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I’m not sure why we called it a blanket, it was a rug. An enormous, once-beautiful piece of hand woven Native American textile. Although faded and stained by the time I came along, my grandmother’s blanket had once been rich with the red and white and black zigzags of the Diné weavers. It was folded three times and laid over the back of the seat in my grandfather’s old beat up ‘56’ Chevy truck. Its primary job was to mitigate the insult done to human backs by a particularly vicious spring poking through the seat, just at about kidney level. My grandmother’s blanket was heavy. I was at least nine before I could carry it by myself. By then it had suffered countless insults. It had been thrown in the dirt to lie on for field repairs on the truck, and got tossed down in the slop to put tire chains on. It had served as our picnic table for the noonday repast on innumerable wood gathering expeditions, and had been used as both a drag and a wrap for game. It made for a makeshift tent for my dad and me one deer season when we got caught out in a nasty early season snowstorm. I was seven or so at the time, and got cold and whiny, so Dad draped the blanket over the droopy branches of a big old juniper tree. We crawled up underneath and carefully tended a sputtering, smoky little fire until I was rested and warm and my feet were dry.

Grandma would fuss about the blanket sometimes, saying Grandpa ought to throw the filthy thing away. He’d drag it out of the truck, and spread it out on their driveway. He had to do it while Grandma was out playing bridge on Tuesday afternoon because it took up their whole driveway and Grandma parking her brand-new Cadillac in the street was not to be imagined. Grandpa would go after the blanket with the hose and a scrub brush and some powdered laundry soap until it was as clean as it ever got, if more frayed and faded with each resurrection.

Grandpa’s old truck meant adventure when I was a kid. We’d load it up and go camping or hunting or wood gathering, or shooting at the cinder pit, or just drive around in the woods. Dad and Grandpa assured me we were not just driving around for driving’s sake on those occasions, but that we were scouting. It didn’t matter if we saw the game or wood we were looking for, it was a good excuse to get out into the unique splendor that is nature in Northern Arizona.

When I was little, Grandpa let me sit on his lap and steer while he worked the pedals and stick shift. It was a big day when my legs got long enough to push the clutch clear to the floor because then I got to start learning to drive for real. I tore the oil pan out of it when I was about thirteen. Parked it on a pile of rocks going around a corner too fast out by Maverick Butte. No field repair was about to fix that one, even if we did have grandma’s nice, thick blanket to throw in the rocks to lie down on. We walked out and hitchhiked home.

Grandpa’s ‘56’ had been bright green once, but that was a distant memory by the time I started driving. The starter button was on the floor, so having three feet would have been useful to get it started, and it had a wooden bed that I got a million splinters from as the official loader and stacker of firewood. It had ugly but serviceable side boards so that, what with my expert jigsaw puzzle skills, we could come home with a full cord of wood.

The ’56’ wasn’t pretty, but it was a workhorse in my family for generations, passing to my dad after Grandpa died. It finally retired while I was in high school. Dad traded it in for a brand-new, bright red, Ford half ton, the first four-wheel drive in our family. I don’t remember what became of my grandmother’s blanket.

Dad was absolutely sure that four-wheel drive could walk on the water. He buried it to the frame in sticky, slimy Northern Arizona mud before it was even light on opening day of elk season that fall. We walked out and hitchhiked home that day, too.

When I spotted a faded blue ‘56’ Chevy truck with rotted tires and a million splinters in the bed on the used car lot in Flagstaff a few years back, the warm, wonderful memories of a thousand childhood adventures came flooding back to me. With misty eyes and swelling heart, I bottomed out my bank account and brought it home on a trailer. It started right up and, aside from some lifter noise, ran steady and strong. I was naively confident that with some new tires and a tune up and it would be the perfect funky, old, auto parts delivery truck for my funky, old Route 66 auto parts shop.

It was an emotional decision, not a rational one.

My ‘56’ Chevy still starts strong, and consistently runs long enough to get me where I’m going before it breaks down and abandons me to hitchhike home.

I didn’t have a clue, on that misty-eyed day, about restoring vintage vehicles. I understand much better now that it is not an enterprise for the faint of heart. Aside from my oil pan incident at Maverick Butte, Grandpa’s ‘56’ always got us home. This one, however, is an entirely different story; I call it the vampire truck because it sucks my bank account dry every chance it gets. It requires a least one new part practically every time you turn the key, and we’re not talking belts and hoses. It wants the expensive stuff like clutches and radiators and ball joints. It really does need an engine overhaul too, and that’s before that incredibly spendy body and paint business.

I was blessed in so many ways growing up in Northern Arizona in the arms of the loving family I did. My family was no stranger to strong women. I had many heroines to look up to, my Grandma especially among them. She was a smart, forward-thinking, independent woman. She wasn’t a crawl-up-in-her-lap-bake-you-cookies kind of grandma; she was more an engraved-invitation-play-the-stock-market-cocktail-ring kind of grandma. Grandma was a capable, strong-minded businesswoman long before it was fashionable, much less accepted, and although many of her contemporary businessmen looked at her askance, few ever underestimated her more than once.

Grandma married her first husband, Ott Morrow, in Flagstaff in 1935. She bought and sold real estate, and he was a County Supervisor in addition to running Morrow Motors which was one of the first automobile dealerships in Northern Arizona. Morrow Motors was located at the corner of South Milton Road and Humphreys, where Flagstaff City Hall sits now.

December 7, 1941 the United States entered World War II, this profoundly changed the world Grandma and Ott lived in. Ott and the young men who worked at the dealership all went away to war, and Grandma stepped up to keep the business going while they were gone. Rosie the Riveter had nothing on my grandma. She would pump gas at the service island just as readily as she’d take out a mortgage on their house to buy an inventory of next year’s models. I-17 wasn’t even a twinkle in an engineer’s eye then, and Grandma had many harrowing tales of driving new vehicles for the lot up from Phoenix through Oak Creek Canyon or Page Springs in the kind of nasty weather that can only be encountered in Northern Arizona.

