Harvesting from the soil over time without adding to it ends with depleting fertility and leaving it without muscle or synapse.  Soil,   like the mind,  needs regular feeding to reproduce the fertility it was blessed with.
       Good compost may be likened,  in one's life, to the fully digested product of one's past material experience.  With water,  air, heat,  and those harvested materials from the past, a fungal,  bacterial enzymatic biomass is created  which will raise the composted materials into the fertile dust of renewal. The renewal takes time ;  heat, the right enzymes, destruction of pathological bacteria, aeration. watering, catalytic admixture, and earthworms who will tell you that you are on the right track.
       Is  mediation of the infertile mind the same  and as simple as the addition of the carefully prepared compost pile to the soil? Maybe not, but I have to give it a shot,  at least as hard as I work out at the compost bin. It seems to me that remediation of the mind is equivalent to the remediation of the dirt and equally useful.  Then you can trust that the ruminant harvests that you have brought up from your past will be re-digested with care  and  with  luck your muscle, muse, synapses, and mental fertility will be fulfilled and stimulate new growth in your life.  It's really just chewing the cud.
        We aren't that different from compost.  Both of us are special.  We both came from dirt and to dirt we shall return.

A farting horse will never tire : a farting man is the man to hire !
    My pioneer family's homely refrain was a reflection of the met nutritional needs of the working class , and the assurance that things were in working order at a time of deprivation.  A hearty meal for both horse and man, eaten quickly, provided jet fuel for hard work.  Possibly the more publicly flatulent , either horse or man were what the jingle writer considered both unrestrained and therefore more " gung ho" in capability. Such an advantage in a hired man should be considered.
       The volume  of intestinal gas is increased with a high carbohydrate diet as would be expected in pioneer days. Moreover the  "poor man's food " of Brassicaceae and beans would have further contributed to this gas.  There is, when investigated, a high correlation of intestinal gas and caloric intake.  Mean total volume of intestinal gas produced in a day in a healthy adult averages 705 ml. and this includes both bolus gas  (swallowed air),  and gas from colonic fermentation. Bolus gas would be increased considerably in the  trencherman.  The speed with which the trencherman " fueled up " on these foods increased the air swallowing,  somewhat therefore reduced the percentage of colonic fermentation gas,  and made the emissions more fragrant.
        The daily and nightly  rate of emission of flatus was variable but enhanced  by heavy ploughing  and digging, as the horse and man toiled in the soil in those pioneer days, Photos of of pioneer days often reveal a sturdy obesity in the hired man that bespeaks strength and serves as a base of reserve  when horse and man enter stages 6 and 7 which leave one atrophied.  *   Obesity sort of getting a head start in life's race. Low carbohydrate diets  associated with high fibre  meals reduce flatulence considerably but at the expense of energy;  not desirable in the case of a hired man.
           There was little or no mechanization in the farm on those days,  One couldn't work to advantage on the farm without the hired man and the horse,  both running on all cylinders. It's just no surprise the horse and man lived in their own quarters, apart from the rest.

