April 30, 2016 - Still Learning

I was reminded, once again, that we never really do know when we’re going to have our last day.  Just two weeks ago, I walked through this section of the woods and nothing was amiss.  But today this tree has split right at the trunk and fallen.  I don’t know what happened.  The bark on another tree near it is damaged as well.  I don’t think it was lightning because I didn’t see any charring, and for once, it wasn’t caused by man.

The last day.

This tree was completely healthy and of a very good size, as are most of the trees in this photo.  We can’t argue that it was too young to handle the stress of weather changes.  We can’t say that an ice storm came through and the tree cracked from the weight of the ice because those days are long over until next winter.  No, there was nothing that we might be able to point to as being the demise of this tree.  There is no reason.

But there it is, broken right through when it might have lasted for at least a couple of more centuries.  The other trees around it will go on, and in time no one will remember that this tree was ever here.

I walked on, picking my way carefully down a slope that was wet and slippery with last year’s leaves.  There are no green leaves on the trees yet because it’s still too early for Maine, but buds are quite swollen these days with tiny tendrils poking out.  And it was a good day, too, sunny and warm--45 degrees, my favorite temperature of all.  The spring birds are all back now, chirping and flirting in the treetops, busily buildings nests for their families.  Everything was perfect.  Everything was beautiful.

We never really know.

I felt lucky, at least for today.  I had been thinking about some financial problems as I was walking, but after seeing the tree, I was reminded of just how foolish it is to worry about such things.  What will be, will be.  Each day could be our last.  We never really know.  It doesn’t mean I won’t continue to think about and plan for the future, but it does mean that there really is no time like the present.  The world truly is such a wonderful place.  It’s beautiful and wild and dangerous and fleeting.  Each day is a gift that does not guarantee anything.

Lessons.  I’m still learning them every day.  I’m still being reminded of such simple things because I’m human and I forget so easily.  Each time I get the reminder, I look up and say, “Thank you.  I remember now.  Thank you.”

April 29, 2016 - A Twelve-Thousand-Year Partnership

How wise must primitive man have been to domesticate the sheep.  About 12,000 years ago, “primitive” man was a bit smarter than we are today.  He knew that sheepskin was warm in the winter, stayed warm even when wet, and protected against blazing sun.  It was the perfect answer to the fur that his own body could not produce.

But taking the skin from the sheep necessarily killed the animal.  While not bogged down with morals or thoughts of wildlife protection, primitive man was clever and practical.  He knew he needed more wool than he could get by just killing the animal.  He noticed that the ancient breeds of sheep often shed their soft fleece fibers while keeping the longer coarse fibers on their body.  (Some ancient breeds still do, while modern breeds must be shorn.)  He found that in addition to gathering the shed fleece, he could easily pluck it right out of the sheep without disturbing the longer fibers.  More importantly, this didn’t hurt the animal at all, and it grew back more and more fleece that could then be plucked again and again.

Working together.

How did it happen?  Where did he get struck with the inspiration to twist the soft fleece into threads with his fingers?  Perhaps he just absent-mindedly twirled it back and forth, pleased with its softness, and then noticed a nice strong thread being formed.  Yet inspiration struck again and he decided to create a very primitive spindle by attaching a stone ring to the end of a stick--most likely held in place by tension, shaving the stick just enough to wedge it firmly into the ring.  Now the thread could be wound continuously in one long thread on to the stick.

From there?  Probably hand weaving--criss cross, criss cross.  Then came suspending weighted thick threads from a beam and weaving a long thread back and forth, over and under, in between the hanging threads.  These two things--the primitive spindle and primitive weaving--were in use for thousands of years.  Eventually, a more modern loom was invented, and after that came the spinning wheel.  Both of these inventions dramatically decreased the time it took to make a nice cloth.

But the point is that 12,000 years ago, primitive man was already thinking of all of this.  Twelve thousand years ago, he was a thinker, an inventor, a dreamer.  What his own body could not naturally produce, his mind could form an idea of and his hands could follow through with the instructions.  Twelve thousand years ago, that mysterious and spiritual force we call “inspiration” was in full effect, not yet dulled by electronic distractions.

Primitive man was already thinking long term 12 millennia ago.  He was planning.  He domesticated the sheep for its milk, its meat, its hide, and its wool.  In return, he made sure it was fed well and protected.  By doing this he ensured milk, food, and hides for himself, but he also found a sustainable, renewable source of fibers for warmth and protection.  In so doing, he greatly increased his chances of surviving the elements.  An industry was born that would propel mankind into the distant future we now occupy.

