June 7, 2015 - Island Living

This is not my house, but I spent a good portion of my life living on a very deserted peninsula that jutted into the Atlantic Ocean.  When I saw this, it brought back many old memories.  I had to use the mega zoom lens to capture it, so it might not be as clear as it could be.

When you live on a peninsula and boats go by, you wave.  Usually the people on the boats wave back, if they notice you.  Your neighbors are really only passing boats and crafts, and it’s interesting to think of what they might be doing on the boat.  The ocean has the peculiar quality of wafting sound to you that you could not ordinarily hear.  It carries voices and sometimes full conversations for impressive distances.  I always wondered if the boaters wondered about me, the crazy lady waving from the dock.

Out on the peninsula.

I guess the thing you think about the most is the weather, especially the wind.  Astronomical tides accompanied by a storm can be terrifying but exhilarating.  Every morning very early, you do a sky check and try to decide what you might be able to accomplish that day.  There’s always more work to do than you could ever possibly hope to get done.

Living on a peninsula can be lonely.  In the winter, you can spend many days without seeing a soul or talking to anyone.  I’m okay by myself because I’ve had to learn how to be so, even though now I don’t have to do it to quite such an extreme.  There are a lot of people who say that they would like nothing more than to just get away from everyone and everything and live alone on an island.  Be careful what you wish for as it may be given to you.

Still, it’s an eye-opening experience because there’s no running from yourself out on an island.  There are no distractions and there’s nowhere to go, really.  There’s a difference between life and living, and out on an island in the Atlantic, you learn that difference whether you want to or not.

June 6, 2015 - The Birth of Land

So when the trees grow right out of the rocks--right out of them!--in Maine, don’t be surprised.  Don’t be surprised at witnessing the birth of land, because that is what you are doing when you visit the rocky shores of Maine.  That is how it happened at some point everywhere on Earth.  What?  Didn’t you know that?  Didn’t you know how land--how Earth--is formed?  The birth of a deciduous forest rolls in ecstasy at your feet.  Have the sense to be humble.

The plant life grows, it dies, it sheds, and it decomposes.  It is in the decomposition where you will find the stuff of magic.  It is in the decomposition where you will find the telltale signs of the Great Alchemist.  The sight, the sense, the dampness . .  . of the passing of She who changes.  And then new things grow from the death of the old, feeding and regenerating and in turn dying and decomposing.  The cycle continues on and on, and layer by layer the Earth grows, inch by inch she swells.  The land is born.  And that’s how it happens.

But . . . but . . . but . . . before there were any layers in which to grow, how did the first things grow?  Laughter.  Can you hear the laughter?  I hear the Great Alchemist laughing as we are caught in the quagmire of logic.  Transmutation she whispers . . .

The Earth as she forms.

June 5, 2015 - Weaing-O-The-Green

The ponds are shimmering, and the lily pads are growing and swimming on the surface.  The green grass encircles the pond, and it’s hard to tell where the grass ends and the pond begins and vice versa.  I always miscalculate and end up with wet shoes, no matter how hard I try.  Each time I tell myself that this will be the time I don’t step into the mud and sink up to my knees, and each time I’m wrong.

The grass is still that brilliant paddy green color, which is only seen in the springtime.  Summertime will bring the deep green color, and late summer and fall will bring the tired green color.  But for now, we revel in paddy green as the new pink lily flowers just start to open.  I sometimes wonder if the color seems so brilliant green because the grass is simply bursting with the golden energy of the sun.  Each blade seems to give off a peculiar glow, and that’s called paddy green.

I could have gone closer (since I was already a mess) and taken a nice photo of a lily, but this is about the green.  You’ve heard of the “wearing-o-the-green” at St. Patrick’s Day?  Well, this is Maine’s rendition of the wearing-o-the-green.  Right now, everything is so plump and full.  Let’s rejoice in this brilliance!  We know it won’t last--can’t last--and that makes it all the sweeter.

