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May 27, 2002
A Memorial Day Triad
Three Things to Remember:There is No Holiday of War
Properly construed, there are no Holidays, certainly no holy days, associated with war and its victims. Such memorials are commemorations rather than observations. I am an observer, and will honor what I can see: the presence of the Goddess, manifest upon the face of the Land. Ignorant of our endless battles, Her seasons reiterate a lesson taught across time. In Her, experience and memory are one. But we are forgetful, and if we really remembered our war dead we would honor them by living in peace.
There is No Holiday of Peace
Well worthy of a holiday, but we regard peace as our native state, and war an aberration. Peace is the presupposition of all the Holidays; the soil our way of life is nurtured in. Peace is transparent as water, and as vital; the medium in which we launch our celebrations. A season only appreciated upon leaving.
Today’s Holiday is the Gateway of Summer
So another Spring passes from actuality to memory. It’s been a strange one. Inside out, you could say: hot and dry in April; cold and wet in May. Reservoir levels are creeping up, and it certainly doesn’t feel like we’re in a drought, but there are still water supply concerns to trouble the prospects of Summer.
A fitful Spring, dimmed by the shadow of war. Sporadic and erratic. Frost at the beginning of the season retarded the momentum of the warm Winter; then the heat wave fooled many plants into panic-blooming; coming and going in a hurry, but it was only an advertisement for a Summer yet held in abeyance. Since then we’ve been below average in temperature, and above in precipitation. “We need the rain” is the oft repeated truism, but the weather patterns have not favored my schedule, and I haven’t coincided with the best waves of migrating birds, slipping through when they can. Still, there have been some nice ones, including the Little Blue Heron, a very rare sight in the Park, and the Kentucky Warbler; my thirty-fourth warbler species, leaving only the Golden-winged yet to be found, among those typically expected in our area. And there was the pleasure of sharing a few of these things with friends; the pleasure of sharing Life.
So I’m not complaining, though the Spring is waning, and early morning rambles must give way to the multitudes and their barbecues. The Holiday requires no less. I will remember this Spring, and hope to celebrate another. I will honor the dead, but not their deaths. I will seek to live in peace.
I will step into a further season.
I will remember
three things:
remember War,
remember Peace,
and in between,
the Dead.
In Memoriam;
in Spring,
Immemorial.
May 12, 2002
Mother’s Day
An empty egg, found upon the forest floor.From one of the many Robin’s nests, no doubt. Tossed out after the emergence of the chick, one hopes, though predation is just as likely. Was that the hole where the baby first broke through at birth, or where some rapacious Jay or Grackle broke in to consume it? Motherhood is not without its risks, but every empty egg must fill a heart, and she would lose her own life to save her offspring.
We need ask of ourselves no more than what our Mother has already given.
And still would give again.
Again and again.
Generative of generations, Motherhood is the original repetition, the chorus of the song of Life.
In Spring, Hers is the only aim, no matter that a foolish male gamete may so suppose as to proclaim dominion over land and labors. His mark is but affixed to his subservience. His space; Her place to choose. She may grace him or be gone.
And yet she ever makes the choice and takes the chance, and those of us who have been born are glad.
The Robins are already hatching. They will go on to a second brood; even a third. The egg shards of the past do not concern them. For us, it’s different. We cannot wander far from the womb without a backward, longing look. It’s not so much return we seek, (for that we’ll have to hope ahead,) but the means to repay the debt of birth. This we can hardly do, except to live our lives with Her approval.
Accept Her guidance.
Wonder at Her surprises.
Surely Mother is the wisest.
Or only such a fool
as made a place here in the World
for You.
May 1, 2002
For May Day, I Will Give My Love a Cherry
Today is for the flower, and not the fruit.There is an old seduction song, in riddle form, that begs a cherry without a stone.
No seed but once a flower was; the joke is in continuing to know these things as one.
On May Day do not look away, at changes done and change to come,
For the cherry of the moment is the flower not the stone.
No flesh of fruit, no sustenance; a breath drawn in, but not blown out.
Seduce me with a flower, and feed me on the Sun;
We shall not ask a taste of fruit beyond the act of love.
Or so we say on May Day, heedless; easy; all undone.
We live by fruit; we love by bloom.
Bloom, May!
And then the stone.