A University of Permanent Culture

Thinking thirty to fifty years into the future stretches and expands your thoughts and lifts you beyond the illusion of permanent emergency created by disaster-based government.  My father, John E. Sarno, MD, saw patients until he was 89 and retired only because the old NYU Bellevue Institute of Physical Medicine and Rehabilitation was torn down around him.  At 65, I figure I have another 30 years productive life.  In these first few months of my father’s legacy, I pray for guidance, what to do with the next 30 years?  Here are three answers:

One.  Music Garden Press 

The Music Garden Press continues to offer publications:

Greensleeves, An Historical Novel of the First Irish Diaspora (2006)

Woodcarver’s Wife, A Tale of Pot, Passion, Patriots, and PTSD (2016)

Compact Discs:

American Man, Freedom Songs from the Peace Line (2013)

Arctic Child Suite, Lindianne at the Piano (2014)

Variations on Greensleeves & Nine Original Tunes for Folk Piano (2003)

On November 24-25-26, ReadAlaska Book Fair at the Anchorage Museum, Music Garden Press re-issues Understanding Music, first published in 2006.

Also at ReadAlaska Book Fair, Music Garden Press introduces a booklet series:  A health report on genetically modified organisms, popular title The Truth about Genetically Modified Foods.

Announcing subscriptions to the Wisdom Cookbook, how to keep family and community alive in this genocidal era of genetically modified foods.

Two.  University of Permanent Culture

The Urantia Book assures us earthlings that no matter how fearsome the age of war and empire, every planet, without exception, eventually settles in light and life.  A necessary condition for this age of peace is an administration of permanent culture.  I am founding the University of Permanent Culture, closely allied with Urantia’s permaculture movement, to accept souls in groups of 12-15, called work/study units.  Individuals are guided to an appropriate work/study unit, for example veterans units, multi-generational family units, youth cohort units, refugee units, immigrant units.  Each unit is qualified through a season of hands on activities and then connected to a music garden.

I personally will take the Alaskan permaculture design course this winter and hope to teach a workshop in human manure compost & vermiculture.  I had taken the permaculture design course in Tucson ten years ago, and came away from the course with a competency in drylands gardening.  But sub-arctic permaculture is far different from drylands permaculture.  To initiate the University of Permanent Culture here in Alaska, it will be good to begin as a humble student of sub-arctic permaculture.

Alaskan Institute for Creative Studies – This arts/agriculture/spiritual/scientific institute currently led by G. William Merritt, is renewing its Gurdjieffian roots.  I will join the board in October 2017.

My next thirty years I intend to braid these three organizations together to offer humanity an administration of permanent culture, a formula that can be replicated anywhere on earth where there is sunlight.

Thanks to my father’s bequest, Lindianne’s Music Garden has landed in Homer out past Fritz Creek, on 1.22 acres of south-facing gently sloping land with a spring.  Thus far the music garden has a modest culvert, rock and gravel driveway built by Greg Collins to lift visitors over the deep ditch on Finch Avenue.  Later this driveway will expand to a semicircle.  This winter in Anchorage, G. William Merritt and I will refurbish the tiny home he built in 1963 with his father.  In spring we plan to deposit this tiny home on the land, and begin a season of work to build greenhouse, chicken coop, composting bins, chicken runs, raised bed gardens, develop the spring, dig root cellar, set up rainwater harvesting, harvest, process & store first year’s harvest, participate in Homer Farmer’s Market, and establish foundation of cob home.  In 2018 this Music Garden will host the pioneer work/study unit of the University of Permanent Culture.

Hope for Refugees: Permanent Settlements, Permaculture Ethics

In the summer of 2017, more than 22.5 million refugees seek refuge on our planet.  Refugees are individuals and families, often entire neighborhoods, forced by war or by nature, by flood or by fire, to leave their country, fleeing war, persecution, and natural disaster.  Refugees are protected under international law, but predatory inhospitable jurisdictions exist.  Millions of today’s refugees wait or languish in dire circumstances.

War creates refugees. Drought and coastland change create refugees.  Tyrannous ideas create refugees. Tyranny traffics in children, inflicts pestilence for profit, spreads fear, stifles local initiative, preys upon families, sabotages productive enterprise.  Millions of souls hunger for a formula of deliverance.

