Thursday, July 28, 2016

July 28, 2016 - Painted Linen


Walking lonely shores, I wonder how I could have found it so desolate at one time.  With searing sun burning skin and grass and trees, then rain as gray and cold as death, how could I have been so blind?  With salty ocean tears rusting and destroying all in their path, then spiky shells as sharp as razor blades drawing blood in the sand, how could I have been so foolish?  With barren land awash with clay, cracking in the summer’s heat, then strangling vines and broken trees and fetid swamps, how could I have been so frightened?

The Artist's brush . . .

My youth was misspent in pursuing glimpses of brilliant flowers and fairy castles, searching for the sweetest fruits; in vainly commanding my environment, to the detriment of my soul; in wandering in search of beauty, blinded by my own inexperience and lack of knowledge.  My eyes saw nothing but what my pride told them to seek; and shunned the discarded feathers of the free and tired bird.

But the Artist paints me still, and sky and sea and land, with a brush much older, much used, and now much loved, at last.  Stroking brilliant colors or bland and grey and terrible; it matters not.  The beauty is divinely given, equal portions to all (or not), known only to the few.  The patterns in the sky match the many roads my soul has taken, grateful at last for a pittance, tasting as sweet as the most delicate of fruits.  Indeed, much sweeter for the hard and weary earning.

How could I have been so blind?  My eyes were not old enough, but when they finally ripened, my heart and soul leapt on to the canvas of the Artist, still wet and changing, dripping into fairy castles, and blended with the many colors there, home at last, a part of the precious painted linen.

Sunday, July 24, 2016

July 24, 2016 - The Blueprint

THE BLUEPRINT

It has always been hiding in plain sight
all around me
the answer has been everywhere
written in the veins of every leaf
carried in the scent of every flower
whispered on the wind
formed in the clouds
beauty, love, and the continuity of life
the blueprint has always been there
the plan has been set before my eyes
placed before I was born
the Great Alchemist as architect
the plans perfect and simple
each piece mirroring the other in harmony
the directions clear and plain
written for a child
the formula exact
but if done otherwise
the foundation crumbles
every time
then construction begins anew
the tower reaching for the heavens
the architect is wise
and patient
the plans are perfect

Wednesday, July 20, 2016

July 20, 2016 - Dark Conversations

I headed to the cemetery again to experience life.  That’s where I go when I need a full dose of it.  There’s no other thing in this world that will remind us so much of life than death itself.  In the cemetery, there are no lies.  There are no glossy advertisements or sexual distractions.  There is no amusement, no food, and no shopping.  There are only the cold stony reminders of life once lived and now passed.

I was in a section of graves from the 1800s—a newer section for this graveyard—when I came across a remarkable man.  He was dressed in a grey suit with a black hat and black shoes.  He carried a black umbrella.  I was surprised to see anyone in this section because I’ve never seen anyone there before.  Most people don’t visit graves that are 150 years old.  We made eye contact and I quickly looked away, not knowing if eye contact was appropriate among the dead.  Certainly, it’s rarely even appropriate among the living.

Ready to talk.
He headed straight toward me before I could leave, and since he looked harmless enough, I stayed.  He tipped his hat and greeted me.

“So you are back again!” he said.  I felt a bit awkward.  Had he been spying on me?  Had he seen me in this section before?  Did he know that I come here often?
“Well, I . . .” I stuttered.
“Yes, yes, and yes!” he said.  “I have been spying on you.  I have seen you in this section before.  And I do know that you come here often.”
“You might be thinking of someone else.”
“Oh, no.  It was you,” he said, “I never forget a face.”
“Who are you?” I asked, backing up a couple of paces.
“Oh, don’t mind me!  I’m the groundskeeper here.”

Of course, I didn’t believe him for one minute, not with those dapper clothes.  Yet I found myself unwilling to leave.

“Well, you’ve done a fine job,” I said.
“Thank you!  And when I said ‘spying,’ I just meant that it’s my job to know what goes on around here, so please don’t be alarmed.  I love having guests!”
“Not many people visit a graveyard,” I began, but he cut me off with his exuberance.
“And more’s the pity for that!  There’s so much to do and learn here!”
“I guess.”
“Well surely that’s why you come, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Mainly, I just come for the peace.”
“Right you are!” he said.  “Eternal peace!  Now, let me show you a few things here.”

So we began to walk around a bit with him pointing out various graves and grand crypts.

“Now you take this fellow here,” he said.  “He was a Revolutionary War hero!”
“Was he?” I asked, interested in spite of the odd conversation.  “What was he like?”
“Oh, he was brave and strong!  He was a great soldier!”
“Was he a great man?”
“Well,” he hesitated, “He never learned how to listen to the desires of another person’s heart.”
“But you liked him, right?” I asked, quite forgetting where I was.
“It’s easy to like simplicity in a fool, but I liked him well enough.”
“Oh.”

“And this lady here,” he said, stepping on the soldier’s flat grave as he walked.
“You just stepped on a grave.”
“Yes, quite right.  It’s the easiest way to get from point A to point B.”
“But isn’t it a bit rude?” I asked.
“Not at all!  This is my place, and the residents all work for me.  We have a good relationship.”
“Oh.”

“So this woman here,” he continued, “She was his wife, but before that she had been the lover of a soldier of the enemy’s army.  She gave away her lover’s secret to our soldier here, and that information actually helped to turn the tide of the war.  Without her knowledge, you and I might not be standing here today!  Although I’m sure we would have found another excellent place.”

