June 30, 2015 - My Secret Reishi Stash

‘Tis the season, once again, to find ripe Reishi/Lingzhi mushrooms.  I was lucky to come across this huge stash, and I’m going to put them to good use.  This medicinal mushroom is very expensive in the health stores.  Thank goodness it’s still free in the wild!

Reishi/Lingzhi (Ganoderma lucidum) is native to China, Japan, and North America.  It has been used for thousands of years and is revered in Traditional Chinese Medicine for promoting longevity.  It influences the lymphatic, interferon alpha, and interferon beta cells of the immune system, helping them to respond better or to back off if they’re hyperactive.

Reishi/Lingzhi mushrooms (Ganoderma lucidum).

In addition to aiding chemotherapy patients, Reishi/Lingzhi helps those with rheumatoid arthritis, an autoimmune disorder where the immune system mistakenly attacks the body’s own tissues and causes chronic inflammation, bone erosion, and joint deformity.  Many dangerous medications are used to try to suppress the immune system in an effort to help those suffering with rheumatoid arthritis.  Reishi/Lingzhi neither stimulates nor suppresses the immune system but instead modulates it.  Significant effects have been documented.

I’m going to make a tincture out of these mushrooms for what some herbalists refer to as “immortality in a jar.”  I doubt I’ll live forever, but I think my immune system and joints will be pleased.  I do think it’s so important to gather our medicines where we may.  For information on how to make a tincture, see my article, St. John's Wort, which gives instructions.

(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.  If you'd like more information on Reishi/Lingzhi and rheumatoid arthritis, see this study here.) 

June 29, 2015 - Dance of the Hawthorn

When I wake up in the morning and go outside, I am overwhelmed with the powerful scent of the beautiful hawthorn flowers.  It’s incredible how their fragrance is everywhere I go, how perfumed the air is now that they are here.  Every breath is a pleasure, and deep breathing is a favorite pastime as I greedily try to take in more of the scent with each breath.  The heady, floral fragrance envelops my house, my yard, and the old dirt road I walk upon.  It’s as if I’ve fallen into a perfumed world.  And nighttime is perhaps the best, when I turn off the light and clouds upon clouds of hawthorn flower fragrance drift into my room and send me off to sleep.

Sensuous flowers and treacherous thorns.

But there is a heavy price to pay for this rapturous experience of the senses, and it is difficult and treacherous.  The razor-sharp thorns of the hawthorn develop and strengthen at the same time the plant is producing billowing clouds of fragrance.  Tricky, very tricky.  That’s a faerie trick if ever I saw one, and of course, the hawthorn is famous throughout faerie lore.  They passed the use of it down to herbalists, who employ it in the treatment of cardiac insufficiency.

“Razor-sharp thorns” is putting it mildly.  They are deadly.  The long tendrils of the bush grow upward and then reach out and down, so that the plant resembles an enormous fountain.  This fountain contains terrible thorns that will scratch at your face--watch out for your eyes!--and rake your arms and hands if you come anywhere close to the plant at all.  In the summer, the thorns are hard to see but not hard to feel, and it’s so easy to come too close because the beguiling fragrance sweetly beckons.  In the winter, the thorny bare stems reach down and often tear holes in my coat if I am shoveling snow near them.

Every year, I tell myself this is the last year I will leave the hawthorn bushes here.  I cannot take the torturous thorns anymore, and this time I am removing them.  Then summer arrives and the flowers hypnotize me once again with their opium-like qualities of addiction, and once again I am lost in a sea of hawthorn.  Thorns?  Thorns?  What thorns?  Oh, those tiny things.  What does it matter when I roll in ecstasy at the foot of the ocean of hawthorn?

It’s these two extremes, you see, that keep toying with me.  If you think back on the most memorable days of your life, it’s always the days of extremes.  No one sits back and waxes nostalgic over a quiet and moderate day.  Not that there’s anything wrong with those days, and the comfort of moderation is always a blessing.  But it’s the extremes we live for, the exultant highs and the forlorn lows.  It’s the overpowering sense of wonder and the crushing feeling of pain and loss that stay in our memories forever.  The two dance together, and if we are honest with ourselves, we can find a balance.  No one ever conquered the world with mediocrity.

