Cutting the side lawn with my noisy gas mower, I feel a sharp sting on my left heal, then the right calf then the belly.

I let out a roar and run speedily to the house.

I still hear buzzing as I remove t-shirt, pants, shoes, socks. The vagrant Eastern Yellowjacket hits the glass door in flight, drops to the floor, where my wife and I sweep him out.

Tending to the stings and their growing welts with ice packs and healing clay, taking anti-inflammatories, sitting still.

Stopped in the tracks of my to-do list.

Stung to attention by a life form for whom I was an existential threat.

Remembering the yellowjackets I had seen earlier in the week.

Remembering how they like to nest in burrows dug beneath decomposing tree stumps.

Remembering how I had mowed right over one such stump patch, and how the stinging started soon after.

Wikipedia tells me that Eastern Yellowjackets can become actively aggressive in the face of assaults on their nest. Otherwise, they are relatively benign.

It also says that Eastern Yellowjackets are generally welcomed by gardeners for their consumption of vegetable-chomping insects.

I slowly come to peace, accepting the hours-long discomfort that my obtuseness has brought on.

Delaying Gratification

hot dogs on grill

It’s the day after the 4th of July and my wife and I just ate a picnic supper at home: her delicious homemade coleslaw, corn on the cob, and uncured beef hot dogs, cooked on our new outdoor grill. Though the food itself was great, cooking the dogs on the new grill was actually the most gratifying part of the meal for me.

We purchased the grill on the evening before the 4th with hopes of breaking it in for the big holiday. I’d finally hauled our 20-year-old workhorse Weber to the local dump during our spring cleaning. We’d seen a friend’s nifty new, compact, table-top gas grill and agreed that was the way that we aging down-sizers wanted to go.

After shopping around online for a week, we finally decided to buy one at a local big-box sporting and camping goods store. The one we liked had a heavy foldup base and was bigger than we originally had in mind. A young employee was happy to cart the bulky 50-pound box to our car. We left it in the car overnight so that I could assemble it in the morning in time for our annual 4th of July cookout.

I have to say that assembling objects is not my strong suit. I had to psych myself for the task the next morning. Before leaving for a long hike with a friend, my wife encouraged me to be patient and read the instructions carefully.

I followed her advice and carefully unboxed the grill, removing loads of styrofoam and cardboard packing materials. Detailed instructions with pictures were included and I carefully inventoried all the parts. Most of the assemblage involved the fold-up base, and I got through all that with only minor hitches. Within an hour, I had a standing grill that I could wheel from the garage to the back patio. I read the instructions for connecting a small liquid-propane canister to a regulator and then to the grill itself.

The morning was hot and humid, and I had broken into a healthy sweat by this point. I was looking forward to test-firing the grill and covering it with a tarp before returning to barbecue burgers for our evening meal. Before doing so, the instructions recommended one last step: removing the grill’s top to make sure that the gas lines (“venturi tubes”) from the regulator terminated right at the burners. This involved removing 6 small metal screws and I considered skipping the step. But the instructions said that this step was especially important when the grill had been transported, which I had just done. I bit the bullet and carefully, patiently removed each of the 6 screws and pulled the top off. Inspecting the “venturi tubes”, everything seemed in order and I replaced the top. It was a tight, metal-on-metal fit and the two pieces had to be perfectly aligned so that all 6 screw-holes lined up. It took some concentration to complete this re-attachment, but I finally succeeded.

The time had finally come to test the grill!  I turned the gas valve to “HIGH”, waited 4 seconds as instructed, then pressed the red igniter button repeatedly. I could see little sparks coming from the electronic igniter, but the burners failed to light. I stopped and tried again a number of times. I even tried with a long butane lighter. Still nothing. At this point, it had started to thunder and raindrops began falling. Reluctantly, I decided to cover the grill up with a tarp and try again later. I was genuinely perplexed and discouraged. I reviewed the instructions and felt that I had done everything correctly, including the last check of the gas lines. I was now tired and sweaty so wisely decided to give it up and take a shower.

It rained torrentially for much of that afternoon but started clearing in the evening. As supper time approached, I went out to try lighting the grill again but the results were the same. We ended up cooking our burgers on the kitchen stove.

This afternoon I decided to take one more shot at lighting the grill before calling the company for assistance. I painstakingly removed the 6 screws and opened the top to inspect more carefully. The venturi tubes still looked correctly aligned, but I did notice that the propane-regulator connection to the grill looked like it wasn’t fully tightened — there were treads showing. The instructions had warned against overtightening here. But I decided to turn the connection tighter until it was genuinely “hand-tight”.

Sure enough, after carefully re-aligning and screwing in the grill-top again, the grill lit right up. I let it burn at maximum heat for 15 minutes to burn off the excess oils as directed. Then I got those hot dogs and cooked them to perfection. As I took them off the grill, the term “delayed gratification” came to mind.


I remembered reading about “delayed gratification” from my investigations into childhood attachment theory. Early attachment psychologists like John Bowlby had noticed that one of the common characteristics among happy, organically maturing children is their resilience when encountering obstacles. These children registered some level of disappointment and frustration when their needs were initially unmet, but didn’t devolve into tantrums nor defeated resignation as other less happily parented children did. Instead, the healthier children bounced back from their frustrations, secure in knowing that things would right themselves eventually.

I had recently attended a Takatina session where I had dealt with this theme. Takatina is a form of group rhythmic creation in dance movement, clapping, and chanting. My friend Marcus Sims had trained for many years learning to lead these sophisticated rhythmic experiences and I’ve learned a lot from participating in the sessions. A major theme of last week’s session was about “letting go” of our false needs to always control our reality. Learning how to move and chant and clap in synchrony and harmony with others requires a kind of “focused emptiness.” You have to stay very present and aware, yet “let go” to the rhythm at the same time.

A Takatina session is hard to describe, but involves learning to coordinate some dance steps with well-defined rhythmic clapping and chanting. Everyone makes “mistakes” in the process but the idea is to keep on going, correcting yourself by coming back into harmony and rhythm with the leader and the group as a whole. In the last session, I found myself able for the first time to hold down the dance steps and clapping for long periods. I really enjoy the chanting and in the past my joining the chanting had meant giving up on the clapping. My nervous system went to “tilt”. This time I decided to stay more with the clapping, chanting only at those times when I felt secure in the rhythm. For some brief intervals, I was actually able to bring my dancing, clapping and chanting together at the same time. It felt very satisfying.

What I’m learning in Takatina is to delay the gratification of mastery by slowly building on my improving capacity to stay present in focused emptiness. Within this context, my “mistakes” are just neutral occurrences that I seek to correct without any sense of shame, or self-blame, or undo discouragement.

At the end of each Takatina session, we lay down in silence to rest but also to integrate what we have learned. Marcus’ mantra is that we do Takatina as we do the rest of our lives. When we can enter into the rhythm of our own lives, we live in a zone of inter-connection, purpose, and creativity. Our shortcomings and mistakes become simply grist for the mill. We may hit places of challenge that are not easily dealt with, yet our growing resilience allows us to learn from each mistake, without shame or blame, and carry on.

I believe that my work with Takatina has increased an inner sense of resilience that allows me to delay gratification more readily. I remember times in the not too distant past when incidents like the problematic grill would have sent me into a tizzy for days, cursing the manufacturer and my own incompetence, making myself miserable and spreading the misery to everyone in my orbit. By simply pausing, breathing, relaxing, and trusting, I was able to salvage a satisfying holiday for me and my life partner.

John Bayerl, 7/5/2019

Gaithersburg Book Festival (GBF) 2019

The GBF celebrated its 10th anniversary on the grounds of the City of Gaithersburg’s municipal buildings this past Saturday. It was a fine summery morning as two of my sisters from western NY and I set off for the short drive over the railroad tracks from Derwood. This was the fourth year that they had made the long drive down the day before in order for us to attend the festival together. We’d spent the previous evening reviewing the GBF’s schedule grid, identifying the authors we most wanted to hear from. Over 100 authors would be speaking at ten outdoor, covered pavilions over seven hourly time slots.


