September 30, 2019 - October Threshold

On the last day of September, I crept outside while the night still wore her veil.  I was looking for the hydrangeas to confirm what I had long suspected.  I was not disappointed.  I came upon them stealthily and found them dripping their blue everywhere, shocked but unabashed at my approach.

“Liars!” I yelled.  “Impersonators!  I knew that you were not flowers!”

“We are!” they wailed back, but their cry was weak.  Their blue had fallen.  The treacherous lie was exposed. 

“We are still flowers!” they said defiantly, angry now.  But to no avail.  A plain tan color showed through.  It was the truth they had always worn beneath their false façade.

“You lie,” I said finally and simply, “Here is dawn.”  I pointed a cold and hardened finger to the Eastern sky as it brightened, spread with the blood-red of purpose, a flower in bloom.

And what could they say to that?  They knew it was true.

We cross the threshold now.  There will be no more standing as we did between the two worlds, looking back toward life on one side and onward toward death on the other—the privilege of the threshold.  Its magic has now passed, and there is no bridegroom to usher us through.  We shall have to push onward to October on our own.  The great decay begins. 

I pulled my cloak around me and hurried back to my house in the cold morning light.  I had seen enough truth for one day.

September 22, 2019 - The Reaper

Patterns.  I have said before that the guides to the Universe are patterns.  Figure out a pattern and you gain a key to how something works—you gain practical knowledge you can apply to your own life.  Figure out all the patterns and you gain the Master Key, but that is for another discussion.  For now, we will just talk about the current pattern.

Tomorrow is the autumnal equinox, the time when the hours of the day will be equal to the hours of the night.  The enormous swelling and growth of the Earth has now tapered off, and soon it will all wither away and die as if it had never been.  Soon there will be blessed sleep.  And what is happening right now?

Well, unlike mankind, the Earth does not plant in the Spring.  She plants in the Fall.  She does this every year without fail.  Perhaps we could take a lesson from her.  Right now she is busy tirelessly planting and planting her seeds.  Everywhere you look, the seeds from flowers and trees and meadow foods are being distributed far and wide.  They will fall to the Earth, and the falling leaves will soon bury them.  Some will be blown away by the wind to settle elsewhere, and others will be carried away by birds who will eat them and then excrete them in a new area.

But the planting is happening NOW, not in the spring.  And why is this?  Because now is the best time to plan for the next round of living.  Now is the time for the great darkness, when the seeds (and the plans) go into the ground.  Now is the time for death because all things must die before they can live.  Did you think it was the other way around?  I can assure you, it is not.  Death comes first—then comes life.

So into the ground they go, and then the season of death comes and everything is frozen solid.  Life is in a state of suspended animation.  All semblance of what constitutes life has disappeared, and there is a great frozen void that causes much sorrow and anguish for the creatures of the forest.  But within this frozen abyss lies a great secret.  You see, there are tiny sparks of life hidden throughout the void.  We call them seeds, but we know what they really are.  They are the Divine spark.

So like the Earth, if you would create something new for yourself in the future, NOW is the time to plant your thoughts.  NOW is the time to make your plans, and then into the abyss they will go whether you want them to or not.  Everything will seem to go wrong.  You will cry and feel that surely all is lost.  You will lose all hope.  You will wander from room to room wondering what happened to your life.  All the while, though, the sparks are hidden, but you will forget all about them.  Surely, nothing could survive the void in your heart, nothing could survive your winter of defeat.

And just when you are certain your world will be locked in a season of death only, the Light speaks and the sparks reply.  Suddenly, what you have planted begins to grow.  It is small and delicate at first—a wisp, a dream.  But it grows hard and fast—just like the seeds of the Earth do in the Spring when she is ready again after a long and cold winter.  Then without notice, you are showered with life and growth.  Whatever you have planted—IF you have planted—now grows into spectacular abundance, and you will be overwhelmed with abundance to the point of shock.

