May 31, 2015 - Wrestling With The Mist

The mist is thick and grey, and tantalizing things within it dart back and forth.  You can’t quite see them, but you can’t quite not see them either, always teasing just on the edge of perception.  Like a thought, teasing its way in the back of your mind, not daring to come to the forefront.  Staying in the back and taunting you, mocking you, daring you.  There is something . . . something you need to think about . . . but if you do, you must face it.

Don’t look for the sun.  He won’t come here.  For all of His strength, He is impotent when the mists close in, lost just like any other traveler, adrift in a sea of grey and stripped of all power.  Where is your scepter now, sun?  You can feel the fog coming down and settling over your mind.  Can you feel it?  One by one, the bright colors disappear until they are only a long forgotten dream, if that.  Your world is the grey world now, the place where final form has not yet materialized.

Wrestling with the endless mist.

Walk along the shores of the ocean . . . the shores of your mind . . . it doesn’t matter.  It’s the same thing.  Call out if you want.  The sun won’t hear you.  He’s about as far away as you can imagine, and then farther than that.  But go ahead and try.  Exhaust yourself calling out into the mist. 

As for me, I’ll save my energy and bide my time.  It can only permeate my consciousness if I let it.  I am inclined to present a puzzling reflection back to the grey fog, and if it should permeate my consciousness, should I let it, imagine its surprise when it finds itself lost in a world of even more fog, even more grey, even more mist with my own creatures darting back and forth.  I am a match for anything.

May 30, 2015 - On Being Human

Here in Mackerel Cove, everyone is fulfilling their role to a tee.  The lobstermen are catching lobsters.  The restaurant workers are cooking and serving them.  The customers are buying them as good customers do.  Even the lobsters are obliging by being perfect lobsters and allowing everyone else to do what they do with lobsters.  Everyone and everything is doing what it thinks it ought to do.

Everything under the sun is involved in an intimate dance with its identity.  The birds, the animals, and the fish don’t have a choice about their identity.  They can only be birds, animals, or fish as the case may be, but they play their role to perfection and glorify in its simplicity.  They give everything they’ve got to being the actual thing that they are:  the bird, the animal, the fish, etc.

The lobsters of Mackerel Cove.

But humans have a choice.  They can’t choose their species, but they can choose what they “do” as a member of their species.  A human doesn’t identify as being a human in the way that an animal completely identifies with being an animal.  On the contrary.  Most humans don’t think about or even realize that they are the species known as “humans.”  They instead identify with what they “do,” and that usually means their job.  There aren’t many people out there who would dream of doing anything other than what they think they’re supposed to do.  So the baker bakes, the singer sings, the fisherman fishes, and the writer writes.

It is not enough for most people that they simply be “people” and nothing else.  If you asked someone what it is that a “person” does, how to describe the being called “human” and how it lives and interacts with its environment, they might look at you as if you had gone quite mad.  Undoubtedly, they would launch into a discussion of various professions.  Almost always, however, the idea of the “being human” would float away on faerie wings.

On this lazy hazy day when the writer is writing and the fisherman is fishing and the lobster is being a lobster, I sit and wonder what our world would be like if we all stopped “doing” and just started “being.”  It’s a dangerous and rebellious thought.  The lobster, at least, is true to itself.  The human . . . not so much.

May 29, 2015 - Walking The Bridge

Another bridge that seems to lead nowhere.  I have shown you a few already but am always happy when I come upon yet another.  But why, you ask, would someone want to build a bridge for no reason and that leads nowhere?  There’s a lot of time, material, and effort involved in building a bridge, so why have one that serves no purpose?

The answer is that all bridges serve a purpose--some more than one purpose--and this bridge is no different.  It has a purpose and a destination, but it chooses not to show them.  You could easily walk on either side of this small bridge and get from one area to the other.  There’s no river or stream holding you back, no treacherous vines, no quicksand.  This bridge spans a perfectly walkable and beautiful area, and so, if you feel like walking around the bridge, by all means, please do.

Another faerie bridge.

As for me, I’ll take the bridge because I know that going from one state to another is not an easy thing to do, and anything that helps is a boon.  Looking at the bridge in the picture exactly as it is, you can see that it seems to disappear on the left side into the trees.  It is this “disappearing” that gives away its nature.  If you were to walk up and gaze upon the bridge, of course, you would see the rest of it firmly planted on the other side of this idyllic setting.  But let’s not walk up to it.  Let’s look at it for a moment just as it is with one end disappearing into . . . somewhere.  And we can assume that it is a two-way bridge.  That is, you can enter from this world and go off to the “somewhere,” and you can come from the “somewhere” back into this world--and if you can do it, so can others.

