Looking back on my life there is one clear direction that I can see, and that is whenever possible I would avoid confrontation. Of any kind. In fact, I would go so far to avoid such confrontation as to cross a contested street in the middle of an urban gang war to avoid somebody who I knew wanted to sell me yet another unwanted lottery ticket where the grand prize was an all-expense paid weekend at the Motel 6 in Gary, Indiana. Saying “No” is just so … wrenching.
As you might expect, I experienced a great deal of internal conflict in the years 1969 to 1971 when I found myself a small part of a very large war machine called the United States Air Force, an organization devoted to the art and science of confrontation on a very large scale. It was just not me.
Being retired and living in a rural town in the mountains where few people know me has been very good for the shy violet that I am. Even the few that I have met look at me and think to themselves “Is there any point in asking? When I do he squirms so much it makes me itch.”
In another time and place I might have been a cave-dwelling hermit or a Norwegian bachelor farmer, but those are difficult lifestyles to maintain in an era of Google and CCTV.
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For our let’s-leave-the-sweltering-temperatures-behind hike this week we chose Aspen Trail 125 up on the Uncompahgre Plateau, about an hour’s drive from home.When we arrived at the trailhead at altitude 9600 feet, it was 20 degrees cooler than the 92 degrees it had been in the valley.
The walk is a woodland walk, familiar to us from other places we have lived, and we never got that OMG feeling we get when we are striding along above tree level, but it was all very pleasant. The trail is used by hikers, mountain bikers, riders of horses, and dirt bikers. The only other humans we encountered were two men riding motorized cycles who were respectful and polite as they passed us.
However, we did cross paths with hundreds of non-human carbon-based life forms in the shape of sheep. Two large herds separated by about a mile. Although we had heard that both cattle and sheep were grazed on the huge Plateau somewhere, this was the first time we’d encountered any. No shepherds were seen, no threatening dogs protecting their flocks. Just sheep being sheep in the shade.
Sheep show up frequently in music, and one of my favorite examples is this one by J.S. Bach. Perhaps a bit of background.
The aria comes from a secular cantata dating from 1713, which celebrates the birthday of Christian, Duke of Saxe-Weissenfels. The cantata “The lively hunt is all my heart’s desire,” also known as the “Hunt Cantata,” is an extended setting of text by Salomon Franck, the Weimar court poet.
Never letting anything go to waste, especially not fantastic music, Bach probably revived the works a few years after the original performance. Apparently, it subsequently honoured the Duck of Saxe-Weimar, Ernst August, and in 1742 the same music celebrated the name’s day of Augustus III.
The music for this cantata was not published during Bach’s lifetime, but first appeared only in 1881 in the first complete edition of Bach’s work. And it was during the Bach revival in the 19th century that the aria “Schafe können sicher weiden” (Sheep may safely graze) became really popular. And in the 20th century, it became the all-time favourite music for weddings.
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Morning prayer.
Please, dear God, let me get through this entire day without having to hear the word existential from the media one more time.
Failing that, let everyone who utters the word be immediately afflicted with large pustules.
(Except me)
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Great news! A giant millipede that was feared lost to us forever is not lost at all. In fact, it is living in comfortable numbers in a part of Madagascar where the locals weren’t paying much attention to it and didn’t feel the need to report on its existence.
It is ten inches long and is one of the gentle and non-harmful creatures of the world. In fact, there are websites extolling their virtue as pets. I thought about this for a while, and although Robin and I do allow our cats access to our bed, I’m thinking we would draw the line well before ten-inch creepy-crawlers. It’s all those little feet, you know …
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Little Home In The Valley 