March 31, 2016 - An Illusion

Can it really be that simple?  Sometimes I wonder if the answer isn’t in front of our eyes every second of the day, but we just don’t see it because then it would mean we’d have to act on it.  And that’s scary.  That’s very scary.  Truth looking us square in face?  No place to run?  Nowhere to hide?  And most especially, no distractions.

Lately I’ve been thinking that, yes, it really is that simple.  I watch the horses munching their hay contentedly in the field.  They don’t complain about the heat or the cold.  They eat their hay for now, and soon they’ll have fresh grass to nibble.  And it will all be good, as it always has been.

"I see it."

I see the same for the other animals, too--the tame farm animals and the wild creatures of the forest.  There is a certain reality they are privy to, from which we shield our eyes.  For a long time, I thought it was because they were animals and we were people.  I thought it was because there was a fundamental difference between us and them.

But it’s not that.  Their truth is our truth.  We could have the same thing if we wanted it.  Except for all the noise, the constant, constant noise.  And it has to be loud and it has to be blaring and it has to be deafening.  It has to be continual, and it comes with glitter and flashing lights and neon colors.  It comes with strange and sickly sweet scents.  It comes with tawdry trappings and useless trinkets and soulless relationships.

And all the noise!  It has to be constant, continual, like a horrific battering ram.  Because if it let up for just a moment here and there, a tired head might lift and exhausted eyes might stare and see the true ruin and devastation surrounding us instead of the sparkling cheap confetti.  An idea might form.  An understanding might take place and it could be shared and other tired heads might lift and see the truth.  And “they” don’t want that.  Anything but that.

One time I struck out on the Appalachian Trail, not to hike the entire thing but just to camp on it for several nights.  It was mid spring.  The cold brooks were running like whitewater torrents, and the black flies were merciless.  There was no one else around.  Like any outdoor living, it was tough and there was a lot of work involved, but it was satisfying and peaceful.

How can I put this?  Eventually things just started to look different.  The colors were more vivid.  My eyes began to pay much more attention to the terrain around me, and I could easily pick out the safest route and see tiny differences in the shape of the paths and soil.  Instead of thinking in a linear pattern, I began to think in a circular pattern.  I stopped separating the brook from the deep forest from the campsite.  It was all just one thing.  I settled into it and felt a great peace.

Then it was time to go “home.”  I’ll never forget how the city looked to me that day, how it smelled, how the people smelled.  All the buildings looked smaller than they did before I had left for my trip.  At first I thought I was imagining things, but each building seemed tiny.  I parked my car on the side of the road and just stared at a building.  Imagine my surprise when it started to wave just a tiny bit back and forth right in my eyes!  It was almost as if it were a hologram and not a real building.  It was almost as if it wasn’t truly there.  It was like a shaky image on an old television screen.  It was almost as if it were just an illusion.

I thought I must be going crazy, but I couldn’t get it out of my mind.  I decided to share my experience with an old trapper.  I was worried he’d think I’d gone off the deep end, but instead he just smiled and finished some of my sentences for me.  He had experienced the same thing more than once.  He just laughed and winked and said, “I see it.”  Getting three words out of him was like getting the Gettysburg Address, so I held on to those words with great reverence.

That was 23 years ago, but I have never forgotten it.  I know things really are that simple.  I know there are those who do not want us to know just how simple it really is.  Because then the game would be up and we would be free.

March 30, 2016 - Little Green Slipper

LITTLE GREEN SLIPPER

Little green slipper

peeping out from under a formal gown

of propriety and containment

sneaking

gliding on to the dance floor

amid a musty old song

the band tired and exhausted now

the finale.

A new secret

of beaux and dance cards

swollen with pulsing promises

dewy kisses

last year’s belles envious

desperately trying to halt

the onslaught of youth

beginning.

A new story

the same as the old story

with familiar characters

haunting

dancing to familiar music

in a pattern set in stone

forged in alchemy

and inescapable.

