October 30, 2016 - Surrender

But it has become more pronounced now.  It has gone from an odd feeling to a palpable presence.  Everywhere, the head is bent in acquiescence.  The mighty gives way, and all knees bend—willingly or no, it does not matter; the end is the same and the knee shall be bent.  And the sun, too.  It travels in a strange and low arc in the sky now, chasing after the ripples in the ether from a butterfly’s wings.  Somewhere the fruition of those waves will be found, but not here and not now.

The fight is finished.

Here is the time when the end is met.  There are no graceful gowns of stunning color anymore, no delightful dances, no heady fragrances.  There are no more fine silks to hide the Underworld.  The melody, if any, is a soft and sorrowful crooning.  (And at night the wailing of the banshees can be heard, but we are not ready to speak of them yet.  Soon.)  The blackened heads of dead flowers, heavy with secret seeds, sway now in the constant wind.  The grains of the long grasses, once milky and sweet, now rattle against one another and then fly away into the mist.

Yet it is accepted.  The fight is finished, and there will be no more rallying cries against the night in this season.  There is no bargaining either, and the full price is paid.  All along, each being knew the price and that it must be paid in full, down to the last penny.  Each agreed.  How easy it is to make a promise when the sun is shining.  When the time comes, though, each of us gives our gold back to the Great Alchemist.  It was never ours to keep.

Ignoring the banshees for now, then, and the ever-present drumbeat from the dark forest, the word in the wind is “surrender.”  And everywhere, the surrender is complete, like clockwork.  The sigh is great, the head bent, the shoulders slumped.  It is time to give in and let go, time to stop the pulling and grasping and tearing.  The battle is lost.  The end is graceful for now on the threshold, and that is still good and noble.  But when the darkness finally descends, all bets are off.  The King is dead.  Long live the King.

October 23, 2016 - A Different Feel

There is a different feel in the woods now.  A different kind of life is taking over and becoming more prominent.  It was always there but hidden in the background, and so it went unnoticed.  It was easy to avoid, easy to ignore.  But with the scent of death in the air, that slightly sour fragrance of decaying leaves, the life which was hidden becomes emboldened.  Where it once lingered in the shadows, afraid of the sun, now it struts in broad daylight.  This is as it should be.

Ink cap mushrooms (Coprinopsis atramentaria).

We are reminded, once again, that we share our world with many creatures.  The typical preference for creatures of the sun makes us blind to the creatures of the dark half of the year.  Eyes that are dazzled by the light of the sun develop an inability to appreciate the dark hollows of the forest.  More’s the pity for that, but the trumpets announcing the coming of the Lord of Winter can now be clearly heard.  And for some of us, this is a good thing.

These ink cap mushrooms, along with dozens of other mushrooms, now clamor for attention.  In a day or so, a thick black liquid will ooze and drip from all around the cap of the mushroom as it dissolves.  There was a time when people used this mushroom for ink.  After I took the picture, I broke off a piece of the large one on the left.  Or at least, I attempted to do so.  But ink caps are so slimy and slippery that a tear here and there was all I could manage.  Even so, my fingers were covered in thick, black, sticky ink.

And all around, you will notice the scent of death.  This is not the noxious scent of decaying flesh but the heady and deep fragrance of decomposing vegetation.  It’s at once sour, musty, woodsy, and pungent.  It causes a reaction in the body.  You take very deep breaths and savor the process.  You draw your coat about you a bit tighter.  You hunch your shoulders a bit.  Then you gaze downward at the ground, walking in a slight daze, thinking, planning.  It’s time to start preparing, you tell yourself.  It’s time to check your supplies.  Winter is coming.

October 20, 2016 - The Old Oak King

Deep in the woods, the old oak tree leisurely opens his eyes.  Ever so slowly he begins to change his color—never quickly, though, never that.  The other trees have long since passed their peak and have begun to slump their barren arms.  The maple was most resplendent in hues of brilliant red and orange and yellow, flamboyantly dancing around the forest, knowing all eyes were on him.  He reveled in his vigor and the attention it brought, and this was as it should be for the exuberance of youth.

But the old oak is long past any remote semblance of youth.  In the spring while all the other trees are preening about in dazzling shades of bright green, he silently stands seemingly barren, quietly watching.  In his own time and not before, he slowly stretches his great arms to the Sun and silently builds his fortress of leaves, unnoticed.

There is no rush.

Throughout the summer, the old oak stealthily gathers tremendous strength from the Sun and stores it in his broad shoulders, which never bow to any wind, however fierce.  His wood is coarse and hard and slow-growing, and it lasts for many centuries.  When the other trees have rotted and returned to the Earth, the old oak still stands as tall and strong as a granite boulder.

And now that it is autumn yet again, he delivers food to a great many forest creatures who shelter under his protective hands.  Because of him, they eat and live.  He stands immobile against the coming storms, which will greatly worsen and intensify as fall turns into winter, but he never gives an inch.  Now he slowly changes colors, when he chooses and not before, and whereas the frivolous and thin trees around him quake in fear with the fall winds and the cold rain, he stands tall, still with leaves as thick as leather.

