Sunday

This day more than that, or more than those which had come before. I  loathed the thought of leaving. I preferred it back here in my realm of giant oaks and slowly moving waters. The trill of the crow in a far off treetop, the song of the cicada heralding in another day and the  softness of the moist sea air as it caressed my skin are the music to which I dance. The partitions between the times are thin here on the creek. One can hear the jingling of the coach horses harness of many moon times ago as easily as the croaks of the bullfrog on the waters edge today. It’s that proclivity I have to drift between the worlds past and those of now that is and always has been my fiercest addiction.

Nature with all her free wheeling souls has put no boundaries upon time and each of her loyal subjects lives with out fear of  a certain hour of the day. This is far more than I can attest to my fellow beings in the human world. That would be , according to a certain blue jay, why their ability to swing between realms is nominal or non existent. Now on this thick Sunday morning one must take the rantings of such a vivacious bird into hard account. Nature holds tight to her own and allows them gifts that humankind has long since left behind, yet covets with all their being. I tossed a large hunk of heavily buttered , strawberry jam laden bread his way, a reward for his insight and also his compassion for he knew I was one of the few that prowled the corridors of time and that I hated the return to the clocks. Those devices humanity had engineered to propel them ahead in hopes of attaining more power and control. Yet, they had lost the magic of history  along with the songs of the past , not the chorus mind you, but the gentle whispers of life. My Jay floated down from the moss laden branch upon which he held court and proceeded to pick apart his tasty offering.

The black brackish waters of the creek off to the side of  my porch, the place that was my haven, where I allowed myself the treat of drifting, had started to ripple. A signal that what had been a thick fat vein of water was starting a return to the sea. The Jay finished his morsel giving me the head tilted, bright eyed glance that I expected from such a delightful fellow. We both knew well the mothers heartbeat and that not far from our lush forest eyrie the tide was receding from the lands. Out on the beaches  waves would be starting to crash and roil as the sea pulled back . A lover slowly withdrawing what had been a long life giving kiss to the coasts of this rich landscape. There would be a scurry in the depths as the fishes raced back towards the big waters so as not to be trapped and vulnerable in the deceiving eddy pools left behind as the waters retreated. The deep creek dwellers would be awakening to begin their  search for the mornings repast on the soon to be exposed banks of thick black plough mud. I  shivered to my core as my modern humanity induced nature reminded me that it would soon be time to leave my idle for that restraining world of walls I so resented. Yet I so needed for the laws of this time said I must if I cared continue my existence. 

My Jay gave a leap catching the air with one flap of his wings and returned to the branch where a free Blue Jay could look down upon an enslaved human. The glisten in his eyes intimated to me his amusement for it seemed  so many humans thought they were so smart . As  I met his eyes the harness of the coach horses jungled with the restless stamping of their feet and then faded into the heavy thud of the car trunk being closed. It was time, the snake that was the highway would soon embrace me in its venomous grip and the poison of the walled times would begin it steady debilitating drip into my veins. The bullfrog on the bank silenced what had been his steady croak, the crow’s trilling had subsided when the waters of the creek had begun their outflow to the sea and there on a gentle Sunday morning , myself and the Blue Jay locked eyes for not a moment in time, but for a moment in many.  You’re right I said to him as I rose to leave. Its time to flee the walls of steel, cement and millisecond’s. Its time to drift through the many prisms that are the realms and dance with the worlds within, take succor from the magic lost in history and engineer the catapult that breaks through the prison walls.   Yes, the highway is today, but tomorrow with be a soft dirt path.

Hindsight

I guess my thoughts must have been hazy but focused if that’s a possibility. It was finally one of those warm early spring days with the winter in retreat . The first of the seasons onslaught of pollen had started to drift through the air. I remember lingering in the gift shop of a Cracker Barrel admiring the newest of brilliantly colored shirts vacillating between the winter markdowns and these appealing temptations.Turquoise, fuschia , powder pink & sky blue . All adorned at the neck with embroidery and rhinestones. Such items heralded in thoughts of the season to come . Warm afternoons strolling barefoot across cool green lawns with a cold beer in my hand , inhaling the scents of rebirth; blooming flowers mixed with the freshness of trees unfurling leaves . In hindsight there was an underlying tension. Tension one senses on the edge of the present like a fierce storm hovering at the horizon of the ocean. A storm one watches out of the corner of their eye hoping that it passes. A storm one hopes is not coming inland to ruin a sun kissed seaside day.

As for myself I enjoy the Cracker Barrel gift shops along with the entire idea of the restaurant itself. Such a wonderful assortment of items running the gamut from those teeth pulling yet delicious Sugar Daddy caramel suckers to opalescent porpoise fountains and of course rhinestone bedazzled shirts. I’m certain those who consider themselves “ intellectual betters” find amusement at such a place . Well let them go to their stale lifeless sandwich shops which promise healthful selections of bland entrees. Who wants to live forever without big fluffy biscuits slathered in butter or chicken and dumplings on a rainy Sunday afternoon. Plus if one feels a tad puffy after such a feast grab a large canary yellow t – shirt emblazoned with flowers from the gift shop to be comfy . Some advice from me to the judges out there is to take your Birkenstock’s along with your variety of black sartorial ensembles and do not darken the doorway to the hearth & home nirvana which is Cracker Barrel. Yet I digress. The storm still hovered.