June 28, 2015 - Magic of the Bath

It’s bath day today, and the world is getting washed again.  All the errant pollen, the dust particles and dirt, the droppings of insects and birds, all of it is washed away.  Everything is made clean and new again.  After it’s over, the vegetation will become plumper and fuller, the leaves will become even greener, and the brilliantly stunning colors of the flowers will stand out even more.  Everything will be brand new again because that’s what water does.  It washes the old away and brings in the new.

When we go outside after the rain, when the sun has returned, we are always dazzled by the freshness of it all.  The scent alone makes us swoon.  How could we have missed that tiny but brilliant little buttercup?  How could we have passed by that hawthorne bush without seeing the pale blush in the flowers?  How could we have walked by that lush patch of blue fescue?  Were we blind before?  No, but somehow the rain has reminded us of every blade of grass as if it were its own miracle.

All transgressions removed.

I heard once somewhere long ago that our bodies give off certain chemicals in our sweat, and those chemicals depend upon our moods.  Certain chemicals are associated with anger, others with hatred, some with sorrow, and still more with love and happiness, etc.  When the sweat dries, the chemicals remain on our skin and can continue to affect us subtly for good or for bad for a long time to come.  Even long after our situation has changed, we can be affected in an almost subconscious way by the lingering naturally exuded chemicals on our skin.

But we can do what nature does to renew ourselves.  We can go into the water.  A shower is a good thing, but a bath is divine.  This is not about getting clean, although that will be certainly be a part of it.  This is about soaking out those chemicals and flushing them away.  This is about the immediate relaxation felt in a shower that is magnified at least tenfold in a bath.  This is about saying, “I am done with that day in my life.  I have moved on.  I am brand new, and anything is possible.”

Don’t believe it can happen?  Try a long soak in a bath and see why hours and hours of soaking in the rain creates a whole brand new world with beauty we never thought possible, beauty we never thought could exist.  It’s so old-fashioned, though.  Be careful or some people might think you’ve left this modern-day world behind . . . in the water . . . as it goes down the drain.

June 27, 2015 - Eastern Milk Snake

There are no poisonous snakes in Maine, but that doesn’t stop some people from being scared half to death of them.  I have never been afraid of snakes.  Now, spiders are another thing altogether . . .

This is an Eastern Milk Snake, and it is common from Maine to Ontario, Canada.  It eats rodents, birds, eggs, and frogs.  Because it is a kingsnake, it uses constriction to kill its prey and will also eat other snakes.  It has a habit of shaking its tail when threatened, which this one did to me, and so it’s often confused with a rattlesnake.  However, there are no rattlesnakes in Maine, and that’s a good thing.  This fellow was quite large, actually very much so, and I wish I could have caught him as a specimen because they don’t usually get quite this big.  He had to be four feet long, perhaps longer, and that means he must have been at least three years old.

The Eastern Milk Snake (Lampropeltis triangulum triangulum).

An encounter with a snake is always a momentary occurrence, and today was no exception.  This photo was the best I could get with only a few seconds to react.  Snakes control their body temperature by basking in the sun or sneaking into the shade when overheated, which is what this fellow was doing when I found him.  He had clearly had enough sun and was looking for cooler ground, even though it was only 65 degrees today.  I tried to keep quiet and move slowly, and this made him pause for a second, but he simply didn’t trust me.

I guess I don’t blame him.  People are not usually very nice to snakes, but I think there’s so much we could learn from them.  For starters, I’d sure like to know how to shed my skin, wouldn’t you?  Imagine growing and changing, as we all do, and then getting rid of your old façade and creating a whole new one.  Imagine a nice, new, shiny you.  Perhaps this is something we can already do, at least figuratively.  Anytime we sincerely wish to change, when we’ve outgrown or become disillusioned with who we are, we are free to shed our old habits and don new habits.  Perhaps we could keep in mind our friends, the snakes, when we are trying to change, and we could envision ourselves stepping out of the old, outworn person we once were and into the new person we now are.

It’s something to think about anyway.  Perhaps we should be nicer to snakes and they might teach us their secrets.

June 26, 2015 - From Here to There

We have already discussed faerie bridges and how they lead from here to there, and vice versa.  Get on one in this world and, if you follow it properly, you end up in the faerie world.  Get on one in the faerie world and, if you’re very lucky, you end up back in this world.  Either way, there’s a portal at each end.