This bridge must be walked with the eyes closed because the eyes are the easiest of the senses to fool, and the world of faerie knows this all too well.  That’s why it seems to be just a small bridge that spans nothing and has no purpose.  That’s what your eyes are telling you.  In fact, just about every advertiser and business out there has learned this trick and knows that the eyes are the easiest things to fool, and they count on your being mesmerized by glitzy visions.  So let’s not bring the eyes into this.

Are you ready?  Then go to the bridge, close your eyes, take hold of one of the rails, and begin walking.  When you think you have reached the middle--but without opening your eyes even a bit--stop.  Now listen very closely and store every sound in your mind.  Are there any fragrances you wish to remember?  Any soft winds or water droplets?  When you are ready, walk to the end of the bridge--eyes still closed.  Then go about your normal business.

Tonight or some night soon or perhaps during a meditation, the message you received from the bridge will make itself known, and you will get a peak into that other world.

May 28, 2015 - Threes

A primitive tripod built by a stranger stands conspicuously at the beach, its base buried in the granular, pebbly sand.  This sand is not the soft sand seen at most beaches. The pieces are larger, and when you walk on this beach, it “slips” a bit here and there, making you think that the Earth is experiencing a tremor.  Really, it’s only you sliding just a wee bit back and forth.  Into this pebbly surface, the stranger plunged his three poles.

The stranger's tripod.

I like to wonder about people who leave deliberate signs of passing, using only natural materials they find around them.  Some like to build structures.  Others like to create balancing pieces.  Still others like to create works of art.  They know when they leave that someone else will find what they did and wonder about them, and I guess that’s why they do it.  It’s their way of saying, “I was here,” and when they do it using the number three, it’s that much more memorable to me.  Call me crazy, but when I saw this, I wanted to light a fire, sit beneath the pyramid, and keep a vigil through the night.

Did you ever notice how things like to happen in threes?  Nature loves the number three.  From the three dimensional world humans can perceive, to the three states of matter, i.e., solid, liquid, and gas, to the three stable particles, i.e., protons, neutrons, and electrons.  Nature just loves the number three.  It’s a great way to begin stable building.  But I’ll bet whoever built this tripod wasn’t thinking of any of that.  The question in his mind was simply how to get a structure built.

He also didn’t know that Nature was watching him and laughing and saying, “Is that all you got?”  She can be a real boor at times.

May 27, 2015 - The Promise of Green

What I like so much about living in the north is that when the world explodes with growth and greenery, it really explodes.  The tropics, while always beautiful, are always green, and I think there’s a chance of taking that green for granted.  If you woke up every day and always saw green, you wouldn’t think much of it.  It would just be the way things are.  You might say to yourself, “Is this all there is?”  But in the north, there is the yearly promise of complete annihilation of that greenery that makes its return so poignantly sweet.

A promise of annihilation?  How can those two words appear together so casually in the same sentence?  But it is a promise, a hidden gift.  It says:  All will soon be destroyed, so savor this joy while you can.  All will soon be a world of white snow and ice, so treasure this memory in the deep vaults of your heart.  All people will fall to their knees in despair at the loss of everything, yet will once again be lifted to the heavens when the season returns. 

The promise of green at the Whiskeag Creek in Bath, Maine.

 

So we do savor it, every tiny bit of it, every blade of grass.  We do treasure the beauty and the ease that come with it, storing the memories away like the greatest treasures of kings.  And we do fall to our knees in despair when we lose it all, agonizing over the complete barrenness of the world around us, until the green returns and our hearts soar to the highest heaven.

Out of great pleasure and bountiful life comes complete destruction.  Out of destruction and total annihilation comes the sheer joy of new greenery.  It is a promise that the Great Alchemist always keeps.

May 26, 2015 - Driftwood

Sometime ago, a rather large tree was washed out to sea.  Most likely it was during a storm with an astronomical tide.  The shores at that time can be very dangerous.  It takes quite a bit of power to drag a large tree out to sea, but for the ocean, it is nothing.

And so the tree was swept out and battered upon the waves for a long time.  It drifted and smashed, drifted and smashed.  Most of the power of the sun that it had stored within ebbed away, and the tree was forsaken.  The small branches were all torn off and dissolved by the relentless waves, given back to the Great Alchemist for reshaping.  The tough bark was stripped off in large pieces as it swelled from soaking up so much water, and the drifting and smashing continued.  Then the wood of the large and twisted trunk turned a pale silver color from the washing and washing, and it became as smooth as silk.

