News from the Forge

Big Joy Thanksgiving

noreply@blogger.com (Stephen Silha) — Fri, 11 Dec 2009 07:20:00 +0000

The table, just before soup course

We celebrated Thanksgiving, my favorite holiday, again this year at Soundcliff (the house where Gordon and I live), as I have every year since I moved here in 1989. (Except the year that the house was under reconstruction, when we moved our ceremonies to James Broughton and Joel Singer’s house in Port Townsend, WA.)

As usual, we began at 1 p.m. and ended the Thanksgiving feast around 10 p.m. Before, during, and after the courses (everyone brought a course), people hiked, read poetry, asked questions.

Thanksgivers: Michael Hathaway, Chris Young, Shawn Boley, Whitney Kimball, Malcolm Dorn, Gordon/Belle, Orlando, Tom Pruiksma, David Mielke, Sequoia

Two poems were written for this occasion which I’d like to share. The first, our invocation, from Tom Pruiksma:

The Big Joy

for Stephen

I want

on this day

as they say

of thanksgiving

to give thanks

for love

and for joy

too little of either

in the world

that we’ve made

the world

that covers up

the world

but the joy

that we name

is not the joy

that we know

always

just beyond words

always beyond

what the eyes

can see

what a tongue

with practice

can say

like our friend

the little frog

outside the door

or perhaps

a little inside

the way we go out

or even

between walls

between worlds

his song

keeps our hearts singing

in spite of the new darkness

and descent

of the year

the fear

we won’t make it

this time

all fears

are really fears

of loving

and being loved

are fears

of getting the gift whole

no light

without darkness

and the terrors of seeing

no sight

without sunshine

in the eyes

listen

do you hear

what I say

no sorrow

without its own joy

say one

and the other is

even

in the saying

even

sailing out

from hearth

and from home

even

in the silence

before dawn

health demands more

than a little sorrow

or a little joy

a big sorrow

big enough

for big joy

big joy

a big joy

big enough for sorrow

the freedom

of the frog’s

lone song

and so

today

between past and

tomorrow

I give thanks

for the sorrow

that completes the big joy

the great sorrow

and great joy

beyond words

-- Thomas H. Pruiksma

11/26/2009

Orlando chats with Gordon and Michael as dishes are prepared

We had already had our first course, prepared by Whitney and Shawn, Michael and Stephen:

Bruscetta with avocado, sundried tomato, black bean garlic sauce

Guava chutney on pear slices

Salt and pepper almonds

Then:

Earth Root Harvest soup with roasted vegetables atop (David & Tom)

Green Tea Kombucha (Tom)

Jefferson County green salad with dressing, goodies & tomatoes (Malcolm)

Free Range turkey with golden dressing (Gordon/Belle)

Yams (Chris)

Brussels sprouts with bacon, cream and pine nuts (Malcolm)

Candied carrots (Shawn)

Gravy (Chris)

Guava chutney (Michael)

Water Kefir (Tom)

pumpkin pie (Whit)

marionberry pie (Whit)

pumpkin cake (Shawn)

lemon chiffon sparkling pudding (Michael)

After-dinner drinks (Gordon)

During the feast, some questions were put to the group:

· What do you remember about your childhood for which you are grateful?

· What’s your vision or dream for the future, and what are you going to do about it in the next year?

Friday's beach walk allowed us to mull over important questions with Puget Sound

On Friday morning, over Danish Ebelskivers, I read my Thanksgiving Poem:

Thanks and no thanks.

Thanks for aliveness that keeps us alive

Thanks for the ripeness that plumps us and pumps us

Thanks for the bounty of earth water fire

Thanks for the brotherhood burning inside us

Thanks for the questions that quest us inside

Thanks for the music that sings us

Thanks for the motions that speak when words don’t

Thanks for the food that sustains us

Thanks for the courage to go deep and wide

Thanks for the knowing to trust

Thanks for the fears we can carry inside

Thanks for the urges to thrust

Thanks for the wisdom that comes from together

Thanks for the palpable air

Thanks for the wealth of creation and loss

Thanks for the power to breathe

No thanks for the limits of kindness and patience

No thanks for the lack of good ears

No thanks for the eight years of Cheney and Bush

No thanks for the mongers of fear

No thanks for the shortness of days and of breath

No thanks for the corporate greed

No thanks for forgetting our gifts and our health

No thanks for blindness to need

No thanks for overpackaging

No thanks for undermining

No thanks for pollution

No thanks for silence on things that matter

Argentine spring

noreply@blogger.com (Stephen Silha) — Fri, 20 Nov 2009 21:54:00 +0000

Tango is in the air in Buenos Aires's Boca neighborhood--and everywhere. Boca is famous for beautiful colored buildings and futbol (soccer). We were surprised to find how full of slums it is, too.

My first visit to the Southern hemisphere was in 1997, just when I started to find winters in the Northwest depressingly dreary instead of excitingly gray. It was a November trip to New Zealand and Australia, where I delighted in spring-soaked attitudes, Maori and aboriginal culture, different constellations, great food and wine, and lengthening days.

On my first visit to Buenos Aires, I was fascinated by the Sunday market in the San Telmo neighborhood. This time, I stayed just around the corner.

This fall, I’m fortunate to be basking in spring weather and long days in Argentina. It’s my second time in this country of vast contrasts, proud traditions, and beautiful people. (The first time, five years ago, I was doing some intensive consulting for a project of the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation and had too little time to explore Argentina.)

I’m exploring with one of my favorite travel companions, Edward Guthmann, who until recently wrote about culture for the San Francisco Chronicle. We’ve visited Cuba, Turkey, and Italy together in recent years.

Edward and Alfredo Ferreyra. Alfredo invited us to his apartment -- the second "home" we'd been in on this trip. Travel's always better when you know locals.

My first time in Argentina, I was fortunate to meet Alfredo Ferreyra, a sophisticated travel agent who showed me around Buenos Aires. He arranged for us to explore Patagonia on this trip – “fin del mundo” : the end of the world… and the world’s only glacier that’s not receding, El Perito Moreno. Two very different parts of Patagonia. And then there's Buenos Aires, which is an astounding city. As Edward says, "Why did it take me so long to discover Argentina?"

Alfredo lives in the Recoleta neighborhood of Buenos Aires, which also has one of the most gorgeous cemeteries I've ever seen. This boy likes his foliage.

The most famous grave in the cemetery belongs to none other than Evita -- Eva Peron, the actress who was married to President Juan Peron and about whom a musical and movie were made.

After a week in Bue, as they call it, we headed south for two destinations in Patagonia.

Here are a few more photographic highlights of the trip so far (I'll add more later) …

Normally, I dislike touristy dinner-entertainment packages, but the tango show we saw at an ancient tango-house in our own neighborhood was spectacular. We tried it at the recommendation of Michelle Moore and Annie Nixon, two friends of my neice Sarah with whom we had had a scrumptious Moroccan dinner. The performance inspired us to take a tango lesson the next day!

One of the great joys of travel for me is meeting unexpected new friends. Both Edward and I enjoyed hanging out with Mark Lee from Sydney, Australia -- and when we visited the Uruguayan town of Colonia del Sacramento, we were delighted when he showed up at a restaurant where we were lunching.

After a great week in Buenos Aires, we flew to "the end of the world" -- the planet's southernmost city, Ushuaia -- a former penal colony which sits on the Beagle Channel, which I think is pictured above, if it's not the Strait of Magellan.

