Thursday, May 24, 2018

May 24, 2018 - The New Oak

THE NEW OAK

Shimmering in the sunlight
the bright green leaves
a new red oak
to be king someday
but for now
a baby
sprung from an acorn
a hard little prison
a secret seed
filled with wishes and longing
and bursting
a responsibility now
to give forth thousands of more acorns
for the next thousand years
the duty of the king
the secret of the prison
the magic of the seed.


Monday, May 14, 2018

May 14, 2018 - The Invisible Hand

It is about patterns.  They are everywhere, and they make up the fabric of our lives.  Indeed, they make up the fabric of the Universe.  Without patterns, there is nothing but chaos, and chaos means death.  If there is a definition for “evil,” it must be chaos—complete disorder and disruption and loss of the precious patterns.  Without order, there can be no life, for life follows a very certain set of strict rules and patterns, and it never deviates from these rules and patterns.  Never.  They are fundamental to growth, and growth is life.

There are many patterns that are easily identifiable because they are complex and present elaborate evidence to our eyes.  Who could deny the stunning beauty and order of a spiral seashell, the head of a sunflower, or the deep red color of a cardinal’s feathers?  Their order and discipline speak to the secret part of our soul that craves union with Final Form, the part of us that longs for the Archetypical world.  But that’s easy.  Anyone can spot that if they open their eyes because patterns bring pleasure, whether they are seen or felt.

The signature of the wind.
Yet there is another pattern, one much subtler and older.  I noticed it many years ago when smiling at the willy-nilly dandelions as they peppered the field here and there in the early spring, spattering the landscape with brilliant yellow light.  He who cannot smile from this sight is poor, indeed.  The simple yellow color meandered around, now here and there, now thick and thin, and then almost absent, only to show up again in rich abundance. 

And I realized that I was looking at the wind.  It was the first time I had ever seen the wind.  Up until then, I had only felt it or heard it, but I had never seen it with my own eyes.  Here, then, was proof of the wind.  For who spread those dandelion seeds in the field in their strange and complex pattern but the wind?  Who dashed now left and right, high and low, bare and thick but the wind?  The wind had taken hold of those tiny, feathery little seeds and placed them precisely where they ought to be, as if they were a signature saying, “I am the Wind.  I was here.  This is my work.”

This is what I believed for years, and every spring I would look for evidence of the wind from the year before and its indelible mark on the field.  But one day it occurred to me that the wind was just a tool being used, for the wind is just one of many forces that disseminates the Master Pattern.  The Great Alchemist reaches out His hand and commands the almost chaotic wind, and out of chaos comes order, out of nothing comes something.  Out of a tiny seed, inert and dead-appearing, springs forth the plant with the pattern of the flower imprinted on its soul.  Not unlike the Universe at all, as it springs forward and reveals the Hand that commands the pattern—the whole being greater than the sum of its parts.

We are all dandelions in a field, after all.

Sunday, May 6, 2018

May 6, 2018 - Spring in Maine

Spring means something different for people who live in Maine, or anywhere with very cold winters, something very different than it does to those in more moderate climates.  Certainly, I think everyone appreciates spring but some have more of an appreciation, and this appreciation comes from direct and striking contrast.  The colder the winter, the more longed for the spring warmth.  The deeper the snow, the more the secret yearning for the greenery.

Realistically, technically, logically, we all know spring is coming.  We all know it, and we know it because it has always come before after a winter.  Simple experience tells us that.  But there’s just something . . . about a spring in Maine that you won’t find in many other places.  Perhaps it’s because the winter is so difficult and long and dark.  Perhaps it’s because the cold has finally leached all hope out of the people’s hearts.  Perhaps it’s simpler and more basic and is just a sigh of relief from not being swallowed alive by the Season of Death.

Don't you know me?
But whatever it is, it makes spring in Maine that much more special.  When you have not seen greenery for months on end, when you have not seen much sustained sunlight (and what sunlight you have seen could not be enjoyed due to severe cold), when the woods have gone completely silent and nothing is heard but the wail of a lonely and hungry animal, something happens inside your heart.  You don’t give a damn what the calendar promises anymore.  You can only see and feel the snow and the ice and the greyness.  It makes a hole in your soul.

And just when things seem to be at their worst, just when you are absolutely certain that you will perish in this empty landscape, spring comes bounding back in.  And you want to cry!  You want to fall to your knees and kiss the Earth and say, “At last!  At last!  At last!  I see life again!”  The tiniest ray of hope shines from the depth of your soul.

To which the “Spring” responds . . .

“Did you think I would leave you?  Did you think I would abandon you forever?  Don’t you know how much I love you?  Have you no faith in me at all, then?  You are as precious to me as the green of the forest.  You are as beloved to me as the great multitude of birds singing in the canopy of the woods.  You are as special to me as the most exotic and rarest of flowers.  I will never leave you—never.  You will never have to live your life without hope or newness or bountifulness.  I am always here, even when you cannot see me, and I will always come for you—always.  This is my promise to you.  It is a promise I have not broken in over 4 billion years.  I will always come for you.  Rest now and take your ease.”