For many of you, perhaps the Circle Series is a bit off the mark of my former essays. But I feel, oh so strongly, that the Repeating Patterns of Nature are the prequel to a Life Lesson that is often overlooked. There is such beauty in Nature. Such sustainable goodness, I desire only to point you in the direction of the Wonders Of the World, in a world where perhaps you have lost the ability to wonder, to dream, or to reach beyond your grasp.
For here, in the Spiral, lies the secret once again of the Fibonacci Numbers.
The Golden Ratio.
The miraculous abundance of Mother Nature,
waiting only for recognition and inspiration.
Mathematicians are supposedly closed to anything in the Universe that is not measurable, nor capable of fitting into a Spread Sheet of Academic Reason.
But, alas, the opposite is true,
Mathematicians seek only order and reason, but if they were plied with a cocktail, might readily accede that the Universe is continually expanding and so far out of our reach, that anything, virtually, anything may be possible, and that only our very Human Biases prevent us from the scope of life beyond.
Once in awhile, a mathematician will nod to the Wonder of Mother Nature,by charting the sequence 1,1,2,3,5,8 into diagrams of Spirals,based on what we can see and what we can measure, while open ended enough to perhaps lead us into the Realm Of Inspiration.
If I had unlimited resources, I would seek out Ennio Mariccone to compose a Soundtrack encompassing the emergence of a petal, the spirals of a conch shell, the apportionment of birch tree branches, the pulse of waves breaking on the shore, so we all might pause in our lives, to witness the wonders of a Spiral as it floats and rises in mathematically fluid motions up up up in the comforting repeatingly remarkable patterns of Nature.
Consider the Lilies of the Field.
Or perhaps, the shells on a beach.
The seed pods of an Aster.
If your mind wanders more to the Sounds Of Nature, set yourself down in the sand,and listen to the Tide. The crashing waves of the Sea,penetrate another mathematical Wonder, that of our Choclear Membranes, virtually parallel in design to the Conch Shells lying on the beach.
The Fibonacci Numbers are a reassurance to us all that Life follows a repeating pattern that is not only soothing to the Soul,yet Inspiring to those dreams we send forth into the Night Sky, ever Upward and Hopeful that our Best Efforts at Creativity will be Welcomed.
reach well beyond the limits of Time and Space.
Be a Traveler willing to explore the Brave Unknown.
Rise Rise Rise...
Let Your Dreams Spiral Outside the Limits of Time and Space.
Reach up and Beyond,,,and Seek Only the Unknown...
Be a Daredevil...A Risk Taker...a Dreamer...
And if Ennio Maricccone is needing another Gig, please let him know that the Wonders of the Fibonacci Universe await his musical Genious...
In the meantime...
like a ballerina
spinning on point
the tail of a kite
twisting in the wind
the pattern of a shell
or curlicue of a vine
the steady rise
of a hill
the fingerprint whorl
you leave on your life
the helix of creation
the wonder of individuality
trains the eye
to look upward
Wednesday, March 23, 2016
A Crag is a geographical wonder created by the receding of bitterly cold glaciers, resulting in a deep dark gorge, a gouge in the surface of the Earth, sharp and forbidding. Icy forces shape and shift the ground leaving a gaping open wound. A gap so massive, it seems impossible, that those destined to fall into its maw, may never travel again to the rim.
It seems appropriate somehow, that in this week, when our eyes look to the heavens for a reminder that there is hope for new beginnings, when all seems lost, that we find ourselves once again facing a deep scar in our psyches, and mourning the loss of our global neighbors.
So it is perhaps a time to turn on the lights, to shine sunshine into the darkness, so that the lost, the discouraged, the wounded and the injured,
may find their way up and out of the darkness.
I would like to be a lighthouse emitting a beacon across land and sea.
A message of safe harbor.
A signal to all travelers lost,
foundering on the current,
or stumbling in the darkness,
that there is a way home.
I would shine steadfastly, night after night, through the fog and mist, to remind the solitary wanderer that there is safe passage.
