Thursday, September 30, 2004
Are We Singing?
by White Feather
Copyright © 2004, by White Feather. All Rights Reserved. White Feather Books
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Spiraling rainbows shimmering on all peripheries; things take on a mystical hue when those certain vibratory frequecnies are reached. It is the music of life.
What note are we vibrating to? What pitch are we giving off? And how do we change pitch? Do we create our own rhythm or do we follow along with a rhythm that is beyond ourselves?
But is anything beyond us? Is the primal rhythm of the universe not the same rhythm that echoes in our bones? If so, we are part of the creation. Our pitch is part of the overall tone.
The vibratory pitches that feel good are those that we created as markers for us to follow towards our ideal frequency; the frequency that expresses our total being. We have written a symphony and every note is a bread crumb dropped to help us find our way home. As we feel and embrace each bread crumb we get closer to the wholeness of our being.
Can we embrace each note or frequency unconditionally? Can we surrender to the music flowing through us? Can we live the music flowing through us? Can we dance to the music without judging it? Can we let it flow through our bodies unimpeded? Is it flowing out of your fingertips and out of your mouth and out of your feet?
What note are we vibrating to? What pitch are we giving off? And how do we change pitch? Do we create our own rhythm or do we follow along with a rhythm that is beyond ourselves?
But is anything beyond us? Is the primal rhythm of the universe not the same rhythm that echoes in our bones? If so, we are part of the creation. Our pitch is part of the overall tone.
The vibratory pitches that feel good are those that we created as markers for us to follow towards our ideal frequency; the frequency that expresses our total being. We have written a symphony and every note is a bread crumb dropped to help us find our way home. As we feel and embrace each bread crumb we get closer to the wholeness of our being.
Can we embrace each note or frequency unconditionally? Can we surrender to the music flowing through us? Can we live the music flowing through us? Can we dance to the music without judging it? Can we let it flow through our bodies unimpeded? Is it flowing out of your fingertips and out of your mouth and out of your feet?
Copyright © 2004, by White Feather. All Rights Reserved. White Feather Books
Sunday, September 26, 2004
Bean Supper at Clear Creek
by Trendle Ellwood
We fell together into a rare two hour afternoon nap when Jim and I found ourselves exhausted after Saturdays Market. Then it was like being awoken from a mummied state, when he let me know that it was time to arise and go to the bean super that we had promised to show up at. “ Oh! Why did I say we would go? I berated myself, as I struggled to get ready and get myself and two girls out the door, “It would be so good to just stay home and rest.”
I grabbed a jar of my Company’s Coming Bread and Butter Pickles from the cupboard, and Jim retrieved a jar of honey from the truck to take. We went through town and stopped at Kroger to get some chips and pop to contribute, plus a container of macaroni feeling guilty that it wasn’t homemade.
We traveled around the south side of town and into the country towards the hilly and pretty area that Clear Creek runs through. We found the bean dinner on a beautiful piece of land where a regal but comfortable old farmhouse snuggles on the hillside and watches proudly over the vista, a large sweeping vista with a great blue sky above and a great green lawn below. We parked our car with the others in a row on this span of green and then walked out into the midst of it. We were then between the house and the view and we walked towards the horizon where in the foreground of this landscape the people were gathered on the lawn. The lawn sloped on down past the people into pastures below, pastures which joined a stretching stand of corn that stood glowing amber and gold in the autumn light. Beyond all this flowed the creek, spanned by a charming old wooden covered bridge, which posed, picturesque like, in the valley.
This is the home and land, all 100 and some acres of it, of Hazel and Loraine, fellow marketers. “As far that way as your eye can see,” is the way Hazel puts it, as she nods to the south. When we got there Hazel and Loraine were tending to the kettle that was hanging over a fire. A big black kettle that was as big as your arms outstretched into a circle. They stirred the beans in this kettle with a big wooden tool that looked like a paddle. They were good beans, with ham and lots of pepper.
After Hazel and Loraine greeted us I snuck our store bought macaroni onto the table and with a knife popped open the lid on my pickles and put the honey by the cornbread. Our friends from market, Shirley and Ed were there. Ed was coming back to the table for seconds and he made a point of getting another piece of cornbread just because Jim had brought his honey. He squeezed the honey bear over his bread and then he helped himself to some of my pickles, took a bite of them, “Good, like everything you attempt,” he told me.
As we went to join the others Jim and I realized that we were suppose to have brought our own chairs. Last time we went to one of these get-togethers it was the plates and silver that we were to bring for ourselves, this time it was chairs. I guess we need to study some bean dinner/ potluck, textbooks. Before I even knew what was happening Ed had given up his seat and had me seated by his lovely wife Shirley, as he took up a conversation with the fellows by the tractor. After eating and needing to stretch, us women folk got up to walk around and after I got myself a cup of coffee I drifted over to where my Husband was in a conversation with the articulate fellow who had complimented my pickles.
He tapped the resin from his pipe then refilled and lit it and the spicy warm aroma of his smoke wafted through the air. Talk was of market, gardening and the weather. Ed had said something about new people setting up at market and how the new was good, even if it gave the old ones more competition. Then Ed flourished his pipe through air with one hand as he told us how he used to read the obituary when he was young and he would see, “So and So had died at the age of 69, or 73 or 80,” and he would think, “ No big deal, they had a nice long life, it is the natural way of things, the old die, the new take over.”
