Poets in the Garden

In But Not Of

7/17/2019

Picture created by Crow from a photo by Midi.

The Observer

Wandering through life
Avoiding contact,
Avoiding strife,
The Observer sees
Much, contemplates,
Learns, then moves on

To other places,
Replete with people,
Wandering blindly,
Wanting only to
Fill hungry bellies,
Still their bleak thoughts.

And the Observer
Standing to the side,
Watches silent,
Wondering, learning,
Not belonging,
In but not of.

Wolf at the Oakland zoo

Lone Wolf

A lone wolf lopes along
Forest path, dark and green,
Silent, alone, unseen,
Howls his lonely night song.

One day he may find a mate,
A place to stay, to be known,
But for now, does not bemoan
These travels that are his fate.

He is the lone wolf, the one
Who belongs nowhere,
No family, no lair,
Wild and free under the sun.

Ospreys exist above,
Perched on a nest up high,
Heedless of us below.
Live in the world of Sky,
Fish in the tidal flow,
Soar high above the Bay,
Untouched by human fray,
Living the osprey way.

But...

One day parent osprey
Catches a fish entwined:
Monofilament line
Left to float in the Bay
By a human who may
Not know what he has wrought,
A chick's talon is caught,
All effort come to nought,

And it takes another
Human, caring and kind
To untangle the line,
Endure the ospreys' cries
Circling in the skies,
He valiantly tries.
As two worlds intertwine
For brief moment in time.

-MW

The Outsider

She was an unusual woman. A dark skinned foreigner, she did not belong, was not welcomed into houses. But she did not let this bother her. She spent time alone, thinking, watching the world around her.
It was an exciting time. Prophets wandered the area, preaching their own news of miracles to come. One such prophet caught her eye. He was tall and slender, long-haired, with a proud stance, sure of himself.
One day he visited the house where she lived with her sisters. She brought water to wash his feet. and he smiled benignly down at her. Then he invited her to join him and his disciples.
So she did. How could she not do so?  His words inspired her, she loved him heart and soul. But here too, she did not belong. He spent time with her, loved her more than the other disciples, but he was busy. Often he went away for a time. And she was left alone again. For the other disciples, the men, did not accept her.
“How is it that you spend more time with her than with us?” a disciple asked the Master.
“Why should I not spend time with her?” he answered. And the disciple glared at her, not at the Master.
So whenever he was gone, she went back home to live with her sisters.
And he, who had disciples and many who congregated to see him wherever he spoke, was also an outsider. He was above his followers, a thinker, a prophet. He wandered, not worrying about fitting in. And for this, the authorities hated him.
One day, he entered town triumphantly, along with his followers. He shared a seder meal with his disciples. And foretold his fate. One would betray him, all would flee and leave him alone to die. Then he turned to her and smiled. She washed his feet with reverence, and knowing it was for the last time, her tears mixed  with the expensive unguent.
As he foretold, the authorities tried him and convicted him to hanging, like a common criminal. One disciple betrayed him, another denied knowing him.
As he hung there, she stood with his mother at a distance,  watching in grief. They were not allowed to speak to him, to give him comfort. They watched in agonized silence as the guards taunted and gave him vinegar instead of water to drink. She turned to plead with a disciple to do something. But the men had all vanished, afraid for their own lives.
He was taken down to be buried in the dark of night. She did not know where they had put his body and wandered searching. After a few days, her search was rewarded. She saw him in the garden, not a ghost but in body and spirit. He spoke to her.
They spent several days in the garden together, while he passed on to her his knowledge, his philosophy of life. He asked her to guard this knowledge then warned her to flee. They would be looking for her and would not hesitate to kill her, despite the child growing in her belly.
Then he returned to the skies. And she did as he told. One disciple, who had travelled, knew of a land where she would be safe. So he put her on a ship and she sailed to the land called Gaul. There she found a cave and gave birth to a daughter. Still in but not of, she raised her daughter in seclusion. The townspeople were kind enough, and gave her a simple shelter and food for her and her daughter. She began to wander as he had, offering her store of knowledge to any who would listen. And gradually, she too, gathered a following.  Dark and exotic, she became known as the Black Madonna.  And they built shrines to her, prayed to her to heal them.
But unlike her lover, she remained in obscurity, remembered only by a few followers while the authorities distorted her story, made her into a whore, and virtually erased her from their canon. So that today she is known by most only as the whore out of whom Jesus cast 7 demons, a fringe figure mentioned only in passing in the canon. And we do not know what became of  Mary Magdalene and  her daughter.

-MW

The Outsider

The house was ablaze with light
And loud in song and laughter.
A man in evening dress,
With cradled corsage in hand,
Stood hesitant at the door.
He knocked not once but thrice,
With vigor then timidity.
No break in din and merriment!
Hopes dashed and shoulders slumped,
The figure at the door
Let fall his corsage, turned
And stiffly left the porch.
A slowly walking shadow
Soon blended in with the dark,
Expected and missed by no one!

Night's silence was broken by lively sound,
Night's darkness pierced by blazing light,
And footsteps drifted slowly away.
For some there is no welcome and no stay!

Aloneness and Loneliness

Each is separate, each is alone
In family, with friends or in a crowd.
Aloneness is our existential lot.

Each experiences loneliness,
But loneliness is choice not lot,
Personal response to existence as it is.

We are alone but lonely need not be,
Aloneness is the nature of existence
And loneliness is but a state of mind!

The Bubble Lady

The lady in black,
She has quite a knack,
Blows bubbles all day
And can't stay away.
Blows bubbles, blows bubbles all day.
They swell as they grow,
They drift as they blow,
They shrivel and bust
As good bubbles must.
So blow lady blow, blow bubbles all day.
An awkward gait,
A plaintive smile,
A black presence,
A will-o'-the wisp,
But blow bubbles she can,
And blow bubbles she does.

Aloneness

We come alone
Upon this Earth,
We lead our separate lives
And die our separate deaths.
To counter our aloneness
We couple and we mingle,
But aloneness only pales,
For aloneness is our lot!

Sad but True

Old age was once a grand finale,
Age was heeded and respected.
Old age now means the body's spent,
And age's wisdom is no longer prized.
Old age and wisdom have had their run,
Now age and senility are paired as one.
Both thought and things are in such flux,
Age and obsolescence now are one!

The Mist of Life
translation of Hermann Hesse's poem Im Nebel

Strange in the mist to wander!
Lonely are bush and stone,
No tree sees the other,
Each is alone.

Full was my world of friends,
While yet my life was bright;
Now that the mist descends,
All have vanished from sight.

Truly wise no one can be,
Who the dark not kens,
That inescapably and calmly
Him from all others rends.

Strange in the mist to wander!
Life is to be lone.
No one knows the other,
Each is alone.

-JM

Epigrams by JM

The different will always be treated differently.

In love, one is no less alone than when alone.

Aloneness is life's existential lot.

We live in reality and vacation in ideality.

One need not be lonely when alone.

When among wolves, one must be a wolf or suffer the consequences.

To become old is to become passé.

Rivet's Song

I have no home to call my own,
No place to stay at close of day,
For I have travelled long and far,
Following my lone star.

I once had a nest that I called home,
A place where I was loved and known,
But then I fledged and away I flew,
Now I am just passing through.

I flew down South all alone,
To live down there on my own,
To fish and fly every day,
And to live the osprey way.

Then I flew back to my nest,
And asked my parents could I rest.
But they said no, that I had flown,
And I was now on my own.

