August 31, 2014 - The Old River Hermit

I heard the legend of the Old River Hermit a long time ago.  He lives on the river or maybe even in the river, and if you’re having many troubles in your life, you can go and talk to him and he’ll give you answers.  But they say you never see him, you just hear him.  Today I decided I had many problems and maybe I ought to go down to find him and hear what he had to say.

I set off early and got down to the riverbanks while it was still cool outside.  There was no one else there (and there never is anyhow, which makes me wonder where his legend comes from), and so I sat down on a rock and just looked out onto the river.  But nothing happened.  I didn’t see an old hermit.  I wondered if his legend was just a tall tale after all.  I thought maybe I should make sure about it though, so I just began talking.

“Old River Hermit, old river man, I’ve come to tell you my problems and get some answers,” I said loudly.  And then I proceeded.  First I told him about the many financial woes I have being an old-time Mainer and not a wealthy “summer person” who comes from afar and spends the summer here, pockets weighted deeply with gold.  Contrarily, mine are lighter than air.  Oddly enough, I could have sworn I did hear a sound.  It was like a “wash-wash-wash” sound, and so encouraged, I thought I’d continue.

The Old River Hermit's favorite riverbank.

Next I told the Old River Hermit about a neighbor across the cove who was angry with my chickens, saying the roosters were too loud.  (Roosters can be thunderous.)  As I said it, I saw a small whirlpool appear.  It pulled a leaf down under the water, and then it disappeared.  I went on and told him about the blight that was ruining some of my tomato crop.  Just then, I saw some white water rush by me, hit a rock, and splash high into the air.  And then it was calm again.

And so it went on.  I would tell a problem, and I’d get some sort of an answer, either a swishing sound or a gurgling or a splashing, or I’d see the water make an interesting pattern or shape.  Each time, I felt that it was some kind of answer I was getting, but I wasn’t sure what.  By the same token though, each time I told a problem, I felt a little better, a little lighter.  Still, I’d wanted solid results--real answers in words--and I hadn’t gotten any, so I stood up and got ready to leave.

“Sure wish you’d tell me what you think about it all,” I said.

“About what?” came a real answer from behind me.  I knew better than to turn around and look because it would break the spell.

“About my problems,” I said.

“What problems?”

“Everything I just told you about.”

“Oh,” he said, “what were the problems again?”

“I don’t know.  Just some stuff, I guess.”
“But it’s not bothering you now?”

“Not too much,” I said, “I mean it is what it is.”
“Nice day here on the river, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“Be seeing you around then,” he said.

“Okay.”

I stayed a while longer and threw some twigs and pebbles into the river and watched the ripples spread outward.  The sun came out to play, and the breeze was heavenly.  It was a nice day, really.

August 30, 2014 - Cardinal Flowers

Cardinal flowers grow wild all along the edge of the Cathance River, and when you travel in a canoe or boat at this time of year, the riverbanks are dotted with riotous red spikes everywhere the eye can see.  It’s a magical river and a magical flower, so it only stands to reason that it would attract magical beings.  Are you one of them?

If I were to meet you along this river, among these cardinal flowers, how could I be sure that you weren’t one of the magical creatures who live here in Maine?  How could you be sure that I wasn’t?

The answer is we can’t be sure at all, so perhaps we should all treat one another as if we were magical beings, just in case.  Perhaps when we look at one another, we can silently say to ourselves, “Ah, yes, there goes another lovely sprite.”  Perhaps when we gaze at one another, we can envision a magical spark just under the surface.

And this might just be a lot closer to the truth than we realize.

Cardinal flower (Lobelia cardinalis).

August 29, 2014 - Sun Friend

When I was a little girl, I remember walking with my mother and noticing that the sun was following us.  We were walking along a straight road, and it seemed to keep pace with us exactly and stay in the same spot, just over my shoulder to the right.  I remarked on this and she laughed, explaining that the sun was very far away and that our small amount of walking wasn’t going to change its position from one minute to the next.  But I kept looking at the sun, and it certainly seemed to me that it was bobbing along just over my shoulder to the right.  She told me that was just an illusion.  I said nothing and thought about it for a long time, and I decided she was wrong.

Today as I was taking a morning walk along a straight trek, I noticed the sun just over my shoulder to the right.  It bobbed along and kept pace with me.  When I stopped, it stopped.  When I walked again, it bobbed along again.  It was nice to know that it was just over my shoulder to the right, just where it belonged, as usual.  Apparently, it has been following me for decades now, and we have become old friends.  Thank goodness my mother was wrong about it.

The sun keeping pace with me.