But he went on to tell us, things felt a lot different to him now that he was one of those so-called old fellows, and he was walking a tightrope with life on one side and death on the other. In his seventies Ed has been in a battle with cancer. At one time he chose to have an operation that the doctors tried to discourage him from having, he would have to be tough to go through it they told him and at best it would give him two months. “I choose the two months,” he told us. When you get right up close to leaving this earth two months seems like a precious amount of time to be with your loved ones. Those two months stretched to years. Again and again he has fought the battle and again and again he has won. We were relieved when Ed informed us that the last test that was done showed him to be tumor free.
The sun slipped beyond the hill behind the house and the air grew cool. We gathered around the fire where the children roasted marshmallows. As we stood in the shadow of the hill, the sun which had been behind a mist for most of the day peeked out and cast a red glow on the forest of trees beyond the creek. As dusk fell we said our goodbyes and found our way to our cars over the now wet with dew grass. A mockingbird that had gathered his songs of imitation began to practice them to the moon, filling the now dark air with his trilling tunes, I listened to him from the car window as long as I could hear him as we drove off into the black night, on our way back home.
Copyright © 2004, by Trendle Ellwood. All Rights Reserved.
Visit my forum: With the Seasons
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We fell together into a rare two hour afternoon nap when Jim and I found ourselves exhausted after Saturdays Market. Then it was like being awoken from a mummied state, when he let me know that it was time to arise and go to the bean super that we had promised to show up at. “ Oh! Why did I say we would go? I berated myself, as I struggled to get ready and get myself and two girls out the door, “It would be so good to just stay home and rest.”
I grabbed a jar of my Company’s Coming Bread and Butter Pickles from the cupboard, and Jim retrieved a jar of honey from the truck to take. We went through town and stopped at Kroger to get some chips and pop to contribute, plus a container of macaroni feeling guilty that it wasn’t homemade.
We traveled around the south side of town and into the country towards the hilly and pretty area that Clear Creek runs through. We found the bean dinner on a beautiful piece of land where a regal but comfortable old farmhouse snuggles on the hillside and watches proudly over the vista, a large sweeping vista with a great blue sky above and a great green lawn below. We parked our car with the others in a row on this span of green and then walked out into the midst of it. We were then between the house and the view and we walked towards the horizon where in the foreground of this landscape the people were gathered on the lawn. The lawn sloped on down past the people into pastures below, pastures which joined a stretching stand of corn that stood glowing amber and gold in the autumn light. Beyond all this flowed the creek, spanned by a charming old wooden covered bridge, which posed, picturesque like, in the valley.
This is the home and land, all 100 and some acres of it, of Hazel and Loraine, fellow marketers. “As far that way as your eye can see,” is the way Hazel puts it, as she nods to the south. When we got there Hazel and Loraine were tending to the kettle that was hanging over a fire. A big black kettle that was as big as your arms outstretched into a circle. They stirred the beans in this kettle with a big wooden tool that looked like a paddle. They were good beans, with ham and lots of pepper.
After Hazel and Loraine greeted us I snuck our store bought macaroni onto the table and with a knife popped open the lid on my pickles and put the honey by the cornbread. Our friends from market, Shirley and Ed were there. Ed was coming back to the table for seconds and he made a point of getting another piece of cornbread just because Jim had brought his honey. He squeezed the honey bear over his bread and then he helped himself to some of my pickles, took a bite of them, “Good, like everything you attempt,” he told me.
As we went to join the others Jim and I realized that we were suppose to have brought our own chairs. Last time we went to one of these get-togethers it was the plates and silver that we were to bring for ourselves, this time it was chairs. I guess we need to study some bean dinner/ potluck, textbooks. Before I even knew what was happening Ed had given up his seat and had me seated by his lovely wife Shirley, as he took up a conversation with the fellows by the tractor. After eating and needing to stretch, us women folk got up to walk around and after I got myself a cup of coffee I drifted over to where my Husband was in a conversation with the articulate fellow who had complimented my pickles.
He tapped the resin from his pipe then refilled and lit it and the spicy warm aroma of his smoke wafted through the air. Talk was of market, gardening and the weather. Ed had said something about new people setting up at market and how the new was good, even if it gave the old ones more competition. Then Ed flourished his pipe through air with one hand as he told us how he used to read the obituary when he was young and he would see, “So and So had died at the age of 69, or 73 or 80,” and he would think, “ No big deal, they had a nice long life, it is the natural way of things, the old die, the new take over.”
But he went on to tell us, things felt a lot different to him now that he was one of those so-called old fellows, and he was walking a tightrope with life on one side and death on the other. In his seventies Ed has been in a battle with cancer. At one time he chose to have an operation that the doctors tried to discourage him from having, he would have to be tough to go through it they told him and at best it would give him two months. “I choose the two months,” he told us. When you get right up close to leaving this earth two months seems like a precious amount of time to be with your loved ones. Those two months stretched to years. Again and again he has fought the battle and again and again he has won. We were relieved when Ed informed us that the last test that was done showed him to be tumor free.
The sun slipped beyond the hill behind the house and the air grew cool. We gathered around the fire where the children roasted marshmallows. As we stood in the shadow of the hill, the sun which had been behind a mist for most of the day peeked out and cast a red glow on the forest of trees beyond the creek. As dusk fell we said our goodbyes and found our way to our cars over the now wet with dew grass. A mockingbird that had gathered his songs of imitation began to practice them to the moon, filling the now dark air with his trilling tunes, I listened to him from the car window as long as I could hear him as we drove off into the black night, on our way back home.
Copyright © 2004, by Trendle Ellwood. All Rights Reserved.
