Recently, I received a comment from someone online who said I should be “ashamed” of myself for promoting veganism. Shame!? I thought. What’s up with that comment? I think the person is probably ashamed of his own behavior in eating animals–other sentient beings. But anyone experiencing shame for consuming animal products doesn’t have to continue to do so. They can change. Since almost everyone consumes some vegetables–I’ve come to consider non vegan people as pre-vegans. That way I don’t have to be down on humanity. After all, I changed also–and unfortunately later in life. As a response to the comment, I thought I would post some pictures and a video from the vegan Thanks Living celebration we just attended. It was a truly joyous celebration.
For more information on my most recent novel Loving Artemis, an endearing tale of revolution, love, and marriage, click here:
This week, I decided to post a review of the biography on Alain Locke, a key figure in starting the Harlem Renaissance.
I have long been fascinated by the figure of Alain Locke – who I knew as the first African American Rhodes Scholar (in 1907), the philosopher that the civil rights leader Martin Luther King spoke about, the influential Howard University professor (the historically black university located in Washington D.C.), and perhaps most importantly (to me) as the philosophic architect of the Harlem Renaissance. Locke was known for the fact that he championed such writers as Zora Neale Hurston.
That I had heard he was gay only made him more interesting. Then I learned that the long-awaited biography of Locke was coming out written by Jeffrey C. Stewart titled, The New Negro, The Life of Alain Locke had been published in 2018. It was published by Oxford University Press and received the 2018 National Book Award for nonfiction.
Then the book arrived. I have to admit that I was daunted by its 800 pages – 878 to be exact. Also, like many people, if not most, I rarely read biographies. But once I started reading this one, I found it so fascinating that I could barely put it down – even though it is physically hard to pick up because it is so heavy. So, even if you rarely read biographies, I would suggest reading this one. It’s a real page turner and you’ll learn a lot of important historical information.
Locke – as Stewart writes – was “a tiny effeminate gay man – a dandy, really, often seen walking with a cane, discreet, of course, but with just enough hint of a swagger, to announce to those curious that he was queer, in more ways than one, but especially in that one way that disturbed even those who supported Negro liberation. His sexual orientation made him unwelcome in some communities and feared in others as a kind of pariah.”
Some of the intriguing things that I learned was that Locke was very close to his mother, in fact after her death in 1922, left him bereft, and after a stint in travelling in Europe where he could be more sexually open, and after being fired for a time by Howard University for being too vocal on race relations (although he was later hired back), he poured himself into their shared love for art and commenced on starting the Harlem Renaissance, with the idea that there was liberation in art that was African American identified.
The Harlem Renaissance loomed so large in my mind that even though I already knew that it was basically over by 1929, when the American stock market collapsed, it was rather depressing to read about it again. Harlem, long the African American section of New York City, was hit very hard by the Great Depression. The Harlem Renaissance, however, remains an important part of history – and many African American identified visual artists and writers were influenced and inspired by it long after the 1920s, as Stewart writes.
Some of the things that I learned that intrigued me was that Locke was very close to his mother and that after her death, he replicated his relationship with her to some extent with several older women who were important to him. I also found it fascinating that the campus of University of Oxford (where Locke found himself after he won the prestigious Rhodes Scholarship), was a hotbed of gay male activity – and that this was the same university that the gay legend Oscar Wilde was graduated from in 1878, three decades before Locke arrived. I also learned that Locke faced less racism in Europe. However, some of the major racist obstacles that Locke faced at Oxford were created by other American Rhodes Scholars.
Most of what I learned was that Locke, a black, gay man, faced major obstacles in his life because of racism and homophobia. Despite these obstacles he thrived, and he changed the course of history.
His life is inspiring.
Note: This piece originally aired on This Way Out (TWO), the internationally syndicated LGBT radio show.
For more information on my most recent novel Loving Artemis, an endearing tale of revolution, love, and marriage, click here:
One of the really wonderful about my vegan journey is my connection to the animals–cows in particular. I always loved cows but didn’t become a vegan until after a bad medical experience four years ago. Before then I used to take walks in the countryside and communicate with the cows, telling them that I refused to eat them. But I still ate dairy which is often referred to as “scary dairy” in the vegan world.
In addition to being linked to numerous health problems, the consumption of dairy is a deep source of suffering for the dairy cows. After the farmers (increasingly industrialized) are done impregnating them and taking their milk (which is intended to go to their babies, not humans), the dairy cows are slaughtered for the cheapest cuts of meat. This is where hamburgers come from.
Humans are the only species that drink milk from another species, and it is very unhealthy.
