November 30, 2014 - The Old Bench

THE OLD BENCH

An old bench in the snow

carrying memories of warmer days

of summer breezes

and birds and fish and flowers

Of lovers holding hands

and making secret promises

Of weary travelers resting for a moment

or wanderers looking for a new view

Many thoughts, many thoughts

on the old bench in the snow

now lay strewn about it

haphazardly like frozen ghosts

The past has passed.

The old bench in the snow.

November 29, 2014 - The Old Wise Man

Back in the days when people still sought knowledge, there lived a wise old man on a cliff near the sea.  He wasn’t always wise or old, but eventually he became that way out of habit.  It began with simply helping people and giving friendly advice.  People called him smart when he was younger, and more and more people came to see him.  Then they called him knowledgeable and even cunning, and still more people came to consult him.  Finally, at some point, he just became known as the wise man who lives by the sea.

That’s where our story begins, when he was very old and very wise and still living on a cliff near the sea.  As he grew older and older, it began to worry him more and more that so many people came to see him.  What if he really wasn’t wise?  What if the people were better off not coming to see him?  What if his whole life had been lived fulfilling a label that someone else had given him?  These are the kinds of thoughts that bothered him as he aged, but usually he was so busy helping others that he didn’t have time to dwell overmuch on such thoughts.

On one particularly long and exhausting day when he felt he could go on no further and was heading into his little hut, he saw one last pilgrim coming up the cliff.  He almost told the pilgrim to come back at another time, but in his mind he heard a voice say, “There’s no better time than the present.”  So he sighed and invited the man into his very humble hut and offered him some tea.

The cliff by the sea.

The pilgrim accepted the tea and looked about the ramshackle hut with open disdain.  He complained of how difficult the climb up the cliff had been.  He spoke of several business deals in the making and property he owned and women he knew.  At last as they were finishing their tea, the wise asked the pilgrim why he had come.

“Well, I’m not really certain anymore.  I just thought you would be different.  You should be different, you know.  You should have more at your age.  Don’t you ever want to retire?”

The wise man just stared at the pilgrim for a while because deep inside some of what the man said had gone through his own mind now and then.  Finally, he said, “Well, things are what they are.  So you do not need my help anymore?”

“I don’t know.  I do, I guess.  The thing is, I just want to know why we do it all!  Why do we bother to work hard?  Why do we strive to make money and buy things?  Why do we try to impress people?  Why do we constantly want the next thing?  Or for people like you, why do you help other people?  Why do you give advice?  Why do you live by the sea?  In short, I guess, I just want to know why we do anything.  We’re all going to die at some point anyhow.  What’s the purpose to it all?  What’s the gift at the end?”

During his speech, the old wise man was feeling very peculiar.  Some of these questions had gone through his own mind at times.  As he looked at the man, his vision kept blurring and then righting itself and then blurring again.  At last he spoke, not knowing what he was going to say until he said it.

“You must come back tomorrow,” he said.

“What?  Tomorrow?  I just climbed this cliff and you want me to climb it again?”

“Yes, you must come back tomorrow.”

“But why?” the pilgrim asked.  “Why can’t you talk now?”
“Because tomorrow I will have your answer.”

That’s all the old wise man would say, and he would offer no more.  Finally, the pilgrim got up and left rather rudely, mumbling about how ridiculous and eccentric the old man was.  He headed quickly down the cliff as the daylight was fading and just made it to the bottom before it turned dark.  He was angry and tired and told himself that was the last time he would ever consult a supposed wise man.  He would go home to his life, frustrating and empty though it was.

But morning found him climbing the cliff again.  He just had to know.  He figured he was already there, he might as well try one more time before heading home.  Besides, what if the old man really did have the answer today?  He was determined to find out one way or another.

At last he reached the hut and knocked on the door.  When there was no answer he went in and found the old man in his bed.  He was about to rouse him and chastise him for being lazy when he realized that the old man was dead.  He was quite taken aback with the sight and sat down at the table for a while, just staring at the old man.  He didn’t know what to do.  The thought occurred to him that now he would never have his answer, but he felt a little guilty for thinking that way since the old man hadn’t intended on dying before telling him.  Not for the first or last time in his life, he found himself uttering the words, “Why do we even bother?”

He got up from the table and brought the old man’s body outside.  Then he dug a grave with a rusty old shovel he found out back of the hut.  He buried the old man and placed a few wild flowers on his grave.  The task had taken him most of the day, and he was very tired, hungry, and thirsty.  He looked at the grave and wondered what the gift at the end had been for the old man.  He doubted it was anything at all, but he was so very tired, he didn’t think too long on it and just went back in the hut.  He made some tea and found some scraps of food in cupboards here and there, and then he ate and went to sleep.

In the morning, two pilgrims arrived and began to ask him about whether they should marry or not.  The man tried to explain to them that he was not the wise old man, but they said they didn’t care about that.  They just wanted to know what he thought.  So he told them that since they both made such a long trip together, he thought they should get married because they were cooperative and honest with one another.  The two pilgrims left happy with this advice.

In an hour, another pilgrim came, a woman who said she wanted to know if she should have another child.  Again the man tried to explain to her that he was not the wise old man, but she just kept talking and asked him what he thought of it all.  He told her that if she had to ask, then she probably shouldn’t have another child because the commitment wasn’t there.  She left happy with this advice.

