An Original Story by

Ned B. Johnson
Ó 1990, all rights reserved

All Hallows’ Eve; Halloween; All Saints’ Eve; to the Celts, the last day of the year, a festival for the dead; to early Christians, a night when witches and warlocks ranged abroad, a good night for a large bonfire; to modern children, costumes, candy and ghost stories. To Margaret Olsen, it was the night on which she surrendered her virginity to the quarterback from Northridge (whom she never saw again); the night when, in a drunken stupor, she agreed to marry Ronny Olsen; the day when she tearfully filed for divorce 6 years later (thus correcting at least one of her former Halloween follies, the other of which being much more difficult to rectify); the night when she was, as she often said, “accident prone,” in the spirit of the wealthy industrialist who bribed a ticket agent with an obscene sum of cash just to book passage on the Titanic. Had she the foresight to realize what this All Hallows’ Eve had in store for her, she would have almost certainly gone directly to bed; alone. Five-sight, however, would have insisted that she carry out her plans as best she could. Having no sight except that which her chocolate eyes provided, she innocently, albeit anxiously, proceeded to make ready for Sharon’s costume party, thus employing her five-sight through the proxy of her innocence, as was her custom.

Due to her usual month-end-tizzy, Margaret had forgotten to reserve her Halloween outfit and consequently walked into the costume shop right off the street and asked for a Cinderella ensemble. The clerk just laughed aloud, “Are you kidding, lady? The last one was booked in August.”

“Well, what do you have available?”

“About all we got left in your size are a couple of Old Hag costumes. You know, black dress, cape and pointy hat. You want one?”

“Does a mask come with it?”

“Used to, not any more. These babies have been out more times than Wilt Chamberlain,” he laughed, thinking himself clever, “But I can sell you a half-mask like this one,” pointing to the display, “for $9.95. You want it or not, lady? I got other customers waiting.”

She’d take the costume and the hag mask. “I guess half a hag is better than no hag at all,” she mumbled to herself as she pawed through her purse looking for some money. Several hyper-kinetic moments later, her right hand emerged holding a wallet decorated with lint, Kleenex confetti and a couple of trading stamps. She paid the clerk, grabbed her bag and left the store in something of a snit.

“Already it starts,” Margaret mumbled under her breath as she left the shop. “It’s only four o’clock and I’ve already started fouling up.” her heels dug into the sidewalk percussively as she walked the half-block to the parking lot.

Things did not improve on the way home. Between freeway snarls, a noisy and breathtakingly narrow escape from a fender-bender, and a gas gauge teetering on empty, Margaret’s mood was all but mortally wounded by the time she reached home. After hanging up her coat, her first act was to walk briskly and directly to the liquor cabinet and grab the first bottle she came to: 190 proof Everclear. “Can’t use this one,” she said to herself with some irritation. “Got to save the high-test stuff for the punch at the party tonight.” At least she had bought it before the stores ran out, she sighed. The next bottle was bourbon. She decided that would do just fine and poured a couple of ounces in a tumbler. After a brief debate, she opted to drop a couple of large ice cubes in with the whiskey. “Ahhh,” she groaned after her first slug of the potent brew. She felt better already.

She carried the drink out to the living room and collapsed on the couch. Downing another immodest swig of bourbon, she laid back her head and took a deep breath. It felt so good just to relax for a few minutes. She closed her eyes and thought about palm trees and blue lagoons, a relaxation technique she had heard was helpful. Margaret was pleased and a little surprised, a few minutes later when she realized how well it was working. She actually did feel relaxed and calm for the first time all day. In fact, she felt pretty good. She chuckled at herself for worrying so much about things: the costume, the traffic, the party. So what. It wasn’t like her life was threatened or anything. Come to think of it, everything she habitually worried about was really just small potatoes compared with the really big dangers: terminal disease, robbery, murder, rape. Immediately she regretted thinking about it. Disease, violent crime she could almost handle, but rape - the mere thought of it brought on an adrenaline rush, the kind that makes your knees tremble and gives you the pulse and respiration of a hamster.

The relaxation was gone now. It was replaced by an anxiety that was worse than she’d felt all day. “Terrific,” she growled at herself, “I finally get relaxed and I have to go and screw it up by thinking about the R-word.” She tried again to think of the tropical scene that had worked so well just a few minutes ago. No dice. This time the scene was dark and there were bumps and heavy breathing where nights aren’t supposed to have places. After a minute of that, Margaret sprang to her feet and looked for something to do quickly to get her mind off her fear.