And we think the internet is a big deal?  I’m a little embarrassed.

April 28, 2016 - Expect More

Expecting something to happen makes it more likely to happen.  It’s not a definite, but it’s certainly more likely.  The more you can genuinely expect something, the more likely you’ll get it.  But that’s the key word:  Genuinely.

You have to really believe, and also believe that you believe.  There can’t be any questioning.  Will this happen?  Should this happen?  I sure hope this happens.  Those can’t be thoughts in your mind.  Genuinely expecting something means it’s natural to expect it.  It means you have a right to expect it.  It usually means that a precedent has already been set, and your expectations are part of that precedent.

Birds never wonder if they’ll be fed.  They never wonder if they’ll find the seeds or insects or plants they need to eat.  They just find them.  They expect them to be there, and they are there.  Their expectations are genuine.  How can food not be available when eating is a requirement of life?  So, of course, the food is there.  They have a need for it.  They have a right to expect it, and their expectations are fulfilled.  Every time.  Every year.  Since the dawn of time, their expectations have been met.

Expecting.

This isn’t to say that an animal can’t suffer hardship or hunger.  Occasionally, it does happen.  Usually, it’s due to unforeseen natural disasters or, more often, mankind--another natural disaster.  Yes, animal habitats do shrink, but for the most part animals are well fed.  Yes, species do go extinct all the time, but if it’s not due to mankind, it’s usually just due to natural selection and the natural course of things.  All in all, animals are well cared for.

Is it because they’re “animals” or is it because they expect nothing less?  Why can’t mankind be that way?  There are over 36 billion acres of land on the Earth, and over 7 billion of them are “arable,” which means those acres are suitable for growing crops--not swamps, not forestland, not cities, not mountainous areas, etc.  Of course, food grows naturally in wild areas outside the 7 billion acres, and it also grows abundantly in the ocean.  The 7 billion acres are just cropland.  That’s about an acre a person.  You can grow a lot of food on one arable acre of land.

There sure is a lot out there on this big Earth.  We get to feeling that it’s small sometimes because the media portrays it that way--sort of like we’re all just one big neighborhood block party.  But the Earth is pretty darn big, and even though there are 7 billion people here, that’s really not so very much to the old Earth.  There’s plenty here.

I’ve noticed, though, that we expect lack.  Very often, we expect that there is not enough to go around.  Maybe we expect it because we’re told that by the media.  Maybe there are people out there who have a vested interest in making us think that there’s not enough out there for everyone.  So we expect less and we get less.  And the less we get, the more we confirm our “expectations.”  It becomes a vicious cycle.

I think we should be like the birds.  Am I foolish for that?  Will someone just leave a big plate of food outside for me as I leave for the birds in my bird feeder?  That probably won’t happen, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a whole lot out there.  There’s so much out there, I can’t even wrap my head around it.

Am I just a foolish and spoiled American for thinking that?  No, I’m not.  And I’ve certainly had my share of “lack” in life.  Some of that is because I expected lack.  Some of it is because others expected it for me, and I bought into what they were saying.

There’s a lot out there, more than enough for every single person on the planet to live in sheer abundance.  But first we have to change the way we think about it.  We have to dissect our thoughts and find out how they got into our head in the first place and whether or not we want them to stay there.  Then we have to change what we expect out of life.

We have to change what we expect.  We have to change what we believe.  We have to know our rights--our inherent rights, not our “Bill of Temporary Privileges.”*  If anyone tells us differently (and we can fully expect they will), well, we know the poison they’re selling.  We don’t have to buy it.

____________________________________________

* A phrase coined by the late comedian George Carlin.

April 27, 2016 - Boat Watching

It’s a paradox.  I see everything from the shore, but on the boat, the shore looks empty.  It’s another world out there.  I have been in both places and have craned my neck and strained my eyes to see a hidden person on the shore when I’m on the boat, but I have never seen a watcher.  I see people who work on the docks.  I see other boat owners.  But I never see the watchers.  Yet they are there, like me, watching.

(. . . And you never do know about the watchers.  Are they scouts sent out to take records of the strengths and weaknesses of your boat?  Will they relay a message that your boat has come, and will there be an armada just around the bend, ready to capture your boat, steal your booty, and take you into captivity?  Or will the watchers hail you, tempt you with shiny gifts, only to steal your rig and escape the strange island they’re on, leaving you marooned? . . .)

Definitely pirates.