Testimony to Recovery

We went together for the first two presentation slots. Our first author was local writer and motivational speaker, Maria Leonard Olsen, whom we had heard two years earlier. Ms. Olsen is an accomplished Filipina-American woman whose previous book dealt with the challenges and joys of raising multi-cultural and multi-ethnic families. Her latest book, “Fifty for Fifty”, is about the challenges she faced entering her 50’s; challenges that included a divorce, overcoming alcohol problems (her own and her son’s), and a more existential issue regarding her personal identity and her right to define herself apart from the many social expectations she had taken on.

Ms. Olsen pointedly described the inner and outer chaos of her life at the time of her divorce and alcohol abuse. She slowly worked her way back to sobriety and a sense of purpose via 12-step recovery groups. Al-Anon in particular provided a sense of ongoing community support that helped her to discover her own “higher power” and to share her newfound serenity and purpose with others. She learned to become a better person, more accepting of herself and others without having to carry the many unnecessary burdens that she had falsely assumed.

The culmination of Ms. Olsen’s recovery work was the formulation of fifty desired projects and goals for addressing her mid-life crisis. Many of these involved risk-taking endeavors that she had always wanted to try but had held back from in fear. She bought her first motorcycle, sang solo in a karaoke bar, even set off for a months-long sojourn in a mountain village in Nepal. She came back from that trip with a deep sense of gratitude for all the things she had taken for granted: clean water, healthy food, a weather-proof home, friends and family. The 12-step message of gratitude, acceptance, and serenity became her daily practice and led ultimately to deep self-renewal and inner change.


Like Father, Like Daughter

Our second author was Anne Hillerman, daughter of the prolific, Navajo-inspired detective/mystery classics’ author, Tony Hillerman. My sisters and I had read a number of her father’s taut, engrossing mysteries about police lieutenant Joe Leaphorn and his assistant Jim Chee, all set on the sprawling Navajo Indian reservation in Arizona and New Mexico. Tony passed in 2007 and five years later, Anne, a professional journalist in Santa Fe, took up her Dad’s legacy and penned the first of her four Leaphorn-Chee sequels. My sister Marian had listened to “Spider Woman’s Daughter” and convinced us that daughter Anne was the real thing.

Well over fifty of us filled the Dashell Hammett Pavilion where Ms. Hillerman was interviewed by talented local writer and arts critic, Whitney Fishburn. Ms. Hillerman began by saying how pleased she was to be a participant in the GBF, extolling the pastoral outdoor setting and the friendliness of the organizers and attendees. She said she was active in the Santa Fe cultural scene and had long been advocating for such a small, quality book festival there.

Ms. Hillerman spoke fondly of her beloved father and how he was inspired to create his series of 18 Navajo tribal police mysteries, written between 1970 and 2006. Anne was born in 1949, the eldest of six children. By her account, her Dad was a loving husband and father; a World War 2 vet from Oklahoma who found his way as a writer after finishing college in New Mexico and staying on to teach there. He became avidly interested in Navajo people and their culture by attending their many open ceremonies and talking with Navajo anthropologists at the Univ. of New Mexico in Albuquerque, where he settled.

Anne recalled the pleasure her Dad took in reading aloud his just-completed chapters. He had his creative roadblocks and struggles, but enjoyed a wonderful relationship with his wife, who became his literary confidante and lifelong editor. Anne marveled that her Dad’s writing inspired him to the very end, and that he took great pleasure and satisfaction in each of his carefully plotted novels.

Anne had toyed with the idea of writing a Leaphorn-Chee mystery of her own after her Dad died. She’d been a published non-fiction writer for many years and even collaborated with her Dad on some travel books of Navajo country. Finally, she was inspired to take the plunge, publishing “Spider Woman’s Daughter” in 2013, to great critical acclaim. Three more Leaphorn-Chee novels followed, culminating with “The Tale Teller” this year.

Anne knew that her own attempts needed a slightly different perspective from that of her Dad’s. She achieves this by highlighting one of Tony’s minor characters, a female Navajo officer, Bernie Manuelito Chee (wife of Jim Chee). I knew from dipping into “Spider Woman’s Daughter” that Anne had succeeded in maintaining the taut, no-nonsense flavor of the narrative while opening it up to include the somewhat softer, more intuitive perspective of Bernie. Leaving this lively and inspiring presentation, I knew that an Anne Hillerman novel would soon be my selection for our family book group.


“A Good American Family”

My wife joined me for David Mariness’ talk about his new book, “A Good American Family: The Red Scare and My Father”. Mr. Mariness is a career editor and writer for the Washington Post and well-known author of biographies of Bill Clinton, Barack Obama, Vince Lombardi and Roberto Clemente. He began by saying that his latest book was his most personal and the one he cared most deeply about.

Mr. Mariness was another 1949 baby (like Anne Hillerman and me), born in the post-WW2 era when the Cold War had already begun and anti-Communist fanatics here in America were set on destroying the lives of men like his father. Mariness Sr. was a career journalist, too, active politically since his student days at the University of Wisconsin. At one point he joined the Communist Party, supporting its goal to improve the lives of minorities and working people during the economic ravages of the Great Depression.

Mr. Mariness’ mother was also a left-wing political activist whose brother fought with the Abraham Lincoln Brigade in the Spanish Civil War against the fascist forces of Franco, Mussolini, and Hitler. Mariness Sr. volunteered for the U.S. Army during WW2, attending officer training school and becoming a leader of a brigade of African American soldiers who fought at Okinawa.

The House Un-American Activities Committee (HUAC) was formed to investigate alleged Communists within the United States. Mariness Sr. was called before the Committee in 1952 and pled the 5th Amendment. He had long since abandoned the Communist Party and had returned from the war to start a family and resume his career as a journalist. Mariness Sr. had prepared a brief statement but the Committee would not allow him to deliver it unless he provided the names of “fellow travelers”. He refused to do so, and his statement remained undisclosed until his son David discovered it in his FBI file at the National Archives almost 65 years later. Part of that statement reads:

“In the 34 years of my life, in war and peace, I have been a loyal, law-abiding citizen of the United States. One week after this nation was attacked at Pearl Harbor in 1941, I enlisted as a private in the Army of the United States and served for more than four years, climaxed by the campaign inn Okinawa. I was honorably discharged in January 1946 with the rank of captain.

“Upon my discharge I returned to my job as a newspaperman with the Detroit Times. I am a homeowner, a taxpayer, and parent, father of two boys and a girl.

“I was taught as a child and in school that the highest responsibility of citizenship is to defend the principles of the U.S. Constitution and to do my part in securing for the American people the blessings of peace, economic well-being, and freedom.”

Mr. Mariness was a young boy at that time, remembering mainly that his family moved a lot in ensuing years. In fact, his father was blacklisted from his job and spent many years moving from town to town pursuing work. Finally, Mariness Sr. was hired by a liberal-leaning newspaper in Madison, WI and enjoyed a long, satisfying career there. David remembers growing up mostly happy and secure — the product of a “good American family”.

Mr. Mariness had been aware only of the general story of his father’s public denunciation and blacklisting. His two years of careful research brought home in detail the ugly realities of McCarthyism and the Red Scare, realties he sees all too graphically being reproduced in our Trump era.


A Daring Prequel

After meeting up with my sisters for lunch, and for book-buying in the Politics and Prose bookstore tent, I decided to rejoin them for one last author presentation. My sisters and wife were long-time fans of the “Anne of Green Gables” series of novels by the Canadian author, Lucy Montgomery. They were eager to hear from a young author, Sarah McCoy, who had just published a prequel, “Marilla of Green Gables”. Marilla is the 50-ish adoptive mother of Anne and Ms. McCoy’s novel is an extended exploration of Marilla’s life before Anne’s arrival.

Ms. McCoy was expertly interviewed by another local writer, Nicole Hertvik, who had launched a popular cultural Web site for the DC area, DC Metro Theatre Arts. She congratulated the author for daring to write a new novel for a series that was so much loved and venerated. Ms. McCoy confessed her naiveté in entering those sensitive waters but said her own love for the Green Gables books propelled her forward. McCoy was fascinated with the character of Marilla and used throw-away details in the original to construct the character’s earlier life. She made multiple visits to Prince Edwards Island both to finetune details but also to get the sanction of the Montgomery family estate.

