August 31. 2015 - Old Glory

There’s “Old Glory” off to the left in the far background, surveying the scene.  It’s checking the coast from sea to shining sea.  Leave your hat at the door and be polite when you come in.  That’s a requirement far too many Americans have forgotten about, and it’s high time we all remember.

In the far distance, Old Glory still reigns.

 

When I was little, I would say the Pledge of Allegiance by rote because that’s what I was taught.  We all did it as children, and we enjoyed the ritual.  We loved our country without questioning.  Then I grew older and began to ask questions, as people will do when they grow.  I found there were aspects of society that I didn’t love at all.  In fact, I didn’t even like them.  I got “society” mixed up with “country,” and it caused a lot of unnecessary heartache for me.  A resentment grew and expressed itself in the subliminal way it had been planted in its pawn.  I no longer said the Pledge of Allegiance.

But then I grew even older, and the game became clearer.  The simple things came back to me--unexpectedly but greatly appreciated.  Their timeless beauty humbled me and taught me and bent my knee.  A new knowledge grew along with a love for the land.  I express my love here in Maine.  It may be in a different part of the country for others.  One thing’s certain, though:  Old Glory still flies free and beautiful, and I still say my Pledge of Allegiance.  And for all of its problems, difficulties, differences, arguments, standoffs, mistakes, hardheadedness, etc., it’s still the greatest place in the world.  So, hats off and show a little respect!

From sea to shining sea.

August 30, 2015 - Painting Maine

It’s as though an artist came through the shores of Maine with a brush and lightly swished it across the sky, placing wispy clouds.  Then she dipped it in white paint and placed quartz stones all amid the granite.  A tiny sailboat in the background was added as an afterthought.  Next she went to green and black and put some seaweed here and there.  Then she chiseled the pine trees into the horizon, covering some of the stone she had placed.  The rocks she made with shades of gray and bits of iron ore that splashed a rust color in random spots.

The artist's canvas.

First came the blue, though.  She mixed it in slightly different shades and painted the ocean and sky.  Somehow, even though they’re both blue, she made sure we could tell where the ocean ended and the sky began.  A dark line differentiates the two, but it’s also a matter of texture.  She put in the waves of the water and breathed secret currents into the air.  Somehow the sky caught them and distributed them subtly so that we would have the feeling of great expanse and open space.

And as quickly as she came, she left.  There were so many more paintings to make.  There were forests and glens, hidden animals, lush pastures, and secret meadows.  All were clamoring for the artist’s brush.  Yet barely does she finish, when it is time to come through once again and paint us all into autumn.

August 29, 2015 - Climbing to Paradise

I’m climbing my way to paradise, step by step.  Carefully, I choose the way.  Sometimes I take a path that looks good, but half way through it becomes treacherous.  Then I have to decide whether to continue or retrace my steps and take another path.  If I continue, it’s usually because I can see the treacherous path leveling out further up or joining briefly with a better path.  If I retrace my steps, it’s because the path leads to nothing but difficulty.  Experience guides the way.  Sometimes I’m right; sometimes I’m wrong, but the older I get, the more instinctive the choice of paths becomes.

Almost there . . .

The difficult paths are not always to be ignored.  Sometimes they reveal breathtaking beauty that cannot be found on the simple paths.  Sometimes they lead to hidden treasures.  Sometimes they lead to magnificent abundance that has been untouched because others were afraid of the difficult path.  But there’s always danger on the difficult path--danger of falling, danger of ambush, danger of getting lost.  The difficult paths are slow-going, but some say they’re worth it.

The simple paths are not always to be taken.  Sometimes they’re crowded and dirty.  Sometimes they promise the prize at the end but then don’t deliver.  Sometimes they lead in a circular direction, ending where they began after much traveling.  But sometimes they are comfortable and welcome.  Sometimes they put the heart and feet at ease.  Sometimes they reveal the kind of camaraderie that can’t be found on a difficult path.  The simple paths are enjoyable, but the hidden danger is mediocrity.

I’m almost to the top, but I’m not sure if that’s where I want to go, not yet anyway.  I’ll get there soon enough--this I know.  Today it’s about the journey, and the secret is that the journey itself is paradise.  Tomorrow it’s about the destination, but heaven can wait.

August 28, 2015 - The Rocky Shores of Maine

THE ROCKY SHORES OF MAINE

I could stand on the rocky shores of Maine forever

salt air on my face and wind in my hair

waves splashing dangerously and tides enticing.

Now rain, now sun, now rain again

come wind, then cold and snow and ice.

The slippery seaweed and jagged ledge

calling, taunting, and daring me.

The tempest raging, the gales ripping

the icy water tearing constantly at the flesh

the merciless sea endlessly devouring.

Then depositing a precious pearl

gleaming brilliantly in a jumble of sea skeletons.

I could stand on the rocky shores of Maine forever.

The rocky shores of Maine.

August 27, 2015 - The Hidden Truth of the Sun

When I was little, I used to think that if I could just run fast enough, I could catch up with the sun, and then I could live in eternal daytime and never have to experience another night.  Oh, I practiced and practiced, determined to get faster and faster.  It worked.  I did get faster, a lot faster.  First I outran all of my friends.  Then I became the fastest runner in my school.  Soon after, I was going to track meets and competing against dozens of different schools.  But I never did get fast enough to keep up with the sun.

