Vision Quest

 I recently returned from a 11-day vision quest in the Gila Wilderness of New Mexico. It included a four-day solo fast with only water but also a 19-day fast from the internet, email, and texts, starting when I left Dubuque on my motorcycle and ending the day after I returned.

A vision quest is, at its simplest, a quest for vision—a seeking of clarity about purpose, identity, and meaning in life. Most great religions have some sort of origin story that includes a vision quest—Jesus spending 40 days and nights in the desert, Buddha under the Bodhi tree, Mohammad in a cave, or Joseph Smith in the grove. However, for many people, a vision quest is associated with Native American spirituality, such as I first encountered decades ago in Hanta Yo by Ruth Beebe Hill about the Teton Sioux before and up through the time of interactions with Europeans.

Whatever the case, a vision quest is not the property of one particular group. As presented by the leader of our group, our quest was part of what Joseph Campbell called the Monomyth. All humans have the same basic biology but different cultures, which accounts for the similarities and differences of forms of the monomyth. The Hero’s Journey, a specific portion of the monomyth, was the basis for our vision quest:

1. The Call to Adventure.
2. Encounter with Primal Forces.
3. The Return.

These three components, taken from Campbell's The Hero with a Thousand Faces, formed the structure of the vision quest detailed below.

The Call to Adventure

At the beginning of December last year, our older daughter, Ananda, gave us a scare. She had a tumor on her thyroid gland, and the doctors couldn’t be sure if it was malignant. A couple of mornings later, I awoke from a dream, remembering it vividly, something I’ve rarely done.

In my dream, I was at my dad’s bedside as he was dying. He was emaciated, rasping for breath, the death rattles indicating his death was approaching.

In real life, Dad died over 45 years ago, and I wasn’t at his bedside. He was being treated for leukemia, and the chemotherapy killed all his white blood cells in hopes that the would regenerate healthy. He caught pneumonia. About 4:30 on a Sunday morning, the hospital staff rushed him to Intensive Care, and shortly after, my mom called me at the college I attended. I drove to the hospital and spent the day in the waiting room. Mom didn’t want to go to the room where he was in a coma, not wanting to see him that way. So I didn’t go there either.

It astounds me what images can pop up in our heads, especially in dreams, and especially based on events of decades ago. When I awoke, I knew that it was my daughter’s tumor that had triggered the dream. But I also knew that I was carrying things from decades before that I had never lain down.

I decided to restart therapy.

I doubt most of you think of therapy as a call to adventure. But there are few scarier places I knw of than inside our own heads.

After several months in therapy, one of my closest friends told me about a weekend workshop he had attended with Sparrow Hart. In the workshop, my friend found tremendous relief from some of his childhood trauma. So I looked up Sparrow online.

Sparrow was offering a vision quest in October, and it didn’t take me long to decide it was something I wanted to do. Besides things from the past, I retired last year after over 35 years teaching. So establishing a new identity was another of my goals.

The vision quest was in southern New Mexico in the Gila Wilderness, so I decided that, though it was late in the season, I would ride my motorcycle out. That, too, was part of the adventure, especially the 20+ m.p.h. crosswinds all across Kansas.

But I made it.

The Gila Wilderness is the oldest so designated in the U.S., established in 1924, championed by Aldo Leopold. The winding road into it had many curves marked 20 m.p.h., 15 m.p.h., even 10 m.p.h., with few guardrails. On a motorcycle, it was a blast.

Gila National Forest in New Mexico.

I arrived, set up my tent, and the next morning our group convened. Four of us from both sides and the middle of the U.S., plus Sparrow, our leader. In those first three days, we learned about vision quests, Joseph Campbell, rituals and dreams for accessing our non-verbal minds, and really got to know each other.

20 years ago, a therapist told me that he saw me as a very angry man. For me, that was a very helpful insight. My sister said that she couldn’t remember me ever being angry as a child, which tells you that I learned at a very early age to stuff my anger down out of sight.

But it still seeped out—as irritability, anxiety, and depression.

But Sparrow offered me a tremendous insight. Underneath anger is often fear or sadness, and I have been carrying a lot of unresolved grief. Dealing with that grief became my first goal on our solo fast.

Encounter With Primal Forces

Monsters and allies. Think of Odysseus on his way home in The Odyssey. Or Frodo in The Lord of the Rings. If we accept the call to adventure, there will be challenges, whether the winds of Kansas or the grief we’ve buried. And as we work through those challenges, we will encounter the unexpected, the Cyclops and the orcs, Circe and Samwise Gamgee.