Ms. McCoy’s bubbly enthusiasm was contagious, and I became intrigued. She had made reference to a new re-casting of the Green Gables story in the Netflix series, “Anne with an E”. Later that evening, after a fine supper out at a local Peruvian restaurant and our traditional tropical ice cream dessert at York Castle in Rockville, we watched the first episode of “Anne with an E” and were all taken with the freshness and creativity of the re-write.

This year’s was the 10th incarnation of the Gaithersburg Book Festival and it has become a family highlight for the last five of them. I’ve encountered no other venue where it’s possible to hear published authors at such close proximity, ask questions, and engage personally. My sisters and I are in an active book club together and the annual GBF has provided us with memorable experiences that often bear fruit in the selections we choose to read for the year. The Washington DC area has such a plenitude of cultural offerings that events like the GBF are often overlooked. I have to confess to being of two minds about publicizing it more, since its small size and intimacy are a big part of what makes it so special.

John Bayerl, 5/21/2019

Celebrating a Life, No Matter What

My wife and I drove to Charlottesville, VA last Saturday to attend a memorial service for the 37-year-old son of two old friends.  I wasn’t looking forward to the 3-hour drive there, and then back home to Maryland.  But my deeper resistance had to do with knowing that Gabe had taken his own life.

I felt terrible for his grieving family and friends.  We had experienced the suicide of another 37-year-old man six years ago and remembered all too well the emotional devastation that his parents suffered.  In addition, I felt my own sadness and discouragement at the thought of someone that age so hopeless about life that he would commit suicide.

Saturday turned out to be a spectacular spring day, clear and cool, with the Virginia countryside blooming at every turn.  We enjoyed the drive down, arriving early enough to walk through the splendid pedestrian mall area in downtown Charlottesville, close to the The Haven – the nondenominational church where the service was held.

As we entered the church we greeted Gabe’s father, expressing our condolences to him with heartfelt hugs.  The church pews soon filled with upwards of 200 people, most of them around Gabe’s age, including many couples with children.  The printed program featured a big smiling photo of Gabe with flowers in hand and a goofy handmade rooster on his shoulder.  It included an outline for a “Celebration of Life” inside the church, a “Second Line” New Orleans style funeral march to the nearby IX Art Park, and an outdoor “Wake” of live music, food and drink.

The memorial was almost two hours long and included very moving “Remembrances” of Gabe by his father, his brother, and half a dozen close friends.  A middle-aged woman minister served as a kind of MC, beautifully holding an atmosphere that was deeply spiritual without being overly solemn.  Gabe’s father spoke first, holding back tears to read a moving tribute that he had composed and sent out a few days after the death.  My wife and I didn’t know Gabe himself well, but we had spent a lot of time sharing with his parents some of our mutual parenting challenges.  Gabe’s father described the many talents and accomplishments of his son, including his world travels and knowledge of languages, his deep Buddhist spirituality, his creativity as a sculptor and musician, and his love of being a big-hearted prankster.  But he also described Gabe’s lifelong struggles with his bipolar disorder, including a number of hospitalizations and periods of deep depression, the last of which led to his decision to take his own life.  I admired my friend’s ability to speak so deeply and honestly about both the light and dark sides of his son’s life, affirming his love throughout.

There were a number of musical interludes between the ensuing remembrances.  These were songs performed by Gabe’s musician friends and including touching renditions of Gabe’s favorite tunes.  The spoken remembrances by his closest friends, young men and women who knew Gabe in many different contexts, were all deeply moving.  We learned a lot about Gabe’s larger-than-life personality, which often disguised his darker, more brooding side.

At the end of the church service, the minister invited us congregants to speak out one word that described our feeling in that moment.  The word “gratitude” arose immediately in me – gratitude for Gabe’s life, for all the people he had touched with his creativity and love, but mostly for the opportunity to share in this remarkable remembrance with his family and friends.  All my earlier resistance had dissipated.  As we marched out together into the gorgeous spring afternoon singing “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot”, I felt deeply gratified that we had come.

As our “Second Line” pedestrian funeral march continued for 4-5 blocks to the Art Park, people were talking and sharing about what we had just witnessed.  As we arrived, we were invited to gather around a large bronze sculpture that Gabe had created.  It’s called “The Messenger” and its photo had appeared on the cover of his father’s published memoir.  It’s a magnificent creation of an angelic form and it was enclosed within a four-pillared wooden structure.  We were all invited to visit this site during the wake, where we could write out our deepest heart’s desire and then offer it to the spirit of the Messenger.

The ensuing outdoor buffet supper had the feeling of a wedding reception rather than a funeral.  Everyone seemed to be in a highly sociable mood.  We met a Charlottesville couple at our table with whom we shared mutual friends and interests and happily exchanged our contact information.

As we drove home that evening, the feeling of gratitude continued to grow in me.  Celebrating a life in all its manifestations of joy and grief was indeed possible!

[Below is the front cover of my friend’s memoir, Sacred Source, with a photo of his deceased son’s magnificent scultpure, “The Messenger”]


Vultures Roosting in Our Backyard


My spouse Andrea and I returned from our annual winter vacation on the ocean in northwestern Puerto Rico in late February. We’d rented an oceanside home situated on a high cliff with a magnificent 180-degree view of the tropical Atlantic. At that elevation we were frequently at sight level with high-flying hawks, falcons, osprey, frigate birds, and pelicans. We kept binoculars handy to better track these flight-loving raptors. Burgeoning birders that we were, we’d brought our much-used guidebook, Birds of Puerto Rico, studying up on the habits and nesting preferences of each species that we identified.

Soon after returning to our home in Maryland, we started noticing a preponderance of turkey vultures around our suburban home in the early evening hours. We regarded this phenomenon with curiosity and interest. It seemed to be an extension of our two-week encounter with the sea raptors of Puerto Rico. The early March weather felt colder and harsher after our stay in the tropics, so our only venture outdoors on many days was our evening walk.

One evening we noticed that a number of the vultures were resting among the high branches of our backyard loblolly pine grove. The grove is on the northwest corner of our 1/2-acre property and consists of about a dozen tall, mature pines, planted fairly close together such that their upper branches intertwine. We noticed a few pair of vultures occupying adjacent higher branches. My only thought was, “Well, that explains what we’ve been seeing each evening!”


We’d been home for two weeks at that point and most of my interest and attention were still turned to indoor pursuits. However, I began noticing large white splatterings of bird poop on our driveway, increasing in volume and frequency as the weeks went on. I went out a couple of times with a hard-wired brush, hot water and strong detergent to clean the driveway. That experience tied me to those vultures in a different way. I began thinking of them as pests, even though my ecological mindset kept reminding me of the essential role that vultures play in our suburban environment. In addition, I’d always marveled at the site of vultures soaring in the late afternoon sky, riding thermals for the sheer joy of it. My sweat lodge teacher used to call them “peace eagles” and that’s how I tried to think of them.

Whenever Andrea and I talked about the vultures, we ended up agreeing that we had little choice but to “wait and see”. But then one evening I was standing in our backyard as the “kettle” of vultures (about 12 of them) began descending on our property. For the first time, I felt pangs of fear in my gut as I took in the size and purposefulness of these large flying creatures. They flew down in what appeared to be an orderly way, following a lead “scouting party” of three larger birds. The sight of their 3-4 feet wingspans circling our home rattled me. I experienced them as invading hordes, guests who had overstayed their welcome.

My feelings of being invaded stayed with me for a number of ensuing days. I felt hemmed in, trapped in my own home, unable to imagine a way out. I went outside one morning to another massive effluent of vulture poop, not only on the driveway now, but also on the back patio and the entire area below the pines. A strong odor emanated from that area — that of an extremely acrid urine.

That morning I rallied myself to get more information about what was happening. I sought out the “vultures” entry in Wikipedia and spent some hours learning about their nature and habits. I was particularly taken with the description of a vulture’s digestive system, which secretes corrosive acids capable of digesting the carrion that was the species’ primary diet. But nowhere in the long discussion of vulture biology did I see any mention of issues like mine.

