December 4, 2018 - The Next Step

The wooden footbridge is none too steady, even in the summertime.  It is old and ought to be replaced, but time enough for that another day.  Now its planks, waterlogged and swollen and alternating between frozen and unfrozen, are downright dangerous.  There are a few spots that are bare, which the snow has filled in somewhat and made appear solid, but I know they are there so I walk gingerly and choose my steps with care.

The bridge across.

It is like anything in life, I suppose.  You make do.  Adapt.  Adjust.  Speculate.  And finally, you simply trust.  If you make it across, you smile and whistle and keep on going.  If you fall through, you pull yourself up, dry off as best as you can, head for shelter quickly, make alternate plans, and keep on going.  But if you wait for the perfect time, you might find yourself waiting a lifetime.  There never seems to be a perfect time.

I step out on the bridge and hear a creak.  Which board is next?  Ah, yes, this one.  I am sure of it.  I try to keep my mind out of it though, because my mind will just interfere and try to throw logic in.  In this kind of situation, logic truly needs to take the backseat.  I let my feet remember what to do because they have done it many times before.  If I just keep my thoughts silent, my feet miraculously know what to do.  Still, each step is taken gingerly, feeling a bit before putting my full weight down.  There is a way around this spot but it takes too long.  I do not have enough daylight left.

And suddenly I am across.  This time.  The sun shines brightly as it heads toward the tree line so early in the afternoon these days.  I should make haste before it gets dark, but I can linger just a bit and smile at my luck.  We will play the game again next time, I silently tell the bridge.  The bridge just smiles.  It can afford to wait.  It knows that eventually my luck will run out.  But today is not that day.

November 20, 2018 - Keep Going

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

November 19, 2018 - Forest Fog

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

The will-o'-the-wisp beckons.

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

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

November 7, 2018 - Turning

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

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

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

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

November 5, 2018 - The Ghost Portion

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

The dam that wasn't.

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

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

October 5, 2018 - The Lesson of the Foliage

Not to be outdone by any of the Spring or Summer flowers, the trees patiently wait and save their magic until the former are exhausted.  Only then do they show their true colors, and the flowers, now exhausted and weary, bow their heads in defeat.  They tell themselves that next year will be different, that next year they will ration their beauty, but they lie.

Tree magic.

That burst of energy and power the trees had when they exploded with green in the Spring now ebbs and finally is cut off.  Power shared is power lost, after all, and it is time to think inward.  It is time to hunker down and conserve what energy is left.  The trees complain and say that they are completely spent, that they have nothing more to give, but they lie.

It is a game each plays of feigning inferiority while all along beating their chests in a smug bravado.  And why shouldn’t they?  If you’ve got it, flaunt it.  Beauty is fleeting, so seize the day and enjoy what you have while you have it.  Then when you are passed over as being completely spent and useless, shine with the hidden brilliance you hoarded away for just such an occasion.  This is the lesson of the foliage.

October 2, 2018 - The Old Stump

There is not much left to this old tree stump.  I visit it every year to see how its demise is coming along.  “I am dying very well,” it says to me whenever I ask.  And this is, of course, true.  Tree stumps are incapable of lying.  All around it fall the brightly colored leaves full of last-minute joy, and the moss grows at the base, living among dead things.

Dying well.

I am reminded of how much we need this contrast of life and death.  The season of plenty gave us too much plenty.  At first we rejoiced.  Then we relaxed.  Finally, we languished.  Is this all there is?  We did not even see how full our plates were anymore.  How can you know fullness if you do not know emptiness?

But the Sun King has weakened once again, falling back to the West.  His fingers do not stretch as far as they used to, and he no longer burns us in chastisement for our lazy entitlement.  Soon, he will be all but gone.  I have heard the drums in the forest.  They are coming for him.

Meanwhile, the squirrels scurry frantically, storing away as much food as possible.  They at least can appreciate what they have.  Soon we, too, will be full of appreciation—but for what we have lost, not for what we have now.  Winter looms in the near distance, another obstacle on the path.  Another season of emptiness to give us blessed comparison and renew our hope through death.  It occurs to me that perhaps there are no obstacles on the path after all.  Perhaps the obstacles are the path.

