March 31, 2020 - Broken Mirror, Broken Link

It was very early when I went out.  I knew no one else would be there because no one ever is.  Most people are asleep, and even in their dreams, they wouldn’t dare to think.  I waited by an old decaying tree stump, one that was only half in this world, if that.  It was perfect.  There I sat leaning against it, feeling the wood crumbling against my back.  Presently, my eyes grew heavy.

“Of course, you know that nothing he tells you is true, right?”

He had arrived on time.  He was always on time because, like me, he was very precise.  He was a man interested in formulas and organization and Divine Law.

“I know.”

“But you’re going anyway, aren’t you?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“You could come with me,” he said bitterly.

“I know, and someday I will, but there is still work for me to do.”

“Work?”

“Yes.  The people are lost.”

“The people are always lost!”  Now he was angry, but I am used to that.

It’s a funny thing.  The game masters try to plan for everything, but somehow there’s always a weak link in the system, a spot that has been overlooked.  They never thought the mirror would crack.  Every time the people had looked into the mirror and inquired, “Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the fairest one of all,” the mirror had always responded, “You are.”  Then it would pull them in further and fill their minds with fear, terrorizing them in their stupor.  Fear of illness, fear of death, fear of life, fear of others . . . constant fear paralyzing them.  But now the mirror had unexpectedly cracked.

Of course, most people would remain oblivious:  Sweet mirror, pretty mirror, pet the mirror, kiss the mirror.  Whisper to the mirror, “I love you.”  And the cracked mirror whispers back, “You are, you are, you are,” like a broken record.  Over and over, a broken response.  A weak link in the system, a glitch in the programming.  We now return you to your regularly scheduled program . . .

But there are some who have awoken from a deep and drugged slumber.  They are shaking their heads and rubbing their eyes, confused at the cracked black mirror before them.  They wonder to themselves, how long have I been here?  Nothing looks familiar.  They put the mirror down.  They are looking beyond it now, and like the woman in the house in our previous story, they balk at the crumbling foundation of their existence.

Hollywood is dead.  The tinsel is all rusted.  Its clowns have lost their makeup and shown their ugly faces.  But still their broken record repeats, Step right up to the greatest show on Earth, folks!  And the moths fly to the flame because that is their nature, to burn.  They fight in line for their chance to burn.  Who is the fairest one of all?

“So you would throw all of my gifts away?” he asked, bitter again.

“Not throw away.  Just delay.”

“Pah!” he spat.

“The sun grows stronger,” I said, “It’s time to try again.”   His eyes were murderous.  We had agreed never to speak of the Sun King, but some things cannot be helped.

“The people need him now more than ever,” I said.

“Go and help then,” he said with stone cold eyes, “But remember our agreement.  I will see you back here when your Sun King fails and the world turns to ice again.”

“I will be here when the Shadow of Death returns,” I said simply.

I stood up and left.  I did not turn around, but I could feel his eyes boring a hole through me as I walked.  The season of light returns with a new shadowy player, courtesy of the game masters.

The mirror has been cracked.  The secrets have poured out into broad daylight, into the sunshine.  The foundations of our homes, of our nations have crumbled but are not yet in complete ruin.  We can pick up the plow, the hoe, the seed, and the scythe, and we can start again.  That’s the thing about living outside of the black mirror with its shiny distracting lights and dark poison, we can always start again because hope truly does spring eternal.

Now we say goodbye to March and warily welcome in a most uncertain April.  Revolution is afoot.  There is always a weak spot in the force field.

March 22, 2020 - On My Honor

It could all be a dream, she thought.  She could just be wandering from room to room in a dream . . . in an old house with a crumbling foundation, so crumbling and old, in fact, that it seemed the whole house might come crashing down.  What a shame that would be, she thought, because it really was a nice old house.  If only she could remember which portion of the house she was in and how she got from there to here.  So she kept wandering from room to room, hoping something would jar her memory and she would know where she was again.  And she would know who she was again, too.

“Where are you headed?” came a tiny voice.  The woman whipped her head around quickly, but no one was there.  She grew frightened.

“Down here!” it said.  And there on the floor, not far from her, was a tiny mouse.  The woman blinked several times.  I’m dreaming, she thought, I must be dreaming.

“Where are you headed?” he asked again, a bit louder.

