December 7, 2021 - A New Home

In Pursuit of Maine now has a new home on Substack!  It's a wonderful platform that makes everything a bit easier.  The text and layout is much nicer on the eyes.  The email subscriptions have so many more features for subscribing, receiving, sharing articles, etc.  AND there's a podcast section!!  I have already recorded a few podcasts and will be uploading them soon.

Thanks to all who have followed In Pursuit of Maine throughout the years!  You can always come back here and visit anytime you'd like.  All new material is going on Substack.  I look forward to seeing you there!

~ Melanie

August 30, 2021 - All the King's Horses

I have an old history book, bound in ancient scratched leather with gold gilt covering the rough deckle pages.  I keep it upstairs in one of the rooms along the hallway I do not often visit.  But today I find myself in the hallway . . . treading softly.  I am not sure how I got here, but then I never am.  I stop before the room that holds the history book.  The door has an unusual red crystal handle on it.  Somewhere in my mind there is a warning about doors with red crystal handles, but just now I cannot remember what that warning is about.  So I turn the pretty red handle and walk in.

The book is open and laying on a small table with a lamp, near an easy chair.  It is all just as I left it the last time I was here.  Of course, now I remember.  I walk to the book and gently blow off the dust that has settled on the pages since my last visit.  It is a large and heavy book, and it is getting heavier as the days go by.  The newer gilt pages are added to the end, and they knit into the spine beautifully, as if they were always there.  Which, of course, they always were.  Time is just an illusion, after all.

But just now I am reading from the older pages, still handsome and gilt but not as brilliant and crisp as the new pages.  The further back I go, the stranger the maps become.  And it is not just because countries change their names or civilizations rise and fall, it is because the world which the maps represent has itself changed.  The world in my history book does not look like the physical world of the new maps of today.  Then it occurs to me that the world is the same as it has always been, but the maps are only as good as the men who make them.

The cynical part of me says that the learned men from long ago did not have the type of surveying equipment we have today.  They had no aviation, no radar, no satellites or GPS.  At least we must assume so since these devices have not been mentioned.  They are not mentioned on the new maps either, though, I tell my cynical self as I gaze across the vast country of Tartaria, now “disappeared” altogether.

I flip forward a bit through the old history book.  The year is 1891 and three men are sitting in a closed room in London—William, Reginald, and Cecil.  They are in the midst of forming a secret organization based on an old Jesuit model, the purpose of which is to extend British rule throughout the world, recovering the United States in the process.  The organization has two circles.  The inner circle is called The Society of the Elect, and the outer circle is called The Association of Helpers.  The outer circle will never know of the existence of the inner circle.

The pages go on to say that the secret society’s goal was to gradually absorb the wealth of the world—for peaceful purposes, they said.  They plunged Britain into the Boer War of 1899-1902, bringing the separate sections of South Africa under British control.  But in their plans of world domination, they soon realized they had a problem, a big problem:  Germany.  It had gotten organized and very strong.  So they took control of the press and created an alliance with Russia and France—no small feat since those countries were traditional rivals of Britain.  But desperate times called for desperate measures . . .

When their friend, Edward, became Foreign Secretary, the alliance was sealed with France to the west of Germany and Russia to the east.  The vice grip began to tighten, but they needed a kickoff to the Great War.  Germany was blamed for the war between Russia and Japan (although it was the secret society that funded Japan) as well as many other skirmishes.  Then the Archduke Franz Ferdinand was assassinated in a conspiracy that even today’s modern world admits to, and the secret society got its war in June of 1914:  World War I, the “war to end all wars.”

My eyes begin to glaze over.  The Lusitania, an innocent passenger ocean liner, was sunk by a German torpedo.  But not really.  It was actually an auxiliary warship carrying weapons and ammunition, but the society managed to keep that a secret and it stayed a secret until 2014.  The propaganda flew madly around the world, and suddenly (and in a very planned fashion) the United States joined the war in 1917.

I skip through the horrors of the war, unable to read about the atrocities, reading instead about how, after all that tremendous bloodshed, they carved up the world into new places with new borders in the name of peace.  But the resultant economic depression for the “losers” caused by the war (among other secret influences) plunged the world into World War II, contrived by the same secret players and their heirs.  And it did not stop there, for a new world was being planned.  A new order, the inheritors of the secret society said.

I do not want to read anymore.  The pages flip backward on their own, as always, because really I am not reading but being read to.  A nursery rhyme from long before World War I appears on an old gilt page that has grown brown with time.  “All the King’s horses and all the King’s men couldn’t put Humpty Dumpty back together again . . .”  Somehow I hear the music from my childhood as I read the words.

I take hold of the book and turn the pages of my own volition to the most recent, brilliant gilt pages.  But oddly enough, I am faced with the same nursery rhyme.  “All the King’s horses and all the King’s men couldn’t put him back together again . . .”  I sigh.  Entering a room with a door that has a red crystal handle always carries risks.  It is time to leave.

I walk back down the hallway with heavy feet, glad to be going downstairs again.  Outside the strong old oak trees stare at the frivolous maples across the lane, still gaily bright green and not yet wearing their orange and red Fall frocks, caring little for time and what might happen.  The bristly pines stand behind them and hedge them in.  Soon Fall will come and the last great party of the year will be had.  Everyone will be wearing their finest colors—reds and oranges, yellows and browns.  But eventually they will all grow threadbare.  Even the old oaks with their burgundy, leather-like leaves will succumb and grow ghost-like.

The pines will be left then, bristly and full of sharp needles as always, secretly plotting mastery of the forest.  But the storms will come, as they always do, and the weak pines will crack and break in half.  The maples will follow because they planned for beauty only and not strength.  Only the old oaks, stubborn and hard and filled with scars, will remain to tell the story of the Winter.  The spring will come and we will start again with the newcomers knowing nothing of the Old Order of Oaks, who stand guard to tell the tale of all the King’s horses and all the King’s men.

