September 30, 2014 - Nature's Nature

Nature is usually filled to the brim with joy.  Except for the times when she isn’t.  Most people don’t notice at all.  In fact, many people don’t notice or care about the natural world.  Even those who do notice nature don’t often see her different moods.  Most people see nature as being completely neutral.  She’s just a canvas, something that life paints upon.

But nothing could be further from the truth.  Nature is not the canvas, she is the artist.  It is life that is the canvas, life that is tweaked this way and that to satisfy her whims, life that is the passive vessel.  And like any artist, Nature is very temperamental.  Her moods swing from the highest of highs to the lowest of lows.  One moment she is in heaven, and the next she is raging through the depths of hell, tearing at her face and screaming at all of the world.  Yet there are two things I have noticed about this unforgettable artist.

Brave little aster alone on the shore.

The first is that when she is low and sad and miserable, she glorifies in it.  Nothing in nature is “vanilla” -- nothing.  When things are horrid and dying and decaying, she jumps into the horridness head first and screams it at us.  When life--her canvas--suffers and has pain and dies, she is there in all her terrible glory.  She does not leave anything undone.  Oh, it is so easy to see her when life is beautiful and days are filled with wonder and awe, but how many see the wonder and awe in her aspect of death?  I assure you it is there.  It will make you shudder in fear and it will change you, but it has its own terrible and secretly longed-for beauty.  There IS only one thing, after all, one life and one death, and she keeps spinning and spinning, showing us both sides of her beautiful and terrible face.  Each side gives way to the next, and each is surrendered to completely.

The second thing I have noticed is that Nature never gives up--ever.  It doesn’t matter to her if winter and death are coming.  She still creates life right on the brink of death.  It doesn’t matter to her if an animal or a whole herd dies.  She still laughs with joy.  When I say “it doesn’t matter,” I don’t mean that she doesn’t care.  I mean that she is unaffected, she is unstoppable.  It doesn’t matter if winter and a hurricane and a tornado and an earthquake and a flood (all parts of her own creation) come and destroy half the world.  When their ravages are through--or even just as they are arriving!--she still creates life.  She revels in the destruction and then cries with the most profound joy and reverence at the tiniest new leaf emerging from the soil.

Say goodbye, then, to this tiny new aster growing on the rocky shore.  Winter is fast approaching and the water is salty and the soil is sandy, and everything about this picture--just everything!--says death, says it’s not possible, says it’s too late.  But the impossible little aster grows for now on the unfriendly shore as Nature thumbs her nose at the approaching Axe of Ice.

We will not see these flowers here next year, but how wonderful to see them now.

September 29, 2014 - Fairy Photo

Well, well, well.  What have we here?  I went down to the beach at Mackerel Cove today and at the base of an old dead tree, I found this entrance.  I saw it from a bit of a distance and crept up to it silently.  Instead of popping my face right up to it for a good inspection, I placed my camera directly in line with the opening and used the zoom lens a bit.  I wanted to take a photo before anyone or anything realized I was taking a photo.  In other words, I didn’t want to alert anyone as to my motive.

And it seems that might have been a good idea.  Behold!  A fairy caught on film!  He belatedly noticed me and began to quickly dematerialize, but I caught his face on film before he disappeared.  It’s very odd and mysterious, almost ghost-like, but then he may not materialize often and may have a problem taking on a more “normal” form.  In any event, I caught him!  I caught him red-handed!

So if there were any Doubting Thomases out there, let this put the matter finally to rest.  Fairies do exist, as I have always said and known.  THEY ARE EVERYWHERE.

Fairy entrance at the base of a tree.

Fairy partially dematerialized.

September 28, 2014 - Mackerel Cove

The lobstermen come and go here at Mackerel Cove as they always have, generation after generation.  This is one of the most scenic coves in Maine, and it is still a “working cove,” that is, people live and work here, predominantly on the water.  Tourists seem surprised that people work here and that such beauty should be open to permanent public access.  Many people visit Maine and think that the places of beauty should be privately owned, available only at great price.  For some people, the more they pay for something, the dearer it becomes, but for those of us who live and work here, this scenic cove is a normal, everyday sight.  Even so, it is not taken for granted.  It is as dear to us as our own families.

The open field at the head of the cove is known as Johnson Field.  The Harpswell Heritage Land Trust acquired this property in 2002 in order to assure permanent public access to the field and the shore and permanent protection of the scenic view forever.  This puzzles many visitors who come here because someone could have made a lot of money, and someone else could “own” one the most coveted pieces of land in the nation.  But it is free, as all true beauty in this world is.  When you come here and look into Mackerel Cove, you will feel this freedom and know this beauty.  This land is your land.  This land is my land.