Grandma was always proud of, and grateful for, the large Native American clientele at the dealership. They were extremely good customers because even those solid GM trucks didn’t last long working as hard as they do out on the rez, and Grandma loved the rich diversity of the cultural fabric of Northern Arizona. Grandma had an amazing collection of Native American art. She had kachina dolls, pottery, baskets, jewelry, beadwork and, of course, textiles. She’d take the artwork in trade for payments from her Native American customers at the dealership. It was probably because she had so much of it that she was comfortable giving Grandpa that once-magnificent blanket for his pickup truck when the spring came poking through the seat.

The men came home from war in 1945 and life went back to normal for Grandma and Ott. She went back to real estate and Ott went back to his dealership and his politicking. Ott died in 1956 and Grandma sold the business. She bought a brand-new Cadillac on her way out.

Grandma met my Grandpa, who would become her second husband, that same year. Ott and Grandpa’s first wife were buried near to each other at Flagstaff Citizen’s Cemetery and Grandpa, gentleman that he was, offered to tend the grass on her cemetery plot while he was in the vicinity caring for his own dead. They were married in 1959 and lived happily ever after.

Grandma donated most of her collection of Native American art collection to local museums sometime in the early 80’s, said she had grown tired of dusting the blankety-blank things.

On your next Route 66 sojourn, you owe it to yourself to take the 53-mile detour north from Flagstaff on 180 to the Cameron Trading Post, Their Navajo Tacos are one of the most delightful culinary experiences you’ll ever wrap your lips around. They’re served on that exquisite fry bread that’s somehow crunchy and chewy at once and which, to the best of my knowledge, has never been adequately duplicated off the rez (except at Pow Wow).

Trading Posts are all about one-stop shopping and Cameron is no exception. There’s a motel, restaurant, gas station, and small grocery in addition to the trading post itself. They have a large selection of authentic, quality jewelry, pottery, baskets, beadwork, kachina dolls, and, of course, textiles. Notice if you will, while you’re there, the prices the large rugs (blankets) are fetching in the textile room.

Against all odds, I find myself in the automotive business on Route 66, just like my grandma. A Navajo Taco run to Cameron is one of my favorite Sunday afternoon excursions, but I get melancholy every time I go, thinking about my grandmother’s blanket. We used to throw it in the mud without a second thought, even though it was a piece of art and history in its own right. I could have fully restored the vampire truck with the worth now of that blanket.

And if you should happen to pass a bright blue ‘56’Chevy truck broken down on the side of the road on your way back from Cameron, please stop and give me a ride, I’m hitchhiking home, yet again.

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I have long been interested in the histories and personal stories that inanimate objects carry with them (see The Moose Hat in From Spark to Fire). What, of the people who owned them, rubs off on these hand-me-downs as they travel from person to person, generation to generation?

Al and I are going to take a summer vacation for a few weeks from our labor of love. We’ll be back at the July Full Moon, and wish you all the best of summer until then. May you have long conversations on the porch with interesting people, much romping with the dogs, and all the barbeque you can handle.

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photograph by Eric Eliason	Contact this photographer through MoonLit Press

Some images are through Creative Commons License and we would thank all of those creators if we could find their names.

Terryl is grateful to have been born into a family that was loving in all living generations on her father’s side. Her mother’s family was different entirely, but her father’s people adored her and taught her and were treasures in her life.

Terryl is always grateful to the Life in Pieces writing circle, who read an early draft of this, and especially to Nancy Brehm for absolving many of this article’s previous sins. Any remaining warts are Terryl’s alone.

This piece initially appeared in the Fall 2008 edition (Volume 15/Number 4) of Route 66 magazine and is republished here with permission and MoonLit Press’s gratitude.

Terryl is always grateful to to AL, without whom nobody but her would ever read this stuff.

AL and Terryl are both very grateful to the people who read our work. You are what makes it worthwhile.

I knew my neighbors lived in a very different world than I did from the day they moved in across the street from me. I was working out in the wood yard as the trucks pulled up and welcomed them with a wave. Annie came over with a bottle of wine that very morning to ask that I not split wood when her husband was home. With a nudge and conspiratorial wink, she said she didn’t want him to be aware that women could, or would, do that kind of work.

I fell in love immediately with their son Jake, who was a precocious, curious eight-year-old with bright red hair. Developing a tolerance for Allen, the arrogant father, took more diligence. He was a macho shithead, but eventually put decent effort into being civilized around me because he wanted to rent space in my barn for his shadetree mechanic operation. The rest of the family were Arnold, a large pet pig, and Skippy, a tortoise about the size of a half-grapefruit.

Pigs are as intelligent and social as dogs are. Arnold was the first I’d known and he was delightful. He used a litter box and loved treats and scratches behind the ear. He and Jake would come over for frequent visits I enjoyed immensely.

Allen was a hunter, so the carcass I saw hanging in the barn six months or so later wasn’t the first. Allen was working at the bench as I went out to sort the recycling in my remaining corner of the barn. I grew up in a hunting family and conversationally asked after the season. I didn’t know of any tags issued in the dead of winter.

“Oh, there’s no season right now. That’s Arnold. Annie wants to know if you want to come over for a pork roast dinner tonight.”

My mouth turned to sawdust I gagged on.

“Oh, no, thanks . . .” I stammered and stumbled, stunned, “I, uh. . I, uh, I have a paper due tomorrow and I, . . . have to study tonight.”

“Oh, okay. You want me to bring you a plate or some leftovers?”