But do not worry.  Everything will die again because it has to.  Everything must change and die.  This is how the world works.  This is the pattern.  Sowing and reaping, sleeping and waking, dying and living.  Now you have a key, should you chose to unlock a door.

September 12, 2019 - The Problem With the Mountain

When I get to the top of the mountain, I always take a break.  That’s my reward.  I set my pack down in the shade of a tree that grows through a crack in the rock.  The mountain stone is hard, but that’s okay because I am used to it.  Soon I find the right spot, and I lay down gently, easing my spine one vertebra after another.  In a short while, the stone does not seem so hard anymore.  The leaves overhead block out most of the blaring sun, and the wind that is constantly blowing up here feels cool and welcome.  I feel sleepy.

But soon I have to move again.  The stone is too hard on my back.  There must be a better spot just a fraction of an inch over, I think to myself, so I move.  And then I move again.  It is a dance I engage in frequently with the mountain, but today he is having none of it.

“Why don’t you go away, stupid human!” the mountain says.  (Don’t worry.  I am used to his gruffness.)

“I will eventually, but I am tired now and I need a rest,” I tell him.

“I am tired, too, but resting is the last thing I want!”

“That is because you are so strong,” I offer, hoping to appease his moodiness, but as I said, today he is having none of it.

“Strong?  Pah!” he says, but I fancy he secretly likes it when I say that.  I have told him this before, you see, and he always snorts appreciatively.  You have to know how to deal with these mountains, after all.

“I am feeling generous today.  Let me tell you a secret, so listen closely or you will miss it, as usual.  You see, stone is not powerful at all.  Your flesh is more powerful,” he said.  Now it was my turn to snort.

“Pah!” I said, trying very hard to sound as gruff and grating as he always does.

“No, it’s quite true, I assure you.”

“How so?” I asked.  “You have been here for thousands of years before me, and you will be here thousands of years after me.  You can withstand tremendous force, tremendous storms, tremendous calamities.  You are impervious to the sun and the wind, to the rain and the snow and the ice.  From where I sit, you are the very definition of strength.”

“That is because you are stupid, I already told you that part.  You see, you and the rest of the animals have the one thing I do not have, and that is the ability to move, the ability to act.  It is true that your lifespan is minuscule compared to my existence, but because you have mobility, you have life.  You can create more humans.  You can plan things and carry those plans out.  You can join with others in an army of human will.  You can do anything that you are capable of imagining,” he said.

“But you have strength!” I protested.  “I would give anything to have one smidgeon of your strength.  You endure, so you must be patient.  You are steadfast, so you must be loyal.  You are changeless, so you must be faithful.  You are beautiful, so you must be awe-inspiring.  These are not bad traits.”

“But they are not chosen traits, either,” he said.  “I endure because I cannot leave.  I am steadfast because I cannot move.  I am changeless because I am lifeless.  But beautiful?  Yes, I am beautiful.  Each day, though, tiny portions of me blow away into the wind like grains of sand, and one day I will be no more.  It is true that you will be long gone by then, but there will be more of ‘you’ around.  There will be no more of me.  When I am gone, I am gone.  And all that I may have stood for will be gone.  But all that you have stood for will still be here because you will have passed it on.  I cannot do that.”

I hadn’t thought of it that way.  For all my imperfections, for all my mistakes and foolishness, for all my aches and pains and obviously human limitations, I was strong in the eyes of the mountain.  My flesh, which seemed so weak a minute ago, felt supple and sure.  I could get up and go anywhere I wanted.  I could do anything I wanted.  I could set the wheels in motion for things to occur long after I was gone.  I could move mountains.

“I have to leave now,” I said, “but I’ll be back next week.”

“I wish you wouldn’t come back,” he said.

“But you know I will.”

“Yes, I know you will.”

“We could be friends,” I offered.

“I am stone, and stone is strength, not love.”

“You’ll get used to me.  You’ll see.  I’ll be here.”

“So will I,” he said sadly.

