July 22, 2021 - The World Wreckers

When I got back home, everything was still the same.  Except that it wasn’t.  There were tiny differences that might easily have gone unnoticed, but after spending 13 months asleep in the woods, upon awakening I became very aware, even more than usual.  I found that if I looked at anything in a staring, slightly unfocused way without moving or blinking, it would either remain stable or it would jump around a bit, sort of quiver.  That’s how I began to sniff out the two different worlds.

I recall what I was told upon awakening in the woods:  “A dark force came and split the world in two, but not two halves.  It split the world into two wholes.  Where there was one world, there are now two, but they appear as one and are superimposed upon one another.”  And when I questioned what I must do about it, the reader may recall this response:

“You know what is right and you know what is wrong.  You know what is up and what is down, what is warm and what is cold, what is day and what is night.  You know how the natural world works.  You know the seasons of the world and their correspondences in the body.  You know what is health and what is illness.  You know what is kindness and what is cruelty.  So you will hold each path you encounter up to these truths, and whichever path rings true to the natural world, that is the path you will take.  Beware of the merchant who will try to take your possessions.  He is not from the natural world.”

Yes, I know right from wrong.  I know the difference between opposites—the middle ground, and the pendulum that swings between the two.  I know how the natural world works and the seasons of the year and the human body.  I know what is truly health and what is contrived illness, and how belief of either affects the believer.  I know when someone is kind and when they are pretending to be kind—it is all in the eyes.  And now I hold everything up to these standards and make a judgment.  

That’s right.  I openly judge now.  Before it was a hidden judgment in my mind that I didn’t dare speak outright or even admit to because someone told me long ago that judgment was wrong.  And somehow I believed them.  More simply put:  It is discrimination.  Somewhere, somehow, someone said that “discrimination” was a bad thing.  They lumped it in together with judgmentalism (quite different from judgement), bias, unfairness, and provincial injustice.  So I used to attempt to discuss my ideas in a tiptoeing kind of way, in the hopes of not offending.

But discrimination is not those things at all.  It is simply the ability to discern.  “A discriminating palate,” for example.  It is having a good amount of life experience and then being able to learn from that and make good choices in life.  AND THERE IT WAS!  That was the answer.  You see, when the one world split into two worlds superimposed upon one another, like a thief in the night, the World Wreckers stole a good portion of language—of words—and gave them new definitions, and usually those definitions were terrible and cruel and specifically designed to serve their evil purposes.

Suddenly, it seemed that experiencing life, learning from it, discerning different paths, and choosing wisely among them (that is—discriminating) became a bad thing because of the new definition.  And the people became afraid because they did not want to be looked at through the new eyes of the World Wreckers, who brought swift punishment with them.

How perfectly diabolical.  Take the very first skill, the very first gift, if you will, that a child is granted—discrimination—and turn it into something terrible instead.  A little child learns to judge and discriminate and make choices.  Through experience he knows the stove is hot and he chooses something cooler and safer.  He knows the cookie tastes better than the broccoli.  He knows the loud sound might mean danger, etc.  And he begins to learn how to make intelligent, albeit simple, choices—how to judge, how to discriminate, how to know right from wrong (with guidance, of course, from his parents, who have even more life experience to bring to the table.)

The World Wreckers cleverly stole the word “discriminate” (along with “judgment” and many, many others) and gave it a new and awful meaning.  Now the adults in the stolen world, who learned good discrimination a long time ago, were afraid to make the simplest of choices for themselves.  They were afraid to even think about differences or that differences existed at all.  When a discriminating thought would enter their minds, they would turn sharply away.  “No . . . I mustn’t . . .”

I mustn’t what?  I mustn’t make intelligent decisions for myself?  I mustn’t make choices that will benefit me?  I mustn’t prefer one thing over another?  I mustn’t remember that I have an innate ability to discern right from wrong?  How ridiculous this would once have seemed.  I realized yet again that I had so much work to do, so many people to help . . .

And that is how the World Wreckers began their evil quest—even before the one world had split into two.  It starts with language.  It always starts with language.  Because in the beginning was the Word, and we mortals use this to sit upon the throne of faith.  He with ears, let him hear.

March 4, 2021 - The Spell

“She’s under a powerful spell,” I heard one of them whisper, but it hurt to think and wonder what that might be about.  The light kept intruding on my eyes, no matter how hard I tried to go back to sleep.  It was like fingers pressing and digging at my eyelids, worming their way under, forcing my eyes open, and with me battling to keep them closed tightly.