In the nest was a new family,
There was no longer space for me.
So now I just find my own way,
Flying up and down the Bay.

One day at a later date,
I will seek my own mate,
Build a nest and call it home,
A place that is all my own.

But for now I roost at night
Wherever I happen to alight.
I fly here and I fly there,
At home nowhere and everywhere.

-Midi

I have a home where I belong
Humans who are my family
A place to rest, a place to chew,
In and of, just happy to be..

3 Comments

The Creative Urge

6/19/2019

1 Comment

Art has the role in education of helping children become life themselves instead of more like everyone else.
-Sydney Gurewitz

The Arts

Words speak to the mind,
Painting to the eyes,
Dance to the heart,
Music to the soul.

To create
Is an urge,
An itch that
Must be scratched,
Lest it fester
Into a sore
That bleeds.

Art is an attempt
Life to imitate,
Recreate,
Explicate.
A desire to
Compensate,
Ameliorate,
To celebrate,
And sometimes
To deprecate,
And excoriate.

Four Artists in a Meadow

Four artists were taking a walk in the countryside. Soon they came to a meadow.
“Oh, how beautiful,” the painter cried. "Look at all the different colors and patterns.”
He took out his palette and paints and began to recreate the scene he saw before him.
“Yes, it is beautiful,” the writer agreed. “It fills my heart with so much emotion that I must write a poem.” She pulled out her pen and notebook and, leaning against an oak tree, began to pen a sonnet.
The musician stood silent, listening to a lark singing in the grass. The musician tried whistling the bird’s tune. He and the bird whistled back and forth in increasingly complex melodies, while the musician scribbled down the notes.
The dancer simply took off her shoes and began to dance through the tall grass. Her graceful movements followed the grasses swaying in the wind.
An old philosopher happened to be walking the same path with his wife. They came upon the meadow and stopped to watch the four artists at work.
“How beautiful,” the wife said quietly. “How well they complement and enhance the bucolic scene.”
The philosopher answered, “That is Art.”

The Monk

Once there was a young man who set out into the world to seek his fortune. He did not seek fame and gold, as did some of his friends, but a fulfilling life and perhaps some recognition for his talents. The young man found a job as a cook at a local inn. He enjoyed cooking and found he could exercise his creativity by concocting new recipes.
But the inn closed and the man was left without a job.
Well, the young man thought, he enjoyed music too. So he joined a band and they travelled, playing wherever they went. This was fun and the man was able to visit many places.
After a time, when the man grew older, he tired of travelling every day. He was ready to settle down. But what could he do that would nurture his need for creativity and still bring in enough money to live?
One day, when visiting a cathedral in a major city, the man had an epiphany. As he sat listening to a group of monks singing Vespers, he thought,
“I could become a monk. There I could sing and play music, I could illustrate texts, and there would be no distractions. I would be fed and left alone to practice my arts.”
So the very next morning, the man went to the church officials and inquired about becoming a monk. They welcomed him. The initiation period was easy for the man. He liked studying and was adept at reflection. Soon he had become a monk and he joined a monastery.
At the monastery, the man had a small room where he could read, write, practice calligraphy and play music for himself. There was a resident cat, kept for catching mice, that the man befriended. The new monk also joined in on chant and illustrated texts for the monastery. When the other monks discovered his love of cooking, they asked him to make all their meals, as well as creating delicacies for the monastery to sell.
The other monks were well pleased with this new addition to their ranks. And the new monk felt useful and appreciated. Finally, he had found a place to belong, a place where he could exercise his many creative skills, and be useful and acknowledged at the same time.

The Teacher

Once there was a young girl who was quite creative. She wrote little stories, built things out of boxes, and once even wrote a song. When she began school, she discovered she loved learning as well and became a fine student. But she never lost her creative streak. She loved when her teacher assigned a story using the spelling words or had the students make a diorama for a story they had read. She even tried drawing, but she was no good at it.The young girl also liked music. She loved it when the family gathered around the piano to sing. She wanted to play an instrument and was given a toy accordion.
As the girl matured, she continued to be a good student. She also continued her creative efforts. She took up the flute and practiced diligently. She got a book on learning to draw and practiced, to little avail. But it was fun. She started keeping a journal. And she continued to write poems and stories. She was happy when her teachers assigned creative projects. And very happy the year she could take creative writing as a course.
The girl, now a young woman, wanted to become a writer. But she had no idea how to go about it. So she continued her studies. She was an excellent student and knew she could do well there. But she continued to write creatively when she had time. As a form of protest, she appended a creative story to each of her scholarly papers. The professors did not know what to make of her. Who was this woman?
After college, the young woman still did not know what to do. How did one become a writer? She tried for five years, then grew tired of living in poverty and started searching for a real job. Finally, she became a teacher.
Teaching was a good fit for the woman. She could continue learning and could impart her love of learning to others. She could be creative, although in a different way. But it was also frustrating. She must adhere to others’ standards and expectations and there was little acknowledgment for any endeavors outside the norm. Teaching was also all-consuming. She had little time for outside creative endeavors or even for socializing. But she continued to write whenever she had the time. As for music, she learned to listen instead of playing. But she sang every day with her students.
After many years of teaching, the woman decided she had had enough. She retired. Now she could write to her heart’s content. And she did. But now there was no music in her life. So she joined a singing group and took up a new instrument. Soon she was singing and playing once again. She even began to record, something entirely new for her. She enjoyed learning new skills and being able to write as she wished once again. And looking back, she realized how she had always had that need to be creative, one way or another. It was in her blood. A need in which she could now indulge to her heart’s content.

-MW

Poetry and Prose

Poetry says much in a very little,
Prose says much but only in much.
Poetry is akin to a slug of Scotch,
Prose is a bottle of premier stout.

To Write or not to Write!

Should you want to know
What poets are all about,
Then 'tis the land of poetry
That you should begin to scout.

Should you want to know
What poetry is all about,
Then 'tis the land of poets
That you should begin to scout.

Would you a poet be
And your own poems pen,
Then live and feel and think,
Re-imagine it all, then write.

Good your poems may be,
Or even bad or worse,
It doesn't really matter,
Reward is in the writing.

Paintings

Realistic paintings are prosaic,
Romantic paintings are poetic,
Abstract paintings are cryptic.

Realistic paintings appeal to thought,
Romantic paintings appeal to imagination,
Abstract paintings appeal to curiosity.

Realistic paintings can be tedious,
Romantic paintings can be cloying,
Abstract paintings can be perplexing.

But without paintings are whatever sort
Life would be a lot less colorful.

Art

Art is actuality: actuality mirrored, expanded, satirized, rendered comic or tragic, mimicked, distorted, gilded, hyperbolized, fantasized, romanticized, idealized, ironicized, celebrated and denigrated. Art is actuality altered by the artist's imprint or enveloped by the artist's shadow.
Art is personal even when impersonal.
And universal even when personal!

Poets

Serious poets are able to cut through life's tangled mess to get at life's essentials. They are keen observers and students of life. They are a culture's seismograph. They are our Cassandras, our Delphic seers, and are to be heeded.