In pursuit of the sun.

Now I wonder why I ever would have wanted to do such a thing.  Perhaps it was a desire for travel, a wanderlust, and watching the sun as it sailed off into the west made my spirit cry out for exploration.  But there was something I didn’t understand back then, a vital hidden piece of the true glory of the sun.  I couldn’t understand it because I was so blinded by the brilliance and the strength and the speed of the fiery ball.  What could be more wonderful than that?  As I got a little older, I realized that the sun reaches its most alluring and beautiful point only against the backdrop of the night.

Without the night, the sun loses a lot of its mesmerizing attraction.  Without the encroaching deep blue and later black, the sun has no canvas to paint its beautiful colors.  It’s the night that defines the sun, giving us a comparison, enticing us with an opposite, teaching us the balance.  It’s the night that showcases the magnificence of the sun.  It’s the night that allows us to look toward the sun, which would otherwise be too painful and blinding.  It’s the night that adds the cool and soothing bandage to the unbearable heat left by the sun.

And at the end of the night as we approach morning, it’s the night that greets the sun first before the rest of us even get a chance.  It’s the night that hails the return of the glory of the sun.  It’s the night that lays out the blue carpet and asks for the next dance.

August 26, 2015 - A Small Clearing

I saw a small clearing, a little gap, and decided to look through it.  This was my reward.  I was afraid to move because I didn’t want to break the spell.  It was so beautiful in its simplicity that I wasn’t sure if it was real.  I decided to take a picture just in case it wasn’t.

A hidden gem.

There are skylines that feature massive skyscrapers which loom like giants in the daytime and are lit up like gods during the night.  There are stunning bridges, amazing engineering feats of marvel.  There are graceful architectural arches, gorgeous statues of solid marble, and lush fountains giving off fine mists and delicate rainbows.  There are parks of chiseled beauty, palaces with surreal manicured grounds, and priceless objets d’art. 

But nowhere in this wide world have I found anything that can rival a simple scene like this.  Nowhere have I found something that goes to the core of my heart as this does.  It’s true that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and perhaps others will look at this and wonder if I put the wrong picture up.  Perhaps others will be awestruck by the skyscrapers, the statues, and the fountains, but for me, there can be no finer thing than the simplicity of the woods and streams of Maine.

This is my heart.

August 25, 2015 - Piled Up Dreams

They pile up, you know, the dreams do.  Hopes and dreams go on top of hopes and dreams, which go on top of other hopes and dreams.  Somehow we squeeze them all into our minds, pushing them further and further back, promising ourselves that we’ll get to them all someday.  But first, there are more practical things to get done.

We take care of the dreams that we’re told are really important, don’t we?  When there’s a problem, we fix it.  When the paint peels, we repaint it.  When the grounds become overgrown, we mow them.  We’re always taking care of the “good” dreams, the ones we think we should have, the goals we’re told are important.  We shine them up like a jeweler polishes his diamonds.  We put them under glass and turn on brilliant little lights so everyone can see them sparkle and secretly covet them.

This dream has died.

Then there are the dreams we don’t tell anyone about.  Those are the hopes and dreams of how we really want to live our lives.  Those are the dreams we had as a child that sat cheerfully on our shoulders as we went about our business.  Then as we got older and shouldered more responsibilities, we hid the dreams inside us.  At first we hid them to protect them and keep them safe.  Then we hid them because we were afraid people would laugh at us or that we’d disappoint others with our true desires.  Later, we just forgot about them.

Lastly, there are the dreams that have died.  Some of them were good at one point, but we simply outgrew them.  From year to year--indeed, from day to day--we are not the same person, not quite.  Each day finds us slightly different, and those slight differences add up after a while.  Some of the dreams weren’t outgrown but were smothered instead.  Those are the saddest dreams because they were beautiful dreams and we let them die while we were busy polishing up the acceptable dreams.  Those are the most tragic because once a dream is lost, it can’t ever be found again.

What we focus our attention on thrives and grows.  What we remove our attention from withers and dies.  This holds true for everything--hopes and dreams, jobs, relationships, gardens, animals, everything.  Find those dreams inside of you that are still alive, even if there’s just a feeble heartbeat left, and decide which of those are truly important, which have received attention they don’t deserve, and which have died and need to be properly buried.  The dead ones have to be removed to make room to grow again.

Then focus your attention--your thoughts, your hopes, your prayers, your fantasies, your secret delights--on the dreams you have left that truly matter, and watch them grow into beautiful structures.  Do it while you still can, and if you’re alive, you still can.

August 24, 2015 - It's A Barn Thing

Whenever I go into an old barn, I always wonder if the ghosts of the prior owners are watching me to see if I’m doing a good job.  Maybe they’re watching me to make sure that I do right by the old place.  Or maybe they’re just attracted by the simplicity and familiarity of life in a barn.  I know they’re there; I can feel them.

Ghosts are just on the other side of the barn door.