          * As  You Like It  Act 2 Scene 7

A boiling fowl is tough because of fibrous creep.  Some might say of the elderly eclectic gentleman , "He is a tough old bird."  Some one, incidentally,  and anatomically, is righter than they know.  I hope no one says of the gentleman, he is a fibrous creep !  We are all subject to this phenomenon of creep as we  become analogous to  our boiling cousin, the old rooster. 
      Muscle fibers, which have no real capacity to regenerate are crept among and replaced by fibrous strings of collagen, replacing over a lifetime both voluntary, involuntary and cardiac muscle fibers.  Healthy fat cells providing energy storage,  heat and insulation are emptied of their contents by Father Time and move to fibrous tissue replacement with the loss of fat and its function.  Bones and joints become brittle with  loss of mineral and relative increase in fibrous tissue replacing bone and cartilage. Toughened fibrous tissue surrounds the joints and the loss of resilience limits the range of motion.  Gravity flattens the feet which become longer and wider and the fibers around the joints stretch and hurt.
       If one takes a Petri dish and a batch of primitive undifferentiated mesenchymal cells and subjects the cells to varying oxygen tension and altered motion applications these cells have the capacity to metamorphose to differentiated cells.  In the case of the young they differentiate into fibroblasts, osteoblasts and chondroblasts.  the precursors of  fibrous tissue , bone or cartilage.  This elegant system when operating in the prime of life with mesenchymal cells in optimum environment,  perform in balance.  If the human mileau is changed to low oxygen tension and low motion,  over time the homeostatic state of the old,  excess fibrosis ensues.
        This is the hour- glass at work that spells the demise of the capacity of the magnificent primitive mesenchyme to differentiate selectively.  These cells form the framework for our body. The change is gradual and relentless as fibrous creep invades the spaces in the vital organ cells as well as the timbers that house  and protect them.
        Paradoxically, we become both tough and feeble;  tough and yet often more tender.  Succulent chickens and young Turks :  in time all become like boiling fowl !

Whenever the heart gives me a little epiphany and I feel eureka, the head often  says, "Better think about that again."  That's the problem of being human. Cognitive dissonance always giving trouble.
      It's early December now and for years the pianist played the piano at Christmas time with the family clustered around, violin and guitar and mandolin, singing the carols and hymns and bringing gifts. The carol, We Three Kings, has verses for our clustered individuals to easily sing and since only a few of the family sings well there is a comedic and awkward character to some of the singers , but it is fun!
         The lyrics of the hymn are well known and the gifts the Magi bring to the Holy Child are really tokens rather than gifts, prefiguring those travelers belief in the nature of the person for whom they have come.  Gold for the king, frankincense for the priest, myrrh for the sacrifice. Symbols     that are their recognition of what is to come.  The hymn leaves no room for doubt among Christians and it is a favorite subject as a pastiche of Matthew's account.
         T.S.Eliot's  poem,  "Journey of the Magi"  is deliberately incomplete and like all good poems leaves room for us. The one of the three  who is the narrator of the poem was alone then,  reflecting on his journey and his epiphany which seems to me,  Eureka, I think . He notes , It wasn't easy and it wasn't sure and there was  doubt." The epiphany for him was , and was not, a long time coming,  The poem stirs the soul because it reflects a thoroughly human person who has to grapple with the same uncertainties that  I and many others do..
         The narrator of the poem  has now the gift of distance and time to arrive at the paradox that out of death can come life   Eliot's creation tells,  and all of us need,  distance and time to arrive at what we arrive at. Someone said to me,  "I don't understand what you mean by that last sentence,  " life out of death "  It doesn't make any sense ."
          I sid , " Read the poem again .   I'm not going to tell you what I think it means.  It's not my job .  You are not a stupid man so you will have your own ideas and they are as good as mine, though you and I will never be as poetic as Eliot ! And we will never have to ride a thousand miles in the middle of winter on a camel to find out either . "

At the risk of being considered a sissy by those of hard-nosed countenance, I have a paean to offer.  The pianist and I use on our beds,  blankets our respective mothers made over 40 years ago for us.  They are used in praise , remembrance and talismanic connection to our past.
       The pianist's blanket her mother made is a soft blue, brown and white in a zigzag pattern strictly uniform, crocheted, crisp and perfectly preserved . My mother's blanket for me was a looser, block knit, tan, brown and orange with a touch of white and tasseled.  Both are beautifully finished as could be expected by these women in their late 70's at that time.  My blanket is smaller than the blanket of the pianist since my mother was more impatient than her mother,  so would have quit a bit earlier in the process to do other things .                 When my mother provided me with my satin smooth blanket in infancy that I used  until I was three, it was my talisman.  It was her breast when I slept alone and gave me comfort and safety.. My mother went away for three weeks and my auntie Mildred looked after me. She said to me , "Jim you are a big boy now you are three. You don't need a blanket any more. "  And she took it away. Blanket gone, mother gone, I had to be brave.  When Robert Munch wrote his book about his mother called "Love  You Forever " it stunned me with its beauty and gave meaning again to the meaning of motherhood and the continuity of love and care through life for one another.
         The blanket  for the bed and chair today gives warmth and comfort and a curious embrace that reflects what they gave to us long ago, along with a continuity with the past the blankets still provide. Why did I not realize that the many years after my life  at age three, were so dangerous till I rediscovered the gift from my mother in my latter years and have become safe again ?  What incredible dangers the pianist and I encountered during those times in life where we neglected to credit blanket power ! It's never too late to learn anew, what you only knew as an infant.  Safe at last !