Visit my forum: With the Seasons
Sunday, September 19, 2004
September is so Beautiful
Hurricane Ivan mellowed as he came north towards us. He lumbered through the Appalachians and then turned into an autumn Ohio storm, swelling the water ways and washing us clean with rain. Then from the north swished a cool breeze that pushed the rain east, and left us with crystal blue skies.
September charms us with yellow rays of goldenrod filling up forgotten fields, turning what once was green into seas of yellow.
Dancing in these yellow seas sways the temptress, aster. Together they weave a spell of gold and lavender, goldenrod and wild purple aster waltzing.
Sumac stands red and proud against the clear blue sky. Every little hedgerow and by-way is a-glow in the late summer sun. Red, gold, yellow, brown and green reign, as the leaves of every little vine and twig turn splendid.
Jim took our last harvest of honey off the hives yesterday and was up late into the night extracting it from the combs. This whole place smells like honey right now. The sweet aroma wafts around the house from the honey hole, (place of honey extracting). The bees are filling up the hives out back with the fall nectar, which gives off a very strong robust essence. This is the goldenrod honey, rich and dark, which they prepare to sustain them through the winter.
I have been harvesting the bittersweet; the berries on our vines are tight and peach colored and the leaves have not yet turned yellow. I gather them and take them inside to hang, where overnight the berries pop open and greet us the next morning with fire and orange. I tie these in bunches and take them to market. I enjoy working with these radiant berries and passing them on, they are something that is missed. People stop by our stand and ask the name of them, or drop off reminisces of their grandmothers picking it, or lament the demise of it in the wild.
It is a good selling plant and worth the effort as a market plant. I cannot make enough apple pie jam to take to market either. They try it, they buy it, has become our motto. There are still berries and apples to pick and squash to put in the meals with tomatoes. But we know it won’t be long, the season is signing now that it is time to make up our apple and tomato sauce’s for winter and collect the wood close to the hearth. One day soon there will be a full moon coming up on the horizon of a clear cloudless night with a chance of frost in air. We will be out grabbing the last green tomatoes to save for ripening in the house.
But oh how beautiful is every moment of this season now.
I just want to stop and stare while summer says her long goodbye with autumn kissing on her face. It wont be long before the sassafras glows red and gold and like a watercolor paints the sky with flurries of yellow swirls as she throws them all away one windy day.
Copyright © 2004, by Trendle Ellwood. All Rights Reserved.
Thursday, September 16, 2004
Journey to Tele
by White Feather
Copyright © 2002-2004, by White Feather. All Rights Reserved. Books by White Feather
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When the old man stepped up to cross the bridge, he paused and turned to look at his family waving good-bye to him. He knew that he would never see them again, although they did not know that. Looking at their faces, the old man was not sure if his family members were sad to see him go, or straining to wait out the next few minutes for him to be out of sight so they could go on with their lives. Waving, but not smiling, the old man turned back around and proceeded across the narrow walking bridge that was suspended above the deep canyon below.
The old man was embarking on the final trip of his life; a trip that would take him far from the land where he had lived most of that life. He went eagerly, though, without a shred of regret or remorse. As long as he could remember, the old man had always wanted to see the sacred city of Tele, and now he was finally going. The only uncertainty was whether his tired old body would survive the grueling 800 mile trip.
Halfway across the foot bridge, the old man stopped and turned around for one last look at his family and the land that had been his home. The look was quick, though, as others were crossing the bridge behind him and he did not want to hold up traffic. After seeing his waving family briefly, he then looked down at the deep canyon below him. Far below was a small ribbon of a river. The old man could see birds flying above the river. It was odd to be so far above the birds. Holding on to the side ropes to steady a growing uneasiness, he regained his balance and looked ahead, slowly resuming his walk across the bridge.
When he reached the other side, the old man did not look back. As he stepped onto the path that would take him out of the mountains, his focus remained on the journey ahead.
The old man was embarking on the final trip of his life; a trip that would take him far from the land where he had lived most of that life. He went eagerly, though, without a shred of regret or remorse. As long as he could remember, the old man had always wanted to see the sacred city of Tele, and now he was finally going. The only uncertainty was whether his tired old body would survive the grueling 800 mile trip.
Halfway across the foot bridge, the old man stopped and turned around for one last look at his family and the land that had been his home. The look was quick, though, as others were crossing the bridge behind him and he did not want to hold up traffic. After seeing his waving family briefly, he then looked down at the deep canyon below him. Far below was a small ribbon of a river. The old man could see birds flying above the river. It was odd to be so far above the birds. Holding on to the side ropes to steady a growing uneasiness, he regained his balance and looked ahead, slowly resuming his walk across the bridge.
When he reached the other side, the old man did not look back. As he stepped onto the path that would take him out of the mountains, his focus remained on the journey ahead.
Copyright © 2002-2004, by White Feather. All Rights Reserved. Books by White Feather
Sunday, September 12, 2004
As the Storm Rides
Watching the storm sweep through the sky,
Is where we stand, you and I.
You and I know that right on the other side
Of the dark cloud, comes the bright day.
This one is dedicated to Mindy. She knows why.
Thursday, September 09, 2004
The Great Chicken Robbery
by White Feather
Copyright © 2002-2004, by White Feather. All Rights Reserved. Books by White Feather
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When I was in high school I worked as a head cook at a Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurant. One night, just as closing time approached, I finished up all my work and went to tell the manager I was leaving. He, and a manager trainee, were getting ready to start the night's paperwork. The counter girl was about to lock the doors and then count her money.
