PHOTO ESSAY: Easter walk InDiana woods

This beautiful Easter Sunday morning puppy Shadow and I decided to drive to the “Hills O’ Brown County,” specifically to Brown County State Park, and pick a walking route there.

Oh wow, found this great topo map —


And though the elevations aren’t nearly what I used to deal with when hiking in my mid-30s with heavy packs off trail in the Idaho Sawtooths with my second husband Dick, just the fact of a topo map brought all those wondrous memories back.

I would say that I have indeed entered that “final” stage of life when much of my time is preoccupied with rearranging, reimagining, revivifying the images I have stored from my past, over and over again, lending life now a multidimensional richness that was not available when younger.

Okay, back to today, Easter Sunday morning, and our walk. We decided to loop around Ogle Lake, the approximately oblong shaped lake at the top center left of the above map.

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It’s fun to hike around small lakes. First off, it helps Shadow stay on the trail (at least in one direction, to his left) and also, bodies of water just naturally call to humans and other animals for the revivifying life they hold. Remember when scientists first identified ice on Mars (back in the 1990s) and then on the Moon (2010)?

How many of us really paid attention to these astonishing announcements, and what they portend? Of course there is life elsewhere. Indeed the entire universe is alive!

It seemed like we were only on the trail for a few minutes before reaching the west end.

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So we decided to go uphill, to the top of the ridge —

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— and then down the other side, through the beautiful little valley known as Ogle Hollow Nature Preserve.

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Just as we had gone up up up, so now we hiked down down down —

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— into a relatively pristine area where I have always sensed that faeries still reside.

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It’s still very early spring, however, tiny wild flowers peek out —

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And the glorious rust red of some rotting wood magnetizes me no matter the season —

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Oh what a tangled web we weave — some of us growing straight and tall, others bent, out of shape, but all, all of us, equally, seeking the sun . . .

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Traveling through and growing up from the fertile rotting detritus of seasons past —

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— we tend to cluster with others like ourselves, in tiny microbiomes the edges of which are always tantalizing to one such as me, and the “causes” of which always make me swoon in wonder: Why here, these particular plants? Is it the soil, the wind, the water, the other plant species, the amount of shade versus light? . . . On and on, my left brain asks, and my right brain and heart sigh, whisper “leave well enough alone: the ’causes’ are always subtle, and myriad, in all directions; there is no such thing as a single “linear” chain of “cause and effect” . . .

Okay, okay, be more like puppy Shadow, who just sniffs everything, in joyous sensuous celebration of the whole bloomin’ world.

There he is, on the trail still heading down, way ahead of me . . .

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More steps. Still heading down. See Shadow, on the left, top platform? He’s on alert, sees or hears or smells or feels something way beyond my human perceptual capacities.

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I’m remembering the woman at the UFO conference a month ago, who said to me that animals are not nearly as intelligent as humans. Well, if human “intelligence” is responsible for our destructive power, to hell with it! Which reminds me: yesterday, my brother-in-law John mentioned an uncanny synchronicity he experienced that morning, when he was reading a piece of Robert Merton’s on “Original Child Bomb” — about Hiroshima, and then looks at my blog and finds my piece on awakening to the radio announcement of that momentous event that changed everything and still reverberates, indeed, feels stronger now than at any point since the Cold War. See the latest from Vladimir Putin, who now says he considers nuclear war “almost inevitable,” given the way the U.S./NATO Empire is positioning itself.

Putin to Western Elites: Playtime Is Over

I read the piece about Merton, and thought to myself that Merton must be exaggerating. The U.S. government couldn’t have been that thrilled to have dropped the Bomb. Oh yeah? Then John sent me a piece by Dorothy Day that is so extraordinary my jaw fell open. No wonder I was so seared/scarred by the cognitive/emotional dissonance that flooded me! The Amerocam government, media, and citizens, were, according to her, utterly JUBILANT!

the bomb

The Catholic Worker, September 1945
We Go on Record

By Dorothy Day

Mr. Truman was jubilant. President Truman. True man; what a strange name, come to think of it. We refer to Jesus Christ as true God and true Man. Truman is a true man of his time in that he was jubilant. He was not a son of God, brother of Christ, brother of the Japanese, jubilating as he did. He went from table to table on the cruiser which was bringing him home from the Big Three conference, telling the great news; “jubilant” the newspapers said. Jubilate Deo. We have killed 318,000 Japanese.

That is, we hope we have killed them, the Associated Press, on page one, column one of the Herald Tribune, says. The effect is hoped for, not known. It is to be hoped they are vaporized, our Japanese brothers — scattered, men, women and babies, to the four winds, over the seven seas. Perhaps we will breathe their dust into our nostrils, feel them in the fog of New York on our faces, feel them in the rain on the hills of Easton.

Jubilate Deo. President Truman was jubilant. We have created. We have created destruction. We have created a new element, called Pluto. Nature had nothing to do with it.

“A cavern below Columbia was the bomb’s cradle,” born not that men might live, but that men might be killed. Brought into being in a cavern, and then tried in a desert place, in the midst of tempest and lightning, tried out, and then again on the eve of the Feast of the Transfiguration of our Lord Jesus Christ, on a far off island in the eastern hemisphere, tried out again, this “new weapon which conceivably might wipe out mankind, and perhaps the planet itself.”

“Dropped on a town, one bomb would be equivalent to a severe earthquake and would utterly destroy the place. A scientific brain trust has solved the problem of how to confine and release almost unlimited energy. It is impossible yet to measure its effects.”

“We have spent two billion on the greatest scientific gamble in history and won,” said President Truman jubilantly.

