Reason # 856

I keep thinking of more and more reasons to live in Maine. Reason # 856 was added to the ever growing list today when Laurel, Samaya,Violet and I ventured like Old World explorers to Raven Hill Orchard, a two hundred year old farm about 45 minutes inland. The sun was winning its battle with the morning clouds. The last of the mist covered warriors faded into the apple trees as we parked on the grass. The ladies quickly took their bags and went on the hunt while I never left after spying a copper espresso machine in the hard times cafe. Stephen, the owner, made me some coffee  and told me all about how he ended up here by  following a lady to Maine and buying this farm. The dream ran away like the morning clouds although it took some years for that to happen--more like the dream stepped away one cross word--one look at a time. Faded newspaper accounts yellowing on the wooden walls spoke of happier times when love lived here--when people gathered here, when the cafe was thriving. I sipped my coffee (which I'm very adept at) and talked with organic families seeking bags for their organic fruit who came and went. The lost Stephen guided families to where they should go in the orchard while I picked up a jar of apple salsa and a homemade birthday card for Karen in a long abandoned rack. I resisted the flights of illusion that passed  by and refrained from cautioning the foreign tourists about teasing bears when they ate their mid day snacks from the trees. Stephen talked about the isolation of the farm when  there were no customers coming and going. I invited him to a gathering at friend's house next Saturday.  I thought about the impact of feeling alone in paradise-- somewhat like getting struck by a meteor listening to Don Maclean while watching Vincent paint the beyond beautiful "Starry,Starry Night."

Rediscovered Poem

Karen was going to give away a Baha'i book but noticed this poem on the inside cover. It's vaguely familiar. I know it was written for her. W.C Fields (sorry young people) fell in love with the word-"redundancy". He would say to one and all regardless of circumstances, "Pardon my redundancy". If I have posted this before, please, pardon my redundancy. I changed some of the lines though.
                         
                                                          Once Again
                 
                                                         I have a moon
                                                        If you have a June
                                                     I have a sea of flowers for you to sail on
                                                     Even a bed of roses to help you fall asleep
                                                     Oh, I know, you're an island
                                                    That at times I'm not strong enough to swim to
                                                    But on a good day
                                                     When the wind is right-the stars bright
                                                      Gold-not blue the light
                                                     I'll float on these words of love
                                                      To your waiting arms

                           

                                                         

New poem-Trapped Water

It's been a while since I have visited my blog. Once in a while a poem comes to me and I have to let it fall out of my head. My hope is that it doesn't land on some poor unsuspecting innocent and give them a concussion. Random concussions suffered by innocent bystanders standing in the wrong place at the wrong time.

                                                        Trapped Water
                             
                                          A walk on the Maine shore
                                          Unfettered water on my right
                                         Roaring with the joy of freedom
                                      Speaking with the clarity of a safe heart
                                     Standing tall driven by the moon toward me
                                             While on my left...
                                     A murky, circular prison
                                     Filled with whirlpool thoughts
                                      Surrounded by rock hard walls
                                              As all prisons are
                                       A tiny fish looks for a way out
                                         I scoop him in my hands
                                          And turn right

My favorite poem and writer--Janet Ruhe-Shoen

                                        Kenzou Mai in the Millbrook Diner
 
                           Sitting at the counter in the Millbrook Diner sipping coffee, eating eggs and hash browns, listening to a child in the booth behind me disobey his mother who persisted in disobeying him. I stayed straight ahead at slices of pie in a chrome and glass container. I didn't want to catch the eye of the waitress or of the seedy fellow on my left, who kept blowing on his tea, but not drinking it. I didn't want to get caught in conversation about the unusually warm weather.

                           A little old spare Japanese man came in and sat on the stool to my right. He was like a dried leaf; seemed as if the big fresh wind blew blew him in, but outside there was no wind, just heat.
He wore a black kimono and had sandals on his feet.
                           His gray hair was neatly clipped. In a resonant voice he gravely ordered a cup of coffee and a piece of pie.
                         "Apple pie, cherry pie or rhubarb?" asked the waitress.
                        "You decide," he said
                         He looked at me gravely. "Hot out," he said, "isn't it?"
                         I nodded.
                       The waitress jumped in with eager information about the thermometer, the barometer, her husband's sinuses and her son's girlfriend's pregnancy. The seedy fellow on my left talked about the state of the county creeks: they were low. Kenzou Mai, the poet, ate his pie and sipped his coffee.
                       That was twenty-five years ago. I didn't know he was Kenzou Mai until yesterday when I came upon his book, "Cherry Pie". It told about about the waitress's husband and her son's girlfriend and the county creeks, and it mentioned the young girl on the poet's left,
                       her eyes the color of dark rain
                       like the county creeks in a good year.
                     