I clocked out and headed for the front door. The counter girl was maybe ten feet behind me with the keys to lock the door after I left. As I left the front door of the restaurant, three young stocky men came into the door. I nodded and said hello as I passed them. I remember thinking, "Whoops, more customers. I guess they're not closing just yet." I was out of there, though, so I never looked back.
What I didn't know is that those three burly men were not last minute customers, but rather robbers who had come in to rob the restaurant. Just seconds after I passed them, they pulled a gun on the counter girl who was going out to lock the door. They then brought her into the back into the manager's office. They then made the manager open the safe then they beat him over the head with the gun butt, giving him a concussion. After gathering all the money, they locked the manager, manager trainee, and the counter girl in the freezer, where they were trapped until the other manager came in the next morning.
I went home and slept soundly, went to school the next day, and then after school I went in to work. That is when I finally found out about it. I was blown away by how close I came to being part of that little drama.
It was that counter girl who was telling me everything that happened. After recounting all the grisly details, she cocked her head to one side, and said, "You know, I'm glad you left just before it happened."
"Oh, why's that?"
"Cuz you would have tried to do something heroic and someONE would've gotten shot. You would've tried to take all three of those guys out."
My mouth dropped open. I couldn't believe she would think that. Didn't she know that I was an extreme pacifist? It shocked me to hear her say that, but it also made me think, and the more I thought about it, the more I realized that she was correct. Subsequent experiences in my life have reiterated that fact.
I have come to realize that I have no doubt as to my ability to defend myself if my life were threatened. This doubt is easy to have when one has never exercised those defensive abilities. The reason I have no doubt is because I have experienced another aspect of myself that was an Indian warrior on the Great Plains during the White Man/Indian wars. I have experienced several very strong interfaces with his being; interfaces that were essentially a full stepping into his being, and having him step fully into me.
This other aspect was a warrior; a murderer. He killed hundreds of people. He was an utterly fearless warrior. He thought nothing of going up against a dozen adversaries all at once. He simply had no fear. I have felt his strength and his fighting spirit, and most of all his extreme fearlessness. It's one of the most intense things I've ever felt. If I am in danger I can call him forth and let him take over my body. He has stepped into my body before, and let me tell you, it is a mind-blowing and body-blowing experience. I never experienced fearlessness in this life until he stepped into my body. I never experienced such raw intense energy. I've never felt so invincible.
Imagine growing up an extreme pacifist with lingering subconscious memories of being a savage warrior who killed many people. This warrior aspect of mine has a lot to do with why I'm an extreme pacifist, and he is also a big reason I am able to be such a staunch pacifist. Feeling his warrior mojo intensified my pacifist leanings, but more importantly, it taught me a lot about fear. Overcoming fear is a huge part of being a successful warrior, but paradoxically it is also a huge part of being a successful pacifist.
Fear is what magnetically attracts to us that which we fear. So any self-defense we may need would only be a self-defense against our own fears. Any dragon we feel compelled to slay is only one of our own fears. Fears need not be slain; just merely let go of, and replaced with self-love...which every fear is designed to lead us back to. Not until we truly love our selves can we truly be pacifists. When we love our selves, and do not live in fear, then those fears will not present themselves as something to be slain. There is no need for violence or self-defense.
In a state of duality, one attracts that which one projects. Project violence; you get violence. Project fear; you get something to fear. Project love without fear, and get love without fear. Pacifism is not just about not hitting other humans, but it's also about being in a state of joy and love that only attracts more love and joy. When in this state of joy and love, one's guidance will make sure you are not in a place of danger. The vibrations will be very dissonant to you, and you'll just want to go somewhere else. Your house can be right atop an earthquake fault, but the day of the earthquake you'll get the urge to leave town. It won't be a fear, though; just an urge. A true pacifist must decipher between one's guidance and one's fear. Following one's fear will always eventually lead one to the object or subject of that fear. Following one's guidance leads us to the love and joy that is underneath all those fears. So pacifism has a lot to do with following our guidance and not giving into fear.
It was my guidance that kept me out of that restaurant robbery scenario (just barely). At the time I really didn't have any fear of that situation, so I didn't attract it directly to me. I'm sure the other people involved would say that they never intended to attract something like that to them, but it's not a matter of conscious intention so much as subconscious vibratory attraction. Our guidance will take us anywhere we want to go, but when we don't follow our guidance, fear kicks in and will lead us to the same love and joy and understanding that our guidance will lead us to, but it will lead us there through all those fears. Violence is not the pacifist's most imposing obstacle. It is, rather, fear. One cannot be a victim without fear.
I clocked out and headed for the front door. The counter girl was maybe ten feet behind me with the keys to lock the door after I left. As I left the front door of the restaurant, three young stocky men came into the door. I nodded and said hello as I passed them. I remember thinking, "Whoops, more customers. I guess they're not closing just yet." I was out of there, though, so I never looked back.
What I didn't know is that those three burly men were not last minute customers, but rather robbers who had come in to rob the restaurant. Just seconds after I passed them, they pulled a gun on the counter girl who was going out to lock the door. They then brought her into the back into the manager's office. They then made the manager open the safe then they beat him over the head with the gun butt, giving him a concussion. After gathering all the money, they locked the manager, manager trainee, and the counter girl in the freezer, where they were trapped until the other manager came in the next morning.
I went home and slept soundly, went to school the next day, and then after school I went in to work. That is when I finally found out about it. I was blown away by how close I came to being part of that little drama.
It was that counter girl who was telling me everything that happened. After recounting all the grisly details, she cocked her head to one side, and said, "You know, I'm glad you left just before it happened."
"Oh, why's that?"