“I don’t know,” she said, “I’m quite lost, I’m afraid.  I thought I knew the way, but at some point I became confused.  And when I became confused, I became fearful.  And when I became fearful, I began to forget who I was.”

“And have you forgotten who you are?”

“No.”

“What made you remember?” he asked.

“Well, when I stopped to answer you,” she said, “I stopped being afraid for a moment, and when I stopped being afraid, I started to remember who I was again.”

“Well, what are you going to do, just wander from room to room forever?  You know,” he said, “You’ve been wandering from room to room for a long time now.  I’ve been watching you.”

“Have I?  I’d quite forgotten.”

“Oh, yes, a very long time.”

“I would like to know where I am,” she said

“Why, you are in your house, where you live.  Don’t you remember it?” he asked.

“No.  Yes.  Well, no, not completely.  Somewhere along the way I became lost.”

“Hmmm….” he mused, “And what have you done to try to become found?”

“Well, I’ve been wandering from room to room.”

“Without a purpose?”

“Well,” she said a bit embarrassed, “I didn’t know what else to do.  You see, I became distracted by a shiny object.  I can’t remember what it was, but it was pretty.  And I kept following it, and I guess I stopped paying attention.  And when I finally looked up because I had a terrible sense of doom, I found that I was completely lost.  The shiny, pretty thing, whatever it was, is gone.”

“So you were led astray by a shiny object that seemed pretty and perhaps fun?” he asked.

“Yes, I guess so.”

“And you couldn’t say no to it?  You had to just follow it wherever it led?”

“Well,” she said embarrassed again, “I could have said no, but it was fun.  And easy.  And distracting.  And I was busy and tired.  And I guess I just gave up and let my common sense go out the window.  Can you help me?  Can you help me find the entrance or the exit?”

“My world is very different from yours,” he said, “I live in this one little room over here, and this one room is my entire world.  I don’t have the luxury of an entire house as you do.”  And he pointed to a small door in the wall that she hadn’t noticed before.  Or maybe it was because it was so small and unadorned, she had passed it by in her wanderings.

“May I go in?” she asked, not waiting for an answer as she turned the door knob, bent down, and slipped into the old room.  Something about the room seemed very familiar, but she could not place where she had seen it before.

“Are you coming” she asked, but when she turned around, the little mouse was not there.  She poked her head outside the door.  He was not there either.  She decided she would look for him later after she had a look around the room.

There was not much to see.  A few old paintings hung on the walls, and they looked familiar, too.  There was a small table with chairs set for tea a long time ago, and it seemed the tea had never taken place.  There was an old lamp on a corner table with a soft chair next to it.  Beyond that, there really wasn’t much else in the room.  She was about to leave when she noticed an old bookcase in the corner opposite the chair and lamp.  Might as well have a look at it before I leave, she thought.

The bookcase was old and dusty and so were all the books that were on the shelves.  She reached out for a small book.  The cover said, “Handbook for Boys,” and at the bottom it said “Boy Scouts of America.”  She flipped it open.  Copyright 1948, Fifth Edition, Fourth Printing, January 1951, 525,000 copies, Total Printing since 1910:  12,348,723.  She took the book to the chair on the opposite side of the room, sat down, and turned on the old lamp.  It cast a soft yellow light.

She began to read . . . “Have you ever dreamed of hiking the wilderness trails?  Have you stopped to think of the pioneer wagons whose great wheels cut the tracks for our present roads?  You can follow those trails, the streams, and tracks!  You can have your share of that adventure.”  What kind of book is this? she wondered.

She read many things . . . “Be prepared.  That is the Scout Motto.  From the day you become a Scout, you set about preparing yourself to help other people . . .”  Helping other people? she mused.  And then she read about laws.  “The Scout Law:  1) A Scout is trustworthy.  2) A Scout is loyal.  3) A Scout is helpful.  4) A Scout is friendly.  5) A Scout is courteous.  6) A Scout is kind.  7) A Scout is obedient.  8) A Scout is cheerful.  9) A Scout is thrifty.  10) A Scout is brave.  11) A Scout is clean.  12) A Scout is reverent.

And not only that, there was an oath these “Scouts” took as well.  “On my honor I will do my best:  To do my duty to God and my country and to obey the Scout law; to help other people at all times; to keep myself physically strong, mentally awake, and morally straight.”  This is a tall order, she thought, but it felt good to think about it.  The only thing she had thought about for . . . how long was it now? . . . months? . . . years? . . . the only thing was the shiny object, and then the fear of losing the object and later, the fear of losing herself. 