August 5, 2021 - The Trojan Horse

It started, we are told, when Eris was left out of the invitation list to the great party being thrown for the wedding of Peleus and Thetis.  Everyone was invited except for her, and she seethed in anger and rage and hatred and jealousy.  She wandered around, trying to think of a way that she could ruin the banquet.  She would have done anything—destroy the Earth, release the Titans, burn everything to cinders—anything.  But she feared the Keeper of Fire and especially Ares, the iron warrior god, so she stayed her hand and became craftier.

She took a beautiful golden apple and wrote upon it, “To the fairest of all,” and she tossed it into the wedding proceedings.  Immediately, Hera, Athena, and Aphrodite all craved this beautiful golden apple that had appeared as if by magic.  Each imagined she was the fairest, she was the best.  So they began to fight bitterly amongst themselves as to who should have the apple and be deemed the fairest.

Zeus knew he had a problem on his hands, so he decided that Paris, the “splendid youth” who tended his herds on the hills Troy, would be the judge of who was fairest.  Each of the goddesses offered Paris gifts if he would choose her.  Athena offered him wisdom and skill in battle.  Hera offered him political power and control of Asia.  But Aphrodite offered him the most beautiful woman in the world—Helen—if he would give the apple to her.  He could not resist.  He gave Aphrodite the golden apple, and with Aphrodite’s help, he seduced Helen and abducted her away from her husband, Menelaus (King of Sparta), back to Troy.

Menelaus’s brother, Agamemnon (King of Mycenae), then waged war against Troy for 10 years for “the face that launched a thousand ships.”  Many heroes died on all sides in brutal battles, including Paris.  The city finally fell to the trick of the gift of the Trojan Horse, which contained hidden warriors.  The Trojans welcomed the horse into their city, thinking it was a gift and a peace offering.  The warriors then came out of the horse and the Trojans were slaughtered, except for some women and children.  In addition, the temples to the gods were destroyed and they became furious.  We are told that blood ran in torrents and drenched the Earth.

Few of the victorious warriors ever made it back home.  Many died trying.  Many settled on lonely and distant shores and formed new societies.  Those who did make it home with their captured women found that the wives they had abandoned to go to war had plotted against them, and they met with a terrible fate.

But there was a shadowy figure behind it all.  You see, Zeus, the king of the gods, had planned the whole thing.  He felt that the Earth was overpopulated.  He wanted Momus, the god of satire and mockery, to use the Trojan War as a way to help depopulate the Earth, and so mockery and rudeness began.  Most especially, Zeus wanted his demi-god children destroyed (as he was not known to be faithful to his wife, Hera).  He feared he would be overthrown by one of his sons since he, himself, had overthrown his own father.

So Zeus saw to it that Eris was not allowed to attend the wedding, and thus the above argument between the goddesses ensued.  He knew that Eris, the goddess of strife and discord, would be furious.  He knew all along the world would be thrown into turmoil, but he did not plan on how tumultuous things would get.  Many battles occurred well beyond Troy in the aftermath from the great war.  And through it all, Eris delighted in the death and destruction.  As the sister of the murderous war god Ares, she walked through the battlefields, making the pain of the fallen heroes even worse whenever she could.

Or . . . you could say that the City of Troy was in a key position along the entrance to the Black Sea, and they controlled the commercial routes leading there, harassing the Greeks, who were desperate for the rich minerals from foreign shores that Greece so lacked.  Finally, the conflicts grew into a bitter war that completely disrupted all of the trade routes.  But once that happened, all of the surrounding civilizations that depended on the trade routes were also thrown into turmoil and economic stress.  Many of the civilizations utterly collapsed.  Egypt survived and new empires rose up to fill in the gap.  And thus ended the Bronze Age.

Ages, they come and go, don’t they?  And the more things change, the more they stay the same.  I hear the wild rumors today . . . can you hear them?  Listen.  Listen carefully.  I hear them on the wind . . . whispers of overpopulation . . .whispers of greed and embargos and sanctions . . . whispers of spoils of war, the helpless women and children . . . whispers of the Trojan Horse, a seemingly benevolent remedy, a gift for the current sickness that grips the mind, but which hides the killers within . . .

And I see even now the golden apple.  “To the fairest of all . . .”  And I see the people fighting bitterly over that poisoned fruit, designed by the hidden Evil One, who remains in the shadows as always.  I hear the screams, “I am right!  You are wrong!” caused by Momus, the god of satire and mockery.  “I will destroy you for disrupting the narrow trade routes of information and education that I have so cleverly set up.  I am better than . . .”

July 26, 2021 - First Letter to the Outside World

My Darlings,

It has come to my attention that far too many people are living in a great deal of fear, much more than is normal.  In fact, many people are absolutely terrified, and it is beginning to affect the physical and mental health of our nation as a whole.  It is normal to have a bit of reservation toward something very unusual or something that has proven itself in the past to be dangerous.  It is not normal to walk around in fear 24 hours a day.  This is what I am seeing and it has to stop.

We’ve all heard the saying, “If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is,” and this is a wise saying.  It helps people to step back and wonder why someone might offer so much to them for “free,” so I think it’s a good thing.  But when we reject everything that is kind because we are so filled with fear, that is not a good thing.

When someone offers you a smile, you can take that smile and give one back.  It’s okay.  You can take a hand up if you need one, and you don’t have to be afraid of a gesture of kindness.  With all the nastiness that is going on in this world (most especially on “social” media), it’s hard to believe that anyone is kind anymore.  But there are kind people out there, and they’re not trying to fleece you over.  They’re just trying to light another candle in the darkness.

But how did our society get so frightened in the first place?  Why are so many of us full of fear?  When it happens to almost the entire population, you can rest assured it is not accidental.  It is fear by design.  But how?  And why?

First and foremost, we are literally bombarded with “news” 24 hours a day in 2021, and often that “news” is yellow journalism at best and outright lies at worst.  There’s no break from this bombardment, and most of us are too busy and exhausted to track down every piece to see if it is “real.”  We also don’t trust the fact-checkers anymore because they have been known to lie as well.  Past generations were not continually assailed with “news,” and they were much better for it in terms of their mental condition.