While in Ushuaia, we took a boat ride that went by some blue-eyed cormorants (above), sea lions, and penguins

Our boat stopped at a fishing vessel, where smiling fishermen handed us a centolla, or King Crab, which is a premier delicacy of the region.

At an astoundlingly beautiful Estancia,or ranch near El Calafate, we feasted on lamb, watched gauchos herd cattle and sheep, and saw a sheep shorn by hand.

A visit to El Calafate and the amazing Glacier National Park allowed us to have an up-close-and-personal look at one of South America's biggest glaciers, and the only one on the planet that's holding its own in size and not receding. Here, you can see a chunk falling off -- it's calving, as they say.

Family Milestones

noreply@blogger.com (Stephen Silha) — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 12:26:00 +0000

When Helen arrived in Seattle, we first had lunch at the Pike Place Market

When I look back on 2009, what will be the most important things?

Wow, it’s already been a jam-packed year. So much happening with Journalism That Matters, with the Big Joy Project, and with Youth-Adult Dialogues.

But I think our family milestones will be the key.

Gordon, Helen and I love to spend time together in Florida, in Minnesota, in Europe, and at Soundcliff (our house)

In 2009, Helen Silha, my amazing mother, celebrated a big decade birthday in May. She came to Seattle to visit Gordon and me, proclaiming that she wanted a quiet dinner with us to celebrate the occasion (rather than a big party my sister might throw for her in the Twin Cities).

Surprise! Alice Reimann (my sister) hugs Helen in a surprise appearance in our kitchen

Johnny Reimann, John Reimann, Helen Silha, David Reimann and Mark Silha about to munch on Salmon dinner at Soundcliff

We held the quiet salmon dinner – but surprised her with the whole family showing up. It happened exactly a year after a fatal accident nearly killed my nephew, David Silha Reimann, so we celebrated both Helen’s birthday and David’s astounding recovery.

David Silha Reimann and I prepare an Ebelskiver breakfast for the family

As if that weren’t enough to celebrate, we also marked a 50^th birthday for my brother Mark in July!

When Mark was born, my parents were told he probably wouldn't live past 18. We celebrate 50 and many more!

Mark loved the attention -- the cards, presents, and most of all the presence of good friends, old and new.

Mark and Gordon get down on the dance floor at Mark's great Soundcliff birthday party

Mark's cake -- a Gordonian bundt cake -- was marvelous!

Mark and I went to Camp Parkview for a week in August, and had a great time.

Mark and I hung out with 60 campers and 25 counselors at the beautiful Camp Burton land on Vashon

Dawn and Mark danced to the amazing inspired music of an Elvis impersonator

Master storyteller Merna Hecht transformed campers like Mark into gorgeous creatures

And now, this week, we celebrate the 25^th anniversary of the Silha Center for the Study of Media Ethics and Law, which my parents created in 1984 at the University of Minnesota, the day after Otto, my dad, retired from a career at the Minneapolis Star and Tribune Company. He was a Horatio Alger – he worked his way up from copy desk editor to CEO of the parent Cowles Media Company.

We commissioned this painting of Otto A. Silha and presented it to him at his 80th birthday celebration

And after he retired, Otto not only announced the creation of the Silha Center, he also created his consulting firm and worked on his futuristic City Innovation project until the day he died – September 11, 1999.

As a family, we are grateful to him, and to each other, on this and every day.

The road to Big Joy

noreply@blogger.com (Stephen Silha) — Mon, 13 Jul 2009 16:27:00 +0000

Center of literary and political activism for many years, City Lights Bookstore anchors the North Beach scene in San Francisco

A white-haired man skateboarding down the street.

A nun with full beard and hairy legs carrying groceries.

A skinny man with tight jeans, a protruding crotch, knee-high leather boots, a leather jacket and leather hat.

An older woman dressed to the nines walking her dog.

Welcome to San Francisco, the city James Broughton called his home. These sights are commonplace here. I’m on the second of three San Francisco Bay Area shoots planned for the film, Big Joy, a documentary about “following your own weird” using the life and work of James Broughton as a lens.

The Beat Museum is home to art, photos, and history of the Beat Movement; Ferlinghetti was its publisher and 'shopkeeper'

You can feel the West Coast fog and smell the sea that were so important to James. You can feel the creative spirit that still lives in places like City Lights Books, the first paperback bookstore in the U.S. (1953), where we interviewed poet and artist Lawrence Ferlinghetti this week. (I can remember his book of poems A Coney Island of the Mind opening whole chambers in my imagination to possibilities of expression when I was in junior high school. What an honor to interview him in his office at age 90!)

With Ferlinghetti in his office above City Lights Books, Charlie Chaplin silhouetted in the window

I’m so glad to be working with veteran film director Eric Slade, who produced an award-winning documentary about Harry Hay, the father of Gay liberation, called Hope Along the Wind. We interviewed Armistead Maupin, who spoke eloquently about James's poetry, which his partner Christopher read to him when they were courting.

Eric Slade (right) with Armistead Maupin and his partner Christopher Turner at their home in San Francisco after a great interview on Sunday

We started this odyssey last November, at James’s gravestone in Port Townsend, WA, where his epitaph reads, “Adventure Not Predicament.” Making a film is indeed an adventure for this print journalist.

We were thrilled to get an interview with George Kuchar, underground filmmaker who taught with James at the San Francisco Art Institute in the 1970s

James was the father of West Coast experimental film, having made his first film, “The Potted Psalm,” in 1946. After that, he made 23 films and published 23 books of poetry.

James Broughton is featured in a display on gay and lesbian writers at the San Francisco Public Library (click on photo to read)

I’m making this film -- and creating the Big Joy website -- for several reasons. For one, I loved James. I met him in 1990 at a Radical Faerie gathering, and we became friends and mutual mentors. For another, I thought he was a master of images – words, visuals, music – and nobody under 40, it seems, has ever heard of him.

Plus, there’s his message to filmmakers and poetic livers: “Follow your own weird.” He goes on to explain: “But this doesn’t mean that all you have to do is turn on the camera and express yourself. Just as talking has nothing to do with creating, self-expression has nothing to do with art. ‘Anything goes’ may be therapy but that is only prelude to the shaping of what has been unloosed. For a painter the frame defines the shape of an image. A filmmaker must work within the fixed rectangle of the camera eye. Ideally this limitation focuses his imagination.”

One of many iconic buildings in the North Beach neighborhood, where James once lived and published books and did readings with people like Anais Nin and Michael McClure

So, the film making adventure moves forward. I realize that as executive producer one of my main roles is to raise money – eek! Not one of my favorite things.

So I’m shamelessly asking my friends, family, and admirers of Broughton to dig into their wallets and imaginations to help make this film happen. I’m convinced it will make a difference.

(If you are interested, please e-mail me at ssilha@comcast.net .)

The Beat Museum in North Beach

Gay Pride and beyond

noreply@blogger.com (Stephen Silha) — Wed, 01 Jul 2009 14:59:00 +0000

Who ARE those masked superheroes on rollerblades?