The first thing she saw was the bag from the costumers. Since she really hadn’t taken a close look at her outfit in the shop, she decided that this would be a good time. If she needed to make any alterations, at least she still had time before the party. The costume looked as good on her as it would on any witch. The mask was actually quite good, too. It had huge, hairy brows and an even larger proboscis complete with warts and nasal hair. Really quite grotesque. The only problem was that it only covered her face from the mouth up. She would have to do something with her cheeks and jaw to make them fit with the mask or she’d look silly. She felt sure that she would find enough ways to look dumb at the party without bringing any along.

She wore the mask into the bathroom and, standing in from of the mirror, tried to imagine what kind of makeup she could use to best effect to integrate her smooth complexion with the grizzled caricature of the hag. Using mascara, eye-liner and several other arcane compounds, she began the transformation of her otherwise attractive face. When she had finished, she stood admiring her handiwork. It was actually quite good. Still, there seemed to be something missing. Suddenly she remembered the trick they used to gross each other out with when she was a kid. She went to her desk and retrieved a bottle of Rubber Cement. First she applied a strip of the cement to her left cheek. After it had dried, she pinched the flesh, creating a long crevice. When she let go, the gouge remained, held together by the cement. The scar thus produced looked positively disgusting and Margaret was delighted. Using the same technique, she added a few other blemishes at strategic points on her face and neck.

When she had finished, she was elated at the transformation. Returning to the living room, she admired herself in the wall mirror. She was amazed. Not only was she ugly and haggy but it was clear that she’d never see 90 again. Just to amplify the effect, she stooped over and walked around with a geriatric shuffle. The effect made her laugh. “Maybe my luck is changing,” she giggled, “Maybe getting stuck with this outfit was really serendipitous.” She began to practice cackling. As good as her costume was, it was well worth the effort to add a few finishing touches before the party.

Margaret spent over an hour perfecting her voice, witchy laugh, old hag walk and other mannerisms. When she finally noticed the clock, she realized that she was going to be late to the party. Ordinarily, she would have been happy to be fashionably tardy, but she had promised Sharon to bring the hi-test alcohol and help with the preparations. She reverted to her former frantic mode and rushed around for five minutes, gathering up the food, liquor and other props she was to bring with her. After one last look around to make sure she hadn’t missed anything, she was out the door and speeding down Highland Street toward Sharon’s. “Only 20 minutes late, not bad, Maggie,” she chided, “you just never have a broom when you really need one.”

Sharon’s apartment was in the newly renovated, upscale Dunbar neighborhood, less than a mile from the edge of Grayling which was still a borderline slum. Margaret always felt uneasy driving through Grayling, especially at night. Somehow, Halloween didn’t improve the ambiance of the area. It was, however, on the shortest and most direct route to the party and, being late already, she decided to go via Grayling anyway. She pushed the speed limit all the way and held her breath every time she ran a yellow light hoping there were no police in sight.

When she arrived at Sharon’s building, she was thrilled to see a car just pulling away from the curb, leaving a parking place near the front door. Maybe her luck was changing after all. She parallel parked perfectly on the first attempt. This pleased her even more. By the time she rang for Sharon to let her in, she was positively beaming.

As Sharon opened the door to the apartment, she blanched. Just for one brief moment, in the dim light from the hallway, she fell for the disguise - hook, line and cackle. When she caught her breath, she choked out, “Jesus, Maggie, you look great … I mean awful … well, you know what I mean. Where in the world did you get that outfit. It’s perfect.” Then, further regaining her composure, “Here, let me take that stuff for you.” Margaret handed over a large shopping bag containing her contributions to the festivities, all except the alcohol which was tucked safely in her purse.

None of the other guests had yet arrived which made Margaret feel a little better about being late. They worked quickly to set up the finger-food and spike the punch. Sharon, feeling responsible for the condition in which her guests left the party, insisted that they use only half the rocket-fuel. She said that if they needed to, they could always add more later. Margaret agreed and, after pouring half the bottle into a pint fruit jar, which she then replaced in her purse, she emptied the remainder of the bottle into the punch bowl. The two women tasted the heady mixture and agreed that it was every bit as good as last year’s.