What, then, do we make of this bridge?  Where does it start and where does it end?  And how do we get to it in the first place?  Because it is a bridge, and all bridges get us from one place to another place that we couldn’t easily or otherwise get to.  If someone or something didn’t need to get to either place, the bridge wouldn’t exist, but clearly it does.  Maybe it materialized by accident.  Maybe we were never meant to see it.  Maybe if I go back to the spot where I took the picture, it will be gone.  Actually, I know that if I go back to the spot where I took the picture, it will be gone.

Are there bridges like this in your life, invisible bridges?  Are you aware of them?  Perhaps you could take a bridge from one frame of mind to another.  Perhaps you could take a bridge from one life outcome to another.  Maybe there’s a bridge like this, just waiting for you to find it, so you can get from a closed portion of your mind to an open portion.  And just maybe, there’s a bridge somewhere to the people you have lost, who never die in your mind.  If you can think of something, it exists somewhere, even if it’s not in this world.  If it didn't exist somewhere (even if only in your fantasy), you couldn't think of it.  The trick is to find the bridge.

How to get from here to there.

June 25, 2015 - Star Wish

The sun was so impossibly bright today, far too bright to adore.  He never knows just how overpowering he can be.  But the waves . . . the blue waves were unfazed by the dazzling brilliance of the Sun King, and they danced and sparkled with the reflection of millions upon millions of stars.  It was as though the waves were taunting the heavens and saying, “Ha!  Only one star, then?” while they gleamed with an endless abundance.  I felt as if I were looking into the night sky, and I found myself searching for constellations.

It reminded me to tell you that you must search for stars as often as you can, and you must keep wishing on them.  You must never stop wishing.  Somewhere very, very far away, there is another person just like you, and that person is looking into the night sky to make a wish upon a special star.  Should he find the star that circles your own planet at the same time you find the star that circles his planet, then surely the wish has to come true.

An ocean of stars.

Wishes are hopes, dreams, secret desires, and fervent needs.  Some people say it’s foolish to make a wish upon a star because it places the power outside of yourself, but I say that’s nonsense.  There is power within you, but there is certainly power without as well.  Wishing on a star reinforces your secret desire and acknowledges that there is always the element of the unknown, that not everything can be planned.

You are significant.  You are a brilliant star.  Do shine.

June 24, 2015 - Lake Monsters

When you’re standing alone along the banks of a river or lake and the clouds are rolling in and the wind is whipping past you and you know a storm is fast approaching, it’s easy to believe in lake monsters.  When a body of water always seems gray and desolate, even on an otherwise nice day, and strange echoes travel to you across the water’s surface, it’s easy to believe in lake monsters.  When even the birds shun the area and no one ever seems to put even a tiny craft in the water because it just doesn’t seem “right,” it’s easy to believe in lake monsters.

I keep waiting.  I know he’ll show himself someday.  Huge ripples occur for no reason at all, which are unrelated to wind patterns, and I know he’s teasing me.  He can see me from his underwater lair, and he knows I want to catch him above water.  What magic must Saint Columba have had back in the 6th century when he commanded the Loch Ness monster in Scotland?

As silly as it all sounds on paper or a computer screen, when you’re out there alone along the lake’s edge, somehow it doesn’t quite seem so silly.  When strange sounds and deep splashes occur and you can’t identify why or how, somehow it doesn’t quite seem so unbelievable.  There’s room yet for interpretation and new discovery in this world, so I’ll keep my eyes and mind open.  And if there were to be a lake monster, surely the undisturbed waters of Maine would be the best place for him.

Waiting on the lake monster.

June 23, 2015 - The Rule of Glamor

Which one will you choose?  Which one do you want?  There is the world, and there is the illusion of the world.  Both are strikingly beautiful, appearing almost exactly the same in every detail.  The dramatically bounteous trees appear just as fruitful in the illusory world as they do in the real world.  The colors in the real world are perfectly matched and echoed in the illusory world.  The light shimmers and sparkles and glows in both worlds.  Both reflect fullness and abundance, but only one can deliver it.

How do we know which world to choose?  The first rule to remember in the world of Faerie is the Rule of Glamor.  First and foremost, this is the most important rule.  The Rule of Glamor states that appearances are deceiving--always.  The eyes are the easiest of the senses to fool.  The reason for this is because human beings rely so very heavily upon their sight, and in doing so, their other senses have taken a back seat--that is, if they are noticed at all.  Because they have relied so heavily upon their sight, this is the sense that has been targeted by those who would command man’s world, and as the millennia have ticked by, they have perfected the Glamor.

Mirror, mirror on the wall.