September 27, 2014 - Painting Worlds

The delicious scents of dinner being made wafted into the tree house of the young child.  He knew his mother would be calling him soon and he’d have to put his paints away.  As soon as he thought this, he heard his mother’s booming voice calling him to dinner.  Just a little more time, just a little more time, he thought as he began to hastily finish his painting.  No time for neatness now, no time for perfection!  He put his fingers into various colors and squished them all around the canvas, getting quite lost in the beauty of the colors all melting together.  Then his mother’s voice boomed again, this time not as sweet.  Hurry!  Hurry!  Finish the picture! he thought.  Scoop and paint, scoop and paint.  What pretty colors they make melting all together.  My masterpiece! he thought, quite proud of himself.

Then she was at the door of his tree house, quite larger than life and insisting that he come to dinner this instant.  “Look mom!”  His mother told him it was the prettiest painting she had ever seen, but now it was time for dinner.  Off they went together, hand in hand, talking about all the things he had created that day.

Back in the tree house, the colors of the sky dripped and melted into one another on the world the boy had painted.  Tomorrow he would paint eight more worlds and a brilliant sun.  Then he would paint little people into the colorful world, so they could look up into the sky at all the pretty colors he had painted and marvel at the beauty of it and thank him for such a wonderful creation.

And worlds have to start some way, after all, and this is as good a way as any other.

September 26, 2014 - The Web

This morning, high up in my favorite maple tree, I saw this web shining in the early morning sunlight.  It is more intricate than it seems at first glance.  It is not one of the graceful circular webs with equal segments and a complex Ferris wheel design.  It is more utilitarian and solid.  It is larger than one might think as well.  I cannot see where it begins or where it ends, only where it shines in the light.

I had been thinking, at the precise moment I noticed this web, about whether or not trees communicate with one another and, if so, how they do it.  When I saw this web, it made me think of the roots of a tree, first large, then fanning out, then smaller and smaller and smaller still.  Roots that touch the roots of other trees and so on and so on.  I wondered if they had some sort of relay message service that served them all, and I thought perhaps they did so that the tree in front of my house might be told by the tree I was looking at right now exactly what I was doing and saying at this precise moment.  Long before I got home, my trees would already know the whole story of where I had been.

High in a maple tree, the web shines brilliantly in the sunlight.

I think this is true.  I think that everything is connected in one giant web.  What happens on one side of the web is felt on the other side.  Messages are constantly sent back and forth across the web without many of the web’s members even knowing how their messages were received.  “It just occurred to me . . .” a person might say.  “You know, I just got an idea . . .” another would say.  “It’s the strangest thing, but I was just thinking of him . . .” says a third.

And it’s all part of the web.  So be careful and selective about what you say, what you think, and what you do because somewhere, somehow, some part of the web is going to feel what you say and do even if it doesn’t know it comes from you and even if you don’t know you’re sending it out.  Be the part of the web that shines and sparkles in the sunlight.

September 25, 2014 - Moss and Lichen

Just a quick entry today to tell you how much I love walking in the woods.  I found this clearing so you could see some of the wonderful forest floor.  It’s covered with mountains of pine needles and all different kinds of cold-loving mosses.  The lighter colored moss in the center and left of the photo is called “reindeer moss” because of its antler-shaped features, but it is actually a kind of lichen.  These mosses, lichens, and pine needles provide the softest and most cushioned walking experience you could ever imagine.  My feet are always springing back up at me with every step I take.  It is very comfortable and enjoyable.  When I leave the woods and step out onto a road, even a dirt road, it seems so hard and angular to me.  I immediately want to jump back into the woods!

In this particular photo the moss is rather thin, and I think that’s because it’s in a clearing that gets more sunshine.  Mosses love the cold, damp, and shady areas.  So you can pretty much guess that they are perfect for Maine!  And I just love their earthy scent.  When I come back to my home, even though it’s clean, my nose wrinkles up because it smells ‘stale” compared to the mosses and pine needles of the woods.  It’s no wonder I spend most of my time outdoors.

Moss, lichen, and pine needles make for a soft forest floor.

September 24, 2014 - The Real Tale of the Wooly Bear

You’ve heard the story behind the wooly bear caterpillar?  Well, so they say, the smaller the light brown band in the middle, the harsher the winter will be.  The larger the light brown band in the middle, the milder the winter will be.  Here is today’s wooly bear caterpillar, who fell from a tree in front of me and landed right at my feet as I was walking.  It couldn’t get more obvious that I was supposed to take her photo.  Her band is about average size, indicating an average winter, although my thick onion skins are telling me differently.  And that is the story of the wooly bear caterpillar, or at least, the one with which you’re probably familiar.