The paddy green.

June 4, 2015 - Sitting On The Fence

I’m sitting on the proverbial fence here at the Cathance River.  At this precise spot is where the river is divided from its freshwater portion to its tidal portion.  At this precise spot is where the river says, “This is where I take a stand,” and downward it plunges, rushing off to find an outlet that will eventually empty into the ocean.  The river is on its way.

I’ve sat on other fences before.  It’s no fun.  Should I go this way or that?  Should I do this or that?  Should I stay or should I go?  Meanwhile, “this way” and “that way” and “this thing” and “that thing” continued on doing what they do, oblivious to my existence.  I was the only one who sat there paralyzed.  In life, we can only sit on our fences for so long.  We can only nurse our injuries for so long.  Eventually, we have to take a stand.  Eventually we have to take the plunge.

I’m done waiting.  I’m going forward.  I’ll meet you at the ocean.

The "head of tide" on the Cathance River.

June 3, 2015 - The Hunt For Maine

If I were to leave the countryside and move to a crowded city area, I would be haunted for the rest of my life by Maine.  I would see her in my dreams.  Around every corner I turned, I would be looking for her green shadows.  I would be listening for her birds, straining to hear their songs.  I would look for the furtive movement of her deer and moose, only to be impoverished and starved by their loss.  Alas, in vain I would search for her earthy scent until I perished.

But I am a hunter and I hunt for Maine and I cannot do anything else.  I am mesmerized by Maine.  I am in love with her bounty.  I am awed by her beauty.  I am left speechless by her natural wonders.  I am made humble by her vast rivers and lakes.  I am subdued by the treacherous cliffs of her shores.  I am enslaved by her uncharted and untouched territories--wild, terrible, and free. 

I am poisoned with her, the Mistress Maine.  I am addicted to her, the beguiling green princess.  I am obsessed with her fruited fields.  I am infatuated by her woodland promises.  I am completely enraptured by her savage wildness.  I am lost in the depths of her mists.  I am drowned gladly in her abundance.  I am hopelessly . . . helplessly . . . drawn by her endlessly . . .

The hunt for the elusive princess continues . . .

June 2, 2015 - The Sound of Grey

The relentless onslaught of rain and cold continues and forms a June that looks more like an October, save for the colorful leaves.  In fact, there is very little color when the weather takes on this tone.  The green lushness we should be experiencing is muted by the absence of the Sun King.

It is not only our vision that is assaulted by the greyness, but our hearing as well.  Can we “hear” grey?  I submit that we can.  I think colors have sounds to them, but we get so caught up in the sight of them that we pay no attention to their sound.  Once again, our other senses and sensibility are dulled or completely overshadowed by the sense of sight.  Sleight of hand reigns supreme when vision rules the world because the glamor and glitz of it all is so provocative and enticing.  Rest assured that the denizens of other worlds know this only too well.

The eyes of grey hold fathomless secrets.

How does “grey” sound?  With grey, it is not what we hear but what we do not hear that counts the most.  We are bereft of the buzzing of happy insects.  We are abandoned by the calls of the birds, save for those of prey.  The soft and sleek whispers of the wind in the leaves have been taken captive and placed in a dungeon.  Everywhere, there is a dulled and muted feeling, and a great longing builds in our bodies as it searches in vain for the sounds of the other colors.  We are hungry.

Grey is commanding and domineering.  Grey withholds sentiment.  Grey is furtive and secretive.  It plots and plans while revealing nothing.  It is the ultimate poker player, one whom you do not wish to bet against.  What has it done with the rest of the world?  Looking into the eyes of grey, I receive no answers, only a reflection of myself.

June 1, 2015 - A Terrible Duel

There was a terrible duel.  It took place in the skies--in the heavens, in those places where mortal man cannot tread and return to tell the tale.  There were flashes and booms and terrifying screams.  The two opponents were well muscled and very well matched, each a skilled master.  The fight ranged all over, from low valleys to high peaks.  Each opponent fought with bravery and talent and honor, and each greatly admired the other for his expertise, although that did not stop him from attempting to destroy the other.

