Note: I wrote the rough draft of this piece in real time, as it was happening, so the twists at the end were a surprise even to me!
As a thunderhead gathers itself over my shoulder, here’s a bio riddle for ya: What covers about 8% of our planet’s terrestrial surface, lives on every continent and is outside your home right now whether you’re at sea level, on an alpine peak, or anywhere in between, could be almost any color except true blue or purple, invented a form of agriculture way before humans were even a twinkle in some horny, great ape’s eye, can be ten thousand years old, makes their own food even at -20 Celsius, and can survive in the vacuum of outer space (1)? Any ideas? I’ve got more hints coming but first, let me tell you about my own vertical, summer journey from the sea level deck of Triplefin to the urban cave of an unconventional guru to the Chickadee-hoppin’ deck of an isolated cabin in the Rocky Mountains at 9000 feet where I’m typing now. Outside the brouhaha is electrifying the atmosphere while a mental storm of my own convection is swirling in my head.
I made this monsoon-season trek as a student seeking answers from my long-time, accidental (although he repeatedly tries to convince me there are no accidents) spiritual (for lack of a less loaded word) mentor. He’s a turned-grey, retired CPA - a blueberry munching, white dude from the same paternal-respect-engendering generation as my eldest sister. Imagine a just-over-the-hill Clint Eastwood in The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly with mesmerizingly blue, Rasputin-like eyes.(Yes, play the sound below!)
Those penetrating orbs were the first ones, years ago, to see through my superficially healthy, daily exercise habit to the uncomfortable truth of an eating disorder. Feel free to romantically picture me rain-soaked and cloaked in Spanish Moss, climbing on my hands and knees to his fern-draped, hidden mountain cave. The truth, however, is much more prosaic and includes my first ever e-bike ride and pickle ball lesson. I met this unlikely guru and became his mentee (huh…that IS a word) just after my divorce almost two decades ago when the chinking in who I thought I was - that pretty, people-pleasing, protective shell I crafted -started to crumble. As the baby of the all-girl family I automatically looked up to him like the big brother I always wanted to protect me from the world’s brutality. I sponged up his life-saving, desert shower of wisdom.
He nicknamed me Grasshopper and I deemed him Prometheus (Pro’ for short) after the mythological Titan who was named for his foresight and keen planning (the name translates to Forethinker). I learned later (thanks, Siri) that Prometheus was also eternally punished as “the bad guy” by Zeus and his wrathful, Greek god gang for bringing the moral-responsibility that comes with fire/illumination to us mere mortals. Supposedly the ol’ Fire Bringer is still chained and ever will remain chained to some ant speckled, storm battered, alpine rock where each day an eagle pecks away his liver and each night it, the liver, grows back. Talk about feedback loops!
Anyway, up I climbed (thanks to United Airlines and light rail) from the clean breezes of the desert-hugged sea to the polluted air of a sky-high inner city and up further (via elevator) into Prometheus’ pale tower. There I found his balcony overlooking a verdant park displaying the daily human suffering of people in isolation and out of shelter and food - our nation’s homeless. I made the trek to once again sit at the feet (literally - like our mystery lifeform, I’m a low-lying, ground-hugger) of someone who sees through my bullshit and isn’t afraid to call me on it. I’m tired of making the same old mistakes. As a newly self-crowned Crone, I am eager to make some completely new and refreshing ones, especially in my re-birthing relationship with my partner, co-captain at sea, and mischievous trickster, Paul. It helps that my personal Prometheus relates to Paul since decades ago Pro's own wife, a self-proclaimed, spiritual visionary, dragged him, flailing and spit-flying, down dank and twisted rabbit-holes of awakening (I’m tellin’ ya, this shit, the process, is not pretty). Speaking of Paul back at No Pants Ranch, I did have to reassure him that I wasn’t running off to join some hermit's cult (the only kind of cult for me though it’s an oxymoron). Little did I know what was in store for my own moronic self.
Need more hints as to the identity of our humble, planet-hugging, mystery organism? We’ve currently identified about twenty thousand species of their ilk but certainly there remain thousands more unknown to us mere mortals. Any guesses yet? Nope, it’s not a plant although algae, a simple plant, is a crucial part of it. Nuh uh, not an animal - not even an insect. Virus, you ask? No. Bacteria you say? No, but cyanobacteria (responsible for originally oxygenating our planet and allowing plants and animals to get an evolutionary toe-hold) are the nitrogen-fixing partner of these life forms. What have you forgotten? Do you like mushrooms on your pizza or are you like my hubby and mycologically averse? Hmmmm. Perhaps some sort of fungus then? You’re on the right track but think relationship because these 7%ers are all about joining and living together. Keep thinking . . . .
