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Dear Yesterday,
It’s not as if I have forgotten you. Without you, I would have nothing on which to stand when I reach for Tomorrow. I truly appreciate the effort and sacrifice that was made for you to be available to me.
You have done your job well. Thanks to you, Today is much better… and Tomorrow promises to be better still. What you have taught me makes each day and my way more progressive.
You would think less of me if I did not focus on what you taught. You would be disappointed in me if I missed a marvel you promised while in reverie of our good times. It is in your honor that I enjoy Today… and gratitude for you that I anticipate Tomorrow.
I may contact you less… but it only means I love you more… because you made my path so full and marvelous. You know you will not change and will always be in me… but I will change Today to honor your memory Tomorrow.
Good Thoughts,
Greyspirit
Today i found something i knew was lost... and with it i found things i did not know were lost. It is a very emotional and spiritual experience for me... so i will give only the facts.
Opal is a wise woman of the Cherokee Nations who adopted me decades ago because i defended her son.
She gave me a family name and a beaded neckpiece to show who i was. I asked her if that made me officially Cherokee. She said i was Alltribe... and Anach Bemossed translates as Starwalker.
It was at a time in history when no one wanted to be caucasian and many claimed to be part of a red family, or some other minority, but were not. I knew of no heritage that gave me indian blood... and did not want to be identified with the wannabees... so i often did not share my spirit either.
When Opal stepped beyond... the neckpiece broke... and all my efforts to repair it failed. I put it away to protect and keep all the beads and parts of the neckpiece... but it has been over a quarter century.
Recently, i have been guided to the tribes again. I was guided to a flute player with both blood and spirit. A flutemaker came into my life as well... and other representatives of the original American culture. A flute, a friend, a voice known as 2birds joined me. It brought me a source of strength in spirit... but my spirit still had leaks.
Today, the neckpiece found me again... and a vision of how to repair it. I am wearing it now... and 2birds seems to have found a sweet new song.
I am no longer compelled to challenge any wannabees... for even they are Alltribe, too.
The Republic (for which it stands) is founded on “Rule of Law”. Rule of law is also the foundation for monarchies, theocracies and dictatorships.
Democracy is the concept that “Majority Rules”. Majority rule is also the foundation for lynch mobs and the terror each child faces who is recognized as different in some way from his peers.
A pure democracy is likely to implode because the majority demographics are constantly changing… so instability is guaranteed.
A pure republic is limited by the wisdom of the archy but provides some stability with its semi-permanence.
Our founding fathers developed a Demopublic… in which the majority chooses the rules to which we adhere for stability… and everyone can voice their opinion. Each of us is given credit for the ability to look at the information and come to a logical conclusion as to the best choice for a rule or ruler.
Political discussion would be expected to be a sharing of information in search of a decision in keeping with the best interests of the future of the Demopublic. A brief excursion into that arena reveals, instead… a very emotional, unyielding quarrel about the impact on the present… or past.
Could it be that not everyone has an opinion… and simply accept someone else’s rather than pursue the data and a valid conclusion? Just think… if you could sell your opinion to enough people too busy to think for themselves… you could be the majority. Now all you need is a media network and you could rule the world.
Are we as willing to think for freedom as we are to fight for freedom?
To be, or not to be is out of the question. I be… so not to be is no longer a choice. To be is one of the many gifts I’m given… among them, too, is time.
In my time so far, I’ve been given many gems of moment… jewels to perceive and embrace. Some still sparkle in my sight… some are no longer in reach… but each exists in one or more of the many glorious moments I have been given.
If a thing can be conceived, it can be. I was conceived, therefore I can be. What I conceive can be as well. If it only exists in my time… it will be in time as I am. If it exists in the time gift of another… it may always be.
I thanked the peaceful slumber as it retreated… there had been times when I could have no slumber.
I thanked the growing light that had chased it… the birth of a whole new day… even though I had never gone sleep-to-sleep without one.
A delicious shiver smiled through me… as my body began its automatic isometrics to stir what flows in me… and I thanked it.
I thanked the faint smell that twitched my nostrils with the invitation to come closer. I thanked the familiar tunnel that guided me leisurely to the exit.
As I neared the top of the shaft… the smell became stronger, the light became stronger, and I became stronger. I thanked stronger.
I emerged and thanked the bright spot as I immersed and reveled in its warmth.
