May 31, 2016 - To You, Abigail

TO YOU, ABIGAIL

Here’s to you, Abigail

born in 1782

died in 1863

wife of John Babson

a pretty stone

tall and hard

carved and stately

not quite as nice as John’s

but nice enough

showing wealth

power and influence

marking a life lived

and gone so soon

with the cares

the worries

the fears

the strife

the fight

finished now

no need to worry anymore

no need for money

eighty-one years

marked by a stone

by hardness

white and ghostly

a short story

encased in a cartouche

the life and death

of Abigail

wife of John Babson

May 30, 2016 - Memorial Day

Today is Memorial Day, a day when we remember those who died in the service of our country.  These United States of America are 240 years old, which we will celebrate on July 4th.  (I remember the bicentennial as if it were yesterday.)  Two hundred and forty years is a long time, at least as far as humans are concerned, the average lifespan being 71 years.  Two hundred and forty years includes a lot of people, a lot of hopes, and a lot of dreams.

These united.

What does it mean to die in service of one’s country?  We could bring up all sorts of political ideas as an answer, this side verses that, this ideology above that.  We could talk about sleazy deals in dark, smoke-filled rooms.  We could talk about naivete and a young person’s desire to serve and protect.  We could talk about the arrogance of the “divine right” to rule.  But let’s not talk about any of that because too many people are already doing it.

Let’s talk about “country.”  What is country?  Country is just another word for home.  It’s just a very, very big home.  Just as each man is “king of the castle” in his own home, his own humble four walls, so the country is home to its citizens and each citizen has a stake in its upkeep and a voice in its direction.  Each citizen’s home is within the larger home called country.

“Country” is the physical place where the people live and have their being.  It’s the land they stand and work on every day.  It’s where they are born, live, and die.  It’s where they are buried after death.  Country is the land, the rocks, the trees, the animals, etc., that make up our personal world.  Country is the only thing that remains when everything else disappears.  The land is everlasting; everything else is quite temporary.

To die in service of one’s country is to die upholding the belief that these United States of America are greater than the sum of their parts.  It’s to die with the land and the trees and the sun in your heart, in the hope that you are preserving these things for someone else.  To die in service of one’s country is to be an active participant to the very end in the formation and love of your home.

We hear the term “globalism” every day, but I don’t pay it much mind.  Smashing everything together does not create a kaleidoscope of colors, only a grey and lifeless palette.  Cultures are “multi” because they are separate.  I am content with countries and borders and cultures and the unique beauty each offers to the other.  I am content with the exoticness of foreign lands and the excitement of learning about them, not being them.

Modern technology allows us all to share globally, but we must never forget “home.”  We must never forget “country.”  Home is the only thing worth having.  It’s the only thing that lasts.  It’s the only thing worth fighting for.  It’s the only thing worth dying for.  And I am grateful to those who have preserved it for me.

May 29, 2016 - Water Sprite

I suppose eventually it will be taken, this sacrificial offering to the river.  Most of the ancient and wise ones believed that every body of water had its own deity unique to it, or at least some sort of sprite.  Why should that have changed in modern times?  Every so often we are reminded of the terrible power of water with floods and hurricanes and typhoons.

Make a wish . . .

I never pass a body of water, no matter how small, without an offering.  Sometimes I will drop a flower in as I am crossing.  Usually, it’s just a small coin, but once in a while it’s a fragrant herb or a pretty marble.  Why not?  You never know.  This is an old custom that has survived to this day in the form of a “wishing well.”  A wish is stated out loud and then a coin is dropped into a well or a fountain.  Some say if it lands heads side up, the wish will come true, but I was always taught that you should never see where the coin lands.  If you do, your wish will not come true.

The Earth had a wish, and having no coins readily available, she tossed in this tree.  “I wish for continual growth and food for my children!”  And in went the tree.  Water beings are always just a bit lustful for Earth things, as is evident in their ferocious acquisition of the same during terrible storms.  But they never want the Earth to know this.  So the river sprite has turned her nose up to the offering.  But be of good heart!  When no one is looking, she will accept the gift.  It’s irresistible.

If she accepts the gift, granting the wish is a binding contract.  You can’t accept payment without delivering the goods.  It always ends tragically if attempted.  And how will the water sprite grant this wish to the powerful Earth?  She will send out her workers in the water cycle, and they will rain wealth upon the Earth and there will be lush growth and food.

