Author: admin

May you get all your wishes except one so you’ll still have something to strive for.  And may the saddest day of your future be no worse than the happiest day of your past.  (Irish Blessing)

Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul and sings the tune without words . . . And never stops at all.  (Emily Dickinson)

A few years ago, we hosted a couple of young college baseball players who were spending their summer playing for our town’s farm league.  They rose at noon, and then were engaged in practice or games or other baseball related activities until midnight. They read to children at the town library, led and participated in baseball camps for little leaguers, and generally immersed themselves in our all-American game for the entire summer — they ate, drank, and lived baseball.  They loved baseball.  And while they both professed the ambition to be coaches some day, underneath those words we could sense a wistful,  “if I could just get good enough, I could play in the big leagues.”

When I was a little girl, I would sit for long hours on our back porch with my older sister who would be spending her summer painting wooden lawn ornaments for my carpenter grandfather.  Being too young to paint, I would entertain myself by memorizing baseball facts — my sister was an avid baseball fan, and felt it incumbent upon herself to teach her little sister everything she could about baseball, from the 1954 New York Giants’ batting roster to all the stanzas of “Casey at the Bat.”

And can you believe I still remember both?  From Willie Mays to Al Dark — and of course the famous saga of the heroic Casey.  I won’t subject my beloved reader to all the stanzas (altho’ I would like to!), but suffice it to say that this epic classic poem by Ernest Lawrence Thayer is, for baseball fans, a paean to hope  and heroism.  From its beginnings . . .

The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Mudville nine that day; the score stood four to two, with but one inning left to play . . . . (the fans) clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast; they thought, “If only Casey could get a whack at that — we’d put up even money now, with Casey at the bat.”

To its middle . . .

. . . from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell; it rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell; it pounded on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat; for Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

To its ending . . .

. . .Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright, the band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light; and somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout; but there is no joy in Mudville — mighty Casey has struck out.

. . . it is a poem about hope.  The hope that our “boys of summer” had, even if hidden from others, and  maybe even themselves, hope that they might just “make it” someday.

Baseball is about hope.  Through long, hot, endless days of summer, through 162 games for the major leagues, through a game’s nine slow innings that my husband says can be like watching paint dry, through endless years of practice and more practice for those hoping to make it to the majors — wow.  And then through having the courage to keep on keeping on in the face of times like Casey’s descent . . . Because there’s always next year!

And hope that gave our boys the grace and generosity to spend long hours with even younger boys, giving them the training and encouragement to keep on keeping on in a game they loved.  Giving them the gift of an optimistic spirit. . .

Here’s to Summer’s long hot days . . . Here’s to baseball . . . Here’s to Hope!

 

 

 

 

Be ready at all times for the gifts of God, and always for new ones.  (Meister Eckhardt)

Maybe the angels we wrestle with are those that bring us what  we need rather than what we think we want.

During our time at the Shore, I’ve found myself getting up even earlier than usual to avoid the later mugginess of the day. The air is heavy and still even at that hour, and this morning not even the faintest hint of a breeze stirred the tall shade trees with which our place is fortunately blessed. As I sat there watching the light come, I was amused by all the shenanigans of the birds and squirrels that inhabit those trees.  One particular mockingbird had evidently declared all-out warfare on an intrusive squirrel; as the squirrel ran in frenzied, hysterically-squirrelly circles, the mockingbird dove repeatedly at it in a fantastic display of swooping aerial dives.  It was all ole Hank-Dog could do to contain himself from joining the party.  There was no seeming victor, and as I’ve already learned, the same game will be repeated again and again.

Intrigued by these blatant displays of territoriality, I was reminded of relationship squabbles, right fresh on my mind since my husband, me, Hank-Dog, and two cats make for a tight squeeze in a fifth wheel camper, with lots of possibilities for frayed tempers and snarling encounters.