"Cuz you would have tried to do something heroic and someONE would've gotten shot. You would've tried to take all three of those guys out."
My mouth dropped open. I couldn't believe she would think that. Didn't she know that I was an extreme pacifist? It shocked me to hear her say that, but it also made me think, and the more I thought about it, the more I realized that she was correct. Subsequent experiences in my life have reiterated that fact.
I have come to realize that I have no doubt as to my ability to defend myself if my life were threatened. This doubt is easy to have when one has never exercised those defensive abilities. The reason I have no doubt is because I have experienced another aspect of myself that was an Indian warrior on the Great Plains during the White Man/Indian wars. I have experienced several very strong interfaces with his being; interfaces that were essentially a full stepping into his being, and having him step fully into me.
This other aspect was a warrior; a murderer. He killed hundreds of people. He was an utterly fearless warrior. He thought nothing of going up against a dozen adversaries all at once. He simply had no fear. I have felt his strength and his fighting spirit, and most of all his extreme fearlessness. It's one of the most intense things I've ever felt. If I am in danger I can call him forth and let him take over my body. He has stepped into my body before, and let me tell you, it is a mind-blowing and body-blowing experience. I never experienced fearlessness in this life until he stepped into my body. I never experienced such raw intense energy. I've never felt so invincible.
Imagine growing up an extreme pacifist with lingering subconscious memories of being a savage warrior who killed many people. This warrior aspect of mine has a lot to do with why I'm an extreme pacifist, and he is also a big reason I am able to be such a staunch pacifist. Feeling his warrior mojo intensified my pacifist leanings, but more importantly, it taught me a lot about fear. Overcoming fear is a huge part of being a successful warrior, but paradoxically it is also a huge part of being a successful pacifist.
Fear is what magnetically attracts to us that which we fear. So any self-defense we may need would only be a self-defense against our own fears. Any dragon we feel compelled to slay is only one of our own fears. Fears need not be slain; just merely let go of, and replaced with self-love...which every fear is designed to lead us back to. Not until we truly love our selves can we truly be pacifists. When we love our selves, and do not live in fear, then those fears will not present themselves as something to be slain. There is no need for violence or self-defense.
In a state of duality, one attracts that which one projects. Project violence; you get violence. Project fear; you get something to fear. Project love without fear, and get love without fear. Pacifism is not just about not hitting other humans, but it's also about being in a state of joy and love that only attracts more love and joy. When in this state of joy and love, one's guidance will make sure you are not in a place of danger. The vibrations will be very dissonant to you, and you'll just want to go somewhere else. Your house can be right atop an earthquake fault, but the day of the earthquake you'll get the urge to leave town. It won't be a fear, though; just an urge. A true pacifist must decipher between one's guidance and one's fear. Following one's fear will always eventually lead one to the object or subject of that fear. Following one's guidance leads us to the love and joy that is underneath all those fears. So pacifism has a lot to do with following our guidance and not giving into fear.
It was my guidance that kept me out of that restaurant robbery scenario (just barely). At the time I really didn't have any fear of that situation, so I didn't attract it directly to me. I'm sure the other people involved would say that they never intended to attract something like that to them, but it's not a matter of conscious intention so much as subconscious vibratory attraction. Our guidance will take us anywhere we want to go, but when we don't follow our guidance, fear kicks in and will lead us to the same love and joy and understanding that our guidance will lead us to, but it will lead us there through all those fears. Violence is not the pacifist's most imposing obstacle. It is, rather, fear. One cannot be a victim without fear.
Copyright © 2002-2004, by White Feather. All Rights Reserved. Books by White Feather
Sunday, September 05, 2004
Those Who Make You Wonder
by Trendle Ellwood
Of all of the people that we have had the privilege to get to know this summer at the farm market, Amish Man Dan and his family are the ones who intrigue me the most. Their whole way of living from the land, staying out of the system and adhering to an old, forgotten by the rest of us, way of life makes me long to learn more about them. I have never seen children who love to work like their children do.
To the Amish children work is play. We have seen them compete with each other and scramble to get a job done. They show much delight in doing the best job that they can do. Little John is only two and one day I watched as he piled the muskmelons that his father had put to his care into a display for the market crowd. Every once in a while his chubby little fingers would lose grasp of one and it would roll away and with all his might he would wobble out to retrieve it and then he grasped the round melon with both arms and with all seriousness and firm determination he would get it back to the top of the pile. Later I glanced back and was blessed by the look of pride on Little John’s face when his father came by and smiled at the muskmelons piled high.
We took our wagon to unload at their home after market Saturday and six children came out to greet us. They immediately saw what needed to be done and the little ones climbed into the wagon and started handing produce to the larger ones and us, which we all then placed on the table in the shade. An older Amish girl had gone into the house to fetch a broom and just as the produce was clear from the wagon, she jumped in and swept out the left over scraps. We were there unloaded and gone in less then five minutes time.
Emma the mother of the nine is such a cheerful soul, she says that her time to rest will be here in the winter, when she is sitting by the fire, quilting and watching the birds that she delights in feeding through her window. She put up 92 quarts of tomato juice Tuesday she told me, the day that she cut open a watermelon at market and shared it with us. Still she had the tomato sauce and whole tomatoes for soup to do. One time as we were unloading she was standing there thinking and writing something down on a scrap piece of paper, “Are you making a list,” I asked her? She handed it to me and it was a recipe for the watermelon pickles that I had shown an interest in when Dan had told me how she makes them. Muskmelon with vanilla, it sounds so good.
