The second trimming of the tree. For the next few days the tree will be another food source for the birds as the remaining needles drop as mulch for Green Man’s Grotto.

It is said that God is able to witness the multi-faceted suffering of the world, hear the prayers of its desperate creatures, and remain, nevertheless, eternally beatific.

Whatever your opinion of the ontological status of God, one thing is certain: we are not God.

The quantity of data created each day is staggering.

Data flow at these levels can only be managed by a vast infrastructure of computing machines. Not even the creators of algorithms and large language models fully understand what is going on inside their creations.

No organic life can be expected to survive undamaged when it is jacked into information moving at this velocity.

We are not God. We are not machines. We are organic life facing a destabilizing year. (Particularly those bits of organic life on Turtle Island.) Organic life requires rest. Organic life requires ebb and flow, creation and destruction—it requires cycles. Organic life cannot—must not!—be always on. Organic life needs to shit in peace and quiet.

As we face a time of uncertainty and increasing demands on our attention, we need to decide now: will we pretend to be God, who can see and know all with perfect love and equanimity? Will we imagine our minds to be made of silicon, capable of handling the endless flow of data? Or will we accept ourselves as organic life: limited, frail, and worthy of peace and compassion, come what may?

Has anyone read Human Scale by Kirkpatrick Sale? I had a nice copy of that book that I acquired from Caveat Emptor in Bloomington many years ago—but at some point I sold it or gave it away. What a poor decision! And, obviously, I never read it.

I love Tom Johnson’s antique restoration channel. This video is one of my favorites because of his range of skills and meticulousness.

There is a certain expectation—picked up from the tourism industry, perhaps—that the ideal place the live is a “beautiful” one, a place with a “view.” It is thought that life would be more full or satisfying when the eye can consume such beauty every day.

Far be it from me to deny the central importance of beauty in human life—but the above expectation seems to be a consumerist expectation, not an aesthetic one. That is, this expectation is one more facet of the consumer economy.

Rootedness is one alternative to the consumerist attitude toward one’s homeplace. Rootedness is an interlacing of people and place with threads of stories. What counts is not the view—though beauty can be found in any beloved place—but the connections built up over the course of a relationship.

Am I saying that rootedness is the only acceptable way to relate to a place? No. There are any number of reasons why people cannot maintain relationships with a place over time. I would say, however, that the consumerist relationship is poisonous. And I do say we should reject the silly stigma attached to someone living in the same place their whole life long. That stigma is born of the consumerist fantasy.

I never tire of opening a new bar of Dr Bronner’s hippie soap and seeing “All-One!” stamped across it.

My first attempt at a Black Forest cake won’t win me a spot on the Great British Baking Show—but hopefully it tastes good at lunch tomorrow.

Today’s task: Black Forest cake for Christmas lunch. None of the elements seem particularly difficult but the decoration will be something more than I’ve ever attempted. Also, what do we think about freezing it until Sunday night? Would that harm it in any way?

Happy Solstice, everyone!

The Winter Solstice has always been my favorite of the Quarter Days. I was marking it long before I would have thought of calling myself an animist or pagan. For many years, winter was my most dreaded season, probably due to some seasonal depression that thankfully has eased over the past few years. Just as hitting the halfway point of a long walk flips some mental switch, so the Solstice has been an annual turning point for me.

Here in southern Indiana, however, it wouldn’t be right to call it the beginning of winter, which has always set in long before the solstice. Here, Thanksgiving could be called the last day of Fall—and the Solstice as the descent into the depths of winter. The Christmas lights on the houses don’t usually stay up past the new year, rendering the early evening darkness still darker. The sun is making its return trip, yes, but the increase in daylight following the solstice moves very slowly. The worst winter weather here happens in January and February. So while Solstice is a turning point, it’s a turn taken in patient hope.

Our Yule log was cut from a windfall in the nearby woods. The branches are from the front yard. The candles are a bit less local—from a beekeeper in Cincinnati.

Simple, uncomplicated things. Imbue them with whatever symbolism you wish but, for myself, I prefer it simple. I’ve done complicated; I understand the appeal. But these days I’ll take what has worked for aeons of humans: Sky Father. Earth Mother. Sitting in silence. Conversing with ancestors. Observing the seasons.

This is enough.

The times in which we live are almost enough to make me into a Gnostic.

• The stupidity on display everywhere has the flavor of fatedness. The fatedness, however, arises not out the beneficient providence of God but the delusions of a Demiurge. We have become entrapped in a lunatic mind. The levers are broken because the Engineer has disconnected the power.
• American voters will be forced to choose between two elderly men representing two dying ideologies. And every effort to find a way out of this bind serves only to heighten the hatred and division and further solidifies the goddamned inevitability of it all. We both must and must not act. Is some new Archon set to inherit this age? Has this Archon devised some perfect Chinese finger trap?
• Is reality an illusion? Whatever the answer to that question, Apple intends to wedge glass and silicon between you and the physical world. Enhanced reality, like enhanced interrogation, is a euphemism taken up by those who love their fantasies. Gnosticism told us that we were born into a world of unreality—a world from which, if we would listen, secret knowledge would deliver us. Soon enough, a large number of us will be paying premiums for beautiful blinders and immersive illusions.

I know I’m playing a bit fast and loose with some ideas here. On the other hand, maybe that’s sound strategy. Stay slippery; surf the weird. If we are in fact living in gnostic times, we should not count on predictability and solid reality. Perhaps the key skill we must learn is negative capability, which John Keats said is

when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason

Just as there will be merchants of illusion, there will be merchants of certainty. Reject them both and trust your gnosis.