December 31, 2015 - The Year's End

Another year comes to an end and a new one begins tomorrow.  For all practical purposes, today is no different than yesterday and will be no different than tomorrow.  The days blend into one another, as they always do.  Changes occur now and then--usually gradually while no one notices.  Sometimes they occur dramatically, and everyone stops and listens and thinks.  But today is not one of those days.

And yet it is.  Not because New Year’s resolutions will be made.  People will resolve to stop smoking or start going to the gym.  They’ll resolve to eat better and lose weight.  They’ll resolve to be more focused or more loving or more adventurous . . . and the list goes on.  Every year the resolutions are made.  Occasionally, the promises are kept.  Often they are not.  We’ve come to expect that they’re just words.  We’ve even come to just snicker at them and roll our eyes.

In Pandora's Jar . . .

But there is something.  Today I saw something.  I went looking for it.  I didn’t know what I was looking for, but I went and looked just the same.  And then I found it, so I took a photo of it.  It’s hope.  Can you see it?  Can you see the rays of hope?  I almost missed them.  It’s easy to miss them because they’re so fleeting.  But they’re there.

In the end when the darkness is all around us, when our friends are gone and our families have died, when money is just paper and it means nothing, Pandora left us this one thing in her jar.  It’s the only thing left, the only thing we’ve ever really been able to call our own.  So we pick it up, and like Janus of old, we look back upon our difficult lessons and then forward upon the never ending road.  And we set out upon the journey again.

December 30, 2015 - The Sun's Captivity

Hundreds of hay bales sit in the fields.  These round bales are not like the square or rectangular bales that are usually stored in a barn.  These bales are huge.  They may not look it from the photo, but they are quite large, much bigger than any square bale you’ve ever seen.  It is inevitable that the weather will destroy some of the hay, but usually just the outside part of the bale if it’s tightly packed.  The inside will be fine.  But still, there will be some loss.

Potential.

It’s hard to think of the vast fields of green that produced these frozen bales.  There is a tremendous amount of plant material in each bale.  I wonder if the grass could talk what it would say.  Surely, it never dreamed of such conditions.  When driving down a pleasant country road in summer where the insects are buzzing and the sun is shining and everything is lush and green, you never think of the frozen bales in the field.  How is it possible?  When everything is so green and so full of life, how is it possible that such devastation could occur?

But deep within the bales, a great deal of nutrition is stored.  The sun has been captured by the plant life and harvested at his peak, and before the sun had a chance to escape, he was rolled tightly within his prison of hay.  Now he waits patiently, knowing he will be freed sooner or later, but grateful for the round design that keeps him warm inside.  The animals in the field cannot scrounge this kind of nutrition in this kind of weather no matter how hard they try.  They are grateful for the sun’s captivity.

It’s all latent, though.  Just potential.  For all practical purposes and appearances, everything is dead.  We have a long way to go from potentiality to actuality.  That part we can only dream of.  It is the sun that creates that kind of magic, not us, but we must know how to open the cage to make use of it.

December 29, 2015 - And Now The Snow

And now the world has its white blanket, and everything is right again.  The decay of the last season is now hidden, and we can pretend that it never happened.  We can forget how fleeting life is and just embrace the solace of the white snow.  That is not such a terrible thing, after all.  Sometimes too much knowledge of the inner workings of things can take its toll on the spirit.

The snow hides a million flaws . . .

With the falling of the snow comes the falling of the silence.  It’s strange how it happens, but it always does and I’m convinced that the snow brings the silence.  It’s as if an announcement has been made, and all the earthly creatures must abide by this secret proclamation.  Even the crows, such noisy and shrill birds, are subdued.

Now we go to bed not knowing what to expect in the morning.  The weatherman can tell us a little here and there, but he’s not always right.  In fact, he’s frequently wrong.  So now we are unsure how to plan our days, and we must always add in the possibility of a great deal more work with snow and ice removal.  The wind blows severely and the house cracks and a strange groaning sound can be heard in the chimney.  This adds to our secret fear when we climb into our beds, but we don’t tell anyone.

When the sun goes down, the silence is broken, and the drumbeats of the Lord of Winter pick up their pace.  He is not done with us yet.  In fact, he has not even started.  The Sun King may have been reborn, but his day to rule is far in the future.  Perhaps it was just a dream and he really died, after all.  The snow blots out my memory.

