May 6, 2018 - Spring in Maine

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

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

Don't you know me?

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

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

To which the “Spring” responds . . .

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

April 16, 2018 - April

Oh, the long and lonely road of April, with its penetrating frozen rain and sleet.  December I could laugh at.  I could light it up with candles and sweeten it with dreamy confections.  January I could stand beside.  I could march through the invigorating snow, tall and sure.  I could plan out a good year.  February I could bear.  I could see its stark beauty, and although it was severely cold, its elegance was undeniable, its crisp air ever a lesson.  March I could love as the first sign of the abating of the season of death.  In March I had hope.

But April.  The season of new light and hidden joy has long since passed, a happy memory.  The new year and the promises and hope have been tucked away—not forgotten, but tucked away.  The icy severity has been conquered.  The Lord of Winter has retreated, taking his terrible army with him.  The wood fires have blazed and won the battle.  Again.  And the world is poised . . . poised.

But April.  Colorless and grey, stealing into the bones of all living creatures, sapping the strength of all it touches.  The continual shiver of exhausted muscles.  The lackluster landscape, sad and forlorn.  It cannot live and it cannot die.  An eternal cold limbo with bony fingers reaching from the Underworld.  And not even a grave!  Even that would bring some sort of solace, some sort of meaning, implying that at one time there may have been more, demanding grief for what might have been.  But even that has been stolen.

Stolen.  Relentlessly, hopelessly, helplessly, endlessly.  April.

April 15, 2018 - The Kitchen Alchemist

I grew up washing dishes by hand.  The idea of a dishwasher never even entered my mind.  We always washed dishes by hand, and everyone I knew did the same.  It was a chore—usually despised—that simply had to be done at least twice a day every day.  Paper plates never entered the picture.  If they could be gotten, they were far too expensive anyhow.  And what a waste!  One use and tossed into the garbage?  Unheard of.  Absolutely unheard of.

And so day in and day out, we all washed our dishes.  Some of us complained louder than others, and I was one of the complainers.  Oh, how I hated washing dishes!  Surely, there were a dozen other better and more important things I could be doing than washing dishes.  Surely, there were more pressing matters at hand, things of an urgent nature.  Putting these things on hold simply to do dishes was irresponsible, I would say—to anyone who would listen.  But mostly I just grumbled angrily to myself.

Vintage Corning Ware.

Well, time passed as it always does, and one day I got myself a dishwasher—a real dishwasher!  I was so happy, I was beside myself!  I loaded it up with dirty dishes, put in the soap, turned the dial, and the pressed the button.  And the magic began.  A machine washed my dishes for me.  Finally, I thought, my dreams had come true.  No more drudgery with the dishes.  No more toiling over the sink.  I could bake whatever I wanted and not have to worry much about the cleanup.  This was progress.

Or so I thought.  Many years passed, and I went through several dishwashers.  As soon as one broke, I immediately got another because there was no way I was going to wash dishes by hand.  I had better things to do.  Funny thing is, though, I didn’t often do any of those “better” things.  I often relaxed.  Of course, there’s nothing wrong with sitting down and relaxing, especially if you have worked hard all day, but all those “important and urgent” things seemed to fly right out of the window.  I didn’t find myself getting anything more done than I ordinarily already did.

And there was a strange dark side.  The dishwasher had become a hiding place.  Anything unclean was hidden inside it, to be washed at the end of the day (unless I had to run it twice, which sometimes I did).  It made my kitchen appear cleaner than it actually was.  The counters and sink were clean because the dirt was hidden.  If I wanted to use a certain bowl or dish that was dirty, I had to use something else or improvise.  Because once something was stuffed into the hiding place, I could no longer acknowledge it existed until the machine cleaned it again.  A day’s worth of dishes would slowly build up, moldering in the dark and closed space.  In the back of my mind, there was always this feeling of unfinished business.

Then one day something changed.  I walked into my kitchen, and I realized it wasn’t just a place where I did work or fed a crew.  It was a place where I lived, where I spent a great deal of time, where I pondered life.  It was a place where I made plans, calculated the good and bad in my life, built a future.  It was a place where I laughed and cried, a place where I nourished myself and others.  It was a place filled with so much love and living.  How could I have ever thought that it was a place of drudgery?  How could I have been so blind?