When you get on the boat and leave land, the boat becomes your new “land” and the shore you sail past is just pretty wallpaper.  It’s not real, not really.  The boat is the only real thing when you’re on it.  It’s the important thing because it’s your physical support.  The shore is only a colorful background.  It’s so far away.  It’s strange how once you step off land it loses its hold on you.

It’s also strange how the same distance can seem so different.  From the shore, the boat does not seem very far away, but from the boat, the shore might as well be a hundred miles away.  Every foot of water is an acre because it can’t be walked upon.  It must be sailed around, and that makes it bigger.

They don’t see me on the shore.  I am invisible to them and to all boats that pass by.  I blend into last year’s dead reeds and grasses.  It’s easy to duck behind a large patch of brown reeds and will be even easier when the lush new green growth appears.  It’s a screen.  A camouflage.  I often feel completely exposed from my perspective on the shore, but they don’t see me at all.

(. . . From my hidden spot on the shore, I watch the pirates as they sail on, searching for gold doubloons.  Or perhaps they’re explorers and have come from a hidden land.  They have just discovered America and are surprised to see that it may be inhabited.  Imagine what their king will think when they report back!  Or perhaps they’re sailors of fortune, mercenaries for hire.  They’re recording information about the land for the highest bidder.  Perhaps an army will come back and take us all by force . . .)

A boat is simply drifting by on a mid-spring day, most likely lobstering or gearing up for the season.  There’s much work to be done and nothing exciting on the shore.  In fact, the shore is completely empty, devoid of life, with nary a watcher in sight.

April 26, 2016 - Deceitful April

Two steps forward, one step back.  It’s still progress.  It might not be as fast as we want to go, but it’s still progress.  I suppose if all we ever did was make leaps and bounds, we wouldn’t appreciate them.  It’s the losing of ground that we fought very hard for that makes that ground so special in the first place.  If we never had to fight for it, it wouldn’t be dear.  We tackled it, and then we lost it.

But not all of it; only half of it.  So while we may have lost 50%, we also gained 50%.  Am I sounding like the “glass half empty / glass half full” cliché?  I hope not.  Because this is much more serious.  We are engaged in battle.  This is war.

Oh, how she lies.

It snowed again today, and while at this time last year we still had snow or were just barely free of it, this year we have been free of it for quite some time.  Don’t bother me with trifles about last year.  This year promised to behave.  That should have tipped us off right from the start.  March and April never behave.  They are like precocious teens who have yet to be taken out behind the tool shed.  They may not be as cunning and downright cruel as February (long life to the Queen!) because, after all, there can be only one, but they are not to be trusted.  We trusted them anyway.

We wanted to be led astray.  We wanted to be fooled.  We wanted to be wined and dined and flattered, and March and April were only too happy to oblige.  Fair weather friends.  They set a trap and we walked right into it.

Well, the mask is off, but it has made us stronger.  We have reinforced our borders and are heading into the territory called “May.”  We have heard that it is a strange and wondrous land, but this time we will not be fooled by “soft, deceitful wiles.”  We will not fall for a pretty face.  This time we will “March” in and take Camelot by force.  Long live the King!

April 25, 2016 - Rock Clouds

ROCK CLOUDS

ethereal soft clouds

suspiciously mimicking

jagged solid rock

April 24, 2016 - The Sphinx of Maine

I like to think of this enormous rock formation as “The Sphinx of Maine.”  If you look at it correctly, you can see a man’s profile on the far right--his forehead, his nose, his mouth, and his chin.  His mouth looks to be open as if he’s saying something.  Perhaps it is, “Ahoy there!”  He has long hair that whips and flows behind him because of the relentless ocean wind.  His hands are before him, just like the Sphinx in Egypt, and the rest of his body is buried.

The Sphinx of Maine.

Are there hidden caverns beneath him just as they say there are beneath the Sphinx in Egypt?  Perhaps there are.  Perhaps we can at last find there the answers to Atlantis.  After all, that is the origin of the name of the Atlantic Ocean.  Plato said Atlantis was “beyond the Pillars of Hercules” and existed about 10,000 years or so ago.  “Non plus ultra” the pillars warned, meaning “nothing further beyond.”  Go no further, or proceed at your own peril.

It’s as good a story as any I’ve heard, and I feel a certain protection from The Sphinx of Maine.  I feel that he watches the shore and keeps our place here special.  How else could we have lasted this long in this day and age?  In return, I will give him some flowers and a necklace of shells and call it even.  It might be the first gift he has gotten in 10,000 years, and that’s a long time to wait for flowers and a new necklace.  I’d like to think that he’ll be pleased.