August 28, 2014 - Prana and the Faery World

You may recall in my journal entry entitled, Fairy Work, that I discussed the idea of “Prana.”  In that article, I talked about the Sanskrit origin of Prana and its general translation as being “life force.”  I also talked about faeries absorbing Prana from the sun and distributing it to the physical world.  This, then, is fairy “work,” their job.

As you can see in the photo, I found another hastily-constructed fairy work den today.  If you look closely, you will see a little gray hat hanging just inside the entrance.  Careless, I know, but remember that we are fast approaching autumn now, and a great deal of work needs still to be done.  Surely we can forgive them the transgression of having made their presence known?  After all, they only remain invisible to us because they know that most of us couldn’t handle the knowledge of their existence, which would change everything forever.

A hastily constructed faery work den.

More must be said on Prana.  The ancient yogis believed that Prana was made available to humankind through the breath, and they developed many different breathing exercises to affect the body in different ways with Prana.  The ancient Chinese referred to Prana as “qi” or “chi,” the literal translation being “air” or “breath.”  Qi was regarded as an active energy flow in all living things, with varying degrees of intensity from solids, to liquids, to gases.  Similar ideas are found in other cultures as well.  The ancient Greeks called it “Pneuma,” Hawaiians called it “Mana,” ancient Hebrews called it “Ruah,” and here in the West we call it “Vital Energy.”  But it’s all really the same stuff.

And what do fairies have to do with all of this?  Well, as I said in Fairy Work, they absorb Prana from the sun--the ultimate energy source in this solar system--and redistribute it to our world.  So they are a vital liaison in the process of energy transfer, and without them we might not be here, or at least we’d have to find another way to get that energy.  While humans possess both a physical body and an etheric body (aura), fairies are comprised only of an etheric body, although some can temporarily manifest physically.  Therefore, it is in their nature to work within energy fields.  They build and care for the forms of the mineral, plant, and animal kingdoms.  They are architects of nature, following the designs of the great archetypes.

Yet they have their shortcomings, just as we do.  And like us, they also are on an evolutionary path fraught with pitfalls, although their path is different from ours.  Still, all roads will eventually lead to the same place, and along the way, it might benefit us to get to know our etheric cousins a bit better.  Be lenient in your outlook, kind in your consideration.  Leave your ego hanging on the hook when you venture out, just as the fairy left his hat in the above photo.  Look for their signs, and I promise you will see them everywhere.  But you must seek.

Sunset - August 27, 2014

Looking out over the meadow, he waves goodbye.

August 27, 2014 - Change is Coming

And so it begins.  The leaves are officially starting to change here in Midcoast Maine.  Further up north, they began the change a few weeks ago, but down here in the "south," our weather is a little more temperate.  Even so, there is only so much time allotted to the greenery before the axe of ice falls once again.  There's a quickness in the air now, almost a sort of desperation.  I can feel it.  I can see it in the insects.  Their behavior is more frantic.  Eggs are being laid at an astounding rate.  Insects that used to bother me and swarm around my head just a few weeks ago are nowhere to be found.

The animals are changing, too.  They're on the move.  A rafter of wild turkeys passed me in the woods this morning and didn't even so much as look in my direction.  Their eyesight is so keen and I know they must have seen me, but they had to hurry on their way, you see.  It's the same for the deer.  They're taking to the deer paths again, and soon there will be a lot of traveling amongst them.  The rut will be starting in a couple of months, and the females have to fatten up as much as they can.  The squirrels have begun gathering and hoarding food again, too.  They squabble with one another in the treetops.  Sometimes I think it must be a moose passing by with all the noise, but I look up only to see that it's two squirrels arguing over an acorn.

The leaves are starting to change in Midcoast Maine.

It isn't just the color of the leaves, though.  The sound is different as well.  The winds are changing, and that means they're blowing differently through the leaves, which are in turn talking to me with a different tone.  It's anticipatory and slightly frantic, and as the days go on, it will become evermore so.

And the scent is different, too.  Fruits and seeds are ripening everywhere--edible and non-edible.  That heady aroma of plant fruition surrounds me and is almost intoxicating.  There is also the smell of rotting--of fallen leaves, fruits gone by, flowers browned and drooping.  It's not a bad smell, though, at least I don't think so.  I've always liked it.  It is the smell of culmination, of a job well done, of the time to rest now.

Yes, it has begun.  It's subtle, now, but soon it will proceed at an alarming rate.  I will keep you informed.  The winds of change have arrived.

August 26, 2014 - The Little Acorn

There once was a mighty old oak tree that lived in a very old forest.  He had lived there for over 500 years and was the oldest tree around.  His plan was to live another 500 years, but one autumn day his plans changed.  He realized that he was not going to make it another 500 years.  In fact, he realized he would not even make it one more year.  With this in mind, he searched through his branches to find the best acorns he had, but imagine his dismay when he couldn’t find any at all.  Just as he had given up in despair, though, he found one tiny acorn in a branch--just one.