I thanked the green shelter above me and I thanked the food nearby. The food thanked me for giving it purpose… and then thanked something else.
I rolled over and closed my eyes against the bright source in the blue beyond. Perhaps that was what it was the food had thanked.
I thanked it also.
It started out innocently enough. I began to think at parties now and then to loosen up. Inevitably though, one thought led to another, and soon I was more than just a social thinker. I began to think alone - "to relax," I told myself - but I knew it wasn't true.
Thinking became more and more important to me, and finally I was thinking all the time. I began to think on the job. I knew that thinking and employment don't mix, but I couldn't stop myself. I began to avoid friends at lunchtime so I could read Thoreau and Kafka. I would return to the office dizzied and confused, asking, "What is it exactly we are doing here?"
Things weren't going so great at home either. One evening I had turned off the TV and asked my wife about the meaning of life. She spent that night at her mother's.
I soon had a reputation as a heavy thinker. One day the boss called me in. He said, "I like you, and it hurts me to say this, but your thinking has become a real problem. If you don't stop thinking on the job, you'll have to find another employer." This gave me a lot to think about.
I came home early after my conversation with the boss. "Honey," I confessed, "I've been thinking..."
"I know you've been thinking," she said, "and I want a divorce!"
"But Honey, surely it's not that serious."
"It is serious," she said, lower lip aquiver. "You think as much as college professors, and college professors don't make any money, so if you keep on thinking we won't have any money!"
"That's a faulty syllogism," I said impatiently, and she began to cry.
I'd had enough. "I'm going to the library," I snarled as I stomped out the door.
I headed for the library, in the mood for some Nietzsche, with NPR on the radio. I roared into the parking lot and ran up to the big glass doors... they didn't open.
The library was closed. To this day, I believe that a Higher Power was looking out for me that night.
As I sank to the ground clawing at the unfeeling glass, whimpering for Zarathustra, a poster caught my eye. "Friend, is heavy thinking ruining your life?" it asked. You probably recognize that line. It comes from the standard Thinker's Anonymous poster.
Which is why I am what I am today: a recovering thinker. I never miss a TA meeting. At each meeting we watch a non-educational video; last week it was "Porky's." Then we share experiences about how we avoided thinking since the last meeting.
I still have my job, and things are a lot better at home. Life just seemed... easier, somehow, as soon as I stopped thinking.
Soon, I will be able to vote!
I awaken each day to a choice, which takes form with my focus and voice…
Surrounded by pleasure… and likewise, by pain… rewards beyond measure and challenges again…
Even though I would choose pleasure… neither can be ignored. Pain is opportunity to learn… Pleasure denotes reward.
“Damn the pain!”, I cry in vain… “What evil brings you here?”
“Like the tide, I abide,” it replied, “deep inside… I am yours, I am fear.”
The pain does subside… once the fear has died… and the energy of Healing manifests a better feeling.
Life can now be tasted while no energy is wasted on that which does not exist… again I learn, once more I grow… I persist.
There was the fear I would no longer be here… and all I hold dear would no longer be near…
But should I fear each tomorrow because some will hold sorrow… while the others are miraculous days?
Should I fear today because of what others might say?
Would I be what they wish?
Would I abandon my way?
It has been reported that you have received one or more "bad" days. In the interest of service and quality control, we appreciate your feedback.
Only good days are manufactured and shipped... but some do carry a learning bonus... like the crossword puzzle in your daily paper... it sharpens your talents.
After investigating a large sample of reported "bad" days... it has been discovered that those days contain as much life, beauty, and marvel as the other days.
In all cases so far... the bonus adversity created such a distraction... that the rest of the days marvels were not noticed nor acknowledged.
To redeem your credit for any legitimate "bad" day you were sent, simply remove any pain, desire, expectation, and any other extra bonus... and indicate which remaining quality... such as life, beauty, and marvel... was unsatisfactory.
If the bonus features you received detract from the quality of your day... simply ignore them.
If you did not receive your day at all... please disregard this... you are on a different list.
The skills that serve our survival and success are simple.
First, we “read” each moment as it presents itself… becoming aware of all the opportunity and adversity it contains… as all moments do.
We notice what makes us vulnerable to opportunity… and open to it as much as we can.
We are also aware of the adversity and know something is not right.
Righting is the second step. We use our wisdom to determine what is out of balance and needs correcting… and we use our ability to correct it.