 

Little green slipper.

 

March 29, 2016 - Living Water

While it’s still snowing up in northern Maine, here on the midcoast water is flowing everywhere in torrents from the ice and snow melting along with a considerable amount of rain.  The Earth is swollen with water right now.  In the summer, you’ll barely see a trickle of water in this spot, like so many “seasonal” water spots in Maine. 

Years ago when I lived up near the Kenduskeag Stream in Bangor, you would swear it was not the same stream in summer as it was in spring.  It was so swollen and gushing with water that an annual canoe race was held in it every year (and still is), and only the most skilled whitewater paddlers dared to attempt the race.  Many ended up stranded on the side of the stream somewhere, often with their canoe damaged.  Then summer came, and the water would get so low that it often was barely more than a few inches deep, with a current so lazy, it was almost nonexistent.  You would just swear it was not the same stream, but it was.

Bold, beautiful, fresh living water.

The photo shows a secret spot I like to go to, and I will confess right now that I did sample some of that nice cold water.  I’m still alive to tell the tale, as I am every year!  The experts tell us that we should never do that, and while I agree in theory, once you have tasted truly fresh water, you want nothing else to drink.  Nothing will satisfy you, not even the most expensive of “designer waters” on the market.  They all taste flat and dead in comparison.  Once you drink “living water,” you will crave it for the rest of your life.

About 20 years or so ago, I used to drink nothing but spring water from a place called Witch Spring.  It was an underground spring with two pipes that led out into the open.  The water just continually poured from it down into a drainage grate that led to the river.  All the townspeople would come and get their water there.  We would bring empty gallon containers and fill up as many as we could.  It usually dried up by August, but come fall the wonderful water would be back.  Everyone loved that water!  It was the best ever.

Then the authorities decided to save us from ourselves.  They damned up the outlet, and for a long time water burst from the most unusual places around where the pipes used to be and flooded everything.  But eventually, they were able to stop it completely.  Now not many people even remember that there was free spring water available there.  I drive by the place now and then.  It looks like a ghost town.  I still remember the old days when the water was free and delicious, and in my mind I still see the people coming and going with their jugs.

But we needed saving, you see, and save us they did.  Our water bills went up considerably, by sheer coincidence, at the same time the spring was damned up.  No amount of protest mattered.  In the end, access to the spring was removed for good.  How I’d like to find a way back in!

Yes, I know, they say drinking water from a natural source can be dangerous, but an underground spring is the safest of all.  It’s just this craving you get for the living water.  Once you’ve had it, you can’t think of anything else when you’re thirsty.  Nothing can satisfy you.  Nothing else will do. 

In life, the best things always involve risks.  Some of us take them and some of us don’t.  I say it’s worth the gamble.

March 28, 2016 - Plain Jane

All eyes in Maine are very hungry for color right now.  Our souls know the difference between manmade colors in fabric and paint and the real deal from Mother Nature.  But it’s early spring, and while the rest of the country might be bursting forth with greenery and colorful flowers, Maine sits in limbo.  Mother Nature cannot be begged or bribed, but at this same time last year, we were still completely buried in snow, so I won’t complain.

Still, my eyes are hungry for color, and I can find it if I look hard enough.  Of course, we have the green of pine trees everywhere, which while boring in the summer, suddenly becomes very endearing in the winter and early spring.  It’s funny how that happens.  Plain Jane becomes a siren under the right conditions.  What we once ignored now captivates us.

Plain Jane.

Just look at this red twig dogwood that surrounds a good portion of the river.  The brilliant red color is astounding--no Plain Jane here.  It almost seems a shame for it to grow any green leaves when it looks so festive completely bare.  Perhaps leaves are highly overrated.  And it’s “real” color, which makes it that much more comforting.  The rule, however, is that no cardinals are allowed to perch in it since the red of the twigs would wash their beautiful red feathers out.  Now, the blue jays are more than welcome amid the red twigs to provide dramatic contrast, but being the narcissists that they are, they never listen to me.