December 28, 2015 - Winter

The land is taking on a strange hue now.  Usually it’s covered with snow, so we don’t get to see this.  Right now, it’s stark and bare with small patches of ice.  The green left a while ago.  It was replaced with brown, as it always is.  But now the brown is gone, and it has been replaced with grey.  It’s just a vast sea of grey.  I almost feel embarrassed to look at it, as if I’m somehow a peeping Tom looking at something I’m not supposed to see.  No one gets to see this transition.

A sea of grey.

But here it is, and maybe it’s a good thing.  The underbelly of winter is rarely ever noticed.  Now we get to see the nuts and bolts of winter.  Now we get to see true winter, not the “clothed in angelic white snow” part but the raw and uncensored part.  And make no mistake about it:  it’s winter.  The land seems to know something that most people do not.  All around me, I hear the cries about the lack of snow.  “Where is the snow??  You call this a winter??”  The land seems unfazed, however, and is proceeding directly on schedule.

I almost hear laughter in the background, a hidden snickering in the woods.  It says, “You ain’t seen nothing yet!”  And I believe it.  I have been here long enough to know the tip of the iceberg when it shows itself.  Something is coming.

December 27, 2015 - Beach Maker

If you look to the right of the photo, you can see my footprints.  I thought I’d walk a bit to meet my maker, but I didn’t find anything or anyone.  I’ve been told that the stark and lonely and beautiful parts of nature contain the maker, but I saw nothing.  There was just this beach.  And the sunshine.  And the clouds.  I went as far as I could on the sandbar and then came back before the tide came in.  I never saw a soul.  The tide came in anyway.

Searching . . .

But I wasn’t alone.  The seagulls were still busy all around me, doing the things that seagulls do.  Diving, scrounging, but mainly making a lot of noise.  Still, when they glide in the air, they seem like perfect and weightless wisps of life, effortless.  I saw a horse off in the distance, and I’m assuming his owner was somewhere nearby, although I never saw anyone.  An occasional seal bobbed his head up just for a second.  You have to be quick and steady to catch the seals because they don’t stay up long.  They go under just as quickly as they came up, back to a hidden world I can’t see.

The receding waves brought in dozens and dozens of sand dollars, and I collected quite a few.  Each one is unique.  They are so outstandingly beautiful.  And, of course, there were also countless beautiful shells.  Some were opalescent and shiny, shimmering in the cold sunshine.  Some had the secret spirals carved upon them, as I’ve mentioned in previous journal entries--the mysterious golden ratio.  And the sand glimmered in the sun, almost hurting my eyes, reminding me of diamonds when they hit the light in just that certain way.

The air was so fresh, but it always is at the beach.  It had that calming quality to it, the one where your thoughts just sort of work themselves out and then go away completely.  There was the sound of the waves starting to come back.  They were in the background, behind the fresh scent.  It was a continuous and perfect rhythm, and each wave grew the slightest bit louder than the one before it.  In another few hours they’ll reach an apex and then fade again, perfectly, as always.

The afternoon slowly ticked by.  I stopped thinking as much after having some of that fresh and vibrant air.  My thoughts seemed stale in comparison anyhow.  It was enough just to walk and be.  Eventually, I forgot why I came to the beach altogether, although I was glad I’d come.  I found my way back to my car and went back home.  I looked in the rearview mirror as I left.  It reminded me to return so that I could search for something I left there, but I couldn’t remember what it was.  I’ll go back again soon, though, and look for it just the same.

December 26, 2015 - A Good Day

I stayed out in the woods for several hours today.  It gives me a chance to think when I’m out there.  Eventually, I needed a fire because even though there’s no snow right now, the temperature was still in the 30s.  After a while, that can feel a bit cold.

The sun warmed the stone.  It was a nice seat.

I brought a thermos of coffee with me, and I had a small pan in my pack.  I knew once I opened the thermos and poured, the contents would begin to cool and I’d need a pot to heat the rest up.  So that’s what I did.  I suspended my little pot above the fire and poured my coffee into it while I drank a cup.  There’s something wonderful about a hot, hot liquid on a cold day.  The steam was rising up all around me as I drank, and honestly it was like nectar of the gods.  Imagine how much you love your favorite drink, and then multiply it a hundredfold when you get it under adverse conditions.

I also brought a couple of sausages with me.  It was cold enough that I wasn’t worried about refrigeration.  I whittled a stick down to a good point and pierced them and held them over the open fire.  They tasted better than usual, too.  When I finished them, I poured the rest of the steaming hot coffee into my cup.  It was perfect.

Many people headed off to the malls today to exchange gifts or spend their Christmas money.  They probably sat in little shops and drank coffee and ate lunch, too, just like I did.  They probably didn’t return home smelling like smoke, and I’ll bet their hands were clean as well.  Mine weren’t.  I still think I got the better deal, though.