“A powerful spell, indeed,” whispered another voice.  And this time I wondered.  What spell?  Who is under a spell?  But the light continued his assault.  When I pressed my eyes tightly together, I could see a thousand golden stars exploding like fireworks in the inner world.  They seemed to be calling me back inside to an inner dimension.  How easy it would be . . . and yet the light continued his assault until I thought I must fight him for once and for all.

And I opened my eyes.  I saw no one, just the forest creatures.  Whoever had been talking about the powerful spell had vanished, if they were ever there at all.  But this was odd.  I didn’t remember going out into the woods.  The last thing I remember was getting ready for bed and blowing out an oil lamp.  ‘Maybe I’m still dreaming . . .’  I shook my head. 

“No, you are not dreaming.  At last you are finally awake!”  Oh, I knew that voice.  Suddenly I remembered who I was.  I stopped myself in the nick of time from turning around to see him, as I knew there would be nothing there and I would miss out on an opportunity to get some badly needed answers.

“What has happened?” I asked.
“Did you not hear that you were under a powerful spell?” he returned.
“Well, yes.  I didn’t realize it was me they were talking about, that’s all.”

I looked around a bit, being careful not to turn completely around.  Judging by the slant of the sun, the temperature, and the sheets of ice in the woods, I deduced it must be late winter or very early spring.  But that couldn’t be.  It would have meant that I had been asleep or under a spell for a whole month!

“How long have I been here?!” I yelled.
“You slept for quite some time.”
“But I fear it may have been a whole month!”
“A month?” he asked and then laughed heartily.  “My dear, you have been asleep for a year and a month.  Thirteen months to be exact.”

I couldn’t believe it.  I wouldn’t believe it!  Asleep in the woods for a year and a month?  It was preposterous!  But I had this terrible, nagging feeling.  I had strange, half-finished thoughts and images in my head, fading in and out like clouds.  Every time I tried to grab a hold of one, it slipped through my fingers like smoke.  A year and a month.  Could it be true?

“Are you certain?” I swallowed hard.
“Oh, yes, quite.”
“I would ask how I survived, but I suppose I owe you a debt.”
“Your debts do add up,” he said matter-of-factly.  
“So what happened to me?  Can you at least tell me that?”

“It wasn’t just you,” he said.  “There was a powerful spell that seemed to hit the entire world, well, at least the world of humans.  Certainly not me, and certainly not the forest creatures.”

“No, of course not.”  I tried not to sound bitter, but I think I failed miserably.  I could just feel his eyebrows lifting and that sardonic smile of his.

“Yes, I’m afraid it hit the weaker beings.  Again.  A great trance fell upon the people, and they darted about in fear and anger.  They hid themselves in houses.  They hid themselves in offices.  They hid themselves behind their own clothing, masking their appearance.  They hid in basements.  They hid in churches.  They hid in automobiles,” he said.

“But why?  What did the spell do to them?”

“Well,” he went on, “It made them doubt their own knowledge.  It made them doubt their own perceptions.  It made the ground appear to waver before their eyes.  What was solid suddenly seemed to shift.  It was just a mirage, of course, but they doubted their ability to care for themselves.  They doubted their own logic.  Mostly, though, they doubted one another.  They lost their trust.  They lost their faith.  They became paralyzed with fear of each other.”

“Fear of their fellow man?!”  I was exasperated.  What could possibly be so horrible?  “And did I do the same thing, then?”

“No, you did not because I taught you how to read the hearts of men.  But you eventually became crushed by their sorrow, and so you fell asleep to avoid insanity.  And even I could not awaken you.”

I could hear the surprise and anger in his voice.  It must have been a powerful spell, indeed.

“But now I am awake,” I said.
“Yes, at long last,” he breathed a sigh of relief.
“So where do I go from here?  Where does the situation stand?”

“A dark force came and split the world in two, but not two halves.  It split the world into two wholes.  Where there was one world, there are now two, but they appear as one and are superimposed upon one another.”

“Like two sides of a coin?” I asked.
“Somewhat, but that would be misleading.  There are two three-dimensional images occupying the same space.”
“But that’s impossible.”
“Is it?” he asked.  “Apparently, it is not.  It is all in one’s perception.  What you believe to be there, will be there.”

“So what must I do?  How do I navigate this?”
“You must walk in the true world,” he said, “Aware always of the other.”
“How do I make sure I stay in the true world and not drift into the clone?” I asked.