Sometimes I wonder if our eyes are just too bombarded with color all the time.  It’s so easy to miss the pretty colors of nature--even at this time of year--when your eyes are constantly saturated in color.  I would imagine this is unprecedented for most of mankind’s history.  Natural dyes for fabrics from the plant world as well as Mother Nature’s cyclical display was all people had.  Maybe that was enough.

There’s a certain honesty at least in all the bareness.  Nothing can be hidden and there’s no need for pretense.  What you see is what you get.  When the greenery comes, while it is beautiful to be sure, it also demands to be the center of attention, as all children do.  Then all of the beautiful things I look at now--the pines, the red twig dogwood, the holly, etc.--will quietly tiptoe back into the corner to be Plain Jane once again.

But I think Jane is beautiful.

March 27, 2016 - King of the Mountain

Did you ever play “King of the Mountain” when you were a kid?  It was one of my favorite games.  The “King” would go atop his mountain (usually a very tiny hill or hump) and yell, “I am the King of the Mountain!”  And then he would immediately be challenged.  Other kids would come at him (or her) and try to pull him down or push him off.  He in turn would push them away.  He had the advantage because he was on terrain just a bit higher and, therefore, gravity helped him a little.

The King of the Mountain.

Whenever I was Queen, I would guard my territory like crazy!  My whole world became that one little patch of land.  I had to hang on to that hill.  I knew every other kid wanted it, and if you succeeded in bringing down the King, you became the next King or Queen.  It was always fun to try to drag or push the King or Queen off the mountain, but it was a lot more fun to actually be the King or Queen and guard it.  I guess maybe because you knew that you had the one thing everyone else wanted:  The top of the hill.

Now that I’m much older, I often think about the King of the Mountain.  I still think it’s a great game.  It’s funny how kids seem to instinctively know and play out adult dramas.  On the one hand, we could say that the King of the Mountain ought to share his mountain with the rest of the kids, especially those who might be physically limited.  On the other hand, it sure felt good to “have” that Mountain, and if we could defend it with strength and bravery and cunning strategy, why shouldn’t we keep it?

Of course, no one ever got hurt when playing the King of the Mountain.  It was a game designed to test our strength, our skill, our ability to maneuver one opponent against another, and most especially, our loyalty to the "cause."  In our adult lives, we all have our own little “patch,” our own little mountain, however humble it may be.  We guard it, love it, and protect it.  By golly, to this day, I am still the Queen of my Mountain!

March 26, 2016 - Older

The older it gets, the gnarlier it becomes.  It gets scrappy, scratchy, and tough.  Dried up a bit here and there, really, and then the scales come, first a few and than many.  Scales grow on top of scales until all you can see is an exterior that looks like the toughest leather.  Sometimes the scales flake off in large chunks.  Often they just become another permanent oddity of the exterior.  And speaking of the exterior, it does grow hard and then harder with time.  Pretty soon not much can penetrate it.  It becomes a stronghold.

One tough exterior.

Eventually, it becomes a force to be reckoned with, and not many will attempt to force it to move.  It often sets up camp wherever it feels like and then never budges again.  Did I mention stubborn?  Yes, very stubborn, to the point where it just doesn’t care if it’s in the way.  And then it just forgets what “the way” is anyhow.  But it seems to grow a certain nobility, albeit a threadbare nobility.  There is wisdom there if you care to look.  You can consult it and come away with a larger understanding of life.

There’s experience, though, lots of experience, and that’s why it can offer advice.  Experience can only come with time.  It comes with weathering many storms, surviving many winters, dealing with baking sun and soaking floods, and just knowing how to persevere.  Eventually, surviving just becomes second nature and it doesn’t even think about it.  There’s just a sense of history, though, something from which you can feel real roots.

But enough about what it’s like to grow older.  What do you think of this tree?