Seven years ago, I married for the second time to someone about as unlike me in terms of history, experience, and personality as I could have chosen.  We knew it probably wasn’t gonna be the most peaceful of journeys together, as we were both strong-minded individuals with full lives of our own.   And sure enough, our own displays of territoriality make mockingbird-squirrel wars look like old time love fests.  After 60-70 years of totally different histories, we are both often convinced that “My way is best.”

A sense of humor helps, as do a sense of proportion and perspective, and believing, as we both do, that there are no coincidences, and that those we are closest to are our greatest teachers, and as such, a profound gift from God.

Relationships ain’t no piece a cake, tho’, no matter at what age they begin, or how long they’ve lasted.  Most of us were insufficiently mirrored by loving, affirmative parents or caregivers, and as a result, ask of our significant other that we be loved in a desired way, rather than accepting what our partner may have to offer.  And as a result, and if we’re honest, it’s inevitable that along with the sweetness of communion in relationship must lie the bitterness of frustration.  Remembering all this can make those relationship “issues” seem as normal and inevitable as those mockingbird-squirrel wars.  And keep you from pulling your hair out.

Relationship can be the arena for learning and growing, and giving up what we are for what we can become, for the enlargement of the soul.  The experience of the other as a ‘Thou’ is probably the ultimate challenge of a relationship.  I remind myself of this every day as I engage in some frenzied squirrelly behavior and mockingbird swoops myself.

 

 

 

Bread when I’m hungry . . . A shelter from troubled winds . . . An anchor in life’s ocean . . .  (Don Williams)

The gentleman of easy-listenin’ country music, Don Williams, got it right with his images of friendship.  Having lost four of my best friends in recent years, and with several others living far away and/or coping with painful situations, I can’t express how much I miss them.  And how much I long for the closeness of that kind of friendship. . .

Many years ago, some friends and I put together a little book on friendship, in which we tried to express what fun being friends was, the shared joy and laughter and sheer pleasure in being together. Following are some excerpts:

A Friend . . .

-always says your hair looks good, and never notices the “roots.”

-agrees that the camera adds at least 20 pounds, and says,  “Oh, those jeans are always a little tight when they come out of the dryer.”

-is always glad to see you, and can make you feel better just by walking into a room.

-makes any day a special day.

-gets enthusiastic about your ideas.

-shares secrets and friends with you.

-has unplanned adventures with you.

-understands your neuroses, cuts your pie and makes your coffee perfect, and folds your towels the way you fold them.

-keeps quiet when you go off on your latest nutritional tangent — maybe even joins you.

-never lets you move into that “stockings around your ankles” stage of absent-mindedness.

-understands your sensitive areas.

-never repeats a confidence, even without being asked.

-never says “I told you so.”

-keeps in touch over the years, and cherishes your letters and phone calls.

-laughs with you even when she doesn’t know what you’re laughing about.

-will drive miles to have coffee-on-the-porch with you at 5 a.m..

-waits with bated breath for your next idea, and remembers your mutterings.

-likes everything you cook, and knows what not to cook for you.

-never tells you anything “for your own good,” and always knows when and where to tell you the truth, and when to keep quiet.

-listens to your dreams, maybe even interprets them!

-gives you magic wands.

-keeps you grounded.

-enjoys your sense of humor, and even understands it!

-accepts you exactly as you are.

-remembers with you.

-“loves” your animals, understands your relatives, and puts up with your spouse and/or pets (but maybe not in that order!)

-understands when you go to bed at 7:30 p.m. during her New Year’s Eve party.

– knows what you really mean when you say,  “I’m going to bed to read.”

-surprises you with something special even when it’s not your birthday.

– never says,  “yes, you did,” when you ask  “have I told you this story?”

– laughs at your jokes with you, no matter how many times you’ve told them.

-overlooks your lack of tact, and all those faux pas.

-actually enjoys looking at your photographs.

-lets you drive her new car.

-commiserates about your aches and pains, and puts up with any and all whining.

-helps you spend your money.

-has her aura photographed with you.

-likes and encourages your “artwork.”

-watches your luggage for you at the airport when you have to go to the bathroom, and keeps your pets when you travel.