Warnings were slowly forming in the media as they awaited and inserted talking points from their handlers. A situation which had squeaked about almost unnoticed in the recesses of the internet since the first of January. A situation that caused me to translate the language of threads emanating from a land far away. The many sagas of a sickness which were soon quashed from the people of that lands communications with the outside world; possibly by those considered “ their intellectual betters” and allowed to rule. A horror rapidly unfolding that I, one who enjoys rhinestone & frills along with crispy fried chicken , found to be ominous. Yet as I saw in those early January days , it was was story ignored by the genius netizens who declared the flu much worse & we should move on. We all know such profiles with their special pronouns declared under emojis of waves . Yet if they didn’t know, I did for I always went with my gut.

In any case on this early March evening life was full of hope . My husband and I meandered through the gift shop a bit and then found our table. I’m a people watcher by nature and there’s no better place to pursue such a hobby than a Cracker Barrel located on the main route to the Carolina coast. As usual it was brimming with a variety of patrons . A lovely lady with her elderly father seeming somewhat exasperated by his selections yet encouraging him from a place born of love to order his hearts desire. An act I know had been played out before in reverse when she was a mere sprite of a girl indulged by the man before her at the table. The tan windswept couple possibly enjoying their retirement. Both obviously in from a round of golf still gazing into each each other’s eyes like new lovers. A large family of what appeared to be three generations whom I’d spoken with in the gift shop. They were taking their grandma to spend the summer in Charleston with her sister as grandma had not enjoyed her children’s choice of home in New Jersey. A myriad of lives , different people each and every one , also free people who bow to no one while making their own way with their own choices. Who knew such a storm was growing and to what degree ?

Now here I am this Easter morn nigh on about thirty days out as April showers roll in across the foothills pondering many things and thinking back . Back to each and every one of them. My hope is that the daughter gets many more Easter Sundays with her father , that the storm which once seemed so far offshore does not separate them . I hope the golf playing couple hangs in there for many , many, more rounds on those emerald courses . I wish grandma all the best with her sister on seacoast which is Charleston . While she may miss her far northern kin the sunny days will bring flowers and the hope they will be united soon .

My thoughts are just a small snapshot of life’s interactions . Who among us truly knew that from that day to this the world world would stop ? Who knew the dreams of Springtime would be paused or if such a pause was for evil or good ? But I do know one thing . If it was for good in beginning yet hijacked for evil towards the end. We as Americans have and will continue to be a free people . For those who wish to change that fact I bid you rethink your move.

Wolf And Wolfkin

The deep Winters storm howled at us. Our view outside obscured by wind driven snows. A million years plus , eons we’d lived here on the cusp of yesterday & tomorrow. This day like many we’d endured when the sun pulled back from our lands we shared tales surrounded by sweet smoke from the fire. It’s flames illuminated on the icicles which hung from the entrance to our cavern glitter like the fireflies of Summer. Sparking & dancing ; our magic flames , casting fire motes shimmering like the stars in distant skies. Here we watch our sisters & brethren through time past and present. We are wolf & we are wolfkin. Those who have survived the upheavals of time . Civilizations have risen to glory and they have fallen to misery under our watchful gaze. We are the ones whose bond with that which is termed “wild” is stamped in our very essence . That ultimate connection to the naturally existing world. Animalia , as it is categorized by those afraid of the spirit, the wildness , the magic they cannot understand.

Our pack is ancient and our pack is wary. We are the young girl digging deeper under her warm covers on a chill weekend morning. Snuggling deeply with her pooch who brings joy to her life. Be it a rescued one who’s fallen afoul at the hands of the soulless or a purposefully bred friend with the finest of bloodlines as counted by those that consider such. This connection of the ancient exists. We are the lady in the fancy automobile holding the little dog close. A lady perfectly coiffed , lipstick in place , yet burrowing her head into to our canine compatriots neck . Seizing the moment and sensing the moods of the spirit ultimately connected to all that is wild in a way few understand. A lady needing the connection to her ancestors yet never understanding the meaning of such a fervent act. We are the rancher on the pony as the sun sets across the range land. Gaging the change of seasons as we know it to be . Not as it is told. Watching the suns glorious rays surrender to the darkness as the creatures who inhabit those wide open spaces institute their own changing of the guards. The ones of light heading off to slumber while the ones of darkness begin their watch.