Of course, since we have little control over any imbalance but our own… our efforts are mainly to correct our own steps or attitude.
An objective view is as necessary as awareness in correcting a misstep or imbalance… but our objectivity is often inhibited by fear and anger.
Wrathmatics is the logic skill of controlling the wrath of rage and insecurity… to allow a more practical and objective decision.
No one can make us angry or afraid unless we give them that power.
The highway overpass rose high above me as I stood behind the warehouse below. I couldn’t see the traffic up there but the noise washed over me in waves as the stoplights created crests and valleys in the flow of vehicles during noon rush hour.
My lunch break was short… so I grabbed a couple of the junked and broken pallets by the dumpster and trudged toward the overpass.
My friend fed the wooden refuse into his fire while I admired his spacious home. The floor rose gradually to meet the majestic ceiling, nearly 40 feet above us… creating levels of different environment. The wide highway roof was open on both sides… but its expanse was great. Even the most severe weather still left spots of shelter among the supports. The large flat area at the bottom fell into a drainage creek… which spawned the overpass in the first place. The runoff was always either fresh water or no water at all.
“Folks told me I could be whatever I wanted to be…” he said as he prodded the hot coals. He looked at me and smiled with his whole face… “but it took me a while to get here.” I sat down on the plastic crate I had brought him previously. He sat back on its twin and continued…
“When someone told me that… I didn’t understand they meant I could be anyone they would have me be. I was told I could be someone who has enough money. So, I got enough money… and they said I should have more.”
He looked at me curiously and asked… “Why should I want more than enough?”
“I was told I should have a companion… but to have a companion you must be one. You can’t just be a companion… you must be the companion… measured by a partner’s image.” His voice trailed and I could see him retreating into his private world. I spoke to bring him back…
“What about the danger?” I asked, “Your protection is mostly from the weather.”
“The danger is not mine…” he mumbled. He gathered himself and took a breath. “If I don’t feed a conflict, it doesn’t belong here. If someone has a conflict, they brought it as a burden from somewhere else. It causes them to be unbalanced and shift their weight from one leg to the other… they are unstable in those moments. I stand firm and balanced on two legs… who do you think will topple quickest?”
I was concerned with his naiveté as I looked around at his open and vulnerable lifestyle. “… but what if someone is bigger, or meaner, or a crazed drug addict, or…”
“Threat comes from fear,” he interrupted, “I am neither. I will only be fear if that is all they can see.”
“But what if they have a weapon?” I insisted.
He seemed to ignore me as he stirred the fire… then he looked straight at me. His normally warm friendly eyes pierced me with an icy stare. I had no doubt he was sincere when he said…
“I’m sure I can figure out how to use it.”
My first wish was to be Hugh Hefner, an icon of the day. I began to form an image in the fog that surrounded me.
When the fog lifted… I was a huge heifer in Texas, wearing a smoking jacket. I blamed my slight speech impediment. I spit out the pipe and, knowing I had two wishes left, quickly mooed….”I would be the biggest stud in America.”
When the fog lifted I was an integral part of a giant snow tire in Montana. I only had one wish left… I decided not to challenge fate again.
I would be who I was, where I was best suited to be, wearing what I deserved to wear, doing what I was qualified to do, accepting the challenges my decisions attracted, and the rewards that befell me… whether I deserved them or not.
… And that’s how I became a naked hillbilly ditch digger in the wilderness of the Ozarks. It was not something I would have thought to wish for… but I have sympathy for those who must be something else.
The journey is long, the path is winding…
There is Life in the seeking, but a death in the finding…
If only that the quest will cease when you stand on victory’s ground.
The riddles then have all been solved. The answers have been found.
We quickly heal from the blows we felt…
More slowly from the ones we dealt…
We have the treasure for which we fought…
And it’s more precious than the one we sought.
Yet, I’m still here, so there must be a task…
Opening doors for any who ask?
Will I catch the wind to help my brother?
Is adversity what I will bring to another?
Some may draw near to the light of my spark…
Others show fear that I can walk in the dark.
It was hot and I was very thirsty. I hid in the foliage and watched the water. I knew I could make it there and back with no effort… unless my return was delayed by claws and jaws.
The great cat crouched over the pool… lapping and watching. No sound was heard. No creature stirred… nor did I.