April 23, 2016 - The Sandbar

It starts when you’re introduced to the idea of the sandbar.  It’s just one of those tantalizing things that you have to walk across.  Because it’s not always there.  Now you see it, now you don’t.  So, of course, in the beginning, you’re very careful.  You only walk across at safe times when the tide is very low.  The bridge appears like a beacon, and you walk safely over to the point.  That’s not so hard.

But it’s the idea of an appearing, disappearing, reappearing bridge that seems to make people want to cut things closer to the edge.  They “forget” to check the tide charts, but there’s still plenty of solid ground, so what’s the problem?  Although . . . is the tide coming in or going out?  That could make a big difference.  Sometimes the untrained eye isn’t sure.

There’s a calling from the point, and it gets stronger and stronger as the sandbar gets smaller and smaller.  It calls to you, like a hypnotic siren out at sea.  What could it hurt to walk quickly across and back?  You promise yourself you won’t be gone long.  You just want to go to the edge of the point and look out into the bay.  Is that so terrible?

The sandbar makes a temporary appearance.

The sandbar is a wily creature who lives on the beach.  He spends his days searching for people to tempt into crossing over to the point.  Many hear his call and many respond, and often everything turns out just fine.  In fact, everything is stunningly beautiful.  But he knows differently, this creature does.  He entices people.  He tempts them with rewards of wonderful things if they just cross over, just a little further.  He knows the tides, and he knows the secret astronomical tides (when the moon is full or new) even better.  Those are his favorite tides.  And he waits.  Through sun and rain, summer and winter.  He waits.

I saw a group of people go across a sandbar on one fine and sunny day.  It was a larger sandbar than this one.  They stayed out on a temporary island longer than they should have.  I kept trying to wave to them from the shore with exaggerated movements to get them to come back because I knew what was going to happen, but I was far away and I don’t know if they saw me.  They were tourists. 

Eventually, they realized that they were quickly becoming surrounded by the ocean.  They joined arms across, shoulder to shoulder, in a long line and began to walk, keeping the line together and helping anyone who stumbled or panicked.  I watched them nervously from a safe distance.  There were no lifeguards; many places in Maine don’t have them at all.

The ocean began to rush in furiously.  At first they were knee high in water, but in a matter of minutes they were thigh high.  In the blink of an eye, the water was up to their waists.  By then, I could hear them on the wind as they cheerfully encouraged one another and held on for dear life.  They kept walking toward the land.  The water reached their chests, and I could feel real fear coming from them.

But they crossed over an invisible threshold, and even though the water rushed in ever faster and ever more furious, they had crossed a point where the depth began to decrease for them.  They had reached the land.  The real land.  Not the tempestuous, murderous, beautiful, alluring, desirable, cruel sandbar.  Another ten minutes, and the story might have ended very differently.  It was a lesson well learned for them and for me.

Yet still, I take my chances.  I do things I shouldn’t.  Today there was no problem.  Last winter in this same spot, I made it back without a moment to spare.  It was snowing, well below freezing, and I had forgotten my cellphone, as usual.  I slipped and fell on an icy rock, but managed to limp back.  The sandbar lost that time, but barely.  I got lucky.

Tempting.  Tricky, very tricky.

April 22, 2016 - Layers

Each year, we put on another layer.  It starts as barely noticeable--a new problem, learning a new skill, making a new friend, a new exercise program.  We don’t think much about it.  We don’t know it’s a layer yet, but we water it just the same and give it plenty of sun.  In the beginning of the year, we always make promises to the sun.  This time I’m going to take care of me.  This time I’m number one.  Nothing’s going to get me down this time.

Layers of growth.

The year goes on, though.  More gets added to it--new bills, new arguments, change of jobs, divorce.  We start to get immersed in it, even though we promised we wouldn’t.  We promised we’d do it differently this time.  Some of us still remember the promise we made to the sun.  Some of us have already forgotten it.  The burden gets a little heavier, and we pick it up and shoulder it.

Time keeps passing.  More happens--a loved one dies, cross-country move, severe illness, victim of crime.  Now we’re in the thick of it, and we have forgotten about the promise.  If someone reminds us of it, we become callous and angry because there’s no time for promises to the sun.  We tell ourselves that anyone who has time for promises to the sun isn’t working hard enough.  The burden is monumental now, but we pick it up and shoulder it.

Time passes still.  We build a hard layer around ourselves to insulate us from anymore shocks this year.  We come up with ways to handle our difficulties, and those ways always involve silence and solitude.  The layer thickens and protects us, and eventually we handle all or most of the burden we were carrying.  We become more comfortable.  We're insulated.  We sleep for a while until we feel better.