The water sprite has so much more power than she knows.  The Earth is cunningly aware of this.

May 28, 2016 - Secret Roots

Life has come back to us full force.  Everything is green and beautiful.  Looking around, you would never know that winter had happened to us such a short time ago.  But the world is perennial, and each year the whole thing comes spilling back dramatically.  The hidden roots of life contain much energy, and they sleep in the dark of the Underworld as if dead until a secret signal is sent.  Then, all of a sudden, they burst forth with amazing power.

Hidden in the Underworld.

It was always taught to me that we humans are certainly not perennials.  We don’t die back and then return with amazing and increased vigor after receiving a secret signal from Persephone.  We stubbornly hang on to our life’s energy, watching it wane a bit each year until it is no more.  We have no secret roots that contain hidden powers.  When we are dead, we are dead.  Or so we are told.

It sure seems that everything else--the plants and even the fish and animals--is a perennial.  It dies and then comes back to life.  The “annual” plants that make seed and “die” at the end of the year seem to crop back up from the hidden power in their seeds.  The animals do this, too.  Even though they may die, they are replaced each year with stunning replicas.  Who’s to say there isn’t a hidden seed of power they leave behind?  And who’s to say it’s not the same animal that has come back?

So maybe they're wrong wrong.  Maybe I’m a perennial, too.  There’s only one way to find out for sure, and I’m not ready yet for that one-way excursion.  I’ve decided that while I’m here, I’ll operate under the supposition that I am a perennial, and I’ll leave secret seeds and old roots of myself everywhere.  They will be hidden in words and deeds and actions.  They will be buried in memories and ideas.  They will be rooted in spirit and the sleep of the Underworld.

After I die, spring will return again as it always does.  You can’t stop the stampede of spring.  The secret signal will be given and received as it always is, has been, and will be.  What will grow then?  I can’t say for sure, but look for me in the old oaks.  Look for me in poems.  Look for me in the odd ideas that creep unbidden into the mind.  If my seeds have survived, you’ll find me.

May 27, 2016 - Boxcar Man

An old boxcar stands in a clearing in the woods, riddled with bullet holes in many areas.  It’s obvious that someone lived here but not recently.  Remnants of an old mattress can be found, and rusty old empty cans of food are strewn about.  The cans have the old lithographic images on them, not modern wrappers.  A large rusty old sign that has fallen off the car says “Kingston, NH.”

Final stop.

How an old boxcar got all the way out here is anyone’s guess.  But the clearing itself is interesting because it is surrounded with pretty thick woods and just a few trails.  The clearing, however, is only beginning to be encroached by small trees.  Someone kept this clearing quite clear, and there is grass growing throughout it, not the normal forest vegetation that grows everywhere else.  It’s almost as though it were a lawn, and most likely it was a vegetable patch as well.

But then there are the bullet holes--lots of them.  The old boxcar could just have been used for target practice long after its occupant had left, but somehow that doesn’t seem right to me.  Why shoot an old boxcar and risk ricocheting?  No.  Something happened here, and after it happened the boxcar was abandoned, the occupant gone forever.

I find bits of history here and there:  old bottles and cans; old antique square raisin head nails, rusty and twisted; an odd bit of pottery here and there.  Sometimes I leave them where they are, and sometimes I pick them up and bring them home.  I clean them up a bit, and if they’re not in bad shape, I’ll find a use for them.  Meadow flowers sure look pretty in old antique bottles.

There’s history all around us if we pay attention.  Sometimes you have to really look for it because our “modern” society doesn’t want you to get too familiar with it.  You’re only allowed to get familiar with controlled history--what you’d read about in a magazine or see in a museum.  The last thing in the world certain elements of society want you to have is a sense of continuity and the knowledge that this same fight has been fought for a very long time.  The connection is kept a secret.

Rest in peace, boxcar man.

May 26, 2016 - Sanctuary

Relax peacefully in a sanctuary, wherever that sanctuary may be.  Our society tells us we must have riches to enjoy the beauty of the world, but that is a lie.  It goes something like this:  If only you had enough money, you could buy this, go here, and have the time for that.  Just work a little harder, a little longer.