What I did then, well, I pulled out the old dish rack and set it up on the counter.  Underneath it I placed a clean white vintage kitchen towel.  I pulled all the dirty dishes out of the dishwasher and put them in the sink, and then I filled up the basin with hot, soapy water.  I washed all the dishes by hand, rinsed them, and put them in the rack.  Then I stood back and watched them gleam in the sunshine that came through the window over the sink.  I did the same thing the next day and the day after that.

I’ve never put a single dish in that dishwasher again.  It sits in my kitchen.  Empty.  Barren.  And somehow my life is fuller now that I’ve been given my chores back, now that I’ve willingly taken them on again.  I do my best thinking while I’m washing dishes, and I might as well confess that I talk out loud to myself all the time while working in the kitchen.  I make plans.  I solve problems.  I come to peace with people and things.  Somehow washing the dirt off the dishes also washes it out of my mind.  Making things clean and orderly—and having nothing dirty and hidden—makes it so much easier to make realistic everyday decisions, and I find I don’t second-guess myself as much as I used to.

Who would have thought that washing dishes could do all of that?  If someone had told me so when I was younger, I would have laughed in their face and rolled my eyes.  I guess I had to learn the value—the deep and abiding value—of ordinary daily chores.  I had to learn to choose them.  I had to learn how to appreciate the meaning of simple things.  I had to learn the wisdom of a structured day. 

I don’t know why I changed and I don’t know how, and I’m not sure it matters.  Very often these days, I find myself singing while washing dishes, and that is good enough for me.

March 25, 2018 - Old Records

There once was a special drawer in an old bureau in every house in America, and most likely in every house in many other countries as well.  This drawer was important and was different from other drawers.  Other drawers might contain linens or china or practical gadgets, but the special drawer was set aside for a special purpose.  It contained all the important family papers, policies, receipts, and other things.  There might be old, yellowed newspaper articles falling half apart from age.  There might be old, frayed photos of long-dead relatives.  There might be secret documents of old trysts or settled arguments.

Because, you see, this was the memory drawer of the family.  Anything that was important or worth preserving was kept in this drawer.  Also, anything of a timely nature was kept there, anything that might need a rapid response or action.  This was the accounting center of the family, and as the years went on, the accounts added up and up, and the lives of the individuals were recorded . . . from birth to marriage, to wars, to pride or shame, to death.  Here was the individual family’s Hall of Records.

Receipts of life.

It was a very important drawer.  Children were not allowed to open this drawer because the documents it contained were too essential to the wellbeing of the family and could not be treated lightly.  Whenever the drawer was opened, children would crowd around to see what was inside, pretending all along as if they had not noticed it was open.  How they longed to open it themselves!  But they never dared because their hides would be tanned for sure.

It took on a certain scent, the old drawer did.  It was the same scent you can still find in old libraries and old bookstores.  Not the new buildings—they are too sterile—but the old ones.  There is where you can still find the scent.  It was an aroma of the generations of life, and when that drawer was opened, all of the old ghosts would step out and walk around the room once again.  If you were clever and sensitive, you could see them as they passed by, lightly touching an old piece of china or pottery here and there in remembrance.

There is still an old drawer in an old bureau in my house.  It contains many years of memories and accountings.  Many of the documents are my own, but there is a special spot with documents that belong to others.  Some of the people I knew and some I did not.  They are all dead now, but I still keep their papers.  I find them at old estate sales and yard sales and auctions here and there.  No one wants them, so I buy them up and I store their memories in the old drawer.

Occasionally I will look through the papers and try to build an image in my mind of who these people were.  Some people might think I am crazy for doing such a thing, but I cannot help wanting to know more about these long lost people.  When a young man buys several acres of land at the age of 24, I want to know who he was and what he was thinking.  It seems to me he was much cleverer than most 24-year-olds today.  Being 24 years old 150 years ago was not the same as being 24 years old today, it would seem.  I cannot help but get a tear in my eye when I wonder about these people.

You will notice a not-so-old record book in the middle of the old documents in the photo.  That is my current record book.  In it I keep a record of all purchases made and all income received.  I realize that I could do this on a computer.  In fact, I tried to do just that.  When I entered a purchase in my accounting program, I would hear a little “cha-ching!” sound, but it just was not the same.  So I abandoned the computer record system.  It was too cold and glaring for me.  I went back to paper.  That was quite some time ago, and I have decided I will stick with paper until I die.