We don’t need to know every single tiny tragedy that happens in every corner of the Earth on a daily basis.  There is always something “horrible” happening somewhere.  You’ve got no way to prove it’s real for sure, but you can bet the powers that be are going to make sure you know about it . . . so that you will accept their offer of more complete protection.  More and more and more protection.  “After all, it’s for your own good,” they say.

Then there are the unconscious things that happen, and we are not even aware of the damage they are causing.  Here’s one teeny-tiny example:  You buy a bottle of over-the-counter medicine, and when you get home, you have to fumble with thick shrink-wrapped plastic on the outside that often requires scissors and a cut on the hand before finally removing it.  Then you have to push down hard and turn to open it, but when you finally get it open after the tenth try, there’s a welded piece of foil on the opening that again requires the scissors.  Most of us do all of this without even thinking about it.  “After all, it’s for your own good.”

But what happens is we have just been utterly bombarded with a subconscious message that everything is full of danger and we must constantly be afraid—and, of course, those who “know better” than us are just protecting us.  After all, if we didn’t have all of these “safety” measures, an evil person could come along and taint all the product in the bottle . . . and it would be horrible . . . and we would all die . . .  *sigh*

Okay, let me just say here and now that, yes, there are some mean people in the world who might do evil things to you.  Those people do exist and they have always existed.  Also, sometimes safety measures can be a good thing, and if someone is truly thinking about my safety only, then I do appreciate it.  It’s smart to be well informed and to make conscious selections in your day-to-day life.

But let me also say that I am old enough to have lived in a time when there was no welded foil on the bottle opening, when there was no push down with 50 pounds of pressure while turning the cap, when there was no thick shrink-wrap on the entire product . . . and no one died.  No one got hurt.  We all survived, and we survived well.  In fact, we thrived.

“Well, times have changed,” you might say, “Stop living in the past or you’re going to end up dead!  You’re playing Russian roulette with a one-shot pistol!”  Yes, I know times have changed.  I also know that the more things change, the more they stay the same.  I know that I can look up a “crime” on the internet and find 500 different sites with countless “facts” supporting countless agendas about the so-called crime.  I know that I can often leave an internet search more confused than when I started it with no hope of clarity at a later date because everyone has their own “spin” on it for their own selfish reasons.  And the truth is, we’ll never get the truth from them.

Where does that leave you and me?  Here’s the good part:  It actually leaves us where we always were.  It leaves us relying on our own common sense, on our own ability to reason, on our own trust in our local society and family groups and friends.  It leaves us with the ability to choose what we need to be “saved” from and how to go about ensuring our safety.  It leaves us with the knowledge that while there are bad people out there trying to harm others, there are also people who pretend to be concerned about our safety, and they are wreaking just as much havoc on our mental condition for their own secret agenda.

We can consciously think about what makes sense and what doesn’t, and we can act accordingly.  We can realize that while a crime may have occurred on the other side of the world, we can’t change it and internalizing the details serves no purpose but to hurt us.  We also can’t change the thousand safety wraps on a product, but we can laugh at them.  We can reasonably store some food and water in our basement for emergency purposes—it’s only common sense—and then laugh at the weatherman-turned-drama-king as he spins each tiny storm into a devastating hurricane that has a 99% chance of being a gust of wind and a raindrop.

We can stop taking the comments of internet trolls and bots seriously—whether they’re on our “side” or not.  We can recognize that a good 75% of the so-called comments we read are paid for by someone else who wants to steer us in a certain direction—even if that’s the direction in which we think we want to go.  And what better a way to steer us than with fear?  “I’m just trying to help you,” is the message we’re given.  Ah, but the price we pay for our “safety” . . .

So I say to you, don’t let these parasites who prey on the mind hurt you.  Turn them off.  Tune them out.  Ignore them.  Laugh at them.  Be reasonably aware of your surroundings, of course, and take charge of your own care and safety.  Pay attention to subliminal fear mongering and order it right out of your life this instant!

And don’t be afraid of a smile or a kind gesture or a helping hand.  Don’t be afraid of love and decency.  Know that kindness is everywhere, especially in your own heart.  And if you get rebuffed when you offer a smile or a hand, don’t walk away hurt and sad.  Walk away with the knowledge that you planted a seed of love, and somewhere, somehow, someday that seed is going to grow and blossom.  Seeds of love are much better than seeds of fear.  They’re stronger, too.

July 22, 2021 - The World Wreckers

When I got back home, everything was still the same.  Except that it wasn’t.  There were tiny differences that might easily have gone unnoticed, but after spending 13 months asleep in the woods, upon awakening I became very aware, even more than usual.  I found that if I looked at anything in a staring, slightly unfocused way without moving or blinking, it would either remain stable or it would jump around a bit, sort of quiver.  That’s how I began to sniff out the two different worlds.

I recall what I was told upon awakening in the woods:  “A dark force came and split the world in two, but not two halves.  It split the world into two wholes.  Where there was one world, there are now two, but they appear as one and are superimposed upon one another.”  And when I questioned what I must do about it, the reader may recall this response:

“You know what is right and you know what is wrong.  You know what is up and what is down, what is warm and what is cold, what is day and what is night.  You know how the natural world works.  You know the seasons of the world and their correspondences in the body.  You know what is health and what is illness.  You know what is kindness and what is cruelty.  So you will hold each path you encounter up to these truths, and whichever path rings true to the natural world, that is the path you will take.  Beware of the merchant who will try to take your possessions.  He is not from the natural world.”

Yes, I know right from wrong.  I know the difference between opposites—the middle ground, and the pendulum that swings between the two.  I know how the natural world works and the seasons of the year and the human body.  I know what is truly health and what is contrived illness, and how belief of either affects the believer.  I know when someone is kind and when they are pretending to be kind—it is all in the eyes.  And now I hold everything up to these standards and make a judgment.  

That’s right.  I openly judge now.  Before it was a hidden judgment in my mind that I didn’t dare speak outright or even admit to because someone told me long ago that judgment was wrong.  And somehow I believed them.  More simply put:  It is discrimination.  Somewhere, somehow, someone said that “discrimination” was a bad thing.  They lumped it in together with judgmentalism (quite different from judgement), bias, unfairness, and provincial injustice.  So I used to attempt to discuss my ideas in a tiptoeing kind of way, in the hopes of not offending.