FEAR.  She realized it had constantly been on her mind for untold years now, weighing her down, crippling her.  Fear of being lost.  Fear of being found.  Fear of the unknown.  Fear of other people.  Fear of events beyond her control.  Fear of events within her control.  Fear of work.  Fear of hardship.  Fear of responsibility.  Life had become constant fear.  But when did that happen?  And why did she let it happen?  She did not know.  She looked back in the book.

There were so many things she could learn!  Wildlife and woodlore, tracking and stalking, finding one’s way, the woodsman’s tools, fire building, camp cooking, making shelters, handicraft, first aid, signaling, swimming, physical fitness, etc.  And friendship.  There was friendship in this book.  Maybe there would be friendship outside of the book, too?

She went back to the bookcase and pulled down the next book.  The cover said, “Scout Field Book.”  She flipped it open.  Copyright 1948, Twelfth Printing, 1957.  She brought it back to the chair and sat down.  Here was a complete companion manual that described in great detail and elaboration how to do and enhance many of the things she had read about in the first book.  It covered ways of life many people had forgotten about, such as how to wrap food in oiled or waxed cloth before plastic wrap was in use.  There was so much to learn, or rather relearn.

These books were old compared to many newer books she had seen.  They looked different.  They smelled different.  The language used was different, a bit old-fashioned.  They assumed an intelligence in the reader she hadn’t seen before.  They felt different.  They felt good.  The authors didn’t seem to be tripping over themselves to skirt around delicate issues.  In fact, they boldly spoke their minds without apology.  What a novel concept, she thought.

She went back to the bookcase and pulled down a third book.  This was a larger book, a heavy tome.  The cover said, “A History of the Civil War.”  She flipped it open.  Copyright 1912, New York, The War Memorial Association.  It was a chronological summary and record of every single engagement between union and confederate soldiers, including war maps and original photos, compiled from the official records of the War Department [now known as the Department of Defense].  It was the real thing, written still from the so-called victors’ point of view, but the real thing nevertheless.  It was written before the shiny distraction had come along and mired her understanding.

She closed the book.  It would take a long time to read this book, but she was determined that she would read it.  This time she would read it without the shiny object confusing her.  She would read it without fear.  She would read it without preconceived ideas because she couldn’t remember what her preconceived ideas had been anyway.  There had been so much confusion these past many years . . .  Maybe it was good that she had been lost for a while.  But now she was not lost.  Now she was found.

I like old books, she thought, and old ways of doing things.  I’m tired of flashing lights and shiny objects.  And mostly, I’m tired of being afraid.  I am not a timid mouse.  I am strong.  I am a match for anything.  She got up, turned off the lamp, and brought the three books with her out of the room.  She walked determinedly to the exit.  It was not very far away after all.  She went outside of the old house.

The sun was shining.  She looked at the house.  It was in disrepair, but all things considered, it was not too bad.  The worst part was the foundation.  I will call someone tomorrow and get that fixed right away.  A house is only as good as its foundation, she thought.  It’s time to fix things from the bottom up.  On my honor, I will do my best.

And from that day on, she did do her best and she thought of her honor every step of the way.  Her life changed.  It was a gradual change, but it added up over time as things generally do.  She read every old book she could get her hands on.  She found that she didn’t like newer books.  What’s more, when she found a new reprinting of an old book, she found that often subtle changes had been made to the text.  She realized that these subtle changes also had the ability to add up over time if she wasn’t paying attention.  But she was paying attention.  Now she was paying attention.

[Honor:  A keen sense of ethical conduct.  One’s word given as a guarantee of performance.]

March 14, 2020 - Peculiar Sight

Sometimes the sun will fight its way through the tree-top canopy and shine down in the most peculiar way, lighting areas of the woods that are not ordinarily lit so brightly.  It is fleeting, a momentary enlightenment.  It is then that you begin to see “the difference.”  The difference is just another way of looking at the same things you have always looked at, but….differently.  You see them in a different light, and when you do so, the entire universe comes crashing down upon you all at once. 