From a Buddhist perspective, it makes sense that what is bad for the cows is bad for the humans. But I don’t think you have to be a Buddhist to understand that. I recently visited The Cow Sanctuary which my partner and I have developed a connection to through the cows we have helped to free. The Cow Sanctuary is one of the places where I have experienced the most freedom.
As part of a larger annual Unitarian Universalist service on Rosh Hashanah and mental health, I talked about how I have been taking care of my mental health lately. The talk is on YouTube and below the video is the text.
Lately, I’ve been consciously taking care of my mental health. Perhaps this is because we are increasingly living in a toxic society—so it seems to me.
Perhaps it is because I am a writer and the flip side of having the muse come to me and insisting that I write a novel in a few months, leaves a huge swirling void inside of me, where negative emotions can and do linger.
This past summer was a particularly good one (for my writing) and a bad one for me personally as the result of going so much deeper in my work was that I felt myself to be physically depleted when I was done, which was an unusual feeling for me. I felt empty, numb, and uncharacteristically angry. The lingering effects were that I felt myself being a bit depressed or more than a bit, also unusual for me. At this point, I felt myself as being outside of my life. I felt disconnected.
Fortunately, I was able to get back on track through my routine of self-care which includes a daily walk for at least twenty minutes, avoiding all animal products, and doing a regular yoga practice. Perhaps it was my new little cat Peanut who brought me back to myself. For who can stay depressed with a morning routine of a rapidly growing young adult cat pouncing onto your chest and licking your face?
In my mid-sixties, I have come to the conclusion that I must consciously work on myself not only to survive but to thrive. All of this caring for my physical body also helps my mental health because everything is connected. After a medical scare about four years ago, I am still thankful and relieved to be healthy and to be here.
The I Am affirmations are similar to Buddhist affirmations, such as “May I be peaceful.” Except that by using the words “I Am,” the speaker and the hearer are placing themselves in the present and using positive thoughts to create what is already in them.
Now, thanks to the I Am affirmations I have found on YouTube, I have also been able to consciously raise my vibration. I can feel myself getting lighter and happier as I listen to the words.
It is thought that the I Am philosophy dates back to teachings described in sacred texts. I learned that the first recorded use of the term “affirmation” was in 1843 by the philosopher, writer, and Unitarian minister Ralph Waldo Emerson. Emerson wrote: “Every man is an affirmation of himself.”
In some of the I Am affirmations that I listen to, the announcer says, “I am patience; I am tolerance; I am good enough; I am pure love.”
I listen to the meditations some mornings; sometimes when I am doing my yoga practice; and several times I found I am meditations that lasted all night long. The words entered my subconscious and came back to me when I needed them.
Another meditation focuses on gratitude and says, “I am grateful for the air in my lungs.”
Would you all say that with me now?
“I am grateful for the air in my lungs” …
Thank you!
This is a good reminder that I am indeed grateful for the air in my lungs.
On this Jewish New Year – as always – I am also grateful to be here with you.
–Namaste–
For more information on my most recent novel Loving Artemis, an endearing tale of revolution, love, and marriage, click here:
In honor of my novel Loving Artemis, an endearing tale of revolution, love and marriage (Thorned Heart Press; 2022) being featured in the Pride issue of Jae’s Pride issue of Sapphic Bingo, I’m reposting this short section of the beginning of Loving Artemis.
It is my pleasure to bring you this opening of my novel Loving Artemis, an endearing tale of revolution, love and marriage (published by Thorned Heart Press) that I read recently at an online reading. The excerpt is on YouTube and below that is the text. The novel starts out when one of the narrators is in midlife and attends the New York Pride march in 2012. This narrator sees a woman who reminds her of an old flame in her youth in the late 1970s and she wonders what made Art (short for Artemis) Art.
Enjoy!