But discrimination is not those things at all.  It is simply the ability to discern.  “A discriminating palate,” for example.  It is having a good amount of life experience and then being able to learn from that and make good choices in life.  AND THERE IT WAS!  That was the answer.  You see, when the one world split into two worlds superimposed upon one another, like a thief in the night, the World Wreckers stole a good portion of language—of words—and gave them new definitions, and usually those definitions were terrible and cruel and specifically designed to serve their evil purposes.

Suddenly, it seemed that experiencing life, learning from it, discerning different paths, and choosing wisely among them (that is—discriminating) became a bad thing because of the new definition.  And the people became afraid because they did not want to be looked at through the new eyes of the World Wreckers, who brought swift punishment with them.

How perfectly diabolical.  Take the very first skill, the very first gift, if you will, that a child is granted—discrimination—and turn it into something terrible instead.  A little child learns to judge and discriminate and make choices.  Through experience he knows the stove is hot and he chooses something cooler and safer.  He knows the cookie tastes better than the broccoli.  He knows the loud sound might mean danger, etc.  And he begins to learn how to make intelligent, albeit simple, choices—how to judge, how to discriminate, how to know right from wrong (with guidance, of course, from his parents, who have even more life experience to bring to the table.)

The World Wreckers cleverly stole the word “discriminate” (along with “judgment” and many, many others) and gave it a new and awful meaning.  Now the adults in the stolen world, who learned good discrimination a long time ago, were afraid to make the simplest of choices for themselves.  They were afraid to even think about differences or that differences existed at all.  When a discriminating thought would enter their minds, they would turn sharply away.  “No . . . I mustn’t . . .”

I mustn’t what?  I mustn’t make intelligent decisions for myself?  I mustn’t make choices that will benefit me?  I mustn’t prefer one thing over another?  I mustn’t remember that I have an innate ability to discern right from wrong?  How ridiculous this would once have seemed.  I realized yet again that I had so much work to do, so many people to help . . .

And that is how the World Wreckers began their evil quest—even before the one world had split into two.  It starts with language.  It always starts with language.  Because in the beginning was the Word, and we mortals use this to sit upon the throne of faith.  He with ears, let him hear.

March 4, 2021 - The Spell

“She’s under a powerful spell,” I heard one of them whisper, but it hurt to think and wonder what that might be about.  The light kept intruding on my eyes, no matter how hard I tried to go back to sleep.  It was like fingers pressing and digging at my eyelids, worming their way under, forcing my eyes open, and with me battling to keep them closed tightly.

“A powerful spell, indeed,” whispered another voice.  And this time I wondered.  What spell?  Who is under a spell?  But the light continued his assault.  When I pressed my eyes tightly together, I could see a thousand golden stars exploding like fireworks in the inner world.  They seemed to be calling me back inside to an inner dimension.  How easy it would be . . . and yet the light continued his assault until I thought I must fight him for once and for all.

And I opened my eyes.  I saw no one, just the forest creatures.  Whoever had been talking about the powerful spell had vanished, if they were ever there at all.  But this was odd.  I didn’t remember going out into the woods.  The last thing I remember was getting ready for bed and blowing out an oil lamp.  ‘Maybe I’m still dreaming . . .’  I shook my head. 

“No, you are not dreaming.  At last you are finally awake!”  Oh, I knew that voice.  Suddenly I remembered who I was.  I stopped myself in the nick of time from turning around to see him, as I knew there would be nothing there and I would miss out on an opportunity to get some badly needed answers.

“What has happened?” I asked.
“Did you not hear that you were under a powerful spell?” he returned.
“Well, yes.  I didn’t realize it was me they were talking about, that’s all.”

I looked around a bit, being careful not to turn completely around.  Judging by the slant of the sun, the temperature, and the sheets of ice in the woods, I deduced it must be late winter or very early spring.  But that couldn’t be.  It would have meant that I had been asleep or under a spell for a whole month!

“How long have I been here?!” I yelled.
“You slept for quite some time.”
“But I fear it may have been a whole month!”
“A month?” he asked and then laughed heartily.  “My dear, you have been asleep for a year and a month.  Thirteen months to be exact.”

I couldn’t believe it.  I wouldn’t believe it!  Asleep in the woods for a year and a month?  It was preposterous!  But I had this terrible, nagging feeling.  I had strange, half-finished thoughts and images in my head, fading in and out like clouds.  Every time I tried to grab a hold of one, it slipped through my fingers like smoke.  A year and a month.  Could it be true?

“Are you certain?” I swallowed hard.
“Oh, yes, quite.”
“I would ask how I survived, but I suppose I owe you a debt.”
“Your debts do add up,” he said matter-of-factly.  
“So what happened to me?  Can you at least tell me that?”

“It wasn’t just you,” he said.  “There was a powerful spell that seemed to hit the entire world, well, at least the world of humans.  Certainly not me, and certainly not the forest creatures.”

“No, of course not.”  I tried not to sound bitter, but I think I failed miserably.  I could just feel his eyebrows lifting and that sardonic smile of his.

“Yes, I’m afraid it hit the weaker beings.  Again.  A great trance fell upon the people, and they darted about in fear and anger.  They hid themselves in houses.  They hid themselves in offices.  They hid themselves behind their own clothing, masking their appearance.  They hid in basements.  They hid in churches.  They hid in automobiles,” he said.

“But why?  What did the spell do to them?”

“Well,” he went on, “It made them doubt their own knowledge.  It made them doubt their own perceptions.  It made the ground appear to waver before their eyes.  What was solid suddenly seemed to shift.  It was just a mirage, of course, but they doubted their ability to care for themselves.  They doubted their own logic.  Mostly, though, they doubted one another.  They lost their trust.  They lost their faith.  They became paralyzed with fear of each other.”

“Fear of their fellow man?!”  I was exasperated.  What could possibly be so horrible?  “And did I do the same thing, then?”