“You know what is right and you know what is wrong.  You know what is up and what is down, what is warm and what is cold, what is day and what is night.  You know how the natural world works.  You know the seasons of the world and their correspondences in the body.  You know what is health and what is illness.  You know what is kindness and what is cruelty.  So you will hold each path you encounter up to these truths, and whichever path rings true to the natural world, that is the path you will take.  Beware of the merchant who will try to take your possessions.  He is not from the natural world.”

“Will it be difficult?” I asked.
“I shouldn’t think so.  The spell casters were tremendously sloppy, you know.  Oh, it was quite effective for a while, that’s true.  But still, they were sloppy around the edges.  They never planned for the passage of time and its effect.”
“You mean they never learned how to read the hearts of men.”
“No, they never did,” he said.  I could feel him smiling.

“I have my work cut out for me,” I whispered to myself, getting up.  “So many things to do, people to talk to and help . . . I have a million things to do . . .”
“Why not stay for another season or two?”
“I have been here for 13 months!”
“Yes,” he said, “But we still have so much left to do.”
“I was asleep.  I didn’t do anything,” I responded warily.
“Well . . . not the human part of you . . .”

“You!” I spun around angrily.  But there was nothing there.  Nothing at all.  A cool breeze blew against my face.  An old crow up in a tree croaked out the semblance of a laugh.  The squirrels yelled obscenities at me, as usual.  It was just me in the woods.

But it was the real woods in the real world.  It was time to go home again.  It was time to repair the alabaster scabbard.  It was time to write a new fate.  The last remnants of the spell fell from my eyes, and with the mask off I could see clearly all around me.  Soon it would be spring.

February 14, 2021 - Half Full

I was thinking of that old saying of a glass half-filled with water and the optimist seeing the glass half full and the pessimist seeing the glass half empty, but really the same contents were inside.  I’m sure you’ve heard it many times yourself.  Sometimes when we hear something too much, we cease to hear it anymore, even if someone is yelling it.  But what if instead of a glass of water it was a body of life?  

There is a body and it’s half-filled.  There are tears inside along with sorrow.  There are disappointments and losses and death.  But there is also laughter.  There are smiles and triumphs and love and hope.  It’s all mixed into one and it can’t be separated, but it can be focused upon and this is what most of us do every day.

There’s a man standing to the side watching you as you watch your half-filled body.  He wants you to focus on the negative things because when you do that, you get very busy and very tired and very quiet.  So he shows you many pictures of terrible things, and with the pictures he gives you terrible sounds.  There is crying and gnashing of teeth and rage and violence.  And though you may try to turn your head, he puts the photos and the wailing in whichever direction you turn.  Around and around you go, 360 degrees in a full circle, and yet there are the photos and the crying and the pain.  So you settle in resignedly and focus on the awfulness.

While you are busy and tired and quiet, the man sneaks around you and picks all the pretty flowers he can find—and there are so many.  He takes the flowers and he takes the singing birds.  He takes the growing fruit and the smiles.  He pulls all the laughter and the giggles and the sighs of “I love you” out of the air and puts them into a heavy dark box so they cannot be heard.  He steals the joy, steals the fun, steals the triumphs, steals the hope.

The next day he comes back and finds you and he does the same thing all over again.  And again and again.

Your body is half-filled.  It contains all the things that have happened to you in your life.  The pessimist says the body is half-empty, and that means it’s draining and will soon be desolate, a crumbled shell lying on the floor, devoid of life.  The optimist says the body is half-full, and that means there is still a lot more to put inside.  Some of it will be sorrowful and grievous, but some of it will be joyful and loving and filled with hope and laughter.  And it won’t be devoid of life.  On the contrary:  It will be stuffed right full of it.  No crumpled shell.  A tired shell, perhaps.  A painful shell, at times, yes.  But a shell full of possibilities.

You have half a body left to fill up or to drain as you please.  The man standing on the side doesn’t want you to fill it.  He wants you to think there’s nothing to fill it with.  He wants you to think the world is dark and dangerous and empty so that you won’t put any more life in your body.  He wants all the wonderful things for himself.  Even though there’s plenty to go around for everyone and then some—including him—he still doesn’t want you to have any of it.  So he uses the pictures and the sounds and the flashing lights and the hypnotism.

How do you stop it?  You begin by not looking at the pictures anymore.  Close your eyes.  You don’t listen to the hideous sounds anymore.  Put your hands over your ears.  You tune it out, turn it off.  Then comes a fog . . . Which way do you go?  You walk away in the opposite direction, and you trust yourself.  You might not see the field full of flowers yet, but you keep going and you trust yourself, eyes closed and ears blocked, because anything is better than the constant sorrow from the puppet master in the corner.