March 25, 2016 - A Coincidence

An interesting formation, wouldn’t you say?  That the large boulders would all be moved into quite this position is really quite extraordinary.  Everything just fell into place and this cave was made.  It’s tall enough to stand up in.  Shall we say that the retreating glaciers were intelligent and thoughtful in their placement of boulders and large rocks?  Or shall we say something else altogether?

What a coincidence.

I choose the latter.  Nice cave.  In the middle of the woods.  With the bottom boulders already half buried in the Earth.  “Curiouser and curiouser!” said Alice.

March 24, 2016 - Move Aside

MOVE ASIDE

The king said, “Move aside.”

The young knight refused.

“Then we meet on the battlefield,” the king said,

“and god will give me the strength to remove you.”

So they met on the battlefield,

and it happened exactly as the king had said.

The knight was destroyed,

unhorsed, humiliated, and then beheaded.

Move aside.

 

The king said, “This is my road and my land.

Move aside and yield.”

Another young knight refused.

“Then we meet on the battlefield,” the king said,

“and god will give me the strength to remove you.”

So they met on the battlefield,

and it happened exactly as the king had said.

The young knight fell from his horse.

He was finished with the king’s sword.

The king said, “Move aside.”

Over and over he told the young knights to move aside.

Over and over they ignored his command.

Over and over they were destroyed.

Because the king’s land belongs to the king,

and he has a right to run it as he sees fit.

And knights can challenge him if they choose,

but they will be destroyed.

The king will not give up his land.

Then one day the king said, “Move aside,”

and the young knight did move aside.

With an apology, he bowed his head and moved aside,

and then he continued on his journey.

“You mock me with your avoidance,” the king said,

which the young knight fervently denied

with patience, humility, and respect,

and then he continued on his journey.

The young knight had many adventures.

He rescued many maidens and slew evil dragons.

Until one day he made for himself a kingdom

with his own lands to run and protect and love.

There were laws laid down for the good of the people.

There was the welfare of the poor to think about.

There was a new generation to raise with the same ideas.

And there were borders to protect, rules to enforce.

The king said, “Move aside.”

A clever knight knows that one stretch of road

can easily be traveled around,

and an inflated ego means certain death.

An impasse can be an opportunity.

Move aside and continue on your journey.

 

March 23, 2016 - A Presence

You’re never really alone, you know, walking through the woods, even when you are alone.  There is always an intelligence out there, and it’s more than just the plants and animals.  Of course, the plants and animals have their own intelligence and their own ways, but there’s more to it out there than just the forest creatures.  And it’s watching.

I’m convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that it’s benevolent.  Nevertheless, it is not a pushover.  It’s a curious presence that is very watchful and protective of its territory.  When you walk through the woods, this presence knows that you are not a creature of the woods.  It knows that you come from a place outside of its jurisdiction.  The more of a city person you are, the more blatant the neon sign on your forehead says, “I am not a creature of the woods.  I don’t belong here.”  This is no disrespect to city dwellers.  It is just something I have noticed myself when running into travelers in the woods.  The sign is immediately evident.

Can you see it?

But in any event, the curious presence watches and follows at a kind and respectful distance.  You can see the eyes if you look, as it shifts from this manifestation to that as quickly as a bird changes its song.  Now it’s large boulder, then it’s a tree, and then it’s a stream.  It passes through the landscape like an almost invisible cloud.  Can you see it in this photo?

It asks, “Who are you?  Why are you here?  What do you want?  What are you made of?”  The longer you stay in the woods, the easier you can spot it.  If you stay several nights without returning to town for any reason whatsoever, you begin to see it more and more.  And then one day, if you stay for quite a while, you can feel it pass right through you now and then as it gently rolls on its way, having manifested in you for a few moments as it follows the latest pilgrim.