“No, you did not because I taught you how to read the hearts of men.  But you eventually became crushed by their sorrow, and so you fell asleep to avoid insanity.  And even I could not awaken you.”

I could hear the surprise and anger in his voice.  It must have been a powerful spell, indeed.

“But now I am awake,” I said.
“Yes, at long last,” he breathed a sigh of relief.
“So where do I go from here?  Where does the situation stand?”

“A dark force came and split the world in two, but not two halves.  It split the world into two wholes.  Where there was one world, there are now two, but they appear as one and are superimposed upon one another.”

“Like two sides of a coin?” I asked.
“Somewhat, but that would be misleading.  There are two three-dimensional images occupying the same space.”
“But that’s impossible.”
“Is it?” he asked.  “Apparently, it is not.  It is all in one’s perception.  What you believe to be there, will be there.”

“So what must I do?  How do I navigate this?”
“You must walk in the true world,” he said, “Aware always of the other.”
“How do I make sure I stay in the true world and not drift into the clone?” I asked.

“You know what is right and you know what is wrong.  You know what is up and what is down, what is warm and what is cold, what is day and what is night.  You know how the natural world works.  You know the seasons of the world and their correspondences in the body.  You know what is health and what is illness.  You know what is kindness and what is cruelty.  So you will hold each path you encounter up to these truths, and whichever path rings true to the natural world, that is the path you will take.  Beware of the merchant who will try to take your possessions.  He is not from the natural world.”

“Will it be difficult?” I asked.
“I shouldn’t think so.  The spell casters were tremendously sloppy, you know.  Oh, it was quite effective for a while, that’s true.  But still, they were sloppy around the edges.  They never planned for the passage of time and its effect.”
“You mean they never learned how to read the hearts of men.”
“No, they never did,” he said.  I could feel him smiling.

“I have my work cut out for me,” I whispered to myself, getting up.  “So many things to do, people to talk to and help . . . I have a million things to do . . .”
“Why not stay for another season or two?”
“I have been here for 13 months!”
“Yes,” he said, “But we still have so much left to do.”
“I was asleep.  I didn’t do anything,” I responded warily.
“Well . . . not the human part of you . . .”

“You!” I spun around angrily.  But there was nothing there.  Nothing at all.  A cool breeze blew against my face.  An old crow up in a tree croaked out the semblance of a laugh.  The squirrels yelled obscenities at me, as usual.  It was just me in the woods.

But it was the real woods in the real world.  It was time to go home again.  It was time to repair the alabaster scabbard.  It was time to write a new fate.  The last remnants of the spell fell from my eyes, and with the mask off I could see clearly all around me.  Soon it would be spring.

February 14, 2021 - Half Full

I was thinking of that old saying of a glass half-filled with water and the optimist seeing the glass half full and the pessimist seeing the glass half empty, but really the same contents were inside.  I’m sure you’ve heard it many times yourself.  Sometimes when we hear something too much, we cease to hear it anymore, even if someone is yelling it.  But what if instead of a glass of water it was a body of life?  

There is a body and it’s half-filled.  There are tears inside along with sorrow.  There are disappointments and losses and death.  But there is also laughter.  There are smiles and triumphs and love and hope.  It’s all mixed into one and it can’t be separated, but it can be focused upon and this is what most of us do every day.

There’s a man standing to the side watching you as you watch your half-filled body.  He wants you to focus on the negative things because when you do that, you get very busy and very tired and very quiet.  So he shows you many pictures of terrible things, and with the pictures he gives you terrible sounds.  There is crying and gnashing of teeth and rage and violence.  And though you may try to turn your head, he puts the photos and the wailing in whichever direction you turn.  Around and around you go, 360 degrees in a full circle, and yet there are the photos and the crying and the pain.  So you settle in resignedly and focus on the awfulness.

While you are busy and tired and quiet, the man sneaks around you and picks all the pretty flowers he can find—and there are so many.  He takes the flowers and he takes the singing birds.  He takes the growing fruit and the smiles.  He pulls all the laughter and the giggles and the sighs of “I love you” out of the air and puts them into a heavy dark box so they cannot be heard.  He steals the joy, steals the fun, steals the triumphs, steals the hope.

The next day he comes back and finds you and he does the same thing all over again.  And again and again.

Your body is half-filled.  It contains all the things that have happened to you in your life.  The pessimist says the body is half-empty, and that means it’s draining and will soon be desolate, a crumbled shell lying on the floor, devoid of life.  The optimist says the body is half-full, and that means there is still a lot more to put inside.  Some of it will be sorrowful and grievous, but some of it will be joyful and loving and filled with hope and laughter.  And it won’t be devoid of life.  On the contrary:  It will be stuffed right full of it.  No crumpled shell.  A tired shell, perhaps.  A painful shell, at times, yes.  But a shell full of possibilities.

You have half a body left to fill up or to drain as you please.  The man standing on the side doesn’t want you to fill it.  He wants you to think there’s nothing to fill it with.  He wants you to think the world is dark and dangerous and empty so that you won’t put any more life in your body.  He wants all the wonderful things for himself.  Even though there’s plenty to go around for everyone and then some—including him—he still doesn’t want you to have any of it.  So he uses the pictures and the sounds and the flashing lights and the hypnotism.

How do you stop it?  You begin by not looking at the pictures anymore.  Close your eyes.  You don’t listen to the hideous sounds anymore.  Put your hands over your ears.  You tune it out, turn it off.  Then comes a fog . . . Which way do you go?  You walk away in the opposite direction, and you trust yourself.  You might not see the field full of flowers yet, but you keep going and you trust yourself, eyes closed and ears blocked, because anything is better than the constant sorrow from the puppet master in the corner.

You start small, with tiny things.  It doesn’t matter if you haven’t got any money.  It doesn’t matter if you find yourself impoverished in spirit and house.  You begin again with tiny things.  You do the things you’ve always wanted to do . . . . someday.  You learn that language, that musical instrument.  You plant that garden, or maybe just start with one pot of herbs.  You paint that picture and sing that song.  You learn that craft.  