Now, I am all for hard work and being rewarded by the fruits of our labor.  I’m all for pulling our own weight in the world.  But I’m talking about something else here.  I’m talking about the people who sell a lie, who dangle a carrot on the end of a stick but who never pay up because they haven’t got it in the first place.

It comes from within.

Not one red cent is needed to enjoy your sanctuary, your peace.  Watching the sun go down--whether it’s over the ocean, over a mountain, or over the house next door--is free.  Listening to relaxing music is free.  Walking along a riverfront is free.  Inhaling the early morning air is free.

And for those living in tight quarters or crowded cities or dangerous places, a sanctuary can always be created indoors.  Create it throughout the house/apartment or create it in just one room.  Add the elements:  A candle for the sun, a small waterfall piece for the ocean, incense for the air, and a plant for the earth.  Add the music you like and dress in a way that makes you feel that it’s your world.

Do I sound like an advertisement?  I hope not.  It’s just that a breathtaking scene is not always available, and while computer images of nature scenes are wonderful, sometimes they’re just not enough.  But it doesn’t matter because sanctuary comes from within, not without.  There are plenty of wealthy people in the world and plenty among them are miserable.  Riches do not guarantee peace and a sanctuary.  That is something you must build yourself.

It can be different for everyone:  Fishing on a quiet lake, hot apple pie fresh out of the oven, a garden full of flowers, Gregorian chants in the background, a walk through a history museum . . .  It’s sanctuary, and it’s virtually free or very inexpensive.  And it starts with you, with your peace, your love, and your heart.

May 25, 2016 - Woods Dragon

Do not be fooled by this faerie-glamour!  In passing, you might think you are just seeing an old dead tree that has fallen long ago.  But how many trees are shaped like this?  Think about it.  No, what you are seeing is a Woods Dragon.  I may have told you about them a year or so ago, but I haven’t seen one since.  I thought I was in the clear.  Until today.

A sleeping woods dragon.

You can see the flexible spine, curling much as a snake might.  What tree does this?  And can you see the spiky armor jutting out from its metallic-like skin?  I know of no trees that look like this, at least not in this era.  A few thousand years back, maybe, but that’s another story for another time.

I found this one fast asleep in the dappled shade of old oaks and pines.  I tiptoed by as quietly as possible.  It doesn’t do well to wake a sleeping dragon, as anyone can tell you.  They have such short tempers, after all.  I suppose I would too if I were covered with razor-sharp spikes.  Just getting into a comfortable position for a nap could easily take a year.

But you know what they say:  Where there’s a dragon, there’s a treasure.  It’ll be my job over the next few months to scour the area in search of the treasure.  A quick preliminary look produced delicate Lady Slipper flowers (which I shall document more as the days go on) as well as Painted Lady flowers.  Both are endangered, with some of the Lady Slippers being protected by law and punishable as a felony if picked.

Both flowers are treasures in and of themselves.  I might have known I’d find them there.  Dragons love to hoard beautiful flowers.  I wonder what else I will find as the months go on.  The pursuit of Maine continues . . .

May 24, 2016 - Pilgrim

PILGRIM

Let this be my home, then

no looking back

all bridges burnt anyway

with nowhere to go

but forward.

Don’t cry over jagged rocks

that cut when you fall.

At least you still fall.

And frozen sheets of ice

that slice the skin.

At least you still feel.

No promises, then

from a barren coast

where even the sun hides

most days in shadowy gloom.

Each inch forged by man

slowly and painfully

one step at a time.

Tiny triumphs amid perpetual pain

but still carving home

deliberately chiseling god.

 

 

May 23, 2016 - An Old Friend

Another spring comes to the old barn in the field.  The grass is green, the trees are starting to leaf out, the air is fragrant, and everywhere there’s a sense of peace.  This old barn is another one of those markers I’ve mentioned that keep me on the path.  I know when I pass the old barn I’ll soon be coming to the strawberry fields.  Of course, that reminds me that there will be a lot of work to do in another month if I’m going to put by enough strawberry jam for the year.

An old friend.

And, of course, I will.  Strawberries only come once a year for a couple of weeks, so if I’m going to put enough away, I have to get very busy.  I am down to my last jar as it is, and that won’t do at all.  Life without homemade strawberry jam is dull, indeed.  I’m glad to have the old barn to remind me of such things.  He’s a good friend and always gives me enough time to get ready.