You start small, with tiny things.  It doesn’t matter if you haven’t got any money.  It doesn’t matter if you find yourself impoverished in spirit and house.  You begin again with tiny things.  You do the things you’ve always wanted to do . . . . someday.  You learn that language, that musical instrument.  You plant that garden, or maybe just start with one pot of herbs.  You paint that picture and sing that song.  You learn that craft.  

You start over.  You make your life again from scratch.  Your body is not half empty.  It’s half full, and there’s a lot more to give it.  It doesn’t matter if the things you give it are humble and simple.  They’re your humble and simple things, and that makes them beautiful.  If he comes after you again—and he will—you know what to do.  Avert your eyes.  Put your hands over your ears.  Walk away from the lie of the half-empty body.

This is what he did not want you to know.  You start with tiny things.  You build slowly.  Ignore what people say you can and cannot do.  And then . . . just watch what happens.  Just watch.

November 27, 2020 - Because it Works

I have touched on the idea of “tradition” before, but I am back at it again because a great willing is being heard, and my ears cannot unhear.  Tradition is the way.  It is the ritual.  It is what we do because we have always done it.  Some people question it and turn away from it, only to find that there was method to the madness after all, and they come home like the prodigal son.  Some question and turn away and stay away, and then they are lost forever.  Still others never question at all because it feels right and it works.  Those are the lucky ones.

There are things that are done in certain ways, and if you pay attention, you can learn those ways for yourself.  Perhaps a loving relative will teach them, and you will learn them without knowing you are learning.  Perhaps you will have to observe others and find out what works.  These ways become habits, and these habits become rituals, and these rituals become instincts.  But they all start with someone finding the best way through trial error and then sticking with that way come hell or high water.

The squirrels find their food in the way they always have, and they make secret caches as they always have.  In the winter they dig up the food and survive as they always have.  And the deer make their paths in the forest along the ley lines as they always have, finding their food and especially precious winter water as they always have.  The birds build their nests the same way as always, singing the same songs, flying south in the same formations.  Because it works.

In the house that sits atop my shoulders, there are many rooms in which I store my traditions.  I often wander through these rooms and touch the old books within.  Not long ago, I can remember that we really did go over the river and through the woods to my grandmother’s house during at least one of the holidays.  We always went the same way through the snow because it worked, and there was always a turkey to eat because it was tradition and we expected it and it reinforced who we were.

That’s the big thing, isn’t it?  Who we were.  Who we are.  We know these things by what we do, and we do them in a certain way because that way brings comfort, stability, and a sense of belonging.  It brings guidance and inheritance and tribe.  

“We have always done this.”  How those words echo in our ears during the hard times of life, and we all have our hard times, those times that try our very souls.  Sometimes things can get so bad that we feel we have nothing left.  We are broken, empty, dead.  But then, just as we think we might draw our last breath—just as we hope we will draw our last breath in order to end the sorrow—the voice says, “We have always done this.”  And so we get up, we pick ourselves up, we drag ourselves across the floor.  And we do what we have always done.  Because it works.

Sometimes it feels empty for a while, like we are just “going through the motions,” but if we stick with it, we find that somehow we survive.  And then we thrive.  What got us through it all?  Our traditions.  Our sense of self.  That home that was there somewhere at some time.  That tribe we belonged to.  Those things we did, those foods we ate, those songs we sang.  The comfort of doing things automatically by rote gave us the rest we needed to tap into the moral inheritance, into the hidden strength of our people.  They gave us a lifeline when we needed it most.

Be on the lookout!  There are those who would attempt to take your traditions away, to make them null and void.  They use many tactics:  Name-calling, humiliation, guilt, rage, haughtiness, bullying, etc.  They do this because they know how powerful your traditions are.  They know how your traditions tie you to the past and to those ancestors who went before you.  They know of the strength, the lifeline, the comfort and stability, the inheritance.  And they want to take it away from you.  Drop you into a field of snow five feet deep with no one around to help.  No road, no light, no secret cache of food.  No secret joy within your heart.

Cut off from everything that you are and were and might be, they offer a meager pittance.  Take it or leave it.  Take it, and it is the end of living and the beginning of survival.  Leave it, and it is death.  Oh, the choices they offer.  Empty prisons of ice.