It’s a flash, an immediate “I am,” but you know it when it happens.  When you see the pilgrim, you see a stranger traveling clumsily.  Is he interested in his surroundings, drinking them in joyfully?  Or is he chatting loudly with another person or on his cellphone, smashing through the underbrush as a bull in a china shop?  Did he see the presence pass through you?  Does he know he’s being watched?  Take one look into his eyes, and you will know, because now your eyes have seen through the eyes of the presence.

It’s a curious presence that is very watchful and protective of its territory.  Everything you do is recorded into an exquisite accounting system, and exactly what you put in is exactly what you will receive.

March 22, 2016 - A Little Peace

A LITTLE PEACE

And what does it matter, really?

If you cover me in snow and ice?

I am already buried anyway.

Even before I got to the grave,

I was buried

in guilt and obligations,

in work and responsibilities,

in pain and fatigue.

Buried again.

And all I wanted, all I hoped for,

all I dreamed of was peace.

“A little peace and quiet!”

I would say.

Just give me a little peace.

Because I’m so tired.

and I’m so worn out

and I’m so exhausted from trying.

Just a little peace.

Which was granted,

as all good wishes are.

Eternal peace was given to me easily,

suddenly and freely.

And it was quiet.

I remember that.

It was very quiet.

I had already buried my guilt and obligations,

my work and responsibilities,

my pain and fatigue.

I buried them in my conscience.

I buried them in my self-righteousness.

I buried them in my self-pity.

Shovel after shovel,

I buried them deeply.

And then they buried me,

returning the favor,

deep in the Earth

buried

and buried again

for a little peace and quiet.

March 21, 2016 - Pining

It is still March, after all, and anyone who thought we’d escape this month without more snow was really full of wishful thinking that just didn’t meet with reality.  It was a pining, a deep longing, for warmer weather.  That’s alright, though, because I have seen plenty of snow all the way into May.  We haven’t even reached April yet, but at least it’s not February anymore.  I’ll count my blessings where I can find them.

A place for everything . . .

Like the snowflakes, then, let’s pile the logs up higher and higher, creating a useful and intelligent decoration that promises warmth and comfort.  (Once again, the microworld reflects the macroworld, and vice versa.)  But in any event, it’s a comforting sight.  This newer home does not sport an old-fashioned fieldstone chimney, but you can bet that its modern chimney does a bang-up job all the same.

So we still have some waiting to do.  I am afraid that if you are the impatient kind, you still have no choice and you must wait this out.  The handicrafts of winter continue to call for your attention.  Mending fences, hauling wood, removing snow and ice, crocheting by the fire, and storytelling late into the night in a fire-lit room continue to be de rigueur for March.  Things could be a lot worse.

I won’t complain.  All too soon, a glass of wine and a nice thick stew by the fire will just be a memory.  Then we can pine away for that, too.

March 20, 2016 - Spring

SPRING

Spring

Having sprung

And demanded undue attention

As a child

Learning a new skill

Look at me!

Seems very much like yesterday

And even more like tomorrow

No sign of promised greenery

The tantalizing lies

Of unfaithful color

And birds are guilty, too

Giving the secret away

In sweet songs

To a washed out world

Waiting silently

Through the betrayal

Of winter’s harshness

The ravaged landscape

Screaming

Look at me!

Still waiting for the promise.

March 19, 2016 - The Wheel

There’s a place not too far from me along a river, and everywhere along the banks of the river are wheels and circles.  They’re placed as closely as possible to the river and in such a way that you can see the water through the spokes.  There are woven circles of willow branches and wheels from the helms of old ships.  Everywhere there are wheels and circles . . .

Watching the wheel.

Then there’s a bigger circle beyond the circles placed by my anonymous hero, and that would be the river itself.  It rolls and rolls along, and yet it stays in the same place.  The water is always the same, like the very center of a wheel, but the current continues to roll along.  And who’s to say how long it takes for a single molecule of water to make it back to the same river once again?  A million years, perhaps?  It doesn’t matter, though, because the center will still be the same.