It takes a little longer to keep records on paper.  I refuse to use a calculator, so all sums must be done by hand.  It does not feel right to use a calculator and then write a number down in the book.  It is one or the other, I say, so I chose a direction and I am sticking with it.  In any event, it can be very helpful to see where the funds are coming from and where they are going.  From year to year I am able to adjust my purchases to meet particular goals.  Sometimes those goals involve saving money, but not always.  Sometimes they just involve being watchful and thoughtful.  Sometimes they help me make better choices or ride out storms.

A drawer full of memories and plans and accounts is different from a computer or a disk or a “memory stick” filled with the same.  One is tangible and real.  You can touch it and smell it, and it creates a real feeling of the past and a connection and gratitude to former generations.  The other is thousands of pixels on a black mirror.  The pixels form a colorful image, but it is not real.  Underneath that image there is only a black mirror, and in it, your face is reflected back to you, searching aimlessly for something you will never find.

So if you do not have an old drawer in an old bureau, I suggest you get one.  If you have to start with an old cardboard box, then so be it.  When you get your bureau, you can transfer your valuables to the special drawer.  Keep a record of your life, even if you are going through hard times—especially if you are going through hard times, because hard times teach us the best lessons, and having a record of those lessons is priceless.  Keep your accounts, keep a journal, keep your important old photos and old newspaper clippings and old documents.  Even new documents become old at some point.

Yes, eventually the paper will dissolve and the old photos will turn to dust and the memories will disappear.  Yet they seem to last much longer than a life kept digitally on a little piece of plastic that can be stepped on and destroyed in a moment or thrown out when it is no longer convenient or stylish.  A whole life gone . . . just like that.  Your memories are worth more than that.  Your memories are something that should be kept in an old drawer and taken out once in a while and held in your hands.  Then you will know they are real, and a real life is something to be proud of, however humble it may be.

March 19, 2018 - Twilight

An old man walks down a cold and wintry road at twilight and remarks to himself how everything looks black and white with no color at all.  He knows that dusk has a way of playing with colors, watering them down until they melt away into a sea of grey as if they had never been.  And now that everything is grey, who’s to say that there ever really was any color anyway?  But it doesn’t matter.  He knows it doesn’t matter.

There are enough memories in his head to fill the ocean, and he reflects upon them as he walks.  This country road used to be filled with the comings and goings of many country people.  He remembers the one-room schoolhouse he attended, long since removed and placed in a city area as a “museum.”  Visitors from away come to see the old wooden building where he learned to read and write and do his sums.  He can still see the children running in and out of the school, playing “kick the can” at lunchbreak.

Twilight.

There were many horses going up and down the road with many styles of wagons and buggies, and there were cars and farm trucks, too.  They were newer and much louder, and the horses didn’t like them at all.  Now those vehicles are old and they’re also in museums.  A modern car or truck will still race by often enough, and he must be careful on the road, especially in the twilight, lost in thought as he is, just another grey form in a grey world.

There were farms, small family farms, the kind that fed just a handful of families.  In the spring, there was tilling and the smell of winter’s manure spread upon the fields.  And there was growing and sunshine and abundance.  The sun was warmer in those days, golden and beautiful, and from sunup to sundown his day was filled with work in the fields, from childhood long into his adult years. 

Then there was the work of harvesting and preserving and preparing the fields for winter's sleep.  All the little farm stands on the side of the road bulged with produce.  City people would come by and purchase fresh fruits and vegetables, and there was laughter and smiling and abundance.  There was always a harvest dance after all the hard work, and then came the pig slaughter and the deer hunting.  Yes, they were busy, always busy.

In the winter the farm buildings were repaired, fences were fixed and expanded, and animals were cared for.  A large ice rink was set up in a lower field at a friend’s farm, and everyone would go to ice skate and have outdoor winter parties by the side of the rink, with plenty of small fires to warm frozen hands and toes.  And everyone knew everyone else.  It was a colorful community.

Now the people are distant.  The cars and trucks race by at breakneck speed, never stopping to say hello or wave.  But he doesn’t recognize the faces anyway, so perhaps it’s just as well.  There are still a few tiny family farms, and those people he knows but doesn’t see often.  There are no more harvest dances.  That’s the problem, he thinks to himself, there are no more harvest dances.  That was where anything worth knowing about happened.  Now there are mainly scattered homes, nicely kept, where everyman keeps to himself behind closed doors.