“Now listen to me very carefully,” he said to the acorn, “because I don’t know how much time I have left.”  Then he explained the situation to the acorn, who sat terrified on her little branch.  He told the acorn he was dying and that he wanted the little acorn to plant herself in the ground and grow into a mighty oak tree, just as he had done.

“But I don’t know how!”

“There’s nothing to it,” he chuckled.

“Easy for you to say.  I’m not doing it.”

“You have no choice.  Now don’t let me down and make my life in vain,” he said.

And with that, he gave a mighty shake of his branches and the little acorn fell down to the road.  There she sat immobile for a couple of days.  With each hour that passed, she fretted more and more, worried to no end about the huge task that had been given to her.  A car whizzed quickly by and missed her by just an inch, sending her rolling in the opposite direction.  Then another car came by and sent her back to where she had started.  Then a third car came and rolled her further still.  Luckily, none of them had run her over.

The little acorn awaits its destiny.

Nighttime came and it grew cold and a terrible rain came with tremendous thunder and lightning.  The little acorn sat miserable on the road, wishing she were back up in the lovely branches of the old oak tree.  When morning came, a squirrel came by and picked her up in his mouth.  “Now I am done for!” she thought, but the squirrel had already had more than enough to eat that day, so he brought her to one of his secret caches and buried her in the ground.

Then there was only darkness for what seemed like an eternity.  Dark and dark and dark, and then bitter cold.  She could no longer hear the “hum” of the old oak tree, which used to travel through the whole forest, above ground or below.  A great sorrow filled her and she went into a deep sleep, convinced that she had utterly failed.

And so she stayed this way for a very long time and finally gave up completely.  Oddly enough, on the very day when she had totally surrendered, she felt a strange warming sensation.  First it was just for a moment or two, but then it quickly grew.  It was such a wonderful feeling!  So warm and so inviting!  She simply could not resist the urge to find out what it was.  So she stretched herself as hard and as far as she could and finally managed to poke her head up out of the ground.

Lo and behold!  She was met with the most dazzling display of light and warmth--greater than she had ever felt in her young life.  The happiness she experienced was indescribable, and she reached herself up farther and farther just to be closer to the light and warmth.  It was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to her.

And then she heard it.  A faint, familiar hum.  She looked up and saw the old oak tree.  He was still alive, but not for long judging by his hum.

“I see you made it,” he whispered, his mighty voice now soft and raspy.

“Oh, have I?  I hadn’t realized,” she said, feeling completely confused.  The old oak just chuckled softly, remembering his own emergence 500 years ago.

“It is time for me to go,” he said sadly.
“Where are you going?”

“I don’t know,” he said, “but my eyes are failing me these days and I see nothing but darkness.  It worries me.”

The little acorn, who was now a baby oak tree, looked up into the dazzling and brilliant sun, and she was suddenly struck with an understanding beyond her young age.

“Do not fear,” she said, “but instead rest.  Sleep and dream and forget.  And wait for the sun.  The sun will come again.  The sun always comes.”

“Do you really think so?” he asked.

“Indeed, I do.”

August 25, 2014- I am Brave

Like anything else in life, the forest has its dark places.  There are unexpected shadows, wrong turns, impossibly tangled brambles, and paths that seem to lead nowhere.  There are gullies laid deeply with dangerous, still water and dank sections thick with biting, tearing insects.  There are odd sounds and growls, shining eyes hiding in thorny underbrush, and quick, furtive movements that indicate one is being followed but show nothing upon inspection.  There are screech owls and bats and fishers.  There is everywhere the smell of decay, some pleasant as of fallen leaves and some not-so-pleasant . . . as of dying animals.

Yet that heavenly place I often speak of and where I spend a good amount of my life is the same place as the one described above.  That place I’ve told you of with fairies, dragons, enchanted creatures, magical mushrooms, and wild food for the taking is the same place as the one with shadows, empty paths, pursuing insects, and animals with sharp fangs.  They exist together in the same place at the same time.

The difference is not in the creatures of the woods, not in the elemental beings, not in the paths, and not in the display of light or dark.  The difference is in me.  I am the one who chooses.  I am the one who takes the path and finds the treasure or the hunger.  I am the one who remembers her survival skills or runs from the predators.  I am the one who finds fairies and sunshine and soft moss, or dank water and thorns and decay.

I am the one who makes the choice, and it is the same for you--wherever your forest may be, even if it is in a city.  For darkness and predators and insidiousness are everywhere in this world, and we can fall victim to them or we can stand up and say, “No!”

