loving art, science and creative kids
3/27/2026 5:39:31 PM
What would you do if you found someone dumping toxins in a pond by an Alder grove?
I invited Alena Wren to share her thoughts since I was out of town this week, visiting family. She is an insightful young woman with a compassionate heart.
Who Gets to Decide What Is Sacrifice? On acceptable loss, invisible harm, and the people who never get asked.
There is a phrase that appears in policy discussions, corporate reports, and courtrooms so often that it has almost stopped meaning anything: acceptable risk. It sounds reasonable. Measured. Scientific, even. But the more I sit with it after reading the book, the more I find myself asking a different question: acceptable to whom? When a refinery decides where to store its waste, when a corporation calculates the cost of pollution against the cost of prevention, when regulators weigh economic growth against environmental damage — someone, somewhere, is deciding what counts as an acceptable loss. And almost never are those decisions made by the people who will live with the consequences.
I have been thinking about this since finishing Rachel Carson's Silent Spring for the third time. Carson published her landmark book in 1962, and the resistance she faced was fierce. The chemical industry called her hysterical. Scientists paid by corporations disputed her data. A spokesperson for one pesticide manufacturer reportedly asked why a spinster with no children should be concerned about future generations at all. What Carson had done was simple and devastating: she had named the harm. She had made visible what the industry preferred to keep invisible. And once something is seen clearly, it is very hard to unsee.
That act of naming is at the center of Antheia in the Thorns. The title itself carries meaning worth pausing on. Antheia is the Greek goddess of gardens, flowers, and love — a figure associated with growth, beauty, and the natural world. To find her in the thorns is to find something gentle and life-giving caught in a place of pain and struggle, fighting to get free. That image is Jennifer Russo's story before a single word of plot is spoken.
When Jennifer walks into Oregon's protected wilderness and finds men dumping black industrial waste into a pristine pond, she is not yet an activist. She is a grieving woman, barely functioning, looking for a few hours of quiet. But she sees what she sees. And seeing it — really seeing it — changes everything. The substance being dumped is petroleum coke, petcoke for short. It is a heavy byproduct of oil refining, cheaper to produce than coal, and far more polluting. The United States is its largest producer, yet most Americans have never heard of it. It is shipped overseas, stored in dusty open piles near ports and rivers and communities that had no say in the matter. The people living closest to those piles breathe the particles. Their children develop asthma. Their crops fail. Their complaints are filed away.
That is acceptable risk, as defined by people who do not live there.
The oil tycoon at the center of my story, Abdul Hammed Dillinger, is not a cartoon villain. He is, in his own mind, a builder. A provider. A man who keeps the lights on and the economy moving. He has surrounded himself with lawyers, calculations, and rationalizations that allow him to look at the damage his operations cause and see an unfortunate externality rather than a crime.
The booked helped me see that gap — between how harm looks from the boardroom and how it looks from the ground — as where her real story lives.
Carson wrote that the question was not whether humans had the right to use science and industry to improve their lives, but whether they had the right to impose those choices on others without their knowledge or consent. Sixty years later, the question has not gone away. It has only grown more complicated.
What strikes me most about ordinary people who become activists — the Jennifer Russos of the world, and the real people she is drawn from — is not their anger. It is their clarity. At some point, they stop asking for permission to care. They stop waiting for someone in authority to validate what they can see with their own eyes. They decide that what is happening is wrong, and they act on that conviction even when it costs them everything. That is not naivety. That is courage.
Carson faced ridicule, illness, and a coordinated campaign to discredit her. She finished Silent Spring while dying of cancer, and she published it anyway. Two years later, she was gone. But the book outlasted every company that tried to silence her. Some stories are worth telling because silence costs too much.
―――――――――――――――――――― Antheia Antheia in the Thorns is an environmental thriller about power, corruption, loss, and the kind of courage that does not announce itself. Marilynne Eichinger follows Jennifer Russo, a grieving mother searching for peace in the Oregon wilderness, and Abdul Hammed Dillinger, an oil tycoon whose empire depends on things staying buried. Their collision is the second thriller in the Rightfully Mine series.
The ebook is available now at an introductory price. If you decide to read it, an honest review on Amazon helps more than most people realize — it is the most powerful way to help this story reach new readers.
Purchase on Amazon
Warmly, Aleyna Wren, Guest Writer
Aleyna grasps the urgency of my writing. I am sure she will be interested in your comments. Please share your thoughts on my blog post.