I next googled “vultures in the suburbs” and before long, came upon an excellent story in an old Audubon Society magazine. The story detailed an event in Leesburg, VA in which over a hundred vultures had established their roosting place. The residents became perturbed and called their local officials. Eventually, city officials agreed to contract with a special unit in the U.S. Department of Agriculture to help remove the vultures. The crew came in with air-horns, fireworks and effigies of dead vultures that they hung from the trees. The vultures took flight but later returned and the whole process was repeated. Finally, they left for good.

That process seemed a little extreme to me. After all, we had a much smaller number of birds. After more searching on the Web, I found the phone number for a Wildlife Information Hotline provided by our state’s Department of Natural Resources. I called and was transferred to another line. That line had a recorded message which was actually quite informative about vultures. After carefully listening to it a couple of times, I left my number to have an agent call me.

At that point, my resolve was set. One thing I learned online was that vultures liked to roost in tall pine trees, and that they would lay their eggs there in springtime. Once the eggs were laid, the parents would warm them for up to 60 days before the little ones broke through and eventually fledged. It felt important to act before any eggs were laid.


That afternoon I went down to our basement to retrieve two large hoop drums that we had used in our many years attending sweat lodges. As the sun dropped in the west, I took the drums onto our back patio, close to the pine grove. I knew that the vultures would be returning soon, but now I was ready for them. As the first three “scout” vultures descended, I commenced playing one of the hoop drums as loudly as I could with a strong, steady beat. They soon veered off from the pines but made a large circle and returned. I continued drumming strongly but this time the lead vultures landed anyway. Even as I continued to drum, the rest of the kettle soon arrived and began settling in the pines. I persisted and began hooting and hollering as well. I took the second, larger, louder “buffalo drum” and began striking it strongly. Within a minute, one of the vultures flew away, and the rest followed in quick succession. I continued playing the drum for another 5-10 minutes, but at that point I was growing tired. My wife came out and drummed for a while and, as it became dark, the vultures failed to return. We both felt relieved and buoyed by our success.

The next evening we were out there again. Again the three lead vultures appeared and descended to their perch in the pines. But this time, the force and persistence of both of us drumming was enough to drive the lead birds away. The rest of the kettle stayed away as well.

I had a neighborhood civic club meeting to attend at 7:30 and a neighbor drove into our driveway to pick me up. As I approached his car, I heard drumbeats coming from the backyard and realized that the vultures were returning. I invited my neighbor to join me in the yard where my wife was drumming fiercely. She approached our neighbor and handed him the other drum. To my surprise, my mild-mannered neighbor started drumming with a frenzy of his own. After some time, the vultures left again and we went on to our meeting, laughing heartily at our unexpected adventure.

On the third evening my wife and I were going out to friends’ for supper. I was worried that the vultures would return, but I had an idea for keeping them at bay while we were away. I retrieved my old 1980’s “boom box” radio/tape player from our basement and set it up on the patio using a long extension cord. I pointed the two speakers straight up, put on our favorite FM jazz station, and turned the volume all the way up. It was loud! I worried about our neighbors, but it was a chilly evening and windows were closed. Our friends lived within a few miles and I reasoned that we would return early enough to avoid problems.

While telling our hosts about the situation that evening, they suggested that we use an electronic timer to control when the boom box went on and off. We implemented that the following evening, setting it to go on at 6:30p and off at 8. Using the radio/timer for the next few nights, we saw no sign of vultures and thought our problem was solved.

The man from the Wildlife Information Hotline called me back and said that I might have to be even more persistent. He said that vultures loved clumps of tall pine trees. The fact that they had been roosting there for at least four weeks before we acted indicated that they well might return. And sure enough they did. One week later, observing the beautiful dusk out our back window, I saw the lead birds descending once more to make wide circles around our house. I immediately went out with a drum and within a few minutes, they left without ever landing. That was two weeks ago and we’ve had no sighting of them since.


Thinking back over this experience, it occurs to me that my encounter with the vultures can be described in four stages: denial, awareness, acceptance, action. My initial fascination and interest in the vultures were real and important to me, yet it prevented me from realizing the effects of hosting these creatures indefinitely. Gradually, my daily observations led to an awareness that these wild creatures’ nesting at such close proximity had undeniable negative ramifications for my wife and me. It was difficult to accept the negative aspects because I am an ecologist and believe that all God’s creatures have inherent worth, dignity and purpose. By denying my negative feelings, however, I was becoming a victim of them. Accepting the unacceptability of having the vultures as close neighbors indefinitely allowed me to act. As I stood out in my yard with my drum that first evening, I felt energized and aligned with my deepest instincts. As the vultures swooped down, I felt their energy and grace and responded with my own energy, and determination. I’d grown to deeply admire and respect these creatures, and yet felt no guilt about shooing them away to a roost that didn’t impinge directly on my space. I could still affirm the Lakota Indian prayer that I’d learned in the sweat lodge — “We are all related” – AND that I had a real need to sometimes enforce a respectful distance.

John Bayerl, 4/17/2019

Legacies of World War Two in Fact and Fiction

I’ve been actively involved with a family book group since retiring from my day-job four years ago.  I’m from a family of ten post-WW2 “baby boomers”.  Many of us became inveterate readers at an early age, inspired by our book-loving Mom.  When I was looking for a book group to join in my retirement, I eventually realized that the makings of one existed right in my immediate family, in which two of my sisters had been longtime book club conveners.  It didn’t take much persuasion to recruit five of my sibs to join me in regular teleconference calls to discuss books that we take turns choosing. The group consists of three sisters and three brothers, divided by geography, but able to meet regularly via free, multi-party teleconference calls.

Our Dad was a WW2 veteran, having served as an artilleryman in the U.S. Army for the North African campaign of 1942-43, and the Italian campaign in 1943-44.  After the war, he became active in an American Legion veteran’s group and he met our mother at an American Legion function.  They courted and wed in 1946, and started a family soon after.  Unlike many veterans, our Dad spoke often of his war experiences to us.   Uncles on both sides of the family had also served in WW2, and the telling of war stories was common at our extended family’s social events.  Both our Mom and Dad lost brothers in the war.

WW2 in northern Italy, 1943-45

With this common background, it’s not surprising that five of the books we’ve chosen to read so far are set during WW2.  The one we’ve just finished discussing is the 2017 best-selling novel “Beneath a Scarlet Sky” by American writer Mark Sullivan.  It’s a brilliant piece of historical fiction set in northern Italy during the last two years of the seldom-told story of the Italian campaign.  It’s based on the real-life exploits of a late-teenage Italian, Pino Lella, whose experiences in the Italian underground are both death-defying and inspiring.  The author spent over a decade interviewing the elderly Pino Lella, fleshing out his incredible story with substantial independent research.  Sullivan was initially intent on a straight historical account, but then opted for historical fiction to better shape and fill out Pino Lella’s spellbinding stories.  The book contains a wealth of background information and description, focused around Milan from 1943 until the war’s end in 1945.  The trials and tribulations of the Italian citizenry living under the harsh oppression of Fascist and Nazi militarism are a main focus.  During our recent book discussion, I vaguely remembered our Dad talking about his involvement in the bloody battle of Monte Cassino in southern Italy in early 1944.  One of my brothers confirmed that memory, and the events of the book took on new relevance.

WW2 for French Women Living under the Yoke of the Nazis

We’ve also read together two other recent historical novels set in Europe during WW2, both by women.  The first was the 2015 sensation “The Nightingale” by the prolific American novelist Kristin Hannah.  This novel is set mostly in a French village during the Nazi occupation.  It focuses on the day-to-day lives of two sisters, both of whom serve the French Resistance in very different ways.  The older sister, Vianne, sees her husband Antoine conscripted into the French army just before the Nazi invasion in 1940.  Antoine is captured and spends the next five years in a prisoner-of-war camp.  Vianne has a young daughter and her main concern becomes tending her garden so that they will have enough to eat.  Vianne’s younger sister, Isabelle, is fiery and rebellious and an active participant in the French underground from the very beginning.  Her courage and ingenuity allow her to rise in the ranks of the Resistance, culminating in her being assigned to guide to safety Allied pilots shot down over France.  Her code name is “the nightingale”.