I can't believe it's July already. Half of 2009 is over? Well, I've obviously been out creating a website and shooting a film instead of blogging. But summer's here and the time is right for gardening, filming, dreaming, scheming, and connecting with friends. I've marched in two gay pride parades in the past year, after 10 years of inactivity on the pride parade front. Both were astounding. Last September I marched with the Gay Island Gardeners in the first-ever gay pride parade on Salt Spring Island in British Columbia. And Sunday, I marched solo in Seattle's amazing Pride Parade. I was able to hitchhike and march with Rosehedge, the first AIDS hospice in Seattle, and be a beacon/sentry for the ACLU of Washington. The parade on Salt Spring Island was amazingly diverse -- lots of straight allies, a very joyous community feeling.

At the rally/concert after the Salt Spring Island Gay Pride Parade, everybody connected and many danced

Seattle's parade on Sunday was something else. Instead of a small community feel where everybody knew nearly everybody, it was a large community pageant. Tens of thousands of people. Many -- maybe half -- of the floats and contingents were corporate or commercial -- buy this or join that. Maybe that's why many people stayed away. At the same time, there were many longstanding traditions -- Seattle Men's Chorus, Dykes on Bikes, Bailey-Boushay House. And many political issues and candidates.

It was great to march in front of the ACLU, whose chant of "Be Yourself" went well with "Follow Your Own Weird"

Most amazing was the diversity of people: young, old, gay, straight, transgendered, multicolored. The media's power was on display as it's now obviously "cool" to be gay (in the wake of Will & Grace, Ellen, Queer Eye for the Straight Guy)... to display affection, to dance naked in the International Fountain, to show how affirming church congregations can be. And just when you think it's time to move beyond "gay pride" celebrations, you see rampant homophobia play out in schools, organizations, and communities. Yes, we've come a long way... and there's still lots of work to do.

OK, time to check out Big Joy.org!

Birthday Season

noreply@blogger.com (Stephen Silha) — Sat, 25 Apr 2009 15:49:00 +0000

Tulips and sidewalks and sun (in Pittsburgh) -- oh my!

This season (as always) is so busy there’s not even time or energy to blog!

Blossoms are popping everywhere and new energy and creativity are in the air, when I’m not exhausted or overwhelmed.

Salmonberry blossoms grace Vashon Island at this time

The demands of Journalism That Matters (I finally got to speak about it at the Green Festival at the end of March), taxes, house/garden maintenance, and ramping up the Big Joy Project have made it difficult to smell the apricot blossoms.

Soundcliff (our house) in spring -- it doesn't get much better!

It’s a good thing I celebrate the entire month of April as my birthday, because the actual day was a disappointment – conference calls all morning, and packing all afternoon. The only delight was a beach walk with Gordon and a fabulous dinner of barbequed lamb, fingerling potatoes, and mustard greens.

But the trip that came next was amazing, and I may have to do several blog entries to do it justice. I flew to Pittsburgh, where my friend Dr. Owen Cantor, a well known dentist and cultural maven, picked me up at the airport. He whisked me to a floating gay gathering known as G2H2 – gay guys’ happy hour – which happens at a different straight bar every month. Then we went to an amazing Turkish restaurant with live music. Pittsburgh is the friendliest big city I’ve been to in a long time; when no tables were available, a group invited us to join them! We had a great time, and by the end of the evening it seemed like we’d known each other for a long time. A woman belly-danced.

The Czechoslavakian room at the University of Pittsburgh's amazing Cathedral of Learning, which dominates the Oakland neighborhood

Just one of many great birthday celebrations -- thanks, Owen, for the amazing time in Pittsburgh. I loved so much about it – the weather, the music, the healing of an industrial city.

And now the celebrations go on – Gordon and I heard Leonard Cohen in concert Thursday night in Seattle, and in early May we’ll witness the Seattle Opera’s production of The Marriage of Figaro.

This is always a busy time – the Open Studio tour in early May, followed by the Youth-Adult Dialogue and Media That Matters at Hollyhock. Whew!

Birth mirth
Easter feaster
Devilish dervish
Gardening fiend
Open to the new sounds
The sounds of reconciliation

Moonrise, Moonset

noreply@blogger.com (Stephen Silha) — Sun, 15 Mar 2009 15:08:00 +0000

Amazing pitcher plants at Sarasota's Selby Gardens can catch and devour animals

Hourglass sand on Longboat beach
Slips through toes and memories
Heart pounds as waves burnish shells
And pound sand dollars into dimes

First love flutters when
Sounds of music and surf keep
‘Comin’ back to me’ ...

Florida’s not usually my favorite place, but I just had two great weeks there.

Howard Finberg and Ellyn Angelotti were our hosts and co-convenors at the Poynter Institute

The first week was the Journalism That Matters gathering at the Poynter Institute in St. Petersburg. It was extraordinary in that 85 people from all kinds of media (print, broadcast, online) and educators, authors and activists showed up and participated in a lively inquiry on journalism in the new news ecology.

Mark, Gordon, Helen and her good friend Jackie took a break from looking at Gordon's amazing bells

Then, Gordon and brother Mark flew in and we had a great week with my mother, Helen, at her condo on Longboat Key. The weather couldn’t have been better.

We even got to see my cousin Alice Deck and her husband Jerry -- traveling in their extraordinary mobile home-away-from-home

I was reminded of visiting that same beach as a kid, when the white sand was even whiter and it was easier to find sand dollars on the beach. I recall walking that beach when I was first in love, feeling more alive than I thought possible. Seeing sunsets through palm trees unlike any I’d seen before.

This time, I got to see the full moon rise from Helen’s condo on the east side of the key, and then saw it set while jogging on the beach the next morning. We all got a little sunburned, the kind that itches and feels good.

Mark and I had a ball swimming in the Gulf of Mexico on Longboat Key

It reminds me how important it is to spend time in nature every day, and how important it is to take breaks from our usual routines.

And despite some dismal economic news, I feel more hopeful about the future of journalism and the future of the U.S. given current leadership. It’s ironic, though, how complex new stories are emerging (not just in Washington) and mainstream media still for the most part don’t get it. They continue to try to polarize, oversimplify, and cover everything like a horserace. It’s a good thing there’s a new ecosystem of news.

The censored invocation

noreply@blogger.com (Stephen Silha) — Tue, 20 Jan 2009 16:00:00 +0000

Before coffee this morning, the almost ex-President hosted the new one! Photo from CNN.

Today is the first day since the Iraq War started in 2003 that I am wearing no black. It's a great day in America. Even Karl Rove says so, now that he's a Fox News commentator. We're watching Fox on TV and Democracy Now online. It's a good balance.

Some say they're shocked that Bush didn't pardon Scooter Libby or Ted Stevens... yet. Here, since it was omitted by NPR, HBO, and others who broadcast Sunday's inaugural kickoff concert and event, is the invocation delivered by Bishop Gene Robinson, the openly gay Episcopal bishop.

Bishop Robinson at the Lincoln Memorial. Photo from USA Today.

Opening Inaugural Event
Lincoln Memorial, Washington, DC
January 18, 2009
Delivered by the Right Reverend V. Gene Robinson:

"Welcome to Washington! The fun is about to begin, but first, please join me in pausing for a moment, to ask God's blessing upon our nation and our next president.