A Morselike code dot dot dot on the horizon,
connecting ship to shore.
Some might find me an annoyance, much too bright a light flooding through their windows, interrupting their sleep, piercing their dreams like the horn of a train, warning, alarming in the still of the night.
There is danger nearby.
A light in the darkness, a lantern’s glow, a flashlight beam, a screaming siren, means no harm. On the contrary, it merely leads to shelter. To a safer place. A place to rest. To moor. To tie up loose ends. To set down roots. To be planted, even if temporarily, until the seas calm, the wind changes direction, or the seasons shift with the tides.
To be a light on the horizon is a glorious gift. To steer others to safety is a true calling.
To stand, ever ready, inches from the pounding sea, stoic and brave as the winds wail churning the surf into a boiling frenzy.
This, this is a calling.
To tower up into the sky. To scan and sweep over the deep dark pitch black night and provide a path, an arrow of celestial light today and tomorrow and forever is a a gift of Love.
A heroic art. A guiding light.
I ask you only to do what we do for our children when they awake in the night, unable to sleep for fear of unseen monsters lurking beneath their bed.
Hug them close. Shine a light into the darkness. Send the monsters scurrying back to their shadowy lair, and promise your children that you are on duty, full time, to insure that their futures, their footsteps, will land on firm ground far from the edge of the Crag.
Simply take their hand and climb the stairs of the Lighthouse, until you both can look out to sea, and are no longer afraid. For in the Light of the Horizon, we can see the edge of the Sun as it rises once again, on a New Day.
grab your gear
the mountain top.
are promises kept.
Keep your word
at a time.
Thursday, March 17, 2016
I have a scar on my left knee, from a crescendi down a No-No-Never-Go-Near-That-Hill on my bicycle, arms and legs outstretched in a virtuoso performance of look-at-me-I-am-flying-solo-aria, in the bruised purple haze of twilight.
I have another tiny white scar arcing over my right eyebrow, after lunging for an out of bounds throw to home plate, in a back-of-the-alley late night game of neighborhood, one size fits all, soft ball.
The scars of life. The markers of risk taking. The miscellaneous tattoos spread over a body signaling momentous moments.
An atlas of the routes not only taken, but the Folly of Fate etched forever into our skin.
Knots. The scars of life.
Knots. Some deserved and some so Not.
A knot in a shoelace. Frustrating yes, yet with patience and resolve, eventually undone.
A crick in the neck.
A sick child.
A bill overdue.
The loss of a parent.
The ever tightening of fists clenched deep in pockets, whatever can I do, should I do, how will I ever undo these Knots, Nots.
Trees have Knots.
Deeply imbedded scars, roughened,
and smoothed over Time.
There are those for whom imperfections should be erased, vanquished, hidden from view.
But fortunately, there are those who celebrate their scars, their permanent markers as a sign of triumph. Triumph over the unexpected. Wounds that heal. Bravery in the face of fear.
Take the time to run your hands over the Knots in the trunk of a tree. The edges are smooth. The lines of wear form a circle of protection. So it is with our bodies and our minds.
We are stronger than we know.
We can bear more than we can carry.
We can heal even the deepest wound...
If we are still.
to breathe in the air and the love that surround us,
and keep us whole.
A tree relies on the continuous flow of the phloem and the xylem, as do we rely on our arteries and our lungs to sustain our health.
In other words... Breathe. Rest. Breathe.
As a young child must fall and rise again in order to walk, so we must be prepared to pitch ourselves forward, secure in the fact that what hurts now, may in the future, be our saving grace.
curled like a fist in the side of an oak
a tangle of weeds
muddy river bottoms
the harder we try
the tighter the knot
time to be loose
to savor your own existence
Wednesday, March 9, 2016
I have written in the past of my tree gazing in search of quiet contentment and strength. However, one fine afternoon, I fell in love with the solitary leaf swaying in the wind, exactly opposite the movement of its fellow companions.