And so it went all day and the next day and the day after that.  Pilgrim after pilgrim came, asking all sorts of questions.  After a while, the man stopped explaining that he wasn’t the wise old man and just started answering the questions.  Some of the questions seemed very simple to him, but some were quite complex.  He did his best to answer with honesty, and most of the people left happy, and if they weren’t happy, at least he’d given them cause to think.

Now he had cause to think, too.  Why was he doing this?  Why did people trust him?  Shouldn’t he go back to his life, to his business, to his money?  What was the point of all of this?  After all, eventually he would die just like the old man, probably in poverty just like the old man.  Why bother?  What was the gift at the end?

He thought about this for a very long time, and finally he decided that perhaps there was no gift at the end.  Perhaps there was no ultimate reason why people did anything at all.  Maybe the gift, if there were any gift at all, was just simply to live and handle only what the present day brings.  Maybe the reward was just authenticity.  But then many more pilgrims came, and there wasn’t time to think about such things anymore.

November 28, 2014 - Snow Secrets

A long time ago, there lived a very wicked and greedy woman who would stop at nothing to get what she wanted.  When she learned of the death of a very wealthy merchant’s wife, she decided she would marry the man and live a life of luxury.  She immediately set her cap on him, and because she was blessed with abnormal beauty, it did not take her long to get her claws into the merchant’s heart, especially since he was so bereaved.  People were a bit surprised when the merchant married the evil woman only a few months after his wife’s death, but he was so grateful for the false comfort she provided as a mother to his young son that he did not notice the disapproval of those around him.

Once they were married, the evil woman went straight to work on getting as much wealth from the merchant as she could.  She had all new clothes made for herself and her own son, and every Saturday the two of them rode about town in a most opulent carriage buying useless trinkets and eating at the finest establishments in town.  She threw parties all the time, hiring the best caterers and the most expensive musicians.  She insisted monthly on a new piece of jewelry from her husband to celebrate their “monthly” anniversary.  To all of these things, and more, the merchant never said a word.

Yet it was not enough for the greedy woman.  She began to think of what she would do and how much she would have if her wealthy husband accidentally died.  After all, she reasoned, his first wife had died and maybe he would as well.  The merchant assured her that she and her son were written into his Will and that they would be handsomely gifted upon his death.  Still, this was not enough for the woman because she began to think that the merchant’s own son might get too much money and she wanted to have all of that for herself and her son.

Pines bowing with the weight of the snow.

Her greed got the better of her as it always did, and she came up with a plan to get rid of the boy.  One very cold day when the merchant was out of town, she led the boy far out into the woods, telling him she required his help in finding some wintergreen, his father’s favorite seasoning, which she intended to bake into a cake for his birthday.  She put him into a very thin coat while she herself wore a very warm fur cape.  They wandered for some time in the late afternoon and the boy complained of the cold.  The woman told him to sit under a tree and she would look for the wintergreen and then come back for him.  He did as he was told, feeling very cold and very tired.  She warned him not to leave the tree or she wouldn’t be able to find him on the way back.

Then she left him and went some distance away where she could still see him, although he did not know he was being watched.  She saw him shivering violently with the cold and then finally calm down and drift off to sleep.  Then she hurried back home in the waning light, confident in her plan.  When she got in, she ordered hot soup from the cook, which she said she would be bringing straight to the young boy’s room as he had caught a cold while out with her and she had sent him straight to bed.  No one suspected a thing, thinking she was just doing her motherly duties.  When she got to the boy’s room, she ate the soup herself and then brought the bowl down to the kitchen.  She told the staff not to disturb the poor boy’s sleep.

During the night a terrible snowstorm came up and covered the entire town as well as the woods in thick white snow.  This made the woman secretly very happy because she knew there was no way the boy could have survived the storm.  In the morning when the merchant came back from his trip, she greeted him warmly with smiles and false concern for his welfare.  Together they were enjoying a wonderful breakfast when a maid ran into the dining room shouting that the merchant’s son was missing.  There was mass confusion and everyone asked who had the seen the boy last.  The woman volunteered that she had seen him last when she brought him soup after he had caught a cold while he was out with her collecting wintergreen in the woods.  The cook said she remembered the woman had brought soup to him.

After the house and barns were searched thoroughly, everyone donned their warmest clothes and headed outside, yelling and shouting the boy’s name.  All along the woman kept wringing her hands and saying that she hoped he had not left the house early that morning to go pick more wintergreen.  She explained to all who would listen that both she and the boy wanted to surprise the merchant with a wonderfully-flavored cake for his birthday, but she certainly hoped he did not go out alone in the morning.  The merchant patted her hand and thanked her for her thoughtfulness.

Getting more and more worried as time wore on, the merchant asked his wife to show them exactly where she and the boy had been the day before, and she was only too happy to do so.  Now, of course, all of the winter woodland Good Folk had seen what happened the day before, and they knew the evil in this woman’s heart.  It was slow going for the search party because the snow was at least a foot deep, and the fairies decided they would use this to their advantage.  They followed the merchant around and every time he paused, they would shake a great pine laden with snow, which would fall directly on him, covering him with cold snow.