“No, n-n-no thank you. I . . . need to finish some beef stew that’s getting dated.”

I had been taking care of their pets when they were away from the start. Pet, now, singular. I had adored Arnold and was enchanted with Skippy. Skippy was downstream of the dinosaurs, a surviving remnant of the once-powerful reptilian race. Skippy’s people, having survived the catastrophe they did, took a long view of things. She knew how to tuck it in, be still, and wait it out. She wasn’t overly burdened with brainpower, but I found her charming. She lived in a cat carrier about a foot by two feet that was kept none too clean. I made Skippy’s little prison as clean and comfortable as possible on my watch, but she dearly loved to get out of it. I would take her outside to let her play in the dirt when it was warm enough, which she enjoyed immensely.

Skippy came to my family the day Annie called to ask if I’d like to come over that evening for turtle soup. I ran across the street as fast as I could. I didn’t bother with the cat carrier, I stuffed Skippy in my jacket pocket, and brought her home.

My roommate’s dog, Chaco, was even more enchanted with Skippy than I was. He sat in front of her terrarium, smitten. We moved it downstairs so he could whine his rapture for her somewhere other than my bedroom all night. He was always very tender with Skippy, taking her gently in his mouth. But taking her with nonetheless if he could. Most often we found her in Chaco’s bed, but he buried her in the garden twice. Scared the bejeebers out of my roommate and I, but Skippy loved it. Chaco would graciously show us where he’d buried the treasure, and we’d find Skippy, happily dirty, digging out.

I built Skippy increasingly larger and more elaborate terrariums over the years, but she preferred a sunny corner in my office to any of them. She liked leafy greens and, if I chopped them fine enough, carrots. She’d get in the dog food if she got a chance at it. Her melons she preferred cut in half. She loved to wallow in them.

Skippy’s people are long-lived and I was committed for the duration with her. I had spoken with my niece about carrying on after me, but even with a nice terrarium and an obliging dog to bury you in the garden every once in a while, ninety years in the box is a long time. I felt mean-spirited and greedy for sentencing her to it and in the end, found a tortoise sanctuary for her down in the desert. I surrendered her to a place where she could live outside in her beloved dirt, and maybe even find a boyfriend to make some little Skippys with.

It was enough for Skippy just to be, and in that regard, she was an incredibly powerful and liberating Buddha for me to be in the presence of. Skippy could be still in a way that was alien and fascinating to me. Stillness is not in my nature. When Skippy wasn’t ready to come inside, she’d tuck it in, hunker down, and become a rock. She could vanish against her background completely.

Skippy’s superpower was the ability to wait it out. It didn’t bother her that my cats liked to play field hockey with her on the hardwood floor. She’s poke her head and legs out when they inevitably tired of their game, and amble on in her slow, methodical way in search of a sunny corner or an overlooked morsel of kibble.

It suited my frenetic nature that I was raised to be my work. Waking stillness was laziness in my Protestant work ethic family. I was taught that what I did mattered more than who I was. That I was the sum of my accomplishments. I was a frenzied workaholic. Skippy taught me that the panic, and the crisis that caused it, will likely pass if you just tuck it in and wait it out.

Even old and broken down as I am now, my frantic drive sometimes still exhausts me. When it does, I go out into the woods and sit down in the company of a rock about the size of a half-grapefruit and channel my inner Skippy. We sit together and just be, and it is enough. I am enough. The agitated, insufferable do-gooder who is so driven to avert the suicidal catastrophe my species seems bent on committing inevitably returns. But for those few minutes I’m in communion with my Skippyrock, I don’t have to save the world, I can just be in it. I can take the long view, tuck in, and hunker down. Wait it out. Maybe get dirty. And for those few peaceful minutes it doesn’t matter how much money I made or what my grades were or if the corners met perfectly in my quilt. The political insanity of my species doesn’t torture me and I don’t feel like Henny Penny shouting and flapping that the sky is falling. What momentary respite I get from it is courtesy of a tiny little dinosaur, about the size of a half-grapefruit.

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Not all the best teachers in life are to be found in human educational institutions. You can learn a lot from a little tortoise, about the size of a half-grapefruit.

Buddha, although he would be elevated to the status of religious avatar by the cultures he influenced, was neither god nor prophet. He was a teacher. A powerful guru. Buddhism is a nontheistic religion (not to be confused with atheism). Atheism states that there is no god (See Me and My Shepherd). Buddha recognized that hell is here and he imparts to the faithful how to let go of the things they’re clinging to that are making them miserable in this lifetime. Buddha, like Skippy, teaches how to find peace and stillness in life’s crazy clanging busy-ness. These powerful gurus show us how to be human beings rather than human doings.

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Some images are through Creative Commons License and we would thank all of those creators if we could find their names.

Terryl is grateful most of all to Skippy. She was a wonderful friend, and hard to let go of. She was one of Terryl’s great teachers. Skippy would be about 30 now, and it is hoped that she has a happy life and a bunch of little Skippys to carry on her educational legacy.

Terryl is always grateful to the Life in Pieces writing circle, who read an early draft of this, and of course, to AL, without whom nobody but me would ever read this stuff.

AL and Terryl are both very grateful, always, to the people who read our work. You are what makes it worthwhile.

“My goal in life,” I crowed, “is for it to be okay if I’m reincarnated as any of the animals I encounter during this lifetime, including those I rely on for food.” I bragged to my book club about the fifteen-dollar-a-pound hamburger I served at our monthly potluck (fifteen-dollar-a-pound hamburger before Covid cut our money in half). “His name was Meatball, and I bought him before he was born. A lady out in Parks raised him for me. He was wildly expensive, but eating with a clear conscience has been worth every penny. Meatball had a wonderful—if short—life, gamboling in green pastures and eating grass as Mother Nature intended him to. He never knew antibiotics, pain, hormones, or a harsh word. He got to sleep in a clean, safe place at night and died a quick, merciful death.”