I sat by the fire for a while and whittled some sticks.  I found many large pieces of fallen wood, and I stood them up against trees and rocks so that they’d dry out for the next time I visited this spot.  It’s hard to get a good fire going when things are wet as they were today.  It’s a good thing I have a lot of practice. 

All in all, I’d say it was a pretty good day.

December 25, 2015 - The Smallest Amount

Just a little more now, the tiniest bit here and there.  It goes unnoticed, really.  It’s like the touch of a feather.  Did it really happen?  Maybe not, we say to ourselves, and on we go with our busy day.  Friends to see, meals to cook, houses to clean, and children to care for.  There’s just so much to take our attention away from what is really happening.  It’s this business of living that makes us forget about this business of life.

Only for a moment.

But it comes now, slowly.  A few seconds here, a minute there, another minute elsewhere.  The days grow longer in increments so tiny that, without special instruments or a fine-tuned awareness of nature, we simply never notice.  Oh, we notice when the days are long.  And we notice when the days are short.  But we never pay attention to how they got there in the first place.  We miss the secret.

Mountains are moved by an ever-so-slow pattern of receding cold.  Surely a small amount of water cannot carve out an entire canyon?  Surely encroaching ice cannot build a mountain?  Surely a flashing moment of sunlight cannot bring life to an entire planet?  But I say that it can, and it does.

The tiny wing beats of a small butterfly echo throughout the universe forever and ever.

December 24, 2015 - Christmas Eve

Ever wonder why we celebrate so often on the “Eve” of a holiday?  It’s because the ancients began their days at night and not in the morning.  Yes, the beginning of the day started at night and ended in the day.  There are some interesting ideas there if you want to delve further.  Suffice it to say, though, that everything begins in darkness.  The seed sprouts in the darkness of the Earth and only afterward does it climb its way toward the light.

Relish the Eve.  And have a wonderful Christmas Eve.

December 23, 2015 - Be The Sheep

It’s as if they posed for me, and honestly, I think they did.  Such content and happy faces on these little sheep.  Nothing seems to bother them.  They always go with the flow.  We shear them down and make them more comfortable in the warm months, and they happily eat their grass and hay.  They get covered with mud and snow and ice in the winter when their wool is thick and warm, and they happily eat their grass and hay.

Can you see the smiles?

The tendency people have to use the term “sheep” in a derogatory way these days surprises me.  Apparently, because sheep are so complacent, this is a reason to mock them and apply the name to people who are also complacent.  The idea is that if you don’t fight for your rights and strike out courageously, you’re a robot or slave or “sheep.”  If you just “settle” for what you’re handed, you’re a fool.

Well, I am all for defending rights and speaking up and going after what I want, but I think people have the noble sheep all wrong.  It is not that they are complacent or dull or robotic or foolish.  Nothing could be further from the truth.  Sheep are what I would call “Zen.”  They live in the here and now.  They don’t worry about past days of lack.  They don’t long for former days of plenty.  They don’t get frightened over what might happen in the future.  They take each day as it comes, and they savor it.  They know that the truly good things in life are companionship, a good meal, a comfortable home, and peace.

What’s wrong with that?  Believe me, when sheep aren’t happy, they let you know about it.  They are extremely vocal--extremely!  They just want what they want, and they’re not afraid to go and get it.  But they do this within the parameters of their reality.  They do it with what is available to them at the time.  They don’t waste precious days or energy worrying about the grass being greener on the other side of the fence.  They know that the grass is just as green on their own side, and they can appreciate what they have.

You might call this complacency, but I think it’s wisdom.  We would do well to learn from the sheep.  We would do well to appreciate our days, whether warm or cold, to appreciate the sunshine and the snow, to appreciate a comfortable bed to sleep in.  We would do well to remember that even with its difficulties--and there are always difficulties for every creature on the Earth--life is still truly good.

December 21, 2015 - A Solstice Story

It’s called betrayal, and betrayal is the kind of blackness that eats away at the soul.  Any other sorrow can be managed eventually.  Some are worse than others, harder to deal with, harder to come to terms with.  But betrayal is in its own category because betrayal means that someone you loved and depended upon left you for dead.  And you might as well be dead because that’s how it feels.  It’s that horrible knowledge that you are no longer “required” by the other and most likely never were.