As Christmas nears I am reminded of a  Christmas pageant I participated in when we lived in Kindersley when I was fourteen.  It may be the first recorded instance of a karaoke in history on the bald prairie. There was a paucity of singers in our class at school to match the need for those to celebrate the Holy Family, angels, shepherds,, kings and barn animals in the Bethleham shed
       I was designated by the teacher as one of the three kings who brought gifts to the baby and my gift was Myrrh, said to be a bitter perfume and used to mask the odor of a cadaver in the country after death. As the third king ; though we were really kings in name, not in fact, but astronomers and wise man from Persia. At least this is the story as I knew it at fourteen.
       All of us, Kings, shepherds, angels and Holy Family were dressed in appropriate costume along with the braying barnyard in unison as the songs went on in the pageant. My turn to sing solo was the verse  about my gift in the hymn,  "We Three Kings "  as I handed the Myrrh to the Holy Child. Because of the role of Myrrh my demeanor was to be sorrowful and gloomy in keeping with the prophetic nature portended by the gift .
        A few days before the pageant a strange thing happened to me and I emitted croaking sounds rather than the bitterly but sweet sounds that I had hitherto produced. My voice had decided to change. It was unclear whether this was temporary or not so we continued to wing it,  as my costume was good and my facial efforts were suitably gloom-ridden.  The day of the pageant the teacher made a decision.
        Lorraine  Collins , an angel, would position herself directly behind me and sing my part., but I would make all the mouth movements and gestures silently to the audience, both of the chorus and my solo verse. Lorraine had a sweet piping and joyous voice and she turned it on in spades. It was not a boy- like voice. She joyously sang,  "  Myrrh is mine,  its bitter perfume;"
                           "Braeths a life of gathering gloom:"
                           "Sorrowing sighing bleeding dying;"
                           " Sealed in a stone cold tomb "
     As I mouthed, sorrowing, sighing, bleeding and dying to the joyous rendition as Lorraine accompanied me, I even then thought,   "t I will give up karaoke forever."                 

I'm not talking about sports !  Re-creation is serious business . Listening to the current concerns that mankind will falter with the expected looming changes in climate, food production, and population gives a new sense of urgency that we must alter the environment.
       When Jacob Bronoski wrote the screenplay for The Ascent of Man, his thesis was that mankind itself was capable of adapting to changes,  and not a victim of the natural environment as were some other life forms. The capacity for abstract reasoning and foresight;  the ability to change, adapt and thrive in all manner of adversity, was in the past, and still is, in its best measure, peculiar to mankind alone.  We don't have to mutate in order to survive. Civilizations came and went, but mankind evolved in its capacity to adapt. The vulnerability  of the less adaptable  life forces that surround us will depend upon the human capability to address the changes to come, in the interest of all.
        Currently pessimism seems rampant !  The media is full of dirt and gloom .  The comment boards are dominated by the haters and polemicists . The Jeremiads are in full gallop down the hill .
          In our little group this week we discussed the sins of the flesh we all possess ,We spoke about how it was necessary to repress these desires in order to function in society.  We took note of the selfish side of ourselves that sees the world as there for our immediate needs. What we didn't talk about was the nobility of mankind ;  the love, the drive ,the intellect;  the willingness of people to sacrifice to the greater common good and to put off immediate gratification for a later and greater good. I brought this up with the group but it went nowhere  since we all prefer speaking of sin over goodness and lack over gift.
         Surely there is a balance in mankind that has become obscured lately.  If we are to survive and thrive in these seasons of change, then re-creation will need to occur with the opening,  not closing,  of the human spirit:  we cannot hunker down, but must utilize the ever present noble side of our nature to open up and embrace the challenge of change with optimism.
         In the meantime, the downfall of some of us is procrastination.  Capability is never a substitute for implementation. Mankind has more at stake than his own survival.
      