For emphasis, I showed off what I call ‘The Taj’ to my book club friends—my over-the-top chicken yard. The one with all the luxuries including safe, overhead chicken wire, warm, snug nesting boxes, heat in the winter, plenty of room to run, and toys.

But methinks I protest too much. There are darker chapters lurking in my past I am trying to make Karmic amends for.

About the only thing I didn’t like about my summer job backpacking for the Forest Circus as a young’un was the food. Oh, I started off happily enough at the start of each summer, like the rest of my crew, with dehydrated turkey tetrazzini and oatmeal with dried milk. We had to carry 20 pounds of surveying and marking equipment for work, so our camping gear was necessarily as skinny as we could possibly make it. We cut the tags off of tea bags and took the cardboard out of the toilet paper. But by the time we’d been at it for a month or so, we were hauling fresh tomatoes and cantaloupe and summer sausages out there with us for our work week. Marking the boundaries around future timber sales was back-breaking work in the rugged beauty of the back of beyond. We gloried in it, and we suffered for it. Sure, you expect your feet to blister, but your shoulders? Around your hip belt? We were busting ass at high altitude and I, like everyone else on the timber crew, was starving for real food. For protein. I bitched about it so much that my crew pitched in and bought me an Amazing Popiel Pocket Fisherman® as a gift.

The following week I ditched the summer sausage and spent the weight on a lightweight aluminum frying pan, a plastic film canister of shortening, a small jar of bait, the diminutive fishing pole, and a spatula. I was scheduled to be working by myself at Carnero Creek, and by the time I’d walked a full day to get there, my mouth was watering for fresh fish.

Although I had never before so much as wet a hook, I caught a little kokanee salmon that first night in camp with my third cast. It was only about as long as my hand, but he went for that creepy neon orange bait as I had been assured he would. He was too little to keep, obviously, but he was also slippery and extremely agitated. Like anyone would be if they had a vicious hook in their mouth like that. I tried to gently pick him up and get the hook out, but he wiggled out of my grasp and, tethered, thrashed in the dirt and rocks on the bank until I could get him again. I tried a firmer grip.

That half hour is one of the worst of my life. It certainly was the most gruesome. I tore that poor little fish apart trying to get that effing hook out of his mouth. By the time I did, I was in tears and he was way dead. It was not a quick, merciful death.

I ate every bite. All four of them. I may as well have been eating sawdust. I felt like I was going to throw up every time I swallowed and by the time I finished my meal I’d cried so much I was dehydrated. I took a long drink from the cold, clear stream and threw the rest of the neon orange bait in. The fish could have it.

By the end of that week I was gaunt and glassy-eyed. I had neither summer sausage, cheese, or even dehydrated turkey tetrazzini to fill in for all the fish I trusted I’d be eating. I viewed it as my penance. Those were the good old days when I burned calories (I just accumulate them now), and I lost fifteen pounds that week. I couldn’t spare them then. I was weak and wobbly by the time I hiked out. I think I only made it because I made sure I used all the paint (that’s one timber sale boundary that was **well **marked), and had a bit of honey left in a tube.

Earl, one of my book club buddies and an avid fisherman, sagely tells me I should have just cut the hook off. It was the first time I had ever fished, and I wouldn’t have known to do that. I might have been able to figure it out but a pair of dykes wasn’t included in the work tools I had with me. I had a logger’s tape, clinometer, boring tool, Tatum, a spray gun, and a half-gallon of paint, but Leathermans multitools weren’t so much as a twinkle in their inventor’s eyes yet. My pocket knife wasn’t even of the Swiss army variety.

That poor little fish haunts my nightmares still. I politely refused Earl’s invitation to go fishing with a shudder, as I have all other such invitations since Carnero Creek. I gave the amazing Popiel Pocket Fisherman® to one of the guys on my crew and went back to lugging summer sausage and cheese for my protein. I still don’t eat much fish, I can’t help but think of the poor, poor thing when I do. So if I go overboard paying fifteen dollars a pound for hamburger and making life cushy for my chickens, well, I have much to atone for. And if I am reincarnated as a little kokanee in Carnero Creek, I will understand I earned it and can only pray I get better than I gave.

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It was a different time. A different world, really. People who have grown up with the flexibility streaming video offers—the option of paying a little more to opt out of having to watch advertisements, flexibility of viewing times, and multiple video devices in the house—won’t remember what it was like to sit through some of the painful TV that inflicted even more painful commercials on its watchers. Geezers like me remember well. There was one TV in the house I grew up in (and we thought we were rich to have it), and remote controls hadn’t been thought of yet. Via the antenna sticking up from our roof, we got a station out of Los Angeles that aired really bad horror films on Saturday afternoons. My mom and sister were fans so that’s what we watched. The movies were cheesy and campy, and the (presumably affordable) ads were awful. Clanging and garish with flashing lights and a strident voice hawking some kind of cheap plastic stuff. The Amazing Popiel Pocket Fisherman was one such irritating commercial, and in the course of one B-horror movie, you had to watch it over and over again until it was like fingernails on a blackboard. It must have worked though, that commercial is what made me think I could fish without a single clue about how.

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Terryl is grateful most of all to that poor little fish out at Carnero Creek. I owe him more amends than I can make in a human lifetime. He set me on a lifetime path of seeking cruelty-free, sustainable food.

Terryl is always grateful to the Life in Pieces writing circle, who read an early draft of this, and of course, to AL, without whom nobody but me would ever read this stuff.

AL and Terryl are both very grateful, always, to the people who read our work. You are what makes it worthwhile.