Today’s refugees have reasons for hope, because there exists a working formula of deliverance: Permaculture Ethics. Globally, in every country of the world, an exponentially growing number of families and communities are adopting Permaculture Ethics: Earth Care, People Care, Re-invest Surpluses in Earth Care and People Care.  The Earth Care, People Care, Re-invest Surplus ethic helps settled communities to absorb nomadic families and enables nomadic peoples to build settled communities.

In down to earth terms, walk with me into a refugee camp.  From a permaculture point of view, positive resources abound in this refugee camp:

people = spiritual riches + hands and hearts for Earth Care and People Care,

children + youth = cultural flowers to be nurtured

families = building bricks of civilization

stories of courage + persistence = truthful foundations of cultural progress

land = space and soil to grow healthful food and sturdy people

human manure = biological + agricultural riches

sunlight = energy riches

water = life

Earth Care starts with water harvesting.  Water is Life.  Permaculture harvests water by digging swales (water harvesting ditches) on contour and filling them with mulch.  On the banks of the swales, plant soil-building trees like mesquite, fruit and nut-bearing trees and shrubs.  The swales catch every raindrop and create a lens of water under the land.  This harvested rainwater is the foundation of the permaculture economy, enabling a community to steward gardens, compost food scraps and human manure with local vegetative waste, grow food in composted soil, plant fruit and nut orchards, keep chickens and livestock.

Earth Care and People Care can occur anywhere, urban or rural, wealthy enclave or refugee camp.  The global permaculture network is growing exponentially. Thanks to the Internet, people in every country on earth are flocking to permaculture design courses and community projects because permaculture offers exactly what refugees, immigrants, and the unemployed seek: permanent settlements grounded in Nature, settlements ethically designed to stabilize, enrich, develop, and increase the biosphere—which includes and values people as an essential component.

Such work goes beyond relief for refugees.  Permaculture builds a permanent soil and water foundation for planetary regeneration and economic production.  The perma-cultured refugee camp becomes a prosperous settlement, a garden of water harvesting, human manure composting, perfect sanitation, and food production.   Economy radiates outward, greening the lands around the settlement.

Check out permaculture, especially the teachings of Geoff Lawton!  There is hope for refugees.

(The author emigrated five times, from New York to Washington, Oregon, Tucson, Mendocino, and Alaska.  I live by permaculture ethics and consider myself a refugee.)


Memoir of My Father John Ernest Sarno, MD

Memoir of My Father John Ernest Sarno, MD

Lindianne Sarno

June 28-29, 2017

Written at Mattituck, Long Island the week of his funeral

First memory, primal: the texture and weave of Dad’s tweed jacket.  I was snuggled in Dad’s lap.  Dad smoked cherry tobacco.  The aroma was sweet when he smoked and when I opened the tin in Dad’s absence to sniff his unsmoked tobacco.  I examined Dad’s corncob pipe and the carved wooden pipes Dad kept on a stand by his reading chair.

In 1957 the doorbell rang at our home in Fishkill, New York.  Dad opened the door.  Grandpa John Sarno stood on the stoop, saying, “I gotta nice piece-a fish!”  Both were Italian fishermen who prized male rituals of hooking, cleaning and cooking fish.  Dad and Grandpa John smoked cigars after family dinners, their cigar smoke pungent unlike Dad’s pipe smoke.

Dad loved to teach and learn.  At a family dinner in Wicopee, Dad drew for me a diagram of the human eye on a paper napkin.  That year, 1960, while we lived in Wicopee on the mountain, Dad moved away to further his medical training at NYU.  The home and view were beautiful but Dad’s absence gave Mom ulcers, so Mom, David, Lauren and I joined Dad in New York City from 1961 to 1963.

While living in the city we visited Dad’s folks, traveling to Long Island for family vacations.  On Long Island Sound beach, Dad found a flat purple rock about 1/2 inch thick, 6 inches across and round like a pancake.  Dad was excited because it was a perfect skipping stone.  All day he built up anticipation in us kids and at sunset he skipped that stone out onto the waters of Long Island Sound.  It was a mighty skip and the stone bounced 7 times on the water before descending into the deep.