You can always find the sun, even in the darkest forest.

When the darkness is all around you, and it will be at times because that is part of life, do not panic and do not despair.  When the shadows crowd in on you, do not give up or fall down.  Remember that you make the choices and the sun always shines, even if you cannot see it.  Look up into the canopy above you--be it trees or concrete--and say out loud again and again, “I am brave!  I am brave!”

And you will be brave.  And the sun will shine again.  You may forget about it at times, but you can never lose it.  Even in the darkest forest, you can command an opening in the canopy above you.  The sun will shine again because you are brave.

August 24, 2014 - Toadstools

There are mushrooms--fleshy, aromatic, heady, delicious fruiting bodies of fungi that grow in the forest.  They come in all sizes and shapes and colors and tastes.  They are a delight to search for and even more of a delight to eat!  And gathering them always makes for a fine hike in the woods, a good meal, and a good rest.

But then there are toadstools.  Stools for toads.  Toads who sit on stools.  I’m told that toads are a member of the frog family, but I choose not to believe it.  They’re drier creatures.  They have leathery skin and tiny legs and big snouts.  Instead of hopping, they slink about in the forest.  They’re warty with poisonous glands behind their eyes.  And everyone knows that bad witches can turn themselves into toads and sometimes get stuck in the process, while good witches wouldn’t dream of such a thing.

So it only stands to reason that these creatures (who are probably a visible part of the Unseelie Court--think about that) would need special seats.  A doorstep wouldn’t do at all.  A flower would be too colorful.  A log would be too wholesome.  A rock in a pond would be too clean.  A garden ornament would be too pretty.  Nope.  Warty, leathery creatures need special places to put their leathery fannies.

An ugly toadstool.

Enter the toadstool, aptly named.  The word first appeared in the late 14th century from “tadde” (toad) and “stole” (stool).  Because toads can be poisonous, their chairs apparently have to be equally poisonous.  The terms “toad’s cheese” and “toad’s meat” also refer to these special chairs.  A toadstool is always poisonous, while a mushroom may or may not be.  A toadstool is large, oddly shaped, and frankly, ugly.

Where you find these toad thrones, you will often find toads.  And where you find toads, you will likely find unfriendly faeries and witches who have gone down the wrong path.  I find that as the days grow shorter, the toadstools seem to appear more.  The creatures that prefer the shadow begin to make themselves known.  Find the toadstool, then, and make a choice:  leave at once for brighter territory and faeries who are only mildly annoying, or delve deeper into the secret parts of the forest.  But don’t say you weren’t warned.

A toad throne.

August 23, 2014 - Rockweed

This is rockweed (Ascophyllum nodosum), a kind of seaweed that covers the rocky shore of Maine in massive amounts.  It is also known as knotted kelp and is famous for its use as a garden fertilizer because of its nitrogen, phosphorus, potassium, calcium, magnesium, sulfur, manganese, copper, iron, and zinc content.  But as if that weren’t enough, lately it has been extensively studied for its “fucoidan” content.  Fucoidan is a complex sugar that has shown anti-tumor, anti-inflammatory, immune-enhancing, and anti-viral properties.  What is unique about this seaweed is that its ion structure is very close to human blood plasma and the interstitial fluid of our body structure.

Two separate plants of rockweed along the shores of Maine.

It was hard for me to find these two plants alone like this because usually they grow in massive mountains all over the rocks on the shore.  They’re extremely slippery, and when the tide comes in they become buoyant.  Sometimes swimming by the shore can be a bit of a hassle, unless you don’t mind swimming with the seaweed.  While you’re at it, you can gather some and bring it back to dry it and use it however you would use other seaweeds in recipes.  Seaweeds are delicious!  You can buy this seaweed in a health store, but it sure is expensive.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve always called rockweed “mermaid’s hair” because that’s what it reminds me of.  When my daughter was little, I used to tell her that the mermaids were swimming close to shore when the seaweed moved back and forth with the current.  I see no reason to change this belief.  When you’ve lived here as long as I have, you get used to mermaid sightings on a regular basis.  And who can prove this isn't their hair, anyway?

Massive amounts of rockweed are draped all along the rocky coast of Maine.

August 22, 2014 - Highlanders

Highland cattle were developed in Scotland and are known to be very hardy.  So, of course, they’re perfect for Maine.  Highland cattle can deal with torrential rain, very strong winds, and terribly cold winters.  Their long hair gives them protection from the elements, and when other cattle would beg to be housed, for Highland cattle it’s just another day.  They’re very skilled at looking for food in mountainous and hilly areas and will eat many plants that other cattle avoid.  Because of this Highland cattle can produce beef on land that would be considered inhospitable and incapable of rendering a profit agriculturally.