I’ve written about barns more than once in this journal, and that’s because they hold a special and important place in the life of a country person.  As I said once before, the garage houses your liabilities while the barn houses your assets.  As I look at this old barn, it starts me to wondering if maybe it’s the barn itself that influences its owner.  What I mean is, since the barn houses the assets, it gets the owner thinking in terms of productivity, dedication to tasks at hand, and respect for natural cycles.  These are asset-based behaviors.  These help a person to take calculable risks and make a profit, and while sometimes a person might fail, the influence of the barn will always help him to try again.

On the other hand, the garage stores cars, tools, and oftentimes just junk.  There’s no life in the garage.  Nothing is being born on a regular basis in the garage.  Things rarely die in the garage.  Calculations for planting and consideration of fields don’t take place in the garage.  Chances are if you have a garage but not a barn, you haven’t got any fields to plant or animals to care for anyway.  This is why the garage, while good for storing items, will never be part of a person’s livelihood in the way a barn is.

The garage is an inanimate object.  There are no ghosts watching you in the garage.  There are no past experiences of the birth of calves or chickens hatching or horses eating carrots in the garage.  That’s why the ghosts aren’t interested in the garage.  They prefer the barn because they want to stand behind generations upon generations of people who carve out their existence with their own wits and a love for the land, just like they did.  That’s something they can get behind and silently encourage.

So if you get that unexplainable nostalgic feeling when you walk into a barn and your throat tightens and you look up in the rafters expecting to see something, you’re not going crazy.  It’s real.  You’re feeling the ghosts of the barn, and they’re just as happy to see you as you are to feel their presence.  It’s a barn thing.

August 23, 2015 - The Little Rowboat

There’s a little rowboat waiting out there for you.  There’s one waiting out there for everyone, although most people don’t realize it.  Most people stay on shore and never even look out to the sea.  They’re too busy finding shiny trinkets.  But if they were to look out to the waves, they’d discover there’s more to life than tawdry baubles and that life continues beyond the shore, beyond the confines.  They’d see the rowboat out there, waiting alone, waiting patiently.

There's a rowboat waiting for you.

The rowboat never beckons.  It sits still and waits.  Oftentimes it waits for a passenger who never comes aboard.  There’s nothing special about it.  There are no pretty colors and no motor.  It’s not a yacht or a status symbol.  No one will be watching you in your rowboat, and no one will be envious.  In fact, if anyone sees you in your rowboat at all, they’ll probably snicker to themselves.

It’s a tiny thing, but it’s yours.  It’s your acknowledgement that you’re done with the world of fool’s gold, lies, and disloyalty.  It’s your ticket away from existing but not really living, your ticket away the mediocre.  It may not be pretty, but it’s surprising seaworthy and steady, and you can take this little rowboat wherever you want.  Some will bring it to another shore and try again.  Some will bring it out to a larger boat and sail away for good.  Some will brave life in the tiny rowboat, which while frightening is certainly better than the nothingness from whence they came.

The rowboat is little, but it’s strong and good.  If you’re lucky enough to find it, don’t tarry.  Go out to the little boat and trust your senses.  You are stronger than you think.

August 22, 2015 - Old Things

I’m not sure, but it looks like the ruins of an outdoor oven.  If found it along the Androscoggin River.  I love finding things like this and wondering about the people who built it.  If I’m right, and I don’t know if I am, I wonder what they cooked in it?  How well did it work?  How long were they able to use it before winter set in for good?  Or was it used for some kind of heat or something else?  It is right along the river.  Perhaps it had something to do with processing fish.  Or maybe a blacksmith used it.

Another old thing.

It looks like several repairs were made to it, so someone obviously wanted it and used it.  There’s a lot of old fieldstone but some modern-looking bricks as well.  If you look to the far right, you’ll see two cast iron doors, one on top of the other, still sealed.  But now it’s abandoned and plants are growing out of it.  Whatever it was, it takes its history with it silently.

I don’t know why I feel bad when old things drop out of circulation and are no longer used.  I don’t feel that way about modern things.  Losing a modern appliance is a nuisance, of course, but I don’t feel bad or nostalgic about it.  I don’t stare at it wistfully.  I don’t wonder about the people who used it.  But with old things, there’s always an air of romance about them.  Maybe it’s because I create that air, but whatever the cause, I feel it.  I actually feel the people who used this.  I picture conversations and hopes and dreams.  I picture their lives; I wonder about their clothing.  When it was first built, did everyone “ooh” and “ahh” over it?

I guess I’m a hopeless romantic, and I’m living in the perfect place to be one.  There’s so much history here in Maine.  We haven’t fully arrived in the modern age, something our politicians try desperately hard to hide and something that I seek out and try desperately hard to preserve.

August 21, 2015 - For Kindness

There’s only one reason something like this is done, and that’s kindness.  Somewhere someone decided to do something nice.  It would have been easier to just put some flowers in along the edge of a house or a fence.  It would have been easier to just plant a lawn and mow over the area.  It would have been easier to ignore it altogether.  It certainly would have been more practical to plant fruit and vegetables.

Kindness.