On and on it went.  Every time they paused for a moment, the fairies would deliver a load of snow from a heavily-laden pine tree.  “I can’t see anything with all this snow!” the merchant yelled, “How much farther??”  The woman explained that they were almost there, that it was just over a nearby hill.  They all grouped together and decided to take the snowy hill hand in hand to help each other.  The fairies immediately stopped dropping all the snow.  The people all trudged onward in an eerie silence.  The merchant remarked how smooth and perfect and untouched the landscape was now that the trees were not dropping snow on him.

When they reached the top of the hill, one of the servants noticed a tiny snow-covered lump sitting under a tree.  Everyone halted and looked at the merchant as they could easily make out some of the color from the child’s coat.  No one said a word.  No one moved.  Everyone knew what it meant.  The merchant stood there staring at his child.  He stared at the snow-laden pines above the child that almost protected him from the worst of the snow.  He saw all the snow-laden trees around the child.  Lastly he looked at the deep snow surrounding the whole area.  Everything was pristine and white and perfect and untouched.

And that was what bothered him, although he wasn’t sure why at first.  The servants went to go to the tree but the merchant stopped them.  He turned to the woman and asked, “Is this where you two were yesterday?”

“Yes!  This is the very spot,” she said, “and he even sat there for a bit while I searched for some wintergreen.”  She cried as she said this but the merchant was unmoved.

“And did you find any wintergreen?” he asked.

“None, but I told him we would come out again today.  He must have decided to go on his own this morning to surprise you.”  She cried as she said this, but again the merchant was unmoved.

“And then the two of you came home?” he asked.

“We did!” she cried, “and I brought the poor boy soup because he had caught a chill.  I put him to bed myself!”

The merchant stared at his wife for a long time.  The servants all just stared at one another, wondering if their master had lost his mind.  Finally, the merchant spoke.

“But you will all see,” he said, “how pristine the landscape is.”  Everyone readily nodded.  “How odd that the boy would choose his thin spring coat,” he mused, “when we have had such bitterly cold weather and he has a fine warm coat.  And isn’t it stranger still that we have seen not one footprint of that child in the woods?  Indeed, look at him.  He did not recently walk here.  The snow is perfect all around him, and the snow-covered trees have sheltered that area, and still there is not one footprint in the snow.  Not one tree has released its snow to bury him.  In fact, it seems as though the trees were trying to protect him.”

Then everyone stared coldly at the woman.  She backed up slowly, protesting her innocence, calling upon the cook and anyone who would listen.  But the evidence was as plain as day, and soon she stopped saying anything but just continued to back away, staring wildly at the crowd.  No one said a word as she backed further and further away into a stand of nearby pines.  The merchant told her to stay there and she had better not even dare to move a muscle.  She was so frightened that she did as she was told.

Then everyone turned from her and went to gather the child’s body and bring him home.  His father wept bitterly as he held him, and everyone was struck with grief.  As they made to leave, a great rumbling was heard in the woods.  They looked over to where the sound had come from.  It was directly where the woman had been just a few minutes before, although she was nowhere to be found.  Instead, it seemed as though a hill of snow had just fallen.  No one went to investigate.  No one said a word.  They all slowly went back to the merchant’s home.

High above in the trees, the Good Folk sat after shaking the mighty pines.  A large mound of very heavy snow stood perfectly silent in the woods.  Springtime would bring an interesting sight and different emotions, but for now the Lords of Winter ruled in an icy white world of evergreens.

November 27, 2014 - Thankful

The word of the day is thankful, and today everyone will make the rounds with their friends and tell them what they’re thankful for.  Of course, we are thankful all the time, we just get busy and don’t always say it and don’t always consciously think it.  Today is a day to stop being so busy and to think and to say thank you.

There isn’t enough paper and ink to list the things for which I am thankful, but I asked myself today, isn’t there just one thing, one extraordinary thing?  And of course, the answer was a resounding yes, and the word in my mind was “snow.”

The beauty of snow while in pursuit of Maine.

Yes, snow.  I am so thankful for snow.  I’m thankful for its grace as it gently glides down from the sky because that kind of grace makes my heart sing and reminds me that beauty is always there if I look.  I’m thankful for snow's uniqueness.  Not one snowflake--not one!--is the same as any other, and this reminds me of human beings, how precious we all are.  I’m thankful for the cold of the snow because the cold can do so many wonderful things.  The cold can calm fiery and angry emotions.  The cold can make us wise by teaching us to save good things in the warm weather because the cold knows how much that will be appreciated someday.  I’m thankful for the hard work that snow causes.  It makes me shovel for hours, and I sing while I shovel and the shoveling causes pain and exhaustion, which leads to a wonderful hot bath.

So many things about snow.  Purity, cleanliness, newness, decoration, water metamorphosis.  But maybe the best thing--the best thing--is all the wonderful tracks left by all the animals who come to visit my house every single day--every single day.  And I don’t usually even know they’re there.  But the snow tells me.  The snow says, “Oh, yes, today the squirrels were busy and the birds were hopping and two hares came by and deer tried to get into the bird feeder, and coyotes are roaming . . .  Every day they come to my house, and I’m so thankful for their silent presence.

Life is there.  It’s always there.  He who hath ears, let him hear.