“I am not what you thought I was,” it whispers.  I must tell you that when this happens, things will never be the same for you again.  Alas, your old safe world of predictable boredom recedes, and you cannot follow it.

And that is okay.  It is okay for the world to lose its shabby covering.  It was never a very good disguise anyway.  It is okay for you to now see what your mind has previously hidden from you before.  Maybe it has deemed you worthy now.  Maybe you are ready for the rite of passage that plunges you into reality.  It is okay to realize arcane knowledge.  It is okay to "real"-ize arcane knowledge.

She speaks with a forked tongue.  Her words are obtuse.  She shrouds understanding, whispers double-entendres, hints at possibilities.  She teases you with tidbits of wisdom, tiny trinkets of knowledge, droplets of occult perception.  But always hidden in plain sight.  Always.  That is the rule.  You must see it but not see it.  Until you are ready.  This is the riddle you must solve, and anyone worth his salt must solve it.  I had to.  Penetrate the veil of the temple.  See the mechanism of the world for what it is.  I am not cruel, but I shimmer in waves of comprehension.

Nothing can be done to you without your permission.  NOTHING.  They must have your agreement, your acknowledgement, your concession, your acquiescence, your compliance, your affiliation, your conformity, your sympathy, your concordance, your acceptance, your obedience, your deference, your meekness, your submission, and/or your surrender.  You must agree to everything every step of the way in life.  And you do.  You do.  But to change it, you must see it. 

Lies, you tell me.  All lies.  “I never agreed to anything,” you say.  But you did.  Now you will be angry with me.  She does not understand, you tell yourself.  But she does.  She is haughty, you say.  But the light shines in the most peculiar way.

I am a ghost, walking.

March 4, 2020 - Time for March

The first of the temporary streams begins to flow in the woods.  Winter is not over yet, so they will freeze up again, but for now, they flow.  Some will last throughout the year, drying up only in July and August, then returning like errant ghosts to the scene of a crime.  And there are other ghosts as well . . . the woods are always thick with them, but especially now when the Season of Death tries frantically to establish a permanent foothold in life.

The banshees (bean sídhe) come now in greater numbers.  You have heard their wailing in the winter months?  And you thought it was just the wind whipping around the corners of the house and stealing down the chimney?  You thought it was the wailing sigh of the winter storm?  That is what you are told as a child so you will not be afraid, and that is what you carry with you as an adult so you do not have to confront them.  It is just as well because it is not an easy task.

But they are there, down by the streams in the woods, wailing at their work and plight.  Matted red hair flies in the wind as they wash the soiled and torn garments in the streams.  Like Lady Macbeth they cry, “What?  Will these hands ne’er be clean??”  She rubs her hands together over and over, but she fails to wash away the guilt that surrounds her, threatening to devour her completely.  So, too, with the banshees as they wash their dirty laundry, wailing at the unfairness of life, crying at the futility of it all.

There is a red-haired boy among them, wailing at the stream’s edge.  He washes a blackened pot over and over in the stream, pouring out the dirty water, crying at the uselessness of his actions.  They let me walk among them sometimes, so I ask him why he washes the pot.  He does not answer, but he looks at me with enormous reddened eyes and points a bony finger into the pot.  I look within and I see nothing, but I do not always have the banshee sight.  It comes and goes.  He keeps pointing within and then shrieks terribly and accusingly at me, and so grievous it is that I back up quickly in fear.

He returns to his washing.  He must wash the pot that carries a dark secret, but each time he pours the water back into the stream, it is blackened further.  Will this pot never be clean?  Perhaps if he were to go upstream and travel back in time, he could find how the pot had been ruined in the first place.  That is not his privilege, although he fantasizes he might do so.  Still, he is strong.  He will continue to wash the pot.  Someday the bottom will wear away completely, and the fresh water will finally pour through.  But today is not that day.

I continue on.  The banshees do not want me among them for very long, if at all, and the feeling is mutual.  The animals leave their muddy prints everywhere in the receding snow.  They know the banshees, too, but they stay in the Land of the Living.  This is because they are smarter than we are and always have been.  There are too many tracks for me to follow.  It will be a good year for hunting.  It is good to see the signs of life again.  Not life itself, of course.  That has a habit of eluding me, but the signs of life are there, and that is certainly better than the wailing bean sídhe.