Soon, other guests began to arrive. Some Margaret knew, others were associates of Sharon’s. It proved to be a good mix of friends and strangers. As the momentum of the party climbed toward full swing, Margaret forgot all the fears and frustrations of the day. It was a good party with good people and she was having the time of her life. She was, that is, until Franklin arrived — with a date.

She could hardly believe her eyes. After the way he had so unceremoniously dumped her less than two months ago, she hardly expected him to have the gall to show up at the party. And with a date, no less! At first she was stunned. Shock soon turned to hurt, pain to anger. She wanted nothing more than to hurt him back. In spades. Her imagination raced back and forth frantically searching for the means by which she could get even. Nothing suitable came up. Her next impulse was to disappear.

She walked swiftly to the back bedroom where she hid out for a quarter of an hour while she tried to figure out what to do. Sharon finally missed her and formed a search party of one to track her down. When she found her, she said, “Maggie, what are you doing in here?”

“I’ll give you one guess.”

“Franklin? I thought you knew he’d be here. Oh, God. I’m sorry, kid, if I’d known I’d have warned you. It must have been a terrible shock for you having him just show up like that. Look, I’ll just go ask them to leave right now. Okay?”

“No!” shouted Margaret, “not okay. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.”

“What, then? Are you going to spend the rest of the evening hiding in here?”

“No.” Then after a long pause, “I think I’ll just leave myself. The party’s pretty much ruined for me now anyway. Actually, there is another party I sort of promised to go to later. I guess I’ll just drop in a little early to that one. Sort of make up for being late to yours.”

“Oh come on now, you don’t have to do that. This is as much your party as it is mine. I don’t want this to spoil Halloween for you. Please reconsider.”

“I don’t think so, Sharon. I had a wonderful time for the first couple of hours. Maybe I can do it again at the other party. There, at least, I’ll have a chance to. I doubt if I could resurrect any fun here. Thanks for asking, though. You’re a dear.” She was already adjusting her cape for the cool autumn night.

“Well, if you’re sure. Call me when you get there though, so I won’t worry. Alright?”

“Alright, if you insist,” promised Margaret, cracking a tentative smile. “Thanks for being so understanding, Sharon. This sort of thing is really quite normal for me on Halloween. Earlier, I thought this year was going to be different. Apparently that was a premature assessment.”

They both laughed and kissed each other on the cheek before Sharon left to rejoin the party. Margaret just grabbed her purse and quietly slipped out the front door and down to her car.

There was, of course, no other party to go to nor would she have been in the mood if there had been. All she wanted to do was get home as quickly as possible. It was pitch black as she retraced the route taken on the trip over. There was no moon and, once she entered the Grayling district, few street lamps. It was a perfect night for Halloween.

A few minutes after she entered Grayling, the car began to sputter. Within a block the engine was dead and she was just coasting along. Margaret looked at the gas gauge and came to the horrifying realization that in all the melee she’d forgotten to get gas. As the car rolled slowly to a complete stop, she pulled over to the curb in front of a boarded-up store front and turned off the lights and ignition. The silence and the darkness caved in on her like going deaf and blind simultaneously. Already the fear was gripping her. Looking up and down the street, she saw neither people nor cars. Even the nearest street lamp was several blocks away with nothing in between but an immense expanse of darkened buildings and murky shadows.

What was she going to do? She couldn’t stay here all night. She thought about flagging down a motorist, if one ever showed up, but when she realized that she had no idea who they might be, she dropped that plan. Striving to regain her rationality, Margaret tried to remember if she’d seen anyplace open in the last few blocks. She looked back and saw only an occasional light, none bright enough to have been a cafe or bar or gas station. How about phone booths? Hadn’t she seen one on the left-hand side of the street recently? Yes, she was sure she had. She remembered that it was on a corner, right in front of a building that looked like a warehouse or something.

She determined that this was her only choice. She simply had to walk back there and call Triple-A for help. It was the only thing that made sense.

The first time she reached for the door latch, her hand refused to move. It was then she realized the depth of her fear. On the second try, she managed to get the door open but jerked it shut again as soon as the interior lights came on. The one thing she didn’t want now was to attract attention. Visions of sharks imploding on a feeding frenzy flashed briefly through her mind. “Stop that!” she shouted at herself. “Isn’t the reality bad enough without making things up?”

Now she virtually jumped out of the car and began walking briskly back up the street. Her heels sounded like sledge hammers against the sidewalk. Immediately she slowed her pace to quiet them down. “Maybe I should go barefoot,” she mused to herself. No, that was stupid. Just keep on walking. It would soon be over and she’d have something to laugh about tomorrow. Yes, it would make a great story.

