2008 IMBOLC/LUGHNASADH PROSE ENTRIES

[katsu]

Notice: Please add your original essays, short stories and philosophical works for the current Eisteddfod here.

[Jingle]

Beech
12/23/2007
I walk across the carpet of orange and brown leaves. Wet with recently fallen rain, and surrounded by mist, they are a mix of American Beech, Pin Oak, Black Oak and Birch. Many of the Beeches in this wood have been carved by people wanting to leave their own personal mark on the forest. The silver bark has such a long memory, that the tattooed skin will hold the messages for a lifetime.

Up ahead to the north is a young beech, its trunk perhaps 8 inches in diameter. It's lowest branches are just over my head, and bare but for a few golden leaves still hanging on. More than any other trees in these woods, the beeches hang on to their leaves in defiance of the cold. The leaves sing a beautiful song as they crackle in the wind. This tree is untouched by the pocket knives of lovers and defacers, and the smooth wet skin is speckled with emerald moss.

Overhead a turkey vulture soars on a ferocious wind which thunders through the canopy. In the distance, the scolding of squirrels arguing over a fallen beechnut can be heard.

Gently, I press my palms against the tree and close my eyes, open to what the tree has say.

A warm breeze wafts over me as I begin to see what the tree has to tell me:


In the distance is a green hill, steeply sloping and covered with green grass. My thoughts turn to the solstice and the festival of Alban Arthan. Alban Arthuan. The coming of the light. The coming of Arthur. Atop the hill a tall figure mounted on a white stallion holds aloft a banner of silver and white. The steed paws the top of the hill, and steam from his warm breath engulfs the pair in mist. Dressed in lavender and crowned with a circlet of silver leaves, the king waits erect in the saddle, until he is sure he has my attention. Is this Arthur? Is this the Child of Light? Is this the return of the Oak King? Here, in a wood nestled within urban Pennsylvania, I see the great King of the Light, The Bear, the North, the Return. The memory of the American Beech is longer than its silver skin. It is connected and holds the wisdom of the ancestors. With a single nod, the king and his mount turn and descend the northern slope, slowly vanishing from view as the last sparkle of the silver crown fades into the distance.

Around me, the sound of raindrops drum against the fallen leaves, and I return once again to the dormant wood. I see at my feet, a perfect golden leaf. A gift for the remembering of this day. Just beyond the trees behind me, the members of the Coille dhe Darach Dhubh are arriving. A crane flies overhead as we gather to begin our celebration of the festival of Alban Arthan.

Hail the Light. Hail the King.

[wyeuro]

There are two kinds of animism: one that might be called ‘intuitive’ animism, which intuits the in-dwelling spirit or anima and of every material and hence its awareness, without worrying too much about how or why it exists; and one that might be called ‘scientific’ animism, which looks for ways in which awareness may be coded into the very structures of matter itself. Intuitive animism deals with dryads, devas, and the like, while scientific animism looks for sentient awareness in the fabric of the material universe itself. It is this scientific kind of animism that I’m going to consider in this essay. Established belief is changing as atomic research advances. Within atoms we find all the logic and energy necessary for both life and intellect. By considering the implications of finding them there, I intend to show that each object has its own form of awareness, however different from human awareness that might be.

Most current scientific debate about awareness, assumes that it belongs exclusively to biologically living beings, a product of metabolism, but no one can verify that. We have no map of mind; we can’t map our own ‘ego boundaries’, and we can only deduce awareness in others from behaviour we can understand because it resembles our own. An insect flees danger, so it must be aware. Plants react biochemically, just as we do, so they must be aware; but stones, buildings, computers, statues, pots and pans? We can’t measure their responsiveness, but are they aware? And if they are, what are they aware of and how does it register?