Then we remember the sun and the promises.  But this time it’s different, we tell ourselves.  This time we are bigger and stronger.  The sun feels so warm and inviting.  It’s time to make promises again!  It’s time to reach for the warmth.  It’s time to start another layer.

April 21, 2016 - Common Ground

I wonder.  It has come to my attention that there are not many people who know what a commons is.  Maybe there are just so many people in the world these days and so many places that are now overcrowded that the commons have just disappeared.  Probably without anyone even knowing about it.  Where they went is a mystery to most people, although our history books could tell a tale or two.  However, it’s likely that there are a lot more commons out there than people realize.  They’re purposely kept secret.

First, the meaning of a commons.  A commons is common ground that is accessible to all the members of a particular area in which the commons is located.  No single person owns the commons.  It’s something that everyone has a stake in.  Most commons are land, but certainly commons do exist in the sea as well, such as the freedom to catch lobster along the coast so long as environmental and sustainability rules are followed.

Just about every place had a commons or several commons at one time, but I am given to understand that not many places do anymore, and that’s a pity.  I “get” the right to own land privately, but I also understand that we are all creatures of the Earth and our right to live here and enjoy the land should be an inherent part of our birth.  If enjoying and using the land is considered a privilege, then it’s not a right.  Privileges can be taken away; rights can’t.

Of course, a right comes with responsibility.  You can’t just take and take and take and not give back.  Sustainability and love of the land is an inherent part of that right.  The land (or ocean) has to be cared for.  Other people and their rights have to be considered.  The rights of the plants and animals and fish have to be considered.  But it can be done, and in fact, it has been done for a good portion of our history.

Which is why I was so surprised to recently learn that many people do not know what a commons is.  The idea of the commons came about during the medieval period.  It was part of the feudal system.  The commons was land that was part of an estate.  Different classes of people were allowed different rights on the land, such as the right to allow their animals to graze, the right to fish in the waters, the right to take enough wood to heat a house, etc.  People who had these rights were called commoners.

Yep.  That’s where that term comes from.  “He’s a commoner.”  “Oh, how very common of you.”  “Common knowledge has it that . . .”  These phrases make it sound as if being part of the commons is a bad thing.  I don’t know about that.  I guess if you’re a king or a knight or a bishop, you might not want to be part of the commons.  It would make you so ordinary, after all.  As for me, I wear my membership in the commons as a badge of honor.

Many commons are gone now.  They disappeared through enclosure.  The land was literally “enclosed,” i.e., fenced in, which meant that it was bought.  Bought from whom?  Well, that’s a good question.  You shouldn’t be able to buy land that belongs to everyone.  Then, too, governments appropriated a good amount of commons and now call them “government land.”

Government land?  Yes.  People use that phrase today as if it’s normal.  It is not normal.  A government is a system or a process to govern, rule, or control a group of people for their benefit (hopefully).  Here in the U.S., we supposedly elect those who govern us.  We call them public servants.  That’s as far as I’ll go with that because I’ll have to write a book on it.  But . . . government land?  No.  Governments do not own land.  Or at least . . . they’re not supposed to.

So when you hear of someone grazing their animals on “government land,” they are simply using the commons.  When someone fishes or goes lobstering, they are simply using the commons.  Hunting on state land is simply using the commons.  I’ve seen slick campaigns lately that talk about the “nerve” of some people to graze their animals on “your land.”  That’s what the campaigns say.  Is it my land?  And that’s as far as I’ll go with that, too.

In any event, the photo you see above is a plaque placed on a very large rock in the Brunswick Town Commons.  This thousand-acre commons was granted to the people of the Town of Brunswick by the Pejepscot Proprietors in 1719.  Over the years, many acres were “given” away here and there for this project and that.  Seventy-one acres remain.  They are seventy-one precious acres still available for use by the commoners.  You can’t haul wood off them anymore and no grazing that I know of is done, but there sure is a lot of enjoyment and delight in the land by all the people in the area.

Every year, I go through it and pick bags and bags of blueberries.  There are lots of blackberries and wild raspberries as well.  I gather acorns, too.  Sometimes I pick up pinecones and turn them into Christmas ornaments with a bit of glitter and ribbon.  There are a lot of old pitch pines there.  The pinecones are nasty and sharp as razors, but they sure do make pretty ornaments.  I don’t know if I’m allowed to do all of that or not, but I do it anyway.  It’s common ground.  I’m a commoner.  Are you?