We have been around Dan more than any of the Amish, as he is the only one who always comes to market. I have enjoyed his lively sense of humor and quick smiles throughout these three seasons. We got to talking about growing vegetables without pesticides one day. If a vegetable is not sprayed it will be a little bug eaten at times and how people don’t like to see holes in their food even if it is chemical free.
Then he told me about this one fellow who in the spring kept coming to his stand and asking for sweet corn because he had some of Dan’s sweet corn the year before and he had decided that it was the best. So he was watching and waiting for Dan’s corn to come and every market day he would be asking about it. Well finally some corn was ready and this fellow was the first to buy some. Then this fellow came back the next week and he said that there were a few corn worms on the tip of the corn that he had bought from Dan. Amish Man Dan covered his mouth as he told me, “ Maybe I should not have said this to him, but I couldn’t resist, I told him, Well, I guess it is true that the early bird gets the worm!”
Ah yes Dan he is always so funny. One day he stopped by our house to let us know that he would need the wagon, I was setting off towards the berry brambles up alongside the cow pasture and I mentioned my concerns about the bulls. I told him that when I am out there with the cows I always kept my mind on the location of the nearest good climbing tree in case I ever had to dash up it.
Dan then showed me what to do if a bull ever charged at me. He said what you do is you take off your hat and you roar like a mad man, and he preceded to demonstrate this scare tactic to me as he pulled his Amish straw hat from his head and waved it frantically in the air, his grey black beard swaying to and fro and him roaring like a lion. I couldn’t be scared of the bulls as I picked berries that day for the remembrance of Dan roaring at them like lion kept me smiling. But I did keep my eyes on the nearest tree just in case.
Copyright © 2004, by Trendle Ellwood. All Rights Reserved.
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Of all of the people that we have had the privilege to get to know this summer at the farm market, Amish Man Dan and his family are the ones who intrigue me the most. Their whole way of living from the land, staying out of the system and adhering to an old, forgotten by the rest of us, way of life makes me long to learn more about them. I have never seen children who love to work like their children do.
To the Amish children work is play. We have seen them compete with each other and scramble to get a job done. They show much delight in doing the best job that they can do. Little John is only two and one day I watched as he piled the muskmelons that his father had put to his care into a display for the market crowd. Every once in a while his chubby little fingers would lose grasp of one and it would roll away and with all his might he would wobble out to retrieve it and then he grasped the round melon with both arms and with all seriousness and firm determination he would get it back to the top of the pile. Later I glanced back and was blessed by the look of pride on Little John’s face when his father came by and smiled at the muskmelons piled high.
We took our wagon to unload at their home after market Saturday and six children came out to greet us. They immediately saw what needed to be done and the little ones climbed into the wagon and started handing produce to the larger ones and us, which we all then placed on the table in the shade. An older Amish girl had gone into the house to fetch a broom and just as the produce was clear from the wagon, she jumped in and swept out the left over scraps. We were there unloaded and gone in less then five minutes time.
Emma the mother of the nine is such a cheerful soul, she says that her time to rest will be here in the winter, when she is sitting by the fire, quilting and watching the birds that she delights in feeding through her window. She put up 92 quarts of tomato juice Tuesday she told me, the day that she cut open a watermelon at market and shared it with us. Still she had the tomato sauce and whole tomatoes for soup to do. One time as we were unloading she was standing there thinking and writing something down on a scrap piece of paper, “Are you making a list,” I asked her? She handed it to me and it was a recipe for the watermelon pickles that I had shown an interest in when Dan had told me how she makes them. Muskmelon with vanilla, it sounds so good.
We have been around Dan more than any of the Amish, as he is the only one who always comes to market. I have enjoyed his lively sense of humor and quick smiles throughout these three seasons. We got to talking about growing vegetables without pesticides one day. If a vegetable is not sprayed it will be a little bug eaten at times and how people don’t like to see holes in their food even if it is chemical free.
Then he told me about this one fellow who in the spring kept coming to his stand and asking for sweet corn because he had some of Dan’s sweet corn the year before and he had decided that it was the best. So he was watching and waiting for Dan’s corn to come and every market day he would be asking about it. Well finally some corn was ready and this fellow was the first to buy some. Then this fellow came back the next week and he said that there were a few corn worms on the tip of the corn that he had bought from Dan. Amish Man Dan covered his mouth as he told me, “ Maybe I should not have said this to him, but I couldn’t resist, I told him, Well, I guess it is true that the early bird gets the worm!”
Ah yes Dan he is always so funny. One day he stopped by our house to let us know that he would need the wagon, I was setting off towards the berry brambles up alongside the cow pasture and I mentioned my concerns about the bulls. I told him that when I am out there with the cows I always kept my mind on the location of the nearest good climbing tree in case I ever had to dash up it.
Dan then showed me what to do if a bull ever charged at me. He said what you do is you take off your hat and you roar like a mad man, and he preceded to demonstrate this scare tactic to me as he pulled his Amish straw hat from his head and waved it frantically in the air, his grey black beard swaying to and fro and him roaring like a lion. I couldn’t be scared of the bulls as I picked berries that day for the remembrance of Dan roaring at them like lion kept me smiling. But I did keep my eyes on the nearest tree just in case.
Copyright © 2004, by Trendle Ellwood. All Rights Reserved.
Saturday, September 04, 2004
A Memoir
by Yen Dang
This is a mostly unedited version (it contains more of the original) of a memoir I wrote in creative writing class. *Names have been changed.
