Olives are being harvested in the fields outside my town these days. We have been having the first rains of the season. The roads are wet and muddy, and the trees are partially shrouded in mist. The fields are spread with black plastic nets, and people are hard at work, the men hitting the trees to make the olives fall, and the women picking up the olives from the nets. The harvest will continue throughout the winter.
The olive press is busy. Cars and trucks come and go, unloading heavy bags filled with olives. These days the bags are white, made of sturdy woven plastic. In Crete this fall several of us bought canvas olive bags, hand-woven by women. These, along with baskets hand-woven by men, were still in use only a few decades ago.
olive harvest in Lesbos early 20th century by Theofilos Hajimichael
A friend who died a few years ago told me that “in the old days” there were no nets. The women and the children had to pick the olives up from the ground, often cutting their hands on thorns and stones. The nets are a Goddess-send. Between harvests, the nets are simply folded up and placed in the crotch of the tree. Here no one steals them.
In the fields where I walk some of the trees have enormous trunks. Some of them have two trunks, growing like sisters. Many of them are 300, some perhaps 500, years old. A man emerges from a field that has some particularly old trees. I ask him how old they are. “Older than I am,” he replies. “They were here before I was born. They will be here after I die.” Continue reading “Legacy of Carol P. Christ: SACRED RHYTHMS OF THE OLIVE HARVEST”
It’s been over a week now since I first heard the news on MPR that four people had been shot in their homes near a golf course in Brooklyn Park where my son once lived. My first thought was that I was glad my son was no longer living there. A little while later I learned that this was not a random act of violence, but rather political violence targeting two Minnesota lawmakers and their spouses. Gradually the details came in. The lawmakers were Democratic lawmakers, former Speaker of the House Melissa Hortman and State Senator John Hoffman and their spouses. And then came the tragic news that Hortman and her husband had been killed. As I drove to pick up a friend to attend the “No Kings” protest downtown, I listened to the news reports of warnings not to attend the protests out of an abundance of caution, with the shooter still at large, as well as the voices of protest leaders saying the tragic events of the morning only strengthened their resolve. In the first few moments of the protest, we observed a moment of silence for Hortman and her husband, and for the recovery of Hoffman and his wife. The entire rally felt like a strange mix of grief and rebellious revelry.
As the identification and eventual arrest of the suspected shooter became known, the tragic events took on an even more ominous tone. The suspect, Vance Boelter, is a far-right Christian nationalist extremist who had preached against abortion and gay rights. He was schooled in his religious beliefs at the Christ for Nations Institute in Dallas, Texas[i] and was aligned with a charismatic Christian movement whose leaders, in the words of The Atlantic columnist Stephanie McCrummen, “speak of spiritual warfare, an army of God, and demon-possessed politicians.”[ii]
I have had a weird relationship with my stomach or core BEFORE birth.
My back has been hurting since giving birth.
I’ve carried fragments of my birth story like heirlooms, passed down in murmurs from my mother and family. They say she went into labor at home, a warm plate of food in her hands, My aunt Akami recalls she refused to leave for the hospital until every bite was finished.
I came into the world under sudden urgency— an emergency C-section, my first act a quiet rebellion: I had soiled the waters before taking my first breath.
My mother remembers it in a haze, “I was pregnant, went to sleep… when I woke up, there was a baby in the corner.”
I do not know if every detail is true, but the outline fits— the origin of a loneliness that has followed me like a shadow that never unhooks from the heel.
#nokings#nokingsday Many actions took place in Southern California. I participated in one which was so unusual and historic I want to share it with you all on FAR.
My wife and I and friends stood and protested in Seal Beach, CA and then drove through 1000s and 1000sof people lining both sides of Pacific Coast Highway for 30 miles from Seal Beach to Dana Point. I was up through the moon roof screaming “NO KINGS!” for hours!