September 7, 2019 - Roots

You have heard it said that the strength of a tree lies in its roots and not its branches, and this is quite true.  For if we cut off the branches, the tree will still live.  Eventually it will sprout new branches and twigs and leaves.  But if we cut out the roots, then the tree dies and the branches and leaves along with it.  Everything then dies because the life is in the roots.  It has always been in the roots, but it is easy to forget that when you see the hypnotic swaying of the green leaves, the graceful bowing of the svelte branches.  It is so easy to get caught up in the dance. 

What, then, are the branches if they are not the life of the tree?  One can argue that the green leaves perform photosynthesis which brings the sun down into the roots of the tree, turning the energy of the sun into the tree.  But I believe that while the sun is drawn down into the tree, the tree itself behaves more like a conduit than a receiver.  After taking a small amount of energy, it is the Earth that is the receiver with the tree being merely a channel.

What, then, are the branches?  They are the final form, the manifestation, the concretization of the unseen into the seen.  The roots reach deep into the Earth, down into the world of minerals.  We are told that the mineral world contains no life, with the classic definition of life given to us by scientists as the ability to grow, metabolize, respond, adapt, and reproduce.  The mineral world, they tell us, is lifeless and structured crystals.

Yet the roots of all plant bodies reach into this mineral world of perfect, lifeless, highly organized form and draw the minerals up into the plant.  What was lifeless becomes life.  What was dead becomes alive.  Now the minerals become the body, and the body is the final form.

But the body dies.  It always dies.  The purpose of the body is not life but death.  Life is pulled from the unseen into the seen, it is poured into the form, and its destruction is an imminent law from which no living thing can escape.  So the branches of the tree, and especially the leaves (which are a micro version of the branches) become the eventual expression of death, while the roots are the source of life.

“You are wrong!  It is the other way around!” you say.  But I tell you, it is not.  Anything that fits the definition of “life” given to us by our so-called noble scientists is, in fact, doomed to die, to expire, to be no more.  But that which is hidden, unseen, unmanifest, and in perfect, structured, crystallized character, that is what gives life.  The trees, the plants, the animals, and the people are the final form, the final manifestation of the unseen into the seen, and as such, they are doomed to die with the process of death starting from the first day of birth.

Yet all around the tree the leaves fall, and then the branches, and then the animals and people.  The Great Alchemist receives His highly structured crystals back, which we had only borrowed to begin with.  Down into the world of darkness, dampness, and crystalline beauty we all go, back to the beginning.  The seen becomes the unseen again.

The life is in the roots of the tree, and as a parallel, it is also in the roots of the people.  Those who currently walk the Earth draw upon the unseen roots of those who went before them, pulling up the structured minerals of civilization and manifesting them in the present society.  But to those ancestral roots they will eventually return.  Man is the final form of the unseen.  He is the manifestation of his roots, fed by his hidden ancestry.

Some say that death is just a dream, but they forget the simple childhood song:  “Row, row, row your boat gently down the stream.  Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream.”  Every child knows this, and to every child (the fresh sprout newly born from the unseen) it makes perfect sense.

Life is but a dream.  He with ears, let him hear.

September 1, 2019 - Of Rabbit Holes and Wizards

We live in an interesting age, an age filled with more information and disinformation than ever before, or so we are told.  It’s hard to know which is which and who is who.  A phrase I constantly hear is, “Oh, the rabbit hole is deep on that one . . .” in reference to any sticky situation, most especially in regard to the political climate, which seems to presently be in a rabid state.  This is not a political blog, so we will not discuss politics here.  We will, however, discuss rabbit holes.

A real rabbit hole, or a “warren” as it is known, is a very elaborate and seemingly endless branching tunnel underground connecting different rabbit burrows and often more tunnels.  It is a vast network, a labyrinth that the rabbits understand very well because they built it, but which completely mystifies and stymies mankind because we are not rabbits and we do not think like them.  Perhaps we could take a lesson.