Canvas prints of tree paintings are available for $99 shipped directly to your home. Explore and purchase online at https://www.eichingerfineart.com/collections/182747
3/21/2026 11:49:22 AM
SEARCHING FOR THRUTH : Is it real or wishful thinking?
INVENTING VALIDITY, PROVING CONVICTION
While reading Bewilderment by Richard Powers, I came across a phrase that puzzled me: “The world is an experiment in inventing validity and conviction is its only proof.” The sentence was intriguing, both literary and philosophical, but I had no idea what Powers meant. Still, I couldn’t get it out of my mind. At first glance it sounds cryptic, but it raises an enduring question: Do we discover truth, or do we create it? That question lies at the heart of the novels in my Rightfully Mine Series.
A scientist might read the sentence skeptically. Science is indeed an experiment, but conviction alone is never proof. Evidence, replication, and measurement determine validity. From this perspective, conviction can be dangerous. A philosopher might see it differently. Meaning, they might argue that conviction does not exist independently in the world, it emerges through human interpretation. Truth is often shaped by perspective and usefulness. Conviction matters because belief motivates action, and when enough people believe something strongly enough, those beliefs begin to shape reality.
To me, Powers’ sentence explains the conflict at the heart of Antheia in the Thorns. In the novel, a grieving woman named Jennifer Russo is walking alone in the wilderness, trying to make sense of a life that no longer resembles the one she had planned. What she finds there, men dumping black industrial waste into a place that should have been untouched, becomes the moment when looking away is no longer possible. What Jennifer discovers is tied to petroleum coke, a heavy carbon byproduct of oil refining. For the company responsible, the material is simply part of the industrial process, waste that must be stored, shipped, or disposed of somewhere.
The refinery owner, Abdul Hammed Dillinger, represents a conviction that has shaped much of the modern world: that energy production, industrial growth, and profit justify the risks that come with them. It enables Dillinger to kidnap, kill, destroy, and lie in good conscience. In his worldview, the system itself becomes proof, enabling his conviction. Fuel flows, the economy grows, and the lights stay on. Jennifer arrives at a very different conviction. She believes some places should not be sacrificed for industrial convenience, and that communities and ecosystems have value that cannot be measured on a balance sheet. The story that follows is not only a struggle between two people. It is a struggle between two ideas of what counts as valid in our world.
The quote also resonates in today’s political environment. Public debate increasingly revolves around competing narratives about climate change, public lands, energy, and economic growth. Facts may matter, but they are often filtered through belief systems and political identities. In that sense, societies really do resemble Powers’ “experiment.” Ideas compete for attention. Narratives spread through social media like a game of whispering down the lane, shifting slightly as they pass from one person to another. In the end, conviction can sometimes outweigh evidence.
That is why environmental activists like those volunteering for Antheia matter in the story and in the real world. They challenge assumptions that have long been treated as unquestionable truths. When one person decides that what is happening is wrong, the world’s “experiment” suddenly becomes a test. And as Powers suggests, the outcome may depend less on who is technically correct than on whose conviction proves strong enough to change the course of events.
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Antheia in the Thorns is an environmental thriller about power, corruption, loss, and regaining purpose. Marilynne Eichinger follows Jennifer Russo, a grieving mother who lost a child, and Abdul Hammed Dillinger, who escaped his father's cruelty. Together their stories illuminate the effect trauma has on behavior and how individuals evolve over time. Human lives are complex, influenced by environment and happenstance. The second thriller in the Rightfully Mine series remains at a reduced price while we get the word out. Your early reviews are greatly appreciated. Purchase at AMAZON SERIES.
3/13/2026 3:48:43 PM
Over the Fence: From Rags to Riches : When poor people climb over the fence to wealth, some never feel they have enough and keep grasping for more, while others share their good fortune at having achieved success.
Why Thank the Merchants of Death? — The Undershaft Paradox: When Wealth from War Pays for Peace
Why do we celebrate fortunes that were built on suffering simply because they later fund good works? That question reminds me of Major Barbara, the 1905 play by George Bernard Shaw. When my children still lived under my roof, we used to have play readings. Everyone would take a part, and afterward we'd talk about the play and the messages we found in it. Major Barbara. Was one of my all-time favorites.
It is a satirical play that explores the conflict between idealistic morality and the harsh realities of capitalism. The story follows Barbara Undershaft, a devoted Salvation Army officer, whose mission is to save souls and help the poor. Her faith is shaken when her estranged father, Andrew Undershaft, a wealthy armaments manufacturer, offers to fund her shelter. His donation forces her to confront an uncomfortable truth: her charity may depend on money earned through the instruments of war.