There’s some rumbly thunder, pulling us back to my own spiritual joining with my flame-toting, illuminator of the self in his urban cave. First, here’s a story-relevant sample of the lessons he taught me decades ago and that I’ve tried to carry like a torch for others: - You don’t really know what anything/event is for. - You give everything/event all the meaning it has for you. - Question everything - especially your own long held beliefs. - Don’t judge anyone (including yourself) as inherently good, bad or guilty and when you do judge, immediately forgive both them and yourself.
Wow, the wind is swinging the bird feeders as I consider swaying together in harmonious relationship. It turned out that Pro’s guru cave was pretty small, or as any condo-selling agent would say, “charmingly cozy”. My first worldly challenge was the sleeping arrangement. Pro had jigsaw-puzzled a makeshift, comfy pallet consisting of pieces of memory foam for me on the floor nestled between his bed and the doorway to the single, shared bathroom. No problemo for a crusty sailor. Except, each night he enveloped himself in a throbbing, psychedelic womb of sounds. The base layer was a loud, “white noise” fan placed between our heads (think jet plane wing seat) and blanketing over that spinning cacophony was an even louder, eight-hour, deep-sleep supporter consisting of slowly shifting tones, bells, chimes, harps, flutes, drips, chirps, chortles, singing bowls and I-don’t-know-what-all other ethereal sound waves. At first I was relieved, thinking, “Ok, this way I won’t be self-conscious regarding snores and voluminously-vegan, sleep farts.” But the noise was just the thing to thrust my constant, background, Yin-ish tinnitus to the unignorable, Yangy foreground. It raged those first nights and during the days it amped up as an increasingly high-pitched, pulsating, toddler whine in my head.(2) After night three I finally got up the gumption to sheepishly cart my memory foam, puzzle pile out to the main cave space. I mean, I really needed quiet sleep in order to absorb my intense daily teachings! I expected a lecture from Pro on non-complaining equanimity but, eerily, received none. Hmmm.
I can smell wet pines and hear rainfall now as I recall another shared-space challenge that arose the one morning I slept in after Pro woke to do his curtains-closed, hours-long, solo study and meditation. I tip-toed to the bathroom, peed, and noticed that Pro had gone morning poo-poo and not flushed so as not to wake me. Very considerate. (No sarcasm intended.) Just as I was about to flush while averting my pre-breakfasted eyes, I noticed something out of place in the toilet bowl. Something baby blue floating around on the surface. AAACK! My travel toothbrush! While Pro soaked it in bleach, rubbing alcohol, and even hydrogen peroxide I reminded myself that all matter is just innocent star stuff of CHON (Carbon, Hydrogen, Oxygen, and Nitrogen) but as I edit a week later I’m still looking at my toothbrush with a sideways, distrustful glance. I really wanted to go out and buy a new one but was afraid I’d make Pro feel scatological shame. (As though his poop should be somehow less off-putting?) I was getting peeved at all these distractions from my coursework - afraid I was missing something.
