Author Archives: Alan Ilagan

“We should not be held back from pursuing our full talents, from contributing what we could contribute to the society, because we fit into a certain mould ― because we belong to a group that historically has been the object of discrimination.” â€• Ruth Bader Ginsburg

“I think unconscious bias is one of the hardest things to get at. My favorite example is the symphony orchestra. When I was growing up, there were no women in orchestras. Auditioners thought they could tell the difference between a woman playing and a man. Some intelligent person devised a simple solution: Drop a curtain between the auditioners and the people trying out. And, lo and behold, women began to get jobs in symphony orchestras.” – Ruth Bader Ginsburg

“Work for what you believe in, but pick your battles, and don’t burn your bridges. Don’t be afraid to take charge, think about what you want, then do the work, but then enjoy what makes you happy, bring along your crew, have a sense of humor.” – Ruth Bader Ginsburg

Here we are in November, on the cusp of an election that has the world on edge because we can no longer trust that justice, truth, and democracy will prevail, and my nerves are so frayed that I’m not quite sure what to do. Mere meditation is helpful, but it’s not everything, and with weighty matters like this up in the air, its beneficial effects last for just so long. Sadly, aside from voting, there’s not much I can do, and my brain has to catch up to my heart to ease that worry and tension. There is only so much one person can control, and it’s often even less than we’d like to think. And so, in these tumultuous times of danger and uncertainty, I will do my best to close my curtains to the outside world of negativity and doubt, of anger and ignorance, of uncertainty and disagreement – my focus will be on beauty and peace, on the simple haven within my own heart and home. On with the last days of October 2020… 

Fall ascending.

One year of not drinking alcohol. 

The prettier the flower…

The royal purple.

Purple reprise.

My meditation expanded to 26 minutes just in time. 

Anecdotes of goblins and great men.

Lace on fire.

Dearly purchased pleasures.

A woodland walk when the veil is thinnest: Part One.

A woodland walk: Part Two.

And a woodland walk: Part Three.

Happiness is reflective.

Words of the late hero Elijah Cummings.

Milk silk.

Hunks of the Day included Devon Sawa and Luke James. 

Milkweed is a wondrous native plant, providing food and sustenance most notably for the Monarch Butterfly (in its striped caterpillar form). Its handsome foliage – fresh and green with just a tint of gray to its underside – stays robust and stalwart (with the possible sacrificial leaves for the caterpillars) and pendulous soft pink blooms (favorites of butterflies and bees) makes it the perfect plant for blurring the lines between wilderness and cultivation. No surprise that the showier Butterfly Weed is a close relative (and its blooms are equally adored by the aforementioned visitors).

Most wondrous of all may be the seed pods, which are magnificently architectural before and after dispersal. Here they are caught in the act of launching, each silky umbrel ready to take flight on the flimsiest of breezes, seeking out some nook of earth in which to spend the winter mulling over the next stage of its journey.

“Surely happiness is reflective, like the light of heaven; and every countenance, bright with smiles, and glowing with innocent enjoyment, is a mirror transmitting to others the rays of a supreme and ever-shining benevolence.” ~ Washington Irving

I like that sentiment – that happiness is reflective, mirroring its effects and joy to those all around us. Far too often, I take a cynical view on life, and when you’ve been disappointed and let down by humanity that’s to be somewhat expected. However, I’m also a believer in setting the tone for your life, and your day, and the power of intention most definitely has an effect on all sorts of manifestations. With that in mind, let’s begin the month of November on such a note of hope, and a note of beauty, as captured in these sky shots from a few days ago when the moon was almost full and the clouds reflected the setting sun in such pretty fashion. 

Be the beauty as it may, November does not enter in completely peaceful form. Last night we had a full Blue Moon, Mars is in retrograde until November 13, and Mercury is in retrograde until November 3. I’m attributing these astrological dynamics to Andy’s variable moods of late, and the general uneasiness and insanity of these past few weeks. I’ve been hanging onto the minutes of my daily meditation to keep me as calm as possible, but with election day coming up and all the ensuing mayhem likely to erupt, I may have to take more drastic measures. 