There is another story, of course.  A long time ago, there was a pixie who made the finest coats in the land.  Everyone came to her because her work was so famous, and anyone who was lucky enough to have one of her coats was not only very warm in the winter but also very fashionable.  As often happens, though, fame and fortune bring arrogance and rudeness along with them.  I’m afraid the pixie was not immune to these latter two qualities when she rose to stardom in her craft, which is odd for pixies, who are usually so very humble.  She began charging more and more money and became a favorite of the Seelie Court, most uncommon for a tiny pixie.  And she became conceited and rude as well, turning away many of her original customers who helped to catapult her to fame in the first place.  They were simply too common and poor for her.

Now it happened that an old witch named Tabitha Ursa was one of the pixie’s original customers, and she was in need of a new coat because winter was fast approaching.  She knew by the thickness of her onion skins that it would be a fierce one, indeed, so she sent a message to the pixie asking her to come as soon as possible and make a coat for her.  When the pixie got the message, she spat on the ground with indignation.  Old Tabitha was not only unpopular, she was also very poor, and the pixie had no need for such customers anymore.  So she ignored the witch, who sent two more messages, which were also ignored.

The wooly bear caterpillar.

This didn’t sit right with Tabitha, so she set off for the Seelie Court herself to give the pixie a piece of her mind.  Upon arriving, she put a glamour on the guards, who saw her as a beautiful queen and allowed her entrance at once.  She wasted no time and marched straight for the fashionable tower where the pixie did her work now, very unlike the little hut in which she used to work.  Tabitha burst in upon the pixie and demanded that she make a coat for her at once, at the price she had always paid.  But the arrogant pixie, dressed in her fine silks, merely laughed at the old witch.  She pointed out all of her fine silk threads and yarns and spoke of their beauty and how they were meant only for fine customers.  Then she turned back to her work and ignored old Tabitha.

And that was not a smart thing to do.  Upon leaving, Tabitha picked up two pieces of silk yarn, one light brown and the other dark brown.  Outside of the pixie’s room, she put a spell upon the silk yarns, saying, “Round and round and round you wind, bind her tight, and bring her home.”  Then she left, walking out without even casting a glamour upon her appearance, scaring just about everyone half to death in the Seelie Court.

The pixie laughed to herself at the old witch.  “Imagine old Tabitha thinking I would make a coat for her!” she thought to herself.  The very idea made her feel ill.  She congratulated herself on not needing such poor customers anymore and decided that she would finish work early today and go to a party.  So she did just that and came home very late, having drunk more wine than she should have.

While she slept, the two pieces of enchanted silk yarn crept across the floor and did what old Tabitha had instructed.  They wound themselves around and around and around the pixie, starting at her feet.  First dark brown, then light brown, then dark brown again until she was completely covered with silk yarn.  In the morning when her maid came to bring her tea, she was horrified by the giant brown worm in the pixie’s bed!  She screamed and ran for the guards, who upon their arrival, were as horrified as the maid.  They quickly dragged the large hairy worm out and tossed it outside the Seelie Court gates.  They couldn’t hear the pixie yelling to them from inside the silk wrappings.  When the commotion died down, the silk yarns set off with the wrapped-up pixie and delivered her to old Tabitha’s hut by nightfall.

Tabitha removed the silk wrappings from the pixie’s face and gave her a piece of her mind.  She was so angry!  “I was one of your best customers for years!” she yelled.  “I brought you many more customers, and I always spoke highly of your work!  My onion skins are very thick this year, which means we are going to have a very bad winter.  I need a good coat!  Now you will make me a coat from these silk threads that have brought you here, and if you do a good job and apologize, I will let you return to the Seelie Court.” 

But the pixie just spat at her.  “I don’t work for free, and I certainly wouldn’t work for the likes of you ever again.  My place is among royalty at the Seelie Court.  I am done with you peasants!”

Now you might have guessed that was not the best thing the pixie could have said to old Tabitha, who upon hearing it, saw red.

“Very well, then.  I will return you where you belong,” Tabitha said quietly.

“See to it that you do,” spat the pixie.

Whereupon Tabitha looked at the silk threads and said one word:  “BIND!”

And so they did.  Around and around and around they wove, binding the pixie completely within, leaving just her eyes, ears, and mouth free.  Then they dragged her outside and there she stayed, immobile in the woods by Tabitha’s hut.  Now she panicked and tried to bargain with old Tabitha.

“Please!  I will make you a coat!” she cried.  But Tabitha wouldn’t hear of it.