The answer might be found in the infinitely small, in the way matter is formed from atoms. Sub-atomic science shows that the atom is a complex, highly evolved being. The particles comprising the nucleus are themselves formed of richly detailed components. It is no longer possible to believe that complexity diminishes with smallness. The infinitely small is almost certainly infinitely complex. Furthermore, atoms are immensely ancient beings whose evolution began in the very early stages of creation, steeped in a dense fabric of radiances rich in information about the myriad events that generated them. Over the aeons they have accumulated a vast array of impressions that are inherently ‘meaningful’, in the sense that they have logic and sequence. The repercussions or radiance of an event, say, a collision among neighbouring atoms, leave impressions that have an inner logic, encoding the cause-and-effect, action-and-reaction consequences of the event. In a sense, all radiance is an information-rich account of its own genesis.

Matter is dense, highly structured, infinitely detailed, stabilised energy. Perhaps it is the ever-increasing intensity of this aeons-long accumulation of impressions of cosmic events that creates density and then shapes the material energy of subatomic particles into such complex forms, with new events continually adding detail. But there’s no reason to doubt that each atom contains in an organised way its memories of a whole universe’s lifetime of cosmic and local events.

Psychologists acknowledge that ideas, especially memories, are energised, with memories of high impact events more highly charged that those of minor or commonplace events. As events vary in intensity and complexity so do the energy levels of the impressions they leave. So subatomic memories would behave like variously charged particles. In a complex memory made up of unequally charged details in logical array, there is something very like an electronic system activated and animated by potential difference, with the logic channelling the flow. The energy of the most ancient events is perhaps still restless within the atoms of our time, and restless energy is the very foundation of life.

The way the deep inner components of atoms are organised gives rise to the qualities of the material they form en masse – qualities our human senses interpret as colour, smell, taste, and texture, and the whole array of more subtle sensations, and which we measure as weight, density and radiance. Naturally these qualities of atoms filter and condition new impressions in highly logical ways i.e., atoms too interpret their perceptions through the structures and qualities of their material organisation. these are intellectual processes, the very foundation of intelligence.

Each particle of an atom is unique, and so are its memories. It is radiant and charged, and cannot associate with any other particle that hasn’t a compatible radiance and charge. Like repels like, opposites attract, and many more subtle laws determine how clusters of particles form. This ensures that within an atom, organisation is logically determined, and it also ensures that whole atoms cluster together or repel each other in logical patterns. Their surroundings respond to them logically. The same strenuous logic twists and wrestles molecules into shape, and drives the formation of all the visible forms of matter from dust-motes to giant stars, or galaxies or even whole cosmoses - and everything in between. All are composed of tiny ever-evolving intelligences pooling their resources in organised, ‘smart’ ways. It is unreasonable to think they aren’t alive, sentient and intelligent.

Medical science is currently focusing on new evidence of the consciousness of human body parts other than the brain. Our hands learn tasks, our livers respond intelligently to metabolic disturbances and the emotionality of our gut contributes to our pleasure in eating a hearty meal. More telling still, organ transplant recipients sometimes report that personality traits may be transferred along with the organ, including artistic or musical talent, or an interest in sport or politics. Some species of fish and birds exhibit a shared intelligence in migrating, flying in formation, and in responding to new conditions and learning new patterns of behaviour. In this kind of intelligence, the animating thoughts occur outside the many widely separated bodies of the thinker – or in all of them simultaneously. The brain of planet earth’s higher animals seems to be not so much ‘the’ organ of intelligence as a unique specialisation of the intelligence generated in the memories of subatomic particles. Other organs have different kinds of intelligence, not less, and other species, without highly developed brains, have different kinds of awareness, not less.

So there are good scientific reasons for believing in the intelligent awareness, however unlike our own, of every object, substance or place. Every quark or galaxy of matter is densely packed with sequentially structured, intricately organised memory impregnated energy, animated by logically channelled energies which are the foundations of intellect and life. Unique though we are, we can begin to believe in a ubiquitous mind which we share with the trees and the moon, the stones and the oceans and this magical planet we are part of.

wyverne /|\

[Wolfdance]

"Remembered Dance"

Her feet dance over the cobblestones with the weightlessness only the young can possess, almost skimming the ground, pattering with the rhythm of life’s music that can only be felt, not heard. Blonde hair flutters in the cool breeze of her dance, fine strands of pale gold that will no doubt darken as the seasons pass. The same breeze has pinked her cheeks, giving her the look of a china doll, though not the fragility. She is radiantly beautiful, full of life, and even though I have a ton of errands to run, I can’t take my eyes from her.

