June 16, 2015 - The Helm

The base of this wheel is buried in the ground, and so it is stable and does not move.  I’ve often wondered what would happen, though, if I were to dig it up and begin navigating the world.  For surely, this must be the helm of the world.  It can’t be anything else.

I can picture it now.  At first there would be a lot of cracking and creaking because the world is so used to being stuck in its spot in the port.  But I would stand my ground and turn the helm and keep turning it.  Then quite suddenly, the Earth would begin to move and shake a bit, and then it would take on the rhythmic pulse of the waves.  Slowly, it would leave the port and sail on heaven’s ocean.  And I’d be the captain.  “All aboard!!” I’d shout as we set off, and as many of you who wanted to come along would be welcome, but I wouldn't wait for anyone who hasn’t made his mind up.

We can’t do anything about the ship we’ve been given, but we can still steer it in the general direction in which we want to go.  We can swab the deck and batten down the hatches and make her look really pretty.  We can set sail for any port we’d like, and we can always refuse to dock in any port we dislike.  The ship is not ours to own forever, but it is ours to command while we are here.  The ocean on which we sail does not belong to us, but it is the medium for our vehicle and will support us if we respect it.  You are a clipper ship, not a tugboat.  See that you behave that way.

Grab the helm while you still can.

June 15, 2015 - Appearances

Age does not automatically confer wisdom.  If it did, every old person would be a joy and a treasure to meet and to know.  Instead, wisdom seems to alight haphazardly in the strangest of places, although rarely where expected.  There is knowledge and there is savoir faire, and these two can get you far in life.  But they fly apart like leaves when wisdom approaches.

About 20 years ago I was doing some gardening work for an old man, who taught me a lesson.  I showed up for the day in my old ripped jeans because I was gardening, but also because they were the only jeans I had.  An old t-shirt, some old gloves, and a beaten up old hat completed the ensemble.  This was, after all, back-breaking work in the tough Maine soil.  On this day, the old man decided to take me around his property and show me all he was building with his new house.  I have to say, it was impressive and could only be done with money “from away.”  He spared no expense, and he was extremely pleased that I was pleased with all of his efforts.

No-frill flowers.

On the way back to the gardens, he waxed eloquently about the vagaries of life and about what he was trying to portray with his new home and his long-awaited retirement.  He suddenly turned to me and said, “Appearances are everything.  Ev.  Ree.  Thing.”  He said it just like that, dramatically emphasizing the final “everything.”

“Do you really think so?” I asked, not bothering to hide my laughter.

“Ooooh, yes,” he said as he rolled his eyes.

Then he gave me the once-over, taking in my ripped jeans and my old sneakers with a very derisive look, and he headed back to his almost-finished house without another word.  I went back to my gardening.

Now, it must be said that this was, indeed, a very dapper and sophisticated old man.  He was cultured and educated and tenured at a very exclusive university.  He had money, position, and power, and he knew how to use all three.  This was a man who was used to getting his own way.  Always.  I wondered why he had said what he said to me.

It must also be said that I have never cared very much about my own appearance.  I don’t believe anyone has ever referred to me as dapper or sophisticated.  I am educated, but culture and tenure continue to elude me.  And then there’s money, position, and power.  The short story is that I haven’t got any, and if truth be told, I wouldn’t know how to use them if I did.

Appearances are everything, he had said.  My old car was parked next to his flashy sports car, and I thought about that as I smiled at how diametrically opposed the two of us were.  But there was one moment, just one brief moment, I was thinking about as I admired the shiny red vehicle, and that was the tiny flicker I saw in his eyes as he was telling me that appearances were everything.  It was the tiniest flicker.  I gazed directly into his eyes and saw just the tiniest flicker of doubt.  And I knew that his speech was intended more for himself than for me, although he probably didn’t know it.  He could not close the curtains to his soul with all the money in the world.

Perhaps the old codger was right after all.  Perhaps appearances really are everything.  It just depends on what you’re looking at, really, and I was never one to look much at glitz and glamor.  Superficiality is just that.  I never reach for what I’m given.  Give me instead the eyes, the windows to the soul, and I will paint an accurate picture.

June 14, 2015 - The Woods, Again

I think it’s really quite bold, you know, the way the woods behave in the summer.  As if they never knew there was such a thing as the Winter.  As if they have all the time in the world in which to lazily meander about.  And how they flaunt themselves?  So teasingly?  As if to say, “Ha!  You cannot touch me!  I am immortal!”

But you and I both know that is not the case.  We know that the summer woods are quite touchable, indeed, and the time will come when they are laid to waste once again.  The time will come when they are beaten and bludgeoned once again.  The time will come when they will expire, yet again, in complete ruin and destruction.  But, good golly, you have to admire their spunk!