-travels with you.

-politely looks away when you swig Pepto-Bismol straight from the bottle.

-remembers your birthday, and celebrates with you, in person or not.

– listens, shares, cares, encourages, and is always there for you through all your ups and downs.

-strips 35 coats of paint from your kitchen cupboards, and smiles while doing it.

-winds your cuckoo clock for you, for real, and “metaphorically-speaking.”

-farm-sits for you, is your maid/cook/yard-person while a house guest, and cleans the cat hairs at least a little when you’re coming back from a trip.

– brings you chocolate.

-sits in the back of the car when necessary — with the dogs!

-tells you when you have spinach between your teeth, and if you need to tone down the makeup.

-makes the sun shine on a cloudy day.

-accepts you exactly as you are, will do anything for you, and supports you during life’s adventures.

(Dedicated to all those friends, old and new, in this world or the next, who have graced my life with their friendship and given me the gift of being able to share their love and laughter, and especially to all those who put this little book together back in 1995.  You are, and have been, bread when I’m hungry, a shelter from troubled winds, and an anchor in life’s ocean.  I wish you were all here, and I love you always!)

 

 

 

 

 

 

To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:  a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down,and a time to build up; a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing; a time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away; a time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak; a time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.  ( Ecclesiastes, KJV)

Summer arrived this week, and in our neck of the woods, it arrived in the midst of major rains, storms, wind, lightnin’ and thunder, and flooded roads. We happened to be at an RV park at the Shore to greet the Solstice, and we sat in RVs perched atop a flooded plain, lonely metal islands reflected in the flood waters covering much of the park.  And my sister, who’s minding the farm, called to say, that yep, the nearby lake had flooded and taken out our farm lane.

Summer.  Summertime, and the livin’ is (supposedly) easy.  Everything buzzes and hums — birds are flitting about, dive-bombing unwary cats (or husbands) who happen by bird-babies learning to fly.  Insects are swarming, and it’s time to wear white socks well-lacquered down with Deet to avoid the voracious ticks and fleas that lurk in our woods.  Mosquitoes breed happily in all that standing water, while news folks do their best to paint dreadful warnings about all the diseases their tiny little bodies carry.  Growth is rampant — what with all the rain, everything is a green tangle of vines, briars, flowers, vegetables, and weeds. The sultriness of heat and humidity at its peak — the time of lushness, fullness, ripening . . .

Summer.  Life is burgeoning — I suspect rats have set up housekeeping in the barn (a single female can produce 10 litters 10 times a year, which means that one pair of rats has the potential of adding 350 million offspring in three years — ack!)  Japanese beetles will soon make their appearance, and proceed to chomp and chow down anything left by the wet-weather snails and slugs — except the weeds. Giant clouds of pesky gnats swarm eagerly to exposed flesh, and newborn kittens and humongous zucchinis alike appear as if by magic, dropped off by unseen donors.

Summer. The days have lengthened until long, hot days invite hammock or beach time. Sweat.  Laziness. Frustrations. Hot tempers. Vacations.  Family reunions. Picnics. Yard sales.  Wet bathing suits and mildewing towels. Mold growing in your basement.

Summer.  Life that won’t be controlled according to our careful designs.  A season of rapid growth and change when you’re just not sure what’s gonna happen. Beauty amidst chaos.

Summer just doesn’t happen in our outer, physical worlds, but in our inner journeys as well.  The wonderful, but sometimes too-muchness of life. . . Maybe summertime angels are those whose only job is to make sure we don’t get too comfortable and fall asleep and miss our lives.  And maybe when they make their appearance, the best we can do is hang on for an adventure and without a doubt, a bumpy ride.  What helps during this season of rapid growth and change in the inner as well as the outer?  Being gentle with yourself and everyone around you.  Following that wonderful old piece of advice:  be kind, everyone is having a difficult time.  Lightening up.  Softening up.  Loosening the tangles.  Letting go of the need to control people or events.  Becoming one with the dusty (or right now, muddy) world.