Turn away from them.  Do not look at them.  Do not listen to them.  Do not allow them into your home, into your sphere.  Do not argue with them.  Do not discuss the virtues of your way.  Do not engage in their intellectual folly and word games that have no winners.  You do not owe them an explanation for your way of life.  Do instead what works.  What has always worked.  You do not have to give them a reason.  You do not even have to completely understand it yourself.  Just trust what you know to be true.

Because we really did go over the river and through the woods to my grandmother’s house.  And there was turkey and stuffing and gravy and potatoes.  There was squash and sweet potatoes and her own canned cranberry sauce.  There was apple pie and pumpkin pie and games in the woods.  Off in a faraway city, there was Macy’s parade and the kick off of the Christmas season.  There was singing and dancing and laughter.  And the adults always had a “cup of cheer,” usually more than one.

October 11, 2020 - The North Star

“But why cook your food or make your tea that way, when you can just press a button or turn a knob and have it done so much faster and cleaner?” she asked.

“Because I enjoy it,” I said, “I find it calming and clearing.”

“Okay, I get the aesthetics, but after a while the fun is gone and it’s just extra work and it doesn’t make any sense anymore.”

“It makes sense to me.”

“But,” she said, “Surely it must get tiring after a while.”

“It does sometimes, yes.”

“Are you ever tempted to just do it the easy way?”

“More often than I want to admit,” I laughed, in spite of myself.

“So what do you get out of it?” she asked.  “Honestly, I want to know.”
 

There is a star high up in the sky at night, a star the sailors love, a star the weary traveler at night searches for.  It is the North Star, Polaris, and it is directly over the North Pole.  If you can find the North Star, you can find the north, and if you know the direction of north, then by default you know which way is south, west, and east.  If you can find the North Star, you are not lost.  And it’s easy to find because it is directly above the top right star of the “dipper” portion of the Big Dipper, also known as Ursa Major.

On a clear evening, you are never truly lost.  But sometimes there are clouds, and sometimes the clouds last a very long time.  When they do, there is no Big Dipper to be seen, no North Star to be found, no guiding and directing point of light.  No beacon.  No ray of hope.  And this is very hard.  The longer the clouds persist, the harder it gets.  Sometimes the mist is so thick, you cannot find your way out of it.  So you have to believe.  You have to remember where you saw the North Star last, and then you have to trust yourself, trust your own intuition, trust your ability to navigate, trust your own knowledge.  You have to rely upon yourself.

Sometimes, for some people, there has never been a clear night filled with brilliant stars and brilliant possibilities—and a brilliant, guiding, beautiful hope.  For some people, there has always only been clouds, and they have known nothing else.  They have always done everything the same way, lived their life the same way, never tried anything else, never trusted themselves.  And so they never knew there was another path.

You can tell them about the stars, but they won’t believe you.  You can tell them of Ursa Major, that Great Bear in the sky, that constant light and strength, but they will scoff at you.  You can tell them of the great men of yore who used the North Star to navigate, sail, and conquer the world, but they will laugh at you.  They will tell you there are no points of light in the night sky, only the paltry points of light they hold in their own hands, a sort of glitter they covet and glut themselves upon.

They will warn you!  Do not travel alone!  Do not rely upon your own senses!  Do not trust yourself!  Do not look for a guide in the heavens!  Stay here, they will say.  Stay immobile.  Sit where I tell you.  Eat what I give you.  Feel the comfort of all those around you who stay connected to one another in the thick mist.  Do not wander, for you will get lost.

I walk away.  The mist is confining, and I find I cannot breathe in its depths.  I cannot think clearly.  The mist masks the stars I know for certain are up in the heavens, and I must remove the mask to see them.  I must remove the mask to think clearly again.  I leave the comfort of the crowd, the warmth of the throng, the seeming strength of the numbers.  To the edge, to the edge, to the edge I go.  And then I jump . . .

And I am alone in the clear and cold and beautiful night, and high above me is the North Star, guiding me as it has always done.  I am not lost after all, for I have my guide.  I know where I am, and I am not afraid.  I know which direction I am headed.  I am confident in my abilities and my knowledge.

Sometimes I cook my meals on an open fire or a little propane stove.  I collect the rainwater and filter and drink it because it tastes so good.  I do things differently, not because I want to do things the “hard way” or the “old way,” but because doing things differently on purpose forces my mind to walk in another direction.  It forces me to think differently, to calculate differently.  It makes me realize there are other ways of doing things.  It gives me a sort of security, and that security lets me know that I am not dependent on the crowd and the current trends for my existence.