October 1, 2018 - Autumn Party

AUTUMN PARTY

we will go to the party

I will wear my red dress

you will wear your green suit

and we will dance and dance

a haunting lilt in a brilliant hall

of spectacular beauty

and when it is over

they will tear down the pretty curtains

and remove the fine crystal

and piece by piece

they will dismantle the hall

and it will be as if it never was

as if there were no party at all

as if we had not laughed and danced

as if there were no red dress

bleak and cold and grey

chanting dirges of death

weighted down by the darkness

forlorn and forsaken

but it will not matter

because we cannot be touched

because in our hearts

we have already been to the party

with the red dress

and we know differently.

September 5, 2018 - How Washing the Dishes Saved the World

There is a feeling of massive frustration all around us.  Day after day, that feeling grows and grows.  We feel that things should be different than they are, but we don’t know how we got from there to here, or how to get from here to somewhere else.  Somehow along the way while the world was flying by us at breakneck speed and we were staring at our phones, we lost our ability to be “effective.”

There’s the tragedy that happened halfway around the world.  There’s the huge wildfire elsewhere that threatens the population.  There’s a hurricane about to touch land.  There are deadly illnesses and crazy politics and scheming madmen.  There are personal calamities and wars and famine and people we just don’t like.  But most of all, there’s a lot of rage, a lot of frustration, and a lot of sorrow.  If only the world could work the way we say it should.  But it doesn’t and it never will.

The World.

So we find ourselves in a state of perpetual confusion, a fog in which we walk day and night, unable to see more than a few yards beyond our own noses.  A fog so thick that it is utterly impenetrable, yet still we attempt to pierce it now and then because we remember a different world and we know things should be better.  But to no avail.  We are in the fog.  We are lost.

If this has ever happened to you or is happening now, take hope and be of good cheer.  There is a way to brighter days—not perfect days, mind you, but brighter.  The only way to find the sun that burns off that thick fog is through personal responsibility.  Through achievement we find self-esteem, self-reliance, and personal effectiveness.  Armed with this, we might not be able to stop what’s happening on the other side of the Earth, but we can certainly put our own lives in order—and THAT is what brings clarity.

It’s very simple, indeed.  When you are at rock bottom, at your wits’ end, the only thing you can do is to reach for what is directly in front of you.  (The real secret, of course, is that all you can EVER do is reach for what is directly in front of you, but that has to be learned and is not something you grasp simply by being told.)  So we begin at the beginning.

Tonight or tomorrow, grab your dirty dishes that are littering the sink and countertops and wash them by hand and set them in a drying rack.  It doesn’t matter if you have a dishwasher and “could be doing something better,” do them by hand anyway.  Or maybe you have a piece of prefab furniture that needs to be put together.  Do it with a hand screwdriver, the old-fashioned kind.  It doesn’t matter if you have a cordless electric screwdriver and “could do it in one-quarter of the time,” do it by hand anyway.

Set aside a week to do as many things as possible the “old” way.  Maybe you will make a homemade loaf of bread from start to finish.  Maybe you will go fishing and catch your own dinner and fry it yourself.  Maybe you will wash a few pieces of laundry in the sink by hand, even though you have a washing machine.  Maybe you will trim the hedges with hand shears.  Maybe you will wash the dishes every night by hand, etc.

What will this do, you ask?  Surely we have “better” things to occupy our time?  At first this will simply give you something to do, and as much as we all like to lounge around now and then, humans are happier when they are industrious.  Then it will give you a “reconnect” to everyday life around you.  It will put you INTO life instead of watching it from the sidelines and just pressing a button.  Then it will give you a sense of accomplishment and personal achievement.  It doesn’t matter if the tasks you are doing seem small and insignificant.  No job is menial or below any other.  Every job is important.  Everything we do to make our lives run efficiently gives us a sense of personal responsibility and control—but the key is we have to do it ourselves, not press a button or have someone else do it for us.

In essence, we make ourselves more “effective.”  We find our ability to order and fix and beautify our own lives.  And that is a wonderful thing, so simple but so perfect!  Because we’re not just sitting on the sidelines anymore, we’ve got both hands elbow-deep into life.  What happens then?  Eventually, we begin to look around ourselves to find more and more things we can “fix,” more things we can do, more things we can bring under our own personal control and protection.

This is how you build a “home,” regardless of whether you live in a house, an apartment, or a tent.  This is how you begin to structure your life.  This is how you—slowly but surely—build potency and effectiveness.  Bit by tiny bit, you handle what is in front of you—always what is in front of you, not 1,000 miles away.  Bit by tiny bit, you rebuild yourself, your home, and then your community.  And yes, eventually you save the world.