She’s skipping now, her feet dancing higher, and her laugh tinkles with its own music, the lightest of wind chimes. I would give much to be able to dance like that again, to be free to fling my body with joy as the spirit moves within – but the years weigh heavily on us, we adults. The music of life is lost amongst all our self-inflicted pain and responsibility, and we forget. We need children to remind us that life is not quite as serious as we tend to believe.
Suddenly, her dance stops and she stands still, gaze fixed on something in the distance. I follow her eyes and chuckle under my breath as I see what has distracted her – one of the street vendors has parked his ice cream cart on the corner. Her hand lifts and slides wordlessly into the larger one at her shoulder level. He must be her father, I assume, from the trusting way she clings to his gentle grasp. He, too, has followed her stare and smiles indulgently. “Would you like an ice cream cone, honey?”

“Oh, yes please, Poppa.” Her eyes gaze up at him gratefully, and I can see that they are dark chocolate brown. The music of her voice matches her laugh, high and sweet.

The floating on air quality returns to her step as her father leads her over to the ice cream cart. I watch his walk intently as she frisks beside him. Does he still feel the throb of unheard music, as his daughter does? I suspect not. His feet seem as rooted to the earth as mine are. Why? Why do we lose touch with the children within ourselves?

His hair is dark, just beginning to gray at the temples, and fine lines crease the corners of his eyes. I guess him to be a few years younger than me, but he reminds me of my father in his comforting solidity, in his interactions with his little girl. I hear the susurrus of the vendor’s low voice, and my attention shifts back to the girl. She takes her time looking at all the flavors, choosing carefully, as if this will be the only ice cream cone she ever eats. Finally, she extends a finger, and the ice cream man scoops out her selected flavor, presses it into a cone, and hands it to her.

How careful her walk is now! She’s still light on her feet, but much slower, mindful of keeping the cone upright. With a light touch on her shoulder, her father guides her to a nearby low wall and lifts her until she’s seated on the wide brick. I can see that she’s chosen chocolate chip – creamy vanilla with shards of chocolate flecked throughout – my favorite flavor, too. She savors the ice cream slowly, with small, kittenish licks, wholly engrossed in the moment. I long to ask her to share her secret of being completely who she is and where she is at any point in time, but I refrain and stay where I am, briefly glancing away to hide my stare. Her father would probably not welcome such an approach, and the girl herself would either be frightened or gaze at me in wide-eyed disbelief. It would probably be a wasted question, anyway. I was that girl, once – why can’t I answer that myself?

Her father strokes her hair lovingly as she catches drips down the side of the cone, his tender hand wiping her mouth gently with a napkin. Again, I’m reminded of my own father, and surprise myself with a pang of regret for my own childlessness. I have always accepted my lack of children as the way things turned out, as God knowing more about what I needed in life than I did. Besides, what kind of mother would I have been? Yet as I regard at the father and daughter wistfully, I can only wonder what my daughter might have been like. I can imagine her small hand in mine, skipping beside me, blonde hair alight and cheeks pink with the wind, deep brown eyes pleading for an ice cream cone. Together we might have repeated the same ritual, with me looking at her and knowing that just as my father saw part of himself in me, so I would with her, and she years later with her son or daughter. All the pleasures of raising children – reading them a story, brushing their hair, feeling their small warmth cuddled up against me – these are things I will never know. At the same time, I will never have the pain of feeling their anger, seeing them hurt, the worry of waiting up late into the night for them to come home, of fearing I will lose them. I’m not sure which is better.

