A Response to Janice

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morning light @ the lake

Dear Janice:

Spring was late arriving, though, in all fairness, winter was mild.
Seasons have developed the habit of turning into the next all too rapidly in my new, New England, evidenced at The Lake, my euphemism for a sweet, shallow, solitude.

I can remember a time when the color of the day was just the backdrop for a mood.  The blues of the lake are slate, and the trunks of the trees are gray. The rhododendrons are green and thick and waxy.

Here and there a yellow daffodil, or traces of a forsythia, can be seen among the naked branches. Nothing is stretching. Nothing is really alive, yet, nothing is really dead either.
Sanctuary sounds of spring are more boastful than its colors in many Aprils. Like a Gregorian Mass, birds sing a more fragrant tune as the shrubbery yearn for more rain and larger, warmer, drops of sun. The chant is more engaging than the sermon.

There is a chair on the deck of this woodland cottage;
and at 10:30 the sun will drench it in a warm bath of sunlight.
I move with the angle of the sun.
Spring seems redundant.
I have seen my share.
They all become autumn.

Life, the slight dash between these two warning seasons,
settles in.
A color of sadness remains long after the sun has given The Lake its new hue.
I look up from where ‘my pen teems
my gleaming brain’, and a whisper of life enters.
The skin catches the changes first,
then the eyes take it in, soon you are the new season, you are the yellows, the aquas,
and the deeper blues, and like the trees and the shrubs, you yearn for droplets of sun to saturate the season with color.

Watchaug

April 2016

 

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Tomorrow, and to-morrow and…

— To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury
Signifying nothing.
— Macbeth (Act 5, Scene 5, lines 17-28)

We suffer from passions about a divided mind, and about the illustrations and conceptions we make and give to ourselves to help us understand the human nature that we are. Western Civilization gave us a very conflicting sense of human nature when the papacy crowned kings and queens with divinity. Monarchs, in governmental matters, had an absolute power that made them right by nature of who they were, and to whom they were born. “On earth, as it was in heaven,” mankind proclaimed; and the 1% have been the law and the lawyers to this day.

As commoners, we have been looking for our divine natures ever since. Religiosity did no favor to our species. Governed by powers that professed to see all, we have grown egos that aspire to divine nature instead of human nature. Governments, in the name of god, created a hell on earth where all the abominations of “man’s inhumanity to man” were flogged and raped in the public square of humiliation and fear. Our Human Nature is closer to chipmunks and elephants and trees and rivers and lakes than it is to angels and gods…we are earthlings, not celestial beings.

We fear what has been passed down to us as visions of hell. and our visions of inflicted pain, most particularly brought on by greed and power. Even a cursory reading of Shakespeare, or other authors from middle ages and before, render us cold to see that hell was man’s creation. It was never gods. Divinity was used by the powers of man to cultivate an arena of sheep that could be led anywhere by the most unholy of shepherds. Was it evil, or was it evolution? Is evolution evil?

We are a part and parcel of nature and human nature. We can and should look at it with awe and reverence for its sheer mystery and beauty, but it is important to note that it does not look back at us. Mindfulness and consciousness can create truth and beauty, but not divine infinity. We are only human. We serve lust and aggression with the cold inaccuracies of nature as our guide. Kingdoms in other realms, populated with angels and old friends, and we at the right hand—well that may look like gold, but fools gold also glitters in the sun.

Prayer works, not because there are angels, but because we are human. Prayer, (another word for desire) is that internal activation of yearnings; it is psychic energy. The energy cathects to a thing or a cause represented by a word or an image and sublimates all other desires to that object.

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