From our aerie the foibles of man are evident as they drift further from the spirit towards the realm of their own creations. Tawdry breakable things that will by no means weather eternity’s storms . Yet they lovingly stroke these items . Never realizing only the spirit is eternal. Items that may be turned off and silenced by the hands of those who mean them no well. What a vainglorious rhapsody to the meaningless they perform with emotions of the spirit drugged to a stupor as they search for feelings in a place devoid of heartbeat , a desert lacking the breath of life.

Our lupine friends growl a rumbled warning should our spirits linger amongst the bedeviled . Ancient’s wisdom that’s kept them free telling us to find those few of true soulfulness on which to focus our attentions. To feed only them support from our ethereal plane. The rest are but chaff to be tossed into the winds . If we can catch that one pleading voice , provide succor to that one’s falling tears; we have accomplished something. For in a graying cement world should we have caused even one to wonder if perhaps they’re not crazy and something so much more is out there . That the world is big , powerful and oh so much more than they’ve been told. That magic exists and they just have to reach out into the silence to grasp it. That in those still moments of their mind . Akin to a pinprick of light in an otherwise pitch black room we are here ; you are with us and we you .Feast upon that thought , embrace that connection and follow through.

Fading Hoofbeats

For those of us who grew up before Summer was short & the school year long. Back when those blissful months of freedom were not engineered around the clock .The last days of school were a torment. Staring out the window while daydreaming of cool streams , endless beaches & wide open meadows was perfected to an art. Escapism, probably the the most important thing aside from math & reading one ever learned in school now ruled the day. I know I did everything to pass the time those final hours of incarceration. Drawing pictures of horses on my class papers, shutting out the drone of teachers by watching the birds outside or looking studious while reading a good book. In hindsight, it was truly the books that saved me .

So here I sit years in the future this Memorial Day weekend having just read that a lady named Maureen Beebe passed away. I hadn’t heard the name in years. Yet so very often I recall excerpts from Marguerite Henry’s “Misty of Chincoteague.” Those times when I spot horses cooling in a pond while I’m driving down the highway I remember the paragraphs about the ponies of Chincoteague cooling in the surf away from the biting insects. Moments in the day when life becomes stressful I recall galloping down a sandy trail away from it all as described in the same book and the rider was Maureen Beebe . Yes, I had not recalled the name in years but it hovered always in my mind during my daily existence as do many things from books of my youth. Tales like Walter Farley’s “The Black Stallion ” to Anna Sewell’s “Black Beauty” . How I silently cheered on the Black Stallion and mourned when Ginger died as I awaited that final bell of school to ring . The crafted words and eloquently painted pictures held me until the free days of Summer arrived when like Maureen Beebe I could swing upon my pony’s back & flee away into the forests and fields.

It’s seems like just yesterday as I write, pondering the past and enjoying a cup of coffee. The first real heat of Summer is coming in to claim the day yet now this season is not so free. I must say in some ways there’s melancholy for times since past . Yet there is also a great amount of thanks to be given for those tomes of youth . Melancholy for the long free days roaming the Carolina countryside on horseback. Truly missing ambling devil may care on horseback exploring streams and hillsides . Thankfulness in that such books kept me focused on following my passion for all things equine while others tried to distract me with complacency. I’m certain as the sun rises and sets there are millions like me all across the globe who savored those books and found themselves forever horsewomen.

The power of the written word is touted in high places yet the soothing salve of a gentle story is often ignored . Truth be told the the gentle story is all the more often savored in those quiet moments of the the day. There is power in a tale and for many the strength to pursue dreams is found in simple horse stories . It gives one a place to dwell and reason to accept you’re not alone , not the only one that fell in love with salty manes and thundering hooves. I know also that I am not the only girl that grew into womanhood still roaming path ways and sailing fences in unison with a trusted mount. I am not the only one who worked several jobs, ate Ramen and let the powerbill slide to pay for my horse. A girl who grew to a woman who’d ditch a date that states “horses are a nice hobby”. Plus who wanted a date anyhow when you could use those hours to gallop across a wide open field as a cooling mist rolled in from the creek. It was just such a gentle story that helped weave the tapestry of so very many’s lives. The story that inspired us to hang on to our passion and even in the bleakest times to never to sell our saddle for one day like the ponies in Maureen’s swim we’d reach the other side. We would find solid ground on which to ride and gallop again.

So a little known icon of youth now gallops the fields on the other side of the Rainbow Bridge reunited with her mounts. I can only hope there are other girls like so many of us who eagerly await classes to end for the summer immersed in the same tales and envisioning the same passions. My hope is that by my remembrance some forty plus years in the future of a pony riding girl pays the hero of Chincoteague some due and that the once freed equestrians of summer will give it a swift gallop in her honor. It’s time for hoofbeats to thunder and not to be washed away by the changing tides into the sandy beaches of memory.