I hear the girl’s tinkling laugh again, and my eyes refocus to see her crumbling the end bits of her cone and scattering them to the sparrows. She dusts off her hands and holds her arms out to her father. I turn my face away, fighting the sharp sting of tears and the throbbing ache of a womb not only empty, but no longer there, all chances of motherhood swept away like the wind sweeps away the crumbs of the cone. When I look back, the girl and her father are headed away from me, the father’s steps solid and deliberate, hers still dancing over the cobblestones as she watches the sparrows chasing the wind-blown bits of cone. We each have our own dance, and she is fully engrossed in hers, unconcerned with where she has been or where she’s going – just intensely living where she is right now. With the weight of my life on my shoulders and in my heart, I’ve forgotten my dance.

I approach the ice cream seller and buy a cone for myself – chocolate chip. Eating it slowly, I smile at the sparrows that hop nearby, hoping for another windfall. When I’ve finished the ice cream, I don’t disappoint them, scattering the bits of leftover cone on the sidewalk. I can’t help laughing as they chase the pieces down, bickering with each other over who got a bigger piece.

In the end, I realize that part of the desire for children is a desire for a type of immortality, and that’s a lesson I can learn from the girl. Children of that age rarely worry about tomorrow – they’re too busy living today. I can see that I’ve been too chained by yesterday, too focused on tomorrow, to pay attention to today. And that’s really what I'm here for, isn’t it? Today.

I take my list of errands out of my pocket, let it float to the bottom of the nearest trash can, and go searching for my own dance.

[kytty]

A day in paradise. ( a childrens tale)

I stumbled out of my lay stairing at myself in amazement thinking I looked more like what the humans put in their stew pots than any daughter of the moon. My mother had shone so bright in the coolness of the evening sky, in such a stark contrast to the harsh reality of the days. The last few weeks had left everything listful and almost lifeless as my lover, the sun, had sent forth a string of 40+ degree days.
But today was different. For today it was raining!
Today I was greated by the invigorating sent grass rewards us with when its refreshed by rain. Gleefully I embarked on what has become a daily routine. Splash some water on my face, and head on down to see what Master Walnut has left for me. After sitting admiring what he (with a little help from the resident wildlife) had thrown down, I began to circle around Mr Peach.
As I begin to pick up the offerings Mr Peach has given, I notice that I was not the only one partaking of his bounty. As always the Majestic Wattlebirds, who sometime nastily bombard me, together with the vibrant Laurikeets, too were there enjoying his offerings. But today I had noticed two new members had joined the group. Mr Possom and Mr Rat had left their hallmarks on some of his offerings. And how could you blame them. Those beautiful round salmonie red skined fruits, whose sweet white flesh contained nectar surely not ment for us earthly bound creatures but for the gods themselves. For a few weeks of the year Mr Peach's bounty seemed endless and I had no quarms about sharing for there was enough for all.
Mr Peach is in his senior years, and one of his branches has the wasting sickness. This year this branch bore no fruits at all, such a shame. Whilst contemplating Mr Peach's woes, I observed Mr Rat was leaving carrying something. This was not normally done, because although we normally eat the peach flesh, we leave the kernals so the crow, the carrawong and the cockatoo may have their share. Alarmed, Mr Possom ask Mr Rat why he was taking more than his share. He explained Mr Peach had told him it would not be long before he was no more, and that if Mr Rat would carry one of his seeds to be burried in the rich soil down near the river, a new tree would grow. Mr Rat had agreed to carry the seed and asked if we would assit him in carrying out Mr Peach's wishes.
We made our way down to the river. Mr Possom guided Mr Rat to a place he knew the seed would come to no harm. I dug a hole in the new dampened earth where Mr Rat carefully placed the seed. We covered the earth back over it and vowed to tend it carefully until it was strong enough to fend for itself.
Together we made our way back to Mr Peach to report on the events of the day and the pledge we had made. Mr Peach was so glad to know that one of his seeds stood a chance to feel the sap run through its vains and the pleasure of bearing fruit.
As I made my way back to my lay I felt enriched to know how the small part I played in the days events had given such joy to Mr Peach, particularly after all the countless feasts he had given me.