A “rabbit hole” as used in today’s popular vernacular is (or appears to be) a secret entrance to a vast network of hidden information for which one must dig deeper and deeper.  Rabbit holes can be interesting and fun, and they can oftentimes provide information or at least entertainment.  They also have a knack for providing disinformation as well, all wrapped up in a pretty bow with the actual information.  If you consume one, you often consume the other.  The builders of the rabbit hole have designed it this way on purpose.

As implied, you can go further and further down the rabbit hole.  The more you dig, the more interesting and often more bizarre information you will find.  Some of it is true; some of it is not.  There are also connecting tunnels to other rabbit holes.  Sometimes you can go further and further until you cannot remember which rabbit hole you entered in the first place.  Each piece of information is designed to lead you to the next piece, like the crumbs of Hansel from the Hansel and Gretel fairytale.  And if you do come to the end of the rabbit hole, which doesn’t happen often, you find that the delicious pieces you have gleaned are often ambiguous and curtly dead-ended. . . so down another rabbit hole you go.

It is all so enticing because, as I said, there is real and true information available, but it is so hard to decide which is which.  To make things more interesting, you will find a wizard in every rabbit hole.  He or she guards a great deal of information, but like the Wizard of Oz, he cannot give you anything that you do not already possess.  You can think of the wizard as one who illuminates things.  If he is a good wizard, he will illuminate what you already know—he will lead you to remembrance.  If he is a bad wizard, he will douse the light and cast enticing shadows down sumptuous tunnels that will lead nowhere but will sap a great deal of your time and energy in the process of navigating them.

For those of you who are uncomfortable with the idea of a “wizard,” let me put it in simpler terms.  The wizard is like a Maine guide—those hardy, very strong, and cunning men (and a few women) in Maine who know the backwoods like the back of their hands.  You can hire them to take you on an exploration through the woods that you will never forget—a trip of a lifetime.  However, the Maine guide can only show you the vast network of the woods.  He cannot tell you how to think or feel about it, how to enjoy it, and what you should get out of the experience.  He can only illuminate the way through a woods that is and always has been your primal inheritance.

The Wizard of Oz could not give the scarecrow a brain, the tinman a heart, the cowardly lion courage, or Dorothy an appreciation for home.  He could only illuminate what already existed within each of the travelers walking down the Yellow Brick Road as they opened their souls to one another.  Their selfless actions led them to display that which they thought they did not possess, and the wizard showed them the truth of the matter.  And he also showed them that not only did they already possess what they were looking for, but the place in which they were looking ought to have been their own minds and hearts and not some pot of gold at the end of a rainbow.

Was he a good wizard or a bad wizard?  Well, he was good in that he helped them to see what was hidden but in plain sight.  He was bad in that he rushed them out of Oz as quickly as he could before they had time to think about why he said, “Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain.”  Pay no attention to the wizard.  He is a figment of your imagination.  Now here is your prize, your compensation, your costly gift.  Behave and be good and forget what you have learned, and all will be well, he says.

Always remember this:  The wizard is not Oz.  He is the wizard OF.  And what shall we say about Oz itself?  What, indeed.

In our search for knowledge, how can we know which is which and who is who?  A few guiding thoughts: 

1.  Always ask, who benefits?

2.  Nature never breaks Her own laws.

3.  Energy is the currency of the Universe, and patterns are the guides.

So if you find yourself tumbling down yet another confusing rabbit hole deliberately filled with scintillating information and disinformation designed to enthrall and hypnotize you, or if you are already helplessly lost within such a rabbit hole, remember the Illuminator.  Not only do you already possess what you are looking for, but you also possess the Light that shows the way.  Any other Light by any other wizard pales in comparison.

August 25, 2019 - A Bushel of Dirt

The road was long today.  I knew a short break would help to make a difference, so I stopped and made a small fire to cook a couple of sausages I had brought with me.  It’s a fairly primitive affair that includes a very small fire—just enough to cook—and some meat on a whittled stick.  Pans and utensils would simply be too heavy to carry, and water already weighs too much.  Resting for a while and setting the burden down temporarily always helps, as long as I don’t rest too long.