And there is, quite naggingly, the real question of immortality as they do have that habit of regeneration . . .

The folly of the woods.

June 13, 2015 - Farm Animals

Farm animals are a calming presence in our lives.  I am convinced that a good deal of the violence and indifference in city areas is due to a lack of farm animals.  Somehow their presence soothes us and seems to give us exactly what we need, and those needs can be different at different times.  Somehow the animals know.

For example, if we are anxious and worried about our future and finances, farm animals give us an example of creatures who live in the now and never think of money.  They never worry about cash or possessions and have never had such things.  If we are sad and forlorn, farm animals remind us that there is always another day, another dawn to wake up to, and that even if we don’t have everything we want, we usually have everything we need.  If we are lonely and depressed, farm animals offer their quiet company without ever saying a word.  They are a constant and steady presence that gives us more strength than we realize.

A peaceful farm life.

Farm animals do not judge us.  They do not compare us to others.  They do not hold us to any stringent measures or impossible standards.  Farm animals do not use us or pit us against one another.  They don’t steal and they don’t lie.  They are the epitome of good and honest friends.  If we are rude, they forgive us.  If we are forgetful, they remind us.  If we are busy, they wait for us in silence and peace.

No matter how badly you might feel on some days, if you drive by farm animals, you will be made happy and whole again.  The animals don’t have to belong to you.  They can just be part of a farm you pass on your daily drive.  There’s an unspoken message of their peaceful lives that go on and on in an unbroken rhythm throughout the centuries.  This has always happened and it always will happen.  This is stability.  This is real life unfolding before your eyes.  This is true wealth.

June 12, 2015 - The Doll

When I was little, I had dolls and dollhouses.  The little dolls had little houses, and the big dolls had big houses.  Very often, the little dolls would go to visit the big dolls because their houses were so much bigger, although the big dolls couldn’t comfortably visit the little dolls because there just wasn’t enough room to fit in their houses.  These were serious playtimes, with entire lives being invented and reinvented on a daily basis.  The dolls had lives, families, parties, memories--you name it.  In my mind, the dolls’ world was very rich.

Then came the day I sat back and wondered about my own role in the lives of the dolls.  Was I a deity?  After all, I created their scenarios, rewarded them for good behavior, and dropped them on their heads for bad behavior.  All situations were thought of in advance by me.  Sometimes I’d have the dolls play the scene out to one end, and then start over and have them play the scene out to another completely different end.  Each time, I controlled everything, except for when they occasionally got sassy and used swear words.  In any event, my head began to swell when I realized my omnipotence.

Her beautiful night light.

Until another day came when I sat back and wondered about my own world.  I began to wonder if I were just a doll in a very large dollhouse with lots of other dolls around me.  Were we all just playing a doll game together?  Was our giant dollhouse inside of a giant doll world that was inside of a giant toy box?  Perhaps we all just thought our world was real because we didn’t know any better.  But maybe we were just dolls and all our hopes and dreams and plans and schemes were just roles we were playing out without a choice.

Of course, those thoughts ultimately led me to wonder that if I were a doll, to whom did I belong?  Was there a giant child somewhere inventing scenes for me and controlling my whole life?  Maybe everything in my world just seemed real because I wasn’t the one making it up.  It certainly made me behave a little nicer toward my own dolls in the hope that whomever I belonged to would see how good I was and be nice to me as well.  I knew she’d never visit, though, because my dollhouse was entirely too small for her to get into.

I’m still not sure about it all.  Tonight a giant night light slips beneath the horizon, beautifully coloring the world in which I live in shades of pink and orange.  Clouds like fluffy wisps of cotton candy float by in the sky.  The dollmaster’s eyes grow heavier and she fades off to sleep, and then the sky goes dark and I go to sleep as well.  Good night.  Sleep tight.  Let’s play again in the morning.

June 11, 2015 - I am Icarus

The heat has hit us in a bad way, and all eyes turn to the shore for relief.  I am sure that 83 degrees might not seem hot to some people, but for me it is stifling and painful.  All outdoor work must be done in the very early morning or in the evening.  I wouldn’t dare to approach the Sun King directly at this time of year.  Although he is known for his benevolence, he can be overpowering at times.  An archetype cannot choose his behavior.

But I am Icarus today, and I can choose my behavior.  Daedalus has warned me repeatedly not to fly too low or too high.  The dampness of the sea will clog my wings if I fly too low, and the scorching heat of the sun will melt them if I fly too high.  Moderation is the key to the warnings of Daedalus.  Fly too low with a lack of confidence, and you will be drowned.  Fly too high with hubris and an overestimation of your abilities, and you will be burned.  The Sun King approves of neither extreme but can only punish you with one.