February has left me, after gashing its usual hole in my soul.  Still, I am standing.  I am stronger than February knew, and March regards me with a wary eye.  And well he ought to.  I remember again that I am a match for anything, so I pick up my pack and place it back on my shoulders.  I cannot remember why I had removed it in the first place.  Perhaps it was temporary insanity.  It must have been winter’s darkness playing with my mind.  Again.  No matter.  The road is long, but I do not care.  Come for me, March, in like a lion and out like a lamb.  Kindness is a misfortune I can bear.

February 24, 2020 - Time

When I first met Time, he ran along beside me laughing and playing.  We soon became the best of friends and were every day together.  In those days, the sun shone so much brighter and warmer, and every leaf on every tree stood out separately and individually, and one by one they called my name.  The wind would rustle high in the secret places the trees kept at their very tops, and they would tremble with ardor whenever the wind approached.  It was a secret love affair, and I was able to witness the greatest of passions.

Day in and day out, Time and I watched them with a sweet satisfaction, until one day we stopped.  We never discussed why we did so, but we were so pressed to move on.  Time always ran a few steps ahead of me, looking back with a smirk on his face, and I would run after him.  On each occasion when I thought I might finally get a hold of him, he somehow slipped away again, laughing and running.  How I chased him back then in those days of warmth when he had become such a beautiful man.  I still remember.

But then the days grew darker, as they always do.  My burden became heavier, and it was difficult to carry.  I asked my old friend, Time, to help me, but he never would.  He was so spry and so strong, but he would not help.  I should have been angry then, but his impish behavior always made me laugh, so I carried the ever-increasing burden with me in silence wherever I went.  And I began to walk a bit slower.  No matter how Time mocked me for what he called my laziness, I could go no faster.

The cold crept in slowly but steadily, and Time continued to prod me.  I grew weary of his constant needs, his constant reminders, his constant busy schemes, but he never seemed to notice, or if he did it was only with an attitude of irritation.  Often, I would stop and rest for a while, looking for the trees I knew so long ago.  But they were all gone, felled by a lumberjack one day after a secret conversation he had with Time in a field near my house.  They thought I couldn’t hear them, but they were wrong.  No matter, though.  The trees had been gone for many years by then.

So many days came without sunshine at all, and then came a sudden day of death.  All death seems sudden, even when a person is waltzing with it for quite a while.  I saw Time kiss the lips of my dying friend, and his breath just ceased so quickly and easily.  And I was angry!  I screamed at Time, “You can’t take him from me!  Please!”  But Time ignored me.  Please….I thought….take my breath instead.  Kiss me instead.  Kiss me, beautiful man, and take my breath instead.  Please….you can have it.  Take all that I have and more.  Just let my friend live again.  Time did not appear to hear me, although perhaps—perhaps—for the first time ever, he looked at me warily.

Our relationship changed then, although if I had been honest with myself, it had been changing all along.  I often felt an underlying current of anger, and I would seek to hide from Time, to remove myself.  No matter where I went though, no matter how elaborate my plan, Time would always find me and chide me.  “Pick up that burden!” he would yell with a sneer, and I felt compelled to obey.  No matter how often I threw the burden down, when I turned around, it was always somehow back on my shoulders again.

That went on for what seemed like a long while, but in looking back it was the blink of an eye.  Each day, the burden grew heavier.  Each day, Time would order me to carry it.  Often, I would rebel only to have Time sneer at me again and whip me until I picked the burden back up.  But then one day, I didn’t seem to pay attention to the burden anymore.  It was just like any other part of me—like my hair or my hands or my smile.  My burden was me, and I found that while it was difficult sometimes, I didn’t mind it very much at all anymore.  From that day forward, Time never sneered at me again.  He never ordered me around, and he never whipped me again either.

The hate that I had been secretly harboring for him, the hate I never told him about because I was terrified of what he might do, seemed to slowly evaporate until it was gone completely and seemed like just a dream from long ago.  A dream that was lost in the passing of the years, hidden somewhere in the secret rustling places high in the treetops of my youth, each leaf still calling me in my sleep.

And so I find myself now, walking here alone on a snowy path in Maine, carrying my burden along proudly.  How I have come to love that burden!  That weight that cuts into my shoulders and makes them bleed, that forces my feet to heavily scrape the Earth in pain, that sears my back like a firebrand.  How I have come now to love and accept the pain the burden has brought me.  Each new tiny piece added to it carries a memory from my life of people and things I have loved and lost, their faces rustling like leaves before my eyes in the twilight of each day.  And still, we walk together, Time and I.  He leads me as craftily as ever.

