November 10, 2015 - The Cold Beach

There is nothing more exhilarating and yet calming, exciting and yet peaceful than being on the beach in the cold weather.  The colder the weather gets, the better the beach gets.  Our beaches in Maine are never too crowded compared to beaches in warmer climates, even in the summer, but often I feel that one more person than me constitutes a crowd.  I make an exception for the horses.

Looking for treasure.

The wind is piercingly cold on the beach at this time of year, even though we haven’t reached winter yet and the best is yet to come.  It’s a good idea to wear a couple of layers of clothes and a warm coat, even if there’s no snow on the ground yet.  The wind can cause hypothermia very quickly.  But where are all the people?  Can it be they do not like the cold?  I should count myself lucky that they do not.

When the weather gets cold and the tide goes out, all of the sea treasures appear.  Sand dollars, shimmering shells, and polished sea glass all glint on the shore, waiting to be claimed or taken back by the ocean as the case may be.  The real magic, though, is in the cool fresh air and the brilliant sun.  Even though the Sun King’s powers have diminished greatly elsewhere, and we all run willy-nilly searching for his bounty, here on the beach he still rules.  His reflection is seen in the shimmering water, shining like a secret horde of pirate’s treasure.

The important things in life still cannot be bought.  It’s strange, though, isn’t it?  Winter is the time when the beach is at its most glorious, when the ferocity of wind and surf take your breath away, when the vast beauty of nature makes you realize just how small you are.  Small, but loved.  And this is the time when people do not come, forgoing their chance at gathering eternal treasure.

November 9, 2015 - The Waning Sun

Darkness comes so much faster now than it used to, and my ability to tell time by the sun has diminished.  This is something I took for granted in the warm season.  I still look up at the sun now and think to myself that I have a certain number of hours left in a day, only to find out that I have terribly miscalculated.  If I am not far from home, this represents no problem.  But if I am in the woods or hiking a long trail, this can be very problematic, indeed.  Darkness descends quickly on the forest, and ignorance of the law is no excuse.  The fault lies completely with me.

A much diminished sun hiding behind a tree.

Gone is that dramatic arc the sun used to travel (but recently) in the sky.  It has been replaced by one that is plummeting at record speed to the shortest day of the year.  “High noon” is nowhere to be found, and I’m afraid we won’t see it again until sometime next year.  Then we will have to relearn our skills.  Truly, we are a challenging species to even the kindest and most patient of creators.

All of the little forest animals are fat now, each having stored a bit of the sun inside itself.  This they did through the consumption of plant food.  The plants are the great transformers of the physical world.  One might even say they are the great transmuters of the physical world, taking the energy of the sun and, through the curious use of chlorophyll, storing it in their cells.  So it goes like this:  active direct sun energy, transmuted to passive sun energy stored in plants, transmuted to physical energy in bodies.  And it doesn’t stop there because the physical world is only one of the worlds in which energy may travel.  (What wisdom the Great Alchemist must have had when adding a chloroplast to the soup of life!)

All wild things follow a natural course, and natural laws are never deviated from--ever.  It is only mankind who attempts to deviate from the natural, at great consequence and tragedy to himself.  We would be wise to follow our animal and plant friends, who have so patiently left us such clear instructions--instructions they repeat over and over as a teacher would do for a naughty child.

November 8, 2015 - Fire Magic

The sun is furtive now, dipping in and out of treetops, never staying in one place very long.  He still warms the day somewhat but not too much, and he travels at a different angle.  He stays one step ahead of us now, saying, “Catch me if you can!”

But you must never chase him, or he will lead you into a game that lasts forever, a game that far too many people play, a game that far too many people lose.  This is why the southern areas of the country and those places nearest the equator have so many people.  They are all chasing the sun.  They all live for the brilliance and warmth he haphazardly doles out to them, and because of this, they have not learned the magic.  As they chase him, mesmerized by the warmth, they fall further and further into the game, and eventually they can’t get out.  They know no other way.

Long out of use, this fire pit has been restored to its rightful place.

That’s why the northern areas of the country and the world are so sparsely populated.  Most people have run off chasing the sun.  Those who run off know nothing of the secret of those who stay behind in the cold and the darkness.  But it’s an age-old and simple secret:  Like attracts like.  If you want warmth, give it.  If you seek light, first create it.  This is the lesson of fire, and this lesson brought man out of the caves so he could conquer the world.  This lesson gave man the sun when there was no sun.