Some people spend their entire life in the illusory world, and from start to finish they never know it.  They truly believe themselves to be in the real world.  The illusion becomes reality, and reality becomes a dream.  Both still exist, but the illusion becomes the world in which they dwell.  Even if you were to point it out to them, to show them the facts in no uncertain terms, they would look at you as if you had gone mad.  If they could see you at all, that is, which is very unlikely.

The answer, then, lies in the other senses.  The illusory world can also reflect the other senses in addition to sight, but it cannot do so nearly as well.  It will become obvious very soon what is real and what is not.  So the practitioner must close her eyes.  She must rely first on sound and then on scent.  She must move onward then to taste and touch.  These senses, so much more dramatic and shattering than sight, cannot lie, or at least not very well.  The illusion is always found out with the other senses, which grab it roughly by the collar and smash it upon the ground.  The other senses are the savior.

One last thing to keep in mind about the Rule of Glamor:  Unlike a mirror, which when smashed is destroyed, the illusion, when smashed, opens the door to what is on the other side.  Have a care when you set out to dismantle the illusion--which you must do if you are to live authentically--that you do not fall into what the illusion was set up to conceal in the first place.  There is something there, and that world has its own rules and powers, which you might wisely choose to avoid.

June 22, 2015 - Smart Duck

Most wild animals are camera shy.  That is, they do their very best to get away from me when I try to take their picture.  Farm animals are friendlier, but wild animals are usually quite wary of humans, and with good reason since humans can often be dangerous creatures.  But today, this duck decided to stare me down.  It surprised me so much that I almost didn’t take the photo, which was his goal.  Clever bird.

This is a male mallard (drake) whose plumage is transferring over to “eclipse” plumage (non-breeding) because the time for breeding is about over.  People say that ducks in general are not very smart, but I have to wonder.  He swims in the sun whenever he wants to and takes shelter in the cool reeds.  Other than finding food, which every living thing must do, he does not work.  He never exerts himself unnecessarily.  He doesn’t worry about money or the economy.  He doesn’t try to keep up with the Joneses, and he doesn’t worry about war.  His life is completely peaceful.

Compare that to humans, and then ask yourself who is the smarter?  We like to think that we are the most intellectually evolved creatures on this planet.  However, I’ve always had this nagging fear that perhaps we are among the least intellectually evolved and that most of the animals are patiently waiting for us to catch up.  After all, why would an evolved creature create a lifestyle of permanent work and slavery?  I wish I were as smart as a duck.

Mallard drake in eclipse plumage.

June 20, 2015 - Lupine Soldiers

Like soldiers, they stand at attention, right arm up in a salute to the sun.  The height of their beauty matches the zenith of the Sun King as he climbs toward the solstice, and as they begin to wane, so too does he.  Or perhaps it is the other way around:  As the Sun King begins his long and slow descent, the lupines follow suit and dash off ahead of him into the fading days.  Whatever the case may be, they disappear from the countryside almost as soon as they arrive, and if you had not seen them with your own two eyes, you might not believe that they had ever been here.

But while they are here, for the briefest of moments, let us enjoy the brilliant sentinels along the road and sing praise to the Sun King while we still can.  We do not know what tomorrow might bring, but we know it will not be lupines.

June 19, 2015 - The Treacherous Rocky Shore

A great many of the rocky beaches in Maine are pretty much untouched and appear as they have always appeared for thousands, or perhaps millions, of years.  This is because most tourists do not enjoy the rocky shores.  Most people on vacation want to lounge around on a soft and sandy beach.  We do have a few of those in Maine, and I do my best to steer clear of them, except during winter, because there are simply too many people there.  But here among the rocks, I can climb and sit and dream all day long and no one comes by, even when the weather is idyllic.

It’s really rather strange, if you think about it, although I’m not complaining.  Is it that people simply do not see the beauty of a rocky shore with many cliffs and overhangs, or is it that I am the one who fails to realize the beauty and ease of sand and surf?  Since everyone flocks to the sand and no one comes to the rocks, I would assume that the fault lies with me.  And if so, I am guilty as charged--a foolish woman incapable of seeing true beauty.

It certainly keeps you on your toes.