Creativity

Traditionally, creativity was commonly deemed a wondrous God-given gift or but a chance unique talent. These yesteryear assumptions prevailed until the advent of modern-day psychology. With Freud, attention began to shift from these suspect sources of creative to the very complex psychology of creativity. The road from creative potentiality to the creative process now became progressively more intricately psychological.
Creative potentiality (necessary intelligence and imagination) can vary dramatically from person to person. A modicum of inherent possibility to create demands a good deal of effort for fruition, an abundance correspondingly less. to wit, some trying honing--sweat and grief--is always necessary if potentiality is to become a creative skill. Creative potential would lie fallow but for some compelling motivation. Need and want seem to be the major motivating thrust in every kind of creativity: a need to counter the pain of wanting self-esteem and/or of the low regard of others, and a desire to raise low self-regard and/or the low regard of others. Creativity can therefore serve multiple purposes and can be twice rewarding: a blessing for the creator and a gratuitous gift for the public.
Creativity is thus essentially a catharsis, a wondrous therapeutic exercise, and this is true both of the genial and of the run-of-the-mill creators. Unfortunately, most blighted and blessed creative individuals are compelled to return to the well again and again for the psychological benefits of creativity are more or less short-lived.
The creative process itself is no pleasant saunter in a grooved grove, but an arduous crawl through king jungle thickets: torment the may end with a blissful heurēka.

-JM

Bits of Wisdom from JM:

Every itch deserves a scratch.

Creations refresh their creators.

A dance will life enhance.

Art is primarily to be experienced not judged.

Music is love's language for thought is too remote.

To reproduce is a craft, to create is an art.

In colors, in colors
The fields are dressed in the spring.
     In colors, in colors
Are the little birds that come from outside.
     In colors, in colors
Is the rainbow that we see shining.

     And that is why I love
The great loves of many colors
     And that is why I love
The great loves of many colors.

The rooster sings, the rooster sings
With a cock-a-doodle, cock-a-doodle-doo.
     The hen, the hen
With a cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck.
     The chicks, the chicks
With a cheep, cheep, cheep, cheep, cheep.

     And that is why I love
The sweet sounds in our ears.
     And that is why I love
The sweet sounds in our ears.

1 Comment

In the Clouds

5/15/2019

1 Comment

Taken from the car driving down I80 in Berkeley, CA.

Triplet

Clouds--and dreams
Are up there--on high
To reach them
We must learn to fly.

What is a dream--
Escape from reality?
Antidote to reality?
Alternative to reality?
Or a path to reality?

Dreams are fine while they last,
But with time, must become real
Or fade into the past.

In the Clouds

Her head is in the cloud,
They say.
Don't listen to her,
It's just fantasy.

But wait--
Think of who she
Might grow up to be!

Climb to the Cloud

If you climb the bean stalk ,
You might reach the sky,
Or you might not,
But it’s worth a try.

A castle you might see
With its drawbridge down,
But watch out for the moat,
You don’t want to drown!

And when you see the gate
There’ll be a dragon there,
But do not be afraid,
Be brave enough to dare.

And if you can’t get
Past the dragon’s glare,
Do not give up yet,
Do not despair.

It was not in vain,
You can always climb down
The beanstalk again
And get a job in town,

And then perhaps one day
You will again decide
To climb that ol’ beanstalk,
But if not, at least you tried.

For you had a dream
And though it may remain
Just a memory, a gleam,
One day you may climb again.

-MW

Idealists

Idealists are our glorious misfits
They disparage the real and nurture the ideal,
Self-appointed critics of that which is, and
Self-anointed prophets of that which should be.
Their ranks are swelled by the physically wanting,
By the physically maimed and psychologically scarred,
By dreamer poets and other-world philosophers,
By disenchanted intellectuals,
A motley lot, culture's leaven!

Life's Roads

The realist: the road of actuality leads to life,
The romantic: the road of dreams leads to bliss,
The moralist: the road of virtue leads to heaven,
The hedonist: the road of pleasure leads to satisfaction,
The skeptic: the road of belief leads to disbelief,
The agnostic: the road of know not leads to wise detachment
The cynic: the road of selfishness is the road of life,
The nihilist: the road to anywhere leads nowhere!

Romantics

Romantics are the disenchanted,
Discontent for whatever reason,
Dreams of one sort or another,
Seekers of truth of whatever kind,
All aspiring to something better,
And all too often to little avail!

Sad But True

Truth is our torment.
Delusion, our refuge.
The good is challenging,
Evil, seductive.
We tout nobility,
Wallow in wretchedness.
We extol love,
Exercise hatred.
We preach peace,
Indulge in war.
We worship God,
Follow the devil.
Heaven is a dream,
Earth, our reality!

Bare Bones

We are all harnessed and hitched.
Harnessed by our needs,
Hitched by society's demands,
And left only to dream!

-JM

Brief thoughts

Humans cannot live by bread alone, illusions are necessary.

Idealism is a frail defense against threatening bestiality.

Dreams are wings, expectations are burdens.

-JM

A dream unsown does not grow.

There are dreamers,
There are thinkers,
There are doers.
And a fortunate few are all three.

-MW

Two Fables

Little Cloud

Once there was a little cloud. She was fluffy and white and oh, so little. The wind blew her here and there and she could do nothing about it.
People on Earth looked up to the sky and exclaimed, “What a pretty little cloud!” That made Little Cloud feel good. But she wanted more.
“I am lonely,” she said to herself one day. “I want to be with other clouds. And I want to be someone, not just a pretty little cloud.”
So she puffed herself up as well as she could and tried to find the tradewinds that would blow her far and wide. Finally, she came to a large number of clouds. They were grouping together.
“Hello,” said Little Cloud timidly. “What are you doing? May I join you?”
“Of course,” they answered. They didn’t seem to care that she was so little. “We are getting together to make a storm.”
The clouds massed closer and closer and soon they were one large gray cloud. Little Cloud joined in on the edge. Soon the water in the clouds became too heavy and began to fall. The wind blew. The people on Earth looked up and said, “Watch out, a storm is coming.” And they all ran inside.
“That was fun,” Little Cloud said when the storm was over. “What is next?”
But already the other clouds were breaking apart and moving on.
“Wait!” Little Cloud called. But the other clouds had all left.
So Little Cloud drifted on until she found another group of clouds. This one was larger and darker. They towered, with the larger clouds on the bottom and the smaller ones on top. Little Cloud drifted to the very top of the thunderhead and tried to hang on.
The wind blew fiercely. The clouds crashed together with a large noise, creating sparks. It was a full thunderstorm.
Little Cloud was afraid, but she hung on. She was glad when the storm was over.
“That was exciting,” she told herself. “But now I am tired. I think I’ll just be myself for a while.”
So she drifted off into the blue sky, where there were only a few white clouds such as herself. And she smiled when the people came out of their houses to say, “Oh, the storm is over. Just look at that pretty little white cloud.”
Little Cloud didn’t mind being little and alone anymore. She drifted through the sky quite content. But every once in awhile, she decided she needed some company and some excitement. Then she would find a mass of clouds and join them for a good storm.