April 20, 2016 - An Accidental Death

It looks like it was an aster to me, a lucky little aster growing right along a beautiful river.  It was a wild aster, one not planted or planned by man but simply growing out of pure chance.  Perhaps a bird dropped one of its seeds.  Perhaps a good wind blew one of the seeds over to the very spot where the aster took root.  That was a lucky spot.  One inch over and it might have landed on a rock.  Another few inches further and it might have landed in the river and been carried away forever, never to grow.

An accidental life.

It was definitely an accidental life, a haphazard manifestation of the life force.  No cutworms sliced at its tiny new stem when it started to grow.  How lucky can you get?  No slugs destroyed the fresh green growth.  No insects devoured too much of the aster, although no plant goes unscathed by them.  No child pulled up the pretty flowers and handed them shyly to his mother to put in a vase.

It managed not to get drowned out by the river when its banks were swollen after a terrible rain.  Talk about good fortune.  The sun didn’t scorch it to death, especially with the reflection from the water.  The high winds that are always blowing along the river never seemed to be able to rake at its base.  No, it was sheer luck to have grown as it did.  Against all odds, it survived, thrived, and reproduced.

It was an accidental death as well, certainly not planned by the aster.  Having survived severe river conditions, a blistering sun, terrible winds, gnawing insects, and hungry birds, it finally succumbed to winter.  Quickly.  But all things succumb to winter; there’s no bargaining with it.  Winter is not selective in its killing.  It takes everything.

Except the seeds.  It can’t seem to do that.  It was an accidental oversight on winter’s part, one not planned or even thought of, but it’s too late to adjust its abilities now.  They have already been set in stone by Mother Nature.  The seeds contain a great deal of hidden potential, also set in stone long ago.  How lucky can you get?

April 19, 2016 - Think of the Possibilities

It’s hard to know, isn’t it?  Is the sun shining or is it cloudy?  There are no blue skies, but clearly there is a flash of brilliance on the water in the distance, and that can only be made by the magic of the sun.  But I see no sun.  Do you?  I see clouds.  There are many clouds.  There is a heavy, dark, grey sky.  Everywhere.  Threatening to suffocate.

Not a cloud in the sky.

But there they are together.  Sunlight and gloom.  Light and darkness.  It’s just a reinforcement to me that the world is as it is because we perceive it to be so.  We believe it to be sunny, and so it is.  We believe it be dark and grey, and so it is.  The world is exactly what we think it is.  Apparently, I am of the mind today that the world is both sunny and grey, and so it is.  They say it’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind.

If we weren’t here, there wouldn’t be anyone to categorize things or document them, or label them for that matter.  So it would stand to reason that we are the beings that make the world what it is.  Without the observer, there is no observed.

In the beginning, the I Am did not say, “I was,” or “I will be.”  It said, “I am.”  And that is here and now, with there never being anything more than here and now to begin with.  Or end with.  Einstein said that the past, present, and future all exist simultaneously.

Because there is only one I Am.  Time is relative and observer-dependent.  It is just a path.  One path of likely probability.  But there are many paths.

These thoughts bring me hope and despair at the same time.  It is for me to choose which one I will adopt.

But think of the possibilities.  Your choice determines your reality.  Think of the possibilities.

April 18, 2016 - Kindred Spirits

You know when you meet one, when you see one, when you hear one talk, when you read what one of them has written.  You know it in your heart, even if you don’t admit it to anyone else.  You feel the tiny tug.  Sometimes it causes a small intake of breath.  Other times it causes one tear to come to your eye, a tear that is quickly and easily wiped away so that no one might see it.  Because if they saw it they might guess.  They might know what you are.

You are a kindred spirit.  You were born this way.  You didn’t ask for it, and sometimes you don’t enjoy it, although for the most part, it has served as a great guide in your life.  A kindred spirit has a connection to others who are on the same path.  The paths are many and varied, anything from art to music to religion to activism, etc.  If you are on a path, you usually know it by your 30s, although some people know it sooner.  You can also immediately divine whether someone else is on the same path.

As message from a kindred spirit.

Sometimes the path is secret, and you say nothing to anyone, sometimes not even yourself.  Sometimes it’s too odd.  Sometimes it’s mocked by others, so you must hide it.  Sometimes it is not approved.  But you are on the path, and when you meet a kindred spirit on the same path, you know it.

You don’t have to see the spirit to know it.  As I’ve said many times before, our sight is the sense that deludes us the most, which is why it is used so lavishly by the media.  No, it rarely has to do with the eyes.  It is a simple feeling, a knowing, a pulling, a calling.  You know the person is there.  Perhaps you are there to help her.  Perhaps she is there to help and guide you.  Kindred spirits secretly help one another.