Kiss me, beautiful man, and take my breath away.  Take it quickly and easily like I have seen you take all the others.  You can have it, I tell him.  Take all that I have and more.  Just let me see the beautiful boy from so long ago.  Time laughs it off when I say that to him, but we both know that someday he will do it.  Then I will finally put my burden down, and I will not pick it up again.

February 21, 2020 - The Door

There’s an old woman who lives not too far from me.  She is very old.  I am not young, and even by my standards, she is very old.  I have only seen her once.  It was last spring when she was cleaning up some old leaves from her garden.  I stopped my car suddenly because in all these years, I had never seen her before.  I have seen her presence, but I have never seen her in the flesh.  Instinctively, even though her back was turned, she knew I was watching her.  She turned and looked at me with the strangest look I have ever seen, and then she went back to her work.  That was the first time I ever saw her.  It was the last time, too, I’m quite certain of it.

But her presence is everywhere.  You won’t know it from this winter photo, but she has the most hodge-podge, mismatched, labyrinth of a garden I have ever seen.  Yes, I have sneaked up in the twilight hours and investigated.  In the season of life, it grows over immensely.  There are secret passageways everywhere and odd little ornaments peeking out from the strangest of places.  There are things that don’t belong in gardens at all, but somehow they are right at home in her garden.  There are odd lights, too.  Not of the solar variety that is common, but of the will-o’-the-wisp variety, the kind that twinkles and shimmers here and there, beckoning the unsuspecting traveler, tricking the lonely wanderer, enchanting the solitary lover.

There is this feeling, this strange feeling that if you were to enter her garden, it might be hard to find your way out again.  Yet you feel compelled, called as it were.  To compound it all, a few years ago she added an old wooden door with the number 58 on it.  That is not her house number, just the number of the door leaning against the crooked tree.  As the seasons and holidays come and go, she adds and takes away silly decorations from the door.  It’s as if she thinks the door is inside her house and not propped up against a frozen tree outside.  No, she’s not crazy.  Well, no crazier than me.  And yes, I know how that sounds.

But, you see, there’s a problem, and that would be me.  I have this almost uncontrollable urge to walk up to the door, open it, and go right through.  “But you’ll hit the tree head on!” you say.  No, I don’t think I will.  It all depends on what you expect to find on the other side and what you expect out of the door itself.

Because doors have a meaning!  They are entries and exits.  They keep things in and they keep things out.  They close things off.  They partition and hide things.  They act as transitions from one place to another.  And just because you yank them out of their traditional spots and place them haphazardly elsewhere does not mean that their inherent function changes.  If I took a teacup out of my cupboard and placed it on a ski lift, it would still be a teacup and would function as a delivery device for hot tea, as always.

“For heaven’s sake!  It’s just a decoration!” you say.  The hell it is.  It’s a door, and by its inherent nature that means I am on one side of it only.  You can’t be on both sides of a door at the same time.  It’s one or the other, and I have a sneaking suspicion I’m on the tedious side.

The ancients had special gods for doorways that were called liminal deities.  These gods ruled over boundaries, doors, and thresholds.  Yes, these things were considered so important that they had their own deities.  The ancients knew that when you crossed from one side to another side, something magical occurred.  There is the crossing from life to death (and back again), the crossing from one season to another, and the start of a new path that lies on the other side of the door. 

The door is the dividing factor from one world to another.  This is why traditionally a groom would carry his bride across the threshold.  He took her from one life and brought her into another.  Her feet were not to touch the threshold or the spell would be broken.  He changed her and transformed her by carrying her across, and then she in turn built a new home and transformed him.  Crossing the threshold of an open door represents the beginning of a new choice, a new life, a new idea.

The old woman knows what she’s doing by placing it there.  She’s issuing a challenge.  We country folk are an odd sort, I’ll grant you that, but we know a provocation when we see one.  We know when we’re being tested.  I’m not the only one who stares at the door, either.  I have seen others doing it as well.  Some of them looked quite vexed.  Cowards.  Someday I’m going to walk right up to that old woman’s door, open it up, and walk straight through.  I highly doubt I’ll be back on this side of it again when I do.  It’s a prearranged agreement with the god who sits upon the threshold and bides his time.  That’s the one thing gods have an overabundance of:  Time.  The rest of us have to keep on walking through the endless doorways.