-MW

Travel to the iCloud

Once there was a young woman who was just starting out in life. She found herself a good job that paid well, and she applied herself diligently. Her bosses praised her work and she was content.
But that contentment did not last. After a few months, the hard work became routine drudgery. The woman felt she was doing the same tasks day after day. It became so routine, she could do the work half asleep.
“This is easy for me,” she thought, “but it is not what I want. I want to keep learning, I want to be challenged.”
The young woman suddenly felt sleepy. Her computer was updating and she could do not work anyway. So she put her head down on her laptop and fell asleep immediately. She didn’t see the icon that popped up on her screen: Sign in to iCloud.
The woman found herself in a cloud. She was surrounded by a shimmering white, that felt both calming and stimulating. Misty wisps swirled around her. As she becamse oriented, she realized that these wisps were ideas, droplets of information and wisdom.
The woman was excited. Here, finally, was a place where she could think and dream, a place to create. She eagerly drank in the mist, picking up snippets of knowledge in all fields. Her mind began to swirl with ideas, new ways of doing things, writing projects…
After a few hours of this, the woman’s brain was full, so full she felt it might explode.
“This was wonderful,” she told herself. “All this knowledge, all these facts, all these concepts. But it is all so disorganized. There is simply too much. I cannot absorb it all in one trip. I must go back to Earth and organize my thoughts now to create new ideas of my own from all I have learned here.”
So saying, she reluctantly pushed her way out of the white misty cloud until she could see sunlight. She caught a sunbeam and slid back down to Earth.
And when she reached her desk, the computer had finished updating. She signed out of iCloud, opened a new document and began a new project. No longer dull, out of her daily routine, she outlined a new concept for her company, a creative solution to a problem that had been presented in the last meeting. A solution born of her visit to the cloud.

-MW

Píccola: I don't dream of other worlds. I live fully in my little world, exploring to my heart's content.

Unsung Song
composed on the Richmond Bay shoreline
still unsung and unrecorded due to "technical" difficulties

I have a song unsung
Ne'er yet from me wrung,
A story to be told
Before I grow too old.

Instead I walk along
The shore to sing my song,
To the wind that blows my
Words scattered to the sky.

Now but whispers and sighs,
Private thoughts, feeble tries.
And I walk mute, alone,
Stories and poems unsown.

On the shore by the Bay
At this close of day.

I have a dream unsown,
Never to be known,
Dreamed only in the night,
Backlit by dim starlight.

And I walk down the street
To my lonely heartbeat,
Keep my thoughts tight inside
And wear a mask outside.

I work and talk and play
In the sun glare of day,
As if without a care,
As if I belong there.

But dreaming in the night,
My path lit by starlight.

-MW

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April 2019: Vacation

4/15/2019

0 Comments

The poets are taking a one month break in order to do housework and get into the garden. Look for us mid May, once the tomatoes have been planted.

Píccola says, "I don't do housework but I do help in the garden. I do the digging.

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March: The Power of Music

3/15/2019

1 Comment

♪ The Power of Music  ♪

Music appears to be ubiquitous in the human world. People everywhere sing, play instruments and dance. And this has been true since early humans on Earth. Musical instruments have been found in archaeological digs all around the world.
Music accompanies us in our solitude. In days gone by, , men (rarely women, I think) would walk down the street whistling. Today, one cannot walk down the street without hearing the blare of a boombox from a passing car or seeing a passerby focussed on the music in their earbuds to the exclusion of the outside world.And how many people have music playing while they work?
Music accompanies our social lives. Jazz background music in a café, going to a concert with friends, even jam sessions or sing-alongs with like-minded people. Music is the language of love. How many songs have been written to love, both in joy and in heartbreak. Ask anyone about love songs and they will begin singing their favorite song.
Music is ubiquitous. It is featured at weddings, birthdays, funerals, at just about any special event. It is soothing.  Lullabies put many a baby to sleep. It is solace. For any heartbreak, loneliness, sorrow, there has been at least one song written. It is joy. When happy, we spontaneously break into song. It is togetherness. All leaders know that a rousing song will bring the troops together, whether it be a protest song, a patriotic march, or a rowdy drinking song. Music is featured in schools (though not nearly enough anymore in this writer’s opinion) and in churches.
Music is of all types: catchy ditties, folk songs , Lieder, chorales, dance music from minuet to the Bunny Hop, sonatas, symphonies, operatic arias, masses and oratorios. It is for babies, children, adults and ancients alike. It is a way to bring generations and cultures together.
Music is eminently memorable. Advertisers know and exploit this. Ask anyone from age three to eighty about an ad about some common product from their childhood and they will be able to sing the jingle from that ad. Ditto with a television show’s theme song. Or a popular song from a movie or musical.
Music pervades our lives and makes them much richer for it. How dull would be a life and a world with no music! Luckily, we will always have our voices and thus music will accompany us wherever and whenever we are.

-MW

♩ ♩  ♩  ♩ ♩  ♩  ♩ ♩  ♩  ♩  ♩  ♩  ♩. ♪  ♩ :]

Music

What is music but sound that is the panacea of panaceas, the opiate of opiates, the analgesic of analgesics, the attraction of attractions, the purgative of purgatives, the aphrodisiac of aphrodisiacs, the gift of gifts, the food of foods, our timeless and universal elixir!

Creativity

Traditionally, creativity was commonly deemed a wondrous God-given gift or but a chance unique talent. These yesteryear assumptions prevailed until the advent of modern-day psychology. With Freud, attention began to shift from these suspect sources of creativity to the very complex psychology of creativity. The road from creative potentiality to the creative process now became progressively more intricately psychological.
Creative potentiality, necessary intelligence and imagination can vary dramatically from person to person. A modicum of inherent possibility to create demands a good deal of effort for fruition, an abundance correspondingly less. To wit, some trying honing--sweat and grief--is always necessary if potentiality is to become a creative skill. Creative potential would lie fallow but for some compelling motivation. Need and want seem to be the major motivating thrust in every kind of creativity; a need to counter the pain of wanting self-esteem and/or the low regard of others. Creativity can therefore serve multiple purposes and can be twice rewarding: a blessing for the creator and a gratuitous gift for the public.
Creativity is thus essentially a catharsis, a wondrous therapeutic exercise, and this is true both of the genial and of the run-of-the-mill creators. Unfortunately, most blighted and blessed creative individuals are compelled to return to the well again and again, for the psychological benefits of creativity are more or less short-lived.
The creative process itself is no pleasant saunter in a groomed grove, but an arduous crawl through taxing jungle thickets: torment that may end with a blissful heurēka.

-JM

An die Musik

Du holde Kunst, in wieviel grauen Stunden,
Wo mich des Lebens wilder Kreis umstrickt,
Hast du mein Herz zu warmer Lieb entzunden,
Hast mich in eine beßre Welt entrückt,
In eine beßre Welt entrückt!

Oft hat ein Seufzer, deiner Harf entflossen,
Ein süßer, heiliger Akkord von dir
Den Himmel beßrer Zeiten mir erschlossen,
Du holde Kunst, ich danke dir dafür,
Du holde Kunst, ich danke dir dafür!

To Music

You, noble Art, in how many grey hours,
When life's wild circle entangles me,
Have you kindled my heart to warm love,
Have you transported me into a better world,
Transported into a better world!

Often has a sigh flowing out from your harp,
A sweet, divine harmony from you
Unlocked to me the heaven of better times,
You, noble Art, I thank you for it,
You, noble Art, I thank you!

The power of music is apparent in nursing homes. I have not seen any activity that arouses all residents, from lively, active ones to dozing, half-aware ones, so much. At my mother's nursing home, a music therapist came one a week. One new man, who appeared to be non-English speaking, sat dully until the music teacher brought him a drum. After that, he smiled and entusiastically played the drum. Another French woman who sat without speaking suddenly began singing when she heard a song she knew. I could just mention the Marseillaise and she would belt it out. And here is a video of my mother not long before she died, enjoying the music, one of her last pleasures in life.