Some will ask, “Who is the King of the forest?  Is it the maple of unsurpassed beauty?  Is it the birch of gentle leaves and quiet disposition?  Is it the pine of prickly arrogance?”  But the maple will bow his beautiful head in silence, the birch will bow his graceful head in acquiescence, and the pine will angrily look away, bristled and chilled.  While the creatures of the forest prepare for the next onslaught from the Lord of Winter, they gather en masse under the old oak tree.

Then at last, he will shed his leaves, when all else is dead and grey and he has secured his forest and the other trees have gone into the dreadful sleep, pale and ghost-like.  One by one the leaves will fall, tarnished brown and burgundy, leathery yet still retaining hidden strength.  Throughout the deathly cold winter and the tremendous ice storms, he will stand tall, massive arms reaching outward in regal protection.

And he who asks, “Who is the King of the Forest?” will bow his head and bend his knee as all the other creatures have already done so long before him.  Braced against the strength of the old oak, he will cling tightly for his life.  And gratefully he will say, “The King is dead.  Long live the King.”

October 17, 2016 - The Paradise of Youth

My travels often take me down “Memory Lane,” where I reminisce about the paradise of youth.  They’re strange, memories are.  They seem to come to me when I do not call for them and pay no heed when I attempt to conjure them in conversation.  They’re always there, though, just under the surface.  It takes the right atmosphere to bring them out.  A walk in nature can always produce them, especially if I tell them to stay away.  The stubborn will of memories is like that.

I get talking to myself as I walk, and my mind wanders quickly into the past.  Or perhaps I bring the past into the present.  I’ll see a beautiful tree and say, “Oh, yes, that’s just like the one outside my kitchen window when I was seven years old!  I remember it well.”  I’ll see a meandering river and I’ll say, “Ah, yes, I remember that time we had the 4^th of July picnic and I fell into the river by accident.  I was soaked!”  I’ll gaze into a field at an old house and say, “Oh, it’s just like the old home I was born in!”

As beautiful as I remembered . . .

It doesn’t mean I’m not paying attention to the present, to what’s here and now.  It just means that the things in the present that are worth paying attention to are the things that make memories.  Television shows, the latest gadget, gossip at the water cooler, etc., these things do not make memories.  They just steal time from us in which we might have created memories.  But if we will just throw it away . . .

Ten years from now I’ll think of the tree on my walk today that made me think of the tree of my youth.  I’ll think of the meandering river on my walk today that made me think of the river at the picnic in my childhood.  I’ll think of the old house in the field today that made me think of the old house where I was born.  That’s how it works.  They make secret connections in our minds, like a string of pearls except that this necklace is draped along the shoulders of time instead of my own shoulders.  Each pearl added makes it that much more precious, and all connect into a priceless whole.

It’s funny that the only thing worth working for in the end is what happens after we die.  It’s not money, not power, and not prestige.  It’s the passing on of the memories—the good ones that bring joy and the bad ones that teach lessons—that ends up being the only thing worthwhile for our progeny.  Instilling a sense of tradition and continuity becomes of utmost importance as one ages because we realize that the simple things in life—humble homes, trees, rivers, smiles, lessons—are the only things truly worth working for, worth living for, worth dying for.

Tradition and a way of life are the memories that are most poignant as we age, and the older we get the sharper these particular memories become.  These memories of simple living and the joy of home are the greatest gift we can pass on to future generations because they’re the only things that last.  Everything else falls into oblivion.

Is youth really a paradise?  Or is it just the selective memories that make it seem so?  Surely, there were severely difficult times, if I recall.  Not everything was an idyllic heaven on Earth.  But even those difficult and brutal times seem filled with the wonder of continuity and purpose and serendipity.  So yes, I say that youth is a paradise made up of memories that we can call up at any time and bring into our present and our future through the secret connections on the precious string of pearls.  Guard well, then, these priceless jewels and pass them on to those who will defend the memories.

October 14, 2016 - The Old Palette

An old man walks slowly from his house.  He has with him his paints and brushes in an old sack, an old canvas, and a rickety old chair, which he has slung over his shoulder.  He picks his way carefully through the field.  When he was younger, he would have walked much quicker with a sense of joyous abandonment and a spring in his step, unconcerned with his surroundings.  Now he chooses his steps carefully.

The sun is shining high in the sky, but still the day looks grey to him because his eyes do not see what they used to see.  Now they see only the furtive wisps of life.  But no matter; it is still enough.  Looking out now, he thinks he might pick shades of grey and brown for the old worn palette.  He will know more when he arrives.

A palette of grey and brown.

And presently, he does.  He places the rickety old chair in a spot on the grass and looks out upon the familiar scene.  He has painted this scene every year now for many, many years.  In the back of his mind he knows that some years were fuller than others, brimming with excitement, which he siphoned into the colors on his old stained palette.  From there, he splashed them on to canvas and let them grow of their own accord.

Crooked and gnarled hands choose the tools from his sack, the tubes crusted at their tops with old paint.  He manages to remove what he needs, though, and sets to work mixing his drab colors.  Such a dark day to paint, he muses.  But darkness has its hidden gold, too, running freely and strong in blackened veins—as powerful as the red blood that runs on life’s own canvas.  He knows this well because his eyes do not see what they used to see.  Now they see what he chooses to see.