Witches&Wanderers

This first Winter’s night I listen to the whisper of the winds and watch the shadows cast by  the multitude of candles in my windows. It is as it has always been . The celebration of the Christmas season amongst our people. The colder days have crept in upon the land , unsown fields fallen dormant for a time , all inhabitants be they man or beast bide their days seeking sustenance and warmth. Woodsmoke blows upon the breeze. Our noble giant oaks have shed once verdant leaves while gallant pines line the pathway. Giant pine sentinels  of old who knew our forbearers before we graced this  land. Inside warm oak floors glow and shimmer in candlelight issuing forth a warmth of greeting as neighbors arrive filling this old stead with life. Oh darkness how we defy you while embracing you all the the same.

Kith and kin join one another. Long sandy paths under moss draped oaks shimmer like rivulets of quicksilver beneath a star swept sky . This land with each bit of soil and drop of water runs deep within my blood . Looking up at a sky of bejeweled blackness the magnificent belt of Orion steals my breath . These are the days and the times that grasp our souls.

Now I know many of you have not been amongst us on these nights when the darkness is overwhelming ,the days dark and short. Yet a wanderers heart sings to these grey times with the early nights when ones roaming may cease. Home is the anchor by which we stay steady . Our windows lit with candles defying the dark . I guess I never raised my eyes to true passion until this cold Southern night. It was not a thought to burden the mind of one struggling to save the land she held dear. Yet this night our moon has waxed full , I can roam, visiting my sisters all across this earth. They can be very ancient or quite modern. Yet modern is oft not to be. For you see the current times abstract our passions and distort our soul. It is easier by far to visit the girls in the coastal cabin with shrimp on the boil  or the cook in kitchen mulling wine up in the Blue Ridge. I think the ancients or those of history were more intuitive with the earth than those today dialed in away from natures orbs with the devices. Man’s connection, it gives me chuckle as  I share with the lady generously pouring madeira in a pot of herbs while dancing with her ladle.  My girls on the coast are awaiting  a big fish to be brought in from the creek while sipping on rum pirated in from the islands for they find my life frivolous and detached. Somewhere on a shiny street my guardian awaits his driver, drifting in and out from his world to ours.

Yes my dearest it would be nice to feel the rough of your late day unshaven check across my skin, embrace your ardor as we fall into one another, life and times mattering nothing.Yet it is not to be. Maybe in the dark hours, between sleep and awakening when the day is newly born we can unite in the dream world.   A mess of tangled dampened sheets and the emptiness of a grey dawn awaits us after such. But tonight the lights glisten in the windows of our ancient stead.  Good wine and roaring fires far from the present soothe my soul. My girls far and away laugh at  our disconnect. Me, the traveler between realms preferring to bide in times long past and you the conqueror of streets

Tonight is the time on the coastal plane we embrace who we are, hunters planters , dreamers and lovers. I bode here because these are my people. Hot summer days when the black rivers chug to the seas and cold winter days when the dogs get a run, the horses in flight coarse behind feeding my spirits with something cored into my DNA. Constants, a millennia of constants.

Sometime tonight, my guardian will beak my revelry with a thought or photo from his time. Glaring lights and longing glances. There is nothing I can share till slumber take us both and we can dance in the dreamworld. For these days and now, I prefer to drink the mead , listen to the whispers of the pines and hold the the open skies so very sacred. Those of us that wander this realm salute the continuity of the orbs and with a united breath celebrate the return of the light.

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A Million Miles From Nowhere

A million miles from nowhere or so the story goes. One of those hot, oh so still midsummer nights. Tired of tossing and turning on top of my sheets my porch called its siren song. Its openness to all things wild lulled me in the late hours of the day soon past or the early ones of the newborn dawn to join the nocturnal beings and sooth my soul.

Enveloped by the thick southern darkness with little breeze or none at  all, yet every heartbeat is felt and  every breath an intoxicating clarity I joined my kindred away from the walls that had come crashing in. The season’s star wheel turns its way across the sky as the cicadas sing their chorus in the oaks. I’ve been away from them before , my night singers . I would be remiss if I didn’t say my entire being had  ached to hear their summer songs. It’s a thing I believe is very ancient. Something written and encoded in every strand of my DNA. That desire in a  certain season to hear a cicadas call heralding another  day of stifling heat . One cicada’s song rises as another’s falls, the cacophony of the  trees. Like my sisters before me I gage the passing of  ages not by the methods of man but by the rise and fall of nature.

I pour myself a shot of whisky . An odd drink considering the heat of the summer night. A simple glass of amber liquid  so cool to my lips and yet with the burn of sweet fire going down. I savor its richness as it all at once chills and scorches causing me to break a light sweat that runs down my body immediately drying, lapped up by the hungry night air. Such refreshes my perspiration damp skin and relaxes every muscle as the elixir takes hold. A light scent wafts off the crepe myrtles surrounding my simple aerie as the dogs drip one by one onto the porch to return to their slumber at my feet. I let the far off world fade away and pass into the now. This is where my soul exists in its purest form. Down a long country backroad under the sentinel oaks who’ve seen my kind bloom and fade. Far off in hedgerow a Whip-or- Will  starts up its song.  My wild nirvana takes hold as things untamed and I become as one.