An entire tree transformed into driftwood.

One day, no one knows the reason why, the ocean gave the tree back to the land.  He had transformed the tree into a stunning gift and presented it to the shore during yet another storm.  The shore greedily grabbed it and pulled it in.  Then she thanked the ocean with many kisses and embraces.  In the morning, the large enchanted silver tree was found adorning the sand.  It pointed out toward the ocean and waved goodbye, and then the shore hugged it and welcomed it home.

There is magic in driftwood, especially a piece this large.  This tree has known the joys of growth and energy of the sun and from deep within the Earth as well as the timelessness and sheer power of the Ocean.  Now it is a creature of both worlds, but it no longer looks to the sun for its power.  When night envelops the land and the Great Silver Disk slips across the sky, she will find a new member to join her tribe.

May 25, 2015 - Be A Rock

I was standing before a massive rock.  No, that’s a lie.  I wasn’t standing.  I was kneeling.  I was kneeling before a massive rock, basically having fallen because my legs would no longer support me.  Now what??  Now what do I do?! I thought.  I cried the words out, but soundlessly, in my mind.  And there were tears.  So much frustration.  I can’t keep doing this.  I’ve run out of options.  I ran my hand along the rock surface, only to have its jagged edge slice into my palm and draw blood.  I stared at the pretty red drops.

“What were you expecting?” the rock said.  “Oh?  Softness?  Sorry, there’s none of that here.  I am a rock.  I am hard, unforgiving substance.  I do not move.  I am not swayed.”

“But I need help,” I whispered.

“You’ve come to the wrong place, then.”

“I don’t know where else to go, what else to do.  I’m at an impasse.”

I am a rock.

“At least we have that in common, although I doubt little else.” said the rock.  “When the sun scorches and burns and sears and drags its fiery hands across my face, I stand where I am.  When the rain pours down and pelts me in every direction, I do not blink.  The hail smashes against me, and the snow and ice freeze and envelop me, threatening to devour me, but I am unbending.  The animals, large and small, leap from my back.  The birds of prey rake their talons against me.  But I stand fierce because I am a rock.”

“I am not as hard and as brave as you are,” I said.  “Is that such a crime?”

“Your tears are wasted on me,” the rock said.  “I am impenetrable, almost.  Your tears can do naught but roll off my surface.  I do not drink.  I do not bleed, either.  The ghosts of the world, all the dead that walk, those you cannot see, they come to me.  They cannot pass through living flesh, like yours, so you never feel them, but they can pass directly through me.  Often, they remain within me until the mood strikes them to leave again.  All the tears, all the sorrows, all the anguish, all the death of the eons are mine to behold.  Because I am a rock.”

I could say nothing to that, nothing to the anguish of ages, although I knew the ghosts well.  They might not dwell within me, but they were constant companions.  I couldn’t stop the tears from rolling down my face.

“You’ll get no sympathy from me,” the rock said.  “If you’re broken, it’s because you allowed yourself to be.  If you’re brittle, it’s because your heart quakes at the onslaught of life.  Carry your own burden.  Pick it up and shoulder it.  I can.  Why can’t you?”

Yes, why can’t I? I thought.  I knew I didn’t really have many choices anyhow.  Choose to fight or choose to die.  Those were the only two choices available.  Stand up and take it, or lie down and die.  It was that simple.  I wiped my tears, stood up, and left the hard and calloused rock without a word, without a glance behind me.  It would be many years before I realized the gift he had given me.

May 24, 2015 - Seguin Island Lighthouse

I wasn’t thinking.  I didn’t remember that it was the Memorial Day weekend.  I hopped into my car and headed out to Popham Beach, one of our few sandy beaches in the area, as opposed to rocks and cliffs.  My intent was to wander along the lonely shores and search for sand dollars and other ocean treasures, as I usually do when I go to Popham.  Then, when I could take no more wind, I would head home with my bag of riches.  It seemed like a great plan.

But when I got to Popham Beach, I was taken aback by the number of people there, easily numbering 100 or more.  The temperature was only in the 50s, as opposed to almost 70 further inland, but the people!  Oh, the people!  The parking lot had cars with “foreign” plates on them.  Little tents were set up to block the driving wind.  People were wrapped in thick down blankets.  But they were there.  My beach was no longer “my” beach, which is why I really love January.

The Seguin Island Lighthouse.

I was about to leave when I looked out to sea and saw the Seguin Island Lighthouse.  I could barely make it out, but I focused the zoom lens on my camera as best as I could, and I snapped this photo.  There’s no sandy beach on that island, but it sure does look peaceful.  That was the whole goal of the day:  peace.