It isn’t easy to pick your way along the cliffs and rocks, so slippery at low tide and so dangerous and high tide.  It takes a lot of muscle, dexterity, and experience.  Rogue waves are always a possibility, but life among the rocks has never been easy.  I can’t imagine a beach any other way.  Miles and miles and miles of sand and sun and sand and sun . . .  No rocks among which to shelter when the wind becomes too harsh?  No hardened overhangs to protect against the glaring sun?  And people think sandy beaches are gentle and easy on the body?

Give me the craggy cliffs and treacherous rocks any day of the year.  Again, the fault lies with me and I am guilty as charged.

June 18, 2015 - Wanderlust

Do you have wanderlust?  I do; but not for ranging around the world to exotic places.  My wanderlust sends me off to lonely places, to places others might shun.  I see a small craft on the shore, and I can barely resist the urge to hop in and just . . . go.  Where would I go, you ask?  It doesn’t matter.  The destination is not important.  The journey is everything.

Every journey starts with the first step.

Sometimes I look out into a lonely field with nothing and no one around for miles and miles.  Dark woods are in the background and looking very threatening.  Or perhaps it's a lonely mountain in the distance.  Then the overwhelming thought comes into my head:  Start walking and keep walking.  Don’t look back.  Just walk until you can’t walk any further.  Dangerous thoughts.  If I couldn’t walk any further, how would I get back?  What would I do out in the middle of nowhere?  And by the time I got there, wouldn’t it be cold and dark and lonely, and wouldn’t I be hungry?  Those are the sane ideas that rein me in every time, but I’m not sure how long they’re going to win this battle.

It’s a foolish thing, I know.  There always seems to be something just beyond the horizon, just beyond my range of vision . . . if I could only reach it.

June 17, 2015 - Hannah Doesn't Care

I go to the Old Harpswell Common Burying Ground to remind me of life.  Yes, you read that correctly.  Most people steer clear of graveyards because they’re afraid of them.  They think people who actually choose to walk through them are at best, weird, and at worst, deranged.  Why would anyone choose to walk among the dead?  I choose to do so because it reminds me that someday that’s where I will be--where we will all be--but today is not that day.  Today is a day to be alive, and being alive is a great gift.

Here lies Hannah Baily, who died in 1765 at the age of 10.

Hannah Baily was 10 years old when she died in 1765 before the United States was its own country.  She was probably like most 10-year-olds today, although I’ll bet she had a lot more work to do, and so she might have been a bit more mature.  You could tell her all about the video games that 10-year-olds play today, but Hannah wouldn’t care about that.  She might have cared about nice weather, though, and fertile gardens.  Hannah might have cared about heavily-laden fruit trees and cool ocean water on her feet.  She might have cared about storing enough food to make it through the winter and taking care of small farm animals.  But Hannah wouldn’t have cared about television or cellphones, video games or makeup.

Yesterday was a great day to be alive, and so was today.  I think it’s safe to say that tomorrow will also be a great day to be alive.  However, I doubt tomorrow will be a great day to be distracted by meaningless electronic devices.  It probably won’t be a great day for worrying about fashion or who owes you a text message.  It definitely won’t be a great day for lounging around and doing nothing to explore your life.  No.  Tomorrow is a day to live, to strive, to work, to share, to love, to be.

Today was a beautiful sunny day of 70 degrees with a strong ocean breeze and the scent of roses everywhere.  Most people would call it paradise.  I know I certainly thought it was, but Hannah Baily doesn’t care about that anymore either.

June 16, 2015 - The Helm

The base of this wheel is buried in the ground, and so it is stable and does not move.  I’ve often wondered what would happen, though, if I were to dig it up and begin navigating the world.  For surely, this must be the helm of the world.  It can’t be anything else.

I can picture it now.  At first there would be a lot of cracking and creaking because the world is so used to being stuck in its spot in the port.  But I would stand my ground and turn the helm and keep turning it.  Then quite suddenly, the Earth would begin to move and shake a bit, and then it would take on the rhythmic pulse of the waves.  Slowly, it would leave the port and sail on heaven’s ocean.  And I’d be the captain.  “All aboard!!” I’d shout as we set off, and as many of you who wanted to come along would be welcome, but I wouldn't wait for anyone who hasn’t made his mind up.

We can’t do anything about the ship we’ve been given, but we can still steer it in the general direction in which we want to go.  We can swab the deck and batten down the hatches and make her look really pretty.  We can set sail for any port we’d like, and we can always refuse to dock in any port we dislike.  The ship is not ours to own forever, but it is ours to command while we are here.  The ocean on which we sail does not belong to us, but it is the medium for our vehicle and will support us if we respect it.  You are a clipper ship, not a tugboat.  See that you behave that way.