Lior Tsarfaty goes to senior facilities around the Bay Area to sing with residents. H also offers a course on his best practices. See his website www.villagesong.com

Bird song

Bird Symphony

Bird Aria

It turns out that birds learn language much as we do, only they learn in song. Imagine if humans all sang instead of talking. Maybe we would get along better!
Some birds, among them song birds, have an amazing ability to sing. They have a syrinx composed of two membranes that can vibrate rapidly and separately, thus allowing a bird to sing a duet with itself. Without modern technology. They also have the ability, along with whales, dolphins, bats and humans, to learn song/ language from others. And they can sing as many as thirty-six notes per second. Molto allegro.
The chick learns much as a human child does. First it produces imperfect sounds, trying to imitate its parent (usually the father). As it practices, it learns and refines its song. Then it begins to imitate the sounds around it. As it does so, its brain develops more neurons. It is learning. It practices and plays with song, self-correcting. Mockingbirds, of course, are masters at this. Listening to a mockingbird, one can hear various local bird songs, as well as car alarms and cell phones. A mockingbird may imitate as many as two hundred different songs.
Birds use chirps and other sounds to communicate. The crow has many different calls. But it doesn't sing. The drive to sing may come from the dopamine and opioids produced when singing. But the best song emerges when a female is around. This is when the male bird lets loose with his own composed love song.
Which begs some questions: Do females sing as well? Why do female humans sing? Did early man sing and play instruments and not the females? And did humans learn to sing from listening to birds? A fascinating topic.
But while pondering these questions, open your window and listen to the mockingbird, just breathing in the song, sharing in the pure joy of song.

Information gathered from The Genius of Birds by Jennifer Ackerman, a delightful read.

1 Comment

February: Hearts and Prisms

2/14/2019

2 Comments

 We are not mirrors of those we love, but prisms, reflecting and refracting in myriad ways.

Sound and Light

Sound and Light were friends. Sound worked hard. There was so much noise in the world. He was kept busy sorting the noise from the music and trying to create new songs from the random noises around him. Sometimes, Sound despaired that he would ever achieve real harmony.
Light, on the other hand, had only to shine then all was clear. Sound loved Light. She seemed so serene and at peace. She was pure.
But one day, Sound saw something new, a rainbow of many colors that lined up and danced in the sky. It was beautiful, Sound thought, but it wasn’t pure. It wasn’t Light as he knew her. He called to Light.
“Light, I like your rainbow. But now, could you please become Pure Light again? I love your clarity, your purity, your Oneness.”
Light looked at him through her rainbow prism. When she answered, her colors danced through her words.
“Those colors are as much a part of me as the clear Light you usually see,” she told Sound. “I am made of many colors. There is red anger, green envy, blue sadness, purple pride, yellow happiness. All the colors are in me. Usually, I bring them all together into Oneness and then we are clear. But today, I want you, my friend, to see me in all my colors.”
Sound listened with dismay. “But, but—“
“No buts, Sound. You too, are made of many notes. I listen to your beautiful tones, but also your discordant ones, knowing that you will bring them together into harmony. Then I listen to the symphony of sounds you have created, a beautiful whole.”
Sound answered, “Yes, I do that. I try hard to make harmony out of discord, to bring all into one melody. But it is hard work.”
“Do you think it is not just as hard for me?” Light asked quietly. “Only I make less noise about it.”
Sound paused in uncharacteristic silence.
“Watch,” Light continued. “Pause, take a full rest, and watch my symphony now. A symphony of light.”
Sound did as she asked. He was still, very still, so that not a sound was heard that night on Earth. Meanwhile, Light played her show. Rainbows arced over the Equator, while Blue and Green Northern Lights danced at the Poles. Even the waves in the seas sparkled with color.
Sound was breathless, silent, watching. And as he watched, he learned about Light. He watched her blues, her greens, her reds…and he began to understand her in a New Light. Not the Pure Clear Light he had adored, but a real colorful, multifaceted Light. And now he loved her even more.
“Come join me,” Light called. Inspired, Sound did just that, taking the sounds of Earth, combining them in ways he never had before, until the colors Light had created were infused with harmonious chords, wonderful melodies, and an entire symphony of Sound and Light that we call Life.

-MW

Love

Love is blind, or so it's said,
But who, pray tell, needs eyes in bed.

Love is irrational, or so it's said,
But who, in love, wants a clear head.

Love is short-lived, or so many say,
But what, on earth, is here to stay.

Love may be blind, mad and fleeting,
But a gift it's still, a treasured godsend,
An awesome challenge and a rare pleasure
That is best lived and not long pondered.

Two Paths

Accusations spawn recriminations,
Recriminations attract vengeance,
Vengeance invites revenge,
Revenge breeds retribution,
A lineage without end!

Praise nurtures well-being,
Well-being spreads contentment,
Contentment spawns kindness,
Kindness stirs gratitude,
A lineage without end!

Some opt for one,
Some opt for the other
Of these two paths.
One breeds hate,
The other love.
The choice is yours,
The rewards are yours!

Relationships

If interaction is to be positive,
Don't overwhelm, persuade,
Talk less and listen more,
Empathize, don't antagonize,
Whisper, don't shout,
Help rather than harm,
Be neither arrogant nor servile,
And tranquil rather than agitated.
You will then be heeded and valued!
And who wants more?

-JM

Epigrams by JM

Love adds to giver and recipient, hatred takes from both.

To appreciate is to elate, to deprecate is to sow hate.

It is not what is said, but what is heard, that counts.

Too much I leaves too little room for we.

What is it about a rainbow
That delights us so?
The fleeting unexpectedness
That cannot be served
Upon command or request
But only when deserved.

Scientists will say the light
Bends to make a rainbow.
And that is true.
But a rainbow can also
Mean more, much more
To me and you.

-MW

Unspoken,
Love is a crystal:
Pure white light.
Lit by another,
Rainbow delight.

-MW

Where is our love,
Where can it be found?
Look not here above,
But deep in the ground.

Down where the bulbs lie
In the rich fertile earth,
Waiting for Sun's warmth
To bring them to birth.

Look deep in the heart,
Into lonely soul,
Perhaps we'll find love
That will make us whole.

Perhaps there we'll find
The true love so deep
We knew long ago,
A love we swore to keep.

If you look deep and long,
That true love you will find,
Our first lovelorn song
That us still does bind.

An everlasting bond,
Here, today, and beyond.

-MW

My heartfelt thanks to the three members of the WWOC who helped me with the artwork and music. I could not do it without you. The WWOC rocks!

2 Comments

January 2019: Footprints in the Sand

1/22/2019

2 Comments

The footprints you leave in the sand may well be washed away, but you will still have made them.