November 26, 2014 - Street Lamp

Lighthouses are a familiar sight along the ocean, and they’re very much appreciated by the sailor.  Lighthouses have saved countless lives over the centuries.  A sailor sees warning and safety in the vision of a lighthouse.  Those who live on land see the borders of their country in the protective beam of light.

But there are other lights that are just as important as a lighthouse, maybe more so.  In a large city, there is so much diffused light that the night traveler really doesn’t have to worry about seeing where he’s going.  It may not be noon for him, but he can see just fine due to millions of lights producing a kind of semi-daylight.  In the country, this is not so.  Many towns and villages cannot afford to light all their roads or even their highways.  This is the case with Maine.  You can be driving for a long time at night on a major highway and see . . . nothing.  It’s very unnerving.

An old Maine street lamp.

For me, there’s a certain comfort and tiny sigh of relief when I spot an old street lamp.  This will only be in a somewhat populated area and it will not produce nearly the amount of light that a city light produces, but it is so very welcome, especially in a rain or snowstorm.  When I travel on foot, as I often do in all kinds of weather, I must carry my own light if I am on an old country road--no exceptions, as it is impossible to travel without one unless the moon is full.  Walking at night can be a bit frightening, but when I see an old street lamp, it draws me, reassures me, and keeps me on the right track.  We don’t have night watchmen anymore, but an old street lamp is like an old friend, especially if you are cold and weary.

Think, then, of the small lights in your world.  Not the neon signs, not the spotlights, not the floodlights.  It is the small light, the one that flickers, the one you can only just catch a glimpse of from far away that draws you.  It is the tiny light in a sea of overwhelming darkness that calls and says, “Come.  I am here.  I will comfort you.  You are not alone.”

November 25, 2014 - Wintergreen

I went out to a graveyard again.  I seem to have a fascination with them.  It’s not a preoccupation with death, but more a preoccupation with life.  I go to the graveyard to achieve balance and remain humble and realistic.  Yes, I talk to the graves, but no one ever comes to the old Topsham Cemetery anyway.  It stopped accepting new members about 60 years ago, although most of the residents are from the 1700s and 1800s.  They don’t seem to mind when I tell them about my life.  In fact, I rather flatter myself that they enjoy hearing about the ups and downs of an average life.

But this story is not about my life or about the cemetery.  Today as I was walking through this cemetery and the death of the vegetation was clashing dramatically with the death of the graves, I looked down and noticed riotous bright red spots everywhere.  These spots were scattered heavily among the moss and lichen and heather, which seem to grow in considerable abundance in graveyards, winter notwithstanding.  After a fleeting gruesome thought, I realized I was looking at wintergreen berries, also known as checkerberries.  Yes, this is the original source of wintergreen oil flavoring, although nowadays it is made synthetically.

Wintergreen berries.

You can make a nice-tasting tea from the berries and/or leaves of wintergreen, and it really will give you that robust mint-like flavor.  You can also munch on a leaf or two as you walk, although you shouldn’t swallow it.  It can be a great help when you’re hiking a long distance.  The active ingredient in wintergreen oil is methyl salicylate, a compound that is similar to aspirin.  Long ago, people would make a tea with the leaves and berries and steep them for several days until they began to ferment a bit.  In this way, the aspirin-like qualities were drawn out of the plant, and the tea was used for sore muscles, headaches, or general pain.

Distilled wintergreen oil is very toxic and should not be consumed in large quantities.  Just one ounce is equivalent to about 170 aspirin tablets, enough to kill an adult.  It can be used topically (diluted with other oils to form a liniment) as a rub for arthritis, tendinitis, sciatica, sprains, inflammation, eczema, and psoriasis, among other uses.

Look for the tiny red berries on the ground.  The plant itself creeps along the ground and doesn’t grow higher than about six inches, if that.  Sometimes the leaves take on a reddish hue in the late fall, but this is an evergreen plant so it will keep its leaves.  It is a very slow-growing plant, so if you find it, don’t harvest all of it.  Leave some to continue growing.  You don’t have to go to a graveyard, of course, when searching for wintergreen, although if you do, you may decide that you were intentionally led to find this plant, study it, and use it.  That’s what happened to me, and I trust the grounding advice I get from the graveyard.

(Yes, I have to put a disclaimer in.  This article is for informational purposes only and is not meant to diagnose, treat, or cure any ailment.  If you need medical advice, seek a physician.)

November 24, 2014 - The Reluctant Farmer

There once was a very spoiled young man, the son of a very rich merchant in a very large town.  Now the merchant himself was a man of honor, and he had built his business from the ground up.  In his later years, he had become extremely wealthy, and the only desire he had left was to see his son follow in his footsteps, work hard, and become successful.  But no matter how much he tried to teach the value of hard work to his very spoiled son, none of his lessons seemed to get through.  The young man was spoiled, petulant, arrogant, and rude.

This saddened the old merchant very much, but he still loved his son, regardless of his bad behavior, and he was determined to see to it that his son would grow into a fine man.  After all, he surmised, there is more than one way to get a pig to market.  Having put a great deal of thought into it, he changed his Will and decided to invite Fate to step in and help.  Well, as you know, Fate is a watchful mistress and is only too willing to accommodate the grimly determined.  After learning of the merchant’s decision, she promptly came to see him one night and escorted him to the next world.