The Seguin Island Lighthouse is the highest lighthouse on the Maine coast and was first built it 1795 with improvements thereafter.  It is the second oldest lighthouse in Maine and was authorized by President George Washington.  It was lit with whale oil, as they all were back then.  The oil was supposed to be stored in a large cellar, according to the plans, but how can you have a cellar and a deep foundation in rock like that?  Like many of the old lighthouses, a little oil house was built.

The first light keeper was Major John Polerecsky, who manned the house from 1796 to 1804.  He arrived months before the light was first lit so that he could make preparations for farming and gardening on the island.  Back then, light keepers lead lonely and isolated lives, often seeing no one else for months on end, and there weren’t any supermarkets available.  He did not start getting a paycheck, though, until the light was shining, which was some time after his arrival and preparations.  Talk about tough employers.

I’m not sure what the Major would have thought had he been able to see the many people on Popham Beach today.  He might have wondered at their odd behavior of lying around in blankets and not doing much of anything.  He might have wondered why they weren’t tending their newly planted gardens or shearing their sheep or any other number of countless tasks that must be done by backwoods country folk.  Chances are, though, that he would have thought the same thing I did:  too many people!

May 23, 2015 - Canopy of Comfort

High above, where most of us rarely look, the trees are coming together again in their protective canopy.  The buds are starting to open, and because the leaves are still small, the sky can easily be seen, although that won’t last.  Soon the trees will fill in thickly, and a moist, cool canopy will develop over our heads.  This will shield us from the severe sun of the summer, the sun that burns and scorches.  It will shield us from mild rainstorms, allowing only a small and delicate shower to get through.

This protective cover comes above us every year to keep us safe, cool, and comfortable.  All of the trees cooperate in this venture, from maples and oaks, to pines and birches, to aspens and beeches.  Together they hold hands with their gnarly, hardened bark.  Together they weave moistness with their delicate leaves.  And all of this is done for our comfort, our joy, our serenity.

The canopy as it forms again in spring.

I can’t speak for the concrete and asphalt world, but there’s no need for fans, air conditioning, hats, or sunscreen in the woods.  That has already been taken care of for us.  We walk along on our familiar paths, unaware for the most part of the pains Nature has taken to bring us ease.  Everywhere we go, every step we take, Nature is saying to us, “Can I get you something?”

May 22, 2015 - The Sheep In The Meadow

The sheep are in the meadow, the apple trees are in bloom in the background, and everything is the way it’s supposed to be.  The day feels very easy.  That is, nothing feels forced.  There is nothing that has to happen.  There is no clock and no deadline.  Everything plods along in its own time.

The sheep in the meadow.

If everyone in America grew a little garden, what would happen?  I think we might get just a little closer to finding that everything is the way it’s supposed to be.  It’s amazing how much food you can get out of a tiny space, and I mean tiny.  Lettuce and spinach in the cool spring.  The planting of peas and beans, staggered every few weeks, that run up fences and take almost no room at all.  Fruitful tomatoes, hot peppers, eggplants, and lots and lots of cucumbers for pickling and eating in the dark months.  Potatoes and carrots for the cellar.  And cabbage.  Definitely cabbage for sauerkraut throughout the winter.  Herbs in planter boxes hanging off the porch railing, for eating fresh and drying to use in the winter.

What to do with all the food?  Eat it, freeze it, can it, dry it, ferment it, share it.  All gotten without a supermarket.  Blasphemy.  Subversion.  Treason.  Oh, the free-thinking mind.  Is there no end to its masterful plots?

Gather the goodness while ye may, my friends.

May 21, 2015 - Watching Sunsets

Why do we do it?  Why do we sit and watch sunsets?  Yes, they’re beautiful--there’s no denying that--and they bring a sense of calm as well.  But is that it?  Is that why we watch them?

I don’t think so.  I think it’s more of an acknowledgement.  The day is done, we tell ourselves, and this particular day will never come again.  I am alive.  I made it through this day.  If it has been a difficult day, we sigh with relief and gratitude.  Nothing more can be demanded of us today.  If it has been a good day, we sigh with longing and bitter sweetness.  Nothing more can be given to us today.  We store the memory in a secret part of our heart so we can pull it out during the difficult times and remember how we felt.

Watching as it goes.

It’s also a farewell, a hail to the sun.  It slips below the horizon, and even though we know it will be back tomorrow, we don’t really know that.  We tell ourselves that it’s shining somewhere else on the Earth, that somewhere else it’s daytime, but that will never be more than a dream since we can’t be in two places at once.  And if it doesn’t come back, we can say to ourselves, I was there, that last time with the sun.  I saw him leave.  I am a witness.