O God of our many understandings, we pray that you will:

Bless us with tears -- for a world in which over a billion people exist on less than a dollar a day, where young women from many lands are beaten and raped for wanting an education, and thousands die daily from malnutrition, malaria, and AIDS.
Bless us with anger -- at discrimination, at home and abroad, against refugees and immigrants, women, people of color, gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender people.
Bless us with discomfort -- at the easy, simplistic "answers" we've preferred to hear from our politicians, instead of the truth, about ourselves and the world, which we need to face if we are going to rise to the challenges of the future.
Bless us with patience -- and the knowledge that none of what ails us will be "fixed" anytime soon, and the understanding that our new president is a human being, not a messiah.
Bless us with humility -- open to understanding that our own needs must always be balanced with those of the world.
Bless us with freedom from mere tolerance -- replacing it with a genuine respect and warm embrace of our differences, and an understanding that in our diversity, we are stronger.
Bless us with compassion and generosity -- remembering that every religion's God judges us by the way we care for the most vulnerable in the human community, whether across town or across the world.

And God, we give you thanks for your child Barack, as he assumes the office of President of the United States.

Give him wisdom beyond his years, and inspire him with Lincoln's reconciling leadership style, President Kennedy's ability to enlist our best efforts, and Dr. King's dream of a nation for ALL the people.

Give him a quiet heart, for our Ship of State needs a steady, calm captain in these times.

Give him stirring words, for we will need to be inspired and motivated to make the personal and common sacrifices necessary to facing the challenges ahead. Make him color-blind, reminding him of his own words that under his leadership, there will be neither red nor blue states, but the United States.

Help him remember his own oppression as a minority, drawing on that experience of discrimination, that he might seek to change the lives of those who are still its victims.

Give him the strength to find family time and privacy, and help him remember that even though he is president, a father only gets one shot at his daughters' childhoods. And please, God, keep him safe. We know we ask too much of our presidents, and we're asking FAR too much of this one. We know the risk he and his wife are taking for all of us, and we implore you, O good and great God, to keep him safe.

Hold him in the palm of your hand -- that he might do the work we have called him to do, that he might find joy in this impossible calling, and that in the end, he might lead us as a nation to a place of integrity, prosperity and peace.

AMEN."

New Years Evolution

noreply@blogger.com (Stephen Silha) — Tue, 20 Jan 2009 12:11:00 +0000

Poetry stenciled on the window at the Lewis & Clark Interpretive Center on the Long Beach Peninsula

Forget what I might resolve
It's more prescient to evolve
What's giving me labor pains? What's rotting my fetid brain?
Look -- look out over the sea
Fierce blanket of blue-green fudge
Roiling tides of question marks
Thick crashing expletives
Do a downward dog --
Look between your legs
Say goodbye to lies and hate
Leave them back in '008
Say hello to mystery
Open lines of conversation
Ask questions of the moon ...

I'm standing with Malcolm Dorn as my scarf whips in the chilly wind on Long Beach

Indeed, it helps to go to the sea when things seem murky. The constant crashing, the negative ions, the tidal motions – the inside’s out. You move through different states of consciousness more easily. Perfect for this particular new year, which feels in many ways like the beginning of the 21st Century.

Clearly, the 20th Century was amazing – incredible inventions, horrible wars, great art, horrible and wonderful movies, astounding progress in civil rights in many places. It was the century of exponential growth. And that, in 20/20 hindsight, didn’t work. The Club of Rome was right. There ARE limits to growth, and other things. The planet is showing us now with its pains and strains, its new extremes. Unchecked greed kills (thanks, Cheney et al).

So now, where? Fortunately, we have a new leader who does not have all the answers. He sees the complexity of it all, and welcomes everyone’s ideas. And the Internet provides a way (albeit imperfect) for us to have more global conversations.

Parker Lindner's beautiful new house in Ocean Park sits beside the 12 x 14-foot beach cabin where she escaped for 20 years

Seven of us danced in the new year with 10 dozen oysters, champagne, and a beautiful new house to christen at Ocean Park on Washington’s Long Beach Peninsula.

The oysters from Oysterville -- just of few of the many we shucked and sucked

We enjoyed group-facilitated yoga, stories by the fire, 8-handed massage, and underwear fashion shows. Four of us made timelines of our lives, through 2040 (we’re still working on parts of those).

Inaugurating Parker and Ann's new house with New Year's Dancing: Gordon, Malcolm, Parker, Collin, Tuti (from Hawaii)

We walked back in time at the amazing village of Oysterville (where we actually bought 12 dozen oysters and two oyster knives). In the church there, Malcolm played the piano and we waited for someone to light the gas lights. (Nobody did, so we enjoyed the dark.)

The Fresnel lens which used to send beacon 20 miles out to sea from Cape Disappointment has been replaced by a weaker, electronic light.

Gordon and I stopped by the Lewis & Clark Interpretive Center, where they ended their expedition with a wet, wet winter and Maia Lin has created some stops on the Confluence Project.

In fact, our time on the coast was also wet and windy, but that didn’t keep us from beach walks, beach runs, and amazing times together. What a great way to enter this new time.

We left a snowy scene at home, but by the time we returned it was gone. Happy New Era!

A gift from the heart: The golden keychain

noreply@blogger.com (Stephen Silha) — Mon, 22 Dec 2008 22:28:00 +0000

With Ilka in Salzburg, Austria, in 1983 (Photo by Robert Huber)

“The key is in the light at the window.” It was engraved on the back of a golden pocket watch that had been made into a keychain.

This is the gift I most cherish. An idea that keeps me sane in times of insanity.

The real gift was the friend who gave it to me, Ilka Chwatal -- a surprising figure in my life, a woman who loved aphorisms and spouted poetry without thinking. (She died in a kitchen fire in 2001.)

When I went to live in Vienna, Austria for a year working with the United Nations, a friend of a friend wrote a letter of introduction to her sister-in-law, Ilka. I called Ilka when I got there, and she immediately invited me for a tour of the city. She and her husband Peter drove me around, then invited me to their house, a modest apartment in the working-class 20th district.

I felt instantly at home. We became family. Ilka and Peter took me under their wing, introduced me to Austrian culture and cooking (Ilka made a mean Cordon Bleu – a Wiener Schnitzel stuffed with ham and cheese), took me on trips around Austria, Germany and Czechoslavakia.

When friends visited Vienna, Ilka always rolled out the red carpet and treated them like they were friends of the family.

My family also adopted her and Peter. When they visited the U.S., they stayed with members of our extended family across the country. I drove them once from Minneapolis to Seattle on a memorable trip that included the Corn Palace in Mitchell, S.D., rainbows in the Black Hills, Mt. Rushmore and Geronimo, Western museums in Cody, Wyoming (“a thousand Winchesters!”), geysers, elk and buffalo at Yellowstone, and even the squalor of the Spokane Indian Reservation. When they saw the open expanse of I-90 sprawling as far as the eye could see, they gasped, in German, “Oh, what a huge street!” They loved Vashon.

The last time I saw Ilka was in northern Italy in 2000. Her husband Peter has visited recently

They taught me to love opera, which I’d always shrugged over before living in Vienna. Their favorite opera, Beethoven’s Fidelio, they’d seen scores of times.

After Ilka died, I invited Peter to the Seattle Opera production of Fidelio. We cried together as we wished Ilka were there. And then I saw the light. It’s in the window of my heart. “The key is in the light at the window.” I knew she was there.

(A version of this article appeared in the Vashon Island Beachcomber, December 2008.)