The large animal suddenly disappeared. I waited until smaller critters had successfully crept to the water and left unharmed.
My thirst was greater than my patience. I hastened to the edge of the pool and looked around. There was no obvious threat. I tasted the water.
The pool was clear and cool and inviting… I threw fear to the wind and threw myself into the refreshing oasis.
My feet thanked me when I hopped from the edge of the shallow clear glass bowl into the soothing water. I could feel the pressure on my underfeathers as the water sought to soothe me.
I shivered and ruffled and allowed the moisture in. Using my wings, I splashed and bathed and rinsed away the hot dust.
I perched on the edge of the bowl for a final shiver… and did a cat scan to make sure it wasn’t really final.
The wind was clean and cool beneath my feathers when I flew without the dust.
I glistened in the sunlight and slid keenly through my task.
My function was a source of pride.
My purpose? … I didn’t ask…
Until the day the parted way resisted what I insisted… I felt a sad.
But my substance was solid still… more than the matter I till…
Lack of challenge made the edge go bad.
Then came the stone. I stood alone. Bits of me were ripped away.
My edge returned… and gifts I’d earned… among them is this day
Millions had been spent to perfect the Lunar Rover. It faced a harsh mistress with no room for error. Each cast of the die could prove literal.
We were already awestruck by the eerie green glow that fluoresced on everything like a giant black light... Then we topped the rise.
We were on the lip of what had once been a giant crater... until dust and boulders filled the bowl. The pockmarked plain below us, miles wide, was strewn with lava rocks and sculptures.
The flickering light on the chartreuse plateau created moving shadows... animating the sculptures and everything else on the floor of the crater.
We steered the little vehicle along the lava flows among the boulders. We disembarked at the bottom of the ridge. Even on foot, it was difficult to move through the fine emerald powder sparkling around us.
We each found a clear spot among the rocks and fell flat on our backs. We waved our arms and legs and made "snow angels" in the green drifts.
The black sky directly above us seemed to have been rent with a rip... revealing a glowing green substance that we don't normally see. The rip continued to heal and tear and undulate back and forth across the darkness like a writhing eel.
The hypnotic effect was relaxing... but dizzying. We climbed aboard and our vehicle returned us to the top of the ridge.
We stopped to drink in the panorama again. The lunar rover proved itself in the Icelandic lava fields to train for its successful mission. The lunar-looking landscape showed the challenges it faced.
The aurora above us showed its dance in many more colors to those farther south... but it only bared its soul in Verde chrome to those directly beneath it.
The snow angels below did not move... but the flickering shadows around their wings let them fly.
We climbed back into my 1969 Datsun station wagon and worked our way through the lava fields back to the base in Keflavik.
"Too bad NASA didn't have one of these..." I thought. It only cost me 25 hundred dollars brand-new off the showroom floor ! :)
Anach smiled at the moon shadows. The angle of the brilliant ball above made he and pony both appear to have better confirmation. He grinned at the name “Pony”, given to his big paint by a settler. He muttered a phrase in his birth tongue that translates “Pale people need names.”
The lights of the town behind him descended out of sight as he traversed the rise, but Anach did not look back. He had served his tribe and now returned to the bosom of his people. His glee was not a result of leaving the artificial nature of the town… nor was it the familiar social protocol of his village.
He glanced back only long enough to make sure there was no human about… with an enthusiastic whoop he gave the reins to Pony and began unfastening his buckskins. Pony galloped with familiarity and resolve up the slope. The moonlit valley on the other side began to reveal itself as they topped the hill.
Anach inhaled what would have been a tear. Pony slowed to a walk as the full splendor of the moon and meadow shone ahead of them. Laughter again split the night as Anach recalled the name the settlers had given this valley. One of the reasons he felt secure here was the fear of the area that even touched his own people.
The settlers dubbed the area “Magic” meadow… simply because the native name for it sounded like the word “magic” in english. All their fears insured his privacy. He laughed aloud again remembering that the original name meant “Horses Only”.
The terrain created a thick growth of wood and underbrush bordering mostly swamp on the edge of a large stream. No one has ever successfully ridden through it on a horse… but riderless horses seem to find their way to the stream on the other side. Hence the name “Horses Only”. The dense swamp was named “Forbidden Forest” by the settlers, simply because it was in the middle of Magic Meadow. The area was unfriendly to traverse, so the main trail went around the hill out of sight.