Click, click, click, click, her heels were as quiet as they were likely to get and still she was sure she could be heard for blocks in every direction. She still saw no one ahead of her. There was some consolation in that at least. As long as she remained alone, she could stave off the panic that waited in the wings of her heart, crouching like a great cat, poised to spring upon its prey without warning. Still she kept it at bay.

Click, click, click, one block behind her now but how many more to go? She didn’t know. Was it three, four, five, more? She had no idea at all. Just keep walking steadily. That was the thing to do, and that’s just what she did.

Now she crossed the third intersection, looking right and left for anything encouraging. Nothing but even greater blackness. At the end of the fourth block, Quincy Avenue, she looked to the left and saw a spot of light. It was in the middle of the third block and too far away to identify with any certainty. It vaguely resembled a phone booth but she couldn’t be sure. Now she faced a decision: keep on as she had been or turn left toward what she hoped was a telephone and deliverance. She looked ahead and saw nothing at all inviting. At least she could see a light up Quincy. She had to go for it.

Turning left, she struck out for the distant glow. In less than three minutes, she was approaching the light. As she stepped up onto the curb at the beginning of the block, she could see it well enough to realize that it was not a phone booth. It was only a small bulb hung low on a telephone pole in front of a doorway. Her steps slowed then and within a few feet she turned with disappointment to begin retracing her steps.

Before she had walked ten feet, her heart came to a sudden, screeching halt. Ahead of her, about the middle of the next block, she saw a shadow move. It was about the size and shape of a man. Whoever it was seemed to be walking very slowly, purposefully and directly toward her. Her adrenal glands had to bring in a swing shift just to keep up with demand.

What was she going to do? What could she do? Still walking, though much more slowly, she was now at the end of the block, less than a hundred feet from the shadow looming ahead. On the spur of the moment, she decided to take a right at the corner. This put her on yet another dark street but at least there were no moving shadows ahead of her. “God, please let him just keep walking when he gets to the corner,” she whispered through clenched teeth.

Margaret was almost halfway down the block when she heard his footsteps in the vacuum behind her. Now he was stepping off the curb to cross the street (”so far, so good”); now he was walking across the street (”please keep walking”); up onto the curb of the same sidewalk she had just passed over (”just keep walking straight ahead”). She knew that if he continued straight ahead, his footsteps would be inaudible in a matter of seconds. Walking as quietly as possible, she listened to the measured steps behind her … one, two, three, four, five … she could still hear them clearly. He had turned behind her. The graveyard shift went to work at the adrenalin factory. No doubt about it: he was following her, or if that is not the word, then stalking.

What ensued was a violent revolution of the heart and mind. A psychic eves-dropper would have heard - “RUN! Run as fast as you can!”; “What are you crazy? That will just bring him down on me sooner. I need time to think.”; “Right, and you’ll still be thinking while he’s slitting your throat! Run, Margaret, it’s your only hope!”; “I don’t want to die in this stupid costume, with this ridiculous mask and make-up. Hell, I’ve never even seen Paris.”; “Shut up and run like Hell!” - or words to that effect.

Tears were beginning to form at the corners of her eyes, waiting, like the panic, to burst into the spotlight and wreak their own special form of havoc. Her control of these primal instincts was growing weaker with every step. Then, quietly, matter-of-factly, with a serenity that astounded her, she heard herself saying almost aloud, “These are the last few moments of my life. How do I want to spend them? Running like a frightened rabbit? Pleading shamelessly like I did when Franklin left? No! I’ve done enough of that all my life. This is my last chance to take a stand and I’m not going to blow it. He may do whatever it is he intends, but by God I won’t make it easy.”

At that very moment, everything became so clear to her. She was as cool as the black-box recordings of airline pilots about to crash. Her entire body relaxed, her gait became smooth, even and effortless, she knew exactly what she was going to do. Improvise.

Reaching into her purse, she calmly wrapped her fingers around the fruit jar containing the unused portions of the alcohol. Methodically she unscrewed the top and slowly brought it to her lips. She took one small but throat scorching swallow, just for courage, then filled her mouth with as much as it would hold. Returning the jar to her purse, she retrieved a cigarette lighter she kept there, having quit smoking, for no reason in particular. Holding it close to her chest to hide the flame, she flicked it a couple of times, just to make sure it was still operable. Having determined that it was, she then moved the lever that controls the height of the flame all the way to the right. She was ready.