The papers list the scientists (the murderers) who are credited with perfecting this new weapon. One outstanding authority “who earlier had developed a powerful electrical bombardment machine called the cyclotron, was Professor O. E. Lawrence, a Nobel prize winner of the University of California. In the heat of the race to unlock the atom, he built the world’s most powerful atom smashing gun, a machine whose electrical projectiles carried charges equivalent to 25,000,000 volts. But such machines were found in the end to be unnecessary. The atom of Uranium-235 was smashed with surprising ease. Science discovered that not sledgehammer blows, but subtle taps from slow traveling neutrons managed more on a tuning technique were all that were needed to disintegrate the Uranium-235 atom.”

(Remember the tales we used to hear, that one note of a violin, if that note could be discovered, could collapse the Empire State Building. Remember too, that God’s voice was heard not in the great and strong wind, not in the earthquake, not in the fire, but “in the whistling of a gentle air.”)

Scientists, army officers, great universities (Notre Dame included), and captains of industry — all are given credit lines in the press for their work of preparing the bomb — and other bombs, the President assures us, are in production now.

Great Britain controls the supply of uranium ore, in Canada and Rhodesia. We are making the bombs. This new great force will be used for good, the scientists assured us. And then they wiped out a city of 318,000. This was good. The President was jubilant.

Today’s paper with its columns of description of the new era, the atomic era, which this colossal slaughter of the innocents has ushered in, is filled with stories covering every conceivable phase of the new discovery. Pictures of the towns and the industrial plants where the parts are made are spread across the pages. In the forefront of the town of Oak Ridge, Tennessee is a chapel, a large comfortable-looking chapel benignly settled beside the plant. And the scientists making the first tests in the desert prayed, one newspaper account said.

Yes, God is still in the picture. God is not mocked. Today, the day of this so great news, God made a madman dance and talk, who had not spoken for twenty years. God sent a typhoon to damage the carrier Hornet. God permitted a fog to obscure vision and a bomber crashed into the Empire State Building. God permits these things. We have to remember it. We are held in God’s hands, all of us, and President Truman too, and these scientists who have created death, but will use it for good. He, God, holds our life and our happiness, our sanity and our health; our lives are in His hands. He is our Creator. Creator.

And as I write, Pigsie, who works in Secaucus, New Jersey, feeding hogs, and cleaning out the excrement of the hogs, who comes in once a month to find beauty and surcease and glamour and glory in the drink of the Bowery, trying to drive the hell and the smell out of his nostrils and his life, sleeps on our doorstep, in this best and most advanced and progressive of all possible worlds. And as I write, our cat, Rainbow, slinks by with a shrill rat in her jaws, out of the kitchen closet here at Mott Street. Here in this greatest of cities which covered the cavern where this stupendous discovery was made, which institutes an era of unbelievable richness and power and glory for man ….

Everyone says, “I wonder what the Pope thinks of it?” How everyone turns to the Vatican for judgement, even though they do not seem to listen to the voice there! But our Lord Himself has already pronounced judgement on the atomic bomb. When James and John (John the beloved) wished to call down fire from heaven on their enemies, Jesus said:

“You know not of what spirit you are. The Son of Man came not to destroy souls but to save.” He said also, “What you do unto the least of these my brethren, you do unto me.”

OMMIGOD AND GODDESS! Was our nation really that bloodthirsty? Oh yes, well, then, I want to think, at least we don’t gloat anymore about our bloodlust victories. Oh yeah? What about “We came, we saw, he died” Hillary? What about the “Muslims” who have now been substituted for “Japs”? Have we learned anything about not creating enemies out of The Other?

Here we are on Easter Sunday, the day of supposed Resurrection from the dead by the Christ, the supposedly divine ending to another bloodlust ritual, weirdly enough, which we don’t recognize as such. Not really. As a Catholic, did I ever really notice that I opened my my mouth reverently every Sunday to receive the “the body and blood” of Christ at “Communion”? Did I recognize the ritual sacrifice enacted over and over again inside millions of brainwashed humans on a daily basis over the centuries.

Still heading down, I remember Paul Craig Roberts piece from yesterday,

Is the latest “ISIS attack” another false flag?

— and I think, well of course it was, especially given that Brussels was sandwiched between the recent lunar eclipse and Easter. Another ritual sacrifice needed to satisfy the bloodlust of the so-called satanic “illuminati.” Yuck.

But in any case, be that as it may, despite the insane ways that humans torque their biomimicry of nature’s regenerative capacity, spring IS here, spring HAS sprung, and puppy Shadow and I are feeling its burning desire to grow, expand, and explore.

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Oh wow! No chemtrails! Notice the blue sky. The way it used to be, before the chemical-laced haze took over.

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So, are chemtrail pilots given Easter Sunday off? Where they can enjoy Eastern Sunday dinner with their families, and make sure they steer clear of conversation about what they “do,” given the non-disclosure agreements they must have signed?

Let go, Ann. Back off. Stay here and now.


Oh wow, check out this near heart-shaped red stone!

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We share spring’s regenerative desire with this pair of geese, sailing along, serene, awaiting their unborn.

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On our way around the other side of the lake, turtles! Lots of them. One man counted, he said, 40 turtles, in turtle families, sunning themselves. Here’s one of the families, on the end of a nearly-submerged log.

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As traverse the final leg of this round-the-lake journey, I suddenly recall why I haven’t been back here since 2012! It’s because I broke my wrist when I tripped on a root on this same path.

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Clearly, the past does still reverberate, by making me, in this case, unconsciously avoid “repeating the same mistake.” That I unconsciously chose to walk the same path today, three and a half years later, shows its own kind of Resurrection. May this Easter Sunday, and may all our Sundays, indeed, may all our days all week long, be as forgiving and clarifying.




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