There’s a sense of finality, of the end.  Our smiling selves jump on the boat with Ra, and our sober selves watch and wave goodbye.  Then we square our shoulders because it’s time to begin the night.  We become a little more watchful, a little more careful.  The sun is no longer there to expose the dark corners, and so they creep back again, growing larger by the minute.

But if a sunset should be the last thing we see, if we go to bed and not wake up again as we all must do at some point, we will still have that vision.  We will leave this world with hope and jump for real upon Ra’s boat and sail to a place where the sun never sets.  And we can still say to ourselves, I was there, that last time with the sun.  I saw him leave.  I went with him.

May 20, 2015 - Forget-Me-Not

FORGET-ME-NOT

Forget-me-not when the sun returns

and loves the land again as if it had never left.

When the birds and butterflies return

but I am nowhere to be found, forget-me-not.

When the strawberries are ripe and sweet,

remember how we ate them together, and forget-me-not.

Remember the scent of lilacs and roses,

how we filled our home with their intoxicating fragrance.

Remember toiling in the hot sun

and swimming in the cool pond,

as if we had all the time in the world.

Forget-me-not.

 Remember the delicious aroma of fresh bread

and ripe tomatoes and cheeses!

How much we laughed and ate!

Remember when we tried to harvest the land

and gleaned the best from our hearts instead.

To winter, then.

The snow and ice and eternal cold

that call forth memories frozen in time,

frozen in a world from which I cannot return.

But when springtime comes, remember my name,

and forget-me-not.

May 19, 2015 - The Old Apple Tree

How strange is the old apple tree!  It becomes magically transformed in the spring.  I tell you this is not the same tree it was only a month ago.  It has gone from looking like a bare, twisted, and tortured ghost to an angel weeping gentle flowers to the ground; from gnarled, crooked, bent hands to sweetly scented tresses brushing the meadow with every tiny breeze.  Can there be anything as beautiful as an old apple tree in the springtime?

But have you seen it in the winter?  Have you seen the sneering, imposing, horrific figure from the side of the road?  On a cold and dark night, you can imagine it uprooting and following you, attempting to steal your soul.  When you look at an apple tree in the winter, you see the epitome of death.  But then . . . lo!  The spring comes.  What was dead is alive again.  What was old is new again.  What was terrible is divine.

The old apple tree in her new party dress.

The bees hum busily around her now, jumping from flower to flower, reveling in the sweetness.  She calls to us lazily from the road, “Come and play with me!”  Our minds drift back to the days of childhood, running among the apple blossoms.  Then the searing sun follows the spring, interspersed with heavy rainstorms, and all along the old apple tree swells and grows.  Finally, fall comes and the beautiful red fruit, so sweet and delicious, entices us yet again.  It is the old temptation.  It has never gone away.  So we eat the sumptuous fruit of the magical old apple tree.

And we forget.  Then comes the winter--again--and the cycle repeats, and the terrible gnarled tree returns once more, hissing at us from the road, daring us to come closer.  We can almost imagine the unsuspecting passersby who have been swallowed whole by the tree.  We try not to look at it anymore because it is dead.  Or so it seems.

May 18, 2015 - The Summer People

The floats are going back into the water, one by one.  More boats are appearing in the harbor.  At night, when I look across the water, it’s not as dark as it used to be.  Lights are beginning to twinkle here and there in hidden houses along the shore.  On my own road, there are also more twinkling lights at night to interrupt the severe darkness.  We don’t have any street lamps around here, so a house light is always noticed.  There are more cars on the road, too, and soon there will be a ton of them.

What does it all mean?  It means the “summer people” are coming back.  That’s what we call them.  They only stay in Maine in the summer but leave by fall for their homes in other states.  It means they’ve deemed the weather safe enough to return.  There will be more people to wave to on the road, which I often walk alone during the other seasons.  There will be a general hustle and bustle, a coming and going, and considerably more noise.  There will be an influx of cash into the local economy.

The shores are getting busier.

I’ll be honest:  The summer people give me mixed emotions.  On the one hand, I’ve grown to like some of them and it’s nice to see an old face after not seeing it for so long.  It’s nice to stop and chat and see what people have been up to.  It’s nice to catch up on news and hear about interesting planned outings.  But on the other hand, there’s a lot more noise and a lot more rudeness (that doesn’t apply to them all).  There are a lot of big city attitudes and rushing around and turning up of noses to the local country bumpkins.  Like me, for example.