Footprints in the Sand

The two Game Masters took their students down to the beach called Life. The waves of the Great Ocean roared in their ears. They gathered their students in a circle and spoke in unison.
“You have been with us for many years to learn the game of Life. Most of you have done quite well. But you are not finished. Today is the not the end, the culmination, but the beginning. Now you must take what you have learned to set off on your own. Along the way, you will have to make decisions that will affect the rest of your journey. Choose wisely, using what you have learned. Listen to your inner self as well. You will leave footprints in the sands of Life. What footprints you leave is your choice.”
One student dared to speak. "Oh, Great Masters, which footprints are the best? Which should we choose?"
“No one footprint is better than the other,” replied the Masters. “It is your choice. But you must live with your decision, so choose your steps wisely. Think before you act, consider carefully what footprints you wish to leave, for you must live with them forever after.”
The students hesitated, unwilling to leave their first footprint in the sand. Then a tall strapping lad stepped out boldly.
“Good-by,” he said, his head held high. He strode off, leaving deep marks in the sand.
Soon he was out of sight.
Next, a rather ordinary looking boy stepped out, right into the footprints left by the other boy. He followed those footprints, although he had to lengthen his stride to do so.
A serious looking girl stepped out. She walked lightly down to the ocean. There she turned and walked alongside the water in the wet sand. Soon her footsteps were covered by the waves.
A slight lad with dark hair and dark eyes took a tentative first step. Then another and another, until he was walking down the beach as well. His footsteps were careful, measured and light.
A jovial boy with an infectious grin, shot the Masters a mischievous look, as he jumped with two feet onto the sand. He hopped on one foot for three steps then on the other foot. Soon he was hopping, skipping and jumping down the beach, leaving a crazy quilt of footsteps.
The Masters and the remaining students laughed as they watched. But the students then grew sober once more as they contemplated their own moves.
A cheery looking girl now began to dance across the sand, leaving a beautiful pattern behind her.
The remaining boy took one step then sat down. “I will just stay right here,” he stated, looking at the Masters defiantly. They shrugged and smiled.
One young person was left, a child on the cusp of adulthood, neither boy nor girl, just a human. Who preferred the pronoun “ze.”
Ze looked the Masters straight in the eyes, chin held high. “I will not leave footprints for I love the untrodden sand. But I will take the journey wherever it leads me. And I will leave a mark somewhere, somehow, some day.”
The Masters watched the youth intently. Ze tiptoed down to the water, trying to leave no marks on the sand. Then ze dove into the water and began to swim in the ocean alongside the beach.
The Masters watched their students, as each followed their individual path. They looked at each other and smiled, then turned to go back home. For their own journey was now at an end.

MW

When you start the path of life,
What footprints will you choose?
Will you follow your own path
Or step in others’ shoes?

Chorus:
Whatever you choose to do,
Do it your own way.
To thine own self be true,
No matter what they say.

Will you bold and strong step out
Or tread a well worn way?
What will your life be about,
Small path or highway?

Will you with light footsteps tread.
Leave no print on the land?
Or will you with heavy tread
Sink deep in the sand?

Will you have a goal in mind,
Walk quickly on the road?
When you new treasures find,
Gladly take the load?

Will you with another soul
Walk with hand in hand,
Making each other's heart whole,
As you walk life's strand?

Will you wander here and there,
Delight in the view?
Every day a new somewhere,
Trying something new?

Will you maybe dance with joy,
Leaping in the air?
Play with life as with a toy,
Happy to be there?

Or will you just contemplate,
Sitting on the beach?
No worry ‘bout being too late,
No goal for you to reach?

Chorus:
Whatever you choose to do,
Do it your own way.
To thine own self be true,
No matter what they say.

-MW 1/19

A Pity

By far too many just exist,
They are, but not what they could be.
They eat and sleep and have a job,
They know too little and rarely think,
They come and go and leave no trace
But progeny of the same ilk.
What a loss and what a pity!

The Self

We are
   What we do and what we do not do,
   What we say and do not say,
What we think and do not think,
What we feel and do not feel,
   What we want and do not want,
   What we imagine and do not imagine,
   Plus the physical selves we are.

We Humans

Most work to live,
A need.
Some live to work,
A Passion.
Few just exist.
A pity.

Due Process

Wise it is to think,
Wise it is to do,
And 'tis ever wiser
To interplay the two.

We are what we...

Many are clearly what they do,
Some are obviously what they wear,
Others are tellingly what they eat.

Some are distinctly what they know,
Others are no less what they feel,
Still others are what they think and say.

And then there are the nondescripts,
The man bland and shadowless,
Who simply are the nothing they are.

We betray ourselves to an alarming degree,
Wittingly and otherwise,
But then, who perceives or cares?

-JM

Thoughts for the Month by JM

To do less is often to achieve more.

We are what we choose to be.

Choice is privilege and responsibility.

It is the different who make a difference.

Some can and do, others can and won't and then there are those who simply can't.

Except when you're sleeping in your cave.

2 Comments

Christmas 2018: In Our Hands

12/24/2018

1 Comment

Dear Friends: The other day I walked by a woman whose T-shirt read: It is in our hands. This resonated with me and seemed to perfectly reflect the following "legend" I had written about the sand dollar. In troubled times, it is up to us to find the good and true in life, to seek solace in each other's company, to show compassion and goodwill. In short, to set an example that others will hopefully then follow. It is tempting, when another motorist cuts you off, to snarl or to respond in kind, it is hard not to frown when a shopper jostles you in her hurry to reach the eggs. But I have been trying hard to keep the holiday spirit and to try to see the other point of view. Maybe that shopper and driver are in a hurry or preoccupied, and their actions do not reflect their true character. I also seek refuge in those people I know who are kind, thoughtful and make my spirits bright and I hope that I make their day a bit brighter as well.
May we all seek hope and goodwill this Christmas and in the year to come. And may we try to sow the seeds of kindness and caring wherever we go. Maybe then, those seeds will start to grow and will sprout new attitudes among all. One can always hope!