Grace stood on the crowded sidewalk and watched the Dykes on Bikes contingent kick off the parade. The skyscrapers on both sides of Fifth Avenue echoed the roar: rage turned celebratory. Today was their day. Pride. Motorcycles, full of motion, crawled at parade speed. Hands gripped controls at the ends of shiny handlebars. Engines revved. Rainbow flags rippled red, orange, yellow, green, blue, violet. Horizontal stripes danced. The colors represented the many nationalities and ethnic groups — all of them — in the LGBT (Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender) community. Like a telephoto lens, Grace focused in on a woman in the center of the crowd, and mirrored sunglasses stared back. The woman’s short, mahogany hair looked like it had been carved by the air, like wings. A thrill shimmied up Grace’s spine. The woman was riding slowly. but in Grace’s imagination, she zoomed. She reminded Grace of a girl from her adolescence, her lover (even though they didn’t call it that then), a girl named Art. Maybe Art had blazed through time — from high school to the present nearly three decades and a world of difference later. Art had been short for something, but Grace couldn’t remember what. Grace had known Art so long ago that it felt like a previous life; one that Grace never talked about. No one knew about her past except Thalia, Grace’s partner of twenty-four years. Thalia was a compassionate person. She almost always saw the best in everyone. Her voice lilted. Her hair fell to her shoulders in a cascade of loose curls of silver and shades of blond and brown. Beyond salt and pepper, her hair resembled shades of light. When Thalia looked up at Grace, her hair framed her face. Her crown caught the light and a halo appeared. When Thalia listened intensely, her deep-set blue eyes enveloped Grace. One time, when Grace mentioned that “No one believes me when I talk about my past.” Thalia responded by saying somberly, “I believe you.” In that moment, Grace relaxed into herself. Thalia made her feel understood. She was safe with Thalia. Grace never mentioned her past, even to her friends. She made sure never to tell her students. What kind of example would that set? Grace hadn’t used drugs for years and dealing them was in her past. She had come to understand that life was too precious to risk. She had seen firsthand that actions had consequences. Even Thalia had her limits. Before becoming involved with Grace, she had been involved with a woman who had a drinking problem and who got involved in messy situations. Thalia made it clear that the relationship hadn’t lasted long. Grace knew she was lucky
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I am delighted to bring you this excerpt from my novel Loving Artemis, an endearing tale of revolution, love and marriage (published in 2022 by Thorned Heart Press) that was recently published in the anthology Favorite Scenes From Favorite Authors, from I Heart Sapphic Books. I am particularly enthusiastic about this excerpt because it was inspired by the Lesbian poet Sappho. The excerpt is called “The trees blushing”
“Blurb:
Artemis found the love of her life when she met Linda, but their passionate relationship fizzles when Artemis lands herself on the other side of the law. Pulling the pieces of her life together, Artemis rekindles her relationship with Linda, and together they raise a daughter.
Meanwhile, Grace, running from her past, starts a life with Thalia. At a pride parade, Grace spots someone who reminds her of Artemis, who she was briefly involved with in her youth. Old feelings are rekindled. A lifetime of rejection, abandonment, and fleeing rears its head. Now she must come to terms with her past, put her relationship with Artemis to rest–or risk losing everything.
Artemis and Grace embark on a journey of revolution, love, and marriage and discover that love finds us when we least expect it.
Tell us about this scene:
Art (Artemis) and the love of her life Linda take a motorcycle ride to the nearby quarry where they make love for the first time.
Why did you choose this scene as your favorite?
This scene is heavily influenced by my reading of the ancient Greek poet Sappho (who lived on the Island of Lesvos).
* * *
Excerpt:
(from chapter ten)
They got back on the bike. Art turned the key in the ignition and pulled forward slowly. This was where Art had come with her old girlfriend Allison. They had been on foot then, that first time when they hid behind the trees and called out to each other with lines from A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Art remembered the light shining through the trees, the way it did now as it danced on the ground around them. It was summer then. Now, red, orange, and brown leaves covered the path. Art felt the bump of tree roots under the tires. She brought the bike to a halt. She sat there for a minute, feeling the warmth of Linda behind her: the inside of Linda’s thighs cupping her ass; Linda’s arms hugging her waist. Art had been thinking that it didn’t get better than this. But now she knew it did — and it would. The difference between the time that she first came here with Allison and now, coming here with Linda, was that Art had been here before. She knew what she was doing. But she wanted it to be Linda’s idea. Linda got off the bike first. She walked to a log next to the path and sat down.
“I can see the lake from here,” said Linda. The back of her head was toward Art. Her windswept hair fell over her jacket collar.
“Come on over.” Art swung her leg over the bike. She put down the kickstand and stood there for a moment, holding the handlebars until she made sure that the bike was on steady ground. Then she walked the bike to the side of the path — beyond the log where Linda was sitting.
A narrow trail shot off from the path. It looked familiar. Art walked over to the log. “You can see the lake from here,” Art said. “I never realized that before.”
Linda scooted closer to Art. “You know the first time I walked into school with you, the girl sitting next to me in homeroom asked, ‘Who’s that cute guy with the motorcycle?'”
Art looked at her.
“Art is a guy’s name,” Linda explained.
“It’s short for Artemis,” answered Art. “My mother’s Greek. Artemis is a goddess from Greek mythology.”