“There’s no finer coat in the land than the one you are wearing right now, my dear,” Tabitha said, “And I wouldn’t dream of taking it from you.  Now I really must go.  I’m going to use my thick onion skins to make myself a nice winter coat.”

And that’s what Tabitha did.  It wasn’t as pretty as a silk coat, to be sure, but it was nice and warm and suited her well.  It was also a very strong and long lasting coat, which she wore for many years to come.

Every year as winter approached, the pixie would crawl up to old Tabitha’s hut and beg to make her a coat of fine silks.  And every year, old Tabitha would tell the pixie that her onion skin coat was just as warm and wonderful as could be.  To this day, the pixie still comes around at wintertime, telling everyone that they should wear nice warm coats this winter.  And everyone does.

September 23, 2014 - This is Prana!

I have been trying for months to get a photo of communication between the different elements--the life force in manifestation--but so far I have been unsuccessful.  Until today.  Finally.  It has been maddening trying to catch it on film, and even this picture leaves much to be desired, but it is the best I have so far.

Look closely.  Early in the morning, if you look at the plants when the sun first hits them at a certain angle, you can see them talking together.  It is best to catch this right at the changing of the seasons, when the activity is at its highest.  This is Prana.  This is one of the things I was talking about when I told you about fairy “work,” about their “jobs.”  This is direct communication between the elements via a catalyst, known otherwise as a fairy.  This is the process of life in motion.  This is Prana, the Sanskrit word meaning, literally, the breath of life.  Prana is the radiating force of the One in its physical manifestation.  It permeates the entire universe and manifests as vitality.

They are everywhere, my friends, but you must look for them.  Train your eyes to see in a different way, and you will see.

Prana--the life force in manifestation.

September 22, 2014 - Skeleton Keys

A pile of skeleton keys lies on a railroad tie that’s covered with moss and sitting in the woods.  There are no railroads on this island, so I must assume that the tie is driftwood which simply came in with the tide one day long ago.  It’s tricky.  It’s a message for sure.  The question is, are they keys to the next levels I need to unlock to further my forest education?  Or do they represent the levels I have already unlocked? 

I didn’t bother to take the keys; I left them there.  I know they won’t be there tomorrow, so the temptation was great to just pick them up.  However, I resisted.  The keys I have already earned are mine and can’t be taken away.  I have the key to the growth of seeds and the ocean tides.  I have the key to the brilliant sun and the northern gales.  I have the key to the other vision.  I have unlocked the door of the oneness of everything.  I have the key to the power of words and the construction of thought.  The keys I have yet to earn will come slowly with work.  Nothing is handed to us.

The fairies are testing me.  They want to see if I’m foolish enough to unlock a door that I have not yet been prepared to unlock.  When I was younger, I would have done so.  But now, I will wait.  Every stage of life must be unlocked with the proper key.  First we have to find it, and then we have to dare to use it.

Skeleton keys on an old railroad tie.

September 21, 2014 - I Will Find You

When the tether of my flesh and bones

finally peels away

and I am free of its confines

will you know me then? 

will you find me? 

when I swirl with the winds

and flow with the water

and shine with the sun

and sink into the moist earth

will you know me then?

will you find me?

I will find you

I will follow your whisper in the wind

I will drink you

I will warm myself by your fiery glow

I will bury myself in your earth

I will know you not by your flesh

or your bones

or your eyes

or your hands

I will know you by your soul

as it wraps around me

and I around it

in an eternal dance of love and being

I will find you

The eternal sea.

September 20, 2014 - Stone Ship

The fairies are great imitators, although they would never admit to it.  They like to project the idea that they are great innovators and not great imitators, but their existence is confined to the cycles and seasons of the Earth, to which they are closely bound.  Their experience contains only that which Nature has already provided, although they are good at the manipulation of said raw material.

Still, they cannot (without great magic) create something from the ether that does not already exist, or that did not exist at one time.  For this reason, some of them are very jealous of humans and their ability to create and see into future possibilities, to combine substances in new ways or create substances Nature had not considered creating.  They forget, of course, their secure and rightful spot in all of Nature and their freedom to be as they are.  This is something most humans would give their right arm to have.  In any event, tools, means of transportation, digital communication, etc., are outside of their grasp, being essentially human things.

Stone ship built by fairies.

But that doesn’t mean they don’t desire such things.  Here you see a stone ship the fairies built on the seashore.  It has been here for a while, as evidenced by the seaweed hanging from it and growing all around it.  In fact, it is often submerged underwater when the tide comes in and has become a static fixture on this beach.  They haven’t quite grasped the idea that a ship should float and is meant to carry land creatures safely across water and shouldn’t be made of stone.  Even if they have grasped the idea, it’s meaningless to them since many of them are able to manifest gills at will.