It’s a tightrope we all walk.  Drowning at sea is easier to discern and can usually be remedied in time.  But flying high?  Who can resist soaring in the brilliance, even though only momentarily?  I’ll take my chances.

Fly to the heavens?

June 10, 2015 - Steal The Tree

STEAL THE TREE

Like a thief in the night

the water rises to steal the tree.

Slippery fingers pulling and coaxing

now grabbing and thrashing

now caressing and kissing

but always furtive

always stealing.

Sleight of hand with smoke and mirrors.

The water paints the tree

to hide its origin from prying eyes.

I have always held the tree.

I have always known the tree.

It was always mine.

The water lies.

I never wanted it, never liked it

never needed or cared for it

never desired it.

I never coveted its hardened form

never thought to steal the hidden sun

stored tightly within its limbs.

The water lies.

It was never my plan to drink

to sate, to glut upon the locked energy.

I never schemed to drain its life.

I thought only to place a kiss

upon the boughs of land’s lover

a token of my affection.

The water lies.

June 9, 2015 - Lupine

What a quandary.  June is the month of the lupine here in Maine.  Everywhere you look, the countryside is lit up like fire with millions upon millions of lupines.  Most are brilliant purple, although some are pink and blue.  Every year I hunger to see the lupine because I know that the warm weather has truly arrived, and the dog days of summer are soon to follow.

But it’s a quandary.  For all of its good qualities, the lupine has bad qualities as well.  That the lupine is beautiful and creates a heavenly vision, no one can argue.  It is also extremely prolific and helps to hold soil in place in disturbed areas.  The bees love it and it helps to feed them.  It also improves soil fertility by fixing atmospheric nitrogen in its root nodules.  It’s wonderful for helping to colonize volcanic ash and turn an otherwise inhospitable area into a field of greenery.

A field of lupines.

But it comes at a price because the lupine has a dark side.  Lupine grows so very quickly that it takes over areas at an alarming rate and excludes many plants, especially those that grow slowly.  One of those slow-growing plants happens to be native milkweed, the only source of food for the monarch butterfly.  Maine is at the northern end of the 2,000-mile-long migration of the monarch butterfly, and they really need that milkweed when they get here.  Lupine is also known to make farm animals sick and decreases the value of hay if it is in any great amount in a field.  Many of the native grasses and lichens in Maine that thrive in poor soil find the soil too fertile near lupines.  Did you ever think that too-fertile soil would be a problem?  It can be.

And then there’s the blueberry.  Blueberries are the biggest crop in Maine, with potatoes playing a close second.  It’s those special little tiny wild Maine blueberries--you know the ones that people from away pay exorbitant amounts to get?  Those indescribably delicious, nutritionally loaded little wild blueberries that favor the cold Maine climate?  When lupine gets a hold of their fields, it can wreak havoc.  Areas that were once covered with blueberries can disappear quickly because of the lupine.

There are some rare grasses that grow only in Maine and nowhere else in the world, such as the Orono sedge.  Who knows what we might someday learn from this rare grass?  Don’t forget that wheat is also a grass.  Maybe learning the unique qualities of grasses which have been untouched by time could someday help us in improving wheat in a sustainable and healthy way.  But the lupine is edging the Orono sedge out slowly but surely.  And that’s just one of the unique plants that grow only in cold-loving Maine.

Still . . . I can’t help but adore the lupine.  My eyes are drawn to its fantastic beauty.  I’m afraid this photo doesn’t nearly capture the stunning qualities of the lupine up close and personal.  There has to be a way that we, as good stewards of the land, can allow the lupine to flourish and yet safeguard the other rare beauties of Maine.  For now, I will just enjoy the sight of the lupine, but I will not spread its seed (as so many people mistakenly do out of romantic fantasies) or purposely cultivate it.  It is meant to be admired from afar.

June 8, 2015 - Rain

Standing in a storm.  All around, rain.  Rain.  Rain everywhere.  Greyness and wind.  And rain, of course.  Only the mistiness and the smell of the storm, and the indescribably sad sound of the teardrops of rain. 

Sometimes the rain doesn’t water the Earth and feed her and help her to grow, as you might imagine.  Sometimes the rain pours out what sparse feelings are left inside your heart.  Sometimes the rain rips them away and ravages what little you had left.  All of those things you thought you had so very carefully stored away, yes, all of those things.  They pour out with the rain.  You can put your hands around your heart and clutch tightly, but it doesn’t matter.  Everything slips between your fingers.  Everything slips away, except for sorrow.

Old songs and old photos and old feelings fall down from the sky.  They all mix in with your tears, and who’s to say where the rain ends and the tears begin?  Not me.  It pours down, mercilessly beating at your face.  Haunting, haunting.  If only the rain could wash all the sorrow away.  But it can’t.  Miracles seldom come from heaven.

Standing in a storm.