Ashes to ashes.

So I gathered some wood, really just some twigs since it wasn’t going to be a big fire at all, and I got down to business.  I’ve done this more times than I can count, and so my mind gets to wandering . . . and I don’t always pay attention at such times.  Well, my hands were dirty from sweat, gathering the wood, and then starting the fire.  Not to mention greasy sausages.  I figured I’d just clean up with some water afterward, and then I burnt my thumb on a seared sausage from sheer carelessness.  That, and I was so hungry I couldn’t wait for things to cool down.

Out of reflex, I immediately placed my dirty thumb in my mouth, and as I said I was so darn hungry that the dirt tasted pretty good to me, probably due to the grease.  I could not have cared less about the dirt and ash.  They were like seasoning.  Well, I had to laugh my head off about that.  And just then a memory was jarred, as often happens at such times.  I remembered my father telling me when I was very young, “Ya gotta eat a bushel of dirt before ya die.”  He always said that.  “Ya gotta eat a bushel of dirt before ya die.”

He was a hard man, a very hard man, who died young when I was very young myself.  He lived through a few wars, both in the outside world and inside his mind, and he was usually pretty distant.  He didn’t talk much and he wasn’t around much, and my memories of him are not pristine and perfect.  But every now and then, I still think of him.

I finished up the sausages and put out the fire.  I used some water to rinse my hands and face off, and my wet bandana told a tale of someone who could have used a bit of soap just then.  No matter.  I had places to go and things to do.  I grabbed my pack, slung it over my shoulders, and tightened the straps.  I put on my hat and started walking.  “I’m working on that bushel, Dad,” I said, “I just hope I haven’t filled it up all the way yet.”

August 18, 2019 - A is for Attention

“Attention!  Attention!  May I have your attention?!”

I looked around to see who was talking, but no one was there.

“Attention!  Attention!”

And again, no one was there.

“A is for attention!" boomed the voice.

And there it was on the ground.  The tree roots had formed a very large and perfect “A,” well, as perfect as tree roots can form letters, anyway.

Tree alphabet.

“A is for attention, for choosing an item or a task or an idea and focusing on it,” said the tree.

“You have my attention,” I answered.

“Good, see that it continues.  Do not allow yourself to be easily distracted with those flashing screens and silly devices most human carry.”

“A is also for awareness,” he said, “for being in tune with your environment and not missing important details.”

“I am always aware.”

“Are you?” the tree asked.  “How is it, then, that I had to yell for your attention?”

He didn’t wait for my answer, which is okay because I didn’t have one anyway, probably because a bee would not stop buzzing in my ear.

“A is for ability, for honing and working hard at your skills and then confidently using them with authority and grace.”

“I have worked very hard at my skills,” I said, becoming a bit perturbed.

“Work harder at your listening skills.”  Buzz went the bee again in my ear.

“A is for altruism, for being kind to and concerned about others, regardless of what they can or cannot do for you,” he said.

“I do my best to be kind, but sometimes people see that as a weakness and try to take advantage of me,” I offered.

“Of course, they do.  That is part of human nature for some, but it means that you are astute.  A is for astuteness, for accurately assessing the intentions of others and using that to your benefit.”

Buzz said the bee.

“A is for admirable, for behaving in a manner that is upright and decent and thereby earning the respect and approval of others.”

“I do my best to follow my own moral code,” I said.
“See to it that you never waiver,” he said, “because once you do, you fall in the eyes of others and then in your own eyes as well.  Once lost, honor is hard to regain.”  Buzz.

“A is for ardent, the ability to be intensely fervent about a cause, about your beliefs,” he bellowed.  “For without passion we have nothing.  Without wholehearted dedication and loyalty, we drift in a sea of mediocrity and unfeeling selfishness.”

“I am strong in my convictions,” I said almost angrily.

“I believe you.  See to it that you do not surrender.  Never give in to exhaustion or fear or manipulation.”  Buzz said the bee, as I swatted him impatiently.