Open Studio time..

noreply@blogger.com (Stephen Silha) — Mon, 15 Dec 2008 05:21:00 +0000

Gordon's distinctive signs let people know this isn't just ANY old art studio

It’s a big deal around Soundcliff (our place) when the GRB Bells studio – which literally holds down the fort in our “garden level” – opens its doors and its larder to the public. This happens the first two weekends in May, and the first two weekends in December.

We spend a lot of time preparing the house, the garden, the bells and ourselves for the opening. And people usually appreciate the beauty and majesty of this place where we call home. Gordon has been making small jewelry-scale bells for 27 years, and casts them in silver, bronze and gold. I get to polish the more than 200 designs!

Gordon in his bell studio in the lower level of our house

This year of course we were worried about the economy and how it would impact bell sales. They weren’t as brisk as some years, but actually we were pleased (and so were some other artists we spoke with who were on the Vashon Island Art Studio Tour ).

The entrance to Gordon's studio on Sunday December 14, after a fairyland snow the night before

People were amazed to see the new This Is It bell, which isn’t yet in production but which has all 16 lines of James Broughton’s poem on it:

This is It
and I am It
and You are It
and so is That
and He is It
and She is It
and It is It
and That is That

O it is This
and it is Thus
and it is Them
and it is Us
and it is Now
and Here It is
and Here We are
so This is It

People fell in love with bells, and some people fell in love with this part of the Island, which has such spectacular views of Mount Tahoma (Rainier).

The Forge (my writing cottage, left) and Soundcliff in the snow; lots of people walk in because parking is limited

Despite being under the weather, Gordon was an expansive and gracious host. He put out an amazing spread including mulled cider, juices, coffee, scones, brownies, nuts, fruits, vegetables, chips and dip, truffles, cheese and crackers. On the second Saturday night, the Open Studio morphed into an Open House and a number of our friends joined us for a holiday party.

So yes, the season is in full flower, and the snow only made it more so!

The yurts under the walnut tree at Fiddle Home Farm, where Emily and Shane make and sell beeswax candles and Ukrainian painted eggs

The We to Be

noreply@blogger.com (Stephen Silha) — Tue, 02 Dec 2008 17:03:00 +0000

The kitchen resounds with creative anticipation as Doug Gosling puts finishing touches on the Mother Garden salad

Thanksgiving continues to be my favorite holiday, because it’s about gratitude and blessings, toasts and being with family and/or those you love most.

Our gathering at Soundcliff this year was slow, sweet, and amazingly delicious.

Our theme: The We To Be. Living the Future.

Our tradition includes a wonderful meal with courses brought by different guests, punctuated by poetry, beach walks, stories, and circles.

We had 11 for our repast, which began at 12:30 and went deep into the night.

Our first course included a quince paste with fromage blanc, lamb liver mouse, and goat cheese bruschetta with sun-dried tomatoes and roasted garlic.

Christopher Young chops rosemary while Whit Kimball shucks garlic as the meal takes shape, slowly and synergetically

Our soup was a mushroom delight – chantrelles and cauliflower mushrooms which Malcolm had foraged – in a light salmon broth. Local heaven.

The salad, from the Mother Garden at the Occidental Arts and Ecology Center, was a true work of art, complete with crostini and leek butter, baby carrots, beets, various kales, arugula, lettuces, tatsoi, rose petals, flowers from the Soundcliff garden, and dressed with a pineapple guava dressing. Doug Gosling always outdoes himself!

Gordon’s roasted brined turkey, cooked simply without stuffing, many said was the best they’d ever had. It was augmented by Christopher’s oven roasted vegetables and Mama Stamberg’s cranberry relish made and served with relish by Sequoia. Malcolm made rich gravy, and Michael Hathaway’s Brussels sprouts were so rich as to taste like foie gras (see recipe below).

Neil Robertson’s desserts, as always, were more than just. Having just won the prize for best restaurant dessert by Seattle Magazine for his chocolate upon chocolate special at Canlis, he decided to go “traditional” for Thanksgiving. That meant a deep dish apple pie that would have your mother’s mouth watering for weeks, a classic pumpkin pie with bourbon-whipped cream, and a pecan pie made with espresso and a hint of chocolate.

As part of our future theme, we celebrated the election of Obama in many ways. And the kickoff of the Big Joy Project, a celebration of James Broughton which includes a documentary which I'm producing. In honor of that, Michael Hathaway recited a poem he wrote for James at Eastertime, 1993:

SAP SONG

While admiring a white-and-cerise
blossoming Crabapple

for James Broughton

Here we are again, oh yes!, hear hear!
Oh Desirous! Oh God!
Oh light Love and oh bright Beauty!
Oh look where we are heading:
Oh yes, for Life again!
Be sweetly dazed and slightly dazzled:
Breeze me and sneeze me,
Waft me and small me,
Touch me and tell me: my petals, my bliss:
Don’t you just adore my special effects?!

Sprinkle picnics around me,
Weddings and prayers and trysts!
All hopes that rise,
and all fulfillments, all delights!

Doing our meticulous anabolizing work,
Transceiving the sun’s intents,
(which thus give form to ours),
We can only be Love Made Visible
again, now, so freshly, Oh Yes!!
And again, now, so freshly, Oh Yes!!

(more coming)

Michael Hathaway and Doug Gosling help prepare the traditional day-after-Thanksgiving evelskiver breakfast

It doesn't get much better than sunrise at Soundcliff!

Joy in the here is my chief engineer

noreply@blogger.com (Stephen Silha) — Thu, 20 Nov 2008 21:26:00 +0000

Poet and filmmaker James Broughton wrote a memoir of his first 65 or so years, Coming Unbuttoned. Now I'm working on the Big Joy Project, which will be a website and a film about his life and times, and the whole idea of living Big Joy.

Malcolm Dorn and Lee and Ann Katzenbach helped me kick off the project at James's gravesite in Port Townsend, where James lived the last 10 of his 85 years and became known to many as "poet laureate" of the sleepy mill town which once saw itself becoming the Seattle of the Northwest.

Malcolm reads from Broughton's "Packing Up for Paradise" as dog Chester Wallydoodle crouches in excitement and we sip champagne

Rocky Friedman, owner of the Rose Theatre, is also helping me with the project. He found the amazing filmmaker Ian Hinkle, who jumped in right away and filmed our opening ceremony.

Ian Hinkle films Malcolm Dorn lighting candles at James Broughton's gravesite

I'm so grateful for all the support I'm getting for the project so far. (Don't worry, I'll be making a pitch for funding soon.)

It's a new dawn, a new day, time to give thanks

"Adventure, Not Predicament" is the epitaph on James Broughton's phallic stone marker. And, this poem:

In the arms of lover I
lie in eternity
clutching the secret of holy excess

Joy in the here is
my chief engineer
over and unto and once upon Yes

Joy in the here is
the nature of nature
touching the habit of daily caress

in the arms of lover I
leap in eternity
over and unto and once again Yes

Angels and Ancestors

noreply@blogger.com (Stephen Silha) — Mon, 10 Nov 2008 16:43:00 +0000

Ten years ago I gave James Broughton this orchid for his 85th birthday. His life partner Joel Singer left it in our care; it hasn't stopped blooming

The Angels of Our Keeping

They are the keepers of our company
keeping us in touch keeping us in tune
They keep us widely awake to wonder
They are the keepers of our rash felicities

They keep love from growing decrepit
keep our limbs from going rickety
keep our hotblood from thinning out
They believe in the triumphs of the flesh

However beloved one day you may find
my parts scattered like those of Orpheus
my body dismembered by vexatious maenads
or literal-minded literati

Do not weep when you hold my shards
Put me back together one more time
as you have done many times before
and play my heartstrings in memory of our music

Even in my ashes even in my tomb
I shall be reconstituted by your love
thanks to our keepers who have kept us
metamorphosing in the marvelous

-- James Broughton

The yogic gardener Steven Shaun peers from behind James Broughton's gravestone at the cemetery in Port Townsend, WA, where he lived his last 10 years; if you click on the image you can read another poem, The Gardener of Eden

Today is James Broughton's birthday. He would have been 95.