After I pick all the berries, I’ll head for home and pass by the old barn again.  The grass ought to be pretty high by then, although it will be higher still before they start haying the field.  He oversees the work, the barn does, and he’s quite good at it.  He has never missed a summer of work in over 150 years.  That’s loyalty.  And after the haying, he’ll keep the stacks nice and dry.

When I drive by the old barn in the winter, I think about my jam because the two always go hand in hand in my mind.  Chances are, I will have had some just that morning so it will still be fresh in my thoughts.  It’s comforting to think about it when the ice and snow is everywhere.  I like to call it “sunshine in a jar.”  It reminds me of sunny fields, singing birds, hard labor in the heat, soft breezes, and the old barn.  One taste and I’m back in the sunny field with my old friend even in February.  It’s nice to have a friend like that.

May 22, 2016 - Embrace

As this tree slowly falls over, its roots, which long ago surrounded a boulder, now pull it up with the tree.  The boulder is larger than me, to give an idea of how big and heavy it truly is and how intimate the relationship is between the roots and the rock.  It was meant to be a “forever embrace,” and the tree is honoring its promise.  Eventually, of course, the tree will decay and the boulder will be released, but that is still “forever” to the tree.

A forever embrace.

It is a relationship they started a long time ago.  The rock will live forever, at least what is considered “forever” to human beings, and that’s forever enough.  It’s not easy to be the survivor.  Living long has its trials, too, of which the dead know nothing.  An embrace such as this doesn’t happen every day.  It is an eternal promise.  When these two friends part, it will be the survivor who dies.

May 21, 2016 - Everything

I think I may have mentioned old Ed before, but he bears mentioning again.  I was much younger when I met old Ed, and if I were to meet him today, I’m not sure if I’d think of him as “old” Ed.  But that was a long time ago.  Prehistory.  I’m sure old Ed is pushing up daisies now.

When I met him, old Ed was very pleased with himself.  He’d made quite a name for himself in “polite society,” and he’d made quite a bit of money over the years as well.  You might say old Ed was doing alright.  He was a retired professor, and when I asked him where he had taught, he said, “Tufts,” and when he said it, he tossed his head up and back just a wee bit.  Every time he said “Tufts,” he did that.  He tossed his head up and back.  I realized that I might be in the presence of no ordinary person.

Everything.

Anyhow, old Ed talked to me for a bit.  I was doing some outside work on his property for a company he had hired that I worked for, and it was very hard work.  He was inspecting my work, and he was good at it.  We got to talking about society and people and attitudes, and at one point he said to me, “Appearances are everything--EVERYTHING.”  And he tossed his head up and back again when he said it to make sure that I knew he was serious.  I disagreed.  He repeated himself and then looked at my baseball cap, t-shirt, and sweatpants.  I silently laughed, but I made sure he didn’t see me.

Old Ed sure was a character, and I think about him now and then, usually with fondness.  He was doing the best he could.  Today was one of those days that I thought about old Ed.  I was out in the woods and needed to take a break, so I sat down on a large rock in the shade and started to think.  That’s when old Ed came into my mind.  I started to think about how he had said “EVERYTHING,” as if it were so vital.  I wondered what “everything” really was.

A hermit thrush was whistling his haunting, flute-like melody in a bush not far from me.  That’s my favorite forest bird, and I sat back and closed my eyes and listened to his beautiful voice.  It’s truly an amazing sound, and I thought to myself that might be “everything.”  When I opened my eyes, I was greeted with that brand new paddy green color of spring.  It was everywhere and it was breathtaking.  And I thought to myself that might also be “everything.”

The breeze was so fresh and delightful.  The temperature was perfect.  There wasn’t a soul to be found except for me, and that might have qualified as “everything.”  It was quiet and peaceful and relaxing.  What an afternoon . . .

I thought of the “everythings” I knew about.  Loyal friends, a warm and soft bed, a good roof over my head, a sweet little cat, fresh bread, good wine, and laughter.  I thought about a baby’s cry, which even though it drives you crazy, when you don’t hear it anymore, you realize how it was “everything.”  I thought of old letters from friends, the pages yellow with time, sitting in a drawer in my dresser.  I thought about the sun and the rain and my garden.  I thought about all the puzzle pieces that make up the whole.