Still, most Mainers are happy to see the summer people come back because it means that it will soon be summertime--and summertime means fun!  Yet most Mainers are also happy to see the summer people leave because it means that we get our state and our roads back, and things get nice and quiet again.  It’s a mixed bag of blessings.

The old folk here in Maine have a saying:  If you can’t stand the winters, you don’t deserve the summers.  I have to agree.

May 17, 2015 - Painting Blue Jay

Back in the days when Mother Nature was still mixing up colors and trying them out in different patterns, the final appearance of a creature was still in the formative stage.  Most creatures waited patiently as she painted them this color and that, washed it off, and painted them yet again.  Most creatures delighted in being variations of all the colors of the rainbow, if only for a short time.

But one creature did not.  One creature had his own ideas of how he wanted to appear and was not interested in what Mother Nature thought was best for him.  This was the jaybird, a bird known even back then for his aggressive behavior.  By the time Mother Nature got around to coloring the birds, the jaybird had already made a plan of his own.  Each time she plucked him from a tree to examine him and talk to him, he squirmed away and insisted she take care of other birds, feigning concern for them.

And so the painting of the birds proceeded.  Some birds were given brilliant colors of red or yellow.  Others were given soft pastels of pink and peach.  Many were not brightly colored at all, but instead had patterns within the muter color she had given them.  There were many variations of browns, blacks, grays, and whites.  Each bird looked unique and beautiful when she had finally finished with it.  As she painted, the jaybird hid in a tree and carefully watched all of the paints, how to mix them, how to create patterns, how to take a creature from lowly to divine with just a shade of color.  And he thought to himself, I can do that.

The bold blue jay.

At last, Mother Nature had finished coloring all of the birds, and she caled to the jay and told him it was his turn and that she would delay no further.  He came reluctantly but with a plan.

“I am thinking black with white speckles might be nice for you,” Mother Nature said.

“Pah!” spat the jay, “I couldn’t bear it!”

“Hmmm…..perhaps a nice shade of brown with complex patterns to help you hide better in the trees,” she said.

“My crested head would be wasted on such a boring color.”

“A deep rust color, then?  That might be nice,” she said as she picked up her brush.

“Never!  The hawks and sparrows and finches might be pleased with it, but not I.”

Mother Nature was tired because she had been painting for several days, and her patience had worn thin.  Still, she wanted her creatures to be happy and content.

“What color, then, did you have in mind?” she asked between closed teeth.

“I have decided I will be blue,” said the jay.

“I have not given the color blue to many things,” she said.  “I have reserved that mainly for the sky and the waters and perhaps a few other special things.”

“Am I not special??” the bird demanded.

“Of course, my love, but certain colors do certain things, and certain colors have certain magics attached to them.  You are bold enough for blue,” she said, “without a doubt, but it can be too showy at times, especially for a little bird.”

The jay squirmed out from her grasp, furious and enraged.  He knew he didn’t stand a chance against her, but he was angry all the same and not about to kowtow.

“I think I will rest for the remainder of the day,” Mother Nature said, “and you and I will begin anew tomorrow.  Be ready for your new color then.  I think you will be pleased with what I am planning.  Rust and brown can be beautiful together.”

With that, she flew off to meet the sun, which was already at the horizon, and the two of them boarded a golden boat and slipped gently beneath the Earth.  The other creatures found their little homes and slipped inside one by one, snuggling up to sleep for the night.  The jay watched as they all hid themselves until he was completely alone.  He waited for the bright silver apple to appear up in the heavens and light the way for him, which presently it did.

Then quietly, very quietly, he slipped over to Mother Nature’s paints.  He carefully rummaged through them, searching for various shades of blue, but it was difficult to see in the dim light.  The brilliant silver apple in the sky saw him sneaking around and was interested in his doings.  She moved directly above him and shone her light upon him as brightly as she could.  The jay looked up and nodded in appreciation, and then he set to work painting himself with the magic paints, doing his best to remember how Mother Nature made this pattern and that.  When he finished, he thanked the glowing silver apple in the sky, and she winked back at him and sailed onward, giggling at his impertinence.  The silver apple has always loved tricks, after all.  Then the jay went to sleep.

In the morning, Mother Nature came back with the sun on the golden boat in the sky, and the two of them disembarked after a long kiss.  He went about his business of bringing light to the world, and she went back to her creatures.

“Now, then, jay!” she called out, “It is time for your transformation!”

Having no mirror, the jay was not quite certain how he looked.  He had intended on seeing his reflection in the pond once the sun came back, but he didn’t have time.  He was nervous and worried but determined not to show it, and so he boldly flew out of his tree and landed right on the painting table.