Whether it be an outdoor fire, a fireplace or woodstove, or a simple candle--just one candle--the magic of fire kindles hope and strength in the northern people that those in the south will never ever dream of, so busy they are chasing the sun.  We, instead, create our own light and warmth, and that in turn creates a kind of know-how and confidence in our hearts.  We don’t have to wait for the warmth of the sun.  We can make our own.  We have a small piece of the magic.

Eventually, the sun will come back with his tail between his legs, looking like a forlorn puppy dog and begging for attention.  We pretend not to have noticed his absence and invite him to come and sit by the fire, yet so glad we are that this wayward child has returned.  For our hospitality, he richly rewards us when the tides of the seasons change.  He remembers that we kept vigil for him in those dark and lonely days when he was small and belligerent and lost, and for that he gives us paradise in the summer.

But you cannot chase paradise.  You must give it a seat at the fire and allow it to manifest on its own.  Otherwise, you run forever.

November 7, 2015 - Busy Work

The sun is setting on another day in the country.  This day, like every other day, is not marked or tracked by a clock.  There is no nagging message that says I must do this or I must do that.  There was nowhere I had to be.  Which is why I was so busy.

Another day.

There was a lot to do.  Winterizing of the house.  Putting warm weather things away and taking out cold weather things.  Clearing out waste and building up the compost piles.  Cleaning up fall messes, which will be back tomorrow.  Working on writing.  Taking photographs.  We were out of bread, so I had to bake more.  Animal care.  A necessary trip into town.  The list goes on.

It’s frustrating when I get to the end of a long day and feel as if I’ve barely accomplished anything.  There’s no time clock on which to punch out.  I basically work until I’m exhausted, and I know darn well that there’s just as much work to do tomorrow.

Then the sun sets, and I figure if the sun can still be so beautiful after a long day of travel, if the sun can wave farewell to me with such a dazzling smile, if the sun can labor with never a complaint, maybe things aren’t so bad after all.  Maybe peace and beauty are still the important things, and the busy work can wait until tomorrow.  It’s a gift given freely, which I gratefully accept.

Tomorrow the sun will be right back at it again, toiling tirelessly in order to take care of the entire world.  In the face of that, my chores don’t seem nearly so difficult.

November 6, 2015 - The Cupola

The tighter and more draft-free you can make your barn in the winter, the less food your animals will require to stay warm and the happier your cows will be, which means more milk.  But there’s a problem with that.  It’s all the moisture created by the animals breathing and by the manure.  If it has nowhere to go, the walls get covered with it, and eventually the barn will be ruined.

Old barn with cupola.

The old Maine farmers knew what they were doing, though.  At the top of the old barns, you can still see the “cupolas.”  A cupola lets the moisture out through slats, which can be moved, and it also allows light into the barn, another important thing for the animals.  There are some fancy-pants cupolas around here from the late 1800s and early 1900s, but I like the earlier ones, from the 1700s and early 1800s, such as the one pictured in the photo.

There’s nothing fancy about this cupola.  It’s hand made, as you can see in the close-up below, and it served its purpose on this beautiful old barn.  The countryside is still dotted with them on the old barns.  Nowadays, we still have cupolas, but there are many other fancy ways to air out your barn in winter.  Today’s cupolas are often for style, although some are still made for function.

There are some cupolas that are downright gaudy, filled with pretty little windows and architectural decorations.  There are some that are large and haughty and show-offy.  Some of the more dramatic and flamboyant “widows watches” (not the true ones) could even be part of the “my cupola is better than your cupola craze” America seemed to undergo at some point.  Thankfully, practicality won out.  This is America, after all.

Form is beautiful, but function is divine.

Close-up of the old cupola.

November 5, 2015 - Seed Magic

The seeds reach up to the heavens now.  All around us the magic is taking place, and no one is paying attention at all.  No one realizes it.  Reaching and reaching for the sun . . .  There’s a secret transaction going on.  Can you feel it?

The magic.

Right now, a spark is being placed into each tiny seed.  Each seed is being touched by the Sun.  The Earth, too, gives her magic up, and both magics meet in the tiny seed.  It can’t be seen.  Break the seed open and you will find nothing, perhaps less than nothing.  A dried core, devoid of life.  But the magic is there.