An Adventure Memoir of Living Abroad and Letting Go of Life’s Trappings: Material Possessions, Cultural Blinders, and a Patriarchal Christian Worldview. By Mary Coday Edwards

A book review by Terryl Warnock.

“Christian Feminist” had long been a perplexing term for this non-Christian feminist, rather like a mathematical equation in which complex terms on both sides of the equal sign reduce themselves to zero. Christianity canceled out feminism and feminism canceled out Christianity.

Notice that there are two very different Christianities currently in play. There is Christianity as myth—the one that says love thy brother and live an ethical life and help the poor; and then there is Christianity as reality—the one that supports avarice, cruelty, political corruption, and grinding women’s rights under the boot heel of patriarchal hierarchy.

Mary Coday Edwards stepped into this breach without hesitation as a young woman. With her husband and children, she voluntarily waded into the cesspool of Asian patriarchy in the true spirit of Christian charity (the mythical one). Her husband offered his ophthalmological expertise to people who had no access to eye care while she used her architectural and engineering skills to rebuild infrastructure in Afghanistan. The Edwards family rendered meaningful aid to Afghan refugees after the Soviets abandoned the country, leaving it devastated, in 1992. Theirs is a journey that spans continents and decades. The family moved on to East Africa, Indonesia, and even Europe, all in the spirit of true Christian charity, to help the blessed poor and meek as they were so clearly directed to do by their Christ (the mythical one).

Edwards’ story is compelling. It is written with the good humor and gentle acceptance of her fellow man (gendered noun intentional) a feminist like me can only experience through the eyes of another. A smart, well-educated woman, Edwards endured mullahs ranting at her for traveling without her husband, and exposed herself to danger from violent patriarchal men in the course of such simple tasks as taking a taxi to work or attending a wedding. All for the sake of her Christian good deeds.

This memoir exposes the tragedy of colonialism forced on cultures and people who refuse to give in and refuse to give up. To Travel Well, Travel Light is historically, politically, religiously, geographically, and culturally informative. It is pertinent, accessible, and real. It does not flinch from the poverty and injustice our intrepid narrator encountered in her travels, but still manages to convey hope for the future through a thousand acts of kindness both large and small. If you are as ignorant as I was about the history and dynamics of this important region, with its vanishingly complex tribal politics—alien to a western mind accustomed to things like a central government that adheres to a top down hierarchy of power, order of law, and firm territorial boundaries—this book offers meaningful insight.

To Travel Well, Travel Light would have been a gripping read had it ended there, but Edwards goes on to share the spiritual growth she experienced along the way. Like so many pilgrimages, it is more the journey than the destination that transforms the seeker. Mary Coday Edwards’ is the heart-rending tale of a purposeful, driven quest to do the right thing as she was directed by her God, His Son, and His Holy Book. They all let her down. She ultimately discovers she is serving a God that doesn’t exist. Mythical Christianity eludes her while the Christianity of reality beats her down time and time again.

Mary Coday Edwards sought meaning in the religion of her fathers, even as a cavernous “black hole was opening up within her that threatened to pull her into its toothy maw” (Pg. 218). For all that she faithfully tried to keep the spark of mythical Christian religious purpose alight, the spark and yearning that had taken her around the world, she found no room for herself in the Christianity of reality. She found no room for women, nor any worth for herself in church leadership, no matter how far she traveled, how much she gave, nor how persistently she searched. Her quest is beset by the oh-so-human desire for certainty. Christianity is not the only mainstream religion to manipulate and tantalize its flock with the hope and safety of certainty. Edwards exposes this for the soporific it is, asking the question “If you have emptiness in you, is it you who is doing something wrong?”

This excellent memoir recounts a thinking woman’s journey to peace, and ultimately, to spiritual fulfillment. Fear not, this is a story with a happy and satisfying ending, one you will delight in discovering for yourself. If you seek likewise, if your human quest is for meaning and community, you too will treasure To Travel Well, Travel Light.

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We love books here at MoonLit and, as members of a reading community, we love to pass along good titles to our friends. Like this one! If you like to read, and you’ve written book reviews, (or would like to try—our editor will help) please submit them! See the index for our open call for submissions. Meanwhile, enjoy this worthy memoir by Mary Coday Edwards.

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Images are from Mary Coday Edwards.

Terryl is grateful to people who love to read and of course it follows, people who love to write. Mary Coday Edwards shares her compelling story of spiritual yearning and quest for religious belonging in To Travel Well, Travel Light . This is a journey all who Seek share in some way. Edwards’ story is unique in the extraordinary lengths she goes to in her quest.

AL and Terryl are both very grateful, always, to the people who read our work. You are what makes all this worthwhile.

A pagan contemplation of equilbrium at the Vernal Equinox.

By Terryl Warnock

Balance is fluid.
 Energetic,
  adventurous,
   and dynamic.

Balance descends,
like a skier playing with gravity.

Element of Earth.

Balance soars,
like a musician ascending octaves.

Element of Air.

Balance shimmers,
like a sunbeam toying with leaves.

Element of Fire.

Balance ripples,
like a dolphin frolicking with waves.

Element of Water.

I played, and soared, and frolicked, and shimmered.
And, at that fleeting moment of equality that is Ostara,
prayed for balance I could be still in.
A balance that was not my nature.

Ancient wisdom cautions that we take care what we pray for.

Now I am dragged behind long years.
My prayers have been answered,
the stillness I once prayed for
is imposed upon me now.

From the wreckage of this wake I look back
and yearn for the playful, the musical, the ascending,the shimmering, and the frolicking.

The balance of stillness may be peaceful,
it can also ossify and become brittle.

Element of Earth.

The balance of stillness may be quiet,
it can also blow away on a breeze like dust.

Element of Air.