Heartbeats a million  miles away that often torment me recede although that eternal connection is always there, hidden in my essence  by the gossamer strand that is hope. But now is the time to let such as that flow out with the tidal creeks that edge the forests. Now is the time to celebrate with millions of wanders in the fields, the dancers in woodlands and the sprites of the waterways.

The dogs barely raise their heads as I amble to refill my whisky watching instead with  the one eye open method so endearing of their kind. I shall let the whiskey do its work along with the cadence of the cicada songs and the chorus of the Whip-or-Will.  Tonight I will drift like the moonlight across meadow sending my love to all my companions that scuttle, scurry and sail through the ink like  ether of their domain. As for those heartbeats a million miles away I’ll sip my whiskey and gamble they  beat as one with a wildling on night kissed porch. The sun will rise and with that new dawn illumination to ride on or hold will come. Tonight is a million miles from nowhere and a good place to be.

The Pickle Jar

The jar glittered & shone in the early morning sun. Brilliant rays of newborn sunshine coursing through the large kitchen windows made it ethereal and glorious . I’m not sure why my focus started here. Staring at a mason jar full of pickles. But I always know there’s a story or reason. Light amber liquid surrounding delicately sliced cucumbers. Each center the palest of green with edges as dark a color as the tree line at the edge of the pasture . The glass of the mason jar sparkled , clean & inviting . Maybe at first glance it was a simple jar of homemade pickles. But deeper much deeper it spoke of many things.

A springtime when the earth had been turned as the Winter waned. Gentle hands placing each seed one by one in the rich earth. The first storms rolling in across the landscape bringing life giving water to the seeds and then vibrant sunshine causing the land to warm . With the Passing of time these lovingly placed seeds sprouted , taking root and life from land loved and nurtured for many years.

He caught me drifting as he often did. We were both wanderers across time and space. His eyes sparkled with the knowledge that we’d been doing this for eons. How it began I’ve no idea. Maybe somewhere in our youth we’d both deemed it necessary to acknowledge we were nothing but watchers on the wall. Souls who observed the world but by some twist of fate were never allowed to participate. I believe we each had a distinct vision of how life should be. Yet we never lived that life ourselves and thus in each of our roaming had hit upon one another .

Somewhere in another room a clock chimed the hour echoing through the rooms of the home in which the pickle jar existed. A faint scent of perfume wafted through the kitchen. As with many Sunday morning excursions through the ether we acknowledged the owner had left to attend church for there was spirit about doing so about the place. Something grounded and strong, an essence I can quite pin down but it exists .

He was easy and with me , my gentle partner in travel. Sometimes a faint presence and sometimes on mornings like this one a force of power , a spirit of strength and visceral male energy. I’ve known him forever and beyond . We have possibly flitted in and about each other for a million lives only to find each other across the distance of the ether in this one. I could smell his scent, clean yet musky and see the faint glimmer of silver coming in upon his yet unshaven cheeks. How many times was this now? Uncountable as the numbers of humanity go. The ticking of the clock far off in the house became dim and the pickle jar long forgotten.

The world in which we walked now must have become untenable for us and we found ourselves together in these early hours here in the countryside. A deep breath taken together as one when we each catch sight of the barn outside full of soft newly mown hay through the kitchen window, the clock ticks on. Then we were there. There’s no shame in anything outside the realm of current time and for those blessed with a gift such as ours the sacrifice was made even by our abilities outside that which was immediately tangible .

It’s a crashing together of sorts. A falling so deeply into each other’s eyes that all the world past and all that’s present falls away . Touches so desired they burn white hot and embraces so ardent they soothe the burn one so desires. The velvet feel of that first kiss that becomes the beginning and end all , something one so needs in their very core that nothing exists but the moment. Every cell sings , every nuance and satisfaction of raw hunger a celebration of the unity of the joining of the two. Together we become the strongest of storms. Crashing and roaring in a tumult of long built up energy . Every breath, every heartbeat, every moment of our unity branding its mark into our being to sustain us until we find each other again. Lightning crashes and thunder rolls.

A blinding flash , the earth shakes. He meets my eyes, his skin shiny with sweat , his breath heavy and an untamable wildness in his eyes. Passion is an undefinable thing and beings such as us are myth and legend . Let it be said in these moments we are very much flesh and bone reality grasping each other in the age old dance of love beyond the preset understanding of humankind.

The ceiling fan above me pulses out a cooling breeze as I awaken and toss back the covers to cool the heat the from my trembling body. It’s mid morning and the dog scratches at the foot of the bed now awake and wanting to go out. A receding storm rumbles off in the distance . The fresh scent of rain cleansed earth wafts through my open window. Just a moment pup I think as I gather myself and adjust to this realm . A last roar of thunder echos as the storm moves on.

Some where a flower comes to fruition. It will bring forth a cucumber and time will march on.

