November 20, 2018 - Keep Going

Dealing with life’s difficulties as they come is part of a good life.  Slip under the tree.  Jump over the root ball.  I bundle up and keep warm from the assault of snow and wind, and I tie my scarf snugly around my neck.  The trunk hangs by a section of bark, and soon it will crash down across the path.  Then I will climb over the tree, and I will keep going.  Always, I will keep going.  It’s what I do.  Failure is not an option.

November 19, 2018 - Forest Fog

If I were to walk in, should I leave a trail of bread crumbs, or would the hungry birds follow me secretly and undue all of my good effort?  My own footprints in the snow cannot be trusted as they shift with those of the other animals, and new snow fills them up not long after they are made.  Little pebbles, perhaps, or ribbons tied to trees?  How does one get out of the forest fog?

The will-o'-the-wisp beckons.

Like our minds at times, shapes drift into and out of focus.  Where did I leave that letter?  I am certain it was hidden in this chest.  The fog swirls around and around.  Perhaps it is just past that glen.

The Lord of Winter grows in strength and power.  We hear tales of Him in the wind as it sighs and moans around a bend, the trees clicking their bony fingers above in mockery.  Enchantment lies ahead.  The frozen forest gives its lonely call, and the will-o’-the-wisp just inside leads unwary travelers to unknown ends.  The bread crumbs on the path are now long forgotten.  Beware.

November 7, 2018 - Turning

The Sun still plays that game, “Remember when we used to . . .?”  And we smile.  Yes, we still remember.  The days were warmer then, and we spent every day together in the glow, picking flowers, listening to birdsong, and chasing butterflies.  We did not know how full our plate was then but instead groaned when yet another dish was placed upon the table.

Now He appears much later in the morning and further to the south.  His climb across the heavens is quicker and lower, forgetting all about the passing over and crossifying of the sky that heralded those days of growth and plenty.  It is enough that He simply brightens the day now, and we do not ask for warmth and growth we cannot have.

Cannot have?  “But He promised us!” you say.  Yes, indeed, He did.  Those promises were written in little love letters in an ancient language we have long since forgotten, enclosed by our elder green brethren in tiny pods, each a world unto itself.  They fall from the stricken branches now on to the cold, wet Earth, and She quickly devours them like a hungry wolf.  Now is the time for planting, not in the Spring but now!

The great wheel in the sky keeps turning, and we follow the shadows it casts on the old stone wall.

November 5, 2018 - The Ghost Portion

It’s all starting to fade into the ghost world again.  The greenery leaves us.  I don’t know where it goes.  It just gets poured out and becomes empty, and nothing takes its place.  There’s a void, and it’s getting larger.  There’s no telling how big the nothingness will become, but we can rest assured that it will be a great deal of nothing, and that’s always a lot.

The dam that wasn't.

The old dam gets more holes in it every year.  Trees grow out of it and sometimes through it, and the water just mocks it.  Water is ill-behaved at best, and that’s no secret.  New little waterfalls crop up every year, and each year they get bigger and bigger, threatening to smash the confines of the old levee.  Someday the whole thing will just burst and wash away, like a giant beaver’s dam flowing down the river, and people will point to it and say, “Oh, dear!  What will we do now?” to which I will respond, “The same thing we have always done.” 

Nothing.  We will do nothing.  It’s November.  It’s time for the ghost portion of the year.  We will do nothing.