This was the all-consuming sorrow in the mind of an angry young girl.  But it wasn’t her sweetheart that she’d lost.  It wasn’t a friend or a family member.  It wasn’t anyone she knew.  None of her acquaintances had betrayed her.  She had betrayed herself, and she didn’t even know it.  That’s what depression does to a person.  It makes you betray yourself.  Slowly but surely, she could feel all happiness and joy ebbing away from her.

It's always darkest before the dawn.

So on the darkest day of the year, she made her way down to the water, and there she wept bitterly.  The sorrow turned into rage, and the rage turned into wild tears and shouting.  And that’s what she did.  Knowing herself to be alone in the mist, she shouted and shouted until she was practically hoarse, but the screaming didn’t seem to help.  She went from bad to worse.

“My soul is as grey as the mist,” she finally cried softly as she fell to the ground, tears streaming from her eyes.

“Nonsense,” came the reply.

The girl whipped her head around, immediately humiliated that her outburst had been heard, only to find a small squirrel near her who was gathering some seeds out of a pinecone.

“What did you say?” she asked incredulously.

“I said, nonsense.”

“What would you know of it?” she sneered.

“Apparently, a great deal more than you, stupid human.”

Well, that certainly caught her off guard.  She decided she might talk with him a bit before the hoped-for rogue wave came in and swallowed her up whole.

“Everything’s gone,” she said quietly.

“Is it?”

“Yes.  Everything I loved is gone.  The warmth, the beauty, the growth.  It’s all gone.  The woods are dark and cold.  The animals hide and some of them die.  There’s no food to be found.  I feel so empty inside.  Everything’s gone.”

“Ahhh, I see,” said the squirrel.  “You mean the season of death.”

“Yes, complete death.”

“Surely you’ve been through this before, though?” he asked.

“Yes, but this is different.”

Now, as you know, squirrels are not inclined to be very patient with humans, but because the girl began weeping loudly again, the squirrel decided to help out.  It wasn’t out of a great deal of affection for her, but rather his ears hurt quite a bit from the bawling and there were still a number of pinecones in the area he intended to visit.

“How is it different?” he asked rather exasperatedly.

“There used to always be some sort of sign,” she said.  “There was always some sort of beauty to find.  But now there’s nothing.  Everything has died or is dying.  There’s no snow to put the world to sleep.  And the sun rarely shows his face.  When he does, he’s too weak to talk to me.  He doesn’t even see me anymore.  This time he is dying for good.”

“Impossible,” he said.

“Well, then where is he??  Why won’t he show himself anymore?  A tiny ray of sunlight here and there is not enough.  A day so short that if I blink I miss it, is just not enough.  A pretty light at the bottom of the horizon does no one any good, and he doesn’t care!!”

“That’s ridiculous,” the squirrel said.

“Is it??  With each shorter day, my heart has grown heavier,” she said.  “As the light has left the world, my sorrow has increased.  My days are dull and dreary, and everyone I talk to seems to have the same dull face on.  It’s enough to drive a person insane!”

And now she really cried.  She cried and cried so much that the squirrel thought she might truly die of a broken heart.  He sighed.  He thought of just scampering away, but as he looked at the horizon, he saw a tiny flicker of light through the clouds.  Just a small flicker.  The girl didn’t see it because she was lying with her face to the ground.  The squirrel sighed again.  Why were people so stupid?

“Listen, girl.  You’ve got it all wrong.  The Light never leaves us.  Never.  Even when we can’t see the Light, even when we can’t find him, the Light never leaves us,” he said.  “The Light is as powerful now as ever it was.”

“Then why am I living in darkness?  Why is the world so grey and cold?  Why can’t I find him?” she asked softly.

“Because you are looking in the wrong places.”  This interested the girl, and she stopped crying.  Could there be a place that she hadn’t checked?

“I looked everywhere,” she said, “everywhere.”

“Apparently not.  Ohhhh….my head,” said the squirrel.  “All I wanted was a few seeds.  Why are humans so stupid??”  The girl just stared at him, and her eyes were so huge and so filled with sadness that even a squirrel would feel pity, and that’s saying something.

The day was drawing quickly to an end.  The light flickered again on the horizon, just for a second, and then the greyness increased.  Somewhere, the sun had set.

“What’s the right place?” the girl asked.

The squirrel said nothing.

“Please.”

“Foolish girl,” the squirrel spat.  “The Light comes and goes as it travels in the outside world, now great, now small, now bright, now dim.  The seasons wax and wane and then wax again.  At the height of growth, the Light is everywhere and is easy to be found.  But then the world gets tired and needs to sleep, and so it asks the Light to not shine so brightly so that it might sleep.  And when that happens, the Light obliges his darling Earth and travels to another place where he is desperately needed.”