The balance of stillness may be warm,
it can also burn down and smolder to ash.

Element of Fire.

The balance of stillness may be smooth, like a glassy pool,
it can also stagnate and choke with decay.

Element of Water.

Balance is a meditation,
 Solid, unmoving, and static.
  May take itself too seriously,
   stuck reflecting on what has been lost.

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Ostara is the pagan celebration of the Vernal (Spring) Equinox, one of only two days out of the three hundred and sixty-five when daylight and night are perfectly equal. As spring marches on, days will become longer and nights shorter until the cycle turns around at the Summer Solstice and starts back.

We wish you all the blessings of the season, and pray that you are gaining in strength as well. May you find your way to a happy, healthy balance.

Follow Terryl's work and give her feedback on:

Mastodon	https://mastodon.sdf.org/@wordsbyterryl
email	mailto:moonlitpress@proton.me

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Gratitude list:

Graphic design by AJ Brown	https://mastodon.sdf.org/@mral
Phptography by AJ Brown	https://mastodon.sdf.org/@mral

Terryl is grateful always to the Life in Pieces writing circle for their invaluable feedback on an earlier version of this piece. She is also grateful beyond words to the spiral of time and the long, wonderful years she has lived. She has been taught at last what true balance is in her own life and on her own journey.

AL(not AI) and Terryl are both very grateful, always, to the people who read our work. You are what makes all this worthwhile.

Nothing much for today either. I was again playing with multi-threading and noticed a had a bug. The issue was that several cores were computing the result, however, because I had data races I would get a poor-quality picture. I didn't check the output image, that's why I didn't notice it yesterday. The idea is that even tho each core would do one sample, running on 8 cores would mean I have 8 samples per pixel when averaged. However, because random was shared it wouldn't do 8 samples, but some sequences would be corrupted and I get less than 8 samples. Here the code I finally ended up with:

static std::hash<std::thread::id> hasher;
static std::uniform_real_distribution<double> distribution(0.0, 1.0);

inline double random_double() {
  static thread_local std::mt19937 generator(
    static_cast<unsigned>(hasher(std::this_thread::get_id()))
  );
  return distribution(generator);
}

I have static thread_local, which says that each thread has its own random number generator. Furthermore, its constructor receives the hash of the current thread_id resulting in different seeds for each seed, so sampling on different threads would actually make sense. Nevertheless, there is a case where hash id could repeat and my threads' work would be redundant. Fortunately for my use case since I use very few threads, six on Windows, 8 on Mac (4 efficiency cores, 4 performance cores), and all threads start “at the same” it is little likely that id would repeat. On that note, I think the code I wrote that distributes the tasks to threads still looks kinda of ugly, and I can do better. For that specific purpose, I resumed reading Bjarne's book, specifically the “Threads and Tasks” section, to seek for better alternative. In the meantime, let's enjoy more renders of balls. This time in full HD, with 80 samples per pixel. Why again balls? you may ask. Because I am too lazy to write code for loading meshes and handling a ray-to-triangle intersection, but I will do it eventually, most probably tomorrow. This time the image took 25 minutes to render, which is quite good considering the other render took me 4 hours. Note the previous render was 120x675.

I have finally added the multi-threading support. A screenshot showing 100% utilization of my CPU resources: CPU Utilization on MacBook Pro 13 m1, when rendering in multi-threading mode. There was 5x improvement in speed, which is amazing considering my computer has 6 cores ( tested on windows ). That's it for today, I will share with more insight tomorrow!

I am now on a path of darkness, and no tutorial shall help me. That is, I have finished the tutorial and I am experimenting on my own, therefore there is no one to hold my hand and tell me if I am doing something right, or wrong. Speaking of someone to hold my hand, this post has been sponsored by HedgeTheHog#andranik3949, who was kind enough to help me when I was completely lost debugging my code. Wish I could say the same for the compiler... The issue was that I was trying to use std::bind, to pass to the render function a reference to my world. HedgeTheHog found The arguments to bind are copied or moved, and are never passed by reference unless wrapped in std::ref or std::cref. Therefore, a solution would be to force pass the reference with the use of std::ref, where auto f = std::bind(func, std::ref(world));, then use f();. Another workaround is to use std::placeholders::_1, where auto f = std::bind(func, std::placeholders::_1); the pass the world in function call such as f(world);. There are some other errors I have yet to battle, but I will talk about them after I find a fix. The second challenge I have to face is to somehow use local instances of random generators. “Why?” you may ask. Because, if I have several threads using the same random number generator it's gonna be a bottleneck since random generators usually maintain some type of inner state. Therefore, all of the cpu cache across all of the cores will be invalidated. Someone smart reading this may think “Aha! Just use static thread_local, instead of static”. Unfortunately, that is useless, because I would have the same seed over all instances. I need to figure out a way to have that with different seeds on each thread and without making my code super ugly. That's it for today, see you!

Today, I have spent extra hours to finish up the project. The final result looks super cool. Since I haven't yet added support for multithreading this scene took me around four hours to render. It had 500 samples per pixel, with a max depth of 50 rays. For the last day, I have added defocus blur.

I am not sure yet, what I would want to add to this project, but I will decide soon. That's it for today, see you tomorrow!

Almost done with the series! Although next step would be to add simple improvements for quality of life. Here is the list of stuff done ( again in reverse chronological order ):

Added camera controls with lookfrom and lookat parameters.
Added glass material.
Added metal material fuzziness property.
Added materials.

Yet again, below is the evolution of the output image after each major change ( in chronological order ) Fuzzy metal.

Glass Attempt.

FOV experiment

Camera controls.

Zoomed in.

That's it for today. Code is as always available in my github page. I have implemented some more stuff, but there is currently a bug, so I will leave it for tomorrow. See you!