The River

Some days the river runs wild, some days it’s calm and slick. This early morning it just rolls by to the sea. My friend the water is tired of the chill this blustery April morning. Ready for the Sun’s rays to shine upon it casting a million diamonds of reflection upon the now dull surface. The river is weary of Winter’s slumber and longs to be once again pulsing with life. Life that only the return of the light with its vibrant warmth can explode into existence. But today it’s still a catacomb of darkness. The life is there, but like myself, everything above, below , and beside, all seems to be holding its breath. Afraid a gasp of air will feed the harsh grasp of the cold and allow such the strength to hang on a few days longer.

The fields around us have turned the deep emerald green of new growth . Lengthening  hours of daylight have called the juices to run in the grasses . Such as the light does in every living soul that gains sustenance from this land. My still winter shaggy horse paws impatiently at the rich black earth. Ready to be off. Either back to the sweet hay in the stable or on a leg stretching bolt as if together we can out run the chill. Its here on these riverbanks that I find my muse. The winds of history are strong here. The memories passed down from times before are encoded into my soul. Should I choose to wheel my steed around and run for the copse I will feel the pulse of the land in every stride as my sisters before me. A thing done wild and free away from the eyes of humans, just myself, horse and all that is nature. I think the big Oaks smile when I do this, oh not a visible one, but a smile all the same. For they are the sentinels that have been here hundreds of years. They watched us come to this land. Live, grow and die. Ashes to ashes, Dust to dust. They remember when few of us were here. Oaks that were small when my great grandmother rode her pony to this same riverbank to search for the signs. The signs of the turning of the seasons. A clarion call that life would proceed.

Time and tides have often not been gentle to this land. The winds of war have blown through feeding the soil that nurtured us with blood of her children . Long hot summers brought the fever and bodies sustained by this very earth were returned to lie beneath. The cycle began anew. I’ve often paused my mount out here and wished the Oaks could speak. Tell me what they have seen. Lovers trysts, mourner’s cries, and the joy of new lives arriving on this ancient landscape. Now I wonder what they would say? Why are you gone from us for so long? What has made your mind recede from the songs of the land? We hope you have not forgotten us for we are the guardians of your core. We know you better than you know yourself, for we’ve been with your people for many seasons. Your blood is in us and we are in you. Be still my child for your very essence hums upon this earth that gave you life.

I guess that’s why this chill grey April day. I chose to saddle up and ride the river bank. To once again become one with that which knows me well. To ponder the oncoming season and to make a cognizant act to slow down. To take the time to embrace that which knows me and that which fires my spirit. To gird my loins to wage a heated battle against time and for it. The for is to gather the most out the years one may run wild and free with youth’s strength yet to ebb. The against is to find the ability to hold off those robbers of our time. To possibly forewarn those coming after me that its not about what they have been led to believe. Its so much more. Today I find my course to finally ride free. The trees are smiling.

Sunday News

I for one miss the old days. Back when the news was simply news. Those times when I received a stack of carefully printed pages rolled and delivered by thoughtful hands to the entrance of my drive. It was a delicious part of my day on those rain smattered Sundays. Mornings when I could arise with no place to be. Awaken my soul slowly to the new dawn. Gently push the dogs off the bed and crawl from beneath warm covers as the sunrise starts to brighten a  world still quiet from nighttime’s slumber. Enveloped by that pre dawn silence I’d go, wiping  the sleep from my eyes as I wandered to the kitchen to fill the pot with cold fresh water pumped directly from the well. The headiness of the coffee a sensual pleasure as I added a heaping scoop of rich sumptuous grounds to my old but faithful percolator. The enjoyment found in the simple routine of pulling open the back door and setting my dogs free to inspect the perimeters of the yard proper . Allowing them to take care of any business they’d withheld during the night. At this point I’d judge the possibilities of the day. No cell phones to check. No gaging the number of approving likes I might have received on a photo I’d shared before I drifted away into sleeps embrace the night before. Just myself , a pack of romping dogs bounding out to check the most immediate fence line and nature in all her fresh awakening glory.

Once the coffee was prepped I’d grab whatever outer garment was closest at hand, slide my bare feet into yesterday’s mud encrusted boots and head outside as well. I truly relished my stroll down the long drive to obtain that trusted old friend, my newspaper. No checking of machines illuminated  brightly with messages from worrisome souls near and far. Just me and a pack of dew wet dogs taking the first steps into the new day to obtain the news of the past. The clacking of the now leafless tree branches  and the refreshing wind whipped rain drops were my background. Wood smoke wafting up the valley on the breeze let me know the neighbors were awake as well. No posts were needed of their breakfast preparations to let me know this important fact all the while demanding a reactive emoticon. The towering pines would put off their brisk scent clearing my head as I walked. Not those odors emanating from a plugged in warmer complete with manufactured fragrance of my choice, but the reality of rich damp earth and a vibrant aroma of pine needles rich with sap. It’s my belief that this head clearing bit of exercise simply increased the flavor of my coffee on these late fall mornings when I allowed my every sense to awaken in its own time.