Grab the helm while you still can.

June 15, 2015 - Appearances

Age does not automatically confer wisdom.  If it did, every old person would be a joy and a treasure to meet and to know.  Instead, wisdom seems to alight haphazardly in the strangest of places, although rarely where expected.  There is knowledge and there is savoir faire, and these two can get you far in life.  But they fly apart like leaves when wisdom approaches.

About 20 years ago I was doing some gardening work for an old man, who taught me a lesson.  I showed up for the day in my old ripped jeans because I was gardening, but also because they were the only jeans I had.  An old t-shirt, some old gloves, and a beaten up old hat completed the ensemble.  This was, after all, back-breaking work in the tough Maine soil.  On this day, the old man decided to take me around his property and show me all he was building with his new house.  I have to say, it was impressive and could only be done with money “from away.”  He spared no expense, and he was extremely pleased that I was pleased with all of his efforts.

No-frill flowers.

On the way back to the gardens, he waxed eloquently about the vagaries of life and about what he was trying to portray with his new home and his long-awaited retirement.  He suddenly turned to me and said, “Appearances are everything.  Ev.  Ree.  Thing.”  He said it just like that, dramatically emphasizing the final “everything.”

“Do you really think so?” I asked, not bothering to hide my laughter.

“Ooooh, yes,” he said as he rolled his eyes.

Then he gave me the once-over, taking in my ripped jeans and my old sneakers with a very derisive look, and he headed back to his almost-finished house without another word.  I went back to my gardening.

Now, it must be said that this was, indeed, a very dapper and sophisticated old man.  He was cultured and educated and tenured at a very exclusive university.  He had money, position, and power, and he knew how to use all three.  This was a man who was used to getting his own way.  Always.  I wondered why he had said what he said to me.

It must also be said that I have never cared very much about my own appearance.  I don’t believe anyone has ever referred to me as dapper or sophisticated.  I am educated, but culture and tenure continue to elude me.  And then there’s money, position, and power.  The short story is that I haven’t got any, and if truth be told, I wouldn’t know how to use them if I did.

Appearances are everything, he had said.  My old car was parked next to his flashy sports car, and I thought about that as I smiled at how diametrically opposed the two of us were.  But there was one moment, just one brief moment, I was thinking about as I admired the shiny red vehicle, and that was the tiny flicker I saw in his eyes as he was telling me that appearances were everything.  It was the tiniest flicker.  I gazed directly into his eyes and saw just the tiniest flicker of doubt.  And I knew that his speech was intended more for himself than for me, although he probably didn’t know it.  He could not close the curtains to his soul with all the money in the world.

Perhaps the old codger was right after all.  Perhaps appearances really are everything.  It just depends on what you’re looking at, really, and I was never one to look much at glitz and glamor.  Superficiality is just that.  I never reach for what I’m given.  Give me instead the eyes, the windows to the soul, and I will paint an accurate picture.

June 14, 2015 - The Woods, Again

I think it’s really quite bold, you know, the way the woods behave in the summer.  As if they never knew there was such a thing as the Winter.  As if they have all the time in the world in which to lazily meander about.  And how they flaunt themselves?  So teasingly?  As if to say, “Ha!  You cannot touch me!  I am immortal!”

But you and I both know that is not the case.  We know that the summer woods are quite touchable, indeed, and the time will come when they are laid to waste once again.  The time will come when they are beaten and bludgeoned once again.  The time will come when they will expire, yet again, in complete ruin and destruction.  But, good golly, you have to admire their spunk!

And there is, quite naggingly, the real question of immortality as they do have that habit of regeneration . . .

The folly of the woods.

June 13, 2015 - Farm Animals

Farm animals are a calming presence in our lives.  I am convinced that a good deal of the violence and indifference in city areas is due to a lack of farm animals.  Somehow their presence soothes us and seems to give us exactly what we need, and those needs can be different at different times.  Somehow the animals know.

For example, if we are anxious and worried about our future and finances, farm animals give us an example of creatures who live in the now and never think of money.  They never worry about cash or possessions and have never had such things.  If we are sad and forlorn, farm animals remind us that there is always another day, another dawn to wake up to, and that even if we don’t have everything we want, we usually have everything we need.  If we are lonely and depressed, farm animals offer their quiet company without ever saying a word.  They are a constant and steady presence that gives us more strength than we realize.