Day 1: Starting to get my shit together

Վերջին փոստս գրելուց հետո հասկացա, թե ինչքան շատ գործ կա անելու խաղերի դիզայնի և խաղերի ծրագրավորման ոլորտը հայաֆիկացնելու համար։ Ոնց եմ ուզում հայաստանում խաղերի արդյունաբերություննը լինի բարձր մակադակի։ Ինչի՞ չենք կարա ասենք Ամերիկայի, Ճապոնիայի, Շվեդիայի կամ Լեհաստանի մակարդակի խաղեր սարքենք։ Չեմ խոսում AAA խաղերի մասին, որի վրա հազարներով մարդիկ են աշխատում, բայց են փոքր ու ապշեցնող ինդիների մասին, որ մարկետը գրավում են ու պարզվում ա երեք հոգով են սարքել։ Մենք ունենք համապատասխան մասնագետներ, լիքը ծրագրավորող, լիքը արտիս, մաթեմատիկ ու ստեղծարարներ։ Հնչյունային օպերատորներ ջան ձեր մասին չեմ մոռացել, դուք հրաշք եք~~~ Հետ գալով հայաֆիկացման խնդրին, ուզում եմ նշել, որ երբ գրում էի անցած փոստը ինձ հազիվ էի զսպում անգլերեն եզրույթները չգործածել և ի վերջո պարտվեցի։ Իրականությունը են ա, որ էդ եզրույթների համար համապատասխան բառը չկա հայերենում ու էդ խնդիր ա։ Դրա համար կոչ եմ անում բոլոր հայ խաղերի դիզայներներին, կրիտիկներին և այլոց ավելի շատ հոդվածներ գրել խաղերի մասին հայերենով, որ լեզուն զարգանա ու մարդկանց խաղերի գրագիտությունը հետը։ Բերեմ մի բառի օրինակ որ հայերենում չկա ու շատ էի ուզում թարգմանել, բայց ցավոք համապատասխան փորձառությունը թարգմանելու չունեմ, իսկ ուղիղ թարգմանությունը շատ տարօրինակ ա հնչում։ Խոսքը գնում ա “joystick” բառի մասին։ Փոստը գրելուց հետո խնդրեցի Անիին որ Դավիթ Իսաջանյանից հարցնի ոնց ինքը էդ բառը կթարգմաներ, որովհետև պարոն Իսաջանյանը այժմ իրենց “Introduction to Translation” է դասավանդում ու ստացա լաւագույն պատասխանը որը կարելի էր ակնկալել։ Ուզում եմ կիսվեմ բոլորիդ հետ ու մի գուցե կարողանաք նույն մեթոդը կիրառել ձեր թարգմանությունների մեջ

Dear Ani, 

I would definitely choose to translate the word. A calque could be a good option, խինդաձող, ժպտաձող, ցնծաձող, but I am afraid these would create unnecessary (also, somewhat naughty) associations, and as a result, people would only ridicule the word. I would therefore choose a word that does not have the kind of connotations ձող has in ordinary language, and would opt for կայմ; i.e., the (stick-like) mast of a sailing boat: հեռակայմ, խաղակայմ, ժպտակայմ, կառակայմ (կառավարման կայն), etc. 

Let me know which one you like more! 

Yours, D. I.

Խաղակայմը շատ հաւես ա հնչում, միտքը հասցնում ա ու տարօրինակ չի։ Բայց սենց պետք ա անել ամեն ինչի համար։ Հիմա լիքը հետաքրքիր թեմաներ եմ սովորում համալսարանում, չեմ կարում կիսվեմ, որովհետև հայերեն եմ ուզում գրեմ ու դժվարանում եմ։ Հուսով եմ կապրեմ են ապագայում, որ կկարողանամ հայերենով հանգիստ մտքերս արտահայտեմ խաղերի մասին խոսալուց։

#մտքեր #խաղերիդիզայն #թարգմանություն

Անցած ուրբաթ մեր համալսարանում մեկնարկեց խաղերի ջեմ պլյուսը ( անգլ.՝ game jam+ )։ Ով տեղեակ չի ինչ է խաղերի ջեմը ասեմ՝ խաղերի ջեմը սովորաբար երկու օր տևողությամբ միջոցառում է, որի ժամանակ տարբեր հեռանկարի մարդիկ հավաքվում են խաղ ստեղծելու նպատակով։ Կարևոր է նշել, որ խաղը պարտադիր չի լինի թվային ( սակայն ցանկալի է ), այլ կարելի է ստեղծել սեղանի, մտովի և ցանկացած այլ տիպի խաղ, այդ թվում նաև կենդանի գործողություններով դերախաղեր ( անգլ.՝ live action role playing game ):

Օր զրո

Ջեմը սկսեց ժամը վեցին, երբ հայտատարեցին թեմաները։ Այս անգամ մրցում էինք երեք կատեգորայում՝ ոչ ծաղիկ ոչ մոլորակ ( անգլ.՝ No Plant no Planet ), վերմակ ու ջոյստիկ ( անգլ.՝ A blanket and joystick ), վերանայել կլասիկաները ( անգ.՝ Rethink the classics ), ուրախ ժամանակ անցկանցել ( անգլ.՝ Having fun Casually ), հիմնված իրական դեպքերի վրա ( անգլ.՝ Based on real events ): Ամբողջ օրը ծախսեցինք մտքի վրա աշխատելով։ Ընտրեցինք իմ միտքը, որը շներին կերակրելու մասին էր։ Ես միտքը կտեղավորեի «ուրախ ժամանակ անցկացնել» կատեգորիայի մեջ, սակայն որոշեցինք ասել որ վերանայում ենք կլասիկաները, կլասիկան լինելով Risk of Rain 2-ը։