And then there’s the circle beyond even the river, the one that limits almost all humans, and that would be the Earth.  As that water rushes around and around, the Earth herself does the very same thing.  She spins and spins.  And beyond her, there are larger round objects, and everything continues to spiral--first outward, but someday back inward again.  We could probably accurately guess that the Universe itself is round, spinning and spinning. 

The substance in which it spins, we cannot know, but we know it is there.  Otherwise, everything would come to a shrieking standstill.  What good is a wheel that can’t spin?  Since the spinning wheel still exists in the microcosm, we can assume that it still exists in the macrocosm.  As above, so below.  See it “here” and know it’s “there.”

March 18, 2016 - Walking on Water

It comes down to faith, we’re told.  There are many stories in many religions and mythologies of people who can walk on water as if it were solid.  In most of these stories, the walker sets out with great faith in his ability.  Halfway through, however, he begins to lose heart.  He begins to fear.  He begins to doubt.  And as soon as that happens, he also begins to sink.  Suddenly, the water is no longer solid and is just water again, and the doubter begins to sink.

It comes down to faith.

But he is chastised as he sinks.  He is told that he is sinking because he has lost his faith, lost his belief in his own abilities.  Then he takes heart and renews himself.  He believes again, and as his belief becomes more solid, so too does the water.  It is as if the water is his belief.  As he doubts in his belief, the water becomes transparent and unreliable, but as he strengthens his resolve, the water miraculously strengthens with him and becomes solid once again.

Is the walker above the laws of Nature?  Has he learned how to bend the laws of Nature?  Or has he simply learned his true identity and to trust himself?  In some of the stories, he tells other people not to fret and worry about him walking on water but instead to be happy and unafraid.  The fretting, the worrying, the fear--they cause depression and a loss of faith.  They cause a loss of belief.  And with the faith and belief go the walking on water.  When the people calm down and become unafraid and believe again--having been counseled to do so because they cannot do it on their own--then the water becomes solid again, and so does their faith.

And so it looks impossible.  If you believe it is impossible, then it is.  If you say to yourself, “This cannot stop me,” and you place one foot in front of the other, unseen paths and bridges will appear before you where moments ago there were none.  If you set forth with your goal firmly in mind and in heart, without dictating to Nature how it will be accomplished but merely believing that it will, then the invisible becomes visible.  The water becomes granite.  The path is found.

March 17, 2016 - St. Patrick's Day

I was climbing a ladder to fix something, when I gazed over at my shed and nearly fell to the ground.  There is an entire magical world atop the shed that I never knew about.  It was growing right on the roof.  Heavy snow in the winter did not bother it.  Scraping and smashing and raking ice caused no harm.  There’s a small, green, and perfect world that is completely immune to the rest of the world around it, and it’s living on the top of my shed.

A secret green world.

It grows in furrows with hills and valleys.  There are ridges reaching for the heavens and gullies with glistening golden hair waving about.  Closer inspection reveals vast forests with canopies of brilliant green and lush growth.  There is everywhere the suggestion of moistness and youthful exuberance.  I imagine tiny towns of faeries nestled in the valleys, peacefully raising their enchanted animals.  I fantasize about celebrations of the brilliant green.

The winter has taken its toll on the rest of my surroundings, and all save the magical green world on the top of my shed have suffered.  In a world that is almost entirely grey right now because of the season--where the gentle white of snow is gone and the browns of fall have long since been leached--this explosion of green satisfies a hunger my eyes have had for months.  And I did not know how empty my heart had become until the green came and filled it back up.

March 16, 2016 - The All-Seeing Eye

Just there, on the very edge of the horizon, the eye can be seen.  It was known to the ancients as the all-seeing, the all-knowing, the all-powerful eye of deity.  It was the eye that peered at us as it dipped below the horizon.  It said, “I am traveling to the Underworld to battle unmentionable monsters, and you must fare as best as you can until I return.  Behave while I am gone.  Do only what I say.”  And so ancient man hid himself, afraid of the night, cowering in fear over the monsters, waiting for the return of the brilliant disk.