Life is black and white every day now, he remarks to himself, not just at twilight.  There is right and there is wrong and there is everyone’s version of both.  And not one version is like unto another’s.  There are lines drawn everywhere.  Some of the imaginary ones are stronger than the real ones.  But mostly, there’s the just the lack of color, the lack of life, the lack of harvest dances with fiddles playing and sweet cakes to eat and pretty girls everywhere.

He looks at the sky.  Soon it will be nighttime.  And he is ready for it.

March 5, 2018 - Recede

Now the frozen steel hands that had a death grip on all of life begin to crack, slowly and imperceptibly at first.  The bands of cold, hard steel loosen, and the tears of the Earth well up and fill every impression in the woods.  The mists come more frequently now, too, and the army of the Lord of Winter disappears within, slowly escaping between the worlds, waiting for its chance to slip away.  Visible retreat is not an option.

The slow retreat.

The Banshees come again, washing their dirty shawls in the water, wailing in despair.  Even they had been frozen, immobile in the ice.  I ask, what good is a world that banishes even Death?  At least Death gives a hint of the Life that was, but in the frozen embrace of the Lord of Winter, that beauty was coveted and hidden away.  No more.  Now she cries on the shores.

A tiny pip of a bird can be heard in the forest as she searches for last year’s dead grass and carries it high into an old oak.  A great willing is felt, and it is time to change again.  The secret clock will soon strike the hour, passing over.

February 18, 2018 - Permission

Almost everything in life is there because we allow it to be there, because we have given our permission for it to be there.  It often doesn’t seem that way, especially when we are in the thick of a problem.  If someone were to tell us that we chose it, we would angrily say, “I never wanted this!  I never would have agreed to this!”  But if we think about it, we do agree to almost everything.

We let certain people into our lives.  We choose a certain profession.  Most of us will choose what we eat at any given time.  We choose what we will believe, what faith we will have (if any) and how that faith will affect us.  We choose which news articles we will read and which we will ignore.  We choose what we will do, and we choose what we will not do.  We choose what we will wear, etc.

I can see clearly.

Sometimes it doesn’t seem like a choice.  “If I had the money, I would have chosen differently….”  “If I had known he was going to behave this way, I never would have married him (hindsight is 20/20)….”  “If someone had explained this would cause me problems, I would have listened….”  But really, we make the choice.

Here’s something interesting, though:  The mechanism of life requires our permission to do anything.  And unfortunately, that permission is all too easily given by us without us even knowing or thinking about it.  An advertiser can suggest something, but unless you give your permission for it to enter your life, it’s barred.  A society can heavily point you in a direction, but unless you accept that direction, it cannot come into your life.  A news article can tell you, “here’s what’s going on [according to our belief],” but you don’t have to live according to that belief.

Now, this is not about being in a state of denial.  When you make choices, when you knowingly give your permission, you’re not saying you refuse to see or acknowledge the existence of something.  You’re saying that you see it, but you are not going to live your life according to those standards, ideas, principles, products, etc.

Here are some things you can’t choose:  The weather.  Your genetics.  What someone else will do or say.  The fact that someday you will die.

But you can choose how you will react to those things, and you can permit or deny allowing those things to control you.  You can control yourself.  You can permit others to control you.  But you cannot control others (unless they give their permission).

Stop saying, “Oh, well.  This is just the way it is.”  No, it isn’t.  You get to say what is and is not in your life, what you will and will not allow to affect you.  You don’t get to choose what others do, but you do get to choose how you will react.

Here are some of the things I choose:  A life without too much technology.  I don’t allow many gadgets into my home, and the ones I do allow, I severely limit.  I choose to do a lot of work by hand that technology could do for me, and that means I choose exhaustion sometimes.  I choose to live in a state that is quite cold instead of one that is too hot.  I choose simple foods.  I choose pretty steep discipline.  I choose to continually monitor myself.  I choose silence.  I choose oil lamps over electric lights.  I choose herbal medicines over allopathic medicines.  I often choose hardships because I like to challenge myself…..

Notice that I acknowledge the existence of other paths, I simply do not choose them.  What is right for me might seem insane to you.  What do you choose?  What have you permitted into your life?  What could you toss out this very moment if you no longer wanted it?  What could you embrace?