Cutchogue, Long Island, 1964.  Mom and Dad rented a summer house with the Levitt family.  We went clamming in the inlet and secured a bushel of clams.  Dad said I could eat as many clams as I liked.  He opened the clams with a special knife and I ate clams until Dad made me stop at 20.

While reading at the beach I left my glasses in the sun-warmed sand and the lenses fell out.  Dad and Abe Levitt recalled that optometrists use hot sand to relax plastic frames sufficiently to put in lenses.  Aiming to repair my glasses, Dad and Abe collected sand, heated it on the stove in a baking pan, and buried my glasses frame in the sand.  Ooops!  Too hot, too long!  The plastic frame melted to an unusable blue shape.  Abe Levitt, a renowned architect, told me, “Your father is the only man I loved with the passion I felt for a woman—not sexual love but passion for his mind.”  Dad and Abe talked for hours; I listened.

Dad was an excellent musician who could play piano and guitar, harmonize by ear, and follow lead sheets.  At many a Sarno family reunion in Ronkonkoma, Mattituck or Parkchester, we would sing after dinner.  I loved to hear Dad’s voice drop into harmony on the baritone part.  I recall Dad playing the Krakauer piano in our music room in Rockland County.  He swept his fingers up the keys glissando and played an introduction with a bluesy feel, then swung into a danceable version of Deep Purple.

At a  Rockland hootenanny,  my cousin John Thomas Sarno sang “Tie Me Kangaroo Down, Boys” and Dad came in on the last line, “So we tanned his ‘ide when he died, Clyde, and that’s it ‘anging in the shed!”  But Dad got excited and muffed the line; he kicked himself about it afterwards.

When I showed an interest in stringed instruments as well as piano, Dad took me to New York City and purchased a beautiful little Martin guitar.  I became a folk singer and songwriter with that guitar.

Dad accepted the lead role and sang, “The name’s LaGuardia!  L-A-G-U-A-R-D-I-A!” in a Rockland musical.  With no microphone, his voice rang throughout the auditorium; generations of Italian opera singers culminated in that performance.

Dad knew food is the best medicine. One morning I watched him make breakfast. He’d bought a string of hot red Italian dried peppers and hung them on the kitchen wall.  He cooked up a pot of rice.  He took a couple of those peppers, heated them in a skillet of olive oil until fragrant, and fried a couple of eggs in the hot pepper oil.  He heaped rice on a plate, crowned the rice with fried eggs and crisp peppers, and ate with gusto.  “In the morning, eat like a king, at noon eat like a prince, in the evening eat like a pauper,” said Dad.

Dad and I often talked after dinner.  One day we were talking politics and I used the word “they.”  Dad told me, “Never use the word they.  Specify exactly who did or said what.”

Dad loved the outdoors.  In the autumn, Dad and David and I raked leaves and mulched them.   I still think of Dad when I pick up a rake.  Winter  mornings in Rockland, Dad bundled up in warm clothes to bicycle 6 miles to the hospital in Haverstraw.  In good weather, Dad and I bicycled together.  (I realized later that Dad spent time with me in part to avoid Mom.)  In order to identify bird songs, Dad instructed me to pedal slowly on downhills so my bicycle wouldn’t click as we coasted.

Toward the end of our sojourn in Rockland, Mother did something quite  inappropriate; she violated doctor-patient confidentiality by calling author Carson McCullers, one of Dad’s patients, and had tea with her in Nyack.  When Mom told Dad, “I had tea with Carson McCullers today,” Dad “blew his stack,” as Mom termed it.  “I could lose my medical license!” he stormed.  During that same period Dad yelled at Mother because she’d let a stack of newspapers build up in the living room.  “Why can’t you just enjoy your family?” asked Mom.  It turned out Dad had exact answers to that question.

Summer of 1965:  Dad took violinist Jon Kass and me to hike Mount Marcy in the Adirondacks.  Dad had a fever when we set out but he wouldn’t cancel the hike, saying, “This hike will either kill me or cure me.”  We carried sleeping bags and food on pack frames and slept overnight on the mountain.  Dad spent hours looking into the fire that night while Jon and I slept, lulled by the sound of a rushing stream.  We summited the next day and then plunged down the mountainside.  Shortly afterwards Mom and Dad announced to David and Lauren and I that they were divorcing.  Dad told me privately, that night on Mount Marcy I was agonizing over my decision to divorce Mom and leave you kids.