But that’s not what someone did.  Whoever it was, thought about it.  She went out and found an old antique bicycle that she thought really had some style to it.  Then she found the perfect baskets and lined them with peat moss and attached them to the bicycle.  Then she filled the baskets with dirt, bought some flowers, and planted them.  During the times when there was not enough rain, she snuck down to the baskets and watered them.  She made sure no weeds were growing in them.  She made sure everything was stable and strong.

Then the flowers grew and exploded into color along the side of an old country road, where not many people go.  And for what?  What could possibly be the reason to do this kind of planning and work?  Kindness.  The love of beauty.  A gift.

Driving down an old country road, my thoughts awash in all the troubles of the day, someone gave me a beautiful little gift that I can never repay.  Do kind things for one another, whether it’s flowers, food, music, or a smile.  These gifts are priceless and will last in the heart of the receiver long after the actual act is done and gone.  Be kind.

August 20, 2015 - Sons of the American Revolution

In older parts of the country like Maine, we have graves of Revolutionary War soldiers.  We have graves much older than that, but the Revolutionary War graves always make me stop and take a look.  I know I’ve written about the Revolutionary War before, but each time I see one of the grave markers, I’m struck with the idea of an entire civilization living, moving, and dying long before anyone reading this was born.

Sons of the American Revolution.

The SAR stands for Sons of the American Revolution.  The Revolutionary War took place from 1775 to 1783.  It started between the 13 original colonies and Great Britain when we declared our independence shortly after the Boston Tea Party.  By 1778, France jumped in with the Franco-American Alliance because they were still angry at Great Britain for the Seven Years’ War.  As allies of France, the Netherlands and Spain jumped in as well.  Suddenly, it was escalated to a “World War,” even though that term was not to be used for the first time until 1914 with World War I, also known as the “Great War.”

All of this was going on way back then.  Country against country.  Campaign against campaign.  Each nation was hoping to gain glory, freedom, spoils, more land, or revenge.  They did it all without electricity, telephones, the internet, cars, or trains.  Eventually, America emerged victorious, and the Treaty of Paris was signed in 1783.

Now the soldiers are all long since dead.  Here in Maine we still take care of their graves and still mark them with the emblem of the Sons of the American Revolution and a small American Flag.  It’s all that’s left of lives that were lived in the middle of a dramatic whirlwind, the likes of which people couldn’t even imagine today.  It’s not that we don’t have our own wars.  We have plenty of those, but the American Revolution was a “personalized” war as opposed to today’s wars that are “depersonalized.”  Fighting for freedom is one thing; fighting for possessions and power is another.

In the end, war is never good, but I am grateful for the secret society known as the “Sons of Liberty,” who carried out the Boston Tea Party.  I’m an American and resistance is in my blood, but so is common sense.  I know that the more things change, the more they stay the same.  I will still stop and respect the Revolutionary War graves when I come across them.  I don’t know if there will be a special marker on my own grave when I die, although I highly doubt it.  I do hope in the future that someone will stop at my grave anyway and think back to our time and realize that we are all fighting a battle for our own freedom in one way or another.

August 19, 2015 - Lesson From a Tree

Out in the graveyard, a strange old tree grows.  If you look closely, you can see many faces in its bark.  It’s an enchanted tree, for sure, and it’s very, very old.  It could be at least as old as our country.  Time hasn’t done anything to it but gnarl it a bit.  It seems to have gone through many tragedies that might have killed another tree, but not this one.  It seems appropriate that it’s in a graveyard, with its strange eyes looking out at everything, yet refusing to die.

An old Maine graveyard tree.

 

“Not so!” said the tree.  “I die all the time.”

“What?” I asked.

“I die all the time.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“I think so, too,” he said, “but I did not make the rules.”

“If you die all the time, how is it that you’re still here?”

“Ah, well, you have to die the proper way, you see.”

“And that would be . . . how?” I asked.

“See, you have to be the trunk and not the leaf.”

“The trunk and not the leaf?”

“Yes,” he said, rolling his many eyes on his many faces.  “Then you can die as often as you must.  People are so transient.  I have seen them come and I have seen them go.  They are born and then they die.  But in between, there are many other deaths.  In the following spring after a death, they would be wise to set out new leaves as I do each time I die.  Be the trunk and not the leaf.  Death is a dream.”

“We have not mastered that yet,” I said.

“Not the final death,” he said, “None of us master that.  But the everyday deaths, the losses, the sorrows, the defeats and humiliations.  Those deaths are worse than the final death.  Be the trunk and not the leaf.  Grieve, go onward, grieve again, and go onward yet again.”

“And will I be as beautiful as you if I do?”  I meant it as an insult because what he said made perfect sense and I didn’t like being bettered by a tree.

“Ha!  That would be something!” he said in the typical fashion of one who has weathered storms much fiercer than anything I could muster.

August 18, 2015 - Enough of Summer

Another sweltering day along the shore, and we are all looking longingly toward the fall.  The plants are parched, the air is heavy, and even the boats look tired.  My mother always said, “Too much of a good thing is no good.”  She was right, but I won’t let her know it or I’ll never hear the end of it.  Everyone who knows me knows that I love the winter, but even the summer folk have had enough.