You start over.  You make your life again from scratch.  Your body is not half empty.  It’s half full, and there’s a lot more to give it.  It doesn’t matter if the things you give it are humble and simple.  They’re your humble and simple things, and that makes them beautiful.  If he comes after you again—and he will—you know what to do.  Avert your eyes.  Put your hands over your ears.  Walk away from the lie of the half-empty body.

This is what he did not want you to know.  You start with tiny things.  You build slowly.  Ignore what people say you can and cannot do.  And then . . . just watch what happens.  Just watch.

November 27, 2020 - Because it Works

I have touched on the idea of “tradition” before, but I am back at it again because a great willing is being heard, and my ears cannot unhear.  Tradition is the way.  It is the ritual.  It is what we do because we have always done it.  Some people question it and turn away from it, only to find that there was method to the madness after all, and they come home like the prodigal son.  Some question and turn away and stay away, and then they are lost forever.  Still others never question at all because it feels right and it works.  Those are the lucky ones.

There are things that are done in certain ways, and if you pay attention, you can learn those ways for yourself.  Perhaps a loving relative will teach them, and you will learn them without knowing you are learning.  Perhaps you will have to observe others and find out what works.  These ways become habits, and these habits become rituals, and these rituals become instincts.  But they all start with someone finding the best way through trial error and then sticking with that way come hell or high water.

The squirrels find their food in the way they always have, and they make secret caches as they always have.  In the winter they dig up the food and survive as they always have.  And the deer make their paths in the forest along the ley lines as they always have, finding their food and especially precious winter water as they always have.  The birds build their nests the same way as always, singing the same songs, flying south in the same formations.  Because it works.

In the house that sits atop my shoulders, there are many rooms in which I store my traditions.  I often wander through these rooms and touch the old books within.  Not long ago, I can remember that we really did go over the river and through the woods to my grandmother’s house during at least one of the holidays.  We always went the same way through the snow because it worked, and there was always a turkey to eat because it was tradition and we expected it and it reinforced who we were.

That’s the big thing, isn’t it?  Who we were.  Who we are.  We know these things by what we do, and we do them in a certain way because that way brings comfort, stability, and a sense of belonging.  It brings guidance and inheritance and tribe.  

“We have always done this.”  How those words echo in our ears during the hard times of life, and we all have our hard times, those times that try our very souls.  Sometimes things can get so bad that we feel we have nothing left.  We are broken, empty, dead.  But then, just as we think we might draw our last breath—just as we hope we will draw our last breath in order to end the sorrow—the voice says, “We have always done this.”  And so we get up, we pick ourselves up, we drag ourselves across the floor.  And we do what we have always done.  Because it works.

Sometimes it feels empty for a while, like we are just “going through the motions,” but if we stick with it, we find that somehow we survive.  And then we thrive.  What got us through it all?  Our traditions.  Our sense of self.  That home that was there somewhere at some time.  That tribe we belonged to.  Those things we did, those foods we ate, those songs we sang.  The comfort of doing things automatically by rote gave us the rest we needed to tap into the moral inheritance, into the hidden strength of our people.  They gave us a lifeline when we needed it most.

Be on the lookout!  There are those who would attempt to take your traditions away, to make them null and void.  They use many tactics:  Name-calling, humiliation, guilt, rage, haughtiness, bullying, etc.  They do this because they know how powerful your traditions are.  They know how your traditions tie you to the past and to those ancestors who went before you.  They know of the strength, the lifeline, the comfort and stability, the inheritance.  And they want to take it away from you.  Drop you into a field of snow five feet deep with no one around to help.  No road, no light, no secret cache of food.  No secret joy within your heart.

Cut off from everything that you are and were and might be, they offer a meager pittance.  Take it or leave it.  Take it, and it is the end of living and the beginning of survival.  Leave it, and it is death.  Oh, the choices they offer.  Empty prisons of ice.

Turn away from them.  Do not look at them.  Do not listen to them.  Do not allow them into your home, into your sphere.  Do not argue with them.  Do not discuss the virtues of your way.  Do not engage in their intellectual folly and word games that have no winners.  You do not owe them an explanation for your way of life.  Do instead what works.  What has always worked.  You do not have to give them a reason.  You do not even have to completely understand it yourself.  Just trust what you know to be true.

Because we really did go over the river and through the woods to my grandmother’s house.  And there was turkey and stuffing and gravy and potatoes.  There was squash and sweet potatoes and her own canned cranberry sauce.  There was apple pie and pumpkin pie and games in the woods.  Off in a faraway city, there was Macy’s parade and the kick off of the Christmas season.  There was singing and dancing and laughter.  And the adults always had a “cup of cheer,” usually more than one.

October 11, 2020 - The North Star

“But why cook your food or make your tea that way, when you can just press a button or turn a knob and have it done so much faster and cleaner?” she asked.

“Because I enjoy it,” I said, “I find it calming and clearing.”

“Okay, I get the aesthetics, but after a while the fun is gone and it’s just extra work and it doesn’t make any sense anymore.”

“It makes sense to me.”

“But,” she said, “Surely it must get tiring after a while.”

“It does sometimes, yes.”

“Are you ever tempted to just do it the easy way?”

“More often than I want to admit,” I laughed, in spite of myself.

“So what do you get out of it?” she asked.  “Honestly, I want to know.”
 

There is a star high up in the sky at night, a star the sailors love, a star the weary traveler at night searches for.  It is the North Star, Polaris, and it is directly over the North Pole.  If you can find the North Star, you can find the north, and if you know the direction of north, then by default you know which way is south, west, and east.  If you can find the North Star, you are not lost.  And it’s easy to find because it is directly above the top right star of the “dipper” portion of the Big Dipper, also known as Ursa Major.

On a clear evening, you are never truly lost.  But sometimes there are clouds, and sometimes the clouds last a very long time.  When they do, there is no Big Dipper to be seen, no North Star to be found, no guiding and directing point of light.  No beacon.  No ray of hope.  And this is very hard.  The longer the clouds persist, the harder it gets.  Sometimes the mist is so thick, you cannot find your way out of it.  So you have to believe.  You have to remember where you saw the North Star last, and then you have to trust yourself, trust your own intuition, trust your ability to navigate, trust your own knowledge.  You have to rely upon yourself.

