Wandering Down the Path

I stand at the beginning of the path. The yellow brick road turned green and muddy. What will I find? I hear frogs already. It’s only March. But the warm sun suggests otherwise.

Everything is so bare. The trees, the field grass. I know its bubbling beneath the surface. It has more patience than me. Spring can’t be far if I hear the mourning dove’s song. Or the wikka wee of the red winged blackbird.

I have lived 64 years upon this Earth. I only hope for 64 more.

There is a convention going on in the trees across the field. The tweeting of the birds mix and meld into one gorgeous wake up call. It almost sounds as if they’re all in that one tall pine tree.

No sleep for a while, dear tree.

What was once a cornfield is now a young woods. It’s amazing how quickly Mother Nature takes back her own. It was her world first, anyway. I’m always looking for wildlife as I walk the trails around my house. The frogs don’t count. I do see tons of deer tracks in the mushy ground, though.

That’s a good sign.

No llamas next door today. I dare hope they weren’t sold for human consumption. The world is what it is, though. I’ll keep positive thoughts.

The trees have stayed smart. They’re not budding yet. Once the sun sets and rises, though, that may be a different story. Time moves so differently here. Oh dear — I was mistaken. Certain trees and/or bushes just can’t help themselves.

I don’t blame them.

Bright green moss grows on the trail. As the sun sets it’s almost fluorescent. I follow the glow. Bad storms have knocked many of the old trees over. It’s sad, really. Their once magnificent branches now are nothing more than barren tree trunks and limbs. Ahhh…but to have seen them in their glory! What tales they could tell! But they, like us, have no more tales to tell.

This walk is turning sad. That wasn’t the intent. The intent was to observe. To dream. To record. But sad is the other side of the coin called happy, isn’t it?

And so it is.

I found a golf ball on the farthest back trail. I can only imagine its story. But I shall not ask. I’ve come to a fork in the road. One trail edges the field, another meanders through the woods. Sparse the woods may be, but there is shadow here. Magic is afoot.

I must pay attention.

The coolness of the woods is different from the field. Dried leaves replace the moss. The trail challenges me to follow. I cannot resist. My stories are in here. The back end of my property rests upon a barbed wire fence, which separates me from the cornfield beyond. There is nothing now except stubby stalks. But when the corn is high and full…I wrote a story about a girl who walked through the rows of corn. Walked and walked until she came upon another world.

I need to finish that story.

My poor broken bench. Mildewed, still standing like a bent soldier. I dragged that bench back to the edge so I could sit and reflect the world I couldn’t see. The moments I needed to see. I shall fix that old bench.

There are dreams and stories I still need to see.

The thistled mess across from the bench will soon bloom thick and green. Impenetrable. Protecting its children from the madness of the outside world. And I think. I often wonder if I could just give it all up. The job. TV. The Internet. If I could just sit and write and walk and write and clean house and write. Or paint. Or draw. Listen to music and just be one with the seasons. Sleep when I’m tired, move when I’m awake. If I could leave it all behind.

I don’t think I want to know the answer.

The wind blows harder back here as it travels across the empty field. It reminds me that it’s barely spring. That Mother is up one day and down the next. The goosebumps on my arm make me agree. Up the leaf-covered path, I head towards the setting light.

A slain king blocks my way, On second thought, he is too skinny to be a king. His fate was more of the knightly variety. A victim of the storm too, his slender trunk arches enough for me to pass. The rustling of dead leaves hanging at the end of empty branches sing a light and hollow song. Even in the summer.

It’s like this back here.

Moss is a mighty thing. It peeks through the fallen leaves and clings to the fallen tree trunks. Yet it grows. Year after year. Surface after surface. A marvelous part of evolution. As I walk I see my sitting stone jutting out of the ground. In a month I will be hard pressed to find it. But the sun is setting and the chill is following. I nod in respect to the boulder of knowledge.

I will be back.

The setting sun is blinding me as I walk up the hill. It is as if it doesn’t want me to see where I’m going. Doesn’t it know. I never know where I’m going. I turn one last time, searching for a deer or a rabbit or a hawk or an elf.

I see none.

The storm made chaos out of these old woods. Branches are scattered and entwined at the end of the path. Perhaps if I were coming the other way I would see a barricade built by a dragon to keep humans out. At the end of the path on the right are several dirt mounds. Legend has it there was a house back here once, but I see no trace. But the mounds will soon be covered with daylilies.

Maybe that was the mother’s favorite flower.

Here lies the king. His huge trunk blocks the path. Right at the edge of the grass. Right at the edge of civilization. Part of me wants to let him rest here. He’s done his duty.

Rest in peace.

I’ve come to the end of the trail. Cultivated grass leads to a house. Inside is my computer, my music. My now. Perhaps my future. If I were to stay true to the path’s direction, I would find a whole other trail that would lead around and through the front of the property. I know the fae live there. A time warp, too.

But not today.

If I hold onto something for tomorrow, maybe I’ll never have to leave this world. For there will always be a tomorrow.

I can live believing that.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Side Trip — Gwennie’s World

aSometimes you find a blog that says more with pictures than with dialogue. This is what I find with my Belgium friend Rita, aka Gwennie.

I tend to shy away from commenting on photography blogs, because with today’s equipment the most fantastic images can be found all over the Internet, and I am in awe of it all.