Old Ed was wrong.  Oh, appearances can be lovely things, and certainly we are attracted to what pleases the eye or fools the sensibilities.  But old Ed was wrong.  There are a lot of things that qualify in my life as “EVERYTHING,” but appearances are not on the list.  I guess I’m lucky to have a lot of “everythings.”  But then, old Ed had his “everything,” too, and he was happy, so who’s to say which of us is right or wrong?

Someday I’ll be pushing up daisies, too, just like old Ed.  My “everythings” might not mean very much to someone else at that time, but that’s okay because, after all, they’re mine.  “Everythings” are unique to individuals.  You just have to decide what yours are, and then try to appreciate them before you join old Ed and me.

May 20, 2016 - A Celebration

While walking in the woods today, I heard the trees speaking to one another.  It’s a creaking, cracking, clicking kind of sound that could easily be dismissed.  If you just stand still for half a minute, they will begin talking.  Or maybe they never stop talking, but it takes us half a minute to adjust to their voices.  As I said, the sound could easily be dismissed.

It comes from the very top of the tree cover.  With spring here, they have much to talk about, and their words are different than they were in the winter.  In the winter, it was a harsh cracking and groaning kind of sound, a sound of difficulty.  But now in the spring, the clicks and snaps are quick and lively.  It almost feels like an electrical wave.  Perhaps it is.  There is so much work to be done and so many creatures relying on them!

Slowly rolling along.

The wind joined in, and it was a welcome sound since he hasn’t participated that way in a while.  In the winter he howls and shrieks and sometimes cries.  But in the spring, the small new leaves of the maple trees rustle frantically and happily in the wind, carrying his message around the forest.  When all of the leaves have arrived, he will sound like a symphony.

All around, the buzzes of new insects and tweets of crazily busy birds could be heard.  It makes me blush to say, but it is a veritable celebration of sex as everywhere the riotous mating calls could be heard.  The spring peepers (frogs) will join in during the night along with the other night creatures.  Day and night, it’s a celebration of the continuity of life.

It’s happening all around us, right in front of us.  It’s still rated “G,” though, and you don’t need to cover the children’s eyes or ears.  It’s the unfolding of life, and we’re all a part of it.

And it’s not separate things.  It’s just one big giant thing that continues to roll on and on, slowly but surely.  Life was created once only, and that was a very long time ago and there’s no need to argue about how it happened.  Let us simply rejoice that it did happen.  All the rest of us--the animals, people, plants, etc.,--all we do is continue it.  We don’t create it.  We continue it.  Here’s to riding on the train for a while!

May 19, 2016 - The Enchanted Pool

Every once in a while, the clouds will set in low over what we call “the pond” (a dammed portion of the ocean between two peninsulas in Harpswell).  If you look closely at the photo, you’ll the see that the clouds seem to echo the shape of the treeline, or is it the other way around?  I can’t be sure.  A row of green clouds; a row of grey clouds.  What does it matter?

Narcissus waits.

Not to be outdone or overshadowed, the water then echoes perfectly the world above it, or is it the other way around?  Again, I can’t be sure.  A couple of times a day, the water becomes as still as a mirror, saying, “This is the magic time.”  Like Narcissus, the son of the river god Cephissus in the Greek religion, the Earth creeps to the shoreline to gaze at her own beauty.  Will she fall in love with herself as Narcissus did?  But we all know that ended tragically with Narcissus’ death.  Let’s hope the Earth can resist.

At the very place where the land meets the water, a clear line can be seen.  It is the line of demarcation, the line that says you may not pass.  This line separates two worlds that, for now, look exactly the same.  But they are very different worlds.  Attempting to jump from one to the other would not go well for the creatures that dwell on either side.

If you could nimbly pull the line apart like a giant zipper, each side would spill off in its own direction, very much as a coat does when unzipped.  And, like a coat, once unzipped it would reveal the being who dwells beneath the protective covering.  The face of the Great Alchemist would at last be revealed.  Or . . . have you already fallen into the enchanted pool?