But aren’t they beautiful?  Snow has no effect on them, except to make them even more beautiful.  I love when a gentle snow starts to fall on them.  They just continue to peacefully graze or search for hay.  Their double layer of hair means they don’t need an outer layer of fat to keep them warm, so they don’t need much shelter, many supplements, or expensive grains to keep them fed and happy.  They’re happy on any old pasture or hill, and that’s what makes me love them so much.  To me, even though they were developed in Scotland, the Highland cattle are the quintessential Maine cattle:  strong, happy, resilient, and independent--just like any Mainer would be!

Highland cattle at home in Maine.

(Commercially, Highland cattle yield a tender meat but it’s of a different “character” from what people are used to.  Therefore, a Highland cow is often bred with another kind of bull so that she will produce a calf with tender meat like hers but on a carcass of “higher commercial value and appeal,” and she’ll do this all on land other cows can’t graze on.  Leave it to mankind to take advantage of the thriftiness of this breed.)

August 21, 2014 - Old Jack

If you chance upon a faerie meadow, you may just run into an old scarecrow.  His name is Old Jack.  He’s easy to miss because he’s so ragged and forlorn-looking.  Unlike some scarecrows who can command your attention all the way across a field while you’re driving by on a highway, Old Jack slips in and out of the flowers and weeds like a ghost.  If he doesn’t want to be seen, you won’t see him.  Except for the crows.  They always see him and they just seem to love him.

In fact, that’s how I found Old Jack today.  I went looking for him because I hadn’t seen him in a few years now.  I knew he was still around here and there because he’s always leaving traces of his passing.  Now and then I’ll find some seeds harvested from the rye grass and kept in a nice pile, or some noxious weeds tied back or even cut down, or a tiny flower propped up with some twine on a stick so it can get some sun that the other taller flowers have been hogging.  And I’ll say to myself, “Yep, Old Jack’s been here.”

So I followed the crows today.  What an awful ruckus those birds make!  When they congregate in what’s known as a murder of crows, they could wake the dead.  They only do it for two reasons:  either a fox is slinking through the meadow looking for some prey (usually my chickens) and they’re hoping to get a piece, or Old Jack is in the vicinity and they’ve come to see how he’s doing.  Today it was Old Jack they were squawking about, and it’s a good thing for that because I’ve about lost my patience with chicken thieves.

Old Jack, scarecrow of the faerie meadow.

Anyhow, at first I didn’t see him because Old Jack has to decide he wants to be seen.  Sure enough, he tapped me on the shoulder and then jumped aside and stood as still as ice, almost as if he’d always been there.  I smiled at him and put his hat back on.  He’s always losing that thing.

“Where’ve you been these last few years?” I asked.

“Busy with the crows.  Busy with the flowers.  Busy with the bees.  Old Jack never gets no rest,” he said.

“Thinking about retiring?”
“Naw.  Critters around here need me too much.  Old Jack’s busy.”

“I’ve been busy too,” I said, “and the faeries are getting feistier.  I think I might have found an ally among them, though.”
“Yep,” he said, “Old Jack’s been watching.  Saw you down at the pond that day (see First Contact).  But not everything is as it seems.”

“What do you mean?”

“I just mean you never do know with faeries, dummy.”
“Or scarecrows,” I said.

We both laughed at that.  I’ve always liked Old Jack, and I was happy to see him again.  I was a little worried, though, about his ragged condition.   I think it was the worst shape I’ve ever seen him in, and that’s saying something.

As if he could read my mind, the old scarecrow said, “Well, there are those who say I’ve seen my better days, but I say I’m seeing my best days now.”

“Which would you say is the best day you’ve ever had?” I asked.

“Every day,” he said.

Then he slipped off through the meadows and the crows flew after him.  Old Jack’s a good egg, he is.

August 20, 2014 - Alone

Human beings are a social animal, and that means that humans need other humans.  I imagine it began as a protective sort of thing with bands of humans surviving better than loners.  I’m sure it quickly moved into a hunting kind of thing.  Hunting in groups gives a much better chance at taking down game than hunting alone, and that means more food.  Then it moved on to agriculture.  A group of people can certainly plant and tend more crops than a single person, and this gives the group a survival edge.  From there it went to specialized skills.  One person could work much better with stone or leather than another person, while that other person worked much better at, say, food preparation or farming.  So people banned together to share their skills, to protect one another, and to feed their children.

Of course, it goes beyond that.  People need each other.  People need love and affection.  They need conversation.  They need camaraderie.  They need the comfort of knowing that someone else is beside them.  When they don’t get these things for prolonged periods, they often go “funny in the head.”  I’ve seen people like that, and it’s tragic.