The songbirds are fleeing for cover now like I wanted to flee my femme frustration of Pickleball Day. Learning pickleball after growing up playing tennis is tricky. After a bit of deep court volleying with just Pro, he invited a couple 20-something guys to join us in an actual game so I could practice my foot placement and movement on the court. Before every serve I’d start to put my feet in the wrong spot so Pro would immediately intercept me and point to where to go. But I wasn’t learning and so continued to screw up. I barely restrained myself from embarrassing Pro in front of the studly whipper-snappers by snapping at him to stop mansplaining. That’s when one of Pro’s old teachings, to rise above the battlefield and see what dynamics are at play before acting, came to mind. I realized that I wasn’t learning because Pro wasn’t giving me a chance to think for myself and self-correct. I needed to get my mind and feet a half step ahead of his well-intentioned mouth if I was going to get with the game. But why didn’t I just simply and gently point out the problem to him on the court? Later I realized that this dynamic plays out a lot in my relationships, especially with men, because I don’t speak up out of fear of hurting the male ego. Really, Jo? As if that is something we should be protecting in this world? Come on! But, enough with these ridiculous, mundane interferences. I trekked far for deep focus, dammit! (Speaking of distractions - one of the free-range cats at the cabin where 'I'm now typing is creeping through the cat door with a hummingbird in her jaws and I'm not going to give her the satisfaction of ripping apart the limp, iridescent body. Hang on . . . . )
. . . . Snap! That lightning was close and flashes me back to the great Black Bean Boundary Battle that I completely lost. Pro and I met a fun couple for a rooftop lunch and my salad with requested side of black beans came out first. As I was focusing on the multi-tasking challenges of meaningful conversation on an over-hot day with spanking new friends while simultaneously eating (my recipe for a sure stomach ache) Pro got a mischievous look in those all-seeing, indigo eyes, snuck out a hand (eerily reminiscent of Paul’s recent galley nip grab), and began to rummage around in my bean bowl with his fingers! Now I was extra socially challenged because, especially post-Covid, I detest people putting their fingers in my food and I really wanted control of my frijoles (Mexican ranchera song lyric?) but I felt socially on the spot. I also suspected that my all-seeing Prometheus may have been testing my latent food control issues. So, what did I do? I fake laughed, pretend-exaggerated affrontedness (to cover my true affrontedness), pulled my bean bowl close to my chest and lifted my fork as if to threaten stabbing his hand (which I longed to do) if he tried it again. He did. And he kept doing it - attempting to smuggle a single bean, throughout our meal - completely distracting me from the conversation and igniting a flash so hot I'm surprised my skin wasn't audibly sizzling beneath the bougie misters (hmmm . . . Vegas lounge band name?).
On top of the discombobulating bean battle and social trapeze act I had to politely hush my gush over Pro’s presumably ignorant and nonchalant ordering of that most animal-suffering and environmentally wrecking seafood: shrimp! (To paraphrase sea goddess, Sylvia Earle: Trawling to catch shrimp is like bulldozing to catch hummingbirds! And I thought Pro read my blog?!) And, wait - did I actually hear him proselytizing his particular white dude flavor of enlightenment between chomps of shrimp while I sat there ironically biting my own vegan tongue? WTF!? I left with a tummy ache, misplaced shoes, and a feeling of vague disappointment in myself. What was I not getting? Have you gotten it yet? I mean the bio-riddle?
These low lying, unassuming species are among the oldest life forms on Earth and typically grow less than a millimeter each year. They’ve been used by Homo sapiens for thousands of years as medicines, dyes, and in perfumes. We now employ them as bio indicators; if there are none in your neighborhood, you’re breathing polluted air. Some insects munch on them and so do many herbivores, including reindeer, to keep from starving in the winter. They can mine minerals from the rocks they live on and graaaaaaaaadually help break down mountains. They also live on bark, leaves, branches, walls, roofs, fences, window screens, brickwork, gravestones, rubber, bones, and bare soil. They thrive in dry deserts, tropical rainforests, tundra, and even piles of toxic slag. Their forms can be tufted, shrubby, hanging, upright, branched, flattened, leafy, crusty, lobed, scaly, powdery, jelly, stringy, hairy, matted, wispy, woolly, or completely lacking in structure. When they feel sexy after rains they send out reproductive stalks topped by circular plates or discs with crinkly edges.
Go outside now and find a rock cliff with what looks like splotches of paint on it and you’ve found yourself some lichen! (Pronounced “Like-in”.) I haven’t even told you the most fascinating thing about lichens yet; I’m saving it until I share with you my latest lessons from the inner city cave of The Fire Bringer because they’re related.
My beloved Pro, in trying to help me pull my partner, Paul, along the path of awakening like he was once reluctantly dragged by his wife, instructed me for days on end on these inter-related rules to live and love by: - Be honest; don’t try to protect those you love from a perceived truth . . . even if - especially if - it’s challenging (Oh, bless my Southern Girl heart for what’s about to come). - Guard against over empathizing that reinforces helpless victimhood and instead extend compassion. - As a teacher/giver you are simultaneously a student/receiver. - When you’re upset investigate where you’re likely mistaken. - We learn and grow in relationship with others. - And above all, watch out for your overly reactive, defensive, egoic self ‘cause it’s a bad, ugly, sneaky, backdoor, spur-jingling, gun-slinging, son of a bitch. (Again, if I only knew what was over the horizon.)