The all-seeing eye.

But man was misled, and who can say whether it was purposeful or not?  He inadvertently gave away his own power.  The brilliant disk never traveled to the Underworld at all.  That was a lie.  It was man who traveled.  Every evening, the great eye watched man as he traveled away to a place it could not go.  It should have been made known that the golden orb said, more accurately, “I see you.  I know you.  As you head into darkness, I will watch you and wait for your return.”

It was, and always has been, man who travels from one world to the other and then back again.  It is man who heads into a world where the other cannot follow.  It is man who sees of one realm what cannot be seen by the deity of the other realm, whichever realm that may be, and there is more than one.  It is man alone who goes beyond the two-dimensional archetypical world, and even the angels cannot follow him.

Heading into . . . what lies beyond duality, into the “I Am.”  But how little he knows.

March 15, 2016 - The Sons of Liberty

There are a couple of different Revolutionary War emblems put on the graves of the American heroes, and this is one of them.  The soldier wears the tricorne (the three-cornered hat), popular during the Revolutionary War era.  As a soldier’s hat, it would have been made of wool felt.  A wealthier man would have worn one made from animal hide.  He holds a musket behind him with a bayonet at the tip.  At his left foot is a cannon.  In the background, there appear to be houses.

A Son of Liberty.

This was a Son of Liberty, a famous secret society that was formed to protect the rights of the American colonists.  The 13 stars surrounding the soldier on the emblem stand for the original 13 colonies:  Connecticut, Delaware, Georgia, Maryland, Massachusetts, New Hampshire, New Jersey, New York, North Carolina, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, South Carolina, and Virginia.  At the time, Maine was not yet a state but a territory of Massachusetts, although Maine was first settled in 1607 and certainly shared in the plight of the Sons of Liberty.

We look at it all now as some sort of romanticized television show.  Nothing could be further from the truth.  The Sons of Liberty were famous for their violent acts--tarring and feathering, burning buildings, etc.  Today some would call them terrorists.  Again, nothing could be further from the truth.  But I guess it all depends on how you look at it.  I look at it as a movement for freedom for the colonists, freedom from taxation without representation, freedom from being under the thumb of King George III, as well as the right of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

Would you call Paul Revere, Patrick Henry, John Hancock, or Samuel Adams a terrorist?  I sure wouldn’t.  They were all members of the Sons of Liberty.  I wouldn’t romanticize their lives, though, not even at this “late” date.  And I don’t want to forget them, either.  I don’t want to forget the sacrifices they made, the dangers they faced, and the fears they conquered.  I sit where I am today because of them, and that means I owe them a lot.

The least I could do is show a photo of one of their graves now and then, which I have done, and remind people that America is filled with heroes--then and now.  Heroes walked our shores then, and they walk them now.  Remembering our roots gives us strength in time of need, and I believe we are presently in one of those times of need.  Remembering our roots gives us purpose and guidance.  Don’t ever be afraid to speak your mind.  Don’t ever be afraid to say “NO!”  Don’t ever be afraid to stand up for the ideals in which you believe.

It’s true that we have some rather large “shoes to fill” if we are to be as brave as the Sons of Liberty.  But we’re Americans, hooligans, desperados, troublemakers, punks, rascals, racketeers, bruisers, and ruffians.  At least, to some people we are.  We are also generous, naïve, fun-loving, loyal, patriotic, steadfast, and reliable.  We are Sons and Daughters of Liberty.  Let us act that way.

March 14, 2016 - Holy Ground

And so, on an early almost-spring day in the middle of almost nowhere, the silent sentinels stand near the field, patiently watching.  They bear witness to the field.  Presumably, there was a church here at some point because in the old days most people were buried in a “common burying ground” near a church on what was called “holy ground.”  But the church is long gone.  It’s just a figment of my imagination now.  Perhaps the silent watchers could tell me differently, but they remain silent.