“Yeah, the goddess of the hunt. She was always my favorite,” replied Linda, looking at Art perceptively. “I think it’s cool that you’re Greek.”
Art looked into Linda’s green eyes. The woods were shady. Afternoon light filtered through red and orange leaves. Linda’s eyes blazed into Art’s.
“You would make a cute guy,” Linda continued.
Art was drawn into the green vortex of Linda’s eyes. Art’s arms and legs trembled and tiny flames scorched her skin. She opened her mouth slightly to say something, but speech eluded her. Linda leaned in and kissed her. Art kissed her back. Linda’s lips felt as soft as moist rose petals and she smelled like musk oil. Art didn’t know if Linda wore perfume or if the scent came from her own body. A breeze rustled the leaves. Art’s heart trembled. This wasn’t the first time she kissed a girl, but this kiss felt different. A universe opened between them. Their tongues found new language. Soon, Art drew back. Linda looked radiant, as if the moon and stars were glowing inside of her. Still speechless, Art remembered that there was something she wanted to say.
Words formed on her lips: “But I’m not a boy. I’m a girl.”
“A smart girl,” whispered Linda. “I like that.”
This time, Art leaned in and kissed Linda. Their hands were everywhere. They came up for air, stood, and stumbled ahead on the path. They turned down a narrow path and found a large mossy patch that looked inviting. Art thought she had been here before with Allison, but she wasn’t sure if this was the exact place. Now, here with Linda, it was new. They were standing, kneeling, lying on the ground, rolling, touching. It was too cool a day to take off their clothes, but, as it turned out, it didn’t matter. There would be plenty of time for that later.
Art rolled on top of Linda. Excitement sparked in her groin and danced throughout her body. Her fingers tingled. Her tongue entwined with Linda’s. When they were done kissing, Art drew back and looked at Linda. Her hair was the deep red of autumn apples. Her skin was radiant. Shifting her weight, Art thrust her thigh against Linda’s crotch.
Linda groaned. “I’ve wanted to do this ever since I got on your bike with you,” she whispered.
Art had wanted to do this ever since she set eyes on Linda. She wanted the bike more than anything, but she wanted Linda just as much. Maybe Linda was the reason she bought the bike. Yiayia (her Greek grandmother)would have understood. The wind blew harder and the leaves rustled. A distant roaring filled Art’s ears. Linda moaned and writhed under Art, as Art rubbed her crotch in a circular motion on Linda’s thigh. Cries overflowed from her throat. A humming filled her ears. The moss felt like moist velvet under her fingertips. It was chilly, but Art was filled with warmth. She rolled to the side.
As she lay there, her arms circling Linda, she imagined that the red and orange leaves looking down at them were the trees blushing.
Here is the link to the free anthology on BookFunnel:
One of the things that is wonderful about being an author is that I hear from people all over the world that the worlds that once lived in head are meaningful. Of course, this is often influenced by events that have actually happened as is the case with Loving Artemis, an endearing tale of revolution, love and marriage published by Thorned Heart Press.
I was really touched by this review from Kira who is associated with The Sapphic Book Club.
Loving Artemis wasn’t exactly what I expected – but I think it was what I needed. The book is divided into three main sections; one in roughly modern day, one from Art’s perspective about her life growing up, and the last from Grace’s perspective in high school. While it wasn’t until the last section that I really understood how they all tied together, I found that the focus on each character individually created a more balanced narrative about queer youth and the lasting impact of early relationships.
Art, short for Artemis, wants to become a person of her own design, rather than the housewife that her family (and society) believe lies in her future. Grace, on the other hand, begins discovering who she is through a variety of factors- a disastrous trip with a friend, a school project, and a chance encounter with Art. Although these two are only together for a short period of their lives, they both end up living through a particularly eventful period in the American gay liberation movement.
Throughout the book, academia and academic pursuits offer a window into the changing world, even as Art and Grace are caught up in the trials of their own lives. Passing references to Stonewall, Loving v. Virginia and Obergefell v. Hodges, Defense of Marriage Act, and other monumental events are discovered in classes and headlines, providing a contextual backdrop that is just as compelling, if not more so, than the protagonists journeys.
Everything and everyone- Art, Grace, their lives, and the movement for equality- come together at the beginning and end of the book at New York Pride. In the midst of a celebration and memorial of their struggles, resolution abounds. As much as I know that we are not, and likely will never be, finished with the fight for equality, Loving Artemis ends in a way that makes me believe that will be possible, if only for a short while.