After the divorce Lauren and David and I rode the bus from Rockland County into New York City to spend weekends with Dad and his wife and colleague Martha Lamarque.  I realized Dad and Martha loved each other very much, and  I was glad that Dad no longer blew his stack.  On these visits Dad explained to us that many patients reported acute pain, but the pain had no observable physical cause.  Dr. John Sarno, MD had discovered TMS, tension myositis syndrome, and he was pioneering a program to teach his patients to heal their own pain using psychological insight.

In 1972 biochemist David Kurtz (Princeton ’73) and I visited Dad and Martha.  Dad said of David, “He’s the genuine article.”  Dad continued to communicate his medical discoveries:  he told me and David, if you take 100 random people off the street, spinal x-rays reveal a percentage of herniated discs; there’s no statistical correlation between herniated discs and back pain.  Dad shook his head as he described neurosurgeons who would conduct 4 or 5 lumbar laminectomies on a single back pain patient, then send the patient to my father when the back pain persisted.

In 1974 I visited Dad to ask for help with college tuition.  He offered me free tuition at New York University where he was a professor in the medical school, but I chose to take out loans and continue my studies at Princeton.  Dad said, “You have a passive dependent personality.  Go away and don’t come back until you are independent.”

After that command, I did not visit Dad and Martha for 20 years.  Just before I left New York City for the west coast I was running in Central Park and saw a fellow jogging towards me who looked like Grandpa John.  It was Dad!  His hair had gone all pepper and salt.  We embraced and talked for a few minutes before we continued to run in opposite directions.

My great-aunt Barbara Calabrese passed away in the old DeVoe Street neighborhood and I attended the funeral of this great and kind soul.  When I came out of the subway up onto the Brooklyn street where I last visited as a toddler, an old woman dressed in black came up to me on the sidewalk, looked me in the face, and said, “You’re John Sarno’s daughter.”  The cultural distance from the close-knit DeVoe Street neighborhood to “go away” is vast and somehow encapsulates the tragedy of the American family in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries.

When my daughter Sara Teresa was a toddler in Oregon, Dad called to say he had a medical conference in the Northwest; he would to fly to Eugene to see me and meet Sara Teresa.  But Sara’s father Jason refused to let Sara Teresa go with me to meet Dad.  I drove to the airport alone.  Dad said, “Where’s your little sidekick?”  Dad and I drove to Florence and had dinner overlooking the Pacific Ocean, but my heart ached because Dad didn’t get to meet Sara Teresa.  They did meet later when Sara Teresa was an adult.

In 1994 I was working hard, managing a sustainable farm and organic bakery in Cave Junction with Ecuadorean scientist/agriculturist Amando Barzola-Hidalgo.  That year I suffered from chronic headache.  I realized, for months I’ve been writing a letter to Dad in my head.  I noticed that where the letter ended in my mind, the headache began.  I wrote to Dad, told him I’d become independent, and the chronic headache stopped.  Later (on the telephone) I told Dad how I vanquished that headache and how years earlier I’d healed a uterine tumor using psychological insight.  Dad said, “You’re a chip off the old block.”

Dad and I corresponded for years.  Recalling how we enjoyed raking leaves, hiking, biking outdoors, and cooking healthful foods, I reported the crops I grew each summer in the Music Garden.  I confided how, using diet, insight and exercise I healed tumors in colon, ovaries, breast, and uterus.

In 2003 Dad was sitting on his living room couch at his and Martha’s Fifth Avenue apartment listening to my CD Greensleeves.  Dad’s eyes were closed, he had a smile on his face, and his hands were conducting the music.  I was passing through New York City on my way back from researching my book Greensleeves in Ireland.

Dad and I had just taken a walk in Central Park.  During our walk Dad told me about his latest book, his magnum opus, he called it, correlating information about many psychosomatic ailment—including allergies—that could be healed through insight.  Dad excused himself for a moment and chinned himself five times on a piece of park equipment, remarkable for a man of 80 years!

I last saw Dad in 2015.  I had come east for Princeton’s Alumni Day to hear classmate Sonia Sotomayor ’76 speak.  After Alumni Day I called Dad from a friend’s home.  Dad couldn’t come to the phone but Martha invited me to visit.  Dad’s memory was gone.  He did not remember that he had a pacemaker installed in his heart.  He could not recall what he said one minute ago.  I asked him, “What do you think about?” and he said, “That’s a good question.”