No, this ship is not for travel.  The Great Imitators have no need for that.  It is just for play, for fun, for fancy.  If there’s one thing they love, it’s play.  I love the way their minds work, though.  As much as they might wonder what it must be like to be human, I wonder what it must be like to have the ability to manipulate the raw materials around me in endless variety, just for fun.

September 19, 2014 - Ocean Haiku

sun sparkling crystals

burst on autumn waves within

everlasting blue

ocean haiku

September 18, 2014 - An Unexpected Path

I climbed quite a treacherous slope to get to this spot, accessible only by foot--and that just barely.  Something up here was calling to me, and so I answered.  When I got to the top, there were a few wild asters and rugosas growing along the rockface.  How they can grow in this salt air is beyond me, but grow they do along with some other tough shrubbery.

A tiny path on the side of an ocean cliff.

What really caught my eye, though, and I hope you can see it in the picture, is a tiny path of crushed stone.  Look at the center bottom of the photo and you’ll see it there, leading outward and down the cliff.  I didn’t dare go any further because I was afraid of falling.  Or being pushed.  This is not a path for humans.  No one comes here but me, and anyhow it’s a really tiny path.  But it is a path.  And it was laid down by someone.  Or something.  This is typical of the wilder places of Maine.  Just when you think you’ve gotten to a completely untouched area, you find that it is touched, indeed, just not in the way you might have thought.

They’re at it again.  I’ll have to keep an eye on this area as well.  You never do know with fairies.  Those who dwell in beach areas can be especially treacherous because they associate with the Undines.  Tread carefully among those from the Kingdom of Water, my friends.  They are not to be taken lightly.

September 17, 2014 - The Island of Aster

There once was a tiny little island out in the ocean, faraway from any large landmass.  It was a very lonely place because no one ever visited it and no one ever wanted to.  It was just too faraway and too inconvenient to get there.  It was also very small and would hardly hold more than a handful of houses on it anyhow, and so it languished away out in the ocean in sorrow and loneliness.

The ocean, though often swift and fierce, can be kind at times as well.  She heard the little island crying softly every night and decided something must be done soon or the whole ocean would be in tears and the mermaids would stop doing their jobs.  On a particularly mild morning she materialized as a tiny mermaid on the shore of the island in order to get to the bottom of his problems and see what she could do to help.  Well, the island was simply overjoyed to see the mermaid and told her of his extreme loneliness.  He begged and begged her to stay.

“I cannot do that,” said the ocean, “for I only materialize on rare occasions and not for very long as I am uncomfortable in solid form.  But here is what you must do to ease your loneliness.  Find a beautiful and special gift, and I will send my fastest gull to you tomorrow morning.  Give her the gift and she will fly it faraway to the Queen of the mainland in the west.  When the Queen sees your special gift, she will want to visit you and may even stay for a while, assuming of course, that your gift is nice.”

Wild asters growing on the Island of Aster.

Just as quickly as she had appeared, the mermaid dematerialized, turning back into water and flowing into the ocean again.  Now the island was both hopeful and fearful at the same time.  He was overwhelmed with joy at the opportunity but was afraid he would not have a special enough gift.  All day long he wondered and worried, becoming more and more upset as the day wore on.  Finally, sunset had come and he still did not have a gift.  He went to sleep very sad and crying, once again.

In the morning, as promised, the gull appeared and asked for the gift.  The island had nothing to give the gull and was about to say so when he saw a patch of the tiny lavender flowers that grew all over the land.  He picked a beautiful bouquet of them and gave them to the gull, thinking that the gull would give them to the ocean as a thank you present for at least trying to ease his loneliness.  But the gull set off at once for the mainland with the bouquet firmly in his beak.

The gull flew straight to the Queen at her palace, who was having lunch with her maidens in the garden.  He gently dropped the bouquet at the Queen’s feet and stood silently at attention for her orders.  The Queen was beside herself with joy and longing.  She had never seen such exquisitely tiny and beautiful lavender flowers!  She decided right then and there that she would have more of these flowers and would make them available throughout her land.

“I insist you show me where you found these exotic little flowers immediately,” she said to the gull, who nodded in obedience.  And so the Queen, her maidens, and many fine sailors and soldiers all set off in one of her great ships, guided by the gull.  At last they landed on the tiny little island.

“This is where you found the flowers?” the Queen snapped at the gull.  “This tiny and forlorn little place?”  Again the gull nodded.  The Queen was confused and wary, but slowly she began to walk about, exploring.  She didn’t have to walk very far when she came across a huge patch of the tiny lavender flowers, and there were also tiny white ones as well.  The Queen was beside herself with joy and triumph!