To read my post first published by The Sapphic Book Club, click here.
For more information on my most recent novel Loving Artemis, an endearing tale of revolution, love, and marriage, click here:
Yesterday I learned that one of the admirable traits of chickens is that they are excellent mothers. That’s where the saying comes from. Once when I met a chicken who had just laid an egg, I could tell by her behavior that she was protecting her babies. To read more about my encounter with a chicken, click here.
This past week, I’ve been listening to The Food Revolution along with hundreds of thousands of people around the globe who are interested in moving to a plant-based diet for their health, for the animals and for the planet.
One of the other things that I learned about chicken is how many — if not most — are bred to gain weight quickly so that it is more profitable to slaughter them for humans to eat them.
It is my theory that when people eat animals that are bred to be larger, it makes people gain weight more rapidly — leading to and increasing the obesity epidemic.
Two and a half years ago, I went to a healthy plant-based diet primarily for health reasons. One of the things that made me give up chicken was a brochure that my acupuncturist gave me that detailed that chicken is loaded with bacteria including the bacteria that comes from eating chicken that is packaged in the juice from its feces. That brochure was all it took.
What I learned yesterday while listening to The Food Revolution, the information that learned about the bacteria in chicken and the way that chickens are treated was even more hair raising.
The end result was that listening to The Food Revolution made me so glad that I have moved to a plant-based diet. I am thankful also that my partner has made this change with me.
Both of us feel great!
To learn more about my novel THEY, a biblical tale of secret genders (published by Adelaide Books New York/Lisbon), click here.
To learn more about my latest published novel — The Unicorn, The Mystery, click here:
The following is an excerpt from my novel Cinnamon: a dairy cow’s path (and her farmer’s) to freedom
Ainsley knocked on the door of the ramshackle house. There was no answer.
“Looks like she’s not there,” shrugged Ainsley. “I forgot our bag of treats. I’m going back to the pickup.”
The largest cow I have ever seen, stuck her head over the fence and mooed softly at me. I moved closer to the wooden fence and put my hand out to stroke her furry nose. We were about the same height. Her hair was longer than any of my cows. Its glossy sheen reflected the sun.
I had heard that most cows would naturally have horns. Milking cows were dehorned at birth. I never did it – even though I did see it on my parent’s farm. When I was young, I once saw a farmhand take a saw and cut the horns off a spindly legged heifer. I felt very sad and ran home to ask Papa why they did it. He replied that they did it because it always had been done.
Someone had forgotten to dehorn this cow when she was a calf – or maybe they thought it would be a novelty to have a cow with horns.
“I see you found Beatrice, or maybe she found you,” said a smiling woman with high cheekbones who came up behind me. She had short blunt cut sandy brown hair. The ends of her hair brushed the collar of her red and black checked flannel shirt. There was something arresting about her. She had the radiant look of someone who was at peace with herself.
“You must be Helga,” I said, smiling back.
“Yes,” replied Helga. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to greet you when you came in, but I was in the back feeding the pigs.”
I smiled when she said ‘pigs.’ There were pigs here.
“I can’t wait to meet them,” I commented.
Beatrice was sniffing my palm. She seemed to be expecting something.
My partner went back to the pickup, I said. “We left our bag of treats in the truck.”
“Treats are good,” said Helga. “Let’s get in my truck to go into the sanctuary. Then we’ll swing around to get your partner. We’ll visit the cows first and then the pigs.”
“Sounds good,” I replied.
Beatrice snorted as I pulled my hand away.
“Beatrice is a Brahman cow,” Helga told me as she heaved the gearshift of her green pickup. The truck was a model that dated back probably two decades. Old-style locks jutted from metal doors.
“She’s larger than most. Everybody thinks that Brahman cows are enormous but the females, on average, are just the same size as the Holstein. Obviously, she’s a little bigger than the rest,” pointed out Helga.
We picked up Ainsley in our silver pickup parked on the shoulder of the road in front of Helga’s house. Introductions were made. Helga explained to Ainsley that we had been talking about Beatrice, the Brahman cow, who greeted me.
Helga motioned with her arm and pointed to Beatrice. The cow had turned away from the fence and was trotting toward us.
“She’s very affectionate,” remarked Helga. I just fed her, so it’s more than treats that she wants.
“Wait a minute,” said Ainsley, “I brought something for her.”
Ainsley reached into a large vinyl bag, rummaged around, and produced a burlap bag full of sliced apples.
I was squished in the middle of the front seat in the cab.
“Go ahead,” said Ainsley, drawing back so I could reach my arm out the window.