That Newspaper was there, cast expertly in the gravel wash next to the ruts left by many an ingress and egress into the drive. Damp and darkened by moisture from the misty morn, that rolled tube of salient information awaited my gentle touch to coax forth the words within its pages. I’d retrieve the rubber banded roll from its resting place, reassure my accompanying dogs that it was indeed not a stick awaiting a toss and amble back up the drive. A symphony of chirping birds serenaded my journey along with the far-off cries of a crow somewhere in the forest announcing a newly found breakfast bounty. Carrying the paper gently in my hands I’d take in the glory of all that was tangible while hungering for my hot rich cup of coffee. Imagine my luck at not having a machine to reboot?

Back in my kitchen the paper was laid next to fireplace to dry as the silver percolator now installed upon the range began to bubble. The essence of drying newspaper mingling with the pungent odor of fresh coffee is reminiscent to me of hope. Hope the coffee will jolt my neurons into the maximum amount of action and hope that the words printed upon that delicate parchment will be well thought out and informative. Words well executed and fat with information that will allow me to form my own thoughts. Statements and sentiments to savor while drawing on my ownlifes experiences and knowledge of history. Words placed to be perused and pondered, allowing me to gain my own conclusions and form my own opinions . No instant pulsing headline accompanied by an earnest, yet dissatisfied or down right upset picture of the poster accompanied by a hashtag and a link. All blasting at me like a white-hot prod demanding an instant  response. Not something to subtly ponder  or a band of prose to ruminate about during my morning as I collect the fresh eggs from beneath the chickens in their warm   safe coupe. But a leading statement encouraging me to read to respond not to consider. A response that if given, could mean my day would be exalted into the glorious realms of high approval by people I’d never met or cast into the bowels of disapproval hell by, once again, people I’d never met.

But those days of fragrant papers and gentle light have faded. Information comes at me in a million pinpoints of light like the theater version of jumping to hyperspace. I often wonder if my thoughts are truly my own or some Pavlovian response generated without care nor consideration. Quite possibly the latter although I do guard my conscience. As my computer announces an incoming proclamation I hear Sampson, the oldest of my dogs baying out a warning. A peek out the backdoor, coffee cup warming my hand against the day’s chill, reveals he has located a threatening and ominous appearing pine cone. He circles the beast, ruff up. Closes in, takes a sniff and does what in the language of dogs comes natural. He lifts his back leg and drowns it in a steaming golden river. Behind me on the table the computer re-informs me of my message. I look at Sampson  now joyously bounding off towards the forest, smile to myself, head back into my warm kitchen , walk to the table and press the power button to off. Now let’s be honest, I’m just not that tall. But Sampson’s solution did cross my mind.

First Day of Fall

The first day of Fall and it seems like just yesterday I was tearing off my pantyhose in the bathroom at my office and kicking out of my work wardrobe. I’d have  slid myself  into a well worn pair of cutoffs with a soft cotton t shirt and headed out of the city.  The traffic would be terrible as usual, bumper to bumper, as I was rolled down that road to freedom with my a/c blasting on high. I’d recall watching the computer screen fade to black as I switched it off with a “Thank you Lord, this week is done”.

It takes me a good hour to come clear of the city and hit the wide open country side; another just to arrive in the low country. But even if it’s hotter that Hades on the worst day, I’d always pop open the sunroof and roll down the windows just to bathe in that pungent low country air. Yeah, I know its 2017 and I’m a woman now in her mid fifties. I should be getting my nails manicured and awaiting details of grandchildren near and afar. But old dogs don’t like new tricks and I’m pretty much an old dog at this stage, plus I never slowed my roll enough to pop out the first kid, so if a grandchild showed up it would be hell holy miracle. As for the nails, my destination held no future or purpose for a fancy shaping and a fresh coat of polish. I was doing as I’ve always done and heading to the horses . Those gentle beings of peace and power I’d enjoyed in solidarity with many like minded women across the nation, oh give me a break, around the world for as long as my memory serves.  

Now I know many of my business compatriots tend to think a lady of my advanced age and obvious sophistication would be delicately sipping chardonnay and discussing the latest fashions on a patio overlooking a vibrant cityscape on a Friday night. Wrong. A lady of my advanced age and sophistication is whipping her car in to a country convenience store to pick up a twelve pack of beer and two of those she will not delicately sip, but she will slam back as she walks barefoot through the pasture to catch her fat horse.  Once beer two has been chugged the lady of advanced age and now possibly dubious sophistication will feel pretty darn confident that she can just climb on her horse bareback and ride it back to the barn to be saddled. The story might sound a bit better if she rode the fields in a daring manner and  bareback. But a lady of advanced age needs the saddle bags for the rest of the twelve pack.