May 18, 2016 - Little Bridges

I like little bridges better than big ones.  The big ones take me across something too huge to comprehend:  An entire river, a highway over several streets, a way to get from one country to another.  Those are some really big bridges.  A lot of talk and squabbling and money and politics go into those big bridges.  They look nice lit up at night and they get you where you need to go (if you must), but they sure do give you a woozy feeling in the pit of your stomach when you’re halfway across.

From one condition to another.

But not the little ones.  The little bridges are there for a simple reason, usually just to pass over something such as a small gully like that in the photo or to make travel more comfortable and less muddy.  Those are honest bridges.

I still get the “bridge feeling” when I go over a little bridge, though, sometimes even more than when I go over a large bridge.  It’s a feeling like I’m passing from one world to another, and while I’m on the bridge, I’m in a special “in between state” that is both of the worlds and neither at the same time.  When I step on to the bridge, my mind tells me I’m leaving the old behind.  When I step off the bridge, my mind tells me I’m starting something new.  It’s a psychological thing.

And speaking of that, have you ever “bridged” a conversation with someone?  It’s something you do where you change the subject when you’re speaking with someone.  You start with what you were talking about and then you do a sort of transition into a new topic that you cleverly relate to the first topic, whether there is a relation or not.  Then you continue on the new subject.  That’s called bridging.  It’s a little bridge, just like the one in the photo.  It gets you over a muddy place, and it’s fairly honest.

Little bridges are good for that, but they have to be little bridges.  If you do it right, the conversation flows smoothly.  But if you use a bridge too big, your friend will be talking neurosurgery while you’re talking gardening.  See what I mean about big bridges?  Talk, squabbling, and politics.  Stick with the little bridges, and if they have pretty stones and little steps and a solid wooden structure to them, they make the journey all the nicer. If they’re at an entrance into the forest, you can bet that the world you’re about to enter is infinitely more interesting than the one you’re about to leave.

May 17, 2016 - Desolation

I come out to the rocks because I can think there unfettered by useless distractions.  In this place, I cannot be fooled.  I cannot be distracted or tempted away or guilted into doing something.  There is no cellphone here and no civilization.  There are no stores to shop at and nothing in the form of entertainment.  It’s a pretty desolate spot.

Desolation appears to be necessary in life.  Our lives are not fueled by abundance and plenty, but rather by lack and need.  Not many people living in opulence stop to wonder how they can improve their situation.  It’s lack and need that fuel desire and ambition.  It’s desolation that gives rise to the poet’s emotions and the artist’s impressions.

A desolate spot.

A certain amount of desolation, pain, and loneliness is required to cultivate kindness, generosity, and friendship.  If we were surrounded by the things we wanted all the time--all the friendships we could ever desire, all the wealth, clothing, money, food, etc., just everything--we would never develop need and want.  And more’s the pity for that.  We would never know what yearning is, what a burning desire and hope in the heart feel like.

We are surrounded by distractions that make us think we have more than we actually do.  They makes us think we have wealth and companionship, or at least they make us too busy to realize that we don’t have wealth or companionship or, for many people, even the basic needs of life.  Our distractions keep us busy.  They keep us entertained and forgetful.

Oddly enough, these distractions are in and of themselves a hidden desolation.  Like any desolation, however, if properly recognized, they can be used to force us to think, to force us to finally do what we need to do, to fuel our true desires and ambitions.  But that’s a difficult road to go, and not many people can do it.  It’s too easy to get sucked back into the phony entertainment and tacky glitter.  It takes a lot to be able to see through the utter nothingness of our modern distractions to the heart of desolation.

So we go out and we find the lonely spots on Earth.  We find the places where we are alone, where we can just sit with the wind whipping at our backs as we stare out and make our decisions about life, make our plans for the future, make peace with the Universe.  We find the lonely places that help us to make fresh starts, to commit once again to life.  With our vision unclouded by the crass tinsel and tawdry glitter of the modern world, we can finally see who we are.

And the only way to do this is to stand before the Universe with no smokescreens, no distractions, nothing hiding us from the world or the world from us.  We can say what we’re thinking out loud--very loudly, in fact.  There’s no one there to hear us.  Except for ourselves.  Finally.  That’s what the lonely, windy places bring us.  They bring us ourselves.