A great intake of breath could be heard from all of the birds in the trees, who all immediately stopped singing, making the silence that much more profound.  All eyes were on the jay.  All beaks hung open.  All the furry creatures of the forest stopped and stared.  Everyone was riveted to their spot by the brilliant blue jay who stood boldly and proudly before Mother Nature.

For a long time, no one said anything.  Mother Nature stared darkly at the blue jay before her with many emotions passing over her face.  At long last, she relaxed a bit and gave a slight smile.

“So you have painted yourself, then?” she asked.

“I have,” came the whispered response from the jay, who trembled before her.

“Very well,” she said, “I could wash off your colors and paint you anew, but I think I will leave you the way you are.  You do not know how this world will change when the Great Alchemist appears, but I do and that is why I have done my best to give all my creatures an advantage with their color.  Are you certain you wish to stay this way?”

“I am certain.”

“Let it be so, then,” she said.  “Because of your sneaking and insolence, your bright blue colors will weigh you down.  You will not fly as quickly as many other birds, and because of that, you will be easy prey for some of the larger raptors.  Your color will be easy to spot and chase, and it will lead the squirrels and cats and raccoons and snakes to your nest and your eggs.

“But because of your bravery, your talent, and your initiative, you will bring those qualities with you into the next world.  You will be known far and wide for your aggression but also for your alarm call when dangers are near, and other birds will appreciate you for that.  Your ability to mimic my painting skills will be transferred into an ability to mimic some of the calls of the raptors, to locate them and stay safe.  I hope you will not use that ability to scare off other smaller birds and steal their food from them, but I would not put it past you.

“In the end, though, I must congratulate you on doing such a splendid job with the magic paint.  Because of that, many people will search you out and admire you for your beauty.  And I would say that you have at least earned that.”

Mother Nature dismissed the blue jay then and gathered up her paints, mumbling to herself that she ought to be more careful about leaving magical items out overnight.  The blue jay just cocked his head this way and that way, watching her as she went about her business.  After she had gathered all of her things in both hands, he hopped up on to her shoulder and whispered in her ear:

“I am a special thing now.”

“You were always that, but now you are blue as well,” she said.

May 16, 2015 - Mourning Dove

It is the strange call of the mourning dove that distracts you and stays in your mind long after the bird has flown away.  Have you heard it?  The almost sorrowful wail followed by three shorter coos?  Once you’ve heard a mourning dove, you’ll never forget it.  The sound makes you want to find the bird, find the sorrow, find what has made this creature cry.  It’s not a terrible sound; it’s actually rather beautiful, but it is on a mournful scale.  I don’t have much luck finding them, though, because they like to stay hidden.

But I can hear them.  I can always hear them.  I find myself following the sound and searching, whether I realize it or not.  They are just a nondescript grayish sort of color and do not stand out at all.  The best way to see them is to leave seeds out since their diet is composed almost completely of seeds.  I’ve also noticed that they like to eat on the ground and not from a bird feeder.

The mourning dove.

The mourning dove is also known as the turtle dove, and most readers will remember that name from the famous “Twelve Days of Christmas” song.  How did it go?  “Four calling birds, three French hens, two turtle doves, and a partridge in a pear tree.”  (Actually, it was really four “colly” birds [blackbirds], but language changes with time.)  These are all useful game birds, including the turtle dove, or mourning dove, which is still hunted in abundance today.

But it’s the sound, the strange hypnotic sound of the mourning dove that keeps it in my heart and mind.  For some reason--I don’t know why--whenever I hear the sound, it seems like a sound of “remembrance” to me.  What I mean by that is when I hear the sound, I pause and I think.  Was there something I was supposed to do?  Something I was supposed to say?  Someone I was supposed to visit?  Have I lost something?

And then I think of home.

May 15, 2015 - White Feathers

Geese don’t often pose for pictures, and this one was no exception.  In fact, she downright snubbed me, especially since I didn’t have any snacks with me.  I found myself wondering as she glided away just how she keeps her feathers so white. 

Surely, she has no secret laundry detergent or bleach or even a washing machine, for that matter.  She hasn’t got a second set of secret feathers somewhere that she puts on while she takes care of her current set.  She has no home or bed.  She’s out in all kinds of weather, from sunshine to pouring rain.  She often swims in dirty water and can frequently be seen walking through piles of mud.  She plays in wet green grass and greedily and quickly and messily eats just about anything.

So how--HOW--can she keep her feathers so white, so effortlessly?  

Impossibly white feathers.