There now, I’ve gone and given in to the malady of pessimism when the whole point of this post was to enter a new month on a note of hopefulness and positivity. And so we take that turn upward, we leave behind the moods of madness and melancholy and turn to places of repose and peace. That is something over which I have complete control – not the actions of others or the failures of humanity at large – only myself and my processing of events. Leave others to get bogged down in the muck of their making; freed from those binding traps, I shall make my own way, and it will be a happier journey because of it. And so we say hello to November ~ I will ride your chilly wind with a warm heart and a pleasant countenance. Peace doesn’t always have to be found within – sometimes you can conjure it from the flimsiest of raw materials. Like a moon in the late afternoon sky… 

“There is nothing like the silence and loneliness of night to bring dark shadows over the brightest mind.” ~ Washington Irving

It’s strange and perhaps slightly psychotic to seek out thrills and dangers when we were raised to avoid such insanity at all costs as children. To dabble in the dark arts and tease the demons of the world is playing with a sort of fantastical fire that feels fine to the touch but may leave a nasty scar. My pursuits remain mostly on the outskirts of such questionable activity, preferring to watch from a very safe distance the paranormal goings-on or haunted scenarios that abound on a night such as Halloween. But when it comes to the forest, that’s a gamble and a dare I’ll always take, because for every moment of doubt there’s a place of beauty, and that will always be worth a risk. 

Leaving the little brook to its gibberish, I returned along the path I had come, rising with the incline and ascending from the shadowy depths just as the sun would render such a change almost imperceptible. We balanced one another, and in that reassurance I could slow my pace again – a pace that had slightly increased when I was down in the deep. 

Pausing to examine the leaves, I was once again struck, like every fall, by the infinite gorgeousness of this variety of colors and forms that nature so generously bestows upon those of us who take the time to notice. If there were ghosts about now, they were of the friendly sort, and I bowed my head in their direction, and they left me alone. 

The light was just slightly different from when I began this short walk, but it was a difference that hinted at more, at a haunting of the woods I had narrowly escaped, or might have simply passed me by without concern. Grateful for that, I let the forest close behind me without saying goodbye. 

“There are certain half-dreaming moods of mind in which we naturally steal away from noise and glare, and seek some quiet haunt where we may indulge our reveries and build our air castles undisturbed.” ~ Washington Irving

By the time I reached the bottom of the little valley, and the place where a stream wound its way around the leaf-littered ground, I was entirely under the enchantment of the woods and whatever spirits and denizens oversaw its inner-workings. A certain reverence and respect is due to the forest, and I never underestimated its scope or power. There were trees and stones that were there long before I was born and that would remain there long after I was gone. The forest held a permanence and perpetuity of which humans could only dream and craft potions of youth that would never quite work.

Its mysteries were as tantalizing as they were frustrating, ever out of reach, ever out of sight, the way certain whispers sounded in the way the wind rustled the trees or the water gurgled as it jumped from stone to stone. Even in its open spaces, where the trees parted for a moment or the land leveled off, there were secrets and solemn silence, where no explanations were ever uttered or even hinted at, where there was no room for anything other than stillness and contemplation. 

There I would become suspicious, as if I had been given a pretty dose of poison that suddenly wore off, and coming to a new awareness doubted everything that had once been beautiful. The perfume of the forest is always partly composed of decay and rot. 

Remembering the proximity to Halloween, the day when the veil between our physical world and the inhabitants of the spiritual world is at its thinnest and most frayed, I felt a familiar jolt of fear. When I was a kid, I’d often explore the little stretch of woods behind our house after a day at school, and if I wasn’t careful I’d get caught a little further from home than I wanted as the sun went down. When that happened, I’d have to hasten my pace, and there were days nearer the approach of winter when I was running by the time I got back home, certain that some beast or manifestation of evil was right behind me, chomping at my heels and so close I didn’t dare turn around to slow my flight. 

On this day, however, the fear felt distant, and there was still light and magic. Fallen logs pointed me further along the path, framing the journey in such picaresque fashion that it was impossible to worry. Beauty is treacherous that way. 

And when the sight of such prettiness wasn’t enough, the sound of a little waterfall erased any minor concern in the quietness that so many of us modern-day humans seem to find uncomfortable. 

Who would dare to worry about anything when faced with such beauty? Who would fret about the changing light of day to dusk, or the way the air seemed to suddenly drop a few degrees? What ghosts would have the impropriety to assemble near such peaceable waters? The brazen boldness of my heart cried out for them to reveal themselves while the remnants of my good sense impelled me along the path. 