May 16, 2016 - The Old Countryside

Some people get angry when they see old, decrepit barns dotting the countryside.  “They should clear that up!  That’s an eyesore!  That’s dangerous!”  But me, I just love them.  Every time I see an old barn long past its glory days, I see a story well told.  I see generations of people living and working, hoping and growing, loving and dying.  I see comfortable animals and shelter from the rain and the sweet smell of prosperity.

A thousand stories to tell.

But every so often, a farmer will oblige the once-borns and tear down an old barn.  It will come down quickly, and he’ll haul away all the debris.  Very soon, the meadow will grow over any footprint left, and there will be no evidence that a barn was ever there.  Someone driving by for the first time would smile and see just a peaceful meadow.  But me, I see a gaping hole in the universe.  Every time I drive by, my mind’s eye looks for the barn, looks for the landmark that should be there to let me know where I am in my journey.  When I don’t find it, I feel completely out of sorts.

It doesn’t go away, either.  The blow becomes less severe, but there are still places I drive by 20 or 30 years later, and I still think of the barn that used to be there.  In my mind’s eye, I still see it sitting there on the horizon, peaceful and content.  There’s an empty place in the meadow where the barn disappeared.  Like a black hole, the matter was completely sucked in and dematerialized forever, brought back to antimatter.

But not in my mind.  I know where all the old barns still are.  I know where the old fences still are.  I know where the cattle used to roam.  They still do, somewhere in my mind.  I still see the countryside as it always was, dotted with the ancient barns.  Does that mean I’m getting old?  If so, bring it on.

As if I had a choice in the matter.

May 15, 2016 - Magic Dent

The farmers have already plowed their fields, and soon the seeds will be sown.  This particular field will be getting corn, not the sweet corn you buy in the market but what is known as “dent,” or field corn.  Dent has a very thick skin, unlike sweet corn, and is comparably very hard.  You couldn’t cook it long enough to ever bite into it like an ear of sweet corn.

Dent is starchy, hard corn, and more dent is grown in the United States than any other corn, or any other grain for that matter.  Dent is the backbone of the world of agriculture.  From this grain, we get ground cornmeal for bread, corn chips, and tortillas.  We also get corn starch, corn sugar, and corn syrup.  We get ethanol and dozens and dozens of industrial uses from it, including cosmetics, food additives, soaps, etc.

Where the magic dent will grow.

Most importantly, however, is the use of dent corn for animal feed.  You know, corn has gotten a really bad rap that it doesn’t deserve.  Yes, if you feed an animal too much corn, it will grow too fat.  But it is a great way to help feed animals and “warm” them up in the winter.  My chickens always love cracked dent because of the quick energy and “heat” they get from it, which can make the difference between life and death in the cold Maine winter.

Dent corn--or any corn--has a lot of anti-nutritive qualities for humans that can only be neutralized by soaking the corn in a caustic substance such as lime or lye.  These substances break open the outer shell, which is then washed away, leaving the edible inside available and freeing up vitamins that are otherwise unusable.

How the ancient peoples of the world knew this . . . is anyone’s guess, but they did know it and they did soak their corn--always.  Somehow they knew how to break through the tough skin.  Somehow they knew that corn was anti-nutritive without first “processing” it with lime.  I doubt very much they did any laboratory experiments.  It’s too bad that many Americans in the deep south in the early part of the last century did not have this knowledge.  It could have saved them from developing debilitating pellagra--which was at an epidemic level at that time--because the niacin in the corn they ate was bound up in the untreated shell.

But in any event, we know now what the natives always knew.  And how they knew it . . . is again, anyone’s guess.  What helpful spirit informed them on how to break through the corn seeds’ resistance?  It’s a subject for discussion over a glass of wine after a dinner filled with delicious tortillas.

Would you believe, though, that this is not an article about corn?  Absolutely not.  You see, I couldn’t help but notice that while the farmers are still waiting to sow their seeds, Mother Nature has already produced her first harvest.  Behold the field of a million dandelions behind the cornfield, filled with tremendous nutrition in the leaves, medicine in the roots, and sustenance for the bee population.  No matter how much we’ve figured out how to “crack the code” of using foods wisely, such as corn, Mother Nature is always a thousand steps ahead of us.