I saw no Gila Monsters in the Gila Wilderness, but had some monstrous dreams.

Most of readers have read about our three brains—the human (neocortex) that uses language and reasoning, the mammalian that is the seat of emotions, and the reptilian that keeps our heart beating and lungs breathing. Much of our thinking and decision-making occurs in the lower non-verbal parts, and reasoning doesn’t access them.

Instead, rituals and dreams allow us to probe and inform those lower but important parts of our mind. For my four-day fast, I decided on a Death Lodge ritual and dreaming as key parts of my experience.

For my dreams, I often asked myself out loud for a particular aid. With no distractions and many hours alone, the dreams became vivid and helpful. But I’ll not say more about them here, instead focusing on the Death Lodge ritual for preparing for a transition by examining the past, reconciling with others, and preparing for whatever comes next.

Many of our rituals began with the construction of a simple stone circle, perhaps with as few as 4 stones, each towards a cardinal direction. We entered the circle with specific intentions and mindsets. For the Death Lodge, I first sought to make peace with my family of origin, all now deceased.

I first invited my father to join me in the circle. I explained to him why I hadn’t come back to see him in the intensive-care unit, told him how much I loved him, thanked him for always being my greatest supporter. Then I told him that it was time for me to let go of my grief for him.

Yes, I know it was an act of imagination. But so is the concept of gravity. And whether you use Newton’s concept or Einstein’s, when you fall, you’ll still bump your butt. If you want to shoot a cannon at your neighbor, use Newton. If you want to fly to Mars, use Einstein. Regardless, don’t think these concepts are powerless just because they are an act of imagination.

After Dad, I invited in my mom, then my sister, similarly thanking them, apologizing to them, letting go of them. By the time I was done, I felt less burdened than I can recall.

I’ll skip over days 2 and 3 because they are more personal. On day 4, my focus was on identity—letting go of my teacher identity and embracing being a writer and a mentor.

I’ve edited and published quite a few things through the years, but I haven’t claimed to be a writer. I realized that much of that also goes back to the time of Dad’s death.

At the time of Dad’s death, I was an English major in college. I had had a wonderful professor my freshman year for a class where we spent a month reading The Brothers Karamazov by Dostoevsky. After Dad’s death, I was pretty much a basket case, and that wonderful professor simply didn’t know how to deal with my emotions and pushed me away. I switched to being a math major, something I was good at that required no emotional energy nor vulnerability. I was good at it but never passionate like I was with good books.

I needed to reclaim my passion.

One other significant part of Dad’s death was my anger at God and the church. There were lots of assholes walking around fine, and my dad, a good man was dead. The explanations didn’t work for me.

But one of the things Sparrow said really opened things up for me, “The God of your youth was not large enough for your dreams.”

So much of how we see the world is formed at an early age, despite what we read and rationally know years later. The God of my youth only cared about people walking the aisle at church, getting saved. He might be said to offer unconditional love, but He’d still make you burn in hell for eternity if you didn’t walk that aisle. Do you see any source of cognitive dissonance there?

Anyway, the final letting go of the solo time was for that youth-formed religion. Gotta move on.

And then it was time to hike back out of the wilderness, successfully fording the Gila River for the 32nd time without falling, for which my two walking sticks deserve much credit.

The Return

A vision quest is not about just a personal experience. Instead, a crucial part is returning to one’s kingdom, village, or community and helping make things right. If the call to adventure usually begins with a sense that something must change, the return requires coming back and making that change.

Jesus chose to return from the desert and start his ministry. Buddha and Mohamed, similarly. And in many traditions, the elders, the shaman, or others, helped those returning to interpret and implement their visions.
Sparrow was our wise man. He has many decades of experience leading vision quests.

In addition, our group of four shared in the return. each of us prepared a narrative about our experiences, and we shared them one at a time with the group. Later, each of the others, including Sparrow, mirrored our story back to us—what resonated, what stood out, what touched us deelpy.

It is rare in my experience to have such an extended, uninterrupted, close listening. Truly a gift to each other.

Each of us finished our time together with commitments to take home—things to clean up in our lives, passions to pursue, gifts to share.

At this point, you are probably wishing for some concrete examples, but most of those are not mine to share. I’ll give you, instead, a simple example of my own and what it led to.

A colleague who had been a close friend hasn’t spoken to me for the last five years. The reasons were multiple, and I felt justified in things I believed. But I also recognized during the vision quest that I could have been more skillful and compassionate when years ago I confronted him about his behavior. I committed to trying to clean up the relationship.