So, what do these lessons have to do with lichen? It’s all about relationship, silly. Like a Homo sapien who becomes a full human being only in relationship with others, a lichen isn’t an organism in isolation. Each one is a cooperative, symbiotic or even mutualistic relationship (3) between partners from three wildly diverse kingdoms of life: Fungi, Plants, and Bacteria. Scientists still have no idea how the oddball trio got together and joined. It could have been a chaotic coincidence of complexity. You may recall from middle-school biology that the structure, the matrix, of a lichen is a fungus who holds fast to the substrate and soaks up and retains life-giving moisture. But to get nourishment they’ve had to invite to live with them an algae who makes food from sunlight (remember photosynthesis, kids?) and a cyanobacteria to grab needed nitrogen from the air. In turn the algae, like veggie me holing up in Pro’s urban cave and making a mean batch of cauli’ tacos, gets a protected place to make and share food. A home. Of course, the real, meaningful exchanges between me and my mentor were his daily teachings during which he assured me he was learning from me too. Hmmm. I was doubtful. What could girl-baby-of-the-family-from-Timberville possibly have to teach my wise, old, worldly mentor?
It’s raining louder than the crack-booms now as I summon back a pivotal morning in Pro's city cave. In the midst of a deep-dive study period, Pro got choked up and teary while sharing how his wife of forty-plus-years saved him long ago from his own blindly misogynistic, angry-at-the-world, narcissistic, defensive, “inner asshole” (Pro’s term that Paul readily adopted). With the patience of only the truest love she helped him recognize that his greater self who is interbeing (4) with all other lives, is what he really is. Pro was clearly sharing this to remind me to be strong and present, in licheny symbiosis with my hubby, especially when he struggles with helplessness over the state of the world and his own despairing mind. Mutual tears sopped up like a spongey lichen, we left the city for a hike in the woods where more came to fiery light.
Under the pines Pro confided that he and his wife, who often spend summers copacetically apart, were actually now dramatically estranged. They found themselves frustrated and angry at each other, unable to tolerate symbiotic cohabitation any longer. The mutualistic give-and-receive dried up and shriveled like a lichen in extreme drought. They have kids and new grandchildren together but she’s been hiding herself states away in her own hermit’s cave. She doesn’t even go out to shop. He orders everything she needs and has it all delivered. I just couldn’t understand how this could happen to two of the most highly conscious people I’ve ever known. Pro’s super-woke wife a shut-in? It just didn’t make sense.
Then came the double-decker, crazy-crowded, counterfeit-bliss, restaurant scene. I hadn’t yet got up the nerve to confess to Pro, who was generously treating me to drinks and nibbles, that I really don’t enjoy going out to drink and eat in crowds anymore. I’m just too salty-sailor-mermaid feral and wallet-strained now. So, there we were, sipping over-priced beers on the uncomfortable, rowdy balcony when he nodded to the roiling ocean of humanity below and said, “That’s where my wife, when she was still here with me, swore she saw a couple people from way back east show up in search of her.” With all the metal-on-glass-on-metal bang-clanging and try-hard joy of taking-selfies-laughter rising up from the crowd I decided I must’ve misunderstood him. But I noted that he seemed unsettled as he mindlessly ordered a second beer after taking just a couple sips of the first. And we left with almost all of that second beer abandoned on the table; a great, waste challenge to this sailor in port.
Back in the car I was surprised to hear my compassionate, non-judgmental mentor flash lightening rage when a driver cut him off and again when Siri stopped telling him how to get back to his pale tower of calm in the city. Clearly, something was disturbing his level-headed peace of mind. That’s when he dropped the blazing mushroom A-bomb. His estranged wife, who in recent years has spent her evenings drinking and heavily smoking pot, was afraid to go out because she was convinced that her old gang of women friends were out to get her. Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no. This was all too familiar and called me back to my way-back friend, Ann, who I failed for seven years. I’m crying now. Hang on a sec. I’ve gotta go out of the cabin and rain these tears on the lichen spattering the edges of the deck . . . .