This was the turn that would bring me back from the bottom, and if I missed it or wandered too far, I might head the wrong way, moving deeper into unknown passages. I strayed a bit, but as soon as I sensed a loss in bearings, returned the way I had come, rejoining the trail and resuming the loop out of the valley, away from the stream, away from the darkening heart of that forest… 

“There is a serene and settled majesty to woodland scenery that enters into the soul and delights and elevates it, and fills it with noble inclinations.” ~ Washington Irving

It was just a little valley, at the bottom of which ran a small stream that ran quickly or quietly depending on the rainfall. On this day, it was barely a murmur in the distance when I entered the forest, leaving my car nearby, and departing the remaining light of day behind as well; behind the curtain of the woods the canopy of the trees deepens and darkens the shadows. I’d forgotten that, at this time of afternoon at this time of the year, the sun disappeared quickly, without warning, and that dangerous alacrity left the unmindful particularly susceptible to getting caught deeper than one would like. That was in the back of my mind as I began my walk in the woods.

The forest floor was carpeted with leaves. At this point many of them had been torn from their limbs and littered the ground, which, much like a snowfall, made it slightly more difficult to discern the path that led down into the valley. Wet or dry, leaves could be slippery, lending an additional risk on the deeper inclines. There was the slightest warning on the wind, in the gentle breeze that suddenly picked up, rustling the leaves that remained on the trees. They shook and shimmied, quivering and wavering as if taking on the chill that deepened as the day waned and the path led further into the forest.

Ferns dotted the banks, most of them still green, though a few had turned ghostly pale, drained of their verdant life, an echo of their summer selves. There was a hint of darkness to them as well, a darkness and shadow that seeped under each leaf, inhabiting every crevice of bark and stem. 

In the fallen logs there was evidence of new life – moss and lichens and little plants had already made homes of the decaying wood. Even the wayward traveler could make temporary use of them as benches and places of rest. I didn’t pause to take part. The day was dimming. If I dallied, there was danger of getting caught at the bottom when the darkness descended. Already, I felt a slightly thrilling unease at the thought of losing myself there. 

Still, I took my time, taking in every step and being mindful of the beauty all around me. Fall was such a fleeting state, too often gone before we ever got to embrace it. Slowing my steps, I took a deep breath of the forest air. Woodland intoxication ensued, that euphoric state of sensory overload that comes from an immersive experience wholly beyond a sad little computer screen. There was the slightest shiver of something sinister to it as well, the way a very good cologne has a tiny portion of something putrid deep at its heart. The spell of the woods had been cast…

“I am therefore a ready believer in relics, legends, and local anecdotes of goblins and great men, and would advise all travellers who travel for their gratification to be the same. What is it to us whether these stories be true or false, so long as we can persuade ourselves into the belief of them and enjoy all the charm of the reality?” ~ Washington Irving

There is a sign on many cemetery entrances that they are closed at sundown and no one is allowed in beyond that time. 

There are also many cemeteries that don’t have gates or watchers to make sure no one enters beyond sundown. 

On the cusp of the day when the veil between worlds is at its least substantial and most permeable, this post recalls a recent visit to a cemetery overlooking the Mohawk River. At the entrance was the warning that it was closed at sundown, and I was cutting it close a little after 5 PM. But the sun was still strong, the wind has quieted, and there was such beauty that I ambled the Mini Cooper slowly along the leaf-littered path as a few ancient, drooping pine trees closed their curtains of boughs behind me. 

It appeared I had just missed the main foliage show and most of the leaves had already been ripped from the maples, but a few still clung onto their branches despite the lofty breeze. The golden hour was at hand, and as the temperature began to descend I stood mesmerized by the falling sun. Such a brilliantly tricky fellow, he shone his rays behind the trees and over the river, peeking from behind bark and branches, all in a game that would end with his disappearance. 

The wind picked up. Whispers were heard like the rustling of dry leaves, and I told myself it was just the wind, because what else, or who else, could it be? Behind me the cemetery and its headstones made their own murmurs. More whispers on the wind, I reasoned. 

It’s rather remarkable how much power the sun holds – more remarkable perhaps when that power is suddenly taken away by the winding river, and suddenly we were plunged deeper into shadow. I did not wait for the chill to arrive, though I had an appetite for the edge of danger, even as I drove a little quicker than was necessary to make it out before total darkness fell. 

The forest had me hooked. 

I would be going back the next day, to a longer path, a deeper path, and I’d start a little earlier to catch the light. 

“He is indeed the true enchanter, whose spell operates, not upon the senses, but upon the imagination and the heart.” â€• Washington Irving