The full moon was a rare treat, in that it did not always cooperate with Anach’s lot in town duties. He took it as agreement to his productive labors for his people. The people were not on his mind, however, as he stripped out of the buckskins the town required, and rolled them into his bedroll with the leather loincloth he would wear to his family village. Pony stood still while the hackamore was removed, rolled into the bundle and secured on the tall horses shoulders. A light slap on the hindquarters was simply a signal, and Pony wandered casually away, sniffing for graze.
Anach beamed with joy as he melded into the undergrowth of the forest. The oneness of his experience constantly reinforced by his primal joining with the anarchy of nature. The wilderness accepted him and his passage… only those who follow his path can understand why he emerged from the wood ready to accept any challenge offered by town or family. Opponent to none, but formidable if chosen.
The piercing howl split the night as Anach released the joy that threatened to explode inside him. A quick plunge in the stream washed the swamp off his body and back whence it came. The snort and hot breath at his back told him Pony recognized his cue.
The moon shadows danced on the meadow as the black silhouette of a figure on horseback sailed out of the valley. Two lost travelers watched from the opposite hill. When the apparition disappeared… they looked at each other and fled in the opposite direction, toward town.
Anach had sensed the travelers. He had not stooped so low as to fabricate stories of horror that spread about the area… but his grin belied the pleasure he felt at the opportunity to encourage that misconception. Perhaps his power spot nestled in the feared valley would continue to resist intrusion.
I poked up through the soil... and took a deep breath.
I knew little of life... and nothing of death.
The light flooded me with energy and powered organic machinery...
Converting food and air into an entity... converting it to me.
Solar powered, I flowered and towered and perceived the land at hand..
As i grew i soon knew that yonder was more fertile than where i chanced to stand.
My tendrils could not stretch and learn... and i tried in every season.
I could only live and yearn... perhaps that gave life reason?
It might behoove but i couldn't move... and my pain did make no sound.
I gathered my life into a seed... and journeyed to the ground.
Each seed came closer to what i need... a thousand seasons flew right by.
But now i can bequeath this fertile heath to my progeny and I.
The home of walking oak now spoke of only rose and turtle.
Across the wood from where i stood... it seemed to be more fertile.
If my wishes were only three… I would be done by now. I could be enjoying my choices… or not.
Having unlimited wishes brings a wearisome burden. I have to choose from a plethora of blessings… any of which would be sufficient for the moment.
To make a wish is to make a choice is to accept responsibility… to be at peace with that choice.
Immediately, I wished for health… and was told I had already been granted that. All I had to do was monitor and nurture it.
I might wish for money… but money only buys stuff… it has no other use. Why not just wish for stuff? I have a roomful of stuff using up space I need more.
I might wish for love… but it seems limitless already… and I’ve given much away.
Yesterday may help me decide what Tomorrow’s wish will be… but at the moment I’ll procrastinate and cling to Today.
I won’t be Before-ish or After-ish. I’m content with Nowish.
The princess sat in the glorious sunshine brightening the already opulent balcony overlooking the busy beauty of movement in the street below.
Several songbirds flew happily about and sang from various perches on the castle walls and parapets.
The sun glistened and sparkled on the tear that slid slowly down her face. The shiny trail it left pointed up to her beautiful eye... now vacant with anguish and clouded by misery.
The chirping song that filled the air around her fell on ears turned inward... hearing only the pitiful moans regurgitating from within her.
An old man trudged along the dirty street below. The sparse remainder of his touseled locks glinted white in the bright of the happy sun. The stained teeth he still had were barely whiter than his tanned wrinkled face... though his smile was wide and sincere.
The smile never faded... but occasionally twitched as his eyes winced with pain. He paused and straightened his posture inside the baggy rags that threatened to disintegrate at any moment.
The pain would fade, the eyes would clear, and the smile would broaden. He was so blessed to have such a beautiful and fascinating world to explore. His life had been a treasure of experience... and promised even more.
He glanced at the sky and spotted the beautiful princess sobbing on her splendid balcony. His heart and love went out to her... and he prayed she would someday find happiness and abundance and joy.
He felt overwhelmed with gratitude for his own fortune... but a bittersweet pity for the princess and all the things she did not have.