Barbara's ideals begin to crumble when her father argues that the wealth and power he gained from selling weapons do more to fight poverty than religion ever could. When the Salvation Army accepts his donation, Barbara experiences a crisis of faith, feeling as though her work has been bought by the devil. Yet through that disillusionment, she begins to see the world more pragmatically. In the end, she and her fiancé decide they might accomplish more good by working within the powerful industrial system her father represents.
Shaw's argument is provocative: poverty, not wealth, is the true evil, and that moral action may require the resources of industry and power. Our family readings of the play often led to lively discussions about morality, power, and the uneasy line between right and wrong
In the United States, we have seen similar paradoxes. Andrew Carnegie, the great steel magnate, built his fortune on the backs of laborers who worked exhausting twelve-hour shifts. His companies were known for ruthless union-busting, wage cuts, and violent strikebreaking. Yet Carnegie later funded thousands of public libraries across the country. His legacy lives on through institutions such as the Carnegie Endowment for International Peace, which today supports research on democracy, nuclear risk, and international relations.
Perhaps the most striking example is Alfred Nobel, the inventor of dynamite. Nobel built a vast industrial empire producing explosives used in mining, construction, and warfare. Late in life he reportedly read a mistaken obituary describing him as "the merchant of death," a man who had grown rich by inventing ways to kill more people faster than ever before. When Nobel died in 1896, he left most of his fortune to create the Nobel Foundation, which awards the Nobel Prize, including the famous Nobel Peace Prize. Wealth built on explosives became the patron of the world's most prestigious awards for peace, literature, and science.
In Shaw's era, the paradox was steel and artillery funding libraries. Today, the paradox may be the algorithms and weapons funding think tanks about ethics and democracy. Shaw's fictional arms manufacturer Andrew Undershaft feels less like satire and more like prophecy. Modern equivalents can be found in the defense technology world with figures such as Peter Thiel, co-founder of Palantir Technologies. Palantir's data-analysis platforms are widely used by military and intelligence agencies, while Thiel simultaneously funds intellectual ventures such as the Thiel Fellowship and other philosophical discussions about technology, freedom, and the future of civilization.
Another contemporary example is Anduril Industries and its founder, Palmer Luckey. The company builds autonomous defense systems and surveillance technologies. Luckey also supports debates about geopolitics, artificial intelligence, and the ethics of warfare. The company's underlying claim echoes Undershaft's argument: technological dominance prevents even greater violence.
Does it? Do you believe this?
Somehow, there is a disconnect I struggle to grasp. Why kill and maim millions to make a few people wealthy? And when those same fortunes later fund libraries, universities, and foundations, why do we thank their benefactors? Shaw argued that poverty was the greatest evil. But should the cure always come from the profits of war? Should people who confess their crimes be instantly forgiven?
Friends and family come together for game nights, murder mystery parties, sporting events, and meals. If you want to have a stimulating activity that's out of the ordinary, read Major Barbara with them one evening
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Antheia in the Thorns is an environmental thriller about power, corruption, loss, and regaining purpose. Marilynne Eichinger follows Jennifer Russo, a grieving mother who lost a child, and Abdul Hammed Dillinger, who escaped his father's cruelty. Together their stories illuminate the effect trauma has on behavior and how individuals evolve over time. Human lives are complex, influenced by environment and happenstance. The second thriller in the Rightfully Mine series remains at a reduced price while we get the word out. Your early reviews are greatly appreciated.
On sale at AMAZON SERIES.
To puchase OVER THE FENCE and have it shipped free withing the continental U.S. go to https://www.eichingerfineart.com/workszoom/1975474/over-the-fence-from-rags-to-riches#/
3/6/2026 3:36:11 PM
GOLD STATIC
It requires stamina to wade through the static interfering with your happiness.
Walking at the Speed of Remembrance: One of the quiet shocks of aging is the way time begins to accelerate. Memories no longer line up politely in order. They arrive in flashes, scenes tumbling through the mind like leaves caught in a sudden wind. Some are warm. Others still sting.
My earliest memory is of my father leaving for Europe during the Second World War. My grandpa, too old to fight, patrolled the neighborhood streets at night, making sure blackout shades were pulled tight against the windows. Grandma tended a tiny victory garden next to their garage. My aunt and her young son moved into our house. She and my mother counted food coupons carefully at the grocery store, stretching what little they had.