In the morning, the young man learned of his father’s death.  Although he truly did grieve for his father, he could not help but be filled with greedy anticipation at what he might receive in his father’s Will, especially since he always felt that his father never gave him enough.  Imagine his surprise, then, when he was not given a single penny, not a bit of gold, no jewels, and none of his father’s many possessions.  He was given only one thing, a small parcel of land with a tiny farmhouse on it and a few animals.  However, he did not have time to express his anger and dismay, because the rest of his father’s Will was carried out to the letter by his lawyer.

The companion cow.

And what did the old merchant instruct his lawyer to do?  Ensure that the young man was thrown out of the home without a penny to his name.  Ensure that no one dared to offer him solace or a helping hand.  Ensure that he was driven from the town due to the many debts he owed.  Give him a horse and a small amount of food, and then tell him “good riddance!”  So the lawyer did as he was instructed to do, and no amount of threatening, bargaining, and finally begging on the part of the son did any good.

The following morning found the young man atop the horse with a pack of food and the clothes on his back.  He rode out of town with his face held down in shame.  He was full of anger and hatred and rage for his father, but beneath it all, he was filled with sorrow because he felt that his father had abandoned him, although he could not even admit that to himself.  He traveled for three days, lost in thought with his emotions swinging from rage to sorrow.

At last he arrived at the tiny farmhouse.  He was so used to living in an opulent home that he was horrified upon entering.  It was very plain.  Everything inside was made from wood gathered from the land:  walls, floors, and ceilings.  There was a rustic old sink and a wood cookstove in the kitchen, a cold pantry, a large sitting room with a fireplace, a few bedrooms upstairs, and a large cellar.  The furnishings were sparse but functional, including a bed, table, and chairs.  This home might have made someone else very happy, but not this young man.  He sat down at the kitchen table and wept.  When he finished crying, he ate the rest of his food, drank what was left of his wine, and went to sleep.

He woke up earlier than he was used to, and he was cold and hungry.  He sat at his kitchen table just staring at a wall and doing nothing.  Finally, his hunger pains grew and he went outside to see if he could find something to eat.  In the barn he found a milk cow that needed milking badly.  He didn’t really know how to milk a cow, but he sat down and tried and figured it out quickly enough.  He was thirsty and drank almost half of what he collected.  It was warm and delicious and it made him feel a bit better.  He let the cow out into the pasture to eat.

At least, that was the idea, but the cow wouldn’t budge from the barn.  So the young man put a rope around her neck and dragged her to the door, but once they got to the door, she quickly headed to a smaller nearby barn with the man still following her due to the rope being held firmly in his grip.  The cow stopped at the barn door, which the man reluctantly opened, only to have a few dozen chickens come running out and head for the fields.  He went in, found a basket, and discovered several eggs.  He went back to the house quickly with the eggs and immediately cooked six of them and ate them all.  Now he felt much better.

He went back outside and found the cow waiting for him by the barn.  This time he let her lead him quietly.  She showed him where his two pigs were.  She showed him where the sheep were.  She showed him the hay loft.  She showed him where the grains were stored.  She showed him the equipment he had in his sheds, and it turns out that while he was not wealthy by any stretch of the imagination, he was not poverty-stricken either.  This might have made someone else happy, but not this young man.  He went back to the house and refused to come out again.  He ate the rest of the eggs for dinner.

But morning came again as it has a habit of doing, and he was hungry again.  He headed out to the barn and milked the cow again.  She showed him two buckets, and he understood that she wanted to be milked twice a day and not once.  He went to gather the eggs, but there weren’t as many since he had not shut the chickens inside the night before.  He made a note of that.  He let the sheep out and gave the pigs the rest of the milk and most of the eggs.  He went to the grain storage bins and got himself some wheat and oats.  After that, he went back to the house to eat a few eggs and cook some oats.

I probably don’t need to tell you what happened after that.  Each day the man would go out to the barns and the fields--very reluctantly at first but resignedly later--and each day he would learn something new or how to do something better.  The cow was his constant companion, and he was glad to have her because he was very lonely.  She helped him plow up a small field, and he planted many things--things for him to eat and things for the animals to eat.  Somehow he made it through that summer and into the fall with a modest but decent harvest.  Somehow he made it into the winter, gathering wood and repairing the barns and house as needed.

About six months passed and the man found himself sitting by his fire one night, thinking about his life and the direction it had taken.  He was well-fed and had learned how to make beer from his grains, and he had all he needed to survive and even thrive.  He had no human companion yet, but he hoped someday he would, and in the meantime he enjoyed the company of the animals.  The farm was very quiet and peaceful.  It was true that his body was usually pretty sore by the end of the day due to the work he had to do, but he had grown used to it and didn’t really pay it much thought anymore.

He did do a lot of thinking about his father.  He was no longer angry with him but had resigned himself to farm life.  What he was thinking about tonight was how much he missed the old man.  He was thinking about a wagon his father had bought him when he was little.  He was thinking about birthdays he had, gifts his father had given him, being schooled in the finest schools in the land, wearing ridiculously expensive clothes, and living a life of complete ease.  He had never stopped to think before of how much his father had freely given him.