They taught us most of the predictable rhythms of the earth... and many of the known universe. They taught us the scientific mathematics of Probabilities... which made inconsistent rhythms more predictable.Our task was relatively simple. They would provide us with data on a physical object.... with an origin and destination. All we had to do was tell them what force and orientation the launcher must have to deliver the object.Usually, great distances were involved... but we were also given data on 8 atmospheric layers and anything else that might influence probabilities along the trajectory of the object. Soon, it was almost second nature to "see" the path of the object just by looking at the data. Often, we were called on to find the unintended destination of a lost object by looking at its trajectory and adjacent influences. It occurred to me that we also are objects that have been launched... but with no control over point of origin or launch data. The same physical laws and probability rhythms apply to us as well, though... and with understanding we can control our flight and avoid inclement resistance... but first we must "see" it. Otherwise, we are but projectiles.
Everything that exists in Time… exists by change. The electrons relocate within the atom… Animal and vegetable convert energy to life within their own unique vibrations. Even the minerals shift in the soil as mother mountain moves, however imperceptibly.
When I tune into the natural rhythms around me… I am treated to a symphony… a beautiful orchestration of a familiar soothing melody. Occasionally, a feathered soloist is featured… Sometimes an unseen artist with an audible dance… the instruments seem infinite.
Now and again, a dischord bursts across the stage… accenting the melody by contradiction. The tempo builds, crescendo flares… then silence.
A lone vocal timidly tests the quiet… then each instrument finds its place to resume. Once again, the soothing warmth of the chorus abides… the song plays on.
It is a moving experience of many moods… both harsh and honeyed. It would be less if any verse were missing.
The firelight shifted across his face in red-orange hues… deepening the furrow of his brow as they toasted his warriorness. He turned abruptly and strode away from the ebbing flames of battle. He joined the flickering shadows of the wood… but heard their allegiance to the protection of his wisdom. They could not hear the words in his mind that he could not scream.
“I’m no protector… I have no quarrel, even with those who challenge my right to exist.”
“I’m no warrior… I am only threat to those who would test my ability to exist.”
“I’m but survivor…”
He paused to inspect a likely glade. He had loped for distance last cycle… with an occasional power nap. He sought a natural fortress such as this. There were many niches where a lone survivor might remain hidden from a foe. But he would not be alone…
The next to follow would be those who stood with him in the ashes. Next, perhaps, those who would avenge those ashes. His friends had lingered to toast victory… but he knew the end of battle often had little to do with victory.
Nature had sheared a smooth cliff on the mountain. It overlooked a clearing where the trees feared to grow… intimidated by the random rain of rock. There was much fallen wood about… and he quickly built a fire against the cliffside.
He opened himself to the warmth of the fire… and to the setting sun whose energy would endure in the night through the wood… and to the forest… and all the energies that brought him what he needed when he needed it. He was overwhelmed with gratitude… but unsure where to place it.
He gathered enough fuel to hold the flame hot and long… then skirted the clearing and nested in the growth opposite the fire. He was pleased to see his friends gathering at the edge of clearing. He was concerned that a foe might see them as well.
A silent movement nearby lifted his spirits. Someone had the presence to send scouts. He smiled at their skill as he watched them glide silently by… inches away. He waited and watched past the all clear… past the tentative gathering in the clearing. He didn’t want to know the numbers… but he needed a feel for the traffic of his friends.
Soon it was obvious that more had poured into the glade than could be seen. He recognized the three motivations that prevailed.
There were those that took responsibility for their own survival… they had already disappeared into the available concealments. There were those that followed a presumed protection. They had made a good choice… considering the prowess of their fellows. There were even those who sought him… deluded that his desire to exist was contagious.
He was satisfied that they had every advantage he would seek in a terrain. He moved farther away as the survivors ranged deeper into the wood. Moving away from the campfire, he topped a nearby hill before the moon rose. He could stand unobserved on the peak and take a last look at his friends.
To those that were drawn to their own survival… he sent silent energy to bid them success.
To those that were drawn to follow his survival… he wondered which would he see again.
To those that sought protection… he bid a fond farewell.
We were overwhelmed with compassion… empathy for the misery that pervaded her murky aura. Just the scent of it spread far indeed.
“Why do you have pain?” We inquired in love.
“Because he injured me!” She replied venomously, pointing her accusing finger at the bully. We removed the bully but the misery endured.
“Now why are you in pain?”
“Because I am still injured, and also poor. “ She admitted sadly.
