Tag Archives: senses

Thankful

I have always believed in the existence of two worlds.

First, there was the one for which the blame could be placed at humanity’s feet. It is messy, contentious, sometimes graceless, oftentimes not. Its gears wheeze like a quarrelsome factory.

The other world is the natural one – the verdant, growing and once the only one – that began millennia before man made his debut, his awkward challenge. This is the world that witnessed battalions of formless creatures crawling out of the sea, gasping before their gills disappeared forever.

Now, I find much in our combative world that disappoints; the things that bear the scar of mankind’s twisted humor. This year has been bloated with its indignities.

But to despair, to complain is foolish: for the other, older, world waits outside. All it asks of you is one sense – sight, touch, scent, taste, hearing – in order to share its manifold gifts. It asks that you look at the stars, touch the earth, smell its growing life, taste the air, listen to the beguiling animals.

Can one world outweigh the other? I think so. Nature has her clever ways. Her wit and creativity, her ever-busy mind, will always be an encouragement and an inspiration.

So what can you be thankful for on November 24? Or on any day? Has mankind let you down? Then look to the lady spinning her wonders outside, and she will comfort you.

Then go inside and eat a hearty dinner.

Happy Thanksgiving.

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The Key To The Door

The tree is tall, dark, deep.  The branches sprint upward, higher and higher, spreading like fingers, like rivers:  covering the sky in a gothic fanned vaulting.

The blackness that shows between the leaves seems to go on forever.  Like tar it covers, like glass it distorts, like a book it dares the imagination.  A hundred small forests nestle within the noble tangle of white branches.  I felt that if I reached into those depths I would discover…anything!

I think about this tree often.  It's visually lovely and unusual – true – but it also reminds me of something.  It reminds me of a dream I had, long ago.  One of the first dreams I ever remember having, but I never forgot it.  Because it was perfect.

I was looking up into a sparkling canopy of leaves.  I saw the sun blinking through the branches.  Then, somehow, I was borne upwards; and when my flight was done, my senses of observation had changed.  I saw things, details, that were frankly quite marvelous.  The light I thought I saw did not come from a distant brilliant star, but from brilliant gems, all of them within my grasp:  citrine diamonds, dark jade, clear emeralds.  Delicately nestled within the leaves they sent out white star-like beams, forming a galaxy that hung all around me. 

The rustling I perceived while on the ground wasn't caused by a breeze, but by beautiful sprites and fairies.  They were clothed in rich, earthy colors – sometimes melting into the background and sometimes emerging from it like so many Cheshire cats. 

I never saw their faces; only a gleam of an eye or a glimpse of a smile - a wink, a dimple – but I had the clearest impression of the branches stirring as the little creatures moved to get a closer look at me. 

This dream – thankfully – reoccurred in different forms two or three more times.  Once, I was climbing a snow-covered mountain past flowers growing through a frozen chrystelline blanket, bearing hues not imagined yet; again, I was walking through a field, peering through the high, soft grass – and animals watched me as I passed.

At the time I was too young to see a lesson in these gifts my subconscious had decided to give me.  They were just lovely adventures.  But now, I know exactly what they were trying to tell me.  This was a lesson in perception and imagination:  the closer you look at something, the more wonderful it is very likely to be.

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