photo by MW

The Legend of the Sand Dollar

Once in a land to the West, bordering the vast ocean, there was a community of caring, intelligent people. These people were peace-loving and welcomed all. But many of their fellow citizens to the South and East were not of like mind. And these other people, who had now found their voice, used it brashly and loudly. The people of the West became concerned, and soon their concern turned to anger and sadness. Some took to mimicking their opponents’ tactics, shouting and calling names. Others said this was not the course to take.
“We must rise above the invective,” they said, “and show the path to a better way. We must strive to understand our fellow humans.”
And so controversy grew. Soon, divisiveness was the law of the land and each person increasingly went their own lonely way, separated from family and friends, turning to artificial means of emotional sustenance. But a few still clung together. They met, they talked, and they agreed that there must be a better way.
Summer gave way to Fall. The Autumn winds brought fire to the region. This year, the fires were fiercer than ever before and many homes and lives were lost. The people could construct new houses; rebuilding their lives would be more difficult. There were many heroes who saved lives, many who came from other communities to help; but even here dissent was sown. There was argument over the cause of the fires, there was blame to go around, leaders who said this would not have happened had they been in charge.
The rains arrived, putting out the fires. But the divisions remained. The Winter holiday season crept in. A large decorated tree appeared in the center of the burned town, a gift from a neighboring community. Then a string of lights appeared. In the big city, the lights were lit on the largest buildings as always. The store windows glittered with holiday displays. People began to shop. Traffic grew worse. Many people embraced the holiday fully, shopping after work, decorating trees at home, singing along to carols. Some grumbled, as always, about the commercialism, about the hype. They stayed home. Others complained that the true meaning of the season had been lost. They went to church. Still others said the holiday had nothing to do with their religion. They celebrated their own holidays, in their own time, their own way. And more and more people argued against the entire season. Many of them went on long trips to sunny lands for the month of December.
Amidst this confusion and discord, Winter Solstice arrived. After all, the planet Earth continued to orbit its star, the sun continued to shine, and the celestial calendar continued, untouched by humans on Earth. In their search for meaning in this new age full of technology, gadgets and dated beliefs, an increasingly large group of humans was turning to the natural world once again, as their long ago ancestors had done. It did not matter in what area of the Earth their ancestors had lived, all had celebrated the coming and going of the seasons that governed their lives.
On the evening of the Solstice, a group of people convened at the beach. This was a spontaneous decision, driven by a conversation a number of them had had that morning over breakfast in the local diner. All were feeling discouraged by the state of the nation, the world, none were church-going and could not seek solace there, and they were tired of television and social media. They had no desire to celebrate the upcoming holiday in the usual way, but they all felt the need to mark the season somehow. So they had decided to meet at the beach that evening. They made no other plans. They would watch the sunset, that was all. And take comfort in each other’s company.
So just before sundown, people began to appear on the beach by the large rock. There were couples with dogs, families with children, teenaged couples, older couples walking hand in hand. There were lone people too, young and old. One girl even carried a pet rabbit. As they appeared, they slowly drew closer to each other and soon a circle had formed. A shout down by the water disturbed their reflections.
“Look!” A young girl held something up in her hand. A few people walked down to the water to see.
“A sand dollar,” she said. “And not just one. There are so many. There must be at least a hundred.”
“Don’t touch them,” one man warned. “They are living creatures and should be respected.”
The girl looked down at the object in her hand with confusion and consternation.
“It doesn’t look alive,” she said hesitantly, letting her hand drop to her side.
“It’s not alive,” a woman answered. “It is white; it is just the shell.”
“Even so, it should be left alone,” the man insisted.
By now, most of the people had come down to the water. A ranger in uniform, who had seen the group from her truck and come down to see what was going on, spoke.
It is Solstice,” she said. “A special occasion. And yes, the sand dollars are dead. Those are the skeletons only. So I think if you wish to pick one up and observe it carefully, that is fine, as long as you replace it when you are done.” She smiled at the young girl, who returned the smile and held her treasure up once more.
In unison, the others now searched for a sand dollar of their own, then in silent agreement, they formed a circle. As the sun began to set, each person contemplated their sand dollar.
The girl, now emboldened, said in a strong voice,
“See the five petals. It is like a flower- or a star. And I think each represents something. The large one on top, I think that is peace.”
Many nodded. Then a man’s voice said, “And the one on the left is goodwill.”
“The one below it is kindness,” said a woman’s voice.
“The one on the right is thoughtfulness,” said a quiet male voice with a university accent.
“And below it is caring,” said the slightly quavering voice of an older woman.
Each looked at their sand dollar in quiet reflection. A collective breath seemed to emanate from the circle. The people turned to the sun, a red ball of fire flattening on the horizon. There was a flash of light just before it disappeared, then darkness quickly descended.
The young girl held her sand dollar high above her head. The others followed suit, though they did not know why. It just seemed the right thing to do. And as each person thought a silent prayer of their own making, the sand dollars began to glow then rise slowly from each person’s hand. The people watched in solemn silence as the shells rose higher and higher. And t they fancied that they could see a large celestial sand dollar, made of stars, high in the night sky.
And now, one voice, that of the ranger, spoke aloud. “May the sand dollar bring peace to you this year. And always.”
The mood was broken. The people now looked at their empty hands and wondered. A man turned to the ranger to say, laughing, “We cannot return the shells to the beach, Ranger. Nor can we take them with us.”
She smiled. “No. But you can take the lesson of the sand dollar with you wherever you go.”
Now the others all began to talk, to share, to shake hands and hug. The spirit of community that had begun in the diner that morning was now complete. Despite different politics, different religions, different ways of life, they now all shared a common philosophy.
And when, much later, they went back to their homes, each carried 5 principles etched on their heart.

MW
Christmas 2018

Best Wishes for a Merry Christmas and a Joyful, Peaceful New Year 2019

In the Bleak Midwinter

poem by Christina Rossetti, 1872 (2nd verse by MW)
melody by Gustav Holst 1906

In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone,
Snow had fallen, snow on snow
Snow on snow on snow,
In the bleak midwinter, long ago.

What can we do now, with our world as it is?
What is to be our part in all of this?
We can show each other love,
We can show we care.
We can seek light from above,
Seek peace everywhere.

1 Comment

Solstice in Point Richmond

12/21/2018

3 Comments

Sunrise on the osprey nest Nov. 2017 Cam cap courtesy of GGAS

Osprey Solstice

Two osprey fly against the darkening sky,
Fly down the setting Solstice sun.
I sing of day and night and osprey flight;
This shortest day of all is done.

Now comes the dark, the long,
The longest night of all.
But do not be afraid;
I hear the osprey call.

Tomorrow’s sun will rise
To shine its blazing ray
To where the osprey flies,
Over our Richmond Bay.

Soon he will visit every day
To wait for the one he loves the best,
The day she flies in from far away
To find her Richmond and her nest

The osprey year will then begin
As they mate and lay eggs again.

-MW

Sunset in Pt. Richmond Dec. 6, 2018 photo by Midi

The shortest day
The longest night
The sun’s red ray
Cast its last light

Fiery ball sets
Behind the hill
A last green flash
Then all is still

And we are left
To face the night
With scarce a star
To give us light

But we now know
The light will grow.
Without a doubt
The seeds we sow

Ere long will grow.
Bulbs that now sprout
Put on their show
And Spring burst out.

-MW

I wish you all a Peaceful Solstice and a Joyful New Year 2019

A Bay Area Solstice objects gathered in El Cerrito, CA December 2018

sunrise on the osprey nest Nov. 2018 courtesy of GGAS cam

The sun sets early tonight,
By my watch it’s afternoon.
Flattening red orb, flashing bright
Glowing red sky, sets all aflame.
Dark descends, day is done,
Gone with the setting sun

But after the long dark night,
Stars obscured by gathering clouds,
Dawn sneaks in, sky lightens,
Sun sends radiant angel ray,
Awakens us all
To a New Year day.

heron on path by the Bay photo by Midi Dec. 6, 2018

Sunset Bay
On Winter Solstice.
Heron, but shadow, sits tall
Silently watching,
Like us, waits.

Dawn breaks late,
Sends angel sun ray
Onto the neglected nest
Silent blue-green bell
Chimes of Spring.

-MW

3 Comments

Third Advent Sunday: Hope and Resilience

12/16/2018

2 Comments

The Christmas Amaryllis

It was wartime and life was hard all over Holland. For the Breck family, who owned a nursery, life was especially difficult. Little Johan knew nothing of the politics of war. He only knew that instead of playing with his friends after school, he now raced home, took up a heavy sack and went door to door selling bulbs until the street lights came on at dusk. At first, he was able to sell enough bulbs to bring money home to help his family. He would even receive a groschen for his efforts that he could use any way he wished. But as winter set in, fewer and fewer people were buying.

"We have already planted our tulips," they would say. "Besides, we have no money. We do not even have coal to heat our house today." And they would shake their heads sadly. Little Johan was still young enough to have hope. He would say to himself,
"Perhaps tomorrow I will knock on the door of a rich family and they will buy my entire bag." When it did not happen, he would begin to hope anew the following day. In this way, he was able to continue peddling his wares day after day, week after week, despite the cold. For hope creates a warmth as real as fire.

But soon the money those bulbs brought in was gone, gone to a few pieces of coal and a meager sack of potatoes that must last them until Christmas. Johan's father had no more tulip bulbs to sell, but he had an idea. He had discovered a new bulb, one that could be planted inside. He would call them Christmas Amaryllis and teach customers how to plant them in a pot indoors to have them bloom during the holidays. Excited, he showed the bulbs to Johan and told him he might begin selling them right away.

The next day, when Johan came home from school, he immediately went out to sell the new bulbs. A few people were interested and bought them, but the rest said as usual that they had no money for food, let alone decorations. "What good are these bulbs," they said, "if they cannot be eaten?"