Summer has overstayed its welcome.

Can there be too much sun?  Too much warmth?  I think so.  Too much life.  We need some ending now.  But we all longed for it.  “I’ll never complain again,” I heard over and over in January.  “I’m so done with this winter, and I just can’t wait for the summer.”  Now, the words are all opposite.  “I’m dying of heat.  I’m melting.  I want snow!”  It’s different, but it’s the same.

I guess it’s a good thing that we can’t always get what we want, or even when we do get it, we don’t get it for long.  I know there are people who live in climates where the temperature is pretty steady all year long.  They seem happy enough, but there’s something about the magnificent highs and the dreadful lows of extreme climates that keeps me addicted.  If I ever got what I wanted and held on to it for too long, I’d know I wasn’t in Maine.  Change keeps me going.

So change already.

August 17, 2015 - The Doorway

Right down at the end of the dock is a doorway I have to pass through to go down the ramp and on to the float.  From there it’s a boat, or just jump off on a hot day.  But to get there, I have to go through the doorway.  This doorway has no door, no doorknob, and no hinges.  There’s no door jam, no sound barrier, and no privacy.  But it’s still a doorway.  Sometimes it’s open and sometimes it’s closed, and either way it looks the same.

The doorway at the end of the dock.

Have you ever had a doorway like that?  Did you ever come across a door you felt certain you could enter, only to find out that it was somehow locked?  Like a social doorway where you believe you can enter a certain part of society, only to be turned away without a word being said.  It’s all “understood” that you just don’t belong, and it doesn’t matter if your feelings are hurt.  Or like an educational doorway that slams shut if you’re not from the “right” institution.  Or like a career development doorway that is only open to those who sell out.  Ever found one of those doors?

Then there are the doors you are certain are locked tightly, and so you never bother trying to go through them.  Your prior tears, past embarrassments, mountains of humiliation, former failures, etc., all whisper in your ear that you can’t get through that doorway.  No, not that one.  Are you crazy?  Don’t even try it.  Because . . . if you do, those voices are afraid you’ll find out that you actually can get through it with proper preparation because it’s wide open.

The doorway at the end of the dock passes me from the world of Earth to the world of Water.  It has very little to do with whether or not I want to go swimming or boating and everything to do with where my thoughts and soul are focused--firmly on the Earth or floating along in the ethereal current of Water.  I spend my days in different realms depending on what is needed for my continued evolution.  Too much of one or the other would make me unbalanced.  Sometimes I must keep my feet firmly rooted on the Earth and take care of worldly things, commitments, bills, work, etc.  Other times, I must sail away and discover what secrets lay underneath the outer mask of mankind.

And I often find that I don’t need the doorway at all anymore, but it’s good to know that it’s there as a reminder.

August 16, 2015 - Formless Water

There’s no talking allowed down at the waterfall.  You could try if you want, but no one will hear you.  The Water demands your utmost attention, and any rivals are drowned out or simply drowned, whichever is most expedient.  The story is a tale that the Water never grows tired of telling, and when she tells it, she says it very loudly.

A long time ago when the Master of Final Forms was giving each creature and element its ultimate expression, Water had a tiny voice.  She was always being crowded out by the other forms.  Gold insisted on a form of radiant beauty, and wherever she walked, she was hypnotically adored.  Wood insisted on hardness with a secret energy hidden inside that could only be unlocked by one who had learned the secrets of fire.  Earth insisted on a malleable nature but with the ability to be a firm foundation for all.  Fire insisted on an ethereal form that could only manifest by consuming the energy of others.  Even air had a form.  Although it could not be seen, it had a powerful push when desired and was a vital part of every living thing.

Water on another of her rages.

And so it went.  All things and creatures clamored to get their final form:  birds and beasts, insects and fish, man and the physical world around him.  The Master of Final Forms had asked them all to stand in line, but they were too rowdy to do so, and so the loudest and pushiest of them got taken care of first.  Down the line it went until there was nothing left except the Water.  With a timid voice Water asked for a beautiful form, but the Master of Final Forms did not hear her.  He was exhausted and so he left, taking his work table with him and closing the Akashic room.

As soon as he left, Water tumbled down to the Earth because she had nowhere else to go.  She fell without a form and landed in a huge basin that the Earth had created.  This gave her form, but she was sad because she knew it was the form of the Earth and she was only borrowing it.  The Earth told her that it was okay to borrow it and Water gave her thanks, but she was still sad.  When she finished being sad, she became angry, and this suited her much better.

She raged through any form she could find, screaming as she went, telling everyone of what had befallen her.  So loud was Water, that when she was in one of her rages, nothing else could be heard.  Her waves crashed everywhere, the sound deafening and promising of no mercy.  All the other forms saw Water’s rage.  At first they disdained her, but when she sent a rogue wave in to destroy the naysayers, they developed a quick fear and grudging respect for her.