In the end, the two masters completely spent and exhausted, they each went to their own secure lands.  Each had gained new ground, new territory.  Each planted a flag on areas that the other held just days ago.  For now, the Sun King reigns supreme.  His power is massive.  But there are tales from the north, whispers, secrets told in dark places--even in these days of golden light--that the other master will return with unparalleled strength and unleash a formidable army.

It’s a lie.  But there are rumors . . .

The emblem of the Sun King.

May 31, 2015 - Wrestling With The Mist

The mist is thick and grey, and tantalizing things within it dart back and forth.  You can’t quite see them, but you can’t quite not see them either, always teasing just on the edge of perception.  Like a thought, teasing its way in the back of your mind, not daring to come to the forefront.  Staying in the back and taunting you, mocking you, daring you.  There is something . . . something you need to think about . . . but if you do, you must face it.

Don’t look for the sun.  He won’t come here.  For all of His strength, He is impotent when the mists close in, lost just like any other traveler, adrift in a sea of grey and stripped of all power.  Where is your scepter now, sun?  You can feel the fog coming down and settling over your mind.  Can you feel it?  One by one, the bright colors disappear until they are only a long forgotten dream, if that.  Your world is the grey world now, the place where final form has not yet materialized.

Wrestling with the endless mist.

Walk along the shores of the ocean . . . the shores of your mind . . . it doesn’t matter.  It’s the same thing.  Call out if you want.  The sun won’t hear you.  He’s about as far away as you can imagine, and then farther than that.  But go ahead and try.  Exhaust yourself calling out into the mist. 

As for me, I’ll save my energy and bide my time.  It can only permeate my consciousness if I let it.  I am inclined to present a puzzling reflection back to the grey fog, and if it should permeate my consciousness, should I let it, imagine its surprise when it finds itself lost in a world of even more fog, even more grey, even more mist with my own creatures darting back and forth.  I am a match for anything.

May 30, 2015 - On Being Human

Here in Mackerel Cove, everyone is fulfilling their role to a tee.  The lobstermen are catching lobsters.  The restaurant workers are cooking and serving them.  The customers are buying them as good customers do.  Even the lobsters are obliging by being perfect lobsters and allowing everyone else to do what they do with lobsters.  Everyone and everything is doing what it thinks it ought to do.

Everything under the sun is involved in an intimate dance with its identity.  The birds, the animals, and the fish don’t have a choice about their identity.  They can only be birds, animals, or fish as the case may be, but they play their role to perfection and glorify in its simplicity.  They give everything they’ve got to being the actual thing that they are:  the bird, the animal, the fish, etc.

The lobsters of Mackerel Cove.

But humans have a choice.  They can’t choose their species, but they can choose what they “do” as a member of their species.  A human doesn’t identify as being a human in the way that an animal completely identifies with being an animal.  On the contrary.  Most humans don’t think about or even realize that they are the species known as “humans.”  They instead identify with what they “do,” and that usually means their job.  There aren’t many people out there who would dream of doing anything other than what they think they’re supposed to do.  So the baker bakes, the singer sings, the fisherman fishes, and the writer writes.

It is not enough for most people that they simply be “people” and nothing else.  If you asked someone what it is that a “person” does, how to describe the being called “human” and how it lives and interacts with its environment, they might look at you as if you had gone quite mad.  Undoubtedly, they would launch into a discussion of various professions.  Almost always, however, the idea of the “being human” would float away on faerie wings.

On this lazy hazy day when the writer is writing and the fisherman is fishing and the lobster is being a lobster, I sit and wonder what our world would be like if we all stopped “doing” and just started “being.”  It’s a dangerous and rebellious thought.  The lobster, at least, is true to itself.  The human . . . not so much.