Margaret slowed to a complete stop. Taking a deep breath through her nose, her mouth still filled with hi-test alcohol, she turned and stood quite still. She could see his silhouette clearly now less than 20 yards away. When he saw her stop, he did the same. Then, to her own surprise and amazement, not to mention his, she began to shuffle forward in her now well rehearsed crone-walk holding the lighter at chest level with her right hand. Neither fast nor slow, it was a walk, not of assurance or determination, but of destiny. He remained where he was as she approached. Neither could see the other’s face, not at ten yards, not at ten feet or even five. Margaret slowed her pace with every step until at last she was just over arm’s length from him. She stopped, still as the night.

There they stood motionless, speechless, suspended in time for what an observer might have guessed was half a minute. Then he shifted his weight to his right foot slightly. She knew he was going to come at her now. With only the slightest effort she positioned the lighter directly level with and a few inches in front of her mouth. Just as his left foot moved forward, she flicked the lighter an instant before expelling the contents of her mouth.

As the spray of nearly pure alcohol flew past the flame, it ignited, creating a ball of fire that lit the street for half a block in either direction. As the last of the flame consumed itself, the man saw, for just the briefest moment, the hideous face behind it. The scream that emerged from his tortured soul is still echoing through haunted houses from Salem to Edinburgh. It was a sound no mortal was ever meant to utter but which, on certain occasions, is the only appropriate expression of the experience of the utterer at the moment. Such was the case here.

In the dim light of a distant street lamp, Margaret could see her former adversary running like a scalded whippet in a line so straight you could lay bricks by it, running until he was completely out of sight. All the while she, the Black Witch of Grayling, laughed as only witches can, sending gaggles of cackles careening off into the depths of All Hallows’ Eve.

So great was her amusement that all the way back to her car she staggered like a drunken buccaneer. Even after she had called the Triple-A on her cell phone (which had been conveniently forgotten earlier), even as she was driving back to Sharon’s party, even as she pulled into the same parking place she had left in despair less than an hour ago, she was still flooding the night with witchy mirth. She said nothing when she entered Sharon’s front door. She calmly, simply and silently walked directly across the room to where Franklin stood with his bimbette of the week and, when she had his undivided attention, flicked her BIC just one more time.

Many readers of my novel When Gulls Fly Low have remarked that they found it to be a wonderful lesson in forgiveness. One even said it was the best book on forgiving she’d ever read.

At first this mystified me, because I’d never thought of it as anything like that. But I figured that so many people couldn’t be wrong. So I looked a little closer, and I could see what they meant. Then one reader, Judi S., wrote and published a review of the book that highlighted that aspect. Below is an excerpt from her review in which she quotes a passage from the Gulls that is very representative of the way it deals with forgiveness. Notice, the word is never even mentioned.

Here, Henry is talking to his mother-in-law, Josie. They have been adversaries until now, but she has now removed herself as an obstacle in his life. She is surprised that he does not take the opportunity to gloat at having “dethroned the old battle-ax.” Henry says:

“I am only trying to be who I most want to be. That is, in fact, how I try live my life. Yes, I could have held a grudge against you. But what purpose would that have served? How could I possibly have benefited from that? It would have created an unbridgeable gap between me and the mother of the woman I love; it would have brought the problems of having to make war with you down upon my new family; it would have brought no joy to anyone on this Earth. How could I make such a choice knowing all of that?”

Josie replied, “Perhaps that is the key, Henry. You did know all of that. I suppose it is only when we do not see the rest of the picture, when we become obsessed with those powerful emotions, that we fail to recognize the folly of our choices in time to prevent it.”

So when I think of forgiveness, I think of Henry and of these three paragraphs, and I know all I need to know.

A Novel by Ned B. Johnson
© 2004 (251 pages)

The story begins….

 Henry Taylor, an accomplished author, moves his life to the picturesque village of Arch Cape on Oregon’s Northern Coast, to complete his fifth novel. Within days of settling into his routine is interrupted by a dream of such lucidity it shakes him off balance for a week. In the dream he meets a woman who he is destined to live out a real life adventure of sublime love, forgiveness, faith & collaboration with the enemy ~ only he doesn’t know that yet.