Laughter.

And treating yourself with compassion, and appreciating the rare and precious person that you are.  One of a kind.  With your own guardian angel, your own precious soul, which is doubtlessly summoning you to an adventure of which you haven’t even dreamed.

That could be darned scary.  Or maybe ultimately frustrating when you’ve got plans of your own.  But a summons from the soul?  What could be better than that?

Summer . . .

. . . And always, underneath, something grows . . . Outside the rows of the planned for . . . Waken me, please, to the exquisite, elegant weed.

 

Lift it all up.  And then your roots will go down and all will be green and fresh.  (Elizabeth Goudge)

COTP — or Coffee-0n-The Porch — is one of my favorite traditions that has evolved over the forty years I’ve spent here on the farm.  Whoever is here (and at least semi-awake) gather on the porch overlooking the mountain in the early half-light of dawn, sometimes wrapped in quilts, sometimes barefoot, and listen to the birds singing sleepy secrets, and watch the deer graze on the edge of the woods, and fend off the cats who are all too eager to have-a-little-cream-forget-the-coffee-thank-you.  It’s been a time to laugh and to share dreams and reflections and to enter gently into the day.

We don’t have nearly as many comings and goings at the farm these days as we used to, so now, more often than not, it’s just me and our 100 pound Heinz-57 rescue dog Hank enjoying the scene and exchanging deep thoughts.  This morning I was contemplating the dismaying fact that, yep, I’m growing older — there are creaks where there used to be leaps, and hearing is “hard”; seeing has a little AMD, the doc cheerfully tells me; and my bones are getting brittle.  Knees don’t work quite the way they used to either, and starting off in what I think is a linear direction sometimes turns out to be a little zig-zaggy.  Hank wasn’t much interested in this line of thought, so I was left to stew in my own juice.

Brooding on growing older doesn’t make for an uplifting start to the day, so I gave myself what my mother called “a good talking-to.”  This moment is all I have, I told myself, this precious moment, wrapped in the green and gold of early morning, a soft mist falling, a mockingbird singing its heart out from a nearby tree, Hank’s head on my foot.  And on this morning, as I stared into the green, and concentrated on the aroma of the coffee, my fears about the future, my regrets about the past, everyday concerns faded away.

It doesn’t always happen that way.  My version of “mindfulness” doesn’t always work, and I’m often less than successful in being in the moment.  I am a worrier, and given an opportunity can obsess about almost anything.  But you know, I asked my mom one time why she “worried” so much, and she smiled and said that was her way of praying.  So now I don’t worry so much about worrying — it becomes a conversation, and the green and the birdsong and the aroma of the coffee and the warmth of Hank nearby  become part of the Whole.

 

 

 

Sometimes the smallest things take up the most room in your heart.  (A.A. Milne)

We have added a new member to the farm gang, a seven week old kitten, who goes by the name of Pickles — Pickles, because she had truly ended up “in a pickle,” having to be rescued from a hollow tree by a human with kind hands and heart (and incidentally, a great blogger — find her at amyjschultz.com).  Pickles eventually found her way to the farm, and following some tummy maladies, probably from ingesting too many hollow-tree-critters, she has settled into happily making friends, undeterred by the tough initiation rites of the farm gang.

Since I don’t believe in coincidences, and since I treasure those animals who find their way to me, I’m sure she’s here for a reason. Her beginnings made me think of Robin Hood, whose merry gang hung out in a hollow tree in Sherwood Forest, I think. And Robin Hood made me think of Pooh Bear because he and his buddies inhabited another woods, the 100 Acre Woods.  And Pooh Bear made me think of friendship, and how some of my most wonderful friends have been, and are, animals.  Bringing me back to Pickles’ arrival!

Loose associations aside, I cherish A.A. Milne’s beloved Winnie the Pooh, maybe more so since I discovered it in adulthood.  Pooh is a Bear of Little Brain, but very great wisdom.  He and his very small companion Piglet have one of the most wonderful friendships in literature.  On this day, with Pickles snuggled onto my shoulder, I offer you some of the best stuff that will ever appear in this space, snippets from conversations between Pooh and Piglet.