Because I know where I’m going.  I have the North Star above me, and He has never failed me.  And I have the North Star within me.  There is no mist to blind me, no mask to hide the world from me.  I walk in the cold night alone, and I am not afraid.

September 20, 2020 - Fall From Grace

I cannot think of a better way to herald the Fall season than to make an apple pie.  Blueberries are Maine’s number one crop, but potatoes and apples are right behind them—both good keepers for storage and nourishment throughout the winter months.  I will be making pies as well as dehydrating hundreds of apple slices to bring along with me on my winter jaunts through the woods.

It is like bringing a little bit of stored summer along.  A dried slice of apple plumps up in the mouth and delivers sweet sunshine every time.  It laughs in the face of even the coldest and snowiest days, saying, “Catch me if you can!”

And so we plunge into Fall.  But exactly what it is we are falling from, I am hard pressed to figure out.  Are we falling from the pinnacle of sweltering summer days?  Then I welcome the calm and quiet coolness.  Are we falling from growth?  Then I glow with pride at the fruition.  Are we falling from days of ease and slumber?  (And surely summer is anything but that if you live in the country.)  Then I welcome the silence and sleep of the coming winter.

Perhaps we are falling from grace, from a time when the Earth trusted us to make good use of the growing season.  And if we did not do so, then perhaps we are falling into chagrin.  Or perhaps a fall from grace is a fall from the endowment of life to the gift of death.  Perhaps we fall from the land of the living into the land of the spirit.  Again.

“Catch me if you can!” the innocent child says and laughs as she runs in the summer sunshine in a field full of flowers.  And, indeed, she shall be caught and pressed into the grueling servitude of life until she falls wearily and gratefully from grace and beauty into peace and plenty and quiet.  Come, you Angels of Transfiguration, receive her into your arms and use the fruit of her labor in your work of renewal.  All of life has its exact price—and death an incalculable reward, worth a King’s ransom. 

 

August 29, 2020 - Road of Truth

The bird was clearly dying.  It was not a matter of if, but when, and it would be sooner rather than later.  I would not have stopped for so long had it not been for the commotion that brought me there in the first place.

I had been walking along my usual road and took a left turn along a path I seldom travel, and for a reason.  That is when I heard a woman’s voice in distress and a man talking soothingly to her in lower tones.  I came out into a larger part of the path, and the woman looked at me imploringly and pointed down at the bird.  She was crying hysterically, telling me that something was wrong with the bird, and that was certainly true.

These two were not from around here.  Their expensive clothes and equipment made that evident, although I do not think they realized it.  The dramatic scene was also a dead giveaway.  She kept telling me that we had to help the bird, that his wing was broken.  I went closer and looked at the bird.  His wing was definitely not broken.  He was walking about slowly and confusedly, and he was absolutely dying.

Because I know that look.  It is one I see often enough while I am out and about.  However, the two people before me were not used to it at all.  She seemed frustrated with me.

“Don’t you want to help??” she asked over loudly.

“This bird cannot be helped,” I said.

“WHY??”

“Because it’s dying.”

“Can’t we fix his wing?!” she shrieked.

“There’s nothing wrong with his wing.”

“Then what’s the problem??  I don’t get it!”

“He’s dying,” I said simply.

They both drew back quickly, as if I had struck them.  Up until that point, they thought perhaps there was something they could do (or better yet, get someone else to do).  But I know when things have gone too far, and this was definitely one of those times.

They eyed me warily, as if I had caused the problem to begin with.  They had never seen something like this up close and raw.  I deduced in a moment that their world was a world of representation but not authenticity.  They were the kind of people who received all of their information through a filter, whose lives were carefully planned out, who followed the formula given to them early in life by their keeper.

But I am not that person.  And as strange as they found me, I found them to be just as peculiar.  We sized one another up quickly.  I felt sorry for her because I believed her anguish was genuine, and they both seemed as if they truly wanted to help in some way.  The problem was that they could not help, and they could not accept that.

Their world is a world of symbols, of representations, but not of reality.  Their days are lived like scenes in a play, each year a new act, each decade a new part.  They are actors and actresses on a stage, complete with an audience that cheers or hisses at their success or failure in pretending to be who they are.  They have mastered the art of how to seem.  When confronted with this problem, they fell into their typical roles because reality is too harsh and has no stagehands.  No props.  No curtains or costumes or adoring fans.