But he was not longing for any of those things.  What he wanted more than anything in the world was to see his father again, and he knew he could not have that.  He allowed himself a couple of tears, washed up the dinner dishes, and went to bed.  As he was drifting off to sleep, he recounted all the many chores he needed to do tomorrow and mentally marked off all of those that he had already finished that day.  Lastly, he thought that his father might be a little disappointed with how humble and poor his lifestyle was, how he had not managed to make himself rich, so perhaps it was just as well that his father could not see him.

He still had much to learn about himself and others and someday he would learn it, but I think you will agree that this young man was off to a very good start, even if he didn’t know it and even if he had done so very reluctantly.  And you might also have noticed that he had acquired riches beyond his understanding at this point and was a wealthy man, indeed.

November 23, 2014 - Frozen Dreams

And so it begins . . . again.  It’s not even very cold out yet, but the streams and creeks and ponds are all starting to freeze up.  One day they move, the next day they don’t.  One day they thrash, crash, wash, and dance.  The next day they stand silent and immobile.  All life leaves them.  The ducks, frogs, and fish go in search of deeper water that won’t completely go silent because they need the reassurance.

Yet it’s the silence I love.  Even though I do adore the birdsong, the insect hum, and the animal calls, when late fall comes I am ready for the silence.  In the silence I can plan, I can forge dreams.  In the silence I have time enough without distraction to decide what is good in my life and what must be torn down.  In the silence and barrenness, I can decide where I will forge new things in the next season.  It’s the silence that stirs the imagination, which remains in the background while the season of life is dancing and singing.  Yet the silence and stillness come, and the great imagination lifts its sleepy head and begins to create.

The world begins to lock up in ice.

It’s all based on faith, of course.  The silence begins.  The barrenness comes upon us.  Everything grows still and dead.  But the imagination rises like a phoenix from the ashes and begins to create yet another world.   There is no way of knowing for certain that it will ever come about.  What sense is it to plan for future life and dreams when all around us is bleak and dreary and barren?  Yet the imagination has faith.  The imaginations says, “This is the new world I now begin to create, and life will rise up again and do my bidding.”

And somehow it works; it all just works.  Somehow life, when it begins to stir again, does respond and create what imagination has planned.  All things come from the unseen world that, for all practical purposes, appears completely dead.  But the imagination knows better.  The imagination has faith.  The imagination is the bridge that life and death travel upon.

November 22, 2014 - Ra's Boat

Ra, the god of the sun, the ruler of the heavens, the bringer of the light, travels across the sky in his mighty boat.  In Mesektet, the evening boat, he rode through Maine tonight.  I witnessed it myself, for surely this majestic sky sings of the passing of Ra on his way to the underworld, the Duat, for the evening.  There he will battle Apophis, who will try to destroy him so he cannot come back in the morning boat, Mandjet.  There is always the interplay of the supposed opposites.

But he will conquer and he will come back, and tomorrow morning the boat will reappear and we will watch him on his endless journey yet again.  A sky like this sings of deity and power, and it humbles even the haughtiest soul.  There is magic in Maine, and I am willing to bet that if you look closely, you will find magic throughout the world.

November 21, 2014 - The Little Duck

There once was little duckling who hatched from a huge clutch of duck eggs.  Ducks, ducks, everywhere ducks!  And you know how loud ducks can be.  Well, this group of ducklings was no different from any other.  They quacked and squawked and made a huge ruckus wherever they went, except for the little duckling.  He was very shy because he could sense right from the beginning that he was a little different from the other ducks.

As they began to grow, his difference became apparent to the other ducks as well, even though he tried so hard to fit in.  Finally, he could hide it no longer.  The problem was that he couldn’t swim.  Imagine a duck that can’t swim!  Perhaps it was his feet, although they looked as webbed and flat as the other ducklings.  Perhaps it was his down feathers, although they looked as plump and protective as the other ducklings.  I think the most likely reason, though, was that he had never even tried because he was just too afraid.

Well, you know how ducks can be--always boasting, bragging, and quacking about something.  Soon all of the ducklings were picking on the little odd duck.  How they laughed at him!  They all took to the water like . . . well, like ducks take to water.  They would jeer at him coldly, “Come on in scaredy-pants!  You couldn’t swim to save your life!”  Of course, the more they did this, the more the little duckling panicked about learning how to swim and wouldn’t do so.  Eventually, he took to walking up and down the shore very quickly and resting in the grass instead of drifting on the water.  He became a very good walker this way, his feet became very strong, and he hardly even waddled at all.  You would think that the others would be impressed by this (and I think some of them were secretly envious), but no one paid it any mind at all and instead just gave him the cold shoulder, and the little duck ended up leading a very lonely life.

A most peculiar situation for the ducks.

One day something very strange happened.  It was horrible!  It was frightening!  It was awful!  Surely, surely it must be the end of the world!  The ducks, now grown bigger, were all in a panic and no one knew what to do, no one except for the little duck.  Oh, how fiercely they squawked and quacked.  You see, somehow overnight the water itself had grown very cold and flat and hard as a rock.  There was no way to swim in it!  The water wouldn’t move anymore!  They couldn’t get their little webbed feet in!  How in the world were they going to get around without the water?