Finally, it was Nicklaas Eve. Johan put out his wooden shoe and filled it with hay. "I know my parents have no money and cannot buy me toys or even sweets," he said. "But surely Sinterklaas will remember me, for I have been a good boy this year.”
So saying, he went to bed happy, unaware of the sad look that passed between his parents.

The next day, Johan indeed found a few candies, a precious orange, and some nuts in his shoe. What pleased him even more was that the hay was gone, proving that Niklaas had come on his white steed. Johan went out early to sell his wares. It was a lucky day, for he sold enough Amaryllis bulbs that day to allow his mother to buy a special dinner for their Niklaas Day meal.

But the next day, Johan sold no bulbs, even though he worked long past sundown and went farther than ever. The next day was the same and the next day after that. Each day he came home with a sack full of bulbs and no coins in his pocket.

Finally one day, he dared to climb the steep hill to the manor. This manor belonged to a man said to be very rich but also rather mean. Johan knocked timidly on the door. He was rebuffed by a curt "No" and a door slammed in his face. For the first time, Johan  began to lose hope. "Will there never be an end to this silly war?" he thought. 'Why must the adults fight when we children are starving?"

One especially cold day Johan came home to find his father in a real temper. "Why is there nothing but potato soup on the table," he scolded his wife." And you," he said, pointing at Johan, who had shrugged as he entered to show he had no money, " what have you to say for yourself, you worthless son? Why can you not sell a single bulb? Why do you even bother coming home? Here, take these and throw them into the canal, for they are no good to me." And he threw the sack of bulbs back at Johan.

Johan fled with the sack, heedless of the calls of his mother. Under the cold, moonlit sky, he went to the field next to the canal and got ready to throw the sack into the water. But as he hefted the heavy load onto his shoulder, he paused.
"These bulbs are not worthless," he said to himself. "Nor am I. My father does not mean what he says. It is the hunger and worry speaking. Neither I nor the bulbs have done anything wrong. We are not the ones fighting wars. No, I will not throw the bulbs away, for that would be akin to throwing myself into the canal."

He knelt down, found a sharp stick and dug a hole into the ground. Then he dropped a bulb into the hole. And another. And another. All that cold night, he dug with bare hands, and planted bulbs. He barely felt the cold or his hunger. Finally, just as the sun was rising, he finished and slowly walked home, knowing that he must return to his house, no matter what he might find.

When he entered, his father was nowhere to be seen. His mother embraced him amid sobs.
"I thought I had lost you, my son," she cried. "I feared that you had thrown yourself into the canal as well, or that you had fallen while heaving the heavy sack."
"No, mother, I am here now and all is well," he answered. "Only where is father?"

"He ran out after realizing what he had said," she replied. "Oh Johan, he didn't mean it, you know. It is just that he feels so bad that he cannot  help his family."
"I know, mother," Johan said. "And because I knew that, I did not throw myself in the canal, nor the bulbs."
"Then what did you do with them? And where did you spend the night?"
"For now, that is my secret," he said. "For I have an idea. But right now, mother, could you not heat me some potato soup and warm some bricks to put by my feet, for I have spent a very cold night."
.Johan did not go to school that day. Later in the morning, he said to his mother,
"I must go out to find father. For, no matter what he has said, we are a family and must stay together. If we cannot do so, what hope have we for our nations?"
He did not have to go far, for he found his father in the shed at the end of the property.
"Father, come in from the cold," he said.
"No, my son, for I have hurt you and your mother. And I have failed to provide for you. I am not worthy to be your father."
"You are my father is what I know and all is forgiven," Johan said. "As for providing, we will find a way. But it will be easier to do so if we stay together and help each other."

For the next few weeks, the little family managed somehow. They  were grateful that they at least had enough firewood to warm their house and the potatoes lasted so that they might at least have soup for supper. Johan would disappear for an hour or so every day and would not tell his parents where he had been. They let him be, for after all, he was now almost a man.

Then it was Christmas Eve. Along with the other townspeople, the little family dressed warmly and walked to church. It was a clear, crisp evening, with the stars glistening in the sky. All was hushed as the village walked in unison to their little church. As the pastor began to talk, a tall, well-dressed man entered and sat in the back. A few turned and stared, but most just let him be.

The church was warm and well-lit with candles. The congregation prayed fervently for peace and all felt a renewed hope as they left the church. Johan walked a bit ahead of the others, lost in his own thoughts. When he reached the fork in the road, he took the path to the left.
"No, Johan, " a man shouted. "That is the way to the canal. You need to go right."
"Go right if you wish," Johan answered. "I have something to see. Come with me if you wish to see it as well."

Well of course they were curious, so they followed him. As they neared the field by the canal, they saw a red glow in the air. At the edge of the field, they all stopped in wonder. For there before them was a field full of flowers. And these were no ordinary flowers. Tall stalks rose from the ground topped by large blossoms, four to a stalk. Some of the flowers were dark red, others pure white, and still others striped red and white.
One woman recognized the flowers, for she was one of the few to have bought a bulb from Johan. "These are Amaryllis, the Christmas bulb," she exclaimed. 'But how did they come to be here?"

Johan stepped forward. "I planted them," he said. "No one would-or could- buy them, so they are my Christmas gift to you."
"But this is my property," a deep voice said from the shadows. A man stepped forward. It was the tall well-dressed man, the man from the manor.
Johan felt his heart fall. He had not thought of whose property this might be. He had only wanted to plant bulbs. Would he be arrested?
The man continued. "One night, I could not sleep," he said. "So I walked down by the canal. I saw someone digging in the ground.  I came back the next day and saw him checking the holes. And every day since, this young lad has come here to check on his bulbs. Tonight, I came here to see, and behold, the flowers had all bloomed in unison. So I came to church with you. And am with you now. Come here, boy. "

He beckoned to Johan and hugged him tightly. "Will you forgive me for slamming the door in your face?" he asked. "I could not bear the sight of another man's son. For my son and wife died a year ago. They are buried here." He pointed to a small grave marker at the other end of the field. "I came here that night to be near them. And saw you instead. But you came to make something beautiful. You have given them- and me- and all of us the finest Christmas we could have imagined. For that I thank you. What can I do for you in return?"

"There is nothing to forgive," Johan answered, in a strong voice, for he was now a man and not afraid of others. "And I ask nothing for myself in return. But I do ask for the others.  These people are of your village. Many have too little to eat and their houses are cold. Help those in most need. The rest of us will manage on our own."

"But of course," the rich man answered. "I will provide. For you have shown me that a community must stick together, just as the flowers bloom in unison. Tomorrow, all of you are invited to my house for Christmas dinner. After that, I will see to your needs."
Well, what a hue and cry ensued. The townspeople surrounded the rich man, men slapping him on the back, women kissing him, and children surrounding him as though he were Sinterklaas himself.

The next day, all climbed the hill to his house where they celebrated Christmas as they never had before. Despite wartime rationing, there was plenty of meat for all, platters of vegetables, cakes and pies, and hearty ale. But best of all, for the children, there was Sinterklaas, regal and tall, asking them if they had been good and handing out gifts to all. Yes, Sinterklaas came twice that year, for he said they had all been extra good.

As for Johan, when the war ended, he left town to study botany. But he returned after that, for he missed his family and his town, and he joined his father in the business. It became a successful nursery once more, sending bulbs not only to Europe, but around the world. And at Christmas, it always featured the Amaryllis, which became one of its most popular items.

This story is based on a notice I read in the Breck Bulb catalogue about hard times in Holland and the development of the Amaryllis Christmas bulb.

-MW

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