The day after I returned to Dubuque, I emailed him, inviting him for coffee. We met at a nearby Starbucks where I apologized. His response, “It’s all water under the bridge.” We continued to talk for an hour or so. More “Wwater under the bridge,” “Not up to me,” and similar responses followed. I tried my best to avoid lectures or judgements. He showed no remorse for anything nor vulnerability. But at the end, I was surprised to find that I felt some compassion for him and where he had ended up.

I had tried to keep my expectations low. I would do my part and let it go. I largely succeeded. Sometimes, that’s about all that’s possible. Still, I elt like I’d done my part, and I left the coffeeshop with less of a burden. That ain’t nothing.

Aftermath

One of my key intentions in preparing for the vision quest was to live with more zest. As the academic advisor to many students through the years, the ones who worried me the most were those who just drifted along with no passion.

“What do you love?” I’d ask.

“I don’t really like school,” one answered.

“What do you like?” I asked.

“I like baseball,” he replied.

But he didn’t excel there, either. The last time I saw him, he was cleaning pit toilets at a campground. You don’t need a college education for that.

But if such lack of passion in students bothered me, it was at least in part due to my own fears of just drifting toward my own death, riding out the last years on the couch, doom-scrolling the internet. Death before death.

Since returning, I’ve often awakened at 4:00 a.m., getting up to write, play with the dogs, drink coffee, and read. Nearly every day, there has been someone to meet, to connect with, to talk with about possibilities. My wife and I have been camping (I forgot the tent and we slept under a tarp in low-20s temperatures), I ridden my motorcycle when temperatures were in the low-40s, I’ve raked and mulched leaves, and I’ve given a couple of talks, have a couple of readings scheduled, and have a draft ready for submission of an essay about Hurricane Katrina.

I’m aware that the high will pass. It’s now two weeks since I returned, hardly long enough to become disillusioned. Still, I feel like the transition I was lost in is coming to an end, and something new is starting. I have passed the age I was when my dad died, and I remain in good health.

So… If a call to adventure presents itself, I encourage you to answer it affirmatively. Go, seek your bliss.

BTW, I wrote more than 2,500 words this morning. Not bad, eh?

Just As I Am

Just As I Am

Dale H. Easley

First published in Gallery 2019,

Dubuque Area Writers Guild,

vol. 41, pp. 71-73.

“According to our beliefs, Grandpa is in hell,” the young college student responded. She clearly loved her grandfather, as her essay showed. I wanted to scream at her, “Get the hell out of that church as quickly as you can.” But I sat quietly, didn’t stand up to tell her she was wrong. Still, I wished I could sit down to talk with her, to tell her of my own journey.

In my head, I heard the echoes of fiery sermons, passionate entreaties, and fervent confessions—all from the many hours spent in First Baptist Church, Walnut Cove, NC, often playing the piano for services. Always, always, the sermon’s foundations were John 3:16: For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life and John 14:5 Jesus saith unto him, I am the way, the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto the Father, but by me. That pretty much summed up all Baptists needed to know—as interpreted, only Baptists were assured of being saved and going to heaven. Most others were surely not.

Looking back, I wonder how a group of people can put such burdens on others, especially young people. Oh, I’ve heard the arguments—the requirements of free will or justice or sacrifice. But really—is God so thin-skinned that if He feels rejected, He consigns you to hell? Even adolescent boys usually handle rejection better than that.

We young irreverants sometimes called being saved cosmic fire insurance, the only way to quell the fear of burning in hell. Most sermons stoked that fear—and then offered the only way out. (Kind of like current politics, eh?) I even heard Pascal’s wager used—you might lose a little if the Baptists were wrong, but you’ll lose eternal life if they are right. Cost-benefit analysis applied to theology.

So each week we waited at the sermon’s end for someone to walk the aisle as I played the piano and we sang together—

Just as I am, without one plea,
but that thy blood was shed for me,
and that thou bidst me come to thee,
O Lamb of God, I come, I come.

Sometimes we’d go through all the verses and repeat them a second time, as if a bit more singing might trigger a trudge down the aisle for the one or two people in the church over 12 who had not yet gotten saved.