The large grey boulder, then the wizened and rough old trees, then the muddy water, which he can hear but does not see anymore—all of these he paints as they appear to him.  The sky is filled with threatening clouds, and the screech of the crows grows shriller as each day passes.  But he has been here before, and knows winter is coming.  And he thinks that is good.  It is overdue.

At last he finishes his work and sits back.  He closes his eyes and listens to the muddy water as it rushes over the smooth old stones in the riverbed.  The wind is gently blowing and it brings to him the old familiar scents.  Quickly, then, he reaches into his sack for more paints and opens them roughly, squeezing them in any which way on the cracked old palette.  He cannot see the colors very well, but it doesn’t matter, and that is good, too.  Smiling, he washes the sky with baby blue, and he wildly dabs on deep greens and feathery golds and brilliant deep reds.  The colors pulse in the wind as it blows gently into his face.

Then it is time to go home.  He slings his pack and chair over his shoulder and carries the old canvas carefully in front of him, the painting looking as grey and drab as ever, he supposes.  He places it in a closet to dry among the hundreds of other canvases hidden there.  There is not much light in the closet, and all the many colors appear as many hues of grey and black.  The eyes cannot see what light no longer reveals.

During the night, the old house burns down, and in the morning the paintings and the old man are gone as if they had never been.  A lifetime of work travels in circular rings of grey smoke, heading up into a grey sky and dissipating slowly until it is no more.  No one is the wiser.  It is as if the paintings and the old man never existed.  But the wind whispers that this is a lie.  For now, winter will clean the old linen once again, as it always does, and then the spring will come and the artist will paint again.

October 10, 2016 - The Ant's Path

An ant stood at the beginning of a very long path, and the path was so very long that there was no chance he would see the end for quite some time.  Up and up it wound, high into the heavens.  It was a long journey, and no one was forcing him to make this journey.  It was his own choice.  He could easily have stayed at home amidst the green, green grass, and no one would have called him out for it.  But there was something inside him that would not let him sleep until he traveled the long path.

Yon bonny road . . .

Now that he had finally set his cap on the journey, he faltered.  Will I make it? he wondered.  There are so many side roads, so many pretty roads off the main path.  Perhaps I should take one of them.  There was a green path that was lush and beautiful with promises of plenty forever.  There was an orange path with excitement and entertainment and distraction.  There was a yellow path with energy and ambition and a taste of real ruthlessness.  And there was a red path.  Yes, it was red and luscious and filled with passion and danger and enchantment.  Each path was exciting and each path called to him.  And . . . there was the red path, after all.

But there was the main path, too, the path that wound ever upward, the path that nagged at him on the inside and would not let him sleep.  It was a rough path, a plain brown path.  It was hard and scaly, without color or distraction.  It was clear—that is true—but it was taxing, tiresome.  This path would take everything he had to survive.  This path was full of pitfalls and challenges and quests.  There would be no easy resting or playful distractions.  This path would demand his full attention, but more, it would demand his love and devotion.  For no one could travel this path out of mere interest.  It had to be traveled out of first duty, then love.  And duty and love care very little for glittery pastimes, as any ant can tell you.

Of course, rumors had filtered down now and then from other ants who had taken the long path and then drifted off on a tangent, on a colorful road.  Oh, there were stories of parties and glamour, of power and intrigue!  There were rumors of excitement and enticement and hypnotic joy.  Many stories filtered down to where the little ant stood at the beginning of the path.  There were so many choices to make in the beginning (more so than at the end, although he did not know this).

But never once did a story filter down about the long and difficult and plain brown path.  No one once thought to send a message back, although it was known that some had made the journey upward.  At a certain point, though, no further information came back along the path to those who were just beginning.  So it was frightening to this little ant—and to most ants, for that matter.  Even though it was clearly demarcated with the way marked starkly, it was a path that few took.

And there he stood, this ant, at the very beginning.  Somehow he had the sense to know that he had to make his choice now, not later when he was on the path.  He had to choose now in which direction he would go.  Changes could be made later, of course, but they would be costly.  The price would be dear.  For every road that opened to him and that he chose to take, another road would surely close forever.  But the main path, the plain brown path, it was always there.  Yet once wandered off, it had the peculiar habit of always being just around the bend and never very easy to access again.

But it was the top, the promise at the end—whatever that might be—that kept the little ant staring upward, avoiding the colorful distractions.  I shall take the Path of the Arrow, he said to himself.  And like an arrow, I will fly straight to the mark.  It was a decision he made, a choice at the beginning.  And so he set off, this ant did, along the plain and brown bonny road, meager pack cinched tightly on his shoulders.

It was a long journey and there was no way of knowing when and where it would end.  But it was the heavens he was going for now, traversing across the colorful Veil of the Temple, and of course, he knew that he would not be coming back.  He would discard his beautifully-woven robe when the time came and head into the unknown.  He was small in stature but great in spirit.  He was on the path.

And there has been no word from him now for eons.  But the path is still there, as straight as ever it was, an arrow pointing up to the heavens.