“So she betrayed one man for another?” I asked.  “How could she live with herself?”
“She had a hard time.  So did her husband as he was always suspicious about her fidelity.”
“But how could he wonder since it was her knowledge that gave him victory??”
“Well I told you that he never learned how to listen to the desires of another person’s heart.”
“Oh, yes, you did say that.”
“People waste a lot of time that way,” he said.
“Yes, I suppose they do.”

He looked at me with a sly smile and I wondered if he knew that my own heart was full of suspicions.  I decided that somehow he did.

We found ourselves at another grave.  This was a newer grave placed only two years ago.  I wondered why it was in an older section of the graveyard since I didn’t think they put fresh graves here anymore.  Before the grave was a chair.

As if he knew what I was thinking, he said, “It’s odd finding this new grave here, isn’t it?  She comes to visit him quite regularly, you know.  She places a stone by the grave every time she comes, and she sits and talks.”

“What does she talk about?”
“Oh, everything and anything!” he said.  “Would you like to sit down?”
“No!  I mean, it—it’s not my chair.”
“That it isn’t.  Not your grave either.”
“No,” I said, feeling uncomfortable.  “Does she know you listen in?”
“Of course!  Sometimes she talks directly to me instead of him.”
“Oh.”

We walked on a bit with him stepping on graves here and there, seeming not to notice he was doing so, but certainly not appearing to be deliberately disrespectful.  I suppose it really was the easiest way to get from point A to point B.

“It’s a very direct route, you know,” he said, and I wondered if he really was reading my mind.  “I’ll wager that you’ve already noticed the stark comparison of life and death here.  You must know that there is nothing to distract you here.  Things are quite obvious, and everything is as it appears.  There are no masks here.”

“You seem to know a lot about it,” I said.
“Yes, quite a bit,” he smiled.  “As I said, the residents all work for me, and their history is a kind of currency here, which I use to buy parts of reality—a sort of manifestation, if you will.  And even though they work for me, I’m the one who gets paid.  I take their history and I create ‘the past’ with it, and the past is a very potent way to influence the present, you see, and thereby shape the future.”

“Yes.  I guess,” I said, not really sure I understood but not sure I liked the direction the conversation had taken, either.  “Will you ever release them?”
“They’re free to go at any time,” he said, looking a bit slighted.
“Then why don’t they?”
“Well, ultimately it’s the living who keep them here.”
“How so?” I asked.
“It’s the expectation and belief that death is the end.  It’s the putting away of the truth of the nature of life, the hiding of the facts, the refusal to face reality by the living that keeps them here.  They are here because they are expected to be here.  They are here because this is the only place they’re allowed to be.”

We walked on a bit and found ourselves right back at the new grave with the chair in front of it.

“Are you sure you don’t want to try it on for size?” he asked.
“Which one?  The grave or the chair?”  This made him laugh uproariously.
“I say!  That’s quite good!  Whichever you please!”

I sat down in the chair and looked at the grave and then at him.

“It doesn’t feel right,” I said.
“Give it time.  You’ve still got some of that.”
“Have I?”
“A bit more, it would seem.  And I would love to stay and chat, but I realize that I am needed most urgently on the other side of the cemetery.  There’s a gal there who has decided to take up residence, so we’ve much to get straightened out.  I’ll say goodbye to you for now.”

He tipped his hat and walked slowly away, stepping on graves as he went.

I called loudly after him, “Will you step on my grave someday?”
“Very likely,” he said, without turning around.

Monday, July 18, 2016

July 18, 2016 - Rain at Last


A long time ago, I knew an old woman who was having a very difficult time in life.  (She seemed old at the time, anyway, although I don’t know that I’d classify her that way today.)  She was at a crossroads.  She had made a decision and her choice had gone badly.  Now she didn’t know what to do.  She kept saying to me, “Oh, Melanie!  What am I going to do??”  Day after day she would say this.  Day after day I would offer what little advice I could.  Day after day my words flew apart like leaves in the wind.

Finally, one day she told me that the problem was not the problem.  The real issue, she said, was that she had not been able to cry about it yet.  Being young, I did not know what she meant, since in those days, the faucet was always running for me.  I hadn’t gotten to the point yet in life where tears become a scarce commodity that must be dearly earned.  She told me that if only she could cry, then she could move on, but not before.

Finally, rain . . .
She went from sad to frustrated to angry because she could not cry.  Every time I saw her, she would say to me, “I still have not cried,” as if it were an announcement of grave importance.  And, indeed, it was, but I was too young to understand.  “I still have not been able to cry,” she would say, and she would walk silently away, lost in her thoughts.

But then it happened.  One day she burst toward me with joy and excitement in her eyes, and she told me that the night before she had finally been able to cry.  She grabbed my hands and squeezed them with elation!  “And I finally got it out!” she said.  She explained that she was finally able to grieve, finally able to let it go, and finally able to think of new options.

Many years later, I still think of her and her beloved tears, of how dear they were to her.  I have had some precious tears myself as time has passed, and I now know how vital they can be, how jealously we must guard them.  I also now know what it’s like to be unable to cry until the time is right, and to not be in any control whatsoever of knowing when that time will be.

I think the Earth is the same way.  We’ve finally had a couple of big rainstorms, rain we so desperately needed, rain that was so longed for and so important.  And it finally rained.  Then came the morning.  The frogs were happy and busily hopping about after the dragonflies.  The day after a rainstorm always feels like a fresh start.  Everything is washed and clean and new again.  There’s an audible sigh of relief, a sound of thanksgiving, a feeling of deep gratitude.

We have been renewed.  It is time to pick up the burden again, tighten our belts, and move on down the trail.  It has finally rained.