 Lessons (what you will learn) 

• Forgiveness & Empathy – a different take on ‘putting yourself in someone else’s shoes’, get beyond anger in your relationships, learn how to form intimate & mutually beneficial relationships, your worst enemy could be your biggest opportunity staring you in the face 

• Living with integrity - Conflict Resolution  - Do the right thing– achieving harmony in your relationships through living with integrity, taking personal responsibility, navigating difficult relationships, gaining alternative perspectives, being open to the lessons 

• Learning through experience & Recognising opportunity – everything we experience is for a reason, a lesson to be learned. We can be levelled by challenging experiences, or we can recognise them for what they are (lessons meant to be passed) & what they are meant to introduce into our lives (recognising opportunity) 

• Perhaps there is more to it than meets the eye – a look into the world of lucid dreaming, destiny and how we all work together on the other side to accomplish our dreams and learn what we need to learn here on earth. 

Recommended for anyone interested in:

Excelling in relationships
Getting beyond anger in their lives
Learning to love deeply
Repairing damaged relationships
Having their faith restored in the magic of our lives

 This synopsis written by Carrie Armitage http://www.carriearmitage.com

When I was in my early 20s, I developed a bad case of resentment about forgiveness. My reasoning was straightforward and fairly simple. I saw the act of forgiveness as being equivalent to saying: “Even though you are a bad person who does bad things, I, being a superior and virtuous person, am willing to forgive you for the terrible things you have done.”

Okay, so I exaggerated a little. But it isn’t far off the mark, at least for the only brand of forgiveness I was accustomed to at that time. It seemed to me that it was at best holier-than-thou, and at worst wholy arrogant, insulting, and even hypocritical. That fit perfectly with those I had known who talked about it most. I wanted nothing to do with it, or anyone who thought it was a good thing.

My approach was simpler. I don’t care one whit what you have done. What I’m interested in is whether there is any plausible reason why I should believe you’re not going to do it again. Give me that, and we’re okay.

(fast forward several years)

After I had begun my education in metaphysics and had some time to expand it out in many directions, I revisited forgiveness. My whole perspective had changed. I now looked at the word itself: for- and give. I saw the for part as meaning before or prior to, and the give part, well giving. So my interpretation of what the word meant literally was to give in advance. But what?

After a lot of thought, I came to the conclusion that forgiveness is giving to someone, in advance, your permission and/or endorsement to be exactly who they are. In other words, it is not something you do after an offense has been committed, but rather something you do before it has. If you do it well, the offense will not be necessary and won’t actually happen. It is meant as a preventive, not a remedy. I liked that much, much better.

But I was not going to let myself off the hook with that, though it was quite an improvement. Not yet.

(fast forward several more years)

I came to a time in my life when I felt it was time to direct my creative energy toward writing a novel. But there were problems. The main one was that everyone says–and always has as far as I can tell–that a good plot needs to have tension and conflict to propel it along. Usually, that conflict is between characters, and most popular of all between good and evil.

However, I wanted nothing to do with good and evil. Nor did I want to keep company with the kinds of mindless characters that are usually pitted against one another in the pitiable struggle for survival, dominance, or destruction that is usually chosen by writers. I needed to find a new kind of plot, one in which there was stress and tension, but of a creative nature, and within conscious, growing individuals who ended up better than they started. Yes, they could act some of this out in their relationships. And yes, there might be periods of doubt, or even despair, as to their ultimate success.

But to satisfy my design criteria, everyone had to successfully navigate their own personally created obstacles course, and they had to come out the other end significantly better for the experience. Better yet, they had to end up thanking those who may have seemed like their adversaries during the thick of it.

Now, I’d never read a book like that, so I was at a loss for templates, patterns, or role models to follow. I had to wing it. What I finally came up with, after years of consideration, was the story I called When Gulls Fly Low. I’m not going to spoil it for you by telling you details of the characters or plot. I’m not that big a fool. But I can now tell you about how forgiveness–you remember forgiveness? That’s what this is supposed to be about, right?–how forgiveness became an integral, yet almost invisible, part of it all.

Perhaps I can use a brief quote from the book that was chosen by one reviewer to illustrate why she called it the best book on forgiveness she had ever read.

Henry, the protagonist, is talking another character, Josie. They have been adversaries until now, but she has now had a personal revelation that has caused her to remove herself as an obstacle in his life. She is surprised that he does not take the opportunity to gloat at having “dethroned the old battle-ax.”