Dad and I talked on the phone throughout 2016 and early 2017.  Although his memory was gone, we had genuine conversations. “How are you?” he asked.  I told him, “I’m 64 years old, everything works and nothing hurts.”  “What more could you ask?” said Dad.  I said, “I’ve been playing romantic dinner music at  a family restaurant in Homer, Alaska.”  Dad said, “You’re a chip off the old block; I was in demand to play piano for dancers at Kalamazoo College.”

The last words I heard from Dad, on a phone call about a month before he passed away:  “I love you, baby.”


I am thrilled by Michael Galinsky’s documentary about Dad, “All the Rage (Saved by Sarno).”  Friends who watched the trailer said, “You look just like your father!”  The old Italian lady on DeVoe Street would have agreed.

Cousin John Thomas Sarno called me on June 22, 2017, one day before Dad’s 94th birthday.  John said Martha had been trying to reach me.  “Martha asked me to let you know that your father passed away this morning.”  John and I cried on the phone together.  After John’s call I crumpled over the table at my friend’s home in Anchorage.

I am almost 65 years old at Dad’s passing.  Dad’s influence on my life was  profound.  Dad taught me to think as a scientist:  Observe.  Reason from facts.  Make no assumptions.  He played great music on piano and guitar and put beautiful musical instruments in my hands.  He taught me, speak the truth and damn the consequences.  He taught me to cook and eat for health.

Dad taught me not to care what others think about me, especially people in cliques.  Adam Connor-Simons quoted Eric Sherman in Dad’s New York Times obituary: Dr. Sarno was “notoriously indifferent to others’ opinions of him.” (Sunday, June 25, 2017, Obituaries) The American Medical Association “blackballed” (Dad’s word) my father and refused to publish his scientific papers; Dad regarded the AMA as a narrow-minded clique and proceeded to publish his work in Europe.

Dad wanted to compose music, but he chose financial security and went into medicine.  “Under no circumstances should you go into music as a profession,” he warned.  I tried other lines of work, but never made a decent living until I started to teach music and  compose scores for documentary films.  I am living one of my father’s dreams.

As Dad’s youthful confidant, I understood why Dad abandoned our family.  Dad’s idea of heaven was a quiet place to write.  Mom’s idea of heaven was to invite two families with their kids and pets to visit for the weekend.  Dad was a serious man driven by a deep sense of purpose.  Mom was ethical, had a great heart and loved books, but Mom was not a musician, writer or creative.  She was a loving mother who opened our home to waifs and strays; when friends ran away from home they came to our house.  Mom was somewhat childish and would ask foolish questions.  Dad said about Mother, “I have three and a half children.”

In contrast, Martha suited Dad very well, and their lifelong collaboration produced several books beginning with Stroke, which they wrote together as a primer for families with a relative recovering from stroke.

After Dad left our family I suffered a seven year depression.  Although I understood Dad’s reasons for leaving I felt betrayed and abandoned. Dad said, “Depression is displaced anger; you can overcome depression by figuring out what you’re angry about.”  Eventually I did overcome that depression.  Experience of depression developed my compassion and prepared the way for my current advocacy for people with post-traumatic stress disorder.

Absent Dad’s counsel and protection I made many mistakes and had several failed marriages.  I tended to idealize my mate and discover too late that I could not live with his (pick one) anger, violence, inflexibility, or emotional indifference.  Like Dad, I have an inner sense of purpose.  I would not be confined in a marriage that violated my sense of purpose.

Unlike Dad, I eschewed academic honors for entrepreneurial independence.  I emigrated from New York to the west coast and became a country woman, then to Tucson to care for our aging beloved mother.   At the age of 58 I traveled by bicycle, train and ferry to Alaska to start over again.  I gained ten pounds of muscle and rich experience on that journey.

Experience and our evolving immortal soul are all we take with us on our posthumous universe journey.  Dad infused my life with useful principles and beautiful experiences.  My debt to John Ernest Sarno, MD is vast.  I embrace my responsibility to build on and pass forward his legacy.