In this photo, you see an old tree stump decorated with many large quartz crystals.  They were placed there by a kindred spirit on the same path that I’m on.  Perhaps at some point our paths will fork and each of us will go a separate way, but for now, he is on the same path that I am on.  I don’t have to see him to know this.  I don’t have to meet him or ever know who he is.  In fact, I have no idea who did this and I probably never will.

But it doesn’t matter.  We’re on the same path.  He has left this sign for me, and it is up to me to discern its meaning.  It may have a different meaning for the reader than it does for me.  No matter.  Kindred spirits write nothing in stone because they know that nothing lasts forever, most especially what might seem to do just that.

Follow the pulling.  Follow the tugging.  Honor the tears.  Stay on your path.  The kindred spirit met you there for a reason.  Find out what that reason is, and then continue on the path.

April 17, 2016 - Sun Blessings

SUN BLESSINGS

Do you think the sun ever wonders?

Does he look down from his throne

and see the arms reaching for him?

Everywhere, they reach

arms stretching

hands and fingers taut

notice me!

Faces upturned to the light

eyes closed to the brilliance

or open and welcoming blindness

saluting and respecting

praising and glorifying

yearning for a touch

that delicious warm embrace

bestowed haphazardly

as if he didn’t wonder

as if he didn’t look down

as if he didn’t see the arms reaching for him

but bestowed all the same.

And that has to be enough.

April 16, 2016 - Rock Trees

Yes, trees really do grow directly out of rock.  No soil.  Just rock.  I know it seems incredible to those who come from a different climate, but it really does happen here.  Mind you, not all trees are strong enough to do this, but there are always some that are up to the challenge.  Birches especially love to grow out of rock.

Good-sized trees growing out of a massive rock formation.

How is it possible?  From what I understand, there are often many tiny cracks and fissures in huge rocks like the one in the photo, but they cannot always be seen by the naked eye.  A seed falls and lands on the “perfect spot”--that would mean a spot with a nice fissure and some other fissures around it.  The seed sends out a tiny root that delves far into the rock.  Because the rock has many fissures, it actually has quite a bit of water inside of it, and the root uses this water.  The rock is also quite warm compared to the surrounding air, and so while winter occurs outside, the little root goes further and further down.

Then the warm weather comes and the little root sends out a leaf.  Now photosynthesis can occur.  The tree begins to grow.  The bacteria and fungi that are everywhere in the environment will use the water inside of the rock to help release nutrients and minerals from the rock, which the new little tree will need to grow.  In return, the tree sends out many roots and creates a consistently moist environment that is perfect for the bacteria and fungi to thrive.  They live in a partnership.  And . . . the rest is history.  The tree grows out of the rock.

What seems impossible is very possible.  What seems absurd is quite ordinary.  There is a lesson here that we can learn from the little tree seed:  Nothing is impossible.  What seems impenetrable only seems that way because we believe it to be so, not because it is.  What seems hard and unyielding is only a mirage.

Also, this is how paper beats rock.

The birch has dug in.

 

And it's not going anywhere.

April 15, 2016 - Talking Monkeys

So in the beginning before all of our roles were set in stone, there was a great deal of arguing about the shape each creature should take.  Mother Nature was much more tolerant back then, being younger and more idealistic.  She allowed us all to trade back and forth in those days to see how we liked our shape.  This was before the Master of Final Form had appeared, so it was easier to allow for shifting.

Well, everyone was up in arms about the newcomers, the monkeys who could talk.  They were different from the other monkeys, who could not.  Because they could talk, these talking monkeys soon formed close-knit groups, and if you couldn’t talk, you weren’t allowed in the group.  At first everyone just laughed.  Who would want to be a talking monkey?  They were rather ugly versions of the Angelic beings.  (No one dared, though, to say a word about their homeliness to Mother Nature because she never makes mistakes.  Or at least she never admits to them.)

Anyhow, the talking monkeys didn’t have many positive attributes.  As I said, they were rather ugly.  They did not have beautiful fur.  They did not have razor-sharp claws.  They only had two eyes, and often those eyes were not very sharp in vision.  Their ears were rather small and pathetic, so sounds were not as brilliant to them.  Their sense of smell was abysmal, and frankly it was embarrassing to see such paltry noses.  They were not particularly strong, not in comparison to other creatures.  They couldn’t fly.  Their skin didn’t gleam.  They were also slow and lumbering as they moved through the forest.