I was one of those unsaved. The peer pressure and emotional manipulation were oppressive, something I was proud to resist through high school. Yes, I was up front playing the piano without being saved, but not for the church’s lack of trying. I was visited at home by church members, obviously uncomfortable with having been pushed into proselytizing visits but persistent nonetheless. They used all the arguments they could think of, all the emotional manipulation they knew, but I had been inoculated at an early age by the bullying of my neo-Baptist peers and was assured that they were not a clique I cared to join. But I continued playing the piano on Sundays, wanting to be a part while feeling apart. Once, as I sat on the piano bench, half-listening to the droned prayers, I heard my own name listed by a Deacon for special prayer for my salvation. “Persistent buggers,” I thought, as I shook my head in disbelief.

I particularly remember a Sunday afternoon, fall of the year, cool and sunny. Mom and I were working on the hillside below our corncrib. The corncrib was made from a jet-engine crate my father had brought home from the airport where he worked, lining it with chicken wire and initiating a war with the ingenious-bastard squirrels who constantly found a way in, requiring one more patch. Other discards from the airport littered the hillside, including an old three-wheeled vehicle that we never got to run and a front-end loader that had accidentally killed its previous owner, leading to my mother’s despising our use of it. Many a Baptist in the rural South had such yard-art.

Earlier in the fall, we had placed walnuts in the corncrib to dry so that we could easily remove their outer black husks. Mom and I sat in the sun, hammering open the rock-hard nuts as they rested in pits in a boulder. We worked carefully, striking just hard enough to crack the shell but not smash the innards. As we focused intently, two preachers found us on the hillside—our usual pastor and his visitor. Our pastor was relatively young, I realize now, trying to live they kind of life he thought a Baptist pastor should. His visitor was older, more experienced, more invested in the entire Baptist enterprise. Years, later, our pastor left his wife and the church, marrying his childhood sweetheart. But on that Sunday afternoon, what were the two of them to do for entertainment? Certainly, I could think of better things for them to do than trying to convert me. At least one of them probably wished he could go for a drink, but that wasn’t going to happen, not in Walnut Cove, so they gave me their best shots, saying things like, “Don’t you want to have eternal life?” and “Your family is worried about you,” though Mom and Dad never told me, and Mom was sitting nearby, saying nothing, as usual, when it came to religion. I suppose having an agnostic piano player had become a thorn in the preachers’ flesh. But I just kept my focus, hammering away at walnuts as two preachers hammered away at my soul.

But in a way those two preachers were correct—whether you accept it or not, if this is the system of thinking you’re brought up in, walking away from it is not only a loss of identity and community but a loss of ability to take seriously the fervor of this minute’s cause or the claims of any religious group, all far watered-down compared to Baptists. Addicts often substitute one addiction for another—running from problems to running for distance, from alcoholic to workaholic. But escaping the Baptist addiction without becoming self-destructive is in some ways worse—you’re also stuck creating your own meaning, your own purpose, your own community, maybe even your own family. So there’s a certain comfort in being right, of being surrounded by people that think the same way you do.

But such a world view can bring much unnecessary pain, as I believe it did to the girl who thinks her grandpa is in hell. As it did for one of my best friends while growing up. Joe had a little sister who died young.

“She died before she got saved,” Joe said.

We sat in another friend’s garage, the three us being as vulnerable as teenage boys allow.

“I don’t think God would punish her for that,” I said.

Though we sat in the dark and I could scarcely make out his face, I could hear a tremor in his voice.

“It’s not punishment for anything specific she did,” he replied.

I could hear his tennis shoe rolling gravel on the dirt floor of the garage as he sat on an old crate turned on end.

“We’re all born sinful,” he continued. “The only way past it is to get saved.”

He paused for a moment.

“And she didn’t.” he said.

At that age, I didn’t know what to say. I just sat quietly. We hadn’t gotten to know anyone who believed anything significantly different. Not yet. At that time, I had nothing to ease his pain. 

Countersteering on a Motorcycle

 I have a confession.  I never took a proper motorcycle safety course.  I took and passed my road test for a motorcycle license on a scooter.  I was in my 40s at the time, had school-age kids, and was using the scooter mainly for around town.  My wife and I have gotten by with just one car for most of our married life, and the scooter gave me a way to dash to the store when my wife had the car.

But as the years passed, I upgraded to first a Kawasaki KLR250 and eventually all the way to a Honda Africa Twin, a tall and heavier bike that I write about here.  I learned to ride better by watching videos, experimenting, experience, and talking to other riders.  

Piecemeal, in other words.

Something an older rider told me early on stuck with me, and not to my betterment.  He told me about escaping a collision by using something he'd learned in a motorcycle safety class---pushing down on the hand grip to make the bike lean and thus swerve out of the way.