Humming perhaps a tune only it could hear, one so soul stirring that it pulsed and waved and fluttered, unaware of the glaring stares from surrounding foliage.
To quote myself from February 2014:
In one direction.
All but one.
One leaf did not lean.
One leaf on a low branch even with my stare, fluttered like a hummingbird's wings. Vibrated. As if tuned to a different key, singing like a diva, like that one voice in a children's choir that floats above the chorus, in perfect harmony, separated by a decibel.
Same breeze. Same dynamic. Same melody.
A different rhythm.
That little green wiggling machine shimmied and shook.
I swear you could see all the other leaves roll their eyes,
casting down aspersions,
or whatever leaves do when one of their own gets caught acting out.
The little leaf never leaned in unison.
Right or left.
It simply scampered to the tune it heard playing.
Every single time.
So it goes in the Circle Series.
There is nothing wrong in a Meander.
Veering off course.
Moving in a new direction, singing a different tune,
letting the wind toss you about in a frenzy that builds from within.
Perhaps this is Nature’s way of reminding us that there are many paths on which to make this Circular Journey, and not all signs and signals, while popular with the crowd, are those we should choose.
A Meander is indeed merely an exercise in risk taking, listening to our own voice, and if nothing else, a moment of playfulness, in a very serious world.
When answers evade you
take a stroll
go on a journey
for your soul.
See the tiny tendrils
of nature’s flowers,
like a lock of hair
out of place,
to their inner rhythm,
Shades of color softly
tall and short,
wide and slim,
Wind and weave
You will find your way back
Tuesday, March 1, 2016
Trees fascinate me.
From their toes buried deep beneath the earth, to the ends of their leafy fingertips.
To start out so small, merely a seed in the palm of one’s hand, surviving the elements and rising, soaring to great heights, supported by a root system so deep, curling under the soil, no matter the climate, is to me, a herculean task.
To believe in oneself so assuredly, that this, this is the place to set down roots, to aspire, to compete for air and sun and moisture, is no insignificant task.
To be a tree requires strength, stamina and spine.
The requirements for success are a crap shoot at best, set amid the passions of other trees similarly pointed skyward in an attempt to beat the odds and the whim of Mother Nature. But those trees, those deeply rooted in the soil, rise heavenward, toward the light source, toward the heat, then the cool, and soon, if lucky, if fortunate in the growing season...
put forth branches.
Branches, splitting off from the Mother Stem, secure in her faith and willing to stretch out into whatever crevices and corners await, seek only to find their own sunlight, their own singular grasp and reach.
Branches, however, know that they too are vital to the tree and its continued existence. Branches unfold and jut out in a desire to be different from, yet a product of their origin.
Branches, therefore, are a gift from the central figure, waving in the wind as they reach toward the sun.
For those of us seeking the edges of the universe,
branches are a safe place to explore.
Branches support our weight, lead us upward in the climb, and best of all, provide a window seat to life, the world of dreams and hope.
Branches support our weight as we shimmy and shuffle up into the sky, and provide a haven to rest, to dangle our legs, to pause in our dreaming, fully assured that the weight of these fanciful dreams cannot damage the strength of our roots.
In these bows, in these branches are the extension of the parent. The dreams of the Father. The visions of the Mother. Yet, here in these branches lie the fantasies of Youth. Reaching ever upward, thinking childishly, that no one has ever longed, ever desired, to be bigger, taller more robust than the parent.
But if truth be told, every Mother, every Father, longs for a miniscule break in the day-to-day struggle, to join these young shoots in a simple afternoon of folly, swinging freely, letting the breeze cool their anxiousness, as the whispers of a bedtime story fills the air, and a friendly owl comes to rest between the stem and the branch to hoot into the wilderness...
Does anyone know how much I long to stretch and grow and become....
where would we be
to sit upon
and swing our legs?
where would we be
unafraid to reach up
to look skyward and beyond?
the river flows steadily
we are whole
and from this base
of inner strength
we can flex new muscles
split off in new directions
and become those
elegant and soaring oaks
we love to climb
one limb at a time