Sometimes, for some people, there has never been a clear night filled with brilliant stars and brilliant possibilities—and a brilliant, guiding, beautiful hope.  For some people, there has always only been clouds, and they have known nothing else.  They have always done everything the same way, lived their life the same way, never tried anything else, never trusted themselves.  And so they never knew there was another path.

You can tell them about the stars, but they won’t believe you.  You can tell them of Ursa Major, that Great Bear in the sky, that constant light and strength, but they will scoff at you.  You can tell them of the great men of yore who used the North Star to navigate, sail, and conquer the world, but they will laugh at you.  They will tell you there are no points of light in the night sky, only the paltry points of light they hold in their own hands, a sort of glitter they covet and glut themselves upon.

They will warn you!  Do not travel alone!  Do not rely upon your own senses!  Do not trust yourself!  Do not look for a guide in the heavens!  Stay here, they will say.  Stay immobile.  Sit where I tell you.  Eat what I give you.  Feel the comfort of all those around you who stay connected to one another in the thick mist.  Do not wander, for you will get lost.

I walk away.  The mist is confining, and I find I cannot breathe in its depths.  I cannot think clearly.  The mist masks the stars I know for certain are up in the heavens, and I must remove the mask to see them.  I must remove the mask to think clearly again.  I leave the comfort of the crowd, the warmth of the throng, the seeming strength of the numbers.  To the edge, to the edge, to the edge I go.  And then I jump . . .

And I am alone in the clear and cold and beautiful night, and high above me is the North Star, guiding me as it has always done.  I am not lost after all, for I have my guide.  I know where I am, and I am not afraid.  I know which direction I am headed.  I am confident in my abilities and my knowledge.

Sometimes I cook my meals on an open fire or a little propane stove.  I collect the rainwater and filter and drink it because it tastes so good.  I do things differently, not because I want to do things the “hard way” or the “old way,” but because doing things differently on purpose forces my mind to walk in another direction.  It forces me to think differently, to calculate differently.  It makes me realize there are other ways of doing things.  It gives me a sort of security, and that security lets me know that I am not dependent on the crowd and the current trends for my existence.

Because I know where I’m going.  I have the North Star above me, and He has never failed me.  And I have the North Star within me.  There is no mist to blind me, no mask to hide the world from me.  I walk in the cold night alone, and I am not afraid.

September 20, 2020 - Fall From Grace

I cannot think of a better way to herald the Fall season than to make an apple pie.  Blueberries are Maine’s number one crop, but potatoes and apples are right behind them—both good keepers for storage and nourishment throughout the winter months.  I will be making pies as well as dehydrating hundreds of apple slices to bring along with me on my winter jaunts through the woods.

It is like bringing a little bit of stored summer along.  A dried slice of apple plumps up in the mouth and delivers sweet sunshine every time.  It laughs in the face of even the coldest and snowiest days, saying, “Catch me if you can!”

And so we plunge into Fall.  But exactly what it is we are falling from, I am hard pressed to figure out.  Are we falling from the pinnacle of sweltering summer days?  Then I welcome the calm and quiet coolness.  Are we falling from growth?  Then I glow with pride at the fruition.  Are we falling from days of ease and slumber?  (And surely summer is anything but that if you live in the country.)  Then I welcome the silence and sleep of the coming winter.

Perhaps we are falling from grace, from a time when the Earth trusted us to make good use of the growing season.  And if we did not do so, then perhaps we are falling into chagrin.  Or perhaps a fall from grace is a fall from the endowment of life to the gift of death.  Perhaps we fall from the land of the living into the land of the spirit.  Again.

“Catch me if you can!” the innocent child says and laughs as she runs in the summer sunshine in a field full of flowers.  And, indeed, she shall be caught and pressed into the grueling servitude of life until she falls wearily and gratefully from grace and beauty into peace and plenty and quiet.  Come, you Angels of Transfiguration, receive her into your arms and use the fruit of her labor in your work of renewal.  All of life has its exact price—and death an incalculable reward, worth a King’s ransom. 

 

August 29, 2020 - Road of Truth

The bird was clearly dying.  It was not a matter of if, but when, and it would be sooner rather than later.  I would not have stopped for so long had it not been for the commotion that brought me there in the first place.

I had been walking along my usual road and took a left turn along a path I seldom travel, and for a reason.  That is when I heard a woman’s voice in distress and a man talking soothingly to her in lower tones.  I came out into a larger part of the path, and the woman looked at me imploringly and pointed down at the bird.  She was crying hysterically, telling me that something was wrong with the bird, and that was certainly true.

These two were not from around here.  Their expensive clothes and equipment made that evident, although I do not think they realized it.  The dramatic scene was also a dead giveaway.  She kept telling me that we had to help the bird, that his wing was broken.  I went closer and looked at the bird.  His wing was definitely not broken.  He was walking about slowly and confusedly, and he was absolutely dying.

Because I know that look.  It is one I see often enough while I am out and about.  However, the two people before me were not used to it at all.  She seemed frustrated with me.

“Don’t you want to help??” she asked over loudly.

“This bird cannot be helped,” I said.

“WHY??”

“Because it’s dying.”

“Can’t we fix his wing?!” she shrieked.

“There’s nothing wrong with his wing.”

“Then what’s the problem??  I don’t get it!”

“He’s dying,” I said simply.

They both drew back quickly, as if I had struck them.  Up until that point, they thought perhaps there was something they could do (or better yet, get someone else to do).  But I know when things have gone too far, and this was definitely one of those times.

They eyed me warily, as if I had caused the problem to begin with.  They had never seen something like this up close and raw.  I deduced in a moment that their world was a world of representation but not authenticity.  They were the kind of people who received all of their information through a filter, whose lives were carefully planned out, who followed the formula given to them early in life by their keeper.