Henry says:

“I am only trying to be who I most want to be. That is, in fact, how I try live my life. Yes, I could have held a grudge against  you. But what purpose would that have served? How could I possibly have benefited from that? It would have created an unbridgeable gap between me and the mother of the woman I love; it would have brought the problems of having to make war with you down upon my new family;   it would  have brought no joy to anyone on this Earth. How could I make such a choice knowing all of that?”

Josie replied, “Perhaps that is the key, Henry. You did know all of that.  I suppose it is only when we do not see the rest  of the picture, when we become obsessed with those powerful  emotions, that we fail to recognize the folly of our choices in time to prevent it.”

To my way of thinking, and the reviewer’s, this exchange is about Henry’s approach to what other’s might call forgiveness. Note that there is one word conspicuous in its absence: forgive or any of its relatives. Why? Because they are unnecessary. In fact, they would just get in the way.

From a somewhat higher philosophical perspective, it is even simpler. The reason for the very existence of the concept of forgiveness is based on the presumption that one person can come crashing into the life of another and do “bad things,” intentionally or otherwise. I reject that premise entirely. If we each create our own reality, and are therefore totally responsible for its contents, then the only possible person we could ever forgive is ourselves.

And if I accept, as I do, that even I am not capable of harming or injuring myself, despite appearances to the contrary, then even the self is beyond the need for forgiveness. All those things that might appear to be candidates for self-forgiveness are really just strokes of genius the brilliance of which as yet escapes my conscious minds. And even that is not a bad thing, because afterward I can always see how knowing about it too soon would have ruined the entire effect. For that I am rightfully grateful.

So, as the title of this piece states: Forgive Me Not. Bless me, thank me, learn from me. But do not commit an act of spiritual violence by blaming, then forgiving me, and casting yourself in the impotent role of a poor, helpless victim. There ain’t no such a thing, and I won’t pretend there is. I love you too much.

Midas Crakenberry was the kind of man who gave curmudgeons a bad name. In all his 74 years, he had never spoken a kind word to, or about, anyone. He was, quite simply, the archetype of the proverbial mean old man.

Retired, he sat day after day on his front porch, drinking warm Jim Beam from the same filthy tumbler, the one with the chip on the rim. The only times he spoke were when grumbling to himself or shouting obscenities to any passersby who so much as glanced in his direction. Compared to Midas, Ebenezer Scrooge was the poster boy for cheerfulness. At the risk of belaboring the obvious, his life was not a pleasant one. Midas Crakenberry was, in short, waiting to die and his wait might have been short indeed, were it not for the unwelcome intervention. And that intrusion into the miserable life of one Midas Q. Crakenberry is the subject of our story.

It was July 23rd in the year of their Lord (as Midas insisted on referring to it) AD 1933. Midas was sitting, as usual, on the front porch of the ramshackle hovel he called home. The sun poured down like burning dust. Only the shade of the porch roof protected him from the worst of the heat. When he had finished his third glass of Jim Beam, he rose slowly and waddled into the house to get a refill. “Damnation!” he hissed to himself. “Should have brought the bottle out this morning. I hate this traipsing in and out.” He sounded like Yosemite Sam with an R-rated vocabulary.

Reaching the kitchen table, he grabbed the whiskey bottle, turned, and shuffled back out to the porch to resume his vigil. As soon as he sat down, he refilled his glass–well almost–the bottle was empty before the glass was half full. “Damnation!” he growled. “Now I’ll have to go get another bottle. I hate all these extra steps.”

He took a big slug of the vile liquid which left his face twisted even more sourly than usual, if that was possible. Smacking his lips, he look down the dirt road that ran past his house toward town. He saw two small boys walking slowly in his direction. His eyes squinted till they were little more than narrow slits. Sure enough, the boys were on his side of the road. He’d have some fun with them if they had the audacity to invade his domain. He surely would. Maybe this day wouldn’t be a total loss after all.

Midas had never married. The truth was that he couldn’t get a girl to go out with him twice. For that matter, most of them wouldn’t go out with him the first time. Needless to say, he was also childless. Never having spent any time at all around children, he saw them as little beasties, good for nothing at all, save providing him with objects for his harassment. Scaring children was one of the few activities that brought Midas what passed in his life for pleasure.

Much to his disappointment, the boys were onto him. (His reputation had long ago spread far and wide.) Fully 50 yards before the came to his property line, they crossed the road and worked their way back into the heavy underbrush on the other side until they were well out of Midas’s range.