An isolated home on the shore in Maine.

Then there are those who live in isolated areas in homes hidden away, such as the one you see in this photo.  Make no mistake:  this person still needs other people for supplies, friendship, etc.  But those needs are met only occasionally and only when necessary, and the rest of the time is spent alone in nature.  Not everyone can live this way.  Many people think they can because they get frustrated with a hectic lifestyle, but when given the opportunity, those same people go insane in an isolated atmosphere such as this. 

Here in Maine we are lucky to have many isolated areas with very few people or none at all.  Here in Maine, if you want, you can have a fabulous and breathtaking view to look at every day and no one with whom to share it.  It takes a different kind of person to live this way.  I am one of these people.  Are you?

August 19, 2014 - Mr. Reed of 1691

I’m trying to imagine what it must have been like to be born in 1691.  Plenty of people were born in 1691, but I wasn’t one of them.  William Reed was, though, and I’m assuming it was a completely normal thing for him to be born as it was for many people who were born that year.  Life was probably pretty boring in 1691.  I certainly hope you don’t agree with that last sentence.

Life was anything but boring in 1691!  The year started on a Monday.  (Okay, that was boring.)  Leisler’s Rebellion ended in March.  Jacob Leisler had seized control of the southern part of the colony of New York in 1689, just after the Boston Revolt.  He did so out of severe resentment of the policies of the deposed King James II.  But the English did regain control, arrested Leisler in March of 1691, and then hung him for treason in May.

Meanwhile, a fire broke out at the Palace of Whitehall in London in April of 1691, destroying the Stone Gallery.  At one point, this was the largest palace in Europe with over 1,500 rooms.  In 1698 another fire broke out and destroyed the rest of the palace, with the Banqueting House being the only thing still standing today.  Just imagine a palace of 1,500 rooms, even larger than the Vatican . . .

And speaking of the Vatican, Pope Innocent XII became the 242nd pope in July of 1691, succeeding Pope Alexander VIII.  But just before that in May of 1691, the Spanish Inquisition condemned and forcibly baptized 219 Xuetes (descendants of Majorcan Jews) in Majorca.  When 37 tried to escape, they were burned alive at the stake.  Talk about living on the edge!

Topsham Cemetery, Mr. William Reed, born in 1691.

Of course, the hero of our story, one Mr. William Reed, had only just been born in 1691 and didn’t know about the Battle of Leuze in September of that year when the English and Dutch were defeated by the French in the War of the Grand Alliance.  He didn’t know about the Treaty of Limerick in October that guaranteed civil rights to Roman Catholics (but was broken before the ink was dry).  He also didn’t know that in 1691, Michel Rolle would offer proof of Rolle’s Theorem (ask your resident calculus student about it), or that the Massachusetts Bay Colony and the Plymouth Colony would be united (including territories that would encompass present-day Maine), or that Mongolia would come under the rule of the Qing dynasty when the Khalkha submitted to the Manchu invaders.

No, baby Reed was born into the very ordinary world of 1691.  He died in 1773 at the age of 82, three years before the colonies became the United States of America.  He had no television, no cellphone, no Wii or Xbox.  There was no internet, and so he had no way of knowing what people on the other side of the world were eating for lunch.  Yet somehow, somehow, he managed to live to his 82nd birthday in his very ordinary world (which was anything but).  He was buried in the old Topsham Cemetery in Topsham, Maine.

Think about that the next time you panic and wonder what the world is coming to and how dangerous our times are.  The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Headstone of Mr. William Reed, died 1773.

August 18, 2014 - Turtle Wisdom

Last night I dreamt I was the ocean.  I wrapped myself around the whole world and all the land.  I enveloped large continents and tiny little nooks within coral as well, and I felt the presence of each, regardless of size.  One was not more important or desirable than the other.  Each had its own feel and was unique, but each was a part of the whole.  Each gave tiny little pieces of itself to me as gifts.  And I loved those gifts!  I put them on like a new dress and swirled them around to see how I looked.  I sparkled everywhere!

I went on the shore of each piece of land to talk to the land and the people.  They all loved me, but they did not all love one another.  Some did not even know of the existence of others, and this confused me.  How could they not know of one another since they were all connected in one way or another on top of me or within my depths?  To me it was all one thing, but to the continents and islands and people it was thousands of separate things.

I sat on a rock in the Gulf of Maine to think about it all.  By and by, a tiny turtle came by and sat down with me.  He asked me what was bothering me and I told him.  “How could each piece of land think it was separate,” I asked, “when in fact they are all connected through the depths of me?”