Beatrice’s lips were cool and moist against my flat hand as she nibbled on the apple slices.
Two months after Mama had died, I was still moping around the house. The farm no longer interested me. I couldn’t go into the pasture, and I couldn’t open my mail. The mail was mostly bills anyway.
I had told Ainsley about the cow sanctuary months ago when Candace had first told me about it. Ainsley said nothing at the time – I took this as a comment about Candace. But apparently Ainsley had enough of my moping around after Mama’s passing and insisted that we take a day trip to the cow sanctuary.
I agreed, although inwardly I groaned and thought, Not more cows.
I had been curious about the sanctuary – but mostly I came because Ainsley suggested it. Ainsley had given up on job hunting and seemed happier.
Now that we were here, I was glad we had come. It was only a two-hour drive south of our farm, but it felt like a different world. There was a feeling of peace at the sanctuary, and it evoked another emotion in me that I couldn’t yet identify. I just knew that it felt expansive. I had the feeling of being larger than myself – and of being at peace in the world.
Plus, I really liked Helga.
“Most people think of bulls when they hear about Brahman cattle. Normally, I don’t like to use the word ‘cattle’ because it sounds so impersonal and it’s almost as bad as ‘livestock.’ These cows aren’t livestock. None should be. The cows who live here have their own personalities. They’re as unique as people. They’re like pets to me, but — really — they’re more than that. They’re beings.”
I nodded along with Ainsley.
A silence hung in the air indicating that it was our turn to talk. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, but Helga broke it.
“So, tell me what brought you here?”
She stopped talking. Awkwardness hung in the air. There was so much that I could tell her, that it had all started with Cinnamon spying on me – or how I had nursed Spice back to health only to realize that she would be sent to slaughter in a few years. I couldn’t tell Helga that I thought Cinnamon was trying to talk to me. Helga might think I was crazy. I had just met her and didn’t want her to think I was irrational. I could tell Helga that I was here because nothing made sense any more since my Mama had passed. But if I told Helga that, I might break down crying and I didn’t know her well enough to risk looking like a mess. There were many things, I could say about why we were here. But I knew with a sinking sensation that at the bottom of things, I was a traditional dairy farmer. I was the enemy.
“Oh, we just needed a change of scenery,” answered Ainsley breezily. “Plus, we’re going vegan, and we heard about what you are doing, so here we are. I was wondering, Beatrice is so unusual – where did she come from?”
I looked at Ainsley lovingly — and gratefully.
“There’s a Hindu cow sanctuary about an hour away that’s going out of business. The owner is retiring so he sent his cows to live at several different sanctuaries. It was hard to break up the herd but at least they are safe, and Beatrice seems to like it here.”
“I’ve heard that Hindus worship cows,” I said.
Yes, many Hindus do worship cows. They consider cows the sacred caregiver. As I see it, the cow is the sacred feminine. Strict Hindus don’t eat meat or animal products. They are essentially vegans even if they don’t call it that. Of course, strict Hindus also oppose the rights of women – which doesn’t make sense.”
Ainsley and I both nodded.
“But they are right when it comes to the sacredness of cows. You’ve heard the saying ‘Holy Cow!’ – well that goes back to the cattle cults in Northern Africa. You may have heard of the goddess Hathor in ancient Egypt. She was often represented as a cow and there is evidence that she was worshipped for nearly 3,000 years.”
There was silence in the cab as Helga navigated the ruts of the pasture. As we lurched in our seats, I looked out the window. There were clumps of cows here and there, standing together. Some stood close – flicking each other with their tails — the way that Cinnamon and Spice did.
There were two mama cows standing side by side with their calves at the far end of the field. “The mother cows and their calves like to keep their distance,” said Helga as she followed my gaze. “I guess they feel like they are in their own little world.”
“Are there just female cows here or do you have male cows, too?” interjected Ainsley.
Helga laughed. It was the kind of laugh that filled the air with the sound of chimes. It was the kind of laugh that was genuine. Even her laughter was serene. She seemed to love what she did. I tried to imagine her doing something else but couldn’t.
“We call male cows bulls. Sometimes they are called steers – but that sounds too much like a steakhouse. We don’t have bulls yet, but we might have some soon. I got a call from an older farmer who wants to give me two mama cows and their male calves – who, of course, will grow into bulls. Before I take them, I have to build a fence in the pasture to keep the bulls and the cows separate.”
Achoo. I sneezed.
“I don’t have a cold,” I said after I had wiped my nose on a tissue that Ainsley magically presented to me. “But sometimes I have allergies. But I have noticed in the past month since I’ve given up dairy that my allergies are much better.”