Like Dad, I hoped for a mate who would encompass, understand, and support my creative work as a thinker, writer, composer, gardener and musician, to whom I could confide every thought, and whose work I  in turn would encourage and support.  That mate has indeed found me, but that is another story.

Are Cannabis Social Clubs Lawful in Alaska?

Are cannabis social clubs legal in Alaska?

We Alaskans have statutory and constitutional language available, to determine whether cannabis social clubs are lawful.

The “Act to tax and regulate the production, sale and use of marijuana” begins:  “In the interest of allowing law enforcement to focus on violent and property crimes, and to enhance individual freedom, the people of the state of Alaska find and declare that the use of marijuana should be legal for persons 21 years of age or older.”

Further, “the provisions of this Act are not intended to diminish the right to privacy as interpreted by the Alaska Supreme Court in Ravin v. State of Alaska.”

Protected by Alaska’s express constitutional right to privacy, the private cannabis social club expands the privacy zone of the home to the private cannabis club that admits members only.  The process to become a club member includes cultural scrutiny of the individual.  Does he/she observe cannabis cultural standards of decorum and respect?  Is the individual willing to read and discuss club rules, initial club rules, pay the monthly and daily membership fees, and continue to behave in a culturally respectful manner?  Membership can be revoked for cause, at which time the member reverts to public status, and may no longer enter the club.

Under the Act,  it’s lawful for  persons 21 and older to consume marijuana, “except that nothing in this chapter shall permit the consumption of marijuana in public.”  Under this Act, it’s lawful in Alaska for persons 21 years and older to assist one another to use cannabis.

Useful language from the Alaskan Constitution:  ARTICLE I, Declaration of Rights.  Section 1, Inherent Rights.  “…all persons have a natural right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, and the enjoyment of the rewards of their own industry.”  Section 6.  “Assembly; Petition.  The right of the people peaceably to assemble . . . shall never be abridged.”  Section 22.  “Right of Privacy.  The right of the people to privacy is recognized and shall not be infringed.”  (This is the basis of our Ravin Rights.)

What is a cannabis social club?  By statute, adult use of cannabis is lawful, except in public.  Therefore, Alaskans have peaceably assembled to form private social clubs, similar to the VFW and the Elks, who sell and consume alcohol; cannabis social clubs share and consume cannabis.

Adult cannabis consumption in private is lawful; therefore club members may gather to share and consume personal cannabis in a private place of assembly secured from the public.

The Kachemak Cannabis Coalition (KCC) is an Alaska non-profit with an educational mission.  We formed our cannabis social club as a project of the coalition to provide a safe, convivial place to socialize, study, and share cannabis; when asked, we assist members to learn about, obtain and heal with medical cannabis.  The Kachemak Cannabis Club, called a first amendment club by its members, is willing to serve as a test case of the lawfulness of cannabis social clubs.

The sign on our wall reads:  “No pets, no children, or pre-intoxicated people allowed inside venue.  We reserve the right to refuse service to those not in the groove.”

A cannabis social club must meet the public/private test:  when a prospective member enters the cannabis club, he/she: must present adult identification, is invited to peruse, discuss, and initial the rules of the club, pays membership fees, signs onto the club’s member roster, and must conform to club standards of decorum.  Membership may be terminated for cause, in which case the member reverts to “public” status and may no longer enter the club.

Membership is distinguished from mere admission, as when the public  pays an admission fee to attend a movie.  Membership is a higher bar than admission, designed to promote safe, convivial social life and secure the private social club from dangerous, annoying, inappropriate and culturally insensitive behaviors.

A cannabis social club does not engage in cannabis growing, processing, testing or retail sales under the Act to tax and regulate.  Therefore, the cannabis social club exists outside the regulation of the Alcohol and Marijuana Control Board.  The cannabis social club is protected (1) by statute, because the Act makes it lawful for adults to possess and consume cannabis, and (2) by Alaskans’ constitutional right to assemble peacefully, which shall NEVER be abridged.

Can cannabis social clubs operate in a district that has “opted out” under the Act to tax and regulate?  Yes, the right of the people to peaceably assemble cannot be abridged, regardless of whether a borough or town opts out of permitting commercial cannabis establishments.

What does this mean for adult Alaskans who consume cannabis?