Just as they were about to give up hope and offer themselves to the fox, they saw a very peculiar thing.  It hushed them all immediately.  Out on the hard water stood the little duck all by himself.  He was walking everywhere with his strong, flat, little feet.  He noticed everyone was watching him, and don’t you know that he put his bill straight up in the air and strutted all around that pond!  Well, the other ducks were beside themselves.  They wanted to go out on the flat water but they didn’t dare try.

Finally, after enjoying his moment in the spotlight, the little duck came back to the shore and kindly began to teach all the other ducks how to walk very strongly, using their feet for waddling instead of paddling.  They were very grateful that he showed them how to do this, and you can bet some of them felt pretty badly for the way they had treated him.  After they were all on the hard, flat, frozen water and skating around and having fun, a small group of them came up to the little duck and promised that they would help him to learn how to swim when the water was soft again.  This made the little duck very happy and tearful, and I do believe that a great deal of ice melted that day, just not on the pond.

November 20, 2014 - The Master of Time

Two trees sit in a field, one alive and the other dead.  One produces life, the other stands silent like a skeleton upon the road, reaching its bony fingers toward passersby.  The living tree gives fresh green leaves and then beautiful flowers and finally delicious fruit.  The dead tree remains still and motionless, giving no growth, no flowers, no fruit.  The living tree participates in life--indeed, many forms of life dwell within and upon it.  The living tree is connected to man, comforts man, and feeds man.  But the dead tree gives only a hollow and dreadful feeling.

The Master of Time knows these two trees well.  It is time itself that reveals the growth of the seed.  It is time that witnesses the greenery, delights in the flowers, and brings forth fruit when appropriate.  It is time that makes the living tree familiar to us all, sought after for its beauty and bounty.  But it is also time that eventually brings the tree to death.  Time, as he marches relentlessly forward--zig-zagging this way and that, back and forth, to and fro--dictates the terms.  Time says, “Now you live.  Now you die.  Here you bear life and fruit.  Here you walk with the Shadow.”

But none of this matters to the Master of Time--time’s master.  The Master of Time is always here, wherever “here” is and whenever it is.  He does not march to and fro.  He does not run from this extreme to that.  He does not acknowledge the terms “life” and “death.”  He remains on the Path of the Arrow, straight and true.  There are no comparisons to him, no light or shadow, no alive or dead, no opposites.

The Master of Time knows that these two trees are the same tree, the photos taken only at different aspects on the road.  They are one and the same.  It is alive and dead at the same time.  To the Master of Time, this tree is a seed, a whip, a full-grown tree, a heavy bearer of fruit, and a dead and bony wraith--all at the same time, all at once.  The tree has no beginning or end.  It is simply part of the path.  The Master knows that everything that will ever be has already been.

November 19, 2014 - Dead Trees

All around us now, the trees are playing dead.  There are no leaves or flowers.  No birds sing in their branches, and no insects hum in their canopy.  No sap runs, no resin drips.  They do not whisper anymore when the wind blows.  Now they just creak as they rock back and forth, brittle and rigid.  There is no soft scent of greenery coming from them, no moisture to be felt, no protection from the elements.  They no longer offer us stability and steadfastness.  There is no comfort.

I can’t tell the difference now between the trees that are alive and those that have already been dead for some time.  In summer it’s simple, of course, because they are so dramatically different.  But in the winter when the living trees pretend to be dead, who can say which is alive and which is dead?  They do such a good job of mimicking death.

Or is it that the dead trees are doing a fine job of mimicking the living trees?  Really, we can’t be certain anymore.  In the season of death, anything is possible.  The dead trees are behaving very much like the living trees, and the living trees could win an award for playing dead.  They are just playing, aren’t they?

Living or dead?  What's the difference?

November 18, 2014 - The Old Rose

There once was a very vain and shallow Queen who lived in a very petty and shallow world.  Her only major concerns were which gowns she should wear each day, how she should wear her hair and makeup, which delicacies she should eat, which parties and balls she should attend, and who was the focus of the latest gossip.  Day in and day out she filled her life with the nothingness of this existence.

One day as she was gazing at herself in a mirror, she noticed that she did not look as young and beautiful as she once had.  This frightened her very much because she valued her youth and beauty above everything else.  She began obsessing on her image, staring daily at herself in the mirror, wondering if others could notice her shame, wondering if they would begin to gossip about her.  Of course, this made the atmosphere ripe for the Trickster, who did not disappoint.  He swooped down from his high perch and offered the Queen eternal youth and beauty but upon one condition:  She must stay in her tower and never leave, for on the day she left, all of the years would come upon her at once.

The Queen hesitated with this offer because she felt she could not bear the social exile, but of course, the Trickster had anticipated this.  He kindly offered her a magic mirror.  In this mirror, she could see all that was happening at every party, ball, dinner, and event in the country.  She could focus on anyone she wanted to and hear any conversation she cared to hear.  This intrigued the Queen immensely as her hunger for gossip and secrets was enormous.  Coupled with the idea of remaining young and beautiful, the Queen found herself unable to resist, and she made a pact with the Trickster.

The old tower in ruin.

So there she stayed in her tower, beautiful and young.  At first her friends sent messages to her asking her to join them at parties, but she always refused and eventually they stopped asking.  When she was not gazing at her own reflection in the magic mirror, she was constantly staring in it to learn of all the latest news and gossip in her queendom.  Nightly, she would giggle at the goings on in the court, feeling very smug with her ill-gotten knowledge.