“Well,” she said, “I never would have believed it if I hadn’t seen it for myself!”  Immediately, she told the rest of her crew to disembark from the ship.  They decided to all stay for the evening and have a party.  And what a party it was!!  Fine food, fine wine, and fine musicians played long into the night.  It was the greatest thing that had ever happened to the little island in his entire life.  Not only that, he overheard the Queen talking to her men, and she said that she would build a tiny little vacation cottage on the island and visit it regularly.  She also said that she would come and get some seeds from the beautiful little flowers and spread them throughout her land.

As she said this, though, she wondered what she would call the little flowers.  It would have to be a special name, she decided.  So as the music played and the people danced, the Queen wandered off a bit into the darkness.

“Now what shall I call these flowers?” she asked out loud, not expecting an answer.

“I haven’t given them a name,” the island responded.  The queen turned around, very surprised and apprehensive because she thought she was alone.

“Show yourself!” she commanded.

“It is I, your majesty, the island.”
“Ah, a magical place, indeed,” said the Queen, “And what do you call yourself?”

“I am the Island of Aster,” he responded.

“Very well, then, island.  I shall call these flowers ‘asters,’ after you.”

“Your majesty is too kind,” said the island.

“No, I'm not,” said the Queen, “but I am practical and greedy.  If you will provide me with as many asters as I desire, I will name them after you and your land will be honored.”

Of course, the island agreed but explained to the Queen that the asters were only available during the autumn.  However, he promised he would give her a spectacular show every year.  The Queen was satisfied with this.  She went back to the festivities and then fell fast asleep.  She left early the next morning but soon came back as she had promised, and as the island promised, he gave her a spectacular show of asters.

The Queen built a wonderful little cottage on the tiny island, and eventually the two of them became very good friends.  And even though both are now long gone, you can still see the tiny little asters dotting the countryside everywhere in the Fall, in honor of the Queen and the Island of Aster.

September 16, 2014 - Cry Me A River

Did I tell you about the time Old Jack took me to see the secret stream?  I was younger then and didn’t understand the threads that are woven between us all and our surroundings.  In those days, I based my world only on my senses and on what they could pick up from my external environment.  I hadn’t learned yet about invisible connections.  I didn’t know then about the other vision.

One day we took the secret path together through the forest.  Instead of following it to the end like I usually do when going to the pond, we veered off to the right about halfway through and kept on a less tidy path.  I didn’t remember ever seeing this path before, but when you're with Old Jack, you get used to that.  In any event, here’s what happened:

Old Jack and I went out and we chanced upon a brilliantly clear and fast-moving brook.  The water was lush, beautiful, and crystal clear.  My eyes were filled with its beauty and I longed to drink from its depths.  That’s when Old Jack pointed upstream a bit to a girl sitting on a large rock near the brook.  She was dressed all in gray and was crying and crying and wailing, her tears falling endlessly into the brook.  I couldn’t bear the sound!  The sorrow was too much for me, and I thought I must do something to help her.  I could hear Old Jack hiss “NO!” at me as I ran off to help her, and I thought it was rather mean of him.  I figured I’d talk to him about it later.  So off I went and I comforted that poor girl.  She looked terribly confused but finally stopped crying.  Then she ran off without saying a word, and I was left scratching my head.  Old Jack was nowhere to be found.

The dried-up brook.

The next day I went back, lucky enough to have found the path again.  I couldn’t find Old Jack anywhere, but there was another young girl all dressed in gray, crying and wailing terribly.  Her tears ran in huge drops from her eyes, down into the brook below.  I decided to comfort her as well, and the same thing happened as the day before.  She was confused, finally stopped crying, and ran off without saying a word.  I was so perplexed, but it didn’t end there.  For six more days, the same thing happened until the eighth girl ran away.  I was still no closer to an answer.

I looked around slowly, scratching my head.  I noticed, as if seeing it for the first time, that the brook had run completely dry.  How odd!  Only last week it was so full of luscious water!  Much of the plant life was browned and dying.  A squirrel came up and peered into the dry bed, followed by a deer.  Each walked slowly away, dejected.  It was then that I noticed most of the birdsong was gone.  In fact, it was suddenly very quiet and lifeless.

“It’s the water,” Old Jack said behind me.  “It’s gone and they need it.”

“What happened to it?” I asked, but he just smiled and slipped off through the brush, gone within a few seconds as usual.

I went home slowly, not understanding at all.  When I got home, I received some bad news about the death of a friend.  It wasn’t unexpected because I knew she was dying, but I had hoped for more time with her.  Now she was gone, and I couldn’t even tell her about the dried-up brook and the crying girls.  She would have been so interested, and I just know she would have had an answer for me.  That night I went to bed in more sorrow than I have ever felt.

