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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For those who claim to be defenders of the Second Amendment, let’s insist they embrace the entire provision, the part that mentions a well-regulated militia.
There’s nothing well-regulated in what we’re seeing in the cancer of mass murders resulting from assault rifles. A particular model, at that.
Note, please, that regulated means regulations, first, and their efficient enforcement, second. The Congress that adopted this amendment knew what it was doing, unlike more recent politicians beholden to the gun lobby. As the amendment insists, it’s the militia that shall not be infringed. The well-regulated militia.
By the way, having lived in rural areas, I’ve come to appreciate the place of hunting and knowledgeable hunters in the wild. Some are deeply devoted naturalists, aware and alert in the nuances of their surroundings. Natives have much to teach about the rhythms of their game. I’ve seen how a local hunting and fishing club regulated much of a rural county, keeping irresponsible “sportsmen” away. In Washington state, the return and proliferation of elk can be credited to concerned hunters in conservationist organizations. There’s a role for that culture – one, we should note, that accepts legal limits on its activity.
~*~
These days, I’m thinking more and more about the militia part of the Second Amendment. What if we required all gun owners to be a member of one? Perhaps it would be like the Army Reserve, where each member would have to take so much training each year and put in community service time. Training? First-aid and CPR are always good for the public. We’re far more likely to need those than a gun, anyway. I see this as a kind of auxiliary for public service. Why not?
No exceptions for people who claim to be too busy, either. Someone like Donald Trump would have to put in hands-on time. Public service, indeed.
Living in a temperate zone where green returns after gray slumber, I always find the leafy proliferation a wonder. It’s a festive temple, of sorts, and a comfort.
Restore your soul in its abundance.
~*~
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Rarely do you stand at the summit. It’s a lesson of life.
Even on the trail, the climax awaits, somewhere overhead.
We need something to look up to, from infancy on.
And then there are clouds – or the surrounding range.
Or the streams, threading together, below.
~*~
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The lessons remain:
Not a bad model for a poem, either. Or a whole collection to pack along the way.
~*~
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