February 15, 2020 - Magic Mirror

Bony white fingers reach out from every direction.  It is a natural thing that the cold should court the warmth and the warmth should secretly desire the cold, although there are times when the pull is balanced and times when it is dangerously askew.  Most people live in times of balance and seek to stay in balance only.  Me?  I seek the raging imbalance.  I seek the storm.  I seek the hidden hardship.  I embrace the coldness of steel.  I am the lover of the Ice King.

Because I can balance it in my mind.  I can take what I see, conjure it in my mind, and then cast a balance upon it from my imagination.  I will add a touch here and take away a touch there.  Like an artist, I will paint my heart’s desire on the canvas of the mind.  When properly done, the result is growth and pure delight.  When not so properly done, I hang dangerously from a tiny branch suspended over a high cliff with razor-sharp, jagged rocks below me.  But it reminds me that I’m still alive.  It encourages me to work harder.

Looking at the results in our life is like looking in a mirror.  All you see is the sum total of what you have done so far.  To be sure, it is an excellent guide to show us what we did right and what we could have done better, but if it is mistaken for reality instead of a reflection of the past only, then it becomes dangerous.  To mistake effect for cause is a crime you commit against your soul.  To worship effect as if it were primary instead of secondary (thereby ignoring cause altogether) is to give away your godliness.  And the merchant is only too happy to greedily snatch it from you.

If you look in the mirror and see its reflection as solid reality, then you are a slave.  If you look in the mirror and see it as a current measurement only, then there is hope for you.  To look in the mirror is one thing, but to continually sneak back and look in the mirror is to be slavish to your past, which the mirror reflects perfectly.  But there is something else more terrible at play here, because if you continually use the mirror as a crutch instead of a tool, you begin to unconsciously conjure the identical results in your mind.  Instead of seeing what you do, you start doing what you see.

You become stuck.  You cannot move.  You see your reflection and then you reflect what you see.  It is a trap because you will continue to live and move and have your being, but you will do it unconsciously instead of purposely, mistaking the mirror for your mind, and God help you when you see the unintended results finally reflected.

Surely you remember the lesson from Snow White?

“Magic mirror on the wall, who is the fairest one of all?”

“My Queen, you are the fairest of them all.”

“Magic mirror on the wall, who is the fairest one of all?”

“Famed is thy beauty, Majesty.  But hold, a lovely maid I see.  Rags cannot hide her gentle grace.  Alas, she is more fair than thee.”

The Queen had no future because she was stuck in a perpetual past.  La-la-la-la-la-la-la forever and ever on one note only.  She mistook her reflection for herself and sought to continually keep that delicate balance, to continually be what she had been and not what she was at the moment or could have been.  In order to be successful, she needed to leave the mirror, but as I said of mirrors, she was enslaved.  There would be no conjuring in her mind of what she wanted to be, only acknowledgement of an old, tarnished image.

These bony white fingers reach out all around us as we continue to walk through the Season of Death.  They seek to remind us that all things die, and there is beauty in that.  There is beauty in the end because only the mind can conjure anew, and it knows that the Omega is also the Alpha, that the spinning yin and yang never cease, that what was old is new and what was new is old.  Our eyes can only see the culmination of the past.  They cannot see the fruit of the future.  That is for the heart and mind only.  Leave the mirror.  Give up being a slave to the past and become the master builder of your destiny.

February 9, 2020 - February Storm

Then came a storm, as storms are wont to do.  They wait for you to think they are gone, to think that you are safe, to think that warmer and softer times are here.  They wait for you to let your guard down.  They wait for an opportunity to slip inside.  Behind each corner they peer, sniffing the air, looking for a sign of weakness.  And when you are at your weakest, when your attention is placed elsewhere, the storm unleashes its wrath.  This is Holy Fury!  This is February.  This is the time that tries our souls.

The storm came after the sweetness of the January thaw.  When we had all smiled and raised a glass together, the storm crept in, waiting for its chance.  In the dark of the night, He came riding in on a horse still darker, with all the fury of the Underworld at His command.  With hands as hard as steel and eyes as cold as ice, He laid the countryside to waste.  He destroyed everything in His path.