“Why are you poor?”
“Because he has all the money!” She exploded in a tirade against the rich man. We removed the rich man but her countenance did not brighten.
“Now why are you in pain?”
“Because I am still poor, and also he keeps me that way!” She exclaimed, pouring rage towards her employer. We removed the employer but her frown deepened.
“Now why are you in pain?”
“I am poorer still, because his decisions are not mine!” She indicated the politician that chose for all instead of just her. We removed him.
Soon there was only we and she and the pain makes three. She looked at us suspiciously. We learned that some pain cannot be removed… merely replaced. We left.
Time shuddered… reality quaked… creatures tumbled off their feet.
The old one rolled quickly into a stable crouch to challenge any threat. He had not encountered this strangeness before… but he had before encountered strangeness.
No threat appeared. He rose slowly to sniff and listen. The younger ones in the pack saw him standing and crawled into his shadow… seeking shelter in his strength.
The fear did not abate… but after a while it became boring. The pups began to aggravate one another in an effort to shed their fear. Soon they were growling and snapping and wrestling aggressively with each other. The fear was effectively distracted.
The old one melted into the brush and moved up the rise as if he were one of the shadows growing longer in the dusk. He paused at the edge of a clearing to sniff and listen again.
He began to feel more at ease as he noticed reality, and all he required, yet continued. There was still sufficient shelter, food, and darkness to sustain him.
He no longer acknowledged fear… but felt the empathic impact of the fear still alive in the young ones.
He moved into the clearing as Mother Moon parted the clouds and demonstrated once more that she still loved him. He perched on the peak of the hill and sang his song of love and gratitude to her.
Small creatures scurried to shelter from the haunting melody. They clung to their gathered family for security and comfort.
The pups relaxed when they heard the old one’s voice. It meant that all was well and reality unfolds as it should.
Their fear was not gone… but it was less. Some of it no longer belonged to them. It now belonged to the old one and his song.
The crowd knew his name… he was no longer a competitor… he was the champion. The adoring fans stood ready to grant his slightest wish… chanting his new title. The Reign would guarantee, to him and his, lifelong comfort and nobility.
In the arena, the lone figure stood with arms and legs flung wide, his head thrown back as if his triumphant howl could be heard to the moon. He drew in the sweet elixir of oxygen… as deeply and slowly as possible. He was aware of the focus directed toward him by thousands in the arena.
He surveyed the carnage around him. The competition had been an unreal haze… and he an automaton. Now the blood and body parts, of all whose survival skills were less honed, littered the ground. It was impossible to tell what came from a stranger and what came from a brother. He had chosen survival to be the lesser of the evils confronting him. If only he had known how it tasted.
The blood he wore was a badge of honor to those who cheered him… but it only screamed his ignorance on the bloody ground. He was too inept to find a way to survive without taking life. The result of someone else’s bloodlust screamed his failure… not his victory. But the blame was not someone else’s… he did what he did with intent… accepting full responsibility for his failure.
And, like the Phoenix, as he rose from the devastation around him, he drew strength from the pain. He knew he would be denied release, but he still tossed his blade toward the Reign in disgust.
“Too many have sacrificed for this life I possess…” he shouted through the roar of the crowd, “… and I no longer want it.” He glared at the Reign, awaiting the verdict of the thumb… but he already knew he was too politically valuable to be granted a respite now. He longed for the blessing from the archers… knowing it would not come.
The different hues and shades of green in the glade made it seem that no other color existed in the world… nor was it needed. Even the muttering stream that flowed there seemed a shade of green in the reflected light.
My cupped hands scooped up a refreshing drink from the offering flowing by. I turned downstream and relieved the water within me. It joined and became part of the continuous band of moving moisture that inexorably probed every part of the earth’s surface. In my mind I joined and honored the never-ending journey.
The sun’s warmth lifted us from the sea… to ride the solar currents and join again aloft to become cloud. Eden glistens like a blue-green jewel revolving majestically below. Tiny bits of her join us as dust takes flight. We each try to capture a piece.
All the structures of the surface rush toward us as we each cling to a falling entity… Our passing caress leaves the structures gleaming when light approaches. We join and continue the journey, rushing downhill to again become streams, rivers, lakes, oceans…
The stream of brothers in my flow meandered through a glade. Ahead of us was water-with-shape… a thin substance contained the water and allowed the form of cupped hands to scoop us up to become part of it… once again.