Holy Ground.

The field, however, still exists remarkably the same as it was a few hundred years ago.  The buildings come and the buildings go, but the field stays.  For now, the headstones stay as well, but they will go, too.  Even so, the field will still remain.  Then new buildings will come again, and new people will “go to ground.”  Just another day in the life of the old field.

Was the ground “holy” because of the church?  Or was it holy because it’s the only thing that gives life, stability, and a sense of continuity to people?  The ground is as close as we can come to immortality in our present understanding.  It is always there, always giving and receiving.  There is nothing in our world we can imagine--no fantasy however far out--that does not include the existence of the ground.  It is the primal being.

Sometimes the sheep from the nearby pasture escape and wander among the graves, lazily munching the grass.  They mean no disrespect.  Holy ground is holy ground after all, and the grass is just as green on either side of the fence.

March 13, 2016 - The Trees are Tapped

The maple trees are all tapped now, and it’s just a matter of time before the big festival in a couple of weeks.  We call it “Maple Syrup Sunday,” and I’ll be sure to take some photos of it.  In the meantime, because the weather has been so warm, the trees have been tapped for a while now.  In fact, I know many people who have made quite a bit of syrup already!  That’s what a warm winter and early spring can do.  Of course, I have seen the reverse with the sap not running until sometime in April.

Sap collecting, the old-fashioned way.

Maple syrup making is a time-honored tradition here in Maine.  Many people use the new-fangled plastic barrels with plastic lines running from tree tap to tree tap, the sap all running together through long lines into the barrels.  But there are still a lot of us who use the old galvanized steel buckets.  The one is this photo is relatively new.  I’ve certainly seen them in worse condition, nothing better than old rusted buckets, really.  But the final syrup tasted just as sweet and fine.

I get spoiled living here in the far northeast of the country with homemade maple syrup available to me all year long.  It tastes phenomenal.  If you have only had maple syrup in plastic jars from a supermarket, you must make it point to get yourself some real Maine maple syrup.

In any event, I guess I am getting ahead of myself.  Maple Syrup Sunday is two weeks from now.  It seems like an eternity.  It is truly one of my favorite days of the year.  Enjoying a sweet product from the natural trees around here beats that highly-processed, bleached, chemical-extracted, crystalline white stuff called “sugar” any day of the year.

That--and it just gives me a real connection to my local surroundings.

March 12, 2016 - Emotional Tides

This ledge is actually quite high.  We had a lot of rain, and it filled up all the nooks and crannies in the rocks.  But then the sun came back, and everything sparkled like gems once again.  The water takes on the mood of the sky.  If the sky is happy, the water is deep and blue and dreamy.  If the sun is shining, the water is sparkly and glittery.  If the clouds come in and are grey and threatening, the water is dull and cold and almost black.  If it storms, the water is in turmoil.

Reflections of the sky.

It’s no wonder, then, that many ancient religions associated water with emotions.  The way emotions come and go and wash over us and completely consume us is very similar to how water behaves.  Baptisms are designed to rebirth a person in a new faith and wash away their old beliefs, and they often come with great emotion.  Clearly, the ancients realized the nature of water and its capabilities.

When great emotion washes over us, we often cry and our tears are salty.  They are the ocean in miniature.  All those millions of years ago when we crawled out of the ocean and enclosed it within our bodies instead of dwelling within it, little did we know that we would take the tides with us.  How could we have known?  How could we have foreseen that the element of water would leave its indelible mark on us forever?  How could we have known that the magic would be passed on to us?

Just as the ocean mirrors the sky, our eyes mirror our emotions, and we are all adept at reading other people’s eyes whether we want to admit it or not.  We can take one glance at someone and know a great deal about them.  The ocean confers this ability.  It is our emotional birthright.

The next time you go to the ocean, pay attention to those tides and see if they don’t mirror the waves you constantly feel within.  You can’t escape the ocean.  You are Her creature.