Mahmoud Khalil, one of the first people arrested under the administration’s ICE raids. He was targeted because of his outspoken views on Palestinian rights. He is a legal green card holder and was never charged with a crime. Nevertheless the administrations flew him to a holding cell in Louisiana (from NY) in a particularly cruel move that prevented him from being present at the birth of his first child. Even after the baby was born, the government tried to put up roadblocks for his family to visit him and for him to touch his newborn son. He has now been freed by court order but US government is still trying to deport him. He has vowed that he will not be quiet and has already been seen at protests. He is a profile in courage.
Kilmar Albrego Garcia is another case entirely. The eyes of the government have turned his way and now that this has happened, they are doubling down on their cruelty. Just think for a moment of what it is for the government which the power of law enforcement, the powers of detainment to focus their sights on one person. He was originally deported to El Salvador in March. After the government ignored court orders for months he was finally brought back to the US to face federal charges. It is likely this was a face-saving move on the part of the government so they could say, “see he’s a bad guy who deserves this, look at these horrible criminal charges.”
We tend to imagine soul loss as something rare and dramatic, or reserved for those with deep trauma. But in shamanic paradigms across cultures, soul loss is a normal part of being human. The concept refers to moments when a vital piece of our essence disconnects, often as a survival mechanism. In psychology this is called dissociation. This can happen through shock, illness, relational rupture or subtle decisions we make to fit in, stay safe or succeed. A piece of us leaves in order to preserve the rest.
[Image credits: Detail from Anderson Debernardi’s painting “Iniciacion Shamanica”, seen at Exhibition Visions Chamaniques. Arts de l’Ayahuasca en Amazonie Péruvienne, Musée du Quai Branly, 2024. Photo by Eline Kieft.]
Initially I wrote this article for publication at a plant site but was forcibly struck by the reality that what we are doing to plants is exactly the same thing we are doing to humans, women in particular. Separating, Othering, Judging, Dismissing, Eradicating. I could go on here. When you read this article about invasives think about how we are being treated as women. It alarms me that no matter I turn I see the same story played out with humans (women and children suffer most overall), trees, plants, and the animals we are so busy annihilating if not physically then in some other monstrous way. Fill in the blank with your own story. Then imagine yourself as a bird with wings who carries the seeds of new life into unexpected places.
When I first moved to this area many years ago, I used to spend most of the time in the forests that surrounded my house except in the spring. Then I walked along what used to be a country road to see the wild trilliums, arbutus, lady slippers, bunch berry, violets and columbine that peppered the road edges.
All the trees and flowers were so plentiful and so beautiful that it took me a few years to pay closer attention to the bushes like the various pussy willows and wild cherries, beaked hazelnut, witch hazel and hobblebush that I also came to love.
Is care the beginning of ethics? Has traditional western ethical thinking been wrong to insist that in order to reason ethically, we must divorce reason from emotion, passion, and feeling?
In Ecofeminist Philosophy, Karen Warren criticizes traditional ethical thinking–advocating a “care-sensitive” approach to ethics. Traditional ethics, as Warren says, are based on the notion of the individual rights of rational moral subjects. Like so much else in western philosophy traditional ethics are rooted in the classical dualisms that separate mind from body, reason from emotion and passion, and male from female. In addition to being based in dualism, western philosophy focuses on the rational individual, imagining “him” to be separable from relationships with others. Western ethics concerns itself with the “rights” of “rational” “individuals” as they come into relationship or conflict with the “rights” of other “rational” “indiviudals.”
There is so much going on in our current state of affairs, that I found myself reaching for some sort of touchstone, centering agent, even some sort of calming force. As a scholar, as someone drawn to the humanities, I knew the path forward had to include our histories. This post will look at three examples of extraordinary women during WWII and beyond: the 6888th Unit, the women of Bletchley Park, and Julie Moore.
All three were introduced to me through popular culture, storytelling, and our dedication to preserving whole histories. At a time where we are seeing an active attack on our histories, humanities, arts, and our education systems it is even more vital that we continue to tell the stories, remember their names, and continue to walk the paths they have forged.