor’s Degree in Physical Therapy from U.C. San Francisco, a Bachelor’s in Psychology from U.C. Berkeley and a Master’s in Physical Therapy. For over 20 years, she had a thriving practice in and around Sacramento, California. She functioned as a co-facilitator for the Mercy Healing Circle, participated in the Mercy Healthcare Healing Environment Task Force and served as a member of the Sutter Healthcare Wellness and Healing Network. Her career culminated at the Center for Optimum Health in Roseville, California, which soon morphed into a full-time Soul Retrieval practice, based on her innate healing gifts and ability for manifesting magic!

She is survived by her children, Erica, 39 of Kona, HI, and Anna, 36 of Brisbane, Australia. In the last weeks of her life, they were by her side along with her niece, Kate, and dear friends, Cindy Reynolds and Carol (CJ) Barfoot

Jill was a force for good in the world with her most famous saying, “This is good news!” which was often refrained by Hank and those who studied with her during “aha!” moments.

Hank and Jill’s love was written in the stars; starting out as friends, it became clear they were meant to be together. They were partners in marriage and in bringing their shared spiritual knowledge to a new community of seekers. Hank’s love and admiration for Jill shown in his eyes, as he often looked at her with awe and gratitude, always referring to her as “My Lady Jill.”

Jill had many authentic initiations, perhaps even a baptism by fire when Hank first began having his experiences with the supernatural realms. Her support of Hank during this time would change their lives forever, as he focused on bringing his unique and resonate experiences to the public in several books, most notably, SpiritwalkerMedicinemaker and Visionseeker. They soon became a dynamic teaching duo, sharing their spiritual explorations, creating a large community of students, followers and friends, and traveling the country and the world together, sharing their wisdom.

Together, they would introduce the wider world to their dear friend and fellow wisdom keeper, Hale Keoalohalani Makua, enlightening people around the global to the ancient and profound wisdom of his Hawaiian ancestry. Hale Makua loved and admired Jill as his equal, spending sacred time together; it was evident that Jill’s presence in their trinity was an essential element in the healing work sourced through their collective union.

Hank and Jill relocated to their farm near Captain Cook, Hawai’i in 2007, making the Big Island their home base and enjoying the fruits of their farm. Jill loved gardening and growing their sustenance in view of Kealakekua Bay, just up the hill from City of Refuge State Park, a very special place for their family.

Jill was a wisdom-keeper, a wisdom-sharer, a healer, a teacher, a mother, a sister, a daughter, a good aunt and loyal friend, a lover and a partner, sharing everything she learned with those ready to hear it. She performed thousands of Soul Retrievals, most recently creating an amazing video series, www.sharedwisdom.com/soul-retrieval, and co-authoring the book Spirit Medicine with Hank.

Her humility, reverence and joy-filled laughter have inspired us all. Immortality to you, Jill, and may a profound reverence alight on your soul. A hui hou!! Until we meet again, on the long journey across eternity!

There will be a world-wide Zoom Memorial for Jill this Sunday, August 20th at 3pm Pacific Timehttps://us06web.zoom.us/j/86813117922

Thoreau, Jesus, and us

Re-reading, for the first time in many, many years,  Henry Thoreau’s first book, A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, I am struck by the following passage. I sometimes have the same experience: Mention Jesus and his teachings, take them seriously, and you embarrass people who think you are naïve, or you outrage people who think these are not things to be thought about, but to be accepted in the way they learned them as children.

Yet, in any nation’s literature, where can you expect to find a more serious examination of life and our part in life than its is scriptures? If the scriptures of your own society do not call to you, are there no others? Perhaps you think you are “above” considering your life in light of people’s most determined effort to come to life’s meaning. What exactly are you concerned with that is so much more important? Today’s news? Yesterday’s? Tomorrow’s?

I have taken the liberty of breaking up Thoreau’s long paragraphs, for easier reading. From A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, (Sunday):

The New Testament is an invaluable book, though I confess to having been slightly prejudiced against it in my very early days by the church and the Sabbath school, so that it seemed, before I read it, to be the yellowest book in the catalogue. Yet I early escaped from their meshes. It was hard to get the commentaries out of one’s head and taste its true flavor.—I think that Pilgrim’s Progress is the best sermon which has been preached from this text; almost all other sermons that I have heard, or heard of, have been but poor imitations of this.