A peaceful farm life.

Farm animals do not judge us.  They do not compare us to others.  They do not hold us to any stringent measures or impossible standards.  Farm animals do not use us or pit us against one another.  They don’t steal and they don’t lie.  They are the epitome of good and honest friends.  If we are rude, they forgive us.  If we are forgetful, they remind us.  If we are busy, they wait for us in silence and peace.

No matter how badly you might feel on some days, if you drive by farm animals, you will be made happy and whole again.  The animals don’t have to belong to you.  They can just be part of a farm you pass on your daily drive.  There’s an unspoken message of their peaceful lives that go on and on in an unbroken rhythm throughout the centuries.  This has always happened and it always will happen.  This is stability.  This is real life unfolding before your eyes.  This is true wealth.

June 12, 2015 - The Doll

When I was little, I had dolls and dollhouses.  The little dolls had little houses, and the big dolls had big houses.  Very often, the little dolls would go to visit the big dolls because their houses were so much bigger, although the big dolls couldn’t comfortably visit the little dolls because there just wasn’t enough room to fit in their houses.  These were serious playtimes, with entire lives being invented and reinvented on a daily basis.  The dolls had lives, families, parties, memories--you name it.  In my mind, the dolls’ world was very rich.

Then came the day I sat back and wondered about my own role in the lives of the dolls.  Was I a deity?  After all, I created their scenarios, rewarded them for good behavior, and dropped them on their heads for bad behavior.  All situations were thought of in advance by me.  Sometimes I’d have the dolls play the scene out to one end, and then start over and have them play the scene out to another completely different end.  Each time, I controlled everything, except for when they occasionally got sassy and used swear words.  In any event, my head began to swell when I realized my omnipotence.

Her beautiful night light.

Until another day came when I sat back and wondered about my own world.  I began to wonder if I were just a doll in a very large dollhouse with lots of other dolls around me.  Were we all just playing a doll game together?  Was our giant dollhouse inside of a giant doll world that was inside of a giant toy box?  Perhaps we all just thought our world was real because we didn’t know any better.  But maybe we were just dolls and all our hopes and dreams and plans and schemes were just roles we were playing out without a choice.

Of course, those thoughts ultimately led me to wonder that if I were a doll, to whom did I belong?  Was there a giant child somewhere inventing scenes for me and controlling my whole life?  Maybe everything in my world just seemed real because I wasn’t the one making it up.  It certainly made me behave a little nicer toward my own dolls in the hope that whomever I belonged to would see how good I was and be nice to me as well.  I knew she’d never visit, though, because my dollhouse was entirely too small for her to get into.

I’m still not sure about it all.  Tonight a giant night light slips beneath the horizon, beautifully coloring the world in which I live in shades of pink and orange.  Clouds like fluffy wisps of cotton candy float by in the sky.  The dollmaster’s eyes grow heavier and she fades off to sleep, and then the sky goes dark and I go to sleep as well.  Good night.  Sleep tight.  Let’s play again in the morning.

June 11, 2015 - I am Icarus

The heat has hit us in a bad way, and all eyes turn to the shore for relief.  I am sure that 83 degrees might not seem hot to some people, but for me it is stifling and painful.  All outdoor work must be done in the very early morning or in the evening.  I wouldn’t dare to approach the Sun King directly at this time of year.  Although he is known for his benevolence, he can be overpowering at times.  An archetype cannot choose his behavior.

But I am Icarus today, and I can choose my behavior.  Daedalus has warned me repeatedly not to fly too low or too high.  The dampness of the sea will clog my wings if I fly too low, and the scorching heat of the sun will melt them if I fly too high.  Moderation is the key to the warnings of Daedalus.  Fly too low with a lack of confidence, and you will be drowned.  Fly too high with hubris and an overestimation of your abilities, and you will be burned.  The Sun King approves of neither extreme but can only punish you with one.

It’s a tightrope we all walk.  Drowning at sea is easier to discern and can usually be remedied in time.  But flying high?  Who can resist soaring in the brilliance, even though only momentarily?  I’ll take my chances.

Fly to the heavens?

June 10, 2015 - Steal The Tree

STEAL THE TREE

Like a thief in the night

the water rises to steal the tree.

Slippery fingers pulling and coaxing

now grabbing and thrashing

now caressing and kissing

but always furtive

always stealing.