Ms. Hannah has said that she wanted to write the untold stories of the many women who risked their lives and families to contribute to the anti-Nazi resistance.  Like Mr. Sullivan, she spent years researching those stories, focusing particularly on that of a Belgian woman whose pilot-rescuing exploits became the basis for her story.  The older sister, Vianne, also serves the resistance by working to hide Jewish children.  Both sisters survive the war after untold risk and hardship.  The entire story is told from the point of view of the aging Vianne, living in the U.S. in 1995 and preparing for a last trip home to receive an award being presented in honor of her deceased sister, “the nightingale”.  The novel has a riveting first sentence that has stayed with me: “If I have learned anything in this long life of mine, it is this:  In love we find out who we want to be; in war we find out who we are.”

WW2 in a Small German Town in 1944

Perhaps our most memorable book club meeting to date was our discussion of the recent historical novel, “The Good at Heart”, by the German-American writer Ursula Werner.  Two of my book club sisters and I had met Ms. Werner after her intriguing presentation at the 2017 Gaithersburg Book Festival.  Her novel is based on her own family story that included a relative who had a high position in Hitler’s civilian government.  As Ms. Werner autographed our purchased copies of her book, we told her that we had a family book group and would likely read her book in that context.  Ms. Werner said that she would love to attend that book discussion and gave us her contact information.  A few months later, we emailed her with the details of the teleconference call when we would have the discussion.  Sure enough, Ms. Werner dialed into our call and offered many illuminating insights about the historical origins of the story and how she came to write it.

“The Good at Heart” takes place over the course of three days, July 18-20, 1944, in a small, picturesque German town, Blumental, near the Swiss border.  Although the town has been spared much direct combat, a sense of dark foreboding hangs like a cloud.  The story centers around the Eberhardt family whose patriarch, Oskar, is a finance minister within Hitler’s cabinet.  He has moved his family from Berlin to their simple country home in Blumental for safety purposes.  His wife and adult daughter are sick at heart over Nazism.  The daughter is involved in an underground operation to get Jews over the Swiss border to safety.  She is close friends with a radical Protestant minister (roughly modeled on Dietrich Bonhoeffer) who is even more deeply involved in the German underground.  Ms. Werner draws a carefully detailed picture of the small town and its inhabitants, some of whom are rabid Nazis, but many of whom are simple farmers and merchants trying to live their lives under harsh economic conditions.  When the Fuhrer himself decides to visit his finance minister’s town, events come to a head.  An assassination attempt on Hitler almost succeeds, but has lasting repercussions for the Eberhardts and the rest of the townspeople.

Ms. Werner’s title comes from an entry in Anne Frank’s diary: “In spite of everything I still believe that people are really good at heart.”  Ms. Werner’s family research led her to believe that her relative managed to serve as a higher up in Hitler’s government without losing his integrity or his humanity.  By casting his wife and daughter as sickened by Nazism, she makes a case that not all Germans need be implicated by the evil deeds of their leaders.  Whether one fully agrees with her or not, her novel is a richly rewarding reading experience, with carefully developed characters and an abundance of local color.  When Hitler finally arrives at Blumental, Ms. Werner is able to communicate a feeling of both his charisma and his fundamental narcissism and depravity.

The 1936 Berlin Olympics

We’ve also read two non-fiction books with stories that have WW2 as their backdrop.  The first was Daniel James Brown’s 2013 best-seller “The Boys in the Boat – Nine Americans and Their Epic Quest for Gold at the 1936 Berlin Olympics”.  The book inspired an excellent documentary film, “Boys in the Boat”, which essentially tells the same story using historical film footage.  The book documents the historic 9-man rowing team from the unheralded University of Washington which rose from a humble start in college competition to become the gold-medal winner at the 1936 Olympics.  The book painstakingly recreates a detailed picture of hard-scrabble lives in the Pacific Northwest during the depression era.  The main character, Joe Rantz, is abandoned by his parents as a teenager because they simply cannot afford to feed him.  This abandonment plagues Joe emotionally yet, with the help of a loyal girlfriend and her family, he’s able to slowly overcome his personal limitations.  The most dramatic emotional healing for Joe comes as he learns to let down his defenses, to trust his coaches and teammates, and to allow himself to give a sustained, maximum effort to a group of men who would remain connected by tight bonds on friendship for the rest of their lives,

Brown’s account of he 1936 Olympics in Hitler’s Berlin is detailed and poignant.  Hitler’s goal was to show the world the universal power and skill of his German athletes as representatives of the “master Aryan race” that deserved dominion over the entire world.  Stunning upsets in track by the African-American sprinter Jesse Owens and in the premier rowing competition by the American team from Washington state caused Hitler supreme disappointment and unbridled anger.  As an American reading the account, one can’t help but feel that these victories were prophetic of our G.I.’s victories on the battlefields when hostilities broke out a few years later.

Lasting Physical and Emotional Wounds from WW2

A book that had particular relevance to me and my siblings was Thomas Childers’ 2009 non-fiction “Soldier from the War Returning”.  In his Introduction, Childers laments “the now pervasive public view of the Second World War and its aftermath, a view that seems increasingly intent on sentimentalizing and sanitizing a conflict that killed fifty-five million people around the world and left millions more broken, either physically or emotionally”.  The book focuses on a few detailed case studies of U.S. soldiers’ war experiences as well as the experience of returning home and trying to get on with their lives.

Our own Dad, though often a good husband and father, had shown noticeable emotional and psychological effects from his years of active combat.  An aunt told me that he had spent time in an institution for the “shell-shocked” after returning home from the brutal Italian campaign in 1944.  He recovered enough to get a job, get married and start a family.  But his life was filled with stretches of melancholy, often medicated away with alcohol.  The drinking got worse over time and he slid into retirement as a full-scale, unacknowledged alcoholic.  None of us family members really understood the nature of Dad’s emotional malaise, and Childers book did a good job describing the kind of war trauma that, left untreated, yields lasting emotional scars.  Reading cases that were similar to Dad’s, I developed a better understanding, acceptance, and compassion for what he must have gone through during those terrible war years.

WW2 and Today’s “Existential Threats”

As I observe the readily apparent manifestations of climate change and read the sobering scientific assessments, I often think back to Al Gore’s challenging words at the end of his documentary film, “An Inconvenient Truth.”  After reporting on how dire the trajectory of climate change is for the human race in the 21st century, Gore argued that it’s not too late to launch a frontal assault on the problem, involving a complete re-do of energy generation away from fossil fuels.  He reminded us how dire the future of the human race looked after the Axis conquests in the first years of WW2.  But after Pearl Harbor, the U.S. under FDR responded with the fullest possible investment of human capital, money,, energy, and human blood that we were capable of.  It was enough to eventually turn the tide and defeat the Axis forces on all fronts.  We did it as a nation in WW2 when the entire world was under threat of tyranny. And perhaps we can do it again now.  That’s the legacy of WW2 that I most want to remember and affirm.

John Bayerl, 3/9/2019

More Mandalas

Circle-of-Life mandala

Circle of Life, 2/4/19

I’ve been continuing to color mandalas for relaxation and personal centering over the last few months.  In Eastern traditions, mandalas are used as a focus for meditation.  The inherent coherence of these often complex figures can help the beholder to find his or her own inner coherence within a greater unity.

Coloring a mandala requires some hours of my focused attention.  I sometimes listen to music while coloring, and even occasionally work with the TV on.  But mostly I seek to avoid distractions and simply concentrate on the pattern.  I’ve learned that I work better when I restrict my palette to just a few colors.

Early on, I noticed a positive physical relaxation when I started coloring.  Ordinarily, I have an “essential tremor” that manifests with a shaking hand, noticeable while eating or writing longhand.  When I begin coloring, the tremor miraculously disappears, no matter how long I stay with it.  My acupuncturist tells me it’s because I’m using different brain pathways.

Another enjoyable part of coloring is sharing the activity with my spouse, and showing each other our latest efforts.  I’ve also taken to photographing my finished products and sharing them with friends via text or email.

A close friends of ours, Alison Hammer, died last October after living a highly productive and creative  last five years while dealing with metastatic breast cancer. Alison introduced many of us to the art and artistry of mandalas, carrying on with her marvelous creations into her last days.  I was honored to receive a box of her favorite colored pencils as her legacy to me.

The book that my spouse and I are mostly using is called “Mandala Meditation Coloring Book”, published by Sterling Ethos in 2015.