So through the years, I've tended to push down on the handlebar, shift my weight, step more on one foot-peg than the other, etc. to cause the bike to lean.  It worked, at least to some degree, and I've ridden for thousands of mile and spent hours practicing slow-speed maneuvers.

I could have made my life much easier if I had learned early on about proper counter-steering.  Just Google "countersteering," and many, many videos will show you the basics.  One I like is here.

But here it is in a nutshell.

To countersteer, push the left grip,
causing the bike to lean left,
thus turning left.

1. Find a place to safely practice, like an unused parking lot.
2. Pick up a bit of speed, say 20 m.p.h. at first.
3. Push the left hand-grip gently forward, not down, applying a tiny amount of force.
4. Note that the bike leans left.
5. With a bit of brake, you can use that lean to go left in a 180-degree turn, reversing direction back up the parking lot.
6. Now try it on the right side.
7. Repeat and repeat.

That's really all there is to it.  Try figure-8s as you get better.  Pick up your speed.  Just keep practicing until it's a reflex, not a thought.  

When you push down on the handlebars, your bike fights back, wanting to right itself.  Pushing forward creates a feeling of the bike melding itself with you.

You and the bike stop fighting and become one.  

Zen.

Honda NC750X update

I just completed a two-week, 3720-mile ride from here in Eastern Iowa to Arizona and Utah by way of Colorado.  Unlike my previous long ride, I was on my Honda NC750X motorcycle and riding in May.  I was hoping to get to Monument Valley before the weather got too hot, but the real result was extremes---rain and deserts, hot and cold, crosswinds and hail, construction and bad pavement, speed limits of 75 and 80 m.p.h. plus high-altitude passes with roadside snow and the endless nothingness of I-76 in Eastern Colorado, which made Nebraska look interesting.  

It was a learning experience.  

As I wrote previously, I got the Honda NC750X for a variety of reason, but most especially for its stability.  The center of gravity is low, as is the seat height.    I grew to trust it.  Going 80 m.p.h. in a light rain with the wind blowing, it took me a while to learn to dress appropriately and to trust the bike.  

The bike was trustworthy.

Wolf Creek Pass on the Continental Divide at 10,857' elevation.

I previously experimented with having a Yamaha X-Max scooter.  I could go 84 m.p.h. on a flat, but I decided that wasn't enough out West. And I was right.  Passing a truck going uphill on the interstate in Colorado or Utah required more power.  With the Honda, I could shift down to a lower gear, and it always responded with good acceleration, taking me up and around big trucks or heavy traffic.  The extra power kept me out of the way of other drivers.

Some reviewers have referred to the NC750X as boring.  It's true that some of the KTMs and higher -powered bikes might accelerate more quickly or flick through traffic more easily.

But I'm 65.  My reflexes aren't what they once were, nor is my physique. I'm not in a hurry. I'm happy with the Honda's stability and responsiveness.  It did well.

Before I left, I put my camping gear in a waterproof bag attached across my luggage rack and side panniers. It's the same bag I took west in 2022---and the same tent, sleeping bag, inflatable pillows, too.  And with the NC750X, I have the accessible extra storage where a gas tank is usually located.

The view from our camp east of Provo UT where I met my daughter and her husband.

But my route this time took me further south:

The Forrest Gump Highway at Monument Valley.

Horseshoe Bend on the Colorado River near Page AZ.

Not far upstream is the Glen Canyon Dam and Lake Powell:

From there, I headed to Bryce Canyon National Park:

After meeting my daughter for a couple of days, I went to Colorado National Monument:

And the Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park:

Then it was time to face the long ride home.  From Grand Junction to Denver, I-70 is either under construction or deconstruction, with diversions, bumpy roads, and high passes, all taken at high speeds.  As clouds started to roll into the Loveland Pass at above 9,000', I stopped at a historic hotel built in 1880 at Silver Plume:

The few rooms shared a single communal bathroom.  The foundation had settled unevenly, and the floors made me feel like a sailor, but in most ways it was actually quite nice. And it was warm, as the air temperature dropped below freezing. 

From there to Dubuque, there is little interesting to relate---I suggest that you read Progressive Farmer instead.

This trip had neither the aspirations nor the longevity of my previous trip.  However, it left me with more confidence in my abilities to ride cross-country even as I age.  I'm not sure when I will next head out, but there are still lots of places I'd like to see.

Album from the trip.