Right now, the Earth is planting.  She’s planting like crazy.  She doesn’t do it in the spring like mankind does.  She does it in the fall, and we would be wise to take a lesson from her.  She knows what to do with the magic.  Each tiny package is placed in its tomb in the Earth, and a funeral filled with mourners and wailing banshees is about to take place.  Then it is up to Persephone to decide what to do.

The time to plant is now.  Perhaps not your tomatoes, but your dreams and ideas.  Place the spark in them now and put them in the Earth.  Read them their eulogy.  Then wait for the Lady of the Pomegranate seeds to bless them.

November 4, 2015 - Here Be Dragons

On the old maps in the borderlands, in unknown territory, in untraveled areas, and on the uncharted seas, something had to be written.  So the old mapmakers said, “Here be dragons.”  Thereupon mystic beasts were drawn, terrible dragons, devouring seamonsters, and all manner of mythical creatures.  And somehow this brought them to life.  One can argue whether or not they were real before the mapmaker performed his magic, but afterward, there is no doubt.  Many an ancient sea captain reported seeing dragons in those very areas about which the mapmaker cautioned.

An uncharted land.

It’s the regions that reach onward and outward where the end cannot be seen, cannot be found.  It’s the areas that go on and on with never an end in sight, never a familiar marker to be found.  It’s the vast expanses that make us feel as tiny as an ant, that tower over everything.  The mind cannot think of nothing.  It must think of something, even if it calls the something “nothing.”  Nothing is still something, and so we must define it.

The mapmaker is free to imagine whatever he wants in those unknown areas.  Perhaps it’s the end of the Earth, where a ship sails and falls right off into the netherworld.  Perhaps it’s a land inhabited by gods and Titans, separated by a stone wall forty feet high.  Perhaps it’s more subtle, like another realm superimposed upon our own realm, separated only by a misty curtain through which only the knowledgeable and skilled traveler may pass.  The mapmaker is free to see the hidden worlds and bring them to life for us.

I am the mapmaker in my world.  At the edge of the shore is a vast sea that goes on and on.  There is no visible end to it.  And out upon the sea are various islands and landmasses, and on these islands and landmasses are all kinds of people from the most fantastic civilizations.  Some are beautiful and incredible.  Some are terrible and woeful.  Each one is a world unto itself, unaware of the other worlds and certainly unaware of us.  The mind can visit any civilization it wants to and gain the experience of the other world, providing it knows how to pass through the misty curtain.

This is what a traveler does.  And a traveler needs a map to get her from place to place and to record the unknown and make it known.  That’s what I do every day.  Out on those high seas, while navigating through some difficult situations in those worlds and especially in our own, I have often said, “Here be dragons!”

November 3, 2015 - Dress Me In Scarlet

DRESS ME IN SCARLET

If I must go from the world, then dress me in scarlet.

Take me to the last ball of the season.

Let me be the lady in red,

dancing in shattered brilliance.

If I must leave the Earth, then cloak me in crimson

so that none may forget.

Let them see me unafraid,

awash with the radiance, the blaze of ebbing life.

If I must be banished, then cover me with rubies.

Ten thousand gems gleaming,

riches and waste and a glorified end,

finery in fatality, head unbowed.

If I must die, then let me die as a blood-stained rose,

fermented as a fine and intoxicating wine

or a deep and lusty burgundy

that pinches the tongue, made speechless.

 

Ten thousand rubies.

 

November 2, 2015 - Transitions

In a couple of months this water will be completely frozen over.  People will drive their cars on it and have races across the ice, sliding and spinning out of control.  It will be a time for daring and risk-taking, a time I will comfortably watch from the sidelines.  It’s hard to believe, but it’s true.  Everything will be frozen.  The severity of each season in Maine is really quite striking.

Moments.  Fleeting moments.

For now, we enjoy the crisp cool days of fall, and we still have a brilliant afternoon sun.  The river acts as though it never knew the meaning of the word “frozen.”  Those foolish water droplets.  But the plant life on the shore is wiser.  Already it steels itself against the inevitable.  The insects are mostly hidden or dead now, and the birds have flown south.

We’ll go to sleep one day in fall and wake up the next day in winter.  That’s how it happens here.  Transitions are sharp and cruel.  Then I will look at this photo and say, “Impossible!”