But then came the morning, and I knew what to do.  I got up very early and slipped down the secret path to the dried-up brook.  I sat down on the large rock and I thought about my friend.  And I cried.  I cried and cried.  The tears just kept coming and I couldn’t stop them, so great was my misery and pain.  When I looked down, lo and behold!  I was wearing a dull gray dress.  Then it hit me.  Now I was one of the girls in gray who cried at the large rock by the brook.  And now at last I understood.  Those girls were crying because they needed to cry.  They had to cry for whatever reason was bothering them, and I unwittingly had stopped them.  By stopping their tears, which had filled the brook, I was stopping their ability to get their sorrow out and so life could not go on.

So I cried and I cried and I cried until the brook was full again.  Then I got up and left.  Old Jack was waiting for me with a little smile.  He patted me on the back and called me a dummy, as he usually does.  I asked him about the other girls, if they would be okay, and he said not to worry and that they’d be back. 

And I guess they did come back because even though I never went back to the brook, I can hear it bubbling and rushing away in the distance from the path anytime I go down it on my way to the pond.  I find it very comforting.

September 15, 2014 - The Kingdom of Ice

The change is here now in earnest.  The chill is in the air.  The vegetation is slowly dying back.  Nothing is as it was.  No amount of crying can stop it.  No amount of denial halts the onward march to the Kingdom of Ice.  Nature accepts it so readily and so easily.  She yields to death because she knows its secret.  Watch her carefully and you will learn it.  She does not plant her seeds in springtime like mankind.  She plants them in autumn in the season of death, and then they freeze and fall into the icy slumber of wintertime.  It is the autumn and the winter that cradle the new seed, the new idea, the new dream--not the spring.  And have you noticed that Nature’s seedlings always grow so much better than those we try to grow ourselves in the spring, no matter how much care we take?

When the time is right, the transformation will occur.  It has always happened this way, and Nature shows no sign of changing things anytime soon.  Accept it.  Yield to it.  Let go of the things in you that are old and worn out and no longer useful.  Let them die gracefully.  Do not force-plant anything.  Just sleep and cradle the new seeds of your mind, for there are always new seeds.  When the time is right, the transformation will occur.  It is the way of things.

The cattail fades and bows to the Kingdom of Ice.

September 14, 2014 - Mighty Oaks

This imposing old oak tree stares at me as I walk by.  I am mobile and he is not.  I can walk to countless destinations; he remains rooted.  I can swim to various places; he remains in the Earth.  I can change my surroundings when I am unhappy or fearful; he must face whatever comes head on.  I can hide myself from interaction with others; he must graciously take whatever presents itself to him.  I can protect and defend myself; he must remain completely passive to all insults and harm.

A mighty oak; a silent sentinel.

Is it no wonder then, that we look at old oak trees and call them “mighty oaks”?  Is it no wonder that their wood is so solid and hard?  Should we be surprised that things built from oak stand the test of time over and over?  I used to think that my ability to move from place to place wherever I fancied made me a privileged species, and in some ways, of course, that’s true.  But it does not make me a patient species.  It does not make me a serene species.  In my constant movement back and forth, I seem to have forgotten how to remain solid, how to stand tall.

What would you be like if you had to bear any weather condition without complaint?  If you had to live in one spot only, and a spot that you didn’t even choose?  If you had to patiently bear all of your surroundings?  If you could not run and hide when you were fearful?  If you had to passively accept any action done by another?

And we think we know what strength is.

September 13, 2014 - Fall Flowers

If you have a flower you love--or perhaps a person who seems like a flower--enjoy the sweetness while you can.  It won’t be long now.  The flowers are all getting tired.  We’re busily picking apples and pumpkins and they’re stealing the show, while the graceful little flowers bow their heads goodnight.  They’ll give us a couple of last brilliant shows and then close up for good.  The snow and cold will freeze them, and the wind will completely desiccate them.  They’ll even fade in our memories until we wonder if they had ever been at all.

Until that time, I will walk among the flowers and gather petals for potpourris.  I’ll look for Old Jack and catch up on the news with him.  I won’t begrudge the critters who come to get the seeds because they always drop a few anyhow.  Nothing lasts forever, not flowers, not us.  I will enjoy them for their remaining days here and then marvel at the white mantle that replaces them.

Plains coreopsis, also known as tickseed.