Form cannabis social clubs!  Your club can be a small village/neighborhood club in a private home, or a larger town club.  Carefully frame your club rules.  Observe and enforce your rules.  Be responsive, considerate and friendly with your neighbors over issues like parking and cannabis aroma.   Offer potluck foods.  Keep your club secure, orderly and clean.  In your town, village or neighborhood, establish your club as a responsible, adult presence committed to public service.

Then the good times roll!  How best to serve the community?  Ideas hatch!  We study, learn, and speak publicly.  We share food and medicine and grow healthy together as friends heal each other of cancers, sleep disorders, seizures, PTSD  and big pharma addictions.  With compassion, humor, and independent thought, we peacefully resolve issues.  Our club is preparing to welcome canna-tourists this summer.

Amazing things happen when free people engage in life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness!  Remember, cannabis is the cutting edge of civil liberties in our age.  What you do for cannabis, you do for the liberty of all.

Truth Justice Reconciliation: We Are Listening

My Dear People of Kachemak Bay,

I refer you to my December 19, commentary, courageously printed by the Alaska Dispatch News, if you have not yet seen this article: Alaska’s ‘Spoonguy’ got railroaded; mental illness should be treated, not locked up.  This Alaskan tale!  The setting: East End Road Bike Path in Kachemak City, the characters:  3 large out-of-control dogs, Spoonguy on bicycle loaded with spoons, the dog handler, the rogue cop, the merciful cop, the prosecutor, jury, judge, Homer jail, Wildwood Pre-trial Facility.  ‘Tis a biblical tale of justice and mercy unfolding among us, here, now!

As word of Mike’s plight grows, popular response on Change.org included this message of judicial gravity from Gail Heineman of Anchorage, Alaska:  “It is in no way clear that justice would be served, nor would we Alaskans be made safer, by locking up this man.”
Gail’s words place us in the realm of Justice.  The judge’s role is to listen and weigh the scales of justice.  Judges are fortunate to be able to hear the voice of the people.  Even more fortunate are those judges who listen to the voice of the people, and find a way through the mire of law and custom to shining principles of justice and mercy.
Thank you, Gail.  Thank you, Mike’s hundreds of supporters, willing to sign our petition for community protection, not imprisonment, of the mentally disordered.  These unique souls among us, damaged by violent experience, continue to soldier on through life, healing in community, providing services to our community, testing our patience, and teaching us lessons of patience, compassion, empathy, mercy, and wisdom.
Thank you for your fine messages.  We are listening.
Lindianne Sarno, Bumppo Bremicker and Michael Glasgow
Citizens of Alaska Truth Justice Reconciliation Commission


Mercy in the Name of Mary

Source: Mercy in the Name of Mary

A gift of peace at a time when people are crying out for peace.

Mercy in the Name of Mary, a Sonnet by Lindianne.


Prophecy of Peace:

When Wise Men of the West
Bear Gifts to Babes Born in the East
Then shall humanity unite
in the Name of Mary and
Light of our Creator Father
in Everlasting Alleluias!

Mercy in the Name of Mary

A Sonnet by Lindianne

Now is the time when wise folk of the West

Give shelter to the families of the East

And Earth falls not to fear and endless war

Saved by the human heart, the working hands.

Knitters of the world, make socks, hats, scarves, vests

And send these wooly signs of warmth from afar

To those who flee from war and shiver, cold,

In Northern cities praying for new life.

Basket makers of the world, make cradles

For the lost wandering babes of the South!

Carpenters, pick up tools and build warm homes

For those who flee the fire in leaky boats!

By Acts of Kindness and Humanity

One God, One People, One Love, we go free!

Mercy in the Name of Mary

Mercy in the Name of Mary

A Sonnet by Lindianne


Now is the time when wise folk of the West

Give shelter to the families of the East

And Earth falls not to fear and endless war

Saved by the human heart, the working hands.


Knitters of the world:

make socks, hats, scarves, vests

And send these woolly signs of warmth afar

To those who flee from war and shiver, cold,

In Northern cities praying for new life.


Basket makers of the world, make cradles

For the lost wandering babes of the South!

Carpenters, pick up tools and build warm homes

For those who flee the fire in leaky boats!


By acts of kindness and humanity

One God, One people, One Love, we go free!