May 14, 2015 - Cat's Foot

Before you mow your lawn and get rid of that weed, consider that it may be a blessing in disguise.  We used to call this “cat’s foot” when I was little because it is related to the catnip family of plants.  You probably know it as ground ivy or even creeping Jenny.  “How do I get rid of it?!” everyone says, and I say, “How do I find some more?”

Cat’s foot (Glechoma hederacea) is a bane to the perfect lawn keeper but a boon to someone who knows how to use plants.  Look for this little plant that spreads like crazy and grows low to the ground with teeny tiny purple or sometimes blue flowers.  People used to make a tea or infusion out of it that is helpful for coughs and asthma, acting as an expectorant.  It was one of the herbs of choice back in the day when tuberculosis, also known as “consumption,” was rampant.

Cat's foot (Glechoma hederacea).

Long before people used hops to flavor and clarify their beers, they used “ale hoof,” which is yet another name for cat’s foot.  It has a bitter taste due to volatile oils contained in glands on the underside of the leaves.  Like hops, a little of this flavor in beer can be a very good thing.  These oils also helped with the keeping quality of beer, and people swore that it gave good health to those who drank it.

Cat’s foot has enough vitamin C in it to ward off scurvy, but one of the really strange things it was known for centuries ago was “painter’s colic,” an old name for lead poisoning.  Supposedly, an infusion made from this and drank daily for a month or two helps to cleanse the blood and tissues of toxic metals.  In modern times, people use a dropperful of tincture of cat’s foot to help remove heavy metals from the body and as a radiation countermeasure.

An infusion of cat’s foot is also used for black eyes, sores, and bruises.  Combined with yarrow, it is used for abscesses and tumors.  Dripped into the ears, it is said to help with tinnitus, or ringing of the ears.  Steeped in wine, it is said to help with sciatica and gout.

And you thought it was just a weed!!  Look around and you will see that you are always surrounded by everything you need.  You only have to open your eyes to see it.

[To make an herbal infusion or tea, see my article on Red Clover for instructions.  There are also instructions in that article on how to make herbal ointments and salves.  For instructions on how to make an herbal tincture, see my article on St. John's Wort.  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.]

May 13, 2015 - A Sea Of Dandelions

At first I was upset when I took this picture.  There it was:  The idyllic countryside.  A fresh, vibrant, and new green meadow with a backdrop of a huge and thick woods just beginning to bud out.  There were fluffy clouds everywhere with patches of intense blue sky and brilliant sun dashing in and out, playing with the rain showers.  There was the scent of new life in the air and the sound of thousands of birds.  In short, it was paradise, so I stopped my car to take a picture.

By the time I had stopped, however, and aimed my camera, there was a terrible and desolate patch carved into the countryside.  It imposed itself on the green meadow, obliterated the hedges, and sliced cleanly through the woods.  It left a bald and horrible indentation on the landscape, and all for power lines, all for electricity.  Once again, I thought, mankind was here.  I almost didn’t take the photo, but at the last moment I decided to do so.

I sure am glad I took this picture.  When I got home and uploaded the pictures I took, I fully intended to be indignant at the rudeness of mankind.  Yet when I saw the picture enlarged, I just laughed and laughed.  There before me was a brilliant sea of millions upon millions of dandelions in full bloom.  The dandelion sea was gigantic--certainly as large as any Maine river I’ve seen, and now that I think about it, it stretched on for miles and miles.

A veritable sea of dandelions.

But you see, I was too busy being angry and indignant.  I was too busy pointing my finger and being self-righteous.  And because of that, because I was so wrapped up in my own ideas, I missed this beautiful dandelion sea.  It is surely pretty in this photo, but how much more so in person?  I vaguely, very vaguely, remember it, and more’s the pity for that because I ended up missing out on something really special.

We can’t do much about the structures and ugliness of “civilization.”  We can write letters to our Congressmen and cast our votes and hold town meetings and try to beautify our areas.  In the long run, some of that may help, and it’s important that we do it, but there are bound to be some areas of the countryside that are made ugly by civilization.  Unfortunately, the two--ugly and civilization--often go hand in hand.

But accidental beauty is everywhere if we care to look, and they can’t destroy that even with their “best” plans because it’s spontaneous.  It’s here today, gone tomorrow, with something new in its place the day after that.  Celebrate the riotous acts of nature.  Everywhere you can see her protest signs being held up.  They read, “Down with towers!  Up with trees!” or “Spread beauty lavishly!” or “Dandelions rule!” and on and on.

Desolate patch carved into the countryside?  What desolate patch?  All I see is a bright yellow sea of dandelions.