       
       

In retrospect a possible useful service a parent can offer to a boy in his early teens is to accept the fact that the father can be a mirthful linguistic foil by him and his friends, a term to affirm needed distancing. I learned through some sort of  grapevine inadvertently, that I was referred to by that diminutive set as  Fat Elvis.
       I had more girth at that time in the 60's than Elvis did, but  showed it had more to do with the mirthful monikers applicable to the unworthiness  of my hair, thinning but a feeble intent to emulate the singer
with my hair  style at that time rather than my singing voice or any  disreputable pelvic motion I attempted to display. I wasn't particularly dismayed by this description as I recall, because I considered the source.  Besides, I had heard of  the range of all the school teachers of that age group that had mirthful monikers  appended which were litmus test indicators for whatever the perceived shortcomings this youthful entourage considered worthy of comment.  Even bad press in those days was an acknowledge that you exist and are a  looming presence.  I just celebrated the fact that a little derision, particularly with your friends when bravado is needed , remains part of a important and necessary distancing process for early adolescence.
       Elvis Presley  and I   were identical ages and Heaven knows there were worse labels applied to an aging parent than Elvis, fat or not. My case was quite benign and the simile was a step up for a plump and tuneless surgeon, however hapless in the eyes of the pediatric 5th column. Little did they realize the pleasure of comparison with one of the world's better voices and master of rhythm.  As long as it was behind my back I could let it go happily and unacknowledged until now.; fifty years later. now the record is out. Like most conditions in life, if you wait a bit, in good humor, it gets better,  The distancing becomes funnily redemptive and the relationship affectionately blessed.

      

Years ago I was a member of a college council. Our CEO had a painting by Jack Shadbolt in his office that a fellow doctor had donated to the college.  It was well known that the painter liked to retrieve his paintings at a later date and revise things he had decided he wasn't pleased with. He was an important Vancouver painter and owners probably never refused him.
      The painting of ours that I recall was of the old Marpole wooden footbridge at the end of the street. The artist had painted people standing on the bridge looking down at the water of the Fraser Arm. He repainted the foreground to his satisfaction and returned the revised work.
       It would be tough to collect all the books that one sold and to change the lines that offended oneself. Certainly,  if you haven't sold the copyright you can republish the book without the dirty or underwhelming bits,  but that doesn't change what is already out there.
       It's tough to alter the lines in your  past where they are troubling.  You just have to forgive yourself and crank up every morning with the new knowledge and the new humility you may be blessed with. Then one can republish oneself with the current received wisdom, where again, thank God, you still own your own copyright.  Never sell it !  Once you have republished yourself , you can go and make a new set of mistakes for your life.
        Unlike the occasional painting,  there is no pigment opaque enough to cover up the original me.  At . least be an open book to oneself.  I guess editing oneself is a lifelong process, but if you don't publish sometime,  then you aren't here at all.  Shit happens, but humble pie always has enough calories to help one grow bigger.

Write your own moral stand

and designate it as the high road

Cut away from those who don't walk it

Enjoy your heady view

Your standpoint allows it and your ramparts seem secure

and

You are worthy to gather up the crumbs

You think you are worthy to eat the whole loaf

But

Your concrete doesn't bind

The  stones loosen and roll

It's a long way to fall

All is vanity.