But no matter how much she cried, no one could give Water a final form.  By the time the Master of Final Forms realized what had happened, Water had already gone on a rampage destroying many of his forms.  Because of this, he left Water without a form, and this is why Water still must get its form from other vessels and must cooperate to some extent in order to do so.  But don’t ever take her for granted, and don’t ever try to speak above her or she will drown you out quickly.  Respect with a bit of distance is advised when she surges through yet another of her endless rages.

August 15, 2015 - The Second Principle - Courage

If Truth is the First Principle, then Courage must be the second.  We cannot have Courage until we first have Truth because, without Truth, there is nothing worth fighting for.  But having first attained Truth and the Rock, then we have a reason to be courageous, then we have something of immeasurable worth.  Once we know what is right, we become unflinching and lionhearted.

To be courageous is to be brave.  Courage is the ability to stand tall in the face of danger and pain.  Courage is boldness and daring.  Courage is feeling the fear but doing what is right anyway.  It is holding our head high when all those around us abandon us.  It is staying true to our beliefs when the world turns upsidedown on its head and tries to tell us that up is down and down is up.  Courage allows us to hold steady to our faith in the Truth, which is our faith in ourselves.

The ability to stand tall in the face of danger and pain.

Courage is discipline.  As the brother of Truth, Courage does not shrink in its unwavering knowledge of the foundation of life.  Even when the world seems to be falling apart, the person who has Courage disciplines himself to be undaunted in his response.  Even when everyone else goes in another direction, the person who has Courage holds fast to his course.  When smoke and mirrors and beguiling fruits place a barrier in front of his eyes so that he is blind, the person with Courage holds the Sword of Valor steady and refuses to leave the Path.

If you have unlocked the Second Principle, you have unlocked the knowledge of yourself and, thereby, the secrets of the natural world.  This knowledge emboldens you to dare to silently stand your ground and to give not one hair’s width of your integrity to the enemy.

August 14, 2015 - The Tide

Everything washes up on the beach, sooner or later.  Sometimes it’s old lobster traps and seaweed.  Sometimes it’s worn out rope and old buoys.  Other times it’s pretty shells of sea creatures long since dead.  Sometimes silvery driftwood sails in from nowhere, looking every bit like the ghost that it is.  The tide pulls them out, and the tide brings them in.  The ocean deposits its treasures at preordained times, and just as quickly, it steals them back.

None of it is ours to keep.  Even the stuff we keep isn’t ours to keep.  Eventually it finds its way back to wherever it came from, and no one knows where that is because the tide won’t say and the ocean is silent.  I may have left some tears out there once.  I can’t recall now because when the tide came in it took everything.  When it left, there was only saltwater washing up on the beach. 

Another temporary gift from the tide.

August 13, 2015 - Patridge Cemetery

It seems only fair to me that the inhabitants of this small cemetery from the 1800s overlook a fine and lush green field.  All around them, sheep graze as they have always done in these fields.  The grounds are well cared for as are all Maine cemeteries, even though this one stopped accepting applicants a long time ago.  The denizens of this cemetery lived and worked very hard a long time ago, and they have a right to now rest in the place they loved.

One of the things I like about the old Maine cemeteries is that they are usually set down right in the midst of life.  There’s no sectioned off part of town where the cemetery is placed away from its members’ descendants.  There are no walls or bars surrounding them.  There are no “keep out” signs, no office of inquiry, and no permanent groundskeeper or employee.  They are set down as easily and purposely as a cornfield might be set down, and because of that, there is no air of fear or spookiness about them.  Well, at least not in the daytime.

Partridge Cemetery, Woolwich, Maine.

Because Maine still allows people to be buried on their own property, it is not unusual to drive along the road and find a grave or a small set of graves.  In fact, it’s quite common.  Like the old cemeteries, these graves are not pushed off to a place where no one wants to go.  They are set out in the midst of life so that those who died might be among the living and in the place they loved.

Some people might find that morbid, but I don’t.  Often, visitors to Maine will be shocked to see roadside graves or graves on the side of a pasture near a house.  They have been conditioned to think that death must be avoided at all costs and that the living must never mention it unless absolutely necessary, and even then it must be done in hushed tones.  But this is not how everyone feels.  I think that might be more of a city idea.  The fact is that death is a part of life and the two are inseparable, so why bother to hide one?  There can be no death without life and no life without death.  That’s part of the agreement we made when we came here.

So I’m glad the old cemeteries overlook the sheep and the cornfields and the cows and all those things that bring life to the country folk around them.  It only seems fair that we honor the dead for having paved the way for us and taken care of the Earth that we might now live on it and enjoy it.  Soon we, too, will be silent, stationary members staring out at the rich and lush fields before us, glad that our souls have been filled with the life around us.

August 12, 2015 - The First Principle - Truth

The First Principle must be Truth.  Yes, above all, Truth must be first and must reign supreme above everything.  Truth is the First Principle we come to, and we can come to no other principle unless and until we come to Truth.  This is the beginning of awakening.  This is where we make a stand.

Truth is constant and immutable.  It cannot be changed to suit tastes or styles.  It cannot be twisted, for when it is, it always springs back to the light of day.  Truth is the foundation of life.  It is what we know is right in our hearts.  It comes in many different forms to different people, but it is always the same Truth.  As Rumi said, “The lamps are different, but the light is the same,” and so it is with Truth.