“Dairy does tend to make people have excess mucus – not to mention what the hormones do. There are natural hormones in dairy – lactating mothers produce estrogen – plus most cows have unnatural hormones injected into them to make them grow bigger and give more milk.
I’m surprised that more people haven’t wised up. Eating dairy isn’t only supporting the industry that kills cows. It hurts people too.”
I nodded.
“Sometimes, the tree mold is bad here,” continued Helga. “We’ll stay away from the forest – but you can see it at the back of the pasture.”
I turned my head and looked in the direction where she was pointing.
“But I don’t see a fence in front of the trees,” I said.
“That’s because the forest is part of the pasture,” responded Helga. “The cows like to go back there and sit in the shade – especially when we have a hot day.”
I kept looking.
“I see several shadows that look like cows!” I exclaimed.
“Oh, that’s probably Robin and Cindy. Those are the ones who like to sit under the trees closest to the clearing. Unlike most Holsteins – which are black and white – Robin and Cindy are mostly black. That’s why they looked like shadows to you.”
Helga certainly knew her cows.
“It sounds like all of the cows in your herd have names,” remarked Ainsley.
“Of course, they do,” responded Helga. If they don’t have names when they come here, I give them names and I tell them that they are safe here and are going to live out their natural life spans. A cow can live from fifteen to twenty years. I’ve even heard of some that are older than that when they die.”
Helga sounded like she was reassuring herself that they could live longer. I imagined that she had certain special cows that she was especially fond of. A cow was a big pet to get attached to and fifteen to twenty years – I’d heard that some cows even live longer when they’re allowed to — was a long time.
I smiled reassuringly. I didn’t have a chance to speak since Helga kept on speaking after her pause.
“We’ve been here long enough that several cows have died of old age. And the other cows, particularly the ones those close to the deceased, mourn their dead like people do. I’ve seen cows shed tears, bellow, and search for their loved ones. When I worked on a dairy farm, I saw cows grieve for their calves for days. Boy calves on dairy farms are taken away and turned into veal. The mamas are also separated from their female calves. The mama cows have to go right back to milking, and their babies are brought up to be milked right after they get pregnant for the first time. It’s a barbaric system. One day I couldn’t do it anymore, so I quit. And here I am.”
I said nothing. I was feeling very guilty. First, I was wondering how many cows I had sent away to an early demise. We had always kept the cows until they were about five – because the slaughterhouses paid more for the younger ones. This meant that I had sent away more than I could count who were at least ten years away from the age they would die of natural causes — if they had been allowed to live.
Of course, this practice had started before I was an adult and in charge. Mama and Papa had sent the cows away after three milking cycles – just as their parents had done. At the thought of my parents who had died recently, I swallowed a sob.
A wave a guilt washed over me again. Despite that I was hurting, I had taken many lives. Despite that I wanted things to be different, I still felt guilty. I felt guilty because I was guilty. I had been complicit in many deaths – I had personally made the decision and signed the contracts for the cows to be sent away – for a price. I had blood on my hands.
As the sole living representative of generations of dairy farmers, I was even more complicit.
For a moment as this guilt enveloped me, I felt like I was drowning. Like a drowning person, I felt helpless. What was I going to do!? I felt so guilty that I could’ve screamed. I could have demanded that we leave the sanctuary – I could have defended the actions of Papa and Mama and their parents before them. I could’ve spent the ride home defending my right to the land and to continue to do things as they always had been done.
Instead, I decided to come clean. There was something about this place that demanded honesty and I knew I would feel better if I told the truth.
I saw that Ainsley was going to say something and come to my rescue again.
This was noble but unnecessary. I could come to my own rescue.
“I should tell you,” I confessed to Helga, “that I’m a dairy farmer – a conventional dairy farmer. I ran – run – a farm that’s been in my family for generations.”
I watched Helga’s eyes narrow as I talked. I knew she would be suspicious of me. After all, I was the enemy. But I kept talking. I told her about my cows Cinnamon and her friend Spice – how I suspected that Cinnamon was trying to talk to me and how I realized after nursing Spice back to health that I had only saved her to send her to slaughter in a few years. I didn’t care anymore if she thought that I was crazy. I told her that Mama had died—that Papa had died a few years ago, that I was an only child, and that nothing made sense anymore. When I told Helga this, I didn’t break down. I only suppressed a few sobs.
When I told Helga that I was unhappy, she looked at me very sadly.
She gave me a few moments to collect myself and then started asking me some very specific questions. I told her that my farm was a small one – twenty acres.