“What day is it?”  asked Pooh.   “It’s Today,”  squeaked Piglet   “My favorite day,”  said Pooh.

*

Piglet noticed that even though he had a very small heart, it could hold a rather large amount of gratitude.

*

“You’re braver than you believe and stronger than you think you are.”

*

“People say nothing is impossible, but I do nothing every day.”  (Pooh)

*

“The things that make me different are the things that make me.”   (Piglet)

*

“When you wake up in the morning, Pooh,”  said Piglet at last,  “what’s the first thing you say to yourself?”    “What’s for breakfast?”  said Pooh.   “What do you say, Piglet?”    “I say, I wonder what’s going to happen exciting today,”  said Piglet.   Pooh nodded thoughtfully.  “It’s the same thing,”  he said.”

*

” I am not lost, for I know where I am.  But however, where I am may be lost.”  (Pooh)

*

“Rivers know this:  there is no hurry.  We shall get there some day.”  (Pooh)

*

“If the person you are talking to doesn’t appear to be listening, be patient.  It may simply be that he has a small piece of fluff in his ear.”  (Pooh)

*

Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind.   “Pooh!”  he whispered.   “Yes, Piglet?”   “Nothing,”  said Piglet, taking Pooh’s paw.  “I just wanted to be sure of you.”

*

“I don’t feel very much like Pooh today,”  said Pooh.   “There, there,”  said Piglet.  ” I’ll bring you some tea and honey until you do.”

*

“If you live to be a hundred, I want to live to be a hundred minus one day so I never have to live without you.”

*

“When you are a Bear of Very Little Brain, and you Think Things, you find sometimes that a Thing which seemed very Thingish inside you is quite different when it gets out into the open and has other people looking at it.”  (Pooh)

*

“How lucky I am to have something that makes saying good-bye so hard.”  (Pooh)

*

“We’ll be Friends Forever, won’t we, Pooh?”  asked Piglet.   “Even longer,”  Pooh answered.

                     

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, as the swift seasons roll!  (Oliver Wendell Holmes)

When I was in graduate school, for awhile I dated a weatherman (not part of the ’60s radical group, but rather a meteorologist).  The thing I liked best about him was his excitement and infectious enthusiasm about any phenomenon in weather. I especially remember his leaping to his feet in the middle of a dinner-date,  and rushing out onto the porch to stand, arms upraised, to experience a sudden hailstorm.

And, at the risk of being hopelessly old-timerish, isn’t The Weather Channel some of the best drama around??

The weather that is “ourselves” can be equally fascinating. The bright sunny days, the dark moody ones. The sudden intense rainstorms, the occasional tornado, the devastating hurricane.  Even as you read these descriptions, don’t you just know how each of those feel in yourself?  All these meteorological events occur in us psychically as well:  low pressure centers develop— our moods darken, become threatening, low level depression creates a heavy burdensome quality to our lives.  This “low pressure center” within us may develop into a violent storminess or outburst of temper or emotion — probably we all have experienced an upheaval of emotion that felt tornado-ish in quality.

Our inner journey, with all its detours, blind alleys, and wrong turnings, can be as discombobulating as natural upheavals can. But if we can hold for ourselves (or for another), a safe, stable container  (such as a tornado shelter) while we or they are going through all the wild emotions that sometimes occur, we can find or be a still point of security when chaos threatens. But in order to hold that container for ourselves or for others, we need to believe firmly in the human capacity to transcend great pain or loss; we have to know that “this too shall pass,” that all things are seasonal, we have to put our faith in something beyond just the pain and chaos.

Perhaps when it seems as if we are able to do nothing at all to help ourselves or another who is going through a difficult time, it may be that we are giving ourselves or them the greatest service of all if we can “hold the hope” and the knowing, that, in the words of Julian of Norwich:  All will be well, and all will be well, and all manner of things shall be well.