                       So today I went to the Millbrook Diner. I haven't been there for twenty-five years. And I sat at the counter sipping coffee, eating eggs and hash brown, staring straight ahead at the slices of pie in the glass case and chrome container. There was no child behind me disobeying his disobedient mother. The fellow on my left wore a cashmere overcoat, smelled of aftershave and breath mints, and sighed continually. The waitress had a cough. It was unusually cold out.
                        And Kenzou Mai came in.
                        His kimono was blue.
                        Under it he had several other kimonos
                        and on his feet were very thick wool socks and heavy soled sandals
                        so he looked less like a dried leaf
                        than like a bundle of prayer sticks.
                        His hair was white and now he rode his traveling wind;
                        it didn't blow him around.
                      He sat down on my right and resonantly ordered coffee and pie.
                      "Pumpkin or coconut cream?" asked the waitress.
                     "What did I dream?" he gravely asked
                      She served him and he warmed his hands around his coffee cup.
"Cold out," he remarked, keeping his profile to me.
The waitress told about the thermometer and the barometer, her grandson's girlfriend's pregnancy, her husband's  heart condition. The man on my left sighed.
                      Kenzou Mai ate his pie the flavor he dreamed.
                      I thought of the county creeks in a good year.
                      Kenzou Mai turned and looked at me,
                     his eyes the color of dark rain.













                       

                       
                       

The Beginnings of a Presentation: Feedback Needed!

Walking the Mystical Path with Practical Feet

In preparation for a presentation I will do at The Spirit of Children conference at Green Acre this summer, I am sharing my preliminary thoughts here in hopes of getting feedback. Does it make sense? Is it clear? What suggestions do you have?

My hope is to condense in a few pages some admittedly deep concepts on a variety of issues that we all struggle with on a daily basis that can be of immediate help. My plan is to come up with at least four—one for each session. I’m hoping adults will be helped, but my dream is that, with the help of my creative friends, these concepts can be made accessible to children, junior youth and youth.

Day One: Learning to Cope with Painful or Tragic Events 
Most of us are puzzled on an almost daily basis as to the meaning of events in our lives. I suppose we spend more time asking 'why' while gazing heavenward when we experience painful or tragic events. I’m not offering a magic pill just some insights that can at least bring meaning to a situation where we see and experience only meaningless suffering. As always my inspiration is the Baha’i Writings:

“The purpose of the one true God, exalted be His glory, in revealing Himself unto men is to lay bare those gems that lie hidden within the mine of their true and inmost selves.” Gl.p.287

'What is the purpose of our lives?' Abdu’l-Baha was asked. His simple answer is very much related to what Baha’u’llah said in the above quotation from Gleanings. He said it was to:
“Acquire virtues.” (Paris Talks, p.177)
I take this to mean that every second of our lives and every event—good and bad--are immersed in a world of Divine Purpose designed to give the individual every opportunity to develop the infinite attributes of God. We may not understand the full meaning to what happens to us in life—how it will affect our health, wealth, or anything about our future or our relationships--but we can understand that the overall purpose of God for us is benevolent. We can hold on to this transcendent meaning even when we have nothing else. Why is this important? This vision of being enveloped by the warm embrace of Divine Purpose helps the individual to avoid a deadly trap. Absent the perception that all the events of our life have a deep underlying connection, we can feel disconnected from our own life, disconnected from the individuals that we cherish. We can feel isolated, totally alone, confused and filled with anxiety and a sense that life has no meaning and that nothing we do matters. If we do still believe in a God, it is God of whim who can wake up on the wrong side of the bed and is capable of inflicting enormous pain. This insight can still beg the question, I get it that we are here to acquire attributes but why are painful and tragic events needed?
I give you a Hidden Word of Baha’u’llah:

"O Son OF MAN ! My calamity is My providence, outwardly it is fire and vengeance, but inwardly it is light and mercy. Hasten thereunto that thou mayest become an eternal light and an immortal spirit. This is My command unto thee, do thou observe it." 