“How many cows do you have?” she asked.
“Forty-five,” I said, “oh, I mean thirty.”
Fifteen cows had been sent away, but I tended not to think about it. Actually, I had tried to block the knowledge of this out of my mind. But the cows were old enough to be sent away to be slaughtered, and I had needed the money, so they went. Even though the slaughterhouse sent the trucks at the dead of night, it had still happened.
I felt very guilty.
When Helga asked me if the land had been passed down to me and if it was paid for free and clear, I nodded.
“There’s no reason to feel bad about the past,” said Helga sadly.
“We all have regrets. But if you just feel bad about what’s been done, then you’re stuck in those feelings, and you can’t move forward.”
Helga smiled at me sadly. I took a breath and tried to smile back, but I found myself tearing up.
Helga took a breath with me. We sat in silence.
Ainsley was silent too.
“You can do this,” said Helga after a few moments of silence had passed. “You can change things. You can make life better for the cows and for yourself. It will be easier than you think it will be.”
I nodded.
The only thing I didn’t tell her was that Mama had left me some money. It wasn’t a lot. But my parents had always been frugal so there was more than I thought there would be. There was enough to provide me with a buffer so that I could make a change. I didn’t tell Helga this, because I thought it bad form to talk about inheriting money. To many, it was a sore spot. Someone else got what they thought they deserved or there was nothing when they thought there would be something. But I never thought about the future in terms of inheriting money. I didn’t expect my parents to die — and I hadn’t wanted my parents to die.
Suddenly I knew what the sensation was that I had been feeling – the expansiveness. It wasn’t the size of the land or the azure sky above us. It wasn’t that this was my favorite time of year – with the leaves starting to turn and the crickets singing.
The expansiveness I felt was freedom. The cows were going to live out their natural lifetimes – they were going to live for as long as God intended. This opened the future for me too. I would have a purpose and that purpose was to stop the killing – or at least part of it. Maybe it was small, but it was something.
I took a deep breath and smelled hope.
To learn more about The Cow Sanctuary, click here.
To learn more about my most recently published novel — The Unicorn, The Mystery, click here:
The basic theme, it seems to me, is the nature of wisdom and how to use it. Both the monk and the unicorn see themselves as wise yet are filled with inconsistencies as we all are…
We also get a discussion about the church through the views of two nuns. They are a couple who feel that their religion sees their relationship as sinful. Through then we become more aware of how Christianity sees morality and truth giving us a lot to think about.
—Amos Lassen
Mason, Janet. “The Unicorn, the Mystery: A Novel”, Adelaide Books, 2020.
The Seven Tapestries
Amos Lassen
A Unicorn shares the story of the seven tapestries in Janet Mason’s “The Unicorn, the Mystery”. The tapestries are known as“The Hunt of the Unicorn” and date back to the 1500s and can be seen in “the Unicorn Room” in The Cloister in Manhattan, part of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Together they tell the story of an “unsolved mystery” that occurred in an abbey in France near the place where the tapestries were discovered. The unicorn while being pursued by hunters spends its time observing birds, smelling and eating the abbey flowers and fruits including fermented pomegranates. It chases chaste maidens and even speaks to other animals. A monk shares the unicorn’s story with the mystical animal.
The basic theme, it seems to me, is the nature of wisdom and how to use it. Both the monk and the unicorn see themselves as wise yet are filled with inconsistencies as we all are. As the unicorn views the tapestries, we see a reflection on life during different periods yet time demarcations are not noted. We also get a discussion about the church through the views of two nuns. They are a couple who feel that their religion sees their relationship as sinful. Through then we become more aware of how Christianity sees morality and truth giving us a lot to think about. To me, this is the purpose of literature—- thinking about what we have read after we close the covers of a book.
Mason very cleverly brings together questions of religion and theology with some wonderfully drawn characters that deal with issues that we all face in our lives. Her prose is gorgeous and her storytelling had me turning pages as quickly as possible once the plot began. I have always loved the medieval period but it had been a while before I read a book about the period. The union of myth and history is spellbinding and I really loved looking at the emotions of redemption and love and lust and insecurity. I have been a fan of Janet Mason since I read her book “Tea Leaves” and my respect for her writing is firmly cemented by “The Unicorn, The Mystery”.
The Unicorn, The Mystery is available online wherever books are sold, through your local bookstore, and through your local library (just ask the librarian to order the book if they don’t have it).
To learn more about my recently published novel — The Unicorn, The Mystery, click here:
Janet Mason, author 