“Where?” she asked.  And she asked so sincerely that the squirrel answered in spite of his impatience.

“Why inside of us, of course,” he blurted out.  “Don’t you know that the Light dwells within you?”

“No, I don’t know that at all.”

“It does,” he said.  “That’s where the Light goes--inside of all of us.  That’s where it comes from, and that’s where it goes to.  I told you.  It can’t ever die.  We carry the Light within us.  We consume it when we eat what the Light has grown for us.  We absorb it when we bask in his strong rays.  We hide him deep within us as we wait for the moment of rebirth--rebirth of him and of ourselves as well.”

“How do you know all of this?” she asked.

“Because I pay attention, unlike some creatures.”

“For someone with so much Light within, you can be a little rude.”

“Am I?” he asked.

“Well, a little.  But it was awfully nice of you to talk to me.”

“Yes, it was, wasn’t it?”

“Do you want me to gather some pinecones for you?” she asked.

“Like I need your help!” he snapped.

“No, you don’t need my help.  But I might do it all the same.”

She got up and gathered as many pinecones as she could.  She also found several acorns and a few dried juniper berries, and she brought them all to the squirrel who sat there looking at her rather confusedly.  Then she used a small tap in her pocket and tapped some birch sap for the squirrel, which she brought to him in a curled piece of birch bark.  The whole time the squirrel just watched her, shaking his head.

“What?” she asked.  “Are you surprised I’m helping you?”

“I told you I don’t need your help.”
“So you did.  But I’m helping anyway.”

“Why bother?  I’m quite capable,” he said, “unlike some people.”

“Indeed you are.”

“Then why bother?”

“Because I can,” she said.  “And because I’m grateful.  And because . . . there is Light within me.”  With that, she sat down and smirked at the squirrel.

“Now you’re getting conceited,” he said, smirking back at her.

“Maybe.  But you showed your Light to me, and so I wanted to give some back to you.”

“I did no such thing!!” he yelled, jumping up.  The girl just laughed and laughed at him.

“Too late.  I saw it,” she grinned.

“I don’t have time for this,” the squirrel said with his nose up in the air.  Then he gathered up as many seeds and nuts as he could hold in his mouth and scampered quickly away and up a tree.

“Goodbye . . . and thanks!” she yelled after him.

She wasn’t completely sure, but somewhere up in the trees she thought she heard him say, “Stupid human!”  And this made her laugh a great deal.  Her laughter was a pleasant sound that rang throughout the cold and grey forest.  In spite of the darkness, her laughter rang strong and clear.  Yes, she thought, I am rather stupid.  Isn’t it marvelous?

It was getting quite dark so the girl jumped up and headed for her house.  She didn’t look toward the west for the Sun as she usually did because she knew he wasn’t there.  He wasn’t anywhere to be found in the forest, either.  But she knew where he was.  The Sun had gone home.

December 20, 2015 - Look To The West

The Sun, setting smugly now, must know a secret that we do not know.  Each day he grows weaker and weaker still.  His rays, if seen at all, shine low on the horizon.  Gone are the days of the powerful zenith, the days when the Sun seemed to stand still in the sky above us, imperious.  Gone are the days of carefree frivolity, of peace and plenty, of what seemed like endless growth.  Now he dwells weakly in the western sky.

I was inclined to believe that images such as the photo below were a false bravado designed to throw us off the scent of his imminent demise.  I thought they were a last attempt at the greatness he once knew, a last attempt of his former glory and nothing more.  But after yesterday’s recon mission when I silently stalked the Sun and learned some of his secrets, I am not so sure anymore.  I did not hear the words of the charms he whispered, but I know they had great power in them.

Magic is afoot . . .

The air is pregnant with something that is about to happen.  We humans are not told of it, and most of us wouldn’t listen anyway as we run back and forth in our errands and our jobs.  Most of us are blind to the cycles that rule us like an iron fist.  But the animals of the forest, the animals know.  And they have told me that something is about to happen, not in so many words but in their actions.  Waiting.  All eyes look to the west now.  Watching.

I am fortunate to have my connection with the outdoors, to spend more time there than I do indoors.  I will keep vigil, and when I see the impending event (whatever it might be), I will let you know what has happened.  Perhaps this time we will not forget.