It would be a poor story to be prejudiced against the Life of Christ because the book has been edited by Christians. In fact, I love this book rarely, though it is a sort of castle in the air to me, which I am permitted to dream. Having come to it so recently and freshly, it has the greater charm, so that I cannot find any to talk with about it. I never read a novel, they have so little real life and thought in them. The reading which I love best is the scriptures of the several nations, though it happens that I am better acquainted with those of the Hindoos, the Chinese, and the Persians, than of the Hebrews, which I have come to last.

Give me one of these Bibles and you have silenced me for a while. When I recover the use of my tongue, I am wont to worry my neighbors with the new sentences; but commonly they cannot see that there is any wit in them. Such has been my experience with the New Testament. I have not yet got to the crucifixion, I have read it over so many times. I should love dearly to read it aloud to my friends, some of whom are seriously inclined; it is so good, and I am sure that they have never heard it, it fits their case exactly, and we should enjoy it so much together,—but I instinctively despair of getting their ears. They soon show, by signs not to be mistaken, that it is inexpressibly wearisome to them. I do not mean to imply that I am any better than my neighbors; for, alas! I know that I am only as good, though I love better books than they.

It is remarkable that, notwithstanding the universal favor with which the New Testament is outwardly received, and even the bigotry with which it is defended, there is no hospitality shown to, there is no appreciation of, the order of truth with which it deals. I know of no book that has so few readers. There is none so truly strange, and heretical, and unpopular. To Christians, no less than Greeks and Jews, it is foolishness and a stumbling-block. There are, indeed, severe things in it which no man should read aloud more than once.—“Seek first the kingdom of heaven.”—“Lay not up for yourselves treasures on earth.”—“If thou wilt be perfect, go and sell that thou hast, and give to the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in heaven.”—“For what is a man profited, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul? or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?”

Think of this, Yankees!—“Verily, I say unto you, if ye have faith as a grain of mustard seed, ye shall say unto this mountain, Remove hence to yonder place; and it shall remove; and nothing shall be impossible unto you.”—Think of repeating these things to a New England audience! thirdly, fourthly, fifteenthly, till there are three barrels of sermons! Who, without cant, can read them aloud? Who, without cant, can hear them, and not go out of the meeting-house? They never were read, they never were heard. Let but one of these sentences be rightly read, from any pulpit in the land, and there would not be left one stone of that meeting-house upon another.

Yet the New Testament treats of man and man’s so-called spiritual affairs too exclusively, and is too constantly moral and personal, to alone content me, who am not interested solely in man’s religious or moral nature, or in man even. I have not the most definite designs on the future. Absolutely speaking, Do unto others as you would that they should do unto you, is by no means a golden rule, but the best of current silver. An honest man would have but little occasion for it. It is golden not to have any rule at all in such a case. The book has never been written which is to be accepted without any allowance.

Christ was a sublime actor on the stage of the world. He knew what he was thinking of when he said, “Heaven and earth shall pass away, but my words shall not pass away.” I draw near to him at such a time. Yet he taught mankind but imperfectly how to live; his thoughts were all directed toward another world. There is another kind of success than his. Even here we have a sort of living to get, and must buffet it somewhat longer. There are various tough problems yet to solve, and we must make shift to live, betwixt spirit and matter, such a human life as we can.

Men have a singular desire to be good without being good for anything, because, perchance, they think vaguely that so it will be good for them in the end. The sort of morality which the priests inculcate is a very subtle policy, far finer than the politicians, and the world is very successfully ruled by them as the policemen. It is not worth the while to let our imperfections disturb us always. The conscience really does not, and ought not to monopolize the whole of our lives, any more than the heart or the head. It is as liable to disease as any other part. I have seen some whose consciences, owing undoubtedly to former indulgence, had grown to be as irritable as spoilt children, and at length gave them no peace. They did not know when to swallow their cud, and their lives of course yielded no milk.