How can a painful or tragic event be “light and mercy”? I suggest not seeing the attributes of God as one-dimensional mirrors, but as diamonds with infinite facets. Some facets are developed in happy times; some are developed in sad times. See every moment of your life as priceless containing irreplaceable opportunities to develop the infinite possibilities of the infinite attributes of God that already exist in your own heart and are waiting for you to uncover their unique beauty. Get in the habit of asking the inner question over and over again in good times and in bad times:

How does this situation or event give me the opportunity to develop another facet of love, or forgiveness or compassion?

In such a way you can connect with meaning what before seemed like a series of random, meaningless events—even those events you would call a “calamity” that seemed to contain nothing but “fire and vengeance”. Do this and you will become “an eternal light and an immortal spirit.”

Story time with Miss Nicole

Going to story time at the library made me ask myself did my brother and I ever have the experience of going to a library with a family member to hear someone tell a story? I don't think I ever knew there was such a place as a public library. We did have a story time experience, but it was at home in Iowa on a Saturday morning. We would bring my mother a comic book and try to wake her up which was almost impossible. She went to college and worked and studied constantly. Saturday morning was her one day to get some sleep. What worked was making her a strong cup of instant coffee. I'm sure we made it triple strength because her hair would stand straight up and her eyes would pop open. We would sit on her bed trying not to gag as she read Superman or Batman and we would be glued to every word. We would then watch the Saturday morning shows that ended at noontime. Saturday morning was a trip to far off lands, to another time long ago when men wore big hats and rode horses and the hero would only get shot in the shoulder which we knew would only take a week to heal because the following Saturday he would be good as new.We had spaceships that looked like ice cream cones wrapped in tin foil that sped to the moon and beyond. Again the hero would only get wounded in the shoulder which we knew only took a week to heal. So is this 2013 world a better place with Miss Nicole and her high sweet voice reading a story about astronauts flying to the moon than my 1950's world? I looked at Samaya's face feeling the loss of gravity along with the other kids making the journey to another world on a space ship. I leaned against the back wall with Violet on my lap who was surprisingly well behaved outside of the earth's atmosphere. I breathed in particles of disintegrating words coated in wonder that floated down from rows of wooden shelves.Is the world a better place?--such cosmic questions giants ask each other on Mount Olympus. I am a small man who lives in Eliot--no mountains or giants in sight. Here on this little corner of earth,I can try to make their world a better place. My first official act will be teaching them how to make a decent cup of coffee.

The Lone Ranger I saw a commercial for the new Lone Ranger movie starring Johnny Depp in the Tonto role. Johnny Depp is a great actor but maybe he lost a bet and has to wear buffalo underwear on screen. That being said he will probably win the Oscar. The clip I saw has Depp saying "Kimosabe" and the Lone Ranger says, "What is wrong with you? I keep telling you my name is the Lone Ranger."(not true, sorry Johnny). And then he says, "You need to go out shoot another buffalo because you definitely need some fresh underwear. I am not camping out another night with you!"(that is not true either). In fact,this whole blog has been a tissue of lies. I was the one that lost the bet and was made to write this blog. Who knows? Truth is relative which reminds me of my grandmother(one of my favorite relatives). When I was very young I remember sitting in a dark living room with my brother and grandmother listening to the Lone Ranger on radio. He had such a rich deep voice and was such a good actor. I could imagine riding along side of him and Tonto chasing the bank robbers. I could see the canyons and smell the dry wind as it flew by. Take me with you,I would whisper. I would look over at my grandmother who was knitting--always knitting in the dark with her ear turned toward the radio and I thought it was all normal and that maybe I would grow up listening to radio shows and my imagination would build up and tear down worlds with the end of one show and the beginning of another feeling safe because my grandmother was right there--she would always be right there. I would wake up in the morning and my grandmother would be gone and I knew my mother was sleeping having coming home very late from the brick factory by the river that is now an improbable art museum. Now it's late at night and there is one lamp on and instead of the sound of clashing knitting needles, there is the sound of keys being poked.Karen is sleeping and upstairs my little Indians are dreaming of Mr. Rogers not knowing he is with my grandmother and she is teaching him how to knit his own sweaters.