The choices are endless, and save for a few, they are completely up to us.  Remember that without your permission, very few things can barge into your life and order you around.  The powers-that-be know this only too well, but they don’t want you to know it.  They want you to think you are powerless so you will give your permission without even realizing it.  A self-aware human being is formidable.

February 5, 2018 - Miracle

Miracle

exploding across the sky

each and every morning

brilliant tendrils of exquisite light

that drive the forces of the night away

effortlessly

receding now into the inky blue

to try again tonight

in vain

January 15, 2018 - The Underside

A terrible ice and windstorm had torn through a small country community, leaving devastation in its wake.  Old roofs were damaged, old barns were devastated, and thick pockets of ice on the roads made travel very dangerous.  In this setting a young boy of about 13 years sat in the meeting house listening to the older people in the community as they discussed the damage and how long it would take to clear things up and make repairs when the warmer weather finally came again.

He was bored, so very, very bored as he sat listening to them.  Now and then his mother would give him a sharp jab when he yawned loudly or started aimlessly stomping his feet.  “Don’t be so rude!” she would whisper.  “We have a serious situation going on here!  Travel is dangerous, and that means supplies might be very late getting here.  This is important!”  To which he would slowly nod and then roll his eyes when she turned her head.

The underside of the old tree.

Who cares about the stupid rooves? he thought.  Who cares about the barns and the stupid animals?  Who cares about the dangerous roads or the ice or the supplies or the medicine that can’t get here?  Who cares??  This is so stupid!  I wish I were anywhere but here, listening to these stupid people.  But he did his best to at least look as if he were interested after each jab from his mother.  And oh, how he tried to stifle his yawns. 

His ears perked up a bit when he heard a bent and crooked old man mention the number of large trees that had fallen in the woods from the tremendous wind.  His father had always talked about how strong and brave and regal the old trees of the woods were and how the woods provided for much of their needs.  He never believed that, but it occurred to him now that he would get a chance to see a strong and brave and regal thing lying flat on the ground, its underside exposed.  Yes, he snickered to himself, I would like to see that!

And as if he knew what the boy was thinking, the bent and crooked old man pointed a crooked old finger at the boy and suggested that maybe he could go out and count the number of trees down in the woods near the path that led to the next village.  This way they would know how much work to expect and where the worst areas were.  Maybe they could at least get the path clear.  Well, the boy was only too happy to oblige as it meant getting away from all these stupid people and his jabbing mother who kept telling him not to be rude.

He eagerly volunteered, avoiding his mother’s eyes as she looked at him sharply.  She wasn’t fooled.  As he put on his sweater and coat and extra pants and good boots and thick gloves, the bent and crooked old man watched him keenly.  “Be quick boy as it’s already late, and mind your counting.  We need a total from you, and we need to know where the worst damage is,” he said.  The boy just nodded absentmindedly, avoiding the old man’s eyes.  He did not like the old man’s eyes.

Then he was free!  He was finally out of the meeting house, away from the mumbling of the stupid old people, and free from the constant boredom.  He stepped out into the freezing, late afternoon air.  As he walked toward the path by the woods, it didn’t take long for him to start complaining about the cold and feeling sorry for himself.  But then he thought of the venerable old trees lying flat and powerless on the ground, and this gave him a secret joy.

He was so busy in his thoughts, that he almost tripped when he realized he was actually upon a fallen soldier of the woods.  There the great tree lay on the cold ground, its underside exposed, helpless and weak.  The boy was delighted.  He laughed out loud and said, “King of the Woods, huh?  Not so big and brave now!”  He smirked at the old tree.

“Come closer,” said the old tree, “and have a good look.  You’re too far away.”  The voice was deep and raspy and dry.  The boy jumped back quickly but then remembered himself.  He did not want to appear frightened in front of the old tree.  After all, he was the one standing tall, not the tree.

“You’re missing the best part,” the raspy old tree said.  “Come closer.”  And so he did.  He walked closer to the tree.

“Have a good, long look,” said the dusty old voice.

“I will,” said the boy rudely.  “Not so high up in the clouds now, are you?”

“Not at all,” admitted the old tree.  “Not at all.  Have you seen the secret part of me?”

“What secret part?”

“The part that no one ever gets to see because it stays hidden.”

“Well, which part is it?” the boy demanded.  “I haven’t got all day!”

“Have a look in the back at the underside of me, the part I keep hidden in the dark ground.”