December 19, 2015 - Secret Sun

The shadows are already long by 2 p.m. at this latitude this time of year.  The Sun gets to sneak into places he’s rarely allowed to see.  Usually, only springtime grants him access to the woods.  When the snow has finally melted and before the trees leaf out, the Sun is allowed a brief chance to see the inner workings of the forest.  It doesn’t last long, though, because the days are often rainy and overcast in the spring, and then the leaves cover everything and the Sun’s chances are foiled once again.  In winter, the snow does the same thing the leaves do, and the Sun continues to be barred from the woods.

But not this time.  Now the Sun is given a rare opportunity to enter the woods in ways he could never have imagined before.  Whole sections of the Earth are revealed to him, boulders and ledge, rocky overhangs and small caves.  These are the places the Sun has rarely seen, places where the night creatures live.  Now the truth is revealed.

Long shadows cast by the secret sun.

So you would think that the Sun would boldly explore these areas.  You would think he would rake the countryside over, exploring and examining every crevice, sneaking into tiny caves, learning the hidden layout of the land.  While some of that occurs, it’s not as much as you might expect.  Instead, I caught the Sun red-handed seeking out the tiny trees, those that are perhaps only waist high.

I saw him speaking with them because I do that kind of thing.  I sneak up on the Sun and watch what he does.  I only do this in the cold weather when he is too tired to notice me.  In the summer I hide from him so he can’t find me.  But today I saw him, and I saw what he did.  He found those tiny trees, the ones he never knew about, the ones that were hidden from him because of the canopy of the forest, the ones that might never make it to adulthood.

And what did he do?  He visited each one as if it were the most precious thing in the world.  He stopped by and stood near each little tree, putting his arm around each one, smiling and chatting as if he had all the time in the world.  He made each little tree feel special.  He gave each little tree a veiled gift, the gift of what it might see if it persevered and grew to adulthood.  He whispered secret charms over each tree, teaching each one what it might do with his stored energy.

Then just as quickly as he arrived, the Sun was gone, but not without my having seen it all.  Perhaps I have misjudged him.  Being so fair-skinned, I have always found him to be so harsh.  I have always hidden from him.  I imagine I will continue to do so in the summer months.  I would be a fool to stay too long in the Sun.

But now I know some of his secrets, and he is not what I thought him to be.  This changes everything.

December 18, 2015 - Strange Maine

It was the strangest sound.  Really, it was.  Sort of like a snorting sound coupled with a blowing of air and spraying of water.  It was an aquatic creature sound, for sure.  I have lived near the ocean long enough to know that sound.  I wondered if another seal had gotten stuck somewhere between the rocks and shore, although it didn’t sound like a seal.

It was in an area we call “the pond,” an area where seals do not swim.  The pond is between two small peninsulas, and the ocean water has been damned off to allow only some water in.  The rest is freshwater that flows downward from the craggy land and into the pond.  If there’s one thing we have a lot of here in Maine, it’s water.  The combination produces a brackish kind of water with some salt but not nearly as much as in the ocean.  Consequently, when the weather is very cold, the pond freezes over completely and becomes a mile-long ice skating rink.

The fog brings out the strangest things.

But the weather is not very cold and the enormous pond is not frozen over as it usually is this time of year.  It usually has a good layer of ice on it with another layer of snow.  Usually the wretched coyotes can travel back and forth on it now.  But not this year.  This year is different.

So, as I said, it was the strangest sound.  The fog was tremendously thick, and I peered and peered into it, looking for what had made the sound.  I went closer than I should have, but I was afraid to go any closer than that because I was unsure of my footing.  Sinking in up to your waist is not good this time of year because even though things aren’t frozen, you can still easily get hypothermia.

I took this photo.  This was the best I could do.  I know it isn’t clear.  I blew the photo up, and it looked a bit like a small protrusion from the water with some twigs and seaweed stuck to it.  However, I can tell you that I am very familiar with the area I was in, and there is nothing protruding from the waters of the pond in that area.  Nothing.  I have seen that area daily for many years.  But today there was something there.  I just don’t know what it was.  I heard a splash and blowing again, and that prompted me to take the picture when I did.  Right after I took the photo, whatever had made the noise was gone, and the surface of the water was flat and gray again.

Was it just a trick of the fog moving in and out, even thicker in some spots than others?  Maybe, although I wonder where the sound came from if it was just a trick of the fog.  It is true that the water plays tricks with our hearing as well, and sometimes I can hear a conversation a half mile across the cove on the next island because of the way the waves amplify and seem to bring sound across.  But this was in the pond where there aren’t any waves to speak of.