The Rock.

Truth is unadulterated.  It can be painful, but it is never cruel.  It is direct and definite and piercing.  Truth is the ultimate honesty with oneself.  Truth is the innate knowledge of what is good and wholesome.  Truth does not compromise or make deals.  It does not negotiate, and it does not take hostages.  All who come to Truth come of their own free will.  Truth is unbending and unforgiving because Truth is exactness.

Truth is made known through the ears.  If you have unlocked the First Principle, when that which you hear rings with Truth, you will know it instantly, and when it does not, you will also know that instantly.  Truth only allows honest words to enter your heart.  All other words are held off at its steely gates.  This does not mean that truth is ignorant, rash, proud, or vain.  It does not discount the words of others, but they will not pass and become part of you if they are not true.

When you have Truth, real Truth, of the world around you, of the inner workings of life, of what is good and pure, then you have the Rock.  When you have the Rock of Truth, it does not matter how many storms may rage against you.  It does not matter what words may be flung at you.  It does not matter what temptations of dishonesty may be laid at your feet.  The Rock stands firm, and none may pass without permission from Truth.  A thousand armies may come against you, but if you have the Truth, you have the Rock, and all opposing armies must retreat.

Only the pure in heart, with the unwavering steadiness of Truth and the Rock, may read from the grimoire of the Great Alchemist.

August 11, 2015 - A Change in the Air

A torrential downpour over the Androscoggin River makes the other side look as though it’s shrouded in mist.  If I hadn’t seen the green foreground, I’d say we were further along in the season than August, but perhaps this is a foreshadowing of what is inevitably to come.  I am already beginning to see tiny signs of exhaustion in the greenery around me.  First it was the delicate and shy appearance in the spring.  Then it was the explosive growth of early summer.  Then it was the deepening maturity and lushness of midsummer.  Now it’s a slight shrinking.

Most people wouldn’t notice it, but every morning I stand in exactly the same spot and peer out my window in exactly the same direction.  I do this every morning without fail when I greet the new day.  About a week ago, I began to notice the shrinking.  The treetops I looked out upon, so lush and swollen with life and beauty, suddenly seemed ever so slightly smaller.  There was a bit of a sigh, a slight hanging of the head.  Again, this would not be noticeable to most people, but I saw it.  I wondered if I was wrong, but I wonder that every year, yet every year the inevitable occurs.

And this year will be no different.  For now, we have time and the party still goes on.  The rain will wash the fields and make them fresh again.  The trees will plump up with moisture.  The river will swell with the rainwater that it greedily confiscates.  Everything will be as it was before.  Except it won’t be.

The Androscoggin River in the mists.

August 10, 2015 - Amanita!

[This is a fairy tale, and in no way does the author imply or suggest that you ever nibble on an Amanita as they can be poisonous.  Leave them for the fairies.]

There once was a small group of fairies that were completely orange.  They would often gaze in a mirror at themselves because they adored the color orange and believed that they were the most beautiful of all fairies.  They never wasted a chance to tell all the other fairies of the forest just how beautiful they were.  They never wasted a chance to try to make the other fairies jealous.  After all, they reasoned, they were orange, and what fairy would not want to be orange?

The trouble is there were a lot more fairies in the forest who were not orange, and what’s more, they had no desire to be orange.  They were all getting very tired of hearing about how ugly they were and how beautiful the orange fairies were.  Of course, this was all told to them by the orange fairies, so you might imagine there was a bit of bias in the telling.  In any event, they had all decided that they’d had enough of the bragging from the orange fairies.

Eventually, an argument between the groups of fairies broke out with the orange fairies screaming horrible insults at the other fairies, and the other fairies hurtling acorns back at the orange fairies.  It was a terrible ruckus, and through it all the orange fairies kept chanting over and over about how beautiful they were and how ugly all the other fairies in the land were.  On and on it went until every creature of the forest had to block its ears just to have any peace.

Amanita muscaria (fly agaric).

Now it happened that a peapod pixie was nearby, trying to take a nap when the fight broke out.  He tried to block his ears, but as you know, peapod pixies have very sensitive ears and nothing he did would help at all.  At last he crept out from under his leaf, and while all the fairies were screaming and yelling at one another, he tossed a beautiful gold goblet right into the middle of the area with the most fighting.  At once, all of the fairies were silent as they stared at the stunning gold goblet.  Then in a very loud and booming voice he said, “Only the kindest may drink from this goblet!”  Of course no one knew where the voice came from because peapod pixies are so tiny that no one pays them any mind.

All eyes were on the gold goblet.  Each group wanted the goblet for themselves, but no group wanted to engage in serious warfare to get it because warfare between fairies can last several centuries at least and sometimes an eon.  Finally, an old and plain fairy came forward from the group of regular woodland fairies and he said, “Let us all go back to our homes and decide upon the best gift for one another.  In three days’ time, whichever side gives the gift that is kindest and truly from the heart gets to keep the goblet.”