I remember him. We used to talk at recess in the spring where the sun shined outside and in the lunchroom in the winter where everyone gathered amongst the bustling din. I had met him at Sarandon Middle School* first where I asked about the book Le Petit Prince and his knowledge of French. I was still interested in French back then.
During lunch we used to talk even including his other students at the table. The seventh grade students adored Mr. Gregory*, and even though I was an eighth grader and had never had him as a teacher, I think I adored him as well. I remember one time we talked about how I liked astrology, so much so that I'd brought my book of astrology with me to school, along with numerous notes taken on the subject itself. When I read to him the description of a person with a Leo Ascendant (which applied to me) that said: "'People with Leo rising have delicate, round faces, often with a full head of hair, shining teeth, and a beautiful, dazzling smile,'"** he said, "Right on." And I smiled. He was always generous with compliments.
I remember one time a student of his, Sammy,* asked, "Why are you the hairy man-ape that you are?" Though Mr. Gregory didn't have a head of long, wavy hair, the hair on his arms and body was compensation enough. Tufts of dark, brown hair sticking out of the dress shirts that he used to wear. It would even stick out through the cuffs of his sleeves, and perhaps through the collar of his shirt. I never knew why he would wear long-sleeved dress shirts even when spring came around and it became hot. I suppose it was to cover up all that hair.
He used to wear cardigans too, most often accompanied by a dazzling smile and shining teeth. The bridge of his nose became a mystery when one of the students asked if he had gotten into a barfight that caused a strange but small flatness on the bridge.
One time that same student, Sammy, saw me talking to Mr. Gregory, and again asked, "Is she your daughter?" To that, he laughed and replied, "Sometimes." Of course, he probably didn't want to hurt my feelings by saying, "No." That incident took place in the springtime when it was hot outside and kids played football on the grassy school lawn. I remember the sun shining hotly, the cast shadow on the concrete area by the entrance doors and me just standing there talking, facing away from the sun when Sammy asked that question.
Soon the time came for graduation. The graduation ceremony would take place at a different school this time at Geffery High School.* Fortunately, I lived close by needing only to walk six to seven blocks to get there. I walked there in the early afternoon and arrived to a crowd of students huddled by the front doors. I arrived in a navy blue shirt, a black skirt, and black high heels. My hair was long and black, and loose except for two strands held back by hair clips.
The graduation ceremony was very much like a high school commencement. We would be seated in rows while one by one a student would come up to get a certificate when his or her name would be called. And since my last name started with a "D," I sat in the first row. During the commencement, I saw Mr. Gregory sitting before us about six feet back from the announcer. I caught him from the corner of my eye.
He was still sitting there listening to music after the students and parents gathered in the lobby to receive refreshments. Hearing the soft classical music pouring from the radio, I had a grand idea. I wanted to show him the classical piano music I'd been listening to that spring, the music of Franz Liszt. But as I was expressing this, I knew Mr. Gregory would have a wait for me to race home and back.
"Hi Yen. What's up?"
"Hi. Are you going to be here for long? I wanted to show you some classical piano but do you think you can wait?"
"Sure, I'll be here, " he replied.
So that afternoon, I stepped onto the baking concrete sidewalk, that first step in black high heels. I walked swiftly, feeling my legs burn with each step, a shot of adrenaline in my heart with every other step. I knew where I wanted to go: the short way. I would walk a block straight ahead, then take a right, not by the busy street but by the residential houses behind the busy street. I quickened my pace as I neared my block and my house.
I was in my house for such a short while, saying a quick hello and goodbye to my brothers then rushing up to my room to grab two CDs. Then I had to set out in the sun again. By the time, I came back to the school building, everyone had left. A teacher whom I recognized came up to me and said, "Mr. Gregory's waiting for you."
By then, I was exhausted. After all, it was June and I could feel the prickly heat and sweat on my forehead, and a great warmth rising from my chest. After that walk, it seemed all enthusiasm was drenched by a quickened breath and a sudden weariness. As I approached him, I heard him say, "I'm sorry. They closed the building right after you left." Now, the only thing I could do was to show him the contents of the CD cases and slowly walk back to where his car was parked.
"Are you okay?" he asked, amidst a lagging walk and downcast eyes beside him.
I replied, "Yes. I'm just really tired from walking all that way."
"Are you sure? Is there something wrong with your shoes?"
"No," I reassured him, "Just that my thighs hurt."
We strolled back in the direction of his car, catching up on small talk, nothing big after such a disappointment. But even that talk was reassuring. He recommended a book to me, Jitterbug Perfume by Tom Robbins, and mentioned he was taking a road trip to Arizona that summer. I gladly listened. When we stopped at the corner of the sidewalk, it was time to part. He gave me a half-hug with his arm around my back and shoulder. I patted his back in return. I said goodbye, but didn't see him get in his car. I then crossed the street and continued walking, thinking of going home.
**description taken from the book, The Only Astrology Book You'll Ever Need by Joanna Martine Woolfolk, Copyright 1990. New York; Scarborough House/Publishers.
Copyright © 2004, by Yen Dang. All Rights Reserved.
Thursday, September 02, 2004
Happiness in Marriage
by White Feather
Copyright © 2003-2004, by White Feather. All Rights Reserved. Books by White Feather
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No one can make a person happy except that person. You can express happiness, but you can't force another to be happy. That is an infringement of free-will. A marriage is a contract between two individuals to experience a time-frame together but each individual is responsible for their own happiness. When one individual looks to the other for happiness, they will never find the real deal because the real deal can only be found within. They may still find a lot of good stuff together, but the real deal is within. When one individual attempts to force their perception of happiness on the other, that short-circuits both individual's ability to find happiness within.