The boy headed toward the large bulbous part of the tree that had been exposed when it was ripped from the Earth and thrown to the ground.  He walked quicker than he wanted to, but he was determined to appear brave.  He would not let the tree know that he felt very frightened, indeed.  That raspy, scraping, desolate old voice rattled his nerves deeply.

And then he was at the underside.  He had always wondered what the underside, the dark side, of the trees looked like.  It was filled with large roots that had broken and small roots that had woven a thick and deep web.  It was dark and smelled strange.  There were frozen little dead things hanging off it, grubs and bugs that weren’t going to survive this winter after all.  The underside was dark.  It was black and torn and cold, and all around it a biting cold and thin mist swirled.

“Have you had a good look?” the scraping old voice asked.

“I have,” said the boy arrogantly, “and it’s ugly.”

“Oh, yes, yes it is, indeed!” said the old tree matter-of-factly.  “The hidden part is always ugly.  The dark part never gets to see the beauty of the sun, and it festers in its dank loneliness.  Do you like it?”

This was not what the boy had expected to hear.  He expected the old tree to be embarrassed or ashamed or afraid.  He expected it to cower.  He expected it to be hurt.  But he did not expect it to be inviting.

“I said, do you like it??” the raw old tree asked.

“It’s even uglier than I thought,” said the boy, feigning bravery.

“Thank you,” said the old tree.

“I have to go.”

“Of course you do.  But you’ll remember, right?”

“Remember what?” asked the boy, puzzled and still very much afraid, backing away slowly.

“You’ll remember the underside.  You’ll remember the deep, dark, dank, and hidden part.  The part with worms and grubs and fungus and secret members of the Underworld that relentlessly and slowly chew and dissolve all living things.  You’ll remember the decaying scent and the death and the webbing roots that reach out to greedily grasp everything in sight, to devour and gorge.  You’ll remember the stark ugliness and how you wanted it and how you stared at it right in the face.  You’ll remember the embrace,” said the dying old tree.

“I don’t know what you mean,” the boy said, backing away a bit further.  He did not sound nearly as convincing as he’d hoped he would.

“Yes, you do.  Because like attracts like.  Things join with other things that are similar.  They congregate.  They meld.  You wanted the underside of me because your own dark underside is just as cold and clawing and ugly.  You are dark and cruel.  Have a good look, boy.  Come and cover me with kisses,” the old tree laughed darkly.

With that, the boy took off running as fast as he could!  He was scared out of his wits.  It was getting dark fast.  How long had he been staring at the dark underside of that tree?  It was actually getting really dark now, but he kept running.  Then he tripped and fell, cutting his head on a sharp old tree stump.  But he got up quickly and kept running, fell and cut himself again, but got up yet again and kept going as fast as he could.

At last he saw a small light coming from a window at the old meeting house.  He ran as fast as his legs would carry him to the house, half frozen and half scared out of his wits.  He tore the door open and ran inside, shocking everyone into silence.  They all stared at him for a moment, and then his mother wailed and ran to him, helping him out of his heavy and frozen outer clothing.  She got a hot, wet cloth and cleaned the cuts on his head while he sat in a chair silently.

The others, having realized the boy was fine, had begun talking in groups again about the work that needed to be done.  All except one.  The bent and crooked old man sat in a dark corner looking at the boy thoughtfully.  The boy never looked up, but he knew the old man was watching.  When his mother had finished cleaning his cuts and had given him some tea, the old man slid over to boy’s side.

“So, how many trees are down?” he asked sharply.

“I don’t know.  A lot.  Many.  It was dark,” the boy said.

“Yes, it is dark.”

“It was very dark,” the boy whispered, now close to tears.

“It comes on quickly, doesn’t it?”

“What??”

“The darkness.  It comes on quickly, doesn’t it?” the old man asked.

“Yes it does,” the boy said meekly.

“Be sure that you do not forget it.  Next time you might not find the light of the meeting house.”

The boy looked up at the old man.  For once he was not arrogant or sullen or rude.  He was just a young boy in a cold world, and the only thing that was keeping him from dying a tragic death in the frozen outdoors was the tiny meeting house and the people and the warm fire inside.  He drank his tea gratefully as he shivered by the fire, sitting closer than he should so that he almost burned his shins, and the darkness receded just a bit as he stared into the flames. 

The bent and crooked old man went back to the corner and sat hidden with his thoughts.