You can make your own mind up about this, but I have seen enough strange things in Maine to know that something odd was out there.  I have seen strange creatures on the side of the road at night when driving.  I have seen wolves, although we are told by wildlife “experts” there are none here.  Ask any Mainer and they’ll tell you differently, though.  There are cougars here too (also called mountain lions and pumas), but we are also told that we are mistaken.  No matter.  I have seen them.

So I do not know what this was, and I did not get to see it as clearly as I have seen a wolf or a cougar because of the fog.  If it had been a rock or earthy outcrop from the water, it would still be there but it disappeared after I took the photo.  Something was here, and I think it was here because of the strange weather.  Another reason to continue documenting the strange case of Maine.

December 17, 2015 - Limbo

I did not know how empty I was until I saw this field in front of the river.  It should be covered with snow and ice, asleep under a wintry onslaught and unable to show me its appalling condition.  But it is not covered with snow and ice.  It should be hidden, suffering in silence, but it is not hidden.  It should leave to the imagination secret hopes and dreams, but it cannot do that.  There should be a blanket of white concealing what we cannot face, but there is not.

Lost in limbo.

It is not in the season of birth.  It is not in the season of growth.  It is not in the season of reproduction and decline.  It is not even in the season of death.  It is just stuck somewhere in a strange limbo, a limbo that is cold and wet and grey, a limbo that is isolated and forlorn.  Its skeletons are fully exposed, and its hopes and dreams of fleshing out are lost.  They have nowhere to go and hide so that they might plot and plan.  They are naked and struck down.

I know I am affected by the seasons, as are we all, but I did not realize just how much.  Now I am paying attention.  Now I am waiting to be thrust into the overdue season.  And I am waiting and I am waiting.  Yet still, we continue to wait in this exile, in this limbo.

The Lord of Winter, whose drums even now are heard in the dark of the night, has not shown his face.  I know that he will, but for now he relishes the many voices that cry out his name.  “Do they not usually curse me?” he smiles to himself.  “Do they not usually fear me?  Or at least loathe me?  Are they, then, secret lovers of the Bringer of Destruction after all?  Will they beg for death?” he smiles to himself.  “All in good time.”

I did not know how empty I was until I saw this field in front of the river.

December 16, 2015 - When I Retire

When I retire, I want you to put me out to pasture where I can relax in my favorite environment, in a place where I feel most at home.  Set me out in a field where the sweet grass grows long, and the air is scented with its intoxicating incense.  Put me in a forgotten place where no one goes anymore, in a field that is no longer important.  Put me in a spot where the old wooden fences are falling down, and whatever it is they were keeping in or out has long since been forgotten.

Let me relax in the sun.

When I retire, continue on with things in new and different ways, but don’t tell me about them.  I don’t need to know them because my old ways still work well, and the quiet cadence of days gone by gives me solace.  Leave me in my comfortable old field where I know every blade of grass personally.  Face me toward the sunrise so I can greet each new day with a smile, and then let the last rays of the setting sun warm my back.  I won’t have to see him to know he’s there.  We are old friends, me and the sun, and I trust him.

When I retire, let me sleep at last as I please, since I was so busy in my youth.  Keep my meadow quiet, letting in only the forest creatures, the birds, and the insects.  Bring us afternoon tea so the animals and I can catch up on all we missed while I was busy working.  Let the old trees grow older and throw their shadows where they will.  It doesn’t matter anymore how things grow, only that they do grow.  And that is enough for me.  It is my meadow, after all, and in the end, I will leave it as wild as I found it.

December 15, 2015 - In The Fog

IN THE FOG

appearing

and then not

looming in and out

thickly

sometimes seen

or not

with clanging bells

and foghorns

and ocean sounds

more trustworthy

as sight fails

in the night that isn’t

in the day unfound

between the senses

almost known

Sometimes seen.

December 14, 2015 - Travelers

If upon your travels you come to a difficult place on the path, a place with hidden swampy areas that are difficult to pass or a place with treacherous rocky outcrops and thorny brambles, please do put down a wooden board when walking.  Use the wooden boards already put there by others to help make your traveling easier, and then add a helpful board of your own as you are going along.

Helpful additions to the path.

You could just travel light without any helpful boards to put down at all.  You could rely on the kindness and foresight and decency of others who have already placed boards down before your arrival.  You could sail through on the generosity and kindness of previous travelers, and in fact, many people do just that.  Some don’t even realize that the boards were placed there specifically to help them, if they see the boards at all, that is.  They can be forgiven.  Others see the boards and know exactly what they are for and that previous travelers offered them to be helpful, and still they do not place a helpful board of their own down for others.  “It’s not my problem,” they tell themselves.  “I didn’t ask for any help, and it’s not my fault that it was offered.”