Arrival in Isabela, 2/12/2019

Arrival in Isabela, 2/12/2019


New Years Day, 2019


5-pointed star compass


Multi-colored lotus, 1/19/19


Firmeza, 1/29/19


A Day to Remember in London

My spouse Andrea and I recently returned from a 10-day stay in London, celebrating her birthday and our 30th anniversary.  It was our first trip “across the pond” together and we enjoyed it immensely, heightened by the beautiful fall weather we were fortunate to experience there.  We rented a comfortable one-bedroom, basement apartment in the Earl’s Court area of central London, a short walk from fashionable Chelsea, and within easy bus and tube (subway) access to the entire city.

Our visit coincided with Britain’s “Remembrance Day” on Sunday, November 11 (our Veteran’s Day).  The Brits’ “remembrance” focuses mostly on the day of armistice that ended the hostilities of World War One on 11/11/1918.  The country had been marking hundred-year anniversaries of that “Great War” since 2014, and this Remembrance Day was a grand culmination of all the various memorial events that had been going on for the past four years.  We were alerted to the event shortly after we arrived on 11/8, mostly by the red paper poppies that many people wore pinned to their clothing.

On the day itself, the BBC broadcast a solemn, outdoor, morning ceremony of the laying of flowers at the Cenotaph monument in the Whitehall plaza in central London.  The Royal British Legion conducted the ceremony, featuring the royal family and all the the major political leaders of the country, along with representatives of the many Commonwealth countries who had sent soldiers to that war.  Andrea and I were glued to our large screen TV for the event, genuinely impressed with both the “pomp and circumstance” of it as well as the genuine veneration for the fallen.

It was a bright, sunny fall day so afterwards we set out for a hike to explore the nearby areas bordering the Thames river.  We were surprised at a community of houseboats on the river, reminding us of the houseboat community on the Anacostia in downtown Washington.  The Thames is an impressive river – albeit a bit narrower than our Potomac, and with bridges every half-mile or so in central London.  The sky was a brilliant blue with a few billowing white clouds, making for some magnificent vistas.

We crossed the Battersea Bridge to the southern embankment, enjoying the views and taking lots of photos.  We followed the riverside walking-path east past the Albert Bridge to the entrance to Battersea Park.  It was early afternoon and the narrowly forested riverside park had a constant stream of people of all ages and nationalities strolling on the wide pedestrian path.  We joined the stream of humanity, enjoying the relaxed, Sunday atmosphere and the fabulous views of river, trees, bridges, and the city on the other side.

Within a quarter-mile or so, we noticed a temple-like structure ahead within a grove of trees.  As we got closer, we could see that it was a pagoda, and we went over for a better view of it.  It was built on a surrounding stone platform with stone staircases on each side.  Even from the foot of the platform we could see large golden panels with engravings on each of the four sides.  An informational placard informed us that this was the Battersea Peace Pagoda, built in 1985 by a Japanese Buddhist sect per the last wishes of their dying leader, the Most Venerable Nichidatsu Fujii (1885-1985).  We were struck by the following words of this spiritual leader as engraved on the panel:

“Civilisation is neither to have electric lights, nor airplanes, nor to produce nuclear bombs.

“Civilisation is not to kill human beings, not to destroy things, nor to make war.

“Civilisation is to hold mutual affection and to respect each other.”

Each of the four golden panels near the base of the pagoda were representations of phases in the life of the Buddha, corresponding to the four cardinal directions.  I was most taken with the panel in the west, representing the Buddha’s passage into death.  He lies prone, surrounded by disciples and loved ones, with spiritual entities in the clouds above ready to receive him.

We spent some time taking in the pagoda, with its dramatic perch over the Thames, within a city in the midst of remembering the massive carnage of a world war.  We had planned to attend a Choral Evensong service across the river in Chelsea, so we re-traced our steps back to the Albert Bridge and crossed back over.  The mile-long walk through the city gave us further time to digest the experience.

Evensong is an Anglican religious service comprised of a formal set of prayers and psalms that are often sung.  St. Luke’s church in Chelsea is a towering gothic structure that has been compared to King’s College chapel in Cambridge.  The hour-long choral service we attended there was as beautiful and moving an experience of choral signing as either of us have heard.  The priest announced the theme as the honoring of all those who had fallen in war.  In addition to the gorgeous singing, we were able to take in the beauty and majesty of the church itself.

We were a bit tired by the time we finished our walk back to our flat that evening.  The sun set around 4pm there so it was dark by then as well.  After a brief rest, we had a bite to eat and went back to our TV for the BBC’s coverage of the closing event of Remembrance Day, a formal church service in Westminster Cathedral.  More pomp and circumstance, more beautiful music and stirring words. And yet, what stayed with me the most from that day was the simple message of the Peace Pagoda in Battersea Park.

“Civilisation is to hold mutual affection and to respect each other.”

John Bayerl, 12/2/2018




Angels in New York

My spouse Andrea and I recently returned from a full, satisfying 5-day sojourn in NYC. We took a round-trip bus and enjoyed a comfortable stay at a small hotel not far from the Empire State Building. The main focus of our trip was participation in two sacred ceremonies conducted by a couple visiting from Brazil whom we had known for decades.

Our bus arrived near Penn Station on September 27, just before the festival of Michaelmas begins. This festival honors the Archangel Michael as well as the angels Gabriel and Rafael, all of whom are recognized in Islam, Judaism and Christianity. The two services we would be attending over the weekend would be celebrating these angelic forces, and inviting us to recognize the possibility of their presence in our lives.

But first we had two full days to enjoy the rich offerings of New York in autumn. Our hotel’s central location on W. 29th Street and Broadway allowed us to walk to almost all the places we were to visit. As we walked our bags there from the bus stop that first afternoon, we were taken with the lively street life all around us. I appreciated this indomitable energy of the city while also relishing the relative peace and quiet of our small but comfortable hotel room once we arrived.

After settling in and resting for a bit, we headed out again around 5pm, walking west to find the High Line that we’d heard so much about. The High Line is an elevated pedestrian walkway built on an abandoned train line. It runs on the far west side of Manhattan from 34th down to 14th Streets. The walkway has wonderful gardens on either side and sports marvelous views of the Hudson River and many new high-rise buildings of unique architecture. We joined a steady throng of fellow pedestrians heading up the walkway to its northern terminus at 34th Street and were taken with the scope and vitality of the westside waterfront.

The sun was setting and our legs tiring as we trudged back to mid-town to find a restaurant. Along 34th Street we came upon a mid-size church with open doors and decided to venture in. It was Roman Catholic and a small number of congregants were praying aloud together near the main altar. We sat in a back pew and realized that the prayers were that of the Rosary of Mary being recited in French and English by black Haitian women. A glance at the church bulletin revealed that this was the church of St. Michael. The bulletin included a long statement from the pastor extolling the virtues of the “Prince of Angels” and reminding parishioners of the special Novena to St. Michael being prayed that weekend for Michaelmas. A large statue of Michael graced the church entrance and we took pictures.

Angelic Service in a Mid-town McDonalds

Our first morning in the city was cool, cloudy and drizzly. We’d reserved 11am tickets for the Whitney Museum and decided to brave the weather and walk down to it. But first we stopped off for breakfast at a nearby McDonalds on 6th Avenue. It was roomy and more nicely appointed than what we were used to. As we were enjoying our coffee and breakfast sandwiches, we witnessed an interaction that left a distinct impression.

When we sat down, I’d noticed a late-middle-aged woman busily cleaning off tables. I was taken with her graceful bearing and well-cut clothing (not the usual McDonald’s uniform). I also noticed a tall, disheveled, middle-aged man, perhaps a street person, in well-worn attire eating his meal alone at a corner table near the restroom. He appeared to be talking to himself. As I was getting up to go to the restroom, I saw him spill his large cup of coffee on himself, his table, and the floor. Within an instant, the cleaning woman rushed to his table with rags and napkins. She was calm yet attentive, helping the man dry his sopped clothing, and then calmly cleaning the table and surrounding floor. When this was completed, she returned to the table with another full cup of coffee for the man. Her manner throughout was gracious, respectful, and solicitous for the man’s well-being.