Honda NC750X Review

 I've gone through far more two-wheelers in the last 15 years than cars in nearly 50.  My first car, purchased when I was not yet 17, was a wrecked-and-rebuilt Ford Pinto that I bought with money from working summers in the NC tobacco fields.  I drove it till I was 29.  It broke down at convenient times, and I always new that if a girl went out with me, it wasn't because of the car.

Motorcycles came much later.  My mom was risk-averse, and then I had kids that kept me from justifying the purchase.  I started small, literally, with a used Chinese-made scooter.  It was the one on which my wife and I got our motorcycle licenses.   A few years later, my older daughter ran it from the gas pump into a wall of the service station.  She was unhurt, but the scooter was finished.  Time to move up.

In the next few years, I went through a Kawasaki, a Suzuki, a Honda scooter (which I still have), a Honda NC700,  a Kawasaki Versys 650, a Honda Africa Twin, and a Yamaha X-Max scooter.  The Yamaha scooter had a top speed of 84 m.p.h, which sounds like a lot, but my experience on Montana and South Dakota interstates made me leery of being topped out when big trucks were zooming by.  Instead, I have now settled on a bike to stick with, a Honda NC750X.

My Honda NC750X in front of a favorite coffee shop, Rosie's in Epworth IA.

I loved my Africa Twin, riding it on a 5000+ mile trip west for over 6 weeks.  But I also dropped it a few times, always at slow speeds.  I never felt quite stable on it.  It was just a bit too tall for me.  Still, riding it so much and so far helped me determine what I really needed in a bike:

1. Low seat height.  I'm 65 now and have some arthritis in my hip.  On the NC750x, I can put both feet on the ground.  
2.  Low center of gravity.  I want stability.  Falling hurts more when you get old.  The NC750x has the gas tank under the seat.  Where the gas tank is on most bikes is a storage compartment that will hold my helmet.  
   
   
   
3. Grip warmers and cruise-control.  These were standard on my Africa Twin, and they made long trips possible.  I get cramps in my hands, so I had the warmers and cruise-control added to the NC750X.  They are working great.
4. DCT.  As I mentioned above, I have arthritis in my hip.  The left hip.  The side you normally change gears with.  Honda makes the DCT, and it is available on the NC750X.  DCT stands for Double-Clutch Transmission.  In practice, it works like an automatic transmission, but a very smart one.  It is virtually impossible to stall a Honda with a DCT.
5. Panniers.  I like to camp overnight, and I plan a couple of weeks out west again this summer.  I have a soft waterproof bag I put over the back, and I added Shad panniers to the sides.  It's more than enough storage, even without the frunk.
6. Navigation.  I have yet to find a built-in navigation system that I like as well as Google Maps.  So I ordered a phone holder made for motorcycles.

The advice that any beginning rider gets is to buy a bike that fits.  Good advice, as far as it goes.  But needs---and bodies---change.  I'm not the sort to own a dozen bikes for a variety of needs.  I hang on to my Honda sh150i scooter for around town because it's too old to get much for it, has bigger wheels than most scooters now come with, and insurance is nearly nothing.  Plus, it's a load of fun. 

But for longer, higher-speed outings, the HC750X is about as good an all-rounder as you'll find.  Excellent stability, great gas mileage, a top speed of 105 m.p.h.,  good low-rpm torque, and that Honda reliability---a Honda has never left me broken down on the side of the road.  

I'll post photos of my next outing.

Cutting the Fat

When confronting the decisions being made currently about cutting the fat in our federal government, I am reminded of the two most effective ways of losing weight in my personal past.  One was when I had malaria while teaching in Africa.  Another was more recently when I caught Lyme disease while on vacation in Colorado.  For the latter, I have weight data:

Quite effective, eh?

Yet I haven't yet encountered anyone who has chosen Lyme disease, much less malaria, as a way to lose weight.  Huh.

Now I am seeing many parts of our national government being sickened with the justification of cutting the fat.  The parts that feel most real to me are what's happening with U.S. AID, given my work overseas,  with the National Park System, given the dozens I've visited, often with student groups, and education and research, given my career.  There are many others.

But an event that made the abstract more personal was the firing of Brian Gibbs from his job at Effigy Mounds.  His story has been taken up by NPR [here], but I wanted to share with you what he wrote on Facebook:

There are many who will tell you what a great guy Brian is, how he has enriched their lives through his Park Service work and through his organizing of music events in the Elkader IA area.  But as great as he is, he's not unique.  Lots of good people are being hurt without due process nor compassion.  

We are acting like being sick is a great way to lose weight.