Now all that being said, there’s possibly nothing better on this earth as I see it than being out under the sky with a summer slick horse between my legs, the sounds of the cicadas singing in the treetops and a cold beer in my hand. Out on this rich black earth I’ve watched the corn go from tender sprouts to giant stalks waving high above my head. I’ve seen a million fireflies dance in the forest that lines the riverbanks and the thick Junes bugs dance in the grasslands . I’ve raced many a storm home across the pastures with lightning cracking across the skies and thunder roaring in the distance. Though I consider this land blessed it often  seems like a million degrees with a hundred percent humidity out in these rich Carolina fields. Even with the cooling of the evening hours sweat still rolls down your chest and drips from your legs. My sassy steed always has a slick sheen of perspiration across her glossy  coat after a day in the sun. The slightest breeze is the most sacred of gifts and from that one is instantly reminded the smallest of things truly count. By this time  I’ve watched the lily pads in the ponds go from vibrant circles of green cast upon the blue black canvas of the water, to green circles with brilliant blooms of pink and white. Crops have sprung to life, kissed the skies for a brief time and fallen to the harvest as rode the edges of their domain  on many a sultry Friday night.  But just like the days in that shimmering summer sun have etched a few more lines upon my face and freckles upon my skin. The memories of those dusky rides have will forever remain the core of my being and that which carries me when the nights become long and the days become short.

 

So on this first day of Fall as the seasons meld into one another and Summer recedes into the past, this lady of advanced age who gives not a whit about sophistication is still going to shed her panty hose at five o’clock, pick up a twelve pack and head for the horses. Yes, she’ll slam two down on the way to catch her fat horse , she’ll look at the leaves just starting to turn with the first blush of Fall and she’ll decide not to ride in bareback this time , but to enjoy the stroll.

The Current

I watched the sunlight ripple across the waters of the eddy pool. Off to my left the ocean roared with the intensity of an untamed lion, but beneath my gaze the trapped saltwater  was gentle and clear. I had tied a piece of fish  to a string hoping to catch the blue crab I’d seen scuttling along the smooth sandy bottom. I tossed my bait watching it rise, arc and then fall into the waters . It sank gently and came to rest on one of the miniature dunes that had formed upon the eddy pools floor. I settled in to rest upon the waters edge gripping my bait attached string and watching  the many schools of minnows hurry by . Quick shadows racing to the shallows and then just as rapidly fleeing to the depths. I let the suns rays warm my face and the steady breeze toss my hair . There I drifted for a bit , allowing my existence here to be nothing more and nothing less.

I was not conciously aware of how long a time passed, maybe a few minutes maybe more. But I had become gentle in the moment, just myself , the cawing of the seabirds whirling above my head and the oceans many vacillating moods . I felt the smallest tug at my string, faint ,yet discernible and I looked towards my bait. The blue crab had found the tasty delight of rotting fish and gripped it with one of its handy claws. It was a lovely crab I noticed. The ivory whiteness of its shell outlined with rich vermillion around the black edges on its claws , the vibrant red slowly fading to gentle pink. Ivory then took over and mingled with many hues of blue. Becoming those of the skies  and then the color of the seas the colors darkened across its back. I watched the crab hold the treasured piece of fish with the largest of its claws and reach with the smaller to pick off a parcel of the flesh which it promptly gobbled up.

The current world faded away from me and disappeared into the background. This moment was just myself,  the sun, the surf and the crab beneath the waters . It picked another sliver of meat off the bait I had deftly secured to the string, held it in its smaller claw and turned. It turned not away from my gaze , but towards it. With that gentle move our eyes met. Mine, the human’s , the predator , the one supposedly at the top of the food chain. It’s, the crab’s , a creeper of the oceans floor , one who could exist above and below the waters, supposedly a mere crustacean , non-sentient. Time slowed between us and I saw the lesser claw extend the prized sliver of fish towards me. An offering perhaps . I had brought the bait , yet we must share. The world beyond our slowed moment in time would say this was crazy . The world beyond our moment would explain this was just a movement against the current. I would now agree with the world. In their perception, I was crazy and this most certainly was a movement against the current.

The blue crab moved towards me not away as it ate my declined offer of  fish. I released the string and let the binding strand float away across the breeze rippling surface of the eddy pool. My eyes stayed locked with gentle being beneath the waters. The crab seemed to sit back as if waiting. I sighed to myself and released all the strings. Cut loose all the bait. Became closer to being my truest essence of self. I let many strings float away that day, under the watchful eyes of the crab as it feasted  upon the decaying fish. I had been attached to the decay to long and now was the time unmake all the unnatural that had been instilled in me. Yes, the world beyond this moment would say I was crazy, but I simply decided to move against the current .

Off to my left the ocean rumbled with a tumultuous crash as the incoming tide breached the edge of the glassy pool opening it up to the wide endless seas beyond . The inflow lifted the crab and it floated. Our eyes stayed locked for one more moment and then it turned to swim the current outwards  towards the freedom of the  seas.  I sighed to myself, arose to my feet, gave a symbolic wave to my departing crab and turned to do the same. To move against the current  and to finally be free.