“A is for authenticity,” he said almost menacingly as one of his roots tapped me on the foot.  “See to it that you remain true to your ideals and yourself even in the face of mockery and pain and humiliation.  Should a thousand warriors come up against you, stand your ground and remain true to who you are, even if you take it to the grave that very day.”

Powerful words, I thought to myself.  But yes, I must remain authentic.  Anything else would be the unrelieved awfulness of mediocrity and self-serving vanity.

“Yes!” I yelled.  “I am and will remain authentic!”  I surprised myself a bit with my sudden outburst, but the tree seemed pleased.  Buzz, buzz, said the bee.

“You may go,” he said dismissively.

“That’s it?  We’re done now?!”

“I haven’t got all day.  It is time for the next act.”

“Well what about ‘B,’” I asked.

“What about it?  Ask him yourself.  I must bid you adieu.”

“Buzz,” said the bee.  It was then I realized it was going to be a very long hike, indeed.  I tightened the straps on my pack, and the bee buzzed along with me on my journey.

August 7, 2019 - The Silver Maple

The Silver Maple puts his wealth on display for all to see.  “Look at me!  Look at me!  Come and see my endless silver!” he yells to passersby.  Indeed, his silver gleams in the sun like the secret hoard of a great dragon.  And who is to say whether it is or is not?  Maybe it really is the secret hoard of a great dragon.  Perhaps the Silver Maple was not even silver at one time . . . yes, of course, that must be it . . . I am quite sure of it now . . .

Once upon a time there was a tiny and very ordinary little tree.  He lived among giants and felt very small, indeed.  There were the magnificent prickly pines, gruff and imposing, rude and arrogant as pines always are, you must know.  There were the powerful masculine oaks, towering and frightening in their majesty, protective in their bounty and strength, for which oaks are famous, but surely you know that as well. 

The silver underside of the silver maple leaves.

There were the whimsical weeping willows, dragging their long tresses upon the ground.  There were the industrious birches, whose bark was made into canoes and baskets and packs.  There were the lush elms, under whose gracious bows weary travelers would take their rest.  There were the impressive chestnut trees, filled with bounty for all the creatures of the forest.  And even the pretty sugar maple girls had their brilliant colors of scarlet and fiery orange in the Fall.

But the tiny and very ordinary tree had nothing.  He was not special and he was not beautiful.  Oh, he was green, and that is nice enough, but even the meadow can boast various shades of deep or dusky or brilliant green.  So even in that, he was not unique.  But how he longed to be a special tree!  And one day . . . he got his chance.

On a particular day that would most certainly go down in history, there was a terrible storm unlike any storm the trees of the forest had ever seen.  It started with rolling thunder far off, rumbling and threatening.  Then the soaking rain began, cold and torrential.  Of course, they had seen dangerous storms before.  However, this one was different because it brought fire with the rain, and when that happened they knew something wicked was coming.

And as quickly as form follows thought, that wickedness did come in the form of the old dragon Sølv, a dragon that most of the trees had believed was only a legend because it had been so long since anyone had seen him.  Sølv was as wicked as ever, and he had come for more treasure.  But the world had changed in his absence, and he could not find any gold or silver or jewels.  Those things were now the province of men and not the trees.  Enraged, he decided he would take whatever was precious to each tree, and then he would burn the forest to the ground.

So the battle raged, and one by one the trees surrendered to Sølv because they were no match for his strength and fiery breath.  The pines gave their precious resin, the willows their beautiful hair, the birches their flexible bark, the elms their deep silence, and the chestnuts their bountiful food.  Even the mighty oaks, who held out the longest, eventually bowed their heads in defeat and gave their strength.  And, of course, you know that greedy old Sølv took every single thing the trees had, but that was not enough.  He then began his raging fires.

There was turmoil and panic and death . . .  Inside the tiny and very ordinary little tree, who had been overlooked because he was so drab and useless, a great willing was felt.  From the depths of his being he cried out for help while running toward Sølv in a last-ditch effort to save the kingly oaks.  His scream was a deafening clap of thunder that even turned the head of Sølv.