Q: Who is Grey?
A: That cannot be answered in black and white.
Q: Are you human?
A: I am human... but I am not just human only.
Q: Do you believe in God?
A: Yes... but my strength is that God believes in me.
Q: Are you concerned with Afterlife?
A: No, that is in the hands of One who loves me more than I can love myself.
Q: Do you love Jesus?
A: Yes, I love Jesus for the wisdom he spoke, which stands on it's own regardless of the speaker, and has brought joy and miracles into my life. I also have a close relationship and love for His Parents.
Q: Do you love others?
A: Yes, I love all others.
Q: Are you a good person or a bad person?
A: Yes
As I drive along the dotted line the harvest moon appears behind the tall pines. The great orange ball climbs rapidly up the star-sprinkled curtain of night. An amber glow colors the countryside and invades my own space through the moonroof of the big truck. The contrasting dashboard lights create the mood of a timeship crossing a golden border between dimensions. The tall, dark silhouettes of the trees stand like stately guards to watch the crossing. Only the swath of headlight beams cut through the orange and black to reveal the reality of the road.
So I clip along the dotted line, a coupon of a piece of time..
A picture postcard I can't send... but the highway doesn't end.
I crawl along the dotted line, urging the huge motor against the heavy load as it struggles up the mountainside. Then atop the hill I see unfolding before me the purple haze that gives Great Smoky Mountains the name. Rising close ahead, and then again farther away, and yet again in the distance with the violet clouds nestled in between each row. The dusk still reveals the curling smokestrings rising from the chimneys of the modest dwellings that dot the mountain. They speak of humble lives in the bosom of great majesty as they join and disappear into the haze itself. The red-orange smear of the sunset paints a counterpoint to the rolling pastures and dark mountain faces.
I clip along the dotted line, and save the image in my mind...
Another picture I can't send... and the highway doesn't end.
The dotted line branches into a desolate rest area on a winter peak in New York State. The floodlights on high poles shine as spotlights on a darkened stage. The thick black night prevails except where the light shows the falling snow blowing in from above and disappearing as it leaves the light. A lone figure stands in one spotlight over a telephone box. He hunches his shoulders against the cold breath of the winter as he makes an obviously necessary call. Other spotlights reveal a small building waiting for someone to shelter. An automobile, loaded with worldly goods and a sleeping family, collects snow on the silent stage. Barely visible in the dark background, stand the naked trees like actors in the next scene, waiting for their cue. A salt truck rumbles by, seasoning the dotted line, making it more appealing to the stranded travelers trying to get off the mountain as the drifts begin to grow.
I clip along the dotted line, the scene I hoped I wouldn't find...
a postcard I don't want to send... and the highway doesn't end.
I zip along the dotted line and Pennsylvania rolls away beneath my wheels as I cross the deep river gorge on a bridge high in the air. The white cotton clouds in the azure sky create dark shadow animals that undulate along the rolling peaks as they slither by on the hillside. The huge expanse of green pasture blanket sparkles here and there with patches of early snow and whitewashed villages flung against the mountainside. Amidst the crimson colors of fall in the forest one tree flaunts its incongruous yellow plumage in the bright sun.
I cut along the dotted line, as the panorama does unwind...
the postcard view I can not send... And the highway doesn't end.
The Grey Rose
The garden grew and burst forth in color. Even the sun worshipped the beauty and beamed light to reveal the vivid image.
A smaller plant grew in the middle of that beauty, confined to shadows beneath the blossoms, becoming hardy by anticipating the march of the sunbeams, strategically arranging the roots to find food and foundation, weaving amongst the other plants so as not to contend.
Barely a weed, but barely awake.
Even at full height, the grey rose drew attention only by contrast to the others. It was not as vivid… having no particular color. It did not smell as enticing… inviting no one to pluck it. It’s blossoms were less bold… yet, it still had thorns.
The plants grew and time flew and many went away. Several ducked but some were plucked… the bargain of the day.
Each pass of the sun revealed the wilting plants, save one. It absorbed most light instead of reflecting it. It’s inner core was balanced and well founded. It’s demands were few but it still received the same amount of sun as the others. It’s roots were deep, so it had access to more nourishment and support than others.
The grey rose became impressive only as it stood alone. There were none to challenge… none to witness… the garden was its throne.