> Լուսանկար Risk or Rain 2 խաղից

Մտքի նկարագրությունը

Խաղը տեղի էի ունենում փոքր թաղամասում, որտեղ խաղացողին վարձել են շներին ման տալու համար։ Ման տալու ընթացքում բոլոր շները փախնում են ու սկսում են վազել քարտեզի տաբեր կողմերով, և պետք է շներից մի քանիսին հավաքել մինչև ժամանակի ավարտը, թե չէ աշխատանքից կհեռացնեն։ Խաղը իրենով երրորդ դեմքից կրակոցի է ( անգլ.՝ third person shooter ), որտեղ խաղացողը կրակում է ուտելիք շների վրա և երբ շան սովածության մակարդակը նվազում է զրոյի, նա հեզանում է և միանում խաղացողին վզակապով։ Հակրավոր է նշել, որ խաղը ունի շատ արագ ընթացք Doom Eternal-ի նման, որտեղ ճարպիկորեն պետք է շարժվել քարտեզի տարբեր մասերով և ճշգրիտ շարժումներով «կերակրել» շանը։ Խաղը ունի երեք դժվարություններ։ Առաջին, քարտեզում կան սկյուռիկներ և կատուները, որոնք փորձելու են խանգարեն խաղացողին տարբեր կերպով ժամանակը սպառելու համար։ Երբ շները կապված ենք խաղացողին, նրանք տարբեր ինտեռվալներով փորձելու են քաշեն խաղացողին դեպի իրենց կողմ, խանգարելով խաղացողին նշան բռնել և տեղաշարժվել, հարկավոր է նշել որ ինչքան շատ շուն այդքան ավելի դժվար է լինելու տեղաշարժվել։ Եվ երրոդ շները ունեն սովոծանալու հատկություն, այսինքն եթե երկար ման գաք նույն շներով, իրեքն սովոծանալու են ու էլի փախչեն։ Սակայն շներին հավաքելը ունի երկու լավ կողմ, առաջին հավաքելով տարբեր տեսակի շներ, ստանում եք տարբեր տեսակի առավելությունները ( անգլ.` buff ), օրինակ հավելյալ արագություն, կամ ավելի արագ տեմպով կերակրելու ձևեր։Նաև որոշ քանակի շներ հավաքելուց հետո, հայտնվում է հիմնական թիրախը ( չգիտեմ ոնց թարքմանեմ boss-ը այս կոնտեքստում ), որ շաաաատ մեծ ու շաաատ սոված շուն է։ Իրան կերակրելուց հետո դուք հաղթում եք։

Օր առաջին

Թմում վեց հոգի էինք։ Երեք հոգի ծրագրավորող, մեկ հարթակի դիզայներ ( անգլ.՝ level designer ), մեկ արտիստ և մի հոգի ով սկսնակ էր և փորձում էր ամեն ինչում օգնել։ Ինձ որոշեցին նշանակել, որպես lead programmer, որ համար շատ զխճում եմ, քանի որ ավելի շատ զբաղված էի մյուս ծրագրավորողներին տարբեր բաներ բացատրելով և գործերը մարդկանց մեջ բաժանելով։ Ես պետք է գրեի «ոչ խաղացող կերպարների»(անգլ.՝ Non Player Character)՝ այս դեպքում շների ,կատուների և սկյուռիկների արհեստական բանականությունը և պահվածքը, որի վրա ես ցավոք չհասցրեցի շատ աշխատել։ Որպես շարժիչ (անգլ.՝ Game Engine) որոշեցինք օգտագործել Godot-ը, որը շատ հարմար է փոքր և միջին չափի խաղեր ստեղծելու համար։ Բանականության համար գրում էի օգուտի վրա հիմնված բանականություն (անգլ.` utilty-based AI )։ Գաղափարը պարզ է և շատ էֆեկտիվ է խաղերի մեջ։ Մի քանի բառով, կերպարներին տալիս եմ մի քանի հնարավոր գործողություն, անիմաստ վազել, փախնել խաղացողից, կծել կամ ուրիշ բաներ, և ամեն մեկին տալիս եմ փոփոխական արժեք։ Ապա, կախված որ գործողությունն է տվյալ պահին ավելի արժեքավոր, կերպարը անում է կոնկրետ բան։ Ասենք եթե հեռու է խաղացողից ապա անիմաստ կվազի քարտեզով, եթե խաղացողը մոտիկանա, կփորձի փախնել և այլն։ Օրվա վերջում արդեն ունեինք մի քանի աշխատող բան որոնք պատրաստել էինք տարբեր համակարգիչների վրա և պետք է հավաքեինք իրար գլխի։

Վերջին Օր

Երկրորդ օրը արդեն կիսաքնած էինք, բայց լիքը գործ արեցինք։ Առաջին հերթին սկսեցինք բոլորի արած գործերի մի պռոյեկտի մեջ ավելացնել, որը բերեց լիքը կոնֆլիկտների, խոսքը գնում է գիթ ( անգլ.՝ git ) կոնֆլիկտների մասին։ Կոնֆլիկտները ուղղելուց շատ ժամանակ չէր մնացել, ու գնացինք խաղը ցուցադրելու վրա։ Իհարկե ոչմի տեղ չշահեցինք քանի-որ խաղը շատ կիսատ վիճակում էր և հիմնական գեյփլեյից ոչ մի հատկանշական բան դեռ չկար, բայց մենք շատ հավես ժամանակ անցկացրեցինք, իսկ ես լիքը բան սովորեցի գոդոտից և մարդկանց առաջնորդելու մասին։ Խաղը դրած է itch.io-ի էջում Hounded: Նաև կցեմ եմ փոքր հոլովակ խաղից

Unai's First Post: THIS IS A DRILL

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See if this goes to fediverse.