I take a personal interest in Gwennie’s World (https://gwenniesworld.wordpress.com/) and her former blog Gwennie’s Garden (https://gwenniesgarden.wordpress.com/) because her photos are so up close and personal. I have tried flower photography myself, but since my only weapon is a cellphone, they pale in comparison.

Maybe it’s because I’m all thumbs at gardening, or that she lives in the North of Belgium at the border with the Netherlands, but I have never seen such gorgeous pictures of plants. Whether from a flower show or her own garden, Rita has a knack for catching the details of the simplest — and most unique —  plants.

I really want you to take time and drop over to her blog, Gwennies World, and see her magic for yourself.  Here are some images to get you going:

Gwenniesworld

https://gwenniesworld.wordpress.com/

GW1

GW2

GW4

gw11

Gwennies Garden

(https://gwenniesgarden.wordpress.com/)

GG3

GG1

GG4

gg1

Thanks for joining me on this fun Side Trip!  See you Soon!

 

*

What’s Your Sign?

th1A very good friend of mine (who happens to be an intuitive, too), once told me that there are signs from the Universe everywhere. We just have to look for them, and know when they’re meant for us.

Now, most of you know my pretzel logic view of the world — that somewhere between Jesus and Ra and Gandhi there is an answer for everything.

Chocolate is the answer to everything, too. But I digress.

Humans are eternally torn between what was, what is, what you can prove. Without proof, gravity would just be a guess. As would the formula for Coca Cola. So I get that. Other humans lay any and every thing that has happened on God’s feet. Little did you know that He picks the winning team at baseball games, the fastest time at marathons, and winners of spelling bees. He has very busy feet.

Today is not a discussion of theology, but more a discussion of philosophy. How to deal with that trait of hide-and-seek. Faith and choices and outright miscues. Whether you believe in the predictability or unpredictability of the Universe, there is a chance to connect with a higher power that helps nudge you along the way.

After years of believing, then not believing, then maybe-but-maybe-not believing, I’ve gotten tired living in the Maybe World. It’s straining, it’s taxing, and, honestly it’s quite boring. So I have decided that believing is an art of choice — nothing more.

Now that is no small bag of potatoes. We all choose what we believe in. Even if we haven’t the benefit of Catholic grade school or Sunday School.

But what exactly are “signs” from the cosmos? Signs from heaven? Signs from the beyond?

Scientists tell us there is no way we can get signals from beyond the Earth. Real, electrical, turn-on-the-TV type signals. Yeah Yeah. But I believe there are hints on what to do all around us. We just have to be able to SEE them.

Humans are always grasping for answers…answers to questions that have no answers, except in the land of Believe. Should I change jobs? Is there life after death? Should I give my brother a call? All three are on the same cosmic level. All three dwell in the realm of emotional believe. All have levels of action and non-action.

Whether or not you believe in an afterlife won’t change the fact that tomorrow is the deadline to enter your painting in the Art Fair or that submissions for the writing contest are in three days. The answer to all of life’s mysteries will not change the fact that you woke up with a headache this morning or you missed your kid’s soccer game yesterday.

But what if you’ve actually looking to make a decision way way or another, and are just looking for a little affirmation? Deep down inside you’ve already made the decision; Spirit has made that clear. You just need to bring it into this dimension.

So you walk to work and find a penny on the sidewalk. Or you drive down the backroads and a hawk lands on a post just as you drive by. Or you turn on the radio and your very most favorite song comes on.

Are these cosmic signs?

Or is it just that someone dropped a penny, a hawk decided that particular post looked like a good stopping ground, and the song you wanted to hear has been on the schedule for three days anyway.

What does it matter?

You can make these signs YOUR signs. Big deal if they’re not really cosmic. They are a light at the end of YOUR tunnel. They’re YOUR affirmation: not your mom’s, not your kid’s, not your BFF’s.

This morning on the way to work I spotted a bright blue opening in a sky of grey, bubbly clouds. At the time I was talking aloud about wanting to regain focus in a certain aspect of my life. And there was my sign. I don’t care about the meteorological reason for that peek of sunlight. I don’t care about the odds or the physics or the validity of the phenomenon. I am taking it as a sign that what I was thinking, what I was feeling, was right for me, and I’m moving ahead.

So open your eyes. And your mind. Don’t worry what’s real and what’s imagined. Take the unusual and make it a sign for change. Nature gives us hints on how to move forward all the time.  Just pay attention.

Now…I’ve got something BIG coming up on my plate…hope the sign isn’t something like bird poop on the shoulder or something…

Sunday Evening Art Gallery — Snowflakes

Snow Fairy

by Claude McKay

snowflake 8

Throughout the afternoon I watched them there,

Snow-fairies falling, falling from the sky,

snowflakes

Whirling fantastic in the misty air,

Contending fierce for space supremacy.

snowflake 10

And they flew down a mightier force at night,

As though in heaven there was revolt and riot,

snowflake2

And they, frail things had taken panic flight

Down to the calm earth seeking peace and quiet.

snowflake 6

I went to bed and rose at early dawn

To see them huddled together in a heap,

snowflake 13

Each merged into the other upon the lawn,

Worn out by the sharp struggle, fast asleep.

snowflake 7

The sun shone brightly on them half the day,

By night they stealthily had stol’n away.

snowflake 1

*
*

Find more poetry from Claude McKay at http://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poet/claude-mckay

Find more images of real snowflakes at SnowCrystals.com

*
*