And it helps if, like my meteorologist friend, we are endlessly fascinated and deeply appreciative of the “weather that is ourselves,” keeping a sense of proportion and maybe even a sense of humor about the temporary drama of it all.

 

 

       Just to be is a blessing.  Just to live is holy.  (Abraham Meschel)

I first met Krispy Kreme and her four little donut fur balls, Nutella, Sprinkles, Bearpaw, and Peeps on April Fool’s Day in the waiting room of a local animal rescue group. They had all been brought to the shelter  when the death of an elderly woman had revealed the multitude of cats she had been trying to sustain and support.  Now Krispy and her newborns had been brought to Cat’s Cradle to seek their fortune, and I was going to foster them until they were old enough to be adopted.

Krispy Kreme (I know, don’t ask — do you think a morning box of donuts might have been sitting on the counter when the rescue worker assigned them names??) was a diminutive gray and white, delicate and fragile, hardly more than a kitten herself.  She was sweet and docile in the waiting room, but as soon as I let her out of her carrier at home, she went totally crackers. Never had I seen a cat climb vertical sheet rock walls before.  I stared in bemused amazement as I watched her cling to the ceiling molding with her claws for long minutes before she seemed to concede defeat, and slither down the wall to slink to her babies, who by this time were emitting loud wails of displeasure.  For one day old, they did well in calling their young mom to task.

Three of the kittens were Krispy’s, and the fourth, Peeps (have you ever seen or heard tell of a ‘Peeps’ donut? — not I, and I smiled every time I thought about a Peeps’ Easter candy perched on top of  a donut — if I ever see one, I’m for sure gonna get it!), was adopted from a mom who had run off before being captured.  I imagined Krispy’s human response would have been “in for a penny, in for a pound — what’s one more.”

Krispy, for all her youth and inexperience, turned out to be a fantastic mom, hardly ever leaving the newborns, except to hurriedly swallow a few mouthfuls of food and tend to litter box needs.  As they grew, and became the furry terrorists that all kittens are to their moms, she patiently let them chew on her ears, and chase her tail, subjecting her to all kinds of torture, while she endlessly groomed and tenderly cared for them.

One by one, and as they got old enough, the kittens were adopted. In fact, the “girls,” Nutella and Sprinkles, were adopted by the same family, and big ole he-guy Bearpaw, who lived up to his name, became the companion of another guy, a college student.  Soon only Krispy and Peeps were left, and he became the recipient of all her tender care and nurturance.  Did he become a little spoiled?  You better believe it!

Finally I was told Krispy would have to be returned to the rescue group since Peeps needed weaning, and I reluctantly took her in, afraid that no one would ever adopt this scrawny, skinny little mother cat, when there were so many cute little kittens to be adopted.  But imagine my delight when within a week, I was told that Krispy Kreme had also been adopted!

And so Peeps wouldn’t get a complex over being the only one left, I decided to adopt him myself, adding him to the farm gang.  Our thugs accepted him none-too-readily, and, even though he has grown into a large, strong adult, they still lurk around corners to catch him unawares — it’s the principle of the thing, you know? — he’s the youngest.

Is there a moral, or even a point to this story?  Nope.  As Mr. Peeps lies curled up on my shoulder, watching the magic of the letters appearing, and putting out a tentative paw to see if he can catch them, I just wanted to share a piece of the joy that a couple of retired shrinks have been blessed with by being able to share the lives of some furry donuts over the last year.

 

 

 

 

Where love reigns, there is no will to power; and where the will to power is paramount, love is lacking.  (C.G. Jung)

My earliest remembrances of animals are those of chickens, tiny puffs of colored down that my sister and I would get for Easter.  I would name them and give them all the lavish love that my stoic and troubled family were too preoccupied to receive.  Satan, Brainy, Goldy  — their bones still live in the grounds of my childhood home where we buried them with great ceremony when they died.