It’s the latter type of traveler that tries the souls of others, and I’m afraid the woods are thick with them.  His insensitive selfishness and narcissism add to the treacherousness of the path.  The wooden boards can only last so long until the swampy region consumes them, and so fresh boards are always needed.  Because there are not as many travelers who place boards as there are who take advantage of them, the path can often be washed out and difficult to navigate.

But rather than focus on the takers, remember that there are always givers.  There are always helpers on the path.  These are the people who often encounter neglect from previous selfish users of the path, and they don’t want to subject others to what they have had to endure themselves.  They decide that if they can help, they will help.  So they kindly place a board and sometimes a little sign with an arrow that points the way.  “This way, my friend.  Let me help you.”

And so, if upon your travels you come to a difficult place on the path, a place with hidden swampy areas that are difficult to pass or a place with treacherous rocky outcrops and thorny brambles, please do put down a wooden board when navigating the path.  Remember those who offered help to you even though you didn’t know them.  Remember, too, those who offered no help at all.  Then decide what kind of traveler you want to be.

December 13, 2015 - A Perfect Pinecone

A prickly pitch pinecone has fallen and landed pointing straight up.  It has weathered to a whitish color where exposed to the elements and has long since opened up to release its seeds.  It has fulfilled its purpose, and there is no further reason for it to be here.

The perfect spiral, again.

Except that there is.  The ugly pitch pine tree (and if you have ever seen one, you know exactly what I mean) has produced thousands of pinecones with razor-sharp thorns jutting out of them.  I do not advise that you ever pick one up without a glove.  This gnarled, twisted, and crooked tree with inch-thick slabs of scaly bark often hanging from it--this extremely homely tree with needles that twist upward and lower limbs that are always dead--never lets go and never gives up.

And somehow--somehow!--this prickly pinecone sits in the forest with the most perfect distribution of woody petals traveling around in a harmonious spiral, which only the Great Alchemist could have created.  It’s madness.  It’s sheer madness that a tree of such humble qualities and poor birthright could produce a flower (for that’s what a pinecone is) so stunning and so utterly unnoticed.  It’s madness to know that I walk among royalty in the woods every day and I am often too blind to see it.

I don’t dare to pick it up because I know it will draw blood.  There is no way to gather a pitch pinecone.  So I leave it where I see it, knowing that no one else will ever see it.  I am grateful to have been shown this secret beauty today, grateful to be shown, once again, the magical spiral of life.  In a world filled with tinsel and gaudy displays and plastic money, the ugly pitch pine tree and its lethal pinecone are treasures beyond all measure.  I am wealthy beyond my wildest dreams.

December 12, 2015 - Nothing to Fear

It has certainly been a mild December so far.  Jaunts through the woods are still easy to do, if a bit wet.  The scent in the air is unbelievable, even for someone who lives in Maine and is very used to it.  The freshness of the pine combined with the decaying oak leaves is truly intoxicating.  There is nothing to fear.
 

I came across this tree and bent down low to the base of it to look at all the moss and lichen growing on it.  The tree didn’t know which way to grow, and so it sent out two main branches, which have been best friends now for many, many years.  This photo doesn’t do their friendship the justice it deserves.  There is nothing to fear.

Capturing the light.

I couldn’t help but notice as I snapped the photo that the sun was captured just outlining where they were holding hands, and I thought to myself how the light never seems to miss even the humblest of friendships if those friendships be true.  Two hearts will always shine the light.  There is nothing to fear.

It seems there’s so much we’re told to worry about these days.  Actually, we have a history of being told to worry.  Just recently in the last 50 years or so, we’ve been told to worry about communists, nuclear attack, another ice age (yes, they tried to scare us with that in the ‘70s), an energy crisis, the swine flu, the bird flu, Ebola, anthrax, global warming, fat in our food, phosphates in our water, getting vaccines, not getting vaccines, and the list goes on.  The world seems to run on fear and worry.

Isn’t it nice, then, that there are some places where the fear and worry never seem to reach?  Oh, I’m not saying that we shouldn’t be prudent and act when necessary, but all of the constant fear and worry is exhausting.  Head into the woods, whether it be a wild and remote area, a state preserve, or just a city park.  You’ll find an absence of the fear mongering.  Somehow the woods have managed to survive all this time without being destroyed by the latest menace in the media.  Come to think of it, so have we.

It’s all perspective.  Find that outline of sunshine around a tree or a rock or perhaps just your hand.  Don’t worry.  The light will find you.  There is nothing to fear.