An old shifter.

For the most part, they had no redeeming qualities.  There was one thing they could do fairly well, which was climb trees, but they abandoned the practice because they did not want to be lumped in with the other monkeys who could not talk.  Instead, they began walking upright on just their hind legs.  So the only thing they really could do was talk and walk.  I probably don’t have to tell you just how stupid they looked.

Now, you’d think they’d be rather humble, coming from such modest and barren lineage, unable to climb or jump or fly, being ugly, slow, and stupid.  But would you believe that they were the most conceited creatures in the forest?  It’s true.  They were ridiculous, self-satisfied, rather fat and ugly creatures.  Yet here they were walking about as if they were a gift to the Earth.  And why, you might ask?  Because they could talk.

As I said, everyone just laughed in the beginning.  Who would want to make a bunch of non-melodic, screeching, guttural sounds in the first place?  Now, the songbirds, they made beautiful sounds.  But the talking monkeys?  Hideous discord.  And yet their talking did something for them that gave them an edge over every other creature of the forest.  It allowed each one to describe what was happening in his own mind.  In this way, they could transfer thoughts and trade them back and forth.  In this way, they became deadly and fierce hunters and prowlers.

At this point, they had everyone’s attention.  No one dared to laugh anymore.  A talking monkey can give a thought to another talking monkey a mile away as quickly as one could swing from one vine to another, and that was pretty quick.  This allowed them to ban together, formulate plans, conquer territories, and put fear in the heart of every other creature.  Their goal was to become like the Angelic beings, who could also talk, and as time went on, they convinced first themselves and then others that they truly were Angelic beings.  But it was a lie.  They were just talking monkeys.

Soon, every creature avoided them, including the monkeys who could not talk.  In fact, the regular monkeys avoided them the most since the talking monkeys seemed to hate them so much.  Deep inside the talking monkeys knew they were not Angelic beings.  They knew they were just monkeys who could talk, and every time they saw a non-talking monkey, it reminded them of that fact.  Oh, how they hated the regular monkeys!  They reminded them of their lowly birth.

But as I said, this was the beginning, and shape-shifting still took place.  Some creatures shifted and took on the talking monkey form.  Some of them would stay that way and others would shift back.  Occasionally a talking monkey who was born that way would shift to become another creature because he knew of the destruction in the minds of the talking monkeys.  Alas, once he shifted over, he could tell no other creature of this destruction because he had lost the ability to talk.

Talking developed into rudimentary songs.  This developed into signs and symbols that represented the talking, which eventually developed into writing.  Now “talking” could be spread all over the world.  The talking monkeys grew exponentially and took over the Earth.  Soon, “talking” was everywhere.

Well, sometimes good things lead to bad, and sometimes bad things lead to good.  Mother Nature still loves polarity, after all.  Eventually, some of the talking became good talking and kind talking.  Some of the talking became brave talking and helpful talking.  And the more the talking developed into something good, the closer the talking monkeys came to being Angelic beings, but they didn’t know that because by that time they had forgotten all about the Angelic beings.  (As to the origin of the Angelic beings themselves, he with ears, let him hear.)

Of course, there was still more “bad talking” than there was “good talking” because, after all, these were only talking monkeys.  They still didn’t have beautiful fur or shiny skin.  They still couldn’t fly or run quickly.  They still had pathetic ears, paltry noses, and rather dim eyes.  They were also still very ugly and fat.  That’s a talking monkey for you.

And so to this day, you can still find talking monkeys if you look for them.  Some say they are everywhere.  If you find one with good talk, kind talk, brave talk, and helpful talk, then you may have found a keeper.  If you find one with bad talk, mean talk, cruel talk, and frightening talk, then you have just found yet another stupid talking monkey.  You also might find a creature who has shifted back to another form.  You will know them by their little hands and feet, which look a bit like the hands and feet of the talking monkeys.  The creature in the above photo is just such an old shifter.  Remember that the old shifters are good because they saw the Light.  Do not blame them for trying on the skin of the wily talking monkeys.

Talking, singing, writing, sending signs and symbols, communicating . . . One would think that such ability to use the Word would confer Angelic status immediately, but it is not so.  (That cannot be earned or taken.)  It is amazing, though, what has come from the talking monkeys.  Some of them show real promise, or so I’m told.  I have never met one myself as I prefer the old shifters who went back to their original form and wholeness.  When I am out in the forest, I ask out loud all the time, “Who would want to be a talking monkey?”  You know, to this day I have never gotten a response.  That speaks volumes.