Never mind! That’s hail bouncing on the deck! I’ll keep this brief because it’s Ann’s story to tell. (And she darn well better tell it!) For seven years I silently observed as a distant, devastating, psychological, category-5 tornado massed over her family - her shelter - her home. I kept my mouth shut as I listened to her darkly mounting tales of a husband and father of her child begin to drink and smoke pot more and more, hide for longer and longer periods each day while ruminating in his narcissistic man-shed, lose friends, disappear in his truck for hours and even whole nights, gradually amass an armory of guns and ammo, flip-flop his political stance, verbally and emotionally attack her, and tell increasingly disturbing tales of seeing literal old Shenandoah Valley ghosts he felt called to save and then literal demons he knew he must destroy. I told myself that my friend was smart and had it under control, spending all her non-working time researching cures for him and begging him to try them. Everything from special diets, to rehab programs, to trauma specialists, to counseling - you name it. Whenever we spoke I’d be wave-rolling on the sunny deck of Triplefin as she’d recall her latest hopeful cures with the misleading, learned calm of someone walking a no-net tightrope while shouldering their child and trying with all their love-might to keep their partner from free-falling. But in my deepest heart I wanted to scream at her to parachute the hell out of that relationship before he killed himself or someone else. Regrettably, until her life was imminently at stake, I kept my fearful mouth shut because I wasn’t able to say to her the ugly truth: The love of her life had become psychotic and she and her child needed to leave him. Ann’s almost free of it now, a hellish year and half later, and we swore to each other that in the future we’d speak our minds even if we resented what the other had to say.
Wow! There’s a half inch of ice pebbles on the driveway now, the same driveway where a week ago Pro dropped me off here at my own oxygen-thin, alpine, AirBnB cave. On the way up I offhandedly asked after his wife, if he’d heard from her. He said that she messaged him and wanted to talk soon. She had something important to tell him. He sounded hopeful. I gently, softly, barely whisper-suggested to him that perhaps she may need some help, since she might be feeling a tad paranoid. He replied vaguely, “Yeah, I don’t quite know what to make of that.” We hugged goodbye (I was gritting through another sudden, stomach ache) and in the days since I’ve been alone here in the cabin, writing this, with just the birds, squirrels, and deer for company. I’ve been pondering we Homo sapiens’ dark triad of personality traits: Narcissists, Machiavellians, and Psychopaths (The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly?) and thinking about my own stormy, over reactive, defensive self who must, given my inability to speak up, still hold some darkly narcissistic belief from childhood that I’m a powerful danger to those I love. And here’s where things get, as Pro likes to say to me, “Very interesting, Grasshopper”.
Take a moment to enjoy Paul’s time-lapse of a monsoon thunderstorm building and sweeping over the San Pedro River Valley accompanied by his recording of flute-magical, Hermit Thrush song:
As so often happens after a hailstorm of spiritual study I’ve been waking up clutching the bitter end of a thread of vague dread that leads to a knot of self-doubt. Yesterday I woke at 3 am simply lost as to how to start a writing career (I need to start making some moola outta this, folks!) and sent a message to Ann, a professional grant writer, asking her to call me when she had time because I needed some career advice (well, really, a pep talk). I knew it would be late in the day when she called. So off I went for my pre-dawn hike. On my return I was taking some of the above photos of lichen, who were sexy-plump and fertile-fluffy after the big thunderstorm, when another hiker appeared and asked what I was studying. I taught her all about lichen symbiosis and she reminded me that teachers are also learners by pointing to this stand of Aspen and explaining how they entwine their roots so as to support each other. That’s why you never see a healthy one living alone.
Hmmm. Then her phone rang. She apologized for looking at it and as she did she exclaimed, “Oh! It’s Ann! I have to take this!” I smiled at the coincidence and continued on my way out of the woods, relieved actually, as I cherish my solo, non-social, get-the-farts-out morning hikes. Then, almost instantly, my own phone rang. Some inner voice said to dig it out of my pussy pack (they bounce too much on the fanny - apologies for the ribald confusion, Kiwi friends) and - you guessed it - it was my Ann! Can you believe I almost ignored it to continue my me-time? But some little shoulder bird pecked me to pick up. After an hour or so of advice and encouragement we were saying our goodbyes when out of my mouth tumbled what Pro told me about his wife. I could sense Ann across the country bolt upright as she firmly announced that his wife is clearly experiencing psychosis and that I had to DO SOMETHING! And this time, she insisted, I should not do it in a meek, offhand whisper.