The fairies all agreed upon this, and the woodland forest fairies all left together talking about what might be the best gift.  Some said a fairy harp that played heavenly music on its own.  Others said a fairy cow that never stopped giving sweet milk.  Still others talked about forging a beautiful sword with an enchanted hilt that could protect its owner from any assault that man might make.  And off they all went in deep conversation.

The peapod pixie smiled to himself and was about to go back to his leaf for his nap when he overheard the orange fairies talking.  “Let us make a beautiful bowl and fill it to the brim with the sweetest-tasting wine they have ever had, but let this wine be laced with a potion that will turn them all into toads!”  All of the orange fairies laughed at this and delighted in the chance to rid themselves once and for all of the other woodland fairies.

Now, the peapod pixie was quite angry at this, and that takes some doing as anyone who knows peapod pixies can tell you.  All he wanted was his nap, and now the orange fairies were planning the demise of all the others.  This would never do.  He had hoped to begin an era of kindness and giving among the fairies, not treachery, and so he decided on what he would do in three days’ time.  Then he settled down under his leaf for a long nap.

Sure enough in three days’ time, all of the fairies met at the spot where the beautiful gold goblet still stood.  The regular woodland fairies presented their gift first.  It was a pretty little cow that they had enchanted to give the sweetest milk whenever desired.  As you know, fairies love milk and this why we leave saucers of it outside for them at certain times of the year.  The orange fairies were skeptical, but the woodland fairies insisted they try the milk.  True to their word, it was the sweetest and best milk the orange fairies had ever tasted.  They were beside themselves with greed and lustily drank milk for a very long time.

At last it was time for the orange fairies to give their gift, and they brought forward the beautiful bowl filled with sweet wine.  “One taste of this intoxicating wine, and you will never be the same!” they said.  Of course, this was true but not in the way the woodland fairies thought.  They all came forward to sample the wine, and as they did so, the peapod pixie created a brilliant flash of lightning and yelled the magic word, “Amanita!”  While all the fairies gazed at the lightning, he quickly switched the poisoned wine in the bowl with the delicious wine he had placed in the gold goblet.

So the woodland fairies came forward and all drank the wine from the beautiful bowl.  They could not stop exclaiming at how wonderful and amazing this wine truly was!  Over and over they sang the praises of the orange fairies and their skill at wine-making.  All along, the orange fairies giggled to themselves at how gullible the woodland fairies were and how they couldn’t wait to see them all turned into toads.

Finally, the old and plain fairy, who had suggested they all make the best gift they could, came forward.  “Truly, your gift is the best,” he said, “and we are very grateful.  Surely, this gold goblet belongs to you.”  All of the woodland fairies cheered and agreed.  All of the orange fairies smiled and laughed as they approached the gold goblet.

Each orange fairy drank his fill of the sweet and voluptuous wine in the goblet.  They drank and drank and drank until they could drink no more.  While the orange fairies were drinking their victory wine from the gold goblet, the woodland fairies were drinking their gifted wine from the beautiful bowl.  Things got loud and cheerful as they often do when fairies are drinking wine, so none of the woodland fairies noticed for quite some time that a change had occurred.  At last they decided to take a break.

Imagine their surprise when they turned around and saw the forest floor peppered with strange orange mushrooms with warty white spots on top!  No one could deny that these mushrooms were beautiful to look at, yes, enchanting, in fact.  They were fat and fleshy and looked delectable.  None of them had seen mushrooms like this before, so while they all wanted to eat them, they were a bit cautious.  At last one of them decided to try a mushroom.

He took a bite.  It had a strange flavor to it, not particularly pleasant, but he ate the rest of it anyway.  Within a few minutes, however, he felt very nauseous.  In fact, he felt extremely nauseous, and it was a terrible feeling, but eventually that passed.  Then he felt very odd.  It was as if he heard a voice inside of his own head, and he could talk to this voice and it would answer back.  So he asked it all kinds of difficult questions and received all kinds of answers.  Eventually, that faded too.  Then he felt a bit odd and saw colors in a strange way and heard sounds that he had never heard before.  He felt very disoriented for a while.  Finally, it all passed, and when it finished he described it to all the other fairies.

They listened very well and realized that these were truly magic mushrooms they had found.  They decided to be very careful and cautious with these mushrooms, using them sparingly in ritualistic ways.  They gathered them and dried them and put them away in secret spots.

Oddly enough, they never saw the orange fairies again.  I can honestly say that no one was so very upset about that in any event.  Each year, however, they noticed that the strange orange mushrooms would appear for a few months all over the forest floor.  They decided to call them “Amanitas” after the strange word they had heard with the flash of lightning at the gathering.  They decided it was a good word.

And that is why to this very day, you will see Amanitas all over the forest floor at this time of year.  You will also notice that many of the mushrooms will have a nibble taken out of them here and there.  Those are fairy nibbles, and not far from nibbled Amanitas, you can usually find a peapod pixie fast asleep under a leaf.  If you nibble on an Amanita, don’t be surprised if the peapod pixie jumps up on your shoulder for a chat.

[This is a fairy tale, and in no way does the author imply or suggest that you ever nibble on an Amanita as they can be poisonous.  Leave them for the fairies.]