While I was waiting for Andrea to take her turn in the restroom, I got up to stretch my legs. The cleaning woman continued to move from table to table, clearing debris, and inquiring of customers’ needs. Once again, I was taken by her grace and flair. As I disposed of my coffee cup, she was emptying the trash container. I paused and said what an attentive and hard-working employee she was. She stopped for a moment and we took each other in.

She asked if I was visiting New York and I said yes, that my wife and I were there for a long weekend. She asked if we were acquainted with the High Line and I said we were planning to walk it to the Whitney just then. She nodded her approval and proceeded to recommend some of the exhibits that the Whitney was currently featuring. Surprised, I asked if she was an artist herself. She said no but that she loved New York’s galleries and museums, recommending the Frick and Pierpont-Morgan museums in particular. When I mentioned that we lived in the DC area, she nodded knowingly and said her son had graduated from Georgetown.

As Andrea and I were leaving, I said that McDonald’s was very fortunate to have such a high caliber employee as herself. She demurred, saying that she enjoyed the work and that the ongoing flow of customers was what made it so pleasing. I was utterly amazed by this encounter and kept thinking back to it during the rest of our stay: how someone could feel so satisfied and purposeful serving in such a humble job.

“History Keeps Me Awake at Night”

The Whitney Museum of American Art opened its new building in the West Village in 2015 after about 50 years on the East Side. It’s a large glass and concrete structure right at the southern end of the High Line, overlooking the Hudson river. The two exhibits that drew us were one featuring “Indigenous Space”, and a retrospective of th iconic late-20th century New York artist, David Wojnarowicz.

The first exhibit included an extended video of a woman dressed in a leopard-striped leotard, moving sinuously, sometimes seductively, about a sunlit Mayan-style Frank Lloyd Wright home in Los Angeles. The brown-skinned woman moved with the grace and ease of a professional dancer, evoking the sacred, magisterial feeling of the architecture. It was shown continuously on a large screen within an open theatre-like space. I was mesmerized and kept coming back to it. It was as if the dancer was evoking the creative spirit of an ancient Mayan spiritual entity.

The expansive exhibit of Wojnarowicz’s multi-faceted paintings and sculpture was entitled “History Keeps Me Awake at Night”. The artist was keenly involved in the social and political world of gay identity in New York during the height of the AIDS epidemic. He was a fierce advocate for people with AIDS and succumbed himself at age 38 in 1992. The breadth and vitality of his art filled almost an entire floor. I couldn’t help thinking of Tony Kushner’s play “Angels in America”, and how the scourge of AIDS had elicited both callous indifference and an immense outpouring of compassionate service.

A Night on the Town with a Fully Human Michael

A highlight of our stay was a Friday night out in Times Square. We walked up Broadway from our hotel around 5:30p. By 34th street, we were in the middle of a large crowd making our way through narrow sidewalks to the splendiferous lights and activity that represent iconic New York. We were meeting Michael, an old high school friend from Buffalo who’d arranged dinner and an Off-Broadway show for us. Our meeting place was a Thai restaurant on 48th street, a few blocks from the New World Stages where we had tickets for the long-running musical “Avenue Q”.

Michael and I have maintained an ongoing friendship since high school. He won me over by his daring and creativity when he played the part of Simon Stimson, the drunken choir director, in our high school production of “Our Town”. Andrea and I had had a fun overnight with Michael and his spouse, Suzanne, back in July. At dinner we had an opportunity to catch up.

“Avenue Q” won numerous Tony awards when it opened in 2003. The show was celebrating a continuous run of 15 years and we soon found out why. The music is upbeat Broadway at its best, and the seven characters, and their puppet friends, kept us laughing delightedly for the entire evening with their witty, irreverent, as well as heart-warming antics and songs.

Celebrations of St. Michael

Our first spiritual work was on Saturday evening at the rented Silent Mind Zen Center in Chelsea, walking distance from our hotel. We arrived early and had a chance to interact with some old friends and helped them re-arrange the space for our gathering of about 50 people.

Our visitors from Brazil would be leading the prayers, music and dancing that would comprise our celebration of St. Michael that evening. The “comitiva” (committee) of leaders included a female lead singer, a male guitarist, and an older married couple who had been pioneers and leaders in our Brazilian spiritual tradition since the 1980’s.

Saturday’s event was a special dancing work honoring the spirit of the angel Michael as channeled through the life and work of another one of our Brazilian Elders, Manoel Corrente. We first sang and danced to special hymns inspired by the life of this simple man of the Amazonian rainforest who had dedicated his life to the spiritual and material well-being of his family and community. After a brief interval, we resumed the ceremony with more singing and dancing, this time to the hymns of a man from urban Brazil, Lucio Mortimer, who had come upon a rainforest spiritual community and decided to stay and live there. One of Lucio’s hymns, “Sao Miguel”, has become a favorite of mine for both its rousing melody and spiritual message of service and devotion:

“I asked for this Light to make me clear/  I asked that I might have this Love,                            I asked for the strength to help  / All the suffering spirits of this world…

With Sao Miguel, my Archangel Protector/  I have the strength to pass every test.                I keep trusting that I’m with my Lord/ Who promised the victor a New Life.”

The second spiritual work was held the next afternoon in a beautifully decorated art studio in Brooklyn. We took the subway there and then walked a few minutes through blocks of warehouses to our destination. Once again we were early enough to share deeply with some of our old and new friends who had gathered.

This second event was a seated “Concentration” work. We sat in rows of chairs around a central altar with the comitiva seated at the altar. In addition to the singing of sacred hymns in Portuguese, we also sat in silent meditation for about an hour. Alex, the leader of the work, is a master teacher of meditation. Many of his own hymns are compact instructions for using silence and conscious breathing to quiet our minds and enter into a deeper experience of our true divine nature. Andrea and I had been singing his latest hymn for weeks. It’s called “Atencao Plena” – “Full Attention”:

“I received this message / To  be able to help you.                                                                                       If you find it beneficial/ Try to amplify it.

When people are suffering/ There is no need for alarm,                                                              Because often the pain/ Comes from the act of thinking.

So open your mind/ For pain to manifest.                                                                                   Thoughts come and go,/ There is no need to avoid them.

All this I discovered/ When I went to meditate:                                                                                 That I am not just my thoughts, / And in my Being I want to be.

Don’t give up what brings you joy,/ It is your true home.                                                                     It’s enough to acknowledge/ The trials that life brings.

Remember well this counsel/ When passing through your trials —                                        Awareness is reached/With a simple breath.”

Wings of Desire

As I sat down to write this account, I remembered a Wim Wenders film Andrea and I had seen in the late 1980’s. It’s called “Wings of Desire” and is about a group of angels who hover over Berlin, watching over the lives of the inhabitants with keen interest and compassion, and occasionally intervening. One of the angels falls in love with a lonely woman who works in the circus and decides to incarnate so that he can join her with the full range of human experience.

The feeling of that film was of a suffering human world held and cared for by compassionate angels. The cleanup woman in McDonald’s came to mind, as well as the humble life of Manoel Corrente who lived his life in service to his spiritual community. I also thought of our Brazilian teacher and friend, Alex, who had been imprisoned in Brazil during the military’s rule in the 1980’s; of how a compassionate woman who visited him in prison became his wife; and of how the two of them had raised a beautiful family while serving as leaders of a number of Brazilian spiritual communities that have continued to thrive for decades.

Riding back to Washington on the bus last Monday, my heart was filled with memories of the many blessings Andrea and I had received during that memorable weekend in New York.

Praise God!                                                                                                                                        John Bayerl, 10/11/2018



Statue of the Archangel in St. Michael’s RC Church on 34th Street



The view from our hotel window.



Celebrating Greater NY’s 11 million humans on the High Line



Two high school actors who still love live theater.



An angel appearing on 28th Street’s entire block of wholesale florists

Discovering Cognitive Resilience in My Approach to Alzheimers Risk


Shortly after retiring three years ago, I got interested in the growing field of research into some promising new preventative approaches to Alzheimers Disease (AD).  My initial acquaintance with the latest preventative drug research came via an episode of the “Nova” science show on PBS.  I was so intrigued that I immediately investigated clinical trials in the Washington, DC area where I live.  Sure enough, an NIH-sponsored trial at Georgetown University Hospital was currently open and after a few encouraging phone calls, I decided to enroll.