Holy Rafutin’ Rasputin! Now I saw it! What this summer trip to my mentor was really for! My pedestaled teacher did need me - his humble, carpet-clinging student - to save him because he, the torch-bearing Forethinker, couldn’t freakin’ see. It seemed so obvious now. Both Pro and his now estranged wife had their heads so deeply buried in the sands of spiritual theory that they’d become blind to her/their own symbiotic sickness. Clearly their own sneaky egos had tricked them into believing that as spiritual teachers they were supposed to have risen above such dis-ease so they were not seeing it. OMG! This was my second chance to speak the truth to help a dear friend. It all fell into place now! The real lessons weren’t those taken in the cave with the curtains drawn against the world. The real lessons Pro gave me were outside the book, in real, mundane, everyday life. They were in the chaotic, symbiotic relationship with other pain-in-the-ass, inconvenient people and situations. He kept giving me challenges and opportunities to speak the fuck up and I kept thinking they were just annoying distractions. From the cacophonous sleeping arrangements to the ill-fated toothbrush to my prickle at pickle ball to fingering my beans to the migrainey restaurants to his own road rages. Time after time my teacher kept giving me real life opportunities to learn one of my biggest lessons: To use my voice to speak the truth as I perceive it instead of swallowing it down and getting a guilt-residue, tummy ache. Good grief. Did you see this coming all along as I’ve been head-scratch-writing in real time? How can we be so oblivious to ourselves? No wonder we Homo sapiens need each other to be human just like a fungus needs its algae and cyanobacteria in order to be a lichen. So, friends, tomorrow my mentor is driving up the mountain here for a last hike of my visit and I need to be ready for my big test. I need to tell him strongly and with insistence that he needs to get his wife some help before it’s too late. I am nervous . . . .
. . . . it’s tomorrow and I just bid my Prometheus a final farewell after our hike. Now I know what the fat-happy Buddha is always belly laughing about: Himself. It was so ridiculous. My throat was physically burning and choke-swollen all along the trail knowing that once back in my cabin-cave I needed to voice a painful truth to a respected elder; to light a torch to illuminate his own blind spot. I sat, not on the floor for a change, but directly level, on a bonafide chair across from Pro. I announced that I needed to tell him something and that it was very difficult for me. He collected himself, sat up straight and open, closed his eyes and (I imagine) checked his own inner asshole so it would be less reactive to whatever big mountain of a deal I was about to volcano-lava-spew on him. I’m telling you, I felt like there was some visceral, inner, terrified, ego-beast in my chest and throat who was trying tooth and claw to keep me safe by not risking letting out of my mouth a difficult truth. I had to imagine my hand reaching in and tug-of-war yanking out the following, rough, knotted rope of words: “Pro, your wife is clearly experiencing psychosis due to her hallucinations and paranoid delusions and it’s likely the heavy pot use has caused or exacerbated it. There are studies now showing strong correlations between the two. (5) I believe you need to get her help right away.” I held my breath, fearing anger and rejection.
Pro exhaled, opened his eyes, and said, essentially, “That’s it, Grasshopper? Well, no duh. My wife called the other day and wants to get back into relationship with me and spend time with our family. Our daughter is bringing her here soon, and we are going to get her off marijuana and see what happens. I’ve seen those scientific studies too”. Then he hugged me and drove down the mountain surely laughing at his own inner asshole as it cussed at the untrustworthy, disembodied voice in his iPhone.
Can you believe it? What wonderful news! The Foreseer wasn’t blind and lost in theory at all! I had to just laugh at myself; making, as my mom used to say, a mountain out of a mole hill. And then I noticed something. Something very very interesting to this Grasshopper. Remember how tricky our scared, defensive selves can be? After Pro drove away I felt a bit upset which meant I was likely mistaken in some way, right? I soaked in a hot bath and searched deeper, focusing in more specifically on what I felt. I know it seems counterintuitive but what I specifically felt was a little let down. Kinda disappointed since I was hoping that I’d save my teacher with the very lessons he taught me. Good grief - I confess that I even foresaw him weeping in my arms like I once did in his.