On Saturday afternoons, I was sent to the movie theater where I sat with over a hundred children, watching newsreels before the matinee. Nazi soldiers marched and saluted Hitler. Jewish families were herded into trucks and trains. Books burned in towering fires. On the American home front, we also saw Japanese American families forced from their homes, boarding buses bound for relocation camps in places I had never heard of. I was too young to understand what any of it meant. Only after the war ended did I learn that more than six million Jewish people had been murdered, and that 120,000 Japanese American citizens had been imprisoned by their own government.
For years after the war, I distrusted Germans, even those who may have been powerless bystanders to what was happening around them. At the same time, I believed Americans would never commit such cruelty ourselves. I did not yet know about the internment camps scattered across our own country. I thought only, how could the Germans have allowed this to happen? Then came the Cold War, and fear took on a different shape. The McCarthy hearings ruined the careers of movie stars, artists, and scientists I admired. Newspaper headlines shouted about communism, socialism, the Red threat, and the looming possibility of nuclear war. Schools practiced air-raid drills. Kids crouched beneath desks as if thin wood could shield them from a bomb. My friends and I envied the families wealthy enough to build bomb shelters in their backyards. I was living in Boston then and imagined our city would be among the first to vanish in a flash of light.
When the Cold War finally ended and the Berlin Wall fell, I again found myself asking uncomfortable questions. How had I, a college-educated woman, absorbed so much fear without questioning it? The nations that had lived for decades under the Soviet flag were suddenly struggling for independence. The world I thought I understood had been built partly on propaganda about fighting for peace. Yet the wars did not stop. Cuba. Korea. Vietnam. Cambodia. Afghanistan. Iraq. Ukraine. Gaza. This week, Iran. The numbers of the dead blur together: millions here, hundreds of thousands there, depending on who is counting and how the counting is done. Behind every number is a body, a family, a life interrupted. Heaven only knows how many survivors carry injuries that will never heal.
Now, when I watch the devastation in Gaza and see immigrant families sent to concentration centers in our country, I hear the same questions echoing back to me. How does such suffering become possible? Why does the United States keep fanning the flames rather than putting out the fires? How do ordinary Americans accept what is going on? All my life, I was told these wars were necessary. We were different, our leaders said. We are not cruel. We were defending freedom. We were protecting democracy. I believed it for a long time.
But age has a way of stripping away simple stories. The world looks less certain now, our country less righteous than it once seemed. Power has concentrated in the hands of the wealthy and the ambitious. Leaders speak openly about expanding influence in Canada, Greenland, Cuba, Gaza, Venezuela, Mexico, as if borders mean nothing. From beyond our shores, many people look at us with confusion. Some with anger. They ask how Americans allowed such a moment to arrive. Are Americans stupid, spineless, or just plain mean? Lately, I find myself asking the same questions over and over.
The memories and the fears keep coming, faster now, as if time itself were urging me not to forget. Despite it all, I believe my countrymen and women are basically good, willing to help each other and those who are less fortunate. They won’t let a few power-hungry billionaires control our democratic institutions—or will they?
The Declaration of Independence states, "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men (and women) are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness.” To me, that means voting for people who will guarantee those rights. It means having the right to pure air, clean water, and a land devoid of pollutants. The good and evil within each of us engage in ongoing fights for superiority. The Rightfully Mine Series was started, in part, to nudge these battles to end on the high ground, benefiting all.
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In the Rightfully Mine novels, readers witness how people balance extremes. The greedy are at times generous, the weak are often strong, and the charitable can be self-centered, harming others. My recently released thriller, Antheia in the Thorns, shows this complexity beautifully. Abdul Dillinger learns how to control others, eliminating threats he deems necessary. Yet he is a loving father, a family man, who is also good to his wife and the mistresses that she does’t like but acknowledges. Jennifer Russo becomes so wrapped up in her depression she can’t see is blind to how her illness affected her husband. Her husband, who used to hike and preserve natural areas, practices law that keeps polluters from being punished. The characters are complex, with egos that occasionally get in their way. There is much to learn about the environment and my books, but there is more to explore about human nature. Advanced copies of Antheia in the Thorns and The Water Factor can be purchased online at AMAZON SERIES
Art is alwasy for sale and shipped free in the continental U.S. Gold Static can be purchased online at https://www.eichingerfineart.com/workszoom/4268940/gold-static#/