For those who don't know, James Broughton (1913-1999) was a pioneer of experimental filmmaking, a central player in California’s creative beat scene, a bard of sensuality and spirituality, a preacher of Big Joy. (He called himself Big Joy in the last part of his life.)

Broughton was a poet in the tradition of Rumi, Hafiz, William Blake, Walt Whitman, and other ecstatic, Divine Trickster poets who trick, tempt, tease and seduce us into a direct, playful, and wondrous relationship with life, God, nature, and each other.

I was fortunate to have known James for the last 10 of his 85 years. And today, in Port Townsend, I'm formally kicking off The Big Joy Project, which will include a website, and film, and a biography of James. More to come on this, but if anyone feels moved to make a contribution to the project, it can be done through the White Crane Institute.

James and I 'mentored' each other: he asked for help with prose, I for help with poetry

Holding President Obama...

noreply@blogger.com (Stephen Silha) — Wed, 05 Nov 2008 13:31:00 +0000

President-Elect Barack Obama has set a high bar for himself, and for the country.

We need it. We deserve it.

Though it may be simplistic, this video outlines many reasons why Obama was elected.

Our story needs to shift – from greed to compassion, from conflict to cooperation, from me to we. And we’re shifting it. But it won’t be easy.

It’s our turn now.

We need to hold Obama to his promises, yes. But as Van Jones has so eloquently stated, we also need to hold him.

He’s only human. As his grandmother’s death on the eve of his election reminded us, life is as fragile as it is miraculous and strong.

I must say McCain's concession speech was classy: "Tonight — tonight, more than any night, I hold in my heart nothing but love for this country and for all its citizens, whether they supported me or Sen. Obama — whether they supported me or Sen. Obama.

"I wish Godspeed to the man who was my former opponent and will be my president. And I call on all Americans, as I have often in this campaign, to not despair of our present difficulties, but to believe, always, in the promise and greatness of America, because nothing is inevitable here."

We need to start living our new story. Whatever small steps we can take. It’s time.

Autumn scenes

noreply@blogger.com (Stephen Silha) — Wed, 22 Oct 2008 02:03:00 +0000

Sunrise at Rivercliff, looking over the St. Croix River at Minnesota on the other side. Forget the computer!

Two maples on the main drag in Osceola, Wisconsin

Brother Mark and Mother Helen and I spent a wonderful weekend at Rivercliff, Helen's house on the St. Croix River

Mark and I took a walk in the woods. It rained, so we called Helen on the cell and sang, "Singing in the Rain"

Maple leaves along the forest floor sang the reds, not the blues

The St. Croix River 40 years ago was declared a "Wild River" /"Scenic River"... you can no longer build within view of the river

And the very best news from Minnesota -- my nephew David is healing FAST and BEAUTIFULLY from his auto accident

Is there life after high school?

noreply@blogger.com (Stephen Silha) — Mon, 13 Oct 2008 03:16:00 +0000

Mary Carlson and I do an American Gothic harvest pose during a deadline break in the high school newspaper office, circa 1968

I guess there is, if my 40th high school reunion is any indication.

But there’s also death, and decay, and regeneration.

I was one of my high school’s storytellers, as editor of the high school newspaper. I don’t feel capable of telling the story now of all that’s happened to my 750 classmates. But the reunion sparked some great memories, rekindled a few friendships, and pointed up some black holes.

The former Edina High School is now an elementary school and administration building

I loved preparing by re-reading a number of the articles from the Edina High School Buzzette (yes, our team was the Hornets), paging through my yearbook, the Whigrean (yes, our colors were white and green), listening to music from 1968 (what’s the quintessential song – “Sargent Pepper,” “Mrs. Robinson,” “For What It’s Worth,” or “Get Together”?), and encouraging friends who I hadn’t seen for decades to join me at the reunion. (A few actually did.)

A number of my classmates – many still live in the Twin Cities area – organized the reunion, using a website and e-mails to round up as many as they could. About 160 people showed up, including spouses, to the Minnikahda Club, where we dined on pheasant mcnuggets (that’s what they called them!), paella, pizza, salmon, turkey sandwiches, and fancy salads. We lined up for photos – first the whole class, then those who had attended either of the two junior high schools and then those who went to the six elementary schools. I was struck by how many of us lived in Edina (known as the wealthy “cake-eating” suburb of Minneapolis) for our whole childhood.

Mary Carlson didn't come to the reunion, but the scrapbook she made in 1968 about our Buzzette adventures provided great laughs and memories

Our high school principal, Rollie Ring, was to have been present to sign copies of a book he’s written about his years at the school. But his son Roger, a classmate, said he didn’t feel well enough to join us. We were the last of his relatively tame classes – while we fought to abolish the dress code which required girls to wear skirts and allowed nobody to wear blue jeans, it wasn’t abolished until the following year. A couple years later, when my brother David was on the Buzzette staff, a student strike protested the Vietnam War.

Twin Cities musician Steve Sandberg joined Inga Quillama for some jolly moments at the 40th Edina High School reunion for the Class of 1968

A surprising number of people flew in from around the country. John – a lawyer-turned-yoga-instructor – was there from New Hampshire. Inga – an artist/nurse who was a stalwart member of our newspaper staff – came from California. Jody, my best female friend from high school, came from Berkeley with her husband Rich, who commented, “I think I’m the only person of color here!” whereupon I said, “you’re right -- and it seems I’m the only out gay person. Welcome to Edina. The only black person in our school was the African exchange student. But we did have a visit from the Harlem Globetrotters.”

And in fact, a number of us started a group called Come Open Your Eyes (COYE), the purpose of which was to educate ourselves and our community about African-American history and cultural issues. After the race riots of 1967 in Minneapolis, we went to visit black leaders in North Minneapolis, and asked, “What can we do to help?” They told us: “Go back to Edina, and educate your community.” So we did. We read and discussed Before the Mayflower and the Kerner Commission Report and other sources – and petitioned the school board to teach big missing pieces of American history (black, Native American, etc.). We canvassed and surveyed both students and parents about their attitudes (“How would you feel if your son or daughter dated a black person? If a Negro family moved in next door?”). We sponsored lectures by black cultural experts at our churches.

Fellow COYE and Tarantula Club members Anne Sivright and Jody Parsons joined me at the reunion; all of us came from out of town

Not many people were talking about this at the reunion. Much of it was meet-and-greet, catching up on where people lived and what they did. I was pleased, and somewhat surprised, that there were a large number of Obama supporters, mixed in with some McCain Republicans and many who were just fed up with the political process altogether. Eyes rolled about the economy.

A surprising number of our classmates have died – lost to cancer, accidents, AIDS, suicides, and other afflictions.