The ocean hugs the shore.

“And what are you connected to?” the little turtle asked.

“Me?  Well, I’m all around the whole Earth,” I answered.

“But what supports you and keeps you here?”

“Well, there is the core of the Earth, and then I’m all around that to varying degrees, and then the land is above me.”

“So you support the land?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“But it also supports you?”

“Well….yes, I guess it does, more sort of internal parts of the land support me.”

“But it’s still the land underneath you and above you, right?” he asked.

“Yes.  I suppose it is,” I said.

“Hmmm….what supports that land and keeps it here?” he asked.

“You mean the whole planet?  Well that’s revolving in space around the sun.”
“So space supports it?”
“I suppose in a way, it does,” I said.

“And there are other planets?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“And what supports them?”

“Space, I guess, gravitational pull, that kind of thing,” I said.

“And are they separate?” he asked.

“The planets?  Well, yes, of course.”
“Are they?” he asked. “Even though they are supported by the same space, which is all around them?”

“Ahhhh,” I said, “I think I see what you mean.  So space is the ocean that supports the planets just as I am the ocean that supports the continents on Earth?”

“I think so.”
“So space and I are the same in essence, just removed by several degrees?”
“It would appear so,” he said.

We sat for a while on the rock, not talking.  The sun came out from behind a cloud and warmed us both, and it felt so inviting.  I found myself wondering how a tiny turtle could be so clever and figure this all out when it never would have occurred to me.  I decided I would have to pay more attention to my visits with the turtles.

“There is one thing I’ve always wondered about,” the turtle said.
“What’s that?”

“Well if space supports the planets just as you support the continents, what supports space?  You’re ultimately supported by the whole planet, so what ultimately supports all of the space out there?”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” I said.

“Maybe you should.”

“You’re an odd little fellow.”

“I know,” he said.

And with that, he slipped off within my depths.

August 17, 2014 - The Ballad of the Peapod Pixie

In the forest where the fairies lived

By wind and stream and stone

There came a mighty dragon queen

To build her dragon home.

She burnt a path through magic dens

And found a cavern deep

And settled in with gold and gems

And laid her down to sleep.

The Earth would tremble when she snored

And smoke would fill the vale

‘Til oak and ash could stand no more

And the banshees set to wail.

A time of dread and woe had come

To the Fair Folk and their kin

And it seemed as though the Earth herself

Would perish amidst the sin.

When all seemed lost and dark and bleak

A tiny pixie crept

Into the lair of the dragon queen

Where the secret fire was kept.

She stole the tiny fire box

That the dragon hid so well

And brought it to the fairies

To learn its magic spell.

With fire in hand the fairies grew

Cunning and strong and sly

And built their homes and land anew

And kept their heads too high.

Yet still they feared the dragon queen

Who slept within the Earth

They knew that she could come and take

Their power and their worth.

A terrible magic then they called

To rend the Earth asunder

And set the dragon’s lair adrift

In a world of mist downunder.

Two lands were now apart it seemed

And yet they were together

For between the two a veil was placed

Which acted as a tether.

Only those who knew the path

Could go from here to there

And who would want to go and see

A dragon in her lair?

Fairy land and dragon land are joined.

 

The fairies rejoiced and reveled

In their power and their plans

And held a sumptuous banquet

Oh, the finest in the land!

While they ate and danced and drank

The tiny pixie crept

And stole the tiny fire box

Where all the power was kept.

She brought it to her peapod

And stuffed it safely in

Then in she went and fell asleep

Amid the fairy din.

In the morning the fairies learned the truth

And raged throughout the land

But they never found the fire box

To wield their wrath at hand.

And so the mighty dragon drifted

Within her misty home

And the fairies drifted too, it seems

Tethered to the dragon’s bones.

The worlds they come and then they go

And some can visit still

But the paths are steep and treacherous

In fairy halls and hills.

So travelers now you have been warned

That fairies and dragons abound

Yet peapod pixies are the ones

I would not push around.

August 16, 2014 - Taking the Path

The thing is, a path can lead anywhere or nowhere at all.  There are no written rules that say it has to have a destination.  It's a method for moving yourself forward (or backward), and that is all.  It's a place to have your being.  You can do many things on a path and find many distractions.  You can stop and stay in the same place for a while or forever, and many paths have a knack for wasting your time.

Some paths promise a lot but go on endlessly the same, dangling the carrot.  In fact, many paths seem to do that these days.  There always seems to be this shiny coin or gem just around the bend, if you'll just go a little farther.  These are the kinds of paths that lead nowhere.  Once you're on them, they're hard to get off.  They just wind and wind until one day they come to an end, for you anyway.  Then the conductor yells, "All aboard!" as if you had been on a train, and many people get on the path and mindlessly chug along just like you used to at one time.  But you can't seem to get back on, and now you've been unceremoniously dumped in the middle of nowhere.  Welcome to the jungle.  You're probably much older now.  Where did the time go?