But I am not that person.  And as strange as they found me, I found them to be just as peculiar.  We sized one another up quickly.  I felt sorry for her because I believed her anguish was genuine, and they both seemed as if they truly wanted to help in some way.  The problem was that they could not help, and they could not accept that.

Their world is a world of symbols, of representations, but not of reality.  Their days are lived like scenes in a play, each year a new act, each decade a new part.  They are actors and actresses on a stage, complete with an audience that cheers or hisses at their success or failure in pretending to be who they are.  They have mastered the art of how to seem.  When confronted with this problem, they fell into their typical roles because reality is too harsh and has no stagehands.  No props.  No curtains or costumes or adoring fans.

I tried to smile, to let them know that this was normal and natural.  They smiled back nervously and then left quickly, whispering to each other down the path.  The bird hopped under a small bush, and I knew he would not come out again.  This is the way of things.  There is a price for everything in this world, and the price of life is death.  The arrangements are made at birth, and there is no way to opt out of the contract.  Attempting to do so merely brings the contract to an end quicker, and the debt is still collected anyway.

My own contract looms before me.  My greatest weakness in life has been my honesty, slinging the truth arrows of the Sagittarian, tipped with bitter drink at times.  But everything that I have done after my eyes were opened, I have done of my own accord.  There are no stagehands and no props.  There is no applause.

There is just me, weapon clearly showing at my hip.  No surprises.  No false moves.  No dishonesty.  And in return, I am given the freedom of the road, to live my life cleanly, to experience it fully, to face it with both eyes open.

When we shed our body at the end, will we realize belatedly that we loved it after all, with all of its imperfections?  Will that realization be our final, gut-wrenching heartbreak?  Or will we be like the bird on the path today?  Living honestly on the road, every moment experienced authentically and directly without props or symbols.  And now he no longer needs his wings, for he has become flight itself. 

To think that his whole life he was practicing to die.  Perhaps things are simpler than they appear.

 

August 18, 2020 - A Shift

The blackberries are ripe again.  It is a good time of year to be alive.  Such sweetness.  I pull them off the bushes one by one and eat them, still warm from the sun.  Organic before we were told what “organic” was.  Good for you before we were “educated” about them being an “antioxidant superfood.”  Just plain old berries that grow along the side of the road every year.  Or out in the meadows.  Or down by the river.  Or wherever a bird happened to drop a seed the year before.  Kissed by the sun, so they must be special.

They’re free but there’s still a price to pay, of course, as there always is for everything.  With blackberries, it’s the confounded thorns.  The large ones gash your skin, and you can avoid most of them if you pay attention.  But the small ones you can barely see are like fine little razors that tear tiny imperceptible cuts on your hands and forearms and legs.  You don’t notice it until you get into water later on and each tiny cut comes alive like an exquisitely tiny fire.  Ah, the price, you laugh to yourself, yes, the price.  But the fire is worth it.

There is no internet down by the river.  I laugh and joke with other berry pickers who bring small bowls and baskets with them.  We carry on about staking a claim on the best patch, but we end up calling one another over to partake when we find a good one.  I don’t know who they are.  Just people who like berries, I guess.  And no internet.

At one point I stop and look up at the top of the trees as the wind is rustling the leaves.  I am instantly transported in my mind to a moment when I was a child riding in the back seat of a car with my siblings, my parents in the front seat now and then telling us to keep it down to a dull roar.  We were always loud.  Something about the sunshine then looks the same as today, the Light catching in just that certain way.  We’ll be home soon, I thought, as I drank in every detail of my surroundings.  What will mother make for supper?

Then back to the river and now, and it occurs to me that I have glimpsed a bit of reality.  Somehow it has leaked again.  There was a realness I felt when I was younger that I don’t always feel now, but I search for it continually.  Longingly.  Because I know something is wrong.  My eyes tear over a bit, but I don’t want anyone to see.  So I keep picking berries, focusing intently on one bush away from the others so they won’t see the leak.  The fissure.  The crack in my soul.  The distant reality still glazing my eyes.

Something has changed in the world, and I know that you know this.  I know you feel it.  I know your eyes glaze over with tears and you try to hide them.  I know there’s a sunny day in your memory, when the leaves were blowing in the wind and rustling together and talking.  When the birds were singing and the insects were humming.  And life was slower.  And you were almost home, where the sheets were hanging on the clothesline, dry and ready to be taken in, the beds made and infused with the sweet scent of the outdoors.  To which you would fall asleep later on and wake up and do it all again the next day.

I have said it before and I will say it again:  Spend too much time looking at the black mirror, abounding with hypnotic pixels, and you will lose sight of the unpixelated real world.  Dots on a screen.  Words typed to someone who may not even be there, who may never have been there.  Ever.  “How beautiful you are and how pleasant, my love, with such delights!” said Solomon the wise.  What song might he have sung for the black mirror?

There is a knowing.  There is a great willing that can be heard if you listen closely.  Those of you who are awake know of what I speak.  You know the difference between the outdoors and face-to-face contact with people as compared to the pixels in the black mirror, however hypnotic they may be.  You see people fighting about things that don’t exist, about situations that are not real.  You see the created un-world.  Misshapen like a patched-together being in a Tolkien novel, groveling to the all-seeing eye in the mountain.

I would say just simply turn it off, simply go outside.  And while I think this is a good first step, I don’t think it is enough anymore.  The ties that bind are like the old Chinese finger traps we played with as children.  The more you pull, the tighter the snare becomes.  Something more is needed.

A shift.  A shift in consciousness.  There are two worlds now, and they are superimposed upon one another.  But slowly, ever so slowly, they are drifting apart.  It used to be easy to travel from one world to the other and back again.  It is not so easy now because they are drifting further and further apart.  Someday it will be impossible to travel between them, and I fear that day is coming soon.  Then we will be stuck in whatever world we were in when the parting became final, and never the twain shall meet.

There is a patch of berries down by the river, where the thorns mercilessly cut your hands and arms.  And the berries….they carry the Sun within them, who enters you as you consume them.  Upon which a thousand tiny points of Light stream out of you from every wound you have ever had.  It is good.  The pain of reality is a good thing, and the price is definitely worth it.