But others are doing amazing and interesting work – special education teachers, dancers, consultants helping to reinvent government, a priest working in Hispanic communities, conscious TV producers, nurses and storytellers. We danced to music from the 60’s – a lot of which surprisingly is still popular with today’s younger folk.

Some people agreed to stay in closer touch. Those teen connections are deep, but they don’t always translate into closeness after decades. Reunions can be fun; they can also remind you why you left.

Camping it up

noreply@blogger.com (Stephen Silha) — Wed, 10 Sep 2008 17:40:00 +0000

Evening canoeing on Puget Sound is one of my favorite parts of camp

Take a week away from worry
Worry for another’s scurry
Winging along crooked paths
Eating junk food, taking baths …

Try Camp Parkview
Sing a song
Pull a paddle
Right a wrong

Last month, my brother Mark and Gordon and I went to summer camp.

It wasn’t just any camp. It was a camp for adults with disabilities, celebrating its 25th year at the Baptist-owned Camp Burton grounds here on Vashon Island.

Every morning camp co-founder Nancy Trenbeth led the group in exploring what community means

For many years now, since the mid-1980’s, Mark and I have enjoyed being together in a cabin with other campers and counselors and doing all the things you do at summer camp – arts and crafts (tie-dyed shopping bags!), archery (Mark got 4 bullseyes!), canoeing, swimming, and telling ghost stories.

Gordon and Carl Fox try on being a pig and a dog, thanks to Jennifer Burris's hats

Since Gordon came into my life, he’s joined us and has become one of the most popular counselors at the camp.

Annie (left) brought her good friend Maryann, who livened up this year's camp

What I love about Camp Parkview is taking a week away from my reality and getting into the rhythms of nature with a group of special people (aged 18 – 60something) for whom loving and eating are their primary foci. For many of them, camp is the highlight of their year.

Steve Jarvis always says "I want to go home." We imagine at his group home, he says, "I want to go to camp."

We danced a lot. In fact, the canoeing sessions often turned into dance-a-thons with campers rocking out on the beach.

Dancing to a live surf band at Grisham Hall is a favorite for many campers (and counselors)

My favorite moment is when we’re out in canoes with campers enjoying the smells of the water, reflecting on the day, hearing birds and belches after dinner.

Storyteller Merna Hecht brought the "Theater of the Beautiful Faces" to this year's camp. Chelsea helps hold the curtain.

It’s also fun to work with a truly intergenerational group of counselors (we had a great ratio this year – in our cabin, 4 counselors and 6 campers), many of whom spend their vacations volunteering at camp even though they work with special-needs populations all year long.

Anthony warms up for the Star Spangled Banner

The talent show on the last night is often a kick. This year, it started with longtime camper David DiJulio singing the Star Spangled Banner, while Anthony, in an American flag shirt, waved and danced around the stage. Mark played Jim Morrison of The Doors. He did a rollicking version of “Light My Fire,” with backup dancers Gordon (rubbing sticks together), Jennifer (lighting a match), camp co-founder John Holliday (flicking a Bic), and myself (lighting a longer lighting torch) singing along.

Mark Silha practices his best Jim Morrison imitation on the deck at Soundcliff

Camp, indeed!

Stairway to ... ?

noreply@blogger.com (Stephen Silha) — Wed, 27 Aug 2008 16:08:00 +0000

Climb with me to the stars... aloft to the loft... where dreams coalesce...

It’s so important to think about where we need to go, and how best to get there.

For about a year, since the Forge (my writing cottage) was completed, we’ve needed a good way to get to the sleeping loft, the “treehouse” level, where a memory-foam mattress provides one of the best sleeping places in these parts.

Gordon has designed most of the Forge building itself, so he’s been thinking about this cosmic elevator for a long time. Built-in wall steps? A notched log? Fold-out stairs? A ladder? Ah…

The ladder stores elegantly against the wall, so the door to the mudroom can open

Our friend Hans Nelsen, a renowned woodworker and artist, saw Gordon’s drawings of a possible ladder, and made it real. Now there’s an easy ascent to the sleeping / napping / dreaming level.

A nap in the middle of writing? Why not?

The ladder bows in and out, and gives your climbing feet a sound massage with its cherry rungs, as your hands cling to its Douglas fir rails. It’s sleek, comfortable, graceful.

Even when not in use, it invites elevated thoughts...

Javier Sanchez, visiting from Mexico, was the first to use it to sleep in the loft.

And now the Forge feels more complete, even though there are a few more details to finish. So … no excuses not to write!

Thanks to coaching from my friend Ruth Ozeki, I’ve embarked on a daily discipline which will help me ascend beyond my own fears and into the realms of better sense-making and communication. No phone or e-mail in the morning! Instead, forging words, ideas, images.

Luminaria

noreply@blogger.com (Stephen Silha) — Mon, 18 Aug 2008 17:25:00 +0000

A spontaneous parade moves through -- becomes -- the crowd at Victoria's Luminara Festival

Summer’s going too fast – I can’t believe they’re closing the Vashon swimming pool early because there’s not enough evening light, starting today. But there are other ways to bring light to our world. (Last night’s rare Northwest heat lightning show was one impressive manifestation.)

Amazing what can happen when a community pulls together its creative sparks

While traveling through Victoria, B.C. on our way to a wonderful summer gathering at Hollyhock Retreat Center, Gordon and I happened upon the city’s annual Luminara Festival.

Light drummers add visual beats to a pulsing summer night

Wow, it’s like Halloween in midsummer!

A light bear searches for light salmon...and finds them

There were gremlins and robots and Bucky Balls (soccer balls made as geodesic spheres) and drummers, fairy princesses and bears and wishing walls and fire dancers.

Reflect on this: What dragons are you facing, and how well are you facing them?

Families and performances, Magic Lanterns and spontaneous parades. It reminded me of the importance of ritual, creative expression, and humor in our daily lives.

You never know who's going to show up when you call a summer luminaria party!

The power of prayer

noreply@blogger.com (Stephen Silha) — Wed, 16 Jul 2008 06:31:00 +0000

What a year for foxgloves! The wonders of nature inspire confidence in miracles

I’m convinced that prayer is a most powerful force for healing, dealing, and figuring things out.

This has been most evident recently in my nephew David Silha Reimann’s ongoing recovery from the “terrorist accident” he was in over Memorial Day weekend. He’s astounding the doctors as he body heals quickly – though maybe not as quickly as he would want. The prayers and good wishes have helped speed his miraculous healing.

Yesterday he went home for the first time to celebrate the birthday of his sister Sarah, his best friend and often “scribe” on the wonderful Caring Bridge website, keeping us updated on his daily progress.

Having grown up in (and still being a student of) Christian Science, I recall Mary Baker Eddy’s definition of prayer as the constant desire for growth in grace, expressed in patience, meekness, and good deeds.

Grace. Something David is experiencing, as I am, too.

Many thanks to all who have prayed for and thought about David. In all ways, all traditions. I know it’s helping.

Terrors

noreply@blogger.com (Stephen Silha) — Sat, 31 May 2008 17:23:00 +0000

There's gold at the end of the rainbow (this from our deck), but the process of finding it can be chilling

My nephew was in a terrorist auto accident Saturday night, and he's been in a coma since then. (I call it a terrorist accident because he was driving at night on a small country road in Wisconsin when a pickup truck suddenly rounded the curve in his lane and ran into him. Terror. The driver of the pickup died.) I’m on my way to Minneapolis right now to be with him and my family.

