In 1957 I was fifteen. Eisenhower, a member of the Lost Generation, was President. He had recently agreed to defend Iran, Pakistan and Afghanistan against invasion. Nixon, a member of the Greatest Generation, was his Vice President. The Civil Rights movement was just beginning. Newspaper headlines revealed there was a Mad Bomber on the loose and the Ku Klux Klan was making big trouble, We were in the midst of the Cold War with daily reminders of the nuclear bomb threat. We practiced  drop drills.  People were building bomb shelters. Elvis was on every radio, which was, no doubt, why the Everly Brothers couldn't get little Susie to wake up and Buddy Holly was distraught because Peggy Sue had to get married. There were four stage-one smog alerts that year, which meant it was dangerous to breathe.

It is that time of year when there are big changes coming. Some things are replanting themselves without much fanfare. Some are spectacular -- and they may be where you least expect to find them. 

There is energy in every aspect of disintegration and rebirth. So much light reflected in this one seed about to be carried by the wind. We saw one of these artichoke seeds resting on the lawn before it took off on its journey. Tempted to place it where we wanted it to grow, we resisted. And yes, I mean we. There were three of us who could  have gotten up from our chairs and placed this amazing tiny explosion anywhere in the garden that was more convenient for  us. 

But being too happy where we sat, we let it be. And then suddenly it was gone. Where?

The daily mull generally deals in questions which do not have final, simple, definitive answers.

This time is almost an exception.

Some time ago, I posted a little essay on Grabel's Law (you can find it here) :

"Two is not equal to three, even for very large values of two."

The law, as most of you who find your way to this post will already know, is fairly famous on the internet and even on T-shirts and mugs.

At the time I wrote about it, I had no idea who Grabel was, or what the law's origin was, and I could find no evidence of either.

“Did you know you’ve got ants all over your kitchen?” Char was back, and had seated herself gingerly on the edge of the bathroom counter. “Do you have any bug spray?”

“Under the sink.”  Good, maybe she’d leave Kate alone if she could go kill something.

That woman was impossible.  Who else would even mention the ants, let alone offer to get out the bug spray. 

I see that Ken has the daily mull up and running again, with a few improvements. One of those improvements is a picture of the blogger, next to their post.

This presents a couple of problems where I'm concerned—and I'm going to need a little help from my readers.

The problems I spoke of are:

1. It's simply impossible to get a picture of me, in the conventional sense. My existence and nature just don't lend themselves to photography. You can't just take a snapshot of The Ground of All Being on a Sunday afternoon in the park.
2. And then, in this particular universe, on this particular planet, among certain organized religious groups, there's been a long-standing taboo against anyone creating an image of me.

I have mixed feelings about the second difficulty.

On one hand, I have a sort of theoretical agreement with the whole idea—the intention is definitely sound.