We marry someone because we love them. Of course we want them to be happy. But it is not our duty to make them happy, because we can't! All we can do is go within ourselves and find our own true happiness and then exude it and project it out for our partner to see how grand the happiness within can be. But you can't force a partner, or anyone, to go within. You can only be an example.
If you feel like your spouse's happiness is your responsibility, then you're going to feel guilty every time they're not happy. Why would you do that to yourself? You're loading yourself down with sticky gooey tarry guilt for not doing something that you can't do anyway. And then, the more unhappy he/she is, the more guilt you feel, and then arises the possibility of you blaming him/her for your guilt. This is keeping you from finding your happiness within. The only way off this emotional see-saw is to just stop. You've got to get off the seesaw long enough in order to go within.
Happiness is something that we share with our partner. We share our own happiness with them, but we do not impose that happiness on them and we do not try to direct their happiness. All we can do is share unconditionally. The very second we expect a certain type of response or the very second we judge a response that we are getting, we are being conditional, and we're back on that seesaw. If we are sharing our happiness with our mate and we are EXPECTING ANYTHING AT ALL IN RETURN!, then we are not sharing unconditionally.
No one can keep you from the birthright that is your happiness within unless you allow them to--and even then it is still YOU that are keeping yourself from finding the happiness within through your allowance. Just don't blame him/her. That's just more sticky gooey tar for the mix.
Blame, fear, doubt, sorrow, anger...whew, it can get pretty sticky and gooey and tarry. But how do we get out of sticky, gooey tar? By releasing all judgment! Expectations are a judgment. In releasing expectations and other judgments that we hold about our partner, we find a whole new layer of expectations and judgments we didn't even know we had. We release those and then we find another whole layer of expectations and judgments. Most marriage partnerships have many, many layers of goo. It can take a while to release all those many layers of expectaions and judgments, but when we do and our partner is still there, then we've got a pretty darn good love bond with them. And if, after all the releasing of judgment, the partner is no longer there; that is okay, too, because we will have found our happiness. If we are holding fear and doubt and expectation as to whether or not they will still be there, then we are just adding more judgment rather than releasing it. And if we are dependent in any way on them for our happiness, then we will never find it.
Yes, what I am saying may sound extreme, but it is the point everyone will eventually get to, so we may as well start thinking about it now to help draw that point closer to you. Every single relationship reaches a point where the two individuals must release each other. It is my contention that you cannot truly love someone until you completely release them. To me, the wedding seems to be the best time to release someone. That almost never happens. Most of us won't release our mates until either we or they die--and even then many of us won't release. Marriage is too often used as a crutch rather than a co-creative partnership. We hold on to our partners for dear life and in the process we strangle each other and keep each other from the happiness within. Release.
We marry someone because we love them. Of course we want them to be happy. But it is not our duty to make them happy, because we can't! All we can do is go within ourselves and find our own true happiness and then exude it and project it out for our partner to see how grand the happiness within can be. But you can't force a partner, or anyone, to go within. You can only be an example.
If you feel like your spouse's happiness is your responsibility, then you're going to feel guilty every time they're not happy. Why would you do that to yourself? You're loading yourself down with sticky gooey tarry guilt for not doing something that you can't do anyway. And then, the more unhappy he/she is, the more guilt you feel, and then arises the possibility of you blaming him/her for your guilt. This is keeping you from finding your happiness within. The only way off this emotional see-saw is to just stop. You've got to get off the seesaw long enough in order to go within.
Happiness is something that we share with our partner. We share our own happiness with them, but we do not impose that happiness on them and we do not try to direct their happiness. All we can do is share unconditionally. The very second we expect a certain type of response or the very second we judge a response that we are getting, we are being conditional, and we're back on that seesaw. If we are sharing our happiness with our mate and we are EXPECTING ANYTHING AT ALL IN RETURN!, then we are not sharing unconditionally.
No one can keep you from the birthright that is your happiness within unless you allow them to--and even then it is still YOU that are keeping yourself from finding the happiness within through your allowance. Just don't blame him/her. That's just more sticky gooey tar for the mix.
Blame, fear, doubt, sorrow, anger...whew, it can get pretty sticky and gooey and tarry. But how do we get out of sticky, gooey tar? By releasing all judgment! Expectations are a judgment. In releasing expectations and other judgments that we hold about our partner, we find a whole new layer of expectations and judgments we didn't even know we had. We release those and then we find another whole layer of expectations and judgments. Most marriage partnerships have many, many layers of goo. It can take a while to release all those many layers of expectaions and judgments, but when we do and our partner is still there, then we've got a pretty darn good love bond with them. And if, after all the releasing of judgment, the partner is no longer there; that is okay, too, because we will have found our happiness. If we are holding fear and doubt and expectation as to whether or not they will still be there, then we are just adding more judgment rather than releasing it. And if we are dependent in any way on them for our happiness, then we will never find it.
Yes, what I am saying may sound extreme, but it is the point everyone will eventually get to, so we may as well start thinking about it now to help draw that point closer to you. Every single relationship reaches a point where the two individuals must release each other. It is my contention that you cannot truly love someone until you completely release them. To me, the wedding seems to be the best time to release someone. That almost never happens. Most of us won't release our mates until either we or they die--and even then many of us won't release. Marriage is too often used as a crutch rather than a co-creative partnership. We hold on to our partners for dear life and in the process we strangle each other and keep each other from the happiness within. Release.
Copyright © 2003-2004, by White Feather. All Rights Reserved. Books by White Feather