There are those, just a few, who blaze their own trails.  They are not tempted to take paths made by others.  They are not lulled into a false sense of security by a wide, easygoing path filled with the false comfort of many travelers.  They are not fooled at all.  They begin in the jungle and, with their eyes open, they learn its ways.  They make their own decisions and then they set out.  There are no directions to follow and no shiny coins or gems just around the bend, but slowly, ever so slowly, they forge a path.  It's a difficult life but they grow to love it because it's their life and their path, and they can take it in any direction they want.  Eventually, they will reach their destination.  They will congratulate themselves on a job well done and breathe a sigh of relief.  Until they get back on the path, that is, because the lucky few realize that it is the personal journey that matters and not the destination.

A small footpath in the jungle.

August 15, 2014 - Fairy Clubs

Beautiful, isn’t it?  Looks like brightly colored coral you might find in some warm part of the Pacific Ocean, but certainly not in the woods of Maine.  Yet this is a Maine mushroom.  It’s called “Golden Spindles” or “Fairy Club” (Clavulinopsis fusiformis), and yes, it is edible although often bitter.  I just love when they start appearing in the forest.  Their bright yellow patches always catch my eye.  Even in the shade, as this photo was taken, you can see just how brilliant they are.

I didn’t make up the term “Fairy Club” for this mushroom, although I wish I had.  It sounds like something I would do.  This leads me to wonder if there are others watching the fairies, and if so, why would they call this mushroom a “club”?  Perhaps I should take some of these and dry them for future use when searching for fairies.  It never hurts to have a little extra ammo, and maybe I could use them in trade.

Fairy Club mushroom (Clavulinopsis fusiformis).

You see, I haven’t forgotten about the First Contact, and the plan that I’ve been toying with is to leave a few gifts at a favorite fairy place and see if there is any response by the next day.  I know the perfect offering stone, and I know they go there often because of the strange things I see there:  scorched ground, bits of bright silk ribbon, evidence of spilled fairy wine, fairy mushroom rings, etc.  So what I’m thinking is maybe some milk or wine, a little bit of food, and some of these fairy club mushrooms.  Giving away “clubs” might not sound like such a good idea, but it’s as good an idea as any.  Besides, they could gather plenty themselves in the forest if they were so inclined.  It’s not like I’ve cornered the market on them, and giving a gift might work in my favor.  Then, too, it could backfire and they might try to enslave me to be their mushroom gatherer for all eternity.

In any event, I’m tired of waiting, and the stone where I’m thinking of leaving the goodies is not far from my house, which I think is a good idea.  I think I should be closer to home in the beginning in case things get out of hand.  I don’t want to go through another pond episode.

August 14, 2014 - The Owl and the Seagull

There once was a seagull who was smitten with an owl.  Every day he came to visit her, bringing her bits of fish and other fine things to nibble on, and every day she refused him.  The more she refused him, the more he came to visit.  Sometimes he would sing songs to her in his strange gull language, which was full of wails and cries and eerie sounds, as gulls are wont to do.  She never acknowledged his songs with so much as a “who who.”  Other times he would perform daring feats of flight above her, now dashing downward or slicing upward through the sky in an attempt to impress her.  But she snubbed him every time, ignoring his advances and remaining as rigid as stone.  The gull was at last heartbroken, but still he came to visit her daily, facing in the opposite direction so as not to upset her.

The owl and the seagull share a visit.

One afternoon an old farmer came walking toward the dock.  Upon seeing the gull, he shook his fist and yelled and screamed to chase the gull away.  He did not like gulls on his dock at all because they are not known to be the cleanest of birds.  The gull flew off to the next dock and watched from a safe distance.  The farmer went up to the owl and picked her up and tucked her under his arm.  Then he walked a distance on the dock and set her down again.  The owl never said a word or made a movement.  “Now you chase those gulls away, girl,” the old farmer said, “or I’ll bring you back to where I got you!”  Then he walked away up the dock, grumbling under his breath, “Lousiest decoy I ever had . . .”

As soon as he left, the seagull swooped back onto the dock and got very close to the owl.  “Oh, my darling,” he said, “I had no idea how much of yourself you had sacrificed just to let me stay here.  Truly, I will love you forever!  Now I understand, my love, and you needn’t ever say a word.”  And with that, the seagull sat down very close to the owl, and she sat very close to him.  Neither said a word, but there was an understanding between them.  To this day, I am told, the visits continue.