On Wednesday, one of our “godsons” came by, to help cut some limbs off trees to better sculpt our garden and let more light in ... I went out with Josiah to the edge of our cliff, where a tree holding a cliff together is about to topple to the beach ... I asked him to cut the dead main tree so that the child could survive and continue to hold the cliff.

At the edge of the cliff was a ledge, and on the ledge was an alder tree, intertwined with the oldest-growth Indian Plum either of us had ever seen. And bound around with blackberry vines. And blackberry canes. And jungley growth.

He walked out on the gnarly tree. He cut the berry vines and honored the Indian Plum. He was suspended 55 feet above the beach. He was balancing on the Indian plum vines. His body had no hesitation. He was up to the task.

He took the chainsaw from me, and carried it out as he balanced on the horizontal "plank" of the tree so he could cut off the dead larger trunk and lighten the load for the roots.

He navigated the light, bouncy, woody stems of the Indian Plum as they wove making love around the plank of the alder tree. It seemed he -- and the tree -- were constantly one degree away from being 55 feet below, on the rocky beach. I was in awe of Josiah. He was Angel Boy / Earth Boy / Logger Boy. He was sawing up from under the nearly horizontal tree, first. His saw bound. "God-dammit!" he said from the edge of the precipice. There was smoke. He tried to vibrate it out. The whole diving board seemed to shake. He edged it out. I prayed.

As he started to cut from the top, "CRACK" -- "SHOT" -- the roots seemed to shake and a shot rang out that sounded like a gun. The tree plunged to the beach.

When he got back to solid ground, we hugged. My nephew had just been in a horrible accident, and I couldn't imagine another.

Now our cliff will likely stay intact for years longer, as a result of Josiah's arborial prowess.

**
As often, I'm out on the edge of the cliff.

Media That Matters

noreply@blogger.com (Stephen Silha) — Mon, 12 May 2008 23:49:00 +0000

Bill Weaver plans the Media That Matters gathering from the edge of his property on Desolation Sound on the east shore of Cortes Island

One of my favorite weeks each year (for the last 7 years) is this mid-May time, when spring is breaking and chartreuse leaves pop out in the middle of dark green Northwest forests. What makes it amazing for me is the opportunity to go to Cortes Island in British Columbia, Canada – to help facilitate a workshop called Media That Matters.

Media That Matters was created by a brilliant documentary maker, Bill Weaver (a Southern boy who did a stint in TV news in Portland, OR before becoming Canadian). Bill wanted to get media makers away from the “flickering screens” that become our lives and into the woods on one of the most beautiful places on the planet – to learn, work, dream, and play together.

Media That Matters is an invitational retreat which attracts journalists, filmmakers, web designers, novelists, academics, community organizers, and new media mavens. It’s always different, depending on who shows up. And depending on how open we all are to the astounding beauty of this place. The silences are even moreso (than Vashon Island or other places I’ve been). The birdsong (killdeer, wren, robin, oystercatcher, etc.) echoes across the water. Waves lap gently. Oyster beds abound. And the invitation to go inside and pay attention to inner voices resounds.

So this morning, my friend John Holliday drove me to the north end of Lake Washington, where I got on a floatplane and watched the water-dominated landscape of Seattle disappear as we made our way up past Whidbey Island and Port Townsend (paper mill pumping), past the San Juan Islands, across the Strait of Juan de Fuca and over Victoria, past the Gulf Islands to Nanaimo .

After a quick customs check (“do you have a work permit?” “no”), we flew over the Strait of Georgia, over many islands, BC ferry boats, forests, clearings, and limestone mines, to Cortes, where the Hollyhock Retreat Center is our Media That Matters home.

It’s always hard to get away from my routine, but when I do, I realize how important this is. I always have new insights here. I so look forward to this week. Deep breath.

New News Ecology

noreply@blogger.com (Stephen Silha) — Tue, 06 May 2008 21:33:00 +0000

We mapped how a story gets written, edited, and distributed in the 'old' model 20th-century newsroom

I haven’t blogged about it much, but for me, this is the Season of the Journalism Conference.

I just returned from my first of three: Journalism That Matters: NewsTools 2008. It was a great gathering of nearly 200 journalists, technologists, educators, activists and bloggers – held at the Yahoo! Corporate headquarters in California’s Silicon Valley. (What a time to be at Yahoo!)

We kicked it off in URL’s Café (get it? Eat at URL’s!) – with a skit about old journalism (an intrepid newspaperman) encountering new, technology laden journalism (a Twittering young idealist). In order to create a common language between the “old” newsroom, and the 21st century “news ecology,” we prepared a map that drew out the roles and the values values (both tangible and intangible) involved in the process of getting a story out to an audience in the 20th Century.

Then we began to map the roles that might exist in the future. The experiment worked. While not everybody agreed about the new map -- in fact we began to identify lots of new roles that are developing – we had a great three-day “mashup” in which lots of new ideas were hatched, and lots of important connections were made between fascinating and diverse folks.

Next week, I’m off to Media That Matters at Hollyhock Retreat Center on Cortes Island in British Columbia, Canada – one of the true beauty spots on the planet. We’ll be exploring “Art, Story and Social Change.”

Then, on June 4-6, we’ll be at the University of Minnesota for another Journalism That Matters gathering called “A Passion for Place: New Pamphleteers/New Reporters: Convening Entrepreneurs Who Combine Journalism, Democracy, Place and Blogs.”

Hopefully, we're creating a new news ecology where truth, fairness, verification, and watchdog journalism can survive and thrive, even as new voices emerge as important storytellers in this turbulent time.

The emerging ecology takes the old roles of editor, reporter, and audience and converts them to sense-maker, beat blogger, and community.

Spring morning

noreply@blogger.com (Stephen Silha) — Wed, 23 Apr 2008 04:48:00 +0000

The deck to the Forge, looking out at a beautiful banner made by my friend Ti/Cat

Most of these posts come from the Forge – my writing cottage just steps from the house. That’s why this blog is called “Notes from the Forge.” It’s a place where ideas, words, images, and inspiration forge together into things of beauty (or that’s the goal!)… This morning, these lines came out:

To counter the blues
I turn on the news --
Some folks have it much worse than I
Why turn to vermouth
When you can get truth
All covered with soundbits and lies?

The Forge's tiny desk works for journals, paper, laptop... and it wheels to the deck outside, the window view, or a blank white wall

Doggerel? Well, maybe, but that reminds me 'caterel'-- of our cat, Gertie Girl, who passed on last September. I miss her. I keep thinking I see her out of the corner of my eye. She provided a grounding for most of the time I’ve lived in this house – 18 years now.

Gertie Girl, who with her brother, Bert (aka Betty) Boy, watched over Soundcliff for nearly 18 years -- even during a remodel that demolished most of the house

The house looks pretty darn good on a spring morning like this, especially after we’ve had multiple instances of SNOW the past four days! (None of it stuck, but it’s been damn cold.) The clear blue sky only lasted a few hours, then clouds rolled in, and by afternoon it was raining that misty northwest rain that sometimes goes on for days.

April is the cruelest month? This year, it’s been pretty cruel, weather-wise. But there’s always another morning -- a sun salutation on the deck, coffee and meditation in the Forge, a chance, on some level, to start over.

It doesn't get much better than Soundcliff on a spring morning-- Happy Earth Day!