My interest in AD prevention is personal.  My mother was diagnosed in her early 70’s (I’m 69).  She would live almost two decades longer, suffering the ravages of Alzheimers dementia such that she couldn’t recognize any of her ten children by her late 70’s.  One of my father’s sisters was diagnosed with early-onset AD in her 50’s.

It took about four months between my first inquiry until I was called to make my first visit to Georgetown Hospital in DC.  There was a lot of preliminary paperwork as well as interview sessions with a Nurse Practitioner and various Research Assistants.  The first session confirmed my eligibility in three of the four main criteria: 1) a family history of AD ,  2) age 65 or over and 3) no indication of present cognitive impairment.  I didn’t realize it at the time, but my final acceptance was contingent on the result of a PET-scan to detect any existing amyloid plaque in my brain.  I had this PET-scan soon after my first visit to Georgetown.

I went for another visit to Georgetown about two weeks later with my required “study partner” – my wife Andrea.  The study partner was to report to staff on my ongoing, day-to-day mental performance.  To verify my mental competence, Andrea met separately with a staff person and was asked to describe any notable event we had experienced recently.  The staff person then met privately with me to ask if I could fill in some details about the reported event.  In addition, I took another battery of cognitive tests using an iPad, and person-to-person memory testing.  I was feeling pretty good about my overall mental competence at that point.

The last part of that second visit proved to be quite disturbing, however.  The Nurse Practitioner told me and my wife the results of my recent PET-scan, which had used a very expensive radioactive dye to determine if I had any amyloid plaque in my brain.  Beta-amyloid plaques are a primary indicator of the likelihood of AD.  Unfortunately, I was in the 15% of people in my age bracket who had detectable amyloid.  This bad news was deeply sobering, but Andrea, a four-time cancer survivor, reassured me by saying: “John, it’s not brain cancer!”

I spent the next few months in various stages of fearful rumination about my long-term mental status.  I kept picturing the last decade of my mother’s deterioration and contemplating the very real possibility that the same fate could be awaiting me.  I had always prided myself on my intellect.  My ego took a big hit from accepting the possibility that I might become mentally incompetent.  At some point, I had to admit my arrogance in thinking that I was just too smart for all of this.  I took some comfort from remembering that Nova television program I had been so impressed by, especially by the camaraderie of those who had volunteered for the preventive clinical trials.

I somehow hadn’t realized it, but if I’d tested negative for amyloid, I would have been eliminated from the clinical trial.  Now I had satisfied all four criteria of this new anti-amyloid drug trial, aptly called the “A4” – Asymptomatic Alzheimers Anti-Amyloid.  The test drug, solenazumab, was created by the pharmaceutical company Eli Lilly.  This monoclonal-antibody drug had proven amyloid-eliminating properties but had as yet failed to produce any statistically significant improvements in people with Alzheimers dementia. Current thinking about AD was that a brain deterioration process developed for decades before noticeable declines in cognition.  The A4 was designed for people like me who are asymptomatic despite high risk factors.  Perhaps if amyloid plaque could be removed before it had a chance to proliferate, AD dementia could be delayed, or even indefinitely forestalled.


Monthly IV Drug Infusions

I started my monthly trips to Georgetown in the fall of 2016.  I had worked in downtown DC for decades, and I was happy enough to ride a DC Metro train from my home in the outer suburbs down to Dupont Circle, from where I walked the 2.5 miles over to Georgetown Hospital.  The Clinical Trials section is on the top floor and I quickly learned my way around.  The project staff for the A4 were universally friendly and professional.

My appointments were for 10am, starting with taking vital signs, queries regarding medications and supplements, and then insertion of an IV needle.  The test drug had to be ordered from the hospital pharmacy and could take up to an hour to arrive.  The standard hospital rooms were comfortable and featured wide windows overlooking the Georgetown University campus and surrounding neighborhoods.

In addition to the IV drip, there were periodic cognitive tests.  These were pretty straightforward yet required a degree of mental concentration and stamina that I found initially quite challenging.  I found my performance improved when I stopped off for a Starbucks coffee on my way in.

The A4 is a “gold standard” double-blind drug study.  This means that 50% of participants get the test drug, the other 50% a placebo.  Neither participants nor staff knew which group any participant was in.  The IV bags themselves were labelled “Solanezumab or placebo”.  In the beginning, the 400mg infusion took only about a half-hour.  But in the second year of my participation, the dosage was increased to 800mg and then 1600mg, requiring well over an hour for the full infusion and flush.

One of the questions I was asked at the beginning of each visit was whether I was feeling any effects from the drug.  A long list of possible physical reactions and side-effects was recited.  I answered no to all these queries, and after a few months, I began suspecting that I was receiving a placebo.  Even after the dosage was increased four-fold, I still felt nothing.

I realized when I entered the trial that I had a 50% chance of getting the placebo.  I thought hard about this and decided to participate anyway.  Even if I didn’t benefit persoally, I felt that I was contributing to the greater good of scientific research.  If solanezumab proved effective, my participation would have contributed to that conclusion.  And an effective Alzheimers prevention drug could benefit the many millions of fellow-boomers who, like me, were entering their twilight years with the cloud of Alzheimers menacing the horizon.


Deciding to Opt Out of the A4

As I approached the end of my second year of participation in the A4, I began feeling burdened by the monthly outings to Georgetown. In my “retirement”, I was continuing a small counseling practice, started writing this blog, and was becoming much more active politically.  In addition, we had four grandchildren we wanted to see more, and a spiritual community that Andrea and I were both committed to.  My concern about Alzheimers was still real, and I had implemented some significant lifestyle changes to keep my mind and body active and healthy.  These included a low-carb diet, daily exercise, daily meditation, improved sleep, and conscious cultivation of new friendships and new interests.

I wanted to find out my possible genetic pre-disposition for AD, so I signed up for one of the Web-based, commercial genetic testing services.  I was chagrined to find out that I had two of the APOE4 mutations that indicated a higher likelihood for AD.  Statistically, my genetic cohort had a 27% chance of having AD dementia by age 75; 55% by age 85.  I reported this to the A4 staff and they noted it in my record without comment.

Receiving this news was a factor in keeping me participating in the A4 for a few more months. In the end though, weighing the benefits versus my increasing time constraints, I decided to opt out.  The Georgetown staff took my decision without much fanfare.  The study was currently geared for four years, but participation was completely voluntary, and participants could terminate their involvement at any time.


A New Focus:  Cognitive Resilience

I was still of two minds about continuing in the A4 when I consulted informally with a friend who is a medical research administrator and who had some expertise in the latest AD research.  He reminded me that the “amyloid hypothesis” was just that, a hypothesis.  Even though 80% or more of AD brain autopsies indicated the presence of amyloid plaques, there was no real scientific understanding of amyloid as a causative agent.  Some AD researchers regarded amyloid as part of an inflammatory response in the brain.  Removal of amyloid, in and of itself, was no guarantee that AD would be averted.  And removing it might also contribute to more inflammation.

My friend also pointed out that autopsies were revealing a significant percentage (20-30%) of mentally healthy, non-demented individuals who nevertheless had significant amyloid plaque deposits in their brains.  This puzzling phenomenon had led him to seriously doubt the efficacy of the amyloid hypothesis.

My friend shared that researchers were using the term “cognitive resilience” to describe the large set of people who, despite amyloid and family history and higher genetic risk, never manifested symptoms of AD dementia.  He noted that the research was showing that the population manifesting this resilience were mostly among those who had opted for a healthy, active lifestyle.

“Cognitive resilience” has become the mantra in my current attitude towards AD.  Much of my initial motivation for entering the A4 clinical trial was a pervading fear that I was doomed to have AD like my mother, starting in my early 70’s.  I no longer feel that sense of doom.  Though I’m still very consciously aware of my AD risk factors, I no longer shrink in fear at the prospect of dementia.  Instead, I’ve chosen to live my remaining years with hope and commitment, no matter what transpires.  As my focus on resilience grows, day by day, I’m becoming much more sanguine about my prospects for a healthy, productive aging process.

John Bayerl, 9/9/2018