When I look out my window, I feel as if a giant has prepared his delicious salad to eat.  He has picked up his pepper mill to crank over the greens, but instead of peppercorns coming out, someone has filled the whole mill with yellow dandelions.  The giant is beside himself when he looks at his salad.  Now the field is “peppered” with dandelions, and a very mischievous sprite is hiding from a giant and laughing ever so hysterically.  She had better not laugh too loud though, fee-fi-fo-fum . . .

[Always be certain that the corn products you buy show in the ingredients that the corn has been treated with lime.  Otherwise, you are eating an anti-nutritive product that will strip your body of nutrients.]

May 14, 2016 - The Little Things

It’s the little things in life, really, that matter the most.  And if that’s a cliché, then so be it.  In the end, I mean, after all is said and done.  The large home, the fame, the fancy car, the designer clothing--none of that matters.  They’re not little enough.

Moments.

A colorful sky comes closer to the “little things” because even though it’s vast, it’s fleeting.  The ocean, too, can qualify since it cannot be quantified.  The Earth, the forest, the deserts . . . all these things matter and come close to the “little things,” but they still aren’t quite little enough.

What is little enough to matter in the end?  What might be the last thing we appreciate and say goodbye to with tears in our eyes and love in our hearts when we die?  The first chirp of a tiny bird who senses dawn half an hour before it actually comes.  A blade of grass.  A momentary whiff of a lily or a rose when the plant is nowhere in sight.  An azure dragonfly.  A bird hovering far, far above.  A tiny breeze against the back of your neck.  The sound of a baby breathing.  The scent of dew.  The wail of a loon.

Tiny things, momentarily available, breathtakingly unique.  In the end, those are all that matter.

May 13, 2016 - Opened

OPENED

He asked me to open my heart

but he didn’t know

it was already empty

long ago

I tried to explain

not mislead

or misguide

just be honest

but he laughed

disbelieving desolation

then he grabbed the latch

and pulled

and the world spilled out

again

quite by accident

May 12, 2016 - Feeling the Storm

Is it not peculiar that weather is referred to in terms of emotions?  The fury of the storm, the gladness of the sun, the desolation of the ice, the hope of spring.  And it’s also peculiar and is certainly no mistake that people often behave differently in different kinds of weather.  “I don’t know what happened to me yesterday.  I guess I was just out of sorts, feeling so overcast . . .”

I can’t help but think there’s more to it than just a coincidence.  Surely, we all know some people who are simply miserable when it’s raining out and joyous when the sun shines.  Of course, there are those who feel joy and serenity in the rain (I am one of them) and suffocation in the sun, so we can’t say that our mood will be identical to the weather, although for some people it is.  We can, however, say that in one way or another, our mood will be affected by the weather.

I can feel it coming.

I think it’s something else going on, though.  I think we have a direct relationship with the weather, and the kind of relationship we have with it determines how we will react to it, hence different reactions to the same weather pattern.  It also determines how we will display our own emotions when the time comes for them to erupt.  And the time always comes.  The volcano within never sleeps.

I think the weather is the emotions of the planet.  When you look out your window at a weather phenomenon--brilliant sun, torrential rain, raging blizzard, eerie fog--you actually feel it.  You feel that weather.  You feel the mood of the planet.  But how is that possible?  We can certainly feel the emotions of other people, but can we feel the emotions of the planet?  I think we can.  Emotions are attracted to their own kind.  Of course, that would mean that the Earth is a living being . . .

But the turning of the Earth on its axis, the rotation of the Earth as she dances, the water cycle, the moon and tides--these things all have explanations, we say.  Indeed, they do.  And yet when the storm hits, which of us do not feel the storm in our bodies?  And when we rage ourselves on the inside, furious with someone or something, which of us do not resemble the most terrible raging lightning?  And when we smile with love at child, do we not feel the warmth of the sun even if it is cloudy outside?

There’s more to it than we realize.  I am inclined to believe that if we study the weather patterns and their effects, we might learn a great deal about ourselves and how to better handle our emotions.  The trick is to find out what our unique relationship is to the weather, and for each of us that is a different thing.  When we observe the devastation of the storm and its inevitability, we might be able to plan better.  Our own inner storms are certainly inevitable--if we are alive, they are inevitable--but a little foresight before the onslaught might make a huge difference in the outcome.

Meanderings . . . wandering through the gentle brook that spills over the sun-warmed pebbles in my mind . . .