I tried to smile, to let them know that this was normal and natural.  They smiled back nervously and then left quickly, whispering to each other down the path.  The bird hopped under a small bush, and I knew he would not come out again.  This is the way of things.  There is a price for everything in this world, and the price of life is death.  The arrangements are made at birth, and there is no way to opt out of the contract.  Attempting to do so merely brings the contract to an end quicker, and the debt is still collected anyway.

My own contract looms before me.  My greatest weakness in life has been my honesty, slinging the truth arrows of the Sagittarian, tipped with bitter drink at times.  But everything that I have done after my eyes were opened, I have done of my own accord.  There are no stagehands and no props.  There is no applause.

There is just me, weapon clearly showing at my hip.  No surprises.  No false moves.  No dishonesty.  And in return, I am given the freedom of the road, to live my life cleanly, to experience it fully, to face it with both eyes open.

When we shed our body at the end, will we realize belatedly that we loved it after all, with all of its imperfections?  Will that realization be our final, gut-wrenching heartbreak?  Or will we be like the bird on the path today?  Living honestly on the road, every moment experienced authentically and directly without props or symbols.  And now he no longer needs his wings, for he has become flight itself. 

To think that his whole life he was practicing to die.  Perhaps things are simpler than they appear.

 

August 18, 2020 - A Shift

The blackberries are ripe again.  It is a good time of year to be alive.  Such sweetness.  I pull them off the bushes one by one and eat them, still warm from the sun.  Organic before we were told what “organic” was.  Good for you before we were “educated” about them being an “antioxidant superfood.”  Just plain old berries that grow along the side of the road every year.  Or out in the meadows.  Or down by the river.  Or wherever a bird happened to drop a seed the year before.  Kissed by the sun, so they must be special.

They’re free but there’s still a price to pay, of course, as there always is for everything.  With blackberries, it’s the confounded thorns.  The large ones gash your skin, and you can avoid most of them if you pay attention.  But the small ones you can barely see are like fine little razors that tear tiny imperceptible cuts on your hands and forearms and legs.  You don’t notice it until you get into water later on and each tiny cut comes alive like an exquisitely tiny fire.  Ah, the price, you laugh to yourself, yes, the price.  But the fire is worth it.

There is no internet down by the river.  I laugh and joke with other berry pickers who bring small bowls and baskets with them.  We carry on about staking a claim on the best patch, but we end up calling one another over to partake when we find a good one.  I don’t know who they are.  Just people who like berries, I guess.  And no internet.

At one point I stop and look up at the top of the trees as the wind is rustling the leaves.  I am instantly transported in my mind to a moment when I was a child riding in the back seat of a car with my siblings, my parents in the front seat now and then telling us to keep it down to a dull roar.  We were always loud.  Something about the sunshine then looks the same as today, the Light catching in just that certain way.  We’ll be home soon, I thought, as I drank in every detail of my surroundings.  What will mother make for supper?

Then back to the river and now, and it occurs to me that I have glimpsed a bit of reality.  Somehow it has leaked again.  There was a realness I felt when I was younger that I don’t always feel now, but I search for it continually.  Longingly.  Because I know something is wrong.  My eyes tear over a bit, but I don’t want anyone to see.  So I keep picking berries, focusing intently on one bush away from the others so they won’t see the leak.  The fissure.  The crack in my soul.  The distant reality still glazing my eyes.

Something has changed in the world, and I know that you know this.  I know you feel it.  I know your eyes glaze over with tears and you try to hide them.  I know there’s a sunny day in your memory, when the leaves were blowing in the wind and rustling together and talking.  When the birds were singing and the insects were humming.  And life was slower.  And you were almost home, where the sheets were hanging on the clothesline, dry and ready to be taken in, the beds made and infused with the sweet scent of the outdoors.  To which you would fall asleep later on and wake up and do it all again the next day.

I have said it before and I will say it again:  Spend too much time looking at the black mirror, abounding with hypnotic pixels, and you will lose sight of the unpixelated real world.  Dots on a screen.  Words typed to someone who may not even be there, who may never have been there.  Ever.  “How beautiful you are and how pleasant, my love, with such delights!” said Solomon the wise.  What song might he have sung for the black mirror?

There is a knowing.  There is a great willing that can be heard if you listen closely.  Those of you who are awake know of what I speak.  You know the difference between the outdoors and face-to-face contact with people as compared to the pixels in the black mirror, however hypnotic they may be.  You see people fighting about things that don’t exist, about situations that are not real.  You see the created un-world.  Misshapen like a patched-together being in a Tolkien novel, groveling to the all-seeing eye in the mountain.