September 12, 2014 - Old Crabapple Annie

If you come upon an old crabapple tree out in the woods all by itself, you might think twice about walking by it without a proper greeting.  Old Crabapple Annie was a witch who lived around here a few hundred years ago, back in the days when witches weren’t as welcome as they are today.  She got the name Crabapple Annie because she used to tend a whole orchard full of crabapples.  It was the only orchard she was allowed to have since the locals believed that she would sour their fruit if she were allowed near their orchards.

That didn’t quite sit right with Crabapple Annie because she hadn’t done anything to anybody’s orchard, at least not too much.  There was the time that young Jacob Potter ran by her shouting, “Crabbyface Crabapple Annie, old sourpuss!”  When he got home it seems every apple in his orchard was infested with worms, and he had to pluck every single one out.  When he didn’t work fast enough at it, his mother boxed his ears.  Of course, no one could prove that Crabapple Annie had anything to do with the worms.  Still, they whispered behind her back and called her Crabby Annie.  But most things that happened to peoples’ orchards and crops and animals were just of a natural course and had nothing to do with Crabapple Annie.

Young Jacob Potter never did forget that, though, and one day he was old Jacob Potter.  Anytime he saw Crabapple Annie, he would scowl at her and shake his fist, and she’d toss him a crabapple and say, “Eat up, Potter boy, at least this one don’t have no worms!”  As the years went by, old Jacob began to hate her more and more.

Old Crabapple Annie's orchard.

One day it occurred to Jacob that Crabapple Annie must be very old, indeed.  She always looked like an old hag to him back when he was a child.  The trouble is, he wasn’t a child anymore.  He was getting on in years himself, and yet Crabapple Annie was still around and looked the same as ever.  He began to spread rumors about old Annie, telling people that she was an old witch.  He told them every time one of their younger animals died unexpectedly, it was because old Crabapple Annie had killed it and taken its life into her body so she wouldn’t die.  Most people had always thought old Annie was a witch, but they thought she was a pretty harmless one.  You know how people can be, though:  So full of superstition and willing to blame someone else for their problems.  Jacob continued the rumors over and over until everyone was afraid of old Annie and wanted her gone from the village.

Finally, old Jacob got up enough men from the village to go down to Annie’s house one night to burn it to the ground with her in it.  They had drunk a lot of hard cider and weren’t thinking quite right, and so off they headed to Annie’s place with pitchforks and torches in hand.  But when they got there, they had a bit of a surprise.  It seems old Annie was expecting them.  She was sitting out underneath an old crabapple tree, singing, “Wassail!  Wassail!”  She had several large jugs of hard mulled cider next to her and she invited them all over to have a drink.  “Wassail!  Wassail!” she sang.

Most of the village men threw their torches and pitchforks down and began drinking the cider.  They were a bit wary of old Annie, but good cider is good cider.  In the meantime, Jacob was furious.  He grabbed a torch and ran behind old Annie’s house and set fire to it in several places.  By the time anyone knew what had happened, Annie’s house was ablaze and unsalvageable.  Old Annie let out a shriek but calmed down soon enough when she saw Jacob coming around to the tree.

“I saved a special jug for you,” she said.

“Pah!” he spat.

But all the men were chanting, “Wassail, wassail, wassail!  Drink up, Jacob!  Drink your health!”

And so he did.  He grabbed the jug and began to drink as quickly as he could so he could get out of there and go home.  Things hadn’t gone exactly as he planned because Annie was still alive, and now she had no place to stay.  But as he was drinking, Annie crept up to the jug and tapped it on the bottom, saying “Crabapple, crabapple, fly to your mark!”  No one heard her because everyone was still drinking.  Except for the crabapple that was in the bottom of the jug.  It crept up the jug, into Jacob’s mouth, and lodged right in his throat!  No matter how hard he tried to expel it, it wouldn’t budge.  He tried to get people’s attention, but by this time they were all drunk.

Old Jacob fell down at the base of a crabapple tree.  Old Annie’s house burnt straight to the ground.  In the morning, the tipsy villagers all woke up with headaches to find that Jacob was dead, Annie’s house was burnt to the ground, and she had disappeared.  They were beside themselves with fear!  They grabbed their pitchforks and headed home.  Someone helped carry Jacob’s body home on the back of a horse.

They did their best to forget about it, but every Fall when the crabapples ripened at Old Annie’s orchard, they minded their manners.  They all had to pass by it almost daily on their way to and fro.  “Good Morning, Annie.  You sure do look pretty today!” they’d say, and tip their hats and head quickly on their way.  And woe to him who didn’t greet her kindly.  He’d hear, “Wassail!  Wassail!” and crabapples would fly out of the tree and pelt the miscreant on the face and back until he was black and blue all the way through.  I can honestly tell you that never again in that village did anyone say, “Crabbyface Crabapple Annie, old sourpuss!”