Sleight of hand with smoke and mirrors.

The water paints the tree

to hide its origin from prying eyes.

I have always held the tree.

I have always known the tree.

It was always mine.

The water lies.

I never wanted it, never liked it

never needed or cared for it

never desired it.

I never coveted its hardened form

never thought to steal the hidden sun

stored tightly within its limbs.

The water lies.

It was never my plan to drink

to sate, to glut upon the locked energy.

I never schemed to drain its life.

I thought only to place a kiss

upon the boughs of land’s lover

a token of my affection.

The water lies.

June 9, 2015 - Lupine

What a quandary.  June is the month of the lupine here in Maine.  Everywhere you look, the countryside is lit up like fire with millions upon millions of lupines.  Most are brilliant purple, although some are pink and blue.  Every year I hunger to see the lupine because I know that the warm weather has truly arrived, and the dog days of summer are soon to follow.

But it’s a quandary.  For all of its good qualities, the lupine has bad qualities as well.  That the lupine is beautiful and creates a heavenly vision, no one can argue.  It is also extremely prolific and helps to hold soil in place in disturbed areas.  The bees love it and it helps to feed them.  It also improves soil fertility by fixing atmospheric nitrogen in its root nodules.  It’s wonderful for helping to colonize volcanic ash and turn an otherwise inhospitable area into a field of greenery.

A field of lupines.

But it comes at a price because the lupine has a dark side.  Lupine grows so very quickly that it takes over areas at an alarming rate and excludes many plants, especially those that grow slowly.  One of those slow-growing plants happens to be native milkweed, the only source of food for the monarch butterfly.  Maine is at the northern end of the 2,000-mile-long migration of the monarch butterfly, and they really need that milkweed when they get here.  Lupine is also known to make farm animals sick and decreases the value of hay if it is in any great amount in a field.  Many of the native grasses and lichens in Maine that thrive in poor soil find the soil too fertile near lupines.  Did you ever think that too-fertile soil would be a problem?  It can be.

And then there’s the blueberry.  Blueberries are the biggest crop in Maine, with potatoes playing a close second.  It’s those special little tiny wild Maine blueberries--you know the ones that people from away pay exorbitant amounts to get?  Those indescribably delicious, nutritionally loaded little wild blueberries that favor the cold Maine climate?  When lupine gets a hold of their fields, it can wreak havoc.  Areas that were once covered with blueberries can disappear quickly because of the lupine.

There are some rare grasses that grow only in Maine and nowhere else in the world, such as the Orono sedge.  Who knows what we might someday learn from this rare grass?  Don’t forget that wheat is also a grass.  Maybe learning the unique qualities of grasses which have been untouched by time could someday help us in improving wheat in a sustainable and healthy way.  But the lupine is edging the Orono sedge out slowly but surely.  And that’s just one of the unique plants that grow only in cold-loving Maine.

Still . . . I can’t help but adore the lupine.  My eyes are drawn to its fantastic beauty.  I’m afraid this photo doesn’t nearly capture the stunning qualities of the lupine up close and personal.  There has to be a way that we, as good stewards of the land, can allow the lupine to flourish and yet safeguard the other rare beauties of Maine.  For now, I will just enjoy the sight of the lupine, but I will not spread its seed (as so many people mistakenly do out of romantic fantasies) or purposely cultivate it.  It is meant to be admired from afar.

June 8, 2015 - Rain

Standing in a storm.  All around, rain.  Rain.  Rain everywhere.  Greyness and wind.  And rain, of course.  Only the mistiness and the smell of the storm, and the indescribably sad sound of the teardrops of rain. 

Sometimes the rain doesn’t water the Earth and feed her and help her to grow, as you might imagine.  Sometimes the rain pours out what sparse feelings are left inside your heart.  Sometimes the rain rips them away and ravages what little you had left.  All of those things you thought you had so very carefully stored away, yes, all of those things.  They pour out with the rain.  You can put your hands around your heart and clutch tightly, but it doesn’t matter.  Everything slips between your fingers.  Everything slips away, except for sorrow.

Old songs and old photos and old feelings fall down from the sky.  They all mix in with your tears, and who’s to say where the rain ends and the tears begin?  Not me.  It pours down, mercilessly beating at your face.  Haunting, haunting.  If only the rain could wash all the sorrow away.  But it can’t.  Miracles seldom come from heaven.

Standing in a storm.