One of these chicks imprinted itself to me and followed me everywhere, its loyalty and allegiance to me beyond anything I had ever known. Mine.  It was mine. I cannot remember her name, but she lies embedded in my soul, for I inadvertently killed her.  One day she was under the old day bed on our back porch and would not come to me when I called. Imperious, bloated with the power and willfulness of a three year old, I used the broom to poke at her, to “make” her come to me. The next thing I can remember is my older sister’s exclamation: “You killed her,” and my numb denial that I didn’t, I didn’t. I loved her, how could I have killed her?  There is still an altar built to her in my innermost being, for it was one of my first lessons about possession and holding something too tightly, about the will to power and control that lies in the way of love.

Although I can no longer remember her name, her wild peeps of delight as she followed in my tracks still haunt me today, reminding me, reminding me . . .  How many times since then have I used control so destructively?

The following story about love as opposed to power and control is taken from Rachel Remen’s deeply moving book, My Grandfather’s Blessings; she attributes the origin to either Rabbi Nachman of Bratslev, or the Sufis.  It was sent to her by one of her patients, a young man whom she had patiently seen for five years as he slowly emerged from his withdrawn silence into a sense of his unique personhood.

Once upon a time there was a kingdom of great abundance.  The fields grew crops twice the size of normal fruits and vegetables, the cows gave cream instead of milk, and the people were productive and happy.  The pride of this kingdom was the young prince, the only child of the king and queen.  The hopes of everyone were pinned on this  stellar young man, and when he walked in the street, the people murmured to one another,  “How perfect he is in every way. What a perfect king he will make someday.”  The prince spent almost all his time studying with those who were teaching him how to be the perfect King.

All went well in the kingdom until one day the young prince could not be found. Courtiers searched the palace.  “The prince is missing!” flew from lip to lip, and people everywhere were in despair. The distraught king and queen ran through the thousand rooms of the palace calling the prince’s name. There was no answer.  Eventually a little serving maid, sweeping the Great Hall, happened to look under the banquet table and saw the prince there. He was stark naked. “Sire,”  she gasped in alarm,  “What are you doing under there?  Where are your clothes?” 

“I am a chicken,”  the prince told her.  “I do not need any clothes.”  Upon hearing this, she ran shrieking to the king and queen, saying that she had found the prince and that he had gone mad.

The entire castle gathered in the Hall to see this tragedy for themselves.  People tried to persuade the prince to come out from under the table, or even to put on his clothes, but he refused, saying only that he was a chicken.  They tried to tempt him out from under the table with the finest of foods, but he would not eat.  “I am a chicken,”  he told them.  Eventually the little serving maid scattered a handful of corn under the table and the prince ate gratefully.

The kingdom was in chaos.  The king sent out a call for wise men to come to heal the prince’s madness, and many responded.  One by one, they spoke to the prince, trying to convince him that he was not a chicken, and one by one they left defeated. “I am a chicken,”  the prince told them all.

At last the supply of wise men was exhausted, and the king did not know where else to turn.  One day, an old farm woman asked for an audience with the king.  “I will cure your son,”  she told him.  The king looked dubious.  “Are you a wise woman?”  he asked her.  “No,”  she said.  “A scholar?”  “No,”  she said again.  “Then how will you cure my son?”  

” I will cure your son because I understand chickens.”

What is the harm, the king thought, we have tried everything else.  And so he commanded a page to show the old woman the Great Hall.

As soon as she entered the Hall, the old woman removed all her clothes, crept under the table, and sat down next to the prince.  The prince looked at her and said nothing.  In a little while, a servant came and scattered a few handfuls of corn and when the prince began to eat, the old woman also pecked at the corn.  They sat together in silence for some time longer. Finally the prince said to the old woman,  “Who are you?”

“And you?”  she replied,  “Who are you?”

“I am a chicken,”  said the prince.

“Ah,”  said the old woman,  “I am a chicken, too.”

The prince thought about this for several days.  Gradually he began to talk to the old woman about the things that are important to chickens, things that are different from the things important to men.  She understood as only another chicken could understand.  They spoke not about the world as it is but about the world as it could be.  They became friends.