Now, at that very moment in Bilskirnir, where dwells the God Thor, dinner was about to be served.  But a most terrible clap of thunder was heard throughout the halls.  This vexed Thor grievously because thunder was His territory and His alone.  Quick as flash, He grabbed His bone-crushing hammer, Mjöllnir, and jumped into His chariot.  He would find the creator of the thunder, and what would happen then . . . He tightened his fist around Mjöllnir.  His two goats, Tanngrisnir and Tanngnjóstr, flew through the dark night, pulling the chariot wildly behind them.

Within moments they came to the forest, where Sølv had just turned around and found the tiny and very ordinary little tree who had produced the tremendous thundering roar.  He laughed when he saw the little tree, and he opened his mouth wide to swallow it whole.  The tiny tree trembled and fell to his knees, while the other trees stared in confusion and wonder. 

And Sølv just might have eaten that little tree in one small bite, but he found Thor’s Mjöllnir in his mouth instead.  Now Thor was angry, very angry indeed, for you see, the old mighty oak trees are His favorite trees of all.  Seeing them with their proud heads bowed enraged the old God.  He swung Mjöllnir with all the strength of a God and smashed Sølv’s face with one quick blow.  With another blow of Mjöllnir, He smashed the dragon’s armored body and rendered the old worm into pieces.

Well, as you probably know, it is not easy to calm a God down once He is angry, but when the dragon’s body fell to pieces, out of it came all of the treasure he had been hoarding.  This was why no one had ever been able to find his treasure before.  He had kept it hidden inside himself all these hundreds of years.  Spilling onto the ground now were thousands of pieces of gold, silver, and precious jewels.  Even Thor stepped back in awe at the treasure.

Then He laughed with delight!  At last, Sølv’s treasure was His!  He took all of the gold and silver and jewels and put them into His chariot.  Then He looked around at all the trees and demanded to know who among them had created the terrible clap of thunder.  The trees all looked askance and bowed their heads as Thor waived Mjöllnir menacingly.

And then a tiny sound was heard, and through the crowd came the tiny and very ordinary little tree.  He was trembling and fell upon the ground and begged Thor for forgiveness.  When Thor saw the tiny tree, He had to laugh in spite of Himself, although He tried to remain fierce to save face.  He pulled the tree up on to his feet and asked him to hold Mjöllnir while He went to His chariot.  Well, you can imagine the surprise of all the other trees who stared in disbelief at this, while the tiny tree himself thought he might die just from the sheer weight of Mjöllnir.

When Thor came back from His chariot, He was carrying a huge amount of silver.  He took Mjöllnir back from the trembling little tree, and then He did what only a God can do.  He joined the tree with the great heap of silver, and the tree grew tall and beautiful and was coated with shimmering, exotic silver.  The other trees gazed in amazement, and even Thor was impressed with the little tree.  He winked at the tree and said, “No more thunder for you, little one.”  Then He laughed and jumped into His chariot, and Tanngrisnir and Tanngnjóstr flew off in a flash into the night.

Well, you can just picture the shock and disbelief of the other trees.  Each of them congratulated the little tree, and they were all more than a little embarrassed that they had never even noticed him before.  Of course, they would certainly notice him now with all of that beautiful, shimmering, exotic silver on his leaves.  Even the bristly old pine trees congratulated the Silver Maple, although in their hearts they were desperately jealous.  But that is how pine trees are, as you must surely know.

And now you also know the story of how the Silver Maple got his silver.

August 4, 2019 - The Golden King

THE GOLDEN KING

The Golden King

bows His head in fiery defiance

giving way to the Darkness, slowly

ever creeping

giving ground to the Veil

ever increasing

surrendering to the Underworld

that which was only borrowed

(some say stolen)

His reign descending

careening toward the Winter

yet again, and always

trapped in frozen tendrils

and sparkling ice

weeping golden tears

painted on the clouds

and hunted by the Shadow