So, does that mean there was some awful part of me who would rather see a friend suffer so I could think myself a savior? There. That right there, friends, is my own sneaky, narcissistic, insecure little self. My very own inner asshole. But that’s not really who I am. Not fully. That part of me was unknowingly built from birth to protect me from harsh, judgmental, other guilt-built, inner assholes. She was neurologically and behaviorally, positively adaptive but she’s overextended her usefulness. Instead of fighting her though, like Pro says we must do, I strongly disagree. I think that’s a very western-white-dude, Man -vs- Self, adversarial perspective. I mean, wouldn’t that just breed more inner shame and guilt; like I’m the Good partner and she’s the Bad and Ugly in the relationship? Instead, I’ll just say “Thank you, symbiotic partner, for all your hard work trying to keep me safe. But you can relax now. Big Jo’s got this.” Once I shone the light of day on my frightened, well-meaning trickster she dissipated like a wispy, remnant, thunder cloud (but she’ll reform in another storm for sure) and I felt pure joy in knowing Pro and his dear wife were soon going to be rejoined in symbiosis and working to see clearly again. Then I made waves in the tub with a full Buddha-belly-laugh at my self.
It’s starting to feel kind of lonely up here in my cave amid the lichen-draped Aspen. I’m coming down soon to join in licheny symbiosis with y’all, so get ready for some mundane, inconvenient adventures and upsets to learn from along with me. For post-script example, while back in Virginia and staying at a feline-o-philic and forgivably divorce-hectic friend’s place there was, upon my arrival, a sudden sewage leak in the guest room that exiled me to a sleepless night outside on the too-firm trampoline plus a couple more nocturnes trying to balance in a hammock atop yet another high-pile puzzle of foam pillows without tipping out. (The stars were reliably worth it though.) Then, once the leak was managed and I woke that first morning in the comfy guest bed, I noticed what appeared to be some dried cat vomit near my head on the fitted bed sheet. Where before I’d have just quietly gagged and spot-washed it (while wondering self-consciously if it was my own, shameful, mysteriously chunky, nocturnal, drool spot) I decided instead to speak up and ask if I could toss it in the wash they were doing that day. My friend responded with a dismissive laugh, saying, “Oh, don’t worry. The sheet’s clean. That’s not cat vomit. It’s just dried kid slime.” They meant “Slime©” but I didn’t know that at the time. After staying with more beloved yet cat-magnet friends I’ve now arrived back home at sea in Mexico. As I finally go out to shop for a new toothbrush I’ll leave you with a very interesting video. I always knew that Pro’s name for me, Grasshopper, came from the old ‘70’s TV show, Kung Fu, but I’d never watched it. So, for fun, I just looked up the preview for it and my jaw dropped as I watched this:
1. Lichen in space?! https://www.theguardian.com/science/2024/jan/17/plantwatch-the-strange-organism-so-tough-it-can-survive-in-space
2. If you also experience tinnitus check out this informative article including a shocking new treatment: https://www.npr.org/sections/health-shots/2024/04/15/1244501055/tinnitus-hearing-loss-ringing-ear-noise
3. Some lichenologists see lichen as a parasitic type of symbiosis rather than mutualistic. They perceive the fungus more as a parasite who has captured and enslaved the algae and cyanobacteria who can generally live just fine on their own without the fungal partner. In that way a lichen can be compared to humans capturing and enslaving wild plants for agriculture. Gets ya thinkin’, huh? Also, it wasn’t until the 1860’s that biologists realized lichens weren’t simply plants but a kingdom-spanning relationship. And we just discovered something else about lichens that biologists have been blind to until just recently. A lichen enthusiast living in a Montana trailer park (my kinda guy) recently discovered that some lichens actually have a third, essential partner - a yeast - that may give extra chemical and/or housing protection from predators. The down-to-earth, mountain man alerted some lichenologists to his confounding observations and together, in symbiosis, they saw what they were blind to previously: another partner in the relationship!
4. Thich Nhat Hanh’s perfect term for our human symbiotic connectedness
5. I’m so pleased that marijuana is becoming legal but we do need to understand the risks - especially of regular use of the new and highly potent strains. I know I'm now reducing the use of my vape pen to help with those 3 am menopausal wake ups. Check this out: https://www.npr.org/sections/health-shots/2019/03/19/704948217/daily-marijuana-use-and-highly-potent-weed-linked-to-psychosis And, by the way, you know what else is associated with an increased risk of schizophrenia-related disorders? Living with cats! Just sayin'. More studies are needed but here's what the NIH found: https://pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/38041862/
* The two songs I’ve had in my head the whole time I’ve been thunderstorm cave writing:
I looooooooove this!