After several weeks, the old woman called to one of the serving girls and told her to bring some clothes.  When the clothes arrived, she dressed herself.  The prince was horrified.  “You have betrayed me!”  he shouted.  “You told me you were a chicken.”

“But I am a chicken,”  said the old woman.  “I can wear clothes and still be a chicken.”  The prince thought about this for some time.  Then he turned to the pile of clothing and dressed himself also.  They continued their conversation as before and ate corn together as before.

After a few days more, the old woman called to one of the serving girls and told her to bring a fine meal and set it on the table.  When the meal arrived, she crawled out from under the table and, sitting in a chair, began to eat.  The prince was appalled.  “You have lied to me!”  he shouted.  “You told me you were a chicken!”  “But I am a chicken,”  said the old woman.  “I can sit at a table and eat and still be a chicken.”  The prince thought about this for some time.  Then he, too, crawled out from under the table and joined the old woman.  They ate in silence for some time.  Then the prince began to laugh.  For all we know he is laughing still.

The story has a very happy ending.  The prince went on to become the greatest king the kingdom had ever known.  Under his rule, freedom grew in the kingdom much the way that peaches and potatoes had grown in the past.  Each person became free to be the person that they were meant to be, and the people who had once been productive and happy became wise.

The king was thrilled with the old woman’s success.  He called her to him and offered her any reward she wanted if she would tell him how she had convinced the prince that he was not a chicken.  But she shook her head and left his presence empty-handed.

Remen reminds us that in order to offer love to others, in order to “bless the life and light” in them, we must deeply respect their uniqueness and be willing to meet them where they are, rather than expecting that they be where we are.  She had supported her young patient’s integrity in much the same way the old farm woman had supported the prince, and suggests that perhaps, in the end, we are all chickens.

 

 

 

The 

 

 

Think of your head as an unsafe neighborhood; don’t go there alone.  (A. Borroughs)

My bed is so crowded with a jumble of thoughts that there is no room for me to find a comfortable nest amidst the tousled bedcovers. As a result, my head takes up such an inordinate amount of bed-space that my legs are twisted and twitchy and complaining, wanting more room.

****

Have you ever named your Shadow?  You know, the one who gets hooked and snagged on edges of things like a doorknob or other people’s opinions?  You have to hold her maybe closer than you’d like because she has a tendency to flap and flop about in the most annoying ways, making it well-nigh impossible for you not to be seen when you’d prefer to remain unnoticed. Mine has told me her name is YummyGas, an acronym  for “You have obviously Mistaken Me for someone who Gives a S*^.”

****

To be abandoned on top of an advanced ski slope when I can’t ski impresses me as a heinous deed indeed. Surely not an isolated event. But maybe he enjoyed the peace and quiet.

****

I dance so eloquently about the point that by the time I am ready to make it, I have forgotten what it is.

****

Have you ever been asked your opinion in a group of people and you have a snowy second when you can’t even remember your own name?  Those “snowy seconds” are becoming more frequent, I find.  Anti-allergy medication-miasma or advancing years, I wonder . . .

****

Lightning struck while I was on the toilet this morning and I realized Aristotle was a sarcastic sucker. Daring to suggest that my finer self is truly who I am, while my lesser virtues are caused by outer circumstances — humph. My hyper-sensitive-sarcasm odometer was on alert.  But I do want my way. Particularly in the springtime.

****

“Oh, really,”  I say.

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“How interesting,”  I murmur.

“H’mmm.”

Maybe, Mr. ASOB-TV-Commentator, I’m thinking, l should no longer let you take advantage of my good nature by listening to your ill-informed opinions and endless rhetoric.

****

Ah, Resentment, my old friend . . . . I have to talk to you again . . . Slights, insults, judgments, narcissistic preoccupations . . . You see them all, because you pay attention.  Pay less attention, my friend, or maybe, better yet . . . Have the courageous optimism of a Maya Angelou who suggests “do not be reduced by them.”

You are so very blessed.