You never know what we'll churn up in cleaning a stall
Enter the woods. Listen. Breathe.
Sometimes a woodlot will do. Or a grove along running water.
You don’t always need a forest.
Don’t worry about getting lost. Just pay attention to the trail. And the wind. And the light. Maybe a companion or two. Some of them human.
We’ll talk about holy later.
~*~
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Let me confess to struggling with the preposition for the title of this collection.
The initial thought was of being atop a mountain, with its panoramic views. But that runs the danger of suggesting superiority, submission of nature to man’s will, or placing more value on a given result rather than the process of getting there (and back). The climb, I’ll contend, is purification for what lies ahead.
An alternative “on the mountain” allows for the sense of having one’s feet on a trail or even presenting a series somehow “about” the mountain as a set of explanations.
I settled on “under” for its sense of looking upward, in awe or even reverence, as well as the fact that even in mountainous terrain, we live in the valley, with some degree of protection from the elements. Where the streams come down and weave their threaded branches together. Where at times the clouds nestle in. Where the eyes wander from the summit.
~*~
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Food, shelter, clothing, bedding, cooking gear, toiletries, maps and guidebooks – everything practical, collected, focused – fit on your back. You’re as free as can be, if you make the effort.
Each trek is a revelation you pack home.
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~*~
Chief Seattle, who appears in the Grilled Salmon section of this poetry collection, is an elusive figure in American history. Whether he pulled a fast one is another question, but he did get a major city named in his honor.
As for his role here?
I enjoy his company. I hope you do, too.
~*~
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I keep thinking about the stories children are taught, especially here in America. Carol Bly once wrote of the Scandinavian tales the descendants in Minnesota never heard, unlike the mass-media mishmash they were served. I’m left wondering if Ohio ever had anything like Kokopelli or Coyote from Native American lore and wisdom. I can keep hoping.
The fact is, most Americans are estranged from their roots. We don’t even know where we live, not really.
Forget the Zombie Apocalypse, we rarely know how to select the healthy wild berries. Leave it at that.
As for the hornpipe? It’s a Celtic dance, faster and more complicated than a jig – or gigue, if you insist. But I also like the vision of a pipe carved from a horn and played.
Care to join me for a dance?
~*~
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Much of the time, the character of Jaya in Promise seems to be swimming upstream. Against the current. Toward higher and higher goals.
Sometimes, she just might wonder if it’s all worth it. Or what her alternatives are.
But she continues, just like the migrating salmon in the Katonkah Valley where she finally settles. Maybe it’s just a natural impulse, after all. Her legacy will be what it is.
~*~
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Adam was one and then divided.
He found love and then fought it.
We’re one and once conflict arises, separate.
Only to be reunited. If we’re lucky or just wise up.
It’s one long, rich story with an ever so-short beginning.
It’s a matter of Embracing Eden.
~*~
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You know the usual slant on the Garden of Eden, that it’s all Eve’s fault.
Look more closely, you’ll see it’s the Apostle Paul and Augustine’s reading.
That’s it, blame the woman.
But it’s wrong.
Give me a breather. There’s Jewish tradition, after all. Listen up!
For all of its brevity, it’s a complex story. It’s where humanity – and history – begin.
For my part, I believe it’s only one of many similar gardens – where else do you think their sons found their wives? The only one we’re told of, all the same.
~*~
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Sometimes when you’re writing a work of fiction, you think you know where the story’s going. And sometimes you don’t.
You wind up somewhere, all the same, the way the tracks do. Who sez it can come as a surprise?
~*~
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You know the disclaimer, “Any resemblance of the characters to real people living or dead …” Something along the lines of purely unintentional.
But let’s be frank. The fiction is that you can create a character without having someone real in front of you, somewhere in your past or present. No, you need flesh and blood somewhere. Anything else would be a caricature.
It’s a special problem when you’re composing in a semi-autobiographical vein. You’re trying to be true to the dictum, Write about what you know. The details, especially.
(Oh? What, then, makes it fiction? Other than changing a few dates?)
Admittedly, the personalities work best when you take your inspiration and abstract it, so that a real individual would no longer recognize himself or herself – or those who were no way involved will imagine they, themselves, were.
And, by way of further confession, I’ll note that my most recent outings have led me to new characters lacking immediate introductions for me – but I’ll know them when I meet them if I haven’t already come across them here and there in pieces.
But back to the argument at hand.
I have one character, Nita, who runs through four of my five Hippie Trails novels and is a major character in the new one I’m writing, set years later. She was inspired by impressions I had of a friend’s girlfriend – or more accurately, mostly his impressions conveyed to me at the time – as I sat down to draft a half-dozen years or so later. She becomes a catalyst for much that happens around her.
In reality, we all drifted away.
And then, a few years ago, I met her again.
Nothing like I’d remembered. Or the idealized character in my fiction, now infused with another two or three people I’ve met. The lines blur.
I can say this person never did X, Y, or Z, unlike the character. Or that these two worked together on a controversial project or became known for certain accomplishments. In fact, she doesn’t resemble the other one at all, not anymore, if she ever did.
Still, it’s an eerie feeling. Something other than deja vu. Something still spurring gratitude for the inspiration.
For more on the series, click here.
~*~
Jnana's Red Barn 