I would say just simply turn it off, simply go outside.  And while I think this is a good first step, I don’t think it is enough anymore.  The ties that bind are like the old Chinese finger traps we played with as children.  The more you pull, the tighter the snare becomes.  Something more is needed.

A shift.  A shift in consciousness.  There are two worlds now, and they are superimposed upon one another.  But slowly, ever so slowly, they are drifting apart.  It used to be easy to travel from one world to the other and back again.  It is not so easy now because they are drifting further and further apart.  Someday it will be impossible to travel between them, and I fear that day is coming soon.  Then we will be stuck in whatever world we were in when the parting became final, and never the twain shall meet.

There is a patch of berries down by the river, where the thorns mercilessly cut your hands and arms.  And the berries….they carry the Sun within them, who enters you as you consume them.  Upon which a thousand tiny points of Light stream out of you from every wound you have ever had.  It is good.  The pain of reality is a good thing, and the price is definitely worth it.

August 13, 2020 - Cold Seeds

The seeds are the key.  All around us now, the Earth works furiously and tirelessly to create the seeds that will become next year, without which there would be no next year.  I have pointed out many times that unlike man who plants in the springtime, Nature always plants in the Fall.  This year finds her doing the same thing she always does.  I bow in gratitude and thankfulness.

But there is something different.  There are new seeds, and they do not come from the Holy one.  They are ugly seeds, misshapen and swollen.  Crippled and putrid.  Bearing a terrible secret, a storage of unnatural and chaotic energy.  Forged in a sterile environment by a gloved hand and a masked face.  Pored over by greedy eyes and blackened hearts bent on disturbing the sublime balance, on plunging the world from order and beauty back into chaos and corruption.

The grotesque new seeds pulse with perverse energy that rips and tears and gnashes.  The snakes in the grass carry them and deposit them one by one.  The Lady instantly recognizes their foul nature, and all the seeds she creates also know the imposters for what they are.  But the people . . . the people do not.  They have become lost.  They cannot tell what is a bad seed and what is a good seed.  Those of reptilian nature who serve chaos, they count on this and, as Blake said, they “sunnèd it with smiles and with soft deceitful wiles.”

The Earth writhes and hacks the ugly seeds from her soil, but the reptiles replant them as quickly as they are expelled.  They pat the ground in a soothing lie, whispering promises of riches to the Earth, saying, “There, there my lovely.  Nourish and nurture and grow my grotesqueness, and you will be rewarded with wealth and ease.  It is just one seed.  Just one seed.  What harm can there be in just one seed?  In just one compromise?”  But the snakes lie.  They have always lied.  To no avail, though.  She is not fooled.  But the people . . . the people can be fooled.

Have a care, then, as you plow the furrows of your mind and the fields of your heart, readying as it were your soul-soil for new growth in this important season.  Be watchful for the reptile as he attempts constantly to deposit his ugly seed in your soul, which will suck out your very existence as it grows and consumes you.  Nightly as you intoxicate yourself against the blaring and jagged lies being hurled at you continually during the day, as you fall into a semi-trance to escape the pain of having to be constantly vigilant, watch for the snake as he whispers his own soft deceitful wiles.  “It is just one compromise . . .”

And expel him!  Regurgitate his ugly seeds filled with lies and hatred waiting to grow within you.  Heave out the constrictive snake, the wealthy boa, who would squelch your freedom.  Spit out the vile and twisted growth of imprisonment.  Give them no quarter.  Chase them to the far ends of the Earth and hack them to pieces.

Protect your mind from those who would enslave you.  Protect your heart from those who would siphon your goodness and kindness.  Protect your personality from the reptiles who would force you to conform and obey.  Do not accept their cold and twisted seeds of death.  Even one seed—just one—will eventually gnaw a hole through your innards, its twisted fruit slithering away after having consumed all you have to give.

Hang on to what you know is right.  Look to the natural world.  Look to the seasons as they roll on in perfect harmony and timing.  Fall in with their cadence.  Accept the goodness of abundance when it is here and the scarcity of the season of peaceful death when it comes.  Force nothing.  All brilliance and beauty and life will come back in its time to the Earth, to your heart, to your mind, and to your soul as it has always done from the beginning of time.   

And stand guard!  Always.  Should you find something, however infinitesimally small, that does not hold up to the Truth of the natural world—to the forest and the streams and the ocean and the animals—cut it out from you and burn it to oblivion.