It is not unlike the storms that steal into our minds, those we endure silently, those we think no one else knows anything about.  For who would admit to it?  Who would admit that as they sit in a silent and darkened room, the storm creeps upon them?  Though you try to protect your mind and your heart, though you try to pull a shawl closer about you for warmth, He creeps inside.  Then the dark cloud descends upon you, and all semblance of happiness and decency and love seem to leave you.  The storm takes hold.  The gut-wrenching sorrow.  The darkness that comes upon us all from time to time.  And he whispers, “You are nothing….you are nothing…..I am your destroyer….I consume you….” 

And you run from the room screaming with your hands tightly covering your ears.  No more!  I will not listen!  Please, God, no more….take this storm….make it go away….  Somehow you find yourself on your knees, and how long have you been there?  How long have you knelt in abject disgrace?  It’s hard to tell.  But this is the storm.  This is what it does.  This is the February of our lives, and no one escapes it.  No one.  Do not purport to tell me that you have slipped through the cracks.  You have not.

Then the morning finally comes, as it somehow always does.  It always does.  The sun shines brilliantly upon the field.  I look fearfully outdoors, wondering if I am really still alive.  And lo!  I am met with stunning brilliance!  The world is covered in ice that shimmers like a million diamonds!  Every tree, every bush, every rock is covered in ice that shines like the sun itself.  How can this be?  I ask myself, how can beauty ever exist again after such darkness?  How is it possible?  I reach out and He places an icy diamond on my finger.  I am the Bride of the Underworld.

Yet I cannot help but feel betrayed.  I ask the storm, why did you push me to the limit and beyond?  Why did you destroy my world?  Why did you annihilate all semblance of goodness and calmness and decency?  Why?  Why do it?  What is the purpose?  What are you gaining?  And he responds, “Foolish girl.  There is nothing under this sun—nothing!—that does not exist without express permission.  There is nothing that is apart from the whole.  There is nothing outside of me.  I am the razor-sharp ice that cuts like a sword.  I am the brilliant sunshine.  I am the murderous darkness.  I am everywhere.  I am everything.”

February 2, 2020 - Oimelc

Out in the fields, there is an old woman with a basin.  The occasional passerby pays her no mind.  If they see her at all, they write her off as just an old drudge out in a half-frozen field.  If they think of her at all, they most likely think she’s a bit odd, to put it kindly.  Off her rocker, they might say.  And in truth, we do have quite a number of odd people here in Maine, and we like it that way.  But I know what she is doing, and I will tell you this:  She knows exactly what she is up to, and it is a good thing, too, because someone must still do it.

She walks among the semi-frozen furrows, looking for the best spots, and when she finds them, she begins to pour the liquid from her basin here and there.  It might be hard to spot because the liquid is milk, and it is the same color as the snow.  It is a rich and deep and warm and heady kind of milk.  It is the kind that feels thick on the tongue, the kind that coats the mouth with a heavy sweetness and a slightly oily thickness.  The kind that leaves its fragrance long after it is swallowed, warming and feeding the human condition.

And on the field it goes.  She pours and pours the milk.  At first it sits on the surface, and then it slowly sinks in here and there.  She smiles when she sees it, and she whispers a little prayer.  What are the words to the prayer, you ask?  Well, it is a prayer of fertility, a prayer of bounty, a prayer of abundance.  It is an offering, a gift, a trade.  Take this hard-won milk, the first of the lambs coming into season, and drink.  From the Earth it came, and to the Earth it goes.  And bless the seeds below the surface, frozen and eagerly waiting for a kiss from the Sun.  Let the milk mingle with their expectation.  All of the world is in a constant embrace of revival and reenactment.

Far beneath the surface, the white drops of sweetness fall, and their drip-drip-dripping plays a melody in the Underworld.  Persephone raises her head from her sweet slumber.  What is that irresistible sound?  What is that hypnotizing fragrance?  What are these deep and satisfied sighs I hear?  I have a memory . . . and I must bring it to fruition again.

The old woman calls it Oimelc.  You call her crazy.  I call her mother.  Persephone calls her sister.  There is a good deal of winter left still, but the milk is on the fields now, and it is just a matter of time.  She cannot be stopped.  Surely you are aware?  Surely you remember?  Fecundity is her handicraft.  This we know.