This kept the Queen satisfied for a very long time until one day she found she was not very happy and not very satisfied.  She could no longer see any of her friends in the mirror because they had all long since died.  In fact, she didn’t know anyone personally that she looked at, having only met them through the mirror.  Invitations had stopped coming to her tower long ago, and she wondered if anyone even knew she was in the tower anymore.  Since she was on the inside, she had no way of knowing how much her tower had fallen into disrepair.  Some would say it was a ruin only, and no one would dare approach it as they had heard it was haunted by a terrible ghost with huge, longing eyes.

The Queen lived this way, not truly living, for a very long time.  And time is a strange Master, they say, that can chisel even the hardest marble.  It did just that, softening the edges of the old Queen’s heart and giving rise to knowledge and understanding of the human condition that she never dreamed possible.  Finally, with the help of the Master of Time, the Queen realized what a fool she had been, not only in her wasted youth but in having accepted the terms of the Trickster.  It was a bitter realization, but eventually, time smoothed out even that sorrow.

Time marched on.  The Queen did not look in her magic mirror much anymore, but one night when her loneliness had consumed her so completely, she pulled the magic mirror out of her drawer and gazed into it.  She did not recognize any of the faces, and she was immediately bored with the gossip mongering and incurring of favor that she witnessed in the court.  Indeed, she was about to put the mirror away when she spied an old beggar crouched in the corner of the Great Hall.  When all the lords and ladies had left and the servants had cleaned up, he walked slowly through the Hall, lovingly touching the table and chairs, fixing flowers or paintings or pottery in this way or that, making the room suitable for a Queen.  He tucked any tiny coins or scraps of food that he found into his shirt pocket, and then he scrambled out into the night.

The next evening, the Queen looked into her magic mirror again.  She went straight past the petty lords and ladies and searched for the old beggar, whom she found crouched in the corner again.  She watched him carefully, and when all the nobles had left, he did the same thing this evening as he had done the night before.  He seemed to take great joy in arranging the room, the flowers, and the paintings.  He tucked scraps of food and an occasional coin into his shirt and off he went again into the night.

Night after night, the same thing occurred until the Queen could not bear to watch the old beggar in the mirror anymore, and she could not bear her loneliness in the tower either.  In an instant, she made a decision she knew should have made many, many years ago.  When the nobles had left the court and the servants had cleaned up and left and the old beggar began his rounds, the Queen placed the magic mirror on the floor.  She stepped onto the mirror, and when it cracked, she went right through it and found herself in the court, staring face to face at the old beggar.

He immediately bowed and began backing up quickly, begging her pardon, but she stopped him in his tracks.  She came over to him and smiled and placed her hand on his shoulder.  The old beggar trembled so much, the Queen was afraid he might fall over.  She laughed and told him that she would help him straighten the Hall up.  Together, they made it beautiful enough for a Queen.  When the old beggar made to leave, the Queen asked if she could accompany him.  Now he thought he truly must be dreaming, for never had he seen such a beautiful woman and never had a woman ever come to his humble cottage.

They left together and walked back to his tiny home, the Queen chatting all the time and asking him about his life.  At first he felt tremendously shy, but by the time they had gotten to his little cottage, they were chatting like old friends.  He invited her in and set an old cloth down on a very rickety table.  He placed two cups of beer down and broke a loaf of bread in half, and this is what they had for dinner.  The Queen thought it was the finest meal she had ever had, the beer flowed freely, and the old beggar was beside himself with joy.

At last it was time for sleep, and the old beggar gave the Queen the cot in front of the fire and he took the old chair in the back of the room.  Each fell quickly to sleep, content with the wonderful dinner and company they had.  In the morning when the old beggar awoke, the Queen was gone.  He found an old dried but perfect-looking red rose in the cot where she had slept.  He sighed with happiness at this gift, not knowing that it was all that was left of the Queen herself.

The old beggar placed the rose in a cracked vase he had found in a pile of rubble at the court.  He put it on the center of his mantel, and it was truly the most beautiful thing his tiny cottage had ever seen.  Every night when he came home, he would pour some beer into two cups and raise a toast to the Queen, the prettiest, kindest, nicest woman he had ever known--just as kind as he knew a Queen would be.  He would gaze at the rose, drink both cups of beer, and eat his humble bread.  When he was fast asleep, the Queen would gaze out from her place on the mantel with joy in her heart at being a guest in the finest Hall in the land.

November 17, 2014 - Descent of Persephone

DESCENT OF PERSEPHONE

I have not given you the right

To be perfect

My Axe of Ice will chisel your features

To my liking

We will start by dripping out

All of the color

And the plumpness must wither

The green must shrivel

Until only stunted gray remains.

I have not given you the right

To mimic the living

My Axe of Ice requires only ghosts

To sing of its sharpness

Dissolve, then, and tell them

Of the solace of the shadows

Sit now beside my throne, Lady

Don my Ring of Ice

Upon your bony finger.

I have not given you the right

To be Queen

It is something you have taken

A draught in icy measure

How much more perfect then

The world of the unseen

The glittering gems of Hades

With the Queen of Darkness

Accomplice to His wintry heart.

Persephone descends.