“Damnation!” cursed Midas. “The little beggars got away.” He finished off the last of the whiskey in the glass. “I hate those stinkin’ kids,” he grumbled. “Hate them one and all.” He had only two choices now: stop drinking, or go in and open another bottle. It should come as no surprise that he chose the latter.

When he had returned to his porch perch and refilled his glass, he took a long swig. Just as he started to swallow the firewater, he heard a most unusual and startling sound. He nearly choked as his head jerked instinctively in the direction of the sound. At first he neither recognized the sound nor saw its source. Again it came, this time somewhat louder. His gaze was close enough now that it took him only a second to locate the offending object. But what was it? l He squinted then rubbed his eyes trying to focus. At last he saw, though with disbelief, the sorriest looking example of feline dissipation he had l ever seen. Low and behold, right there at the foot of his front porch steps, staring directly into his bleary eyes, sat a cat!

Again the cat made the noise. Now that he knew it was a cat, Midas realized that the sound bore some slight resemblance to the traditional “meow” that cats made. But this cat had apparently flunked out of meow school. The sound that it made was less like that of a cat than it was the horrible screeching of fingernails on window glass. It gave Midas goose bumps every time he heard it.

Now that he had things figured out–well, a little at least–he became angry. No one was allowed on his property, particularly not some mangy varmint that made such a godawful noise. “Git outta here, you mangy little shit!” yelled Midas, gesturing wildly with his free hand, the one without the whiskey glass in it. “If I have to come down there, you’ll wish I didn’t.” The cat made its now familiar sound. Nothing more.

Midas was becoming increasingly angry. Who did this disgusting creature think it was to defy him. He’d teach that damned cat not to mess around with Midas Crakenberry. He stood up and stomped his foot on the porch for emphasis as he shouted, “I said git! And I meant it!” Finally the cat, ambled slowly around the corner of the house and out of sight.

Midas sat back down and took a swig of Beam. “Guess I told him,” he muttered to himself with satisfaction. “Don’t expect I’ll see him around again.” He was so pleased with himself, he nearly smiled.

By the time the bottle was a third gone, Midas had dozed off right there in his porch chair. When he woke up, it was already dark and he pulled himself up, still quite drunk, and dragged himself into the house where he collapsed on his bed. There he stayed until the next morning.

After heating and consuming a can of beans that morning, Midas poured himself a glass of whiskey and ambled out to resume his vigil on the porch. To his surprise and disappointment, the first sound that greeted his ears was the awful screeching of the cat. “Damnation!” gnarled Midas. “You again? I thought I was rid of the likes of you.” There on the bottom-most porch step was the ragged cat, just sitting and staring at him.

Midas wasn’t going to take this insult sitting down. He rose to his feet again, but not before he grabbed hold of the empty whiskey bottle he’d finished off the day before. With great effort, he reared back and hurled it in the general direction of the offending feline. He really would have liked to have hit it squarely on its ugly head, and he tried his best to do so. However, considering that his eyes weren’t as good as they once were, he had a not inconsiderable hangover, and never was much of an athlete, he was lucky to send the bottle anywhere on the same continent as his intended target. Actually, he got an assist from a wind gust and only missed the cat by a few feet

The resulting crash of the impact and the tinkle of shards of glass splaying all over was sufficient to send the cat scurrying off again. Where it went was a mystery to Midas, but that was fine as long as the blamed thing was gone. “The nerve of some critters,” he grumbled as he stumbled back to his chair.

The remainder of the day Midas spent drinking, griping to himself about the unfairness of life, and giving a tongue-lashing to a couple of kids that had the temerity to walk past his house (they must have been new in town). By mid-afternoon he had again drunk himself into a stupor.

This time he managed to drag himself to bed before passing out. Midas crawled out of bed just after the crack of noon the following day and was at his post on the front porch shortly before one o’clock. He was slightly more hungover than usual and the effect on his mood was predictably negative. By the time he had consumed a substantial dose of the hair of the dog, he was almost back to his normal cantankerous self.

The sun was now high in me sky and the heat was more than enough to cause Midas to sweat profusely. He mopped his dripping brow often as he patrolled the horizon in search of targets for his wrath. Between the heat, the hangover and dog hair, he was on the verge of unconsciousness, but managed to stay barely awake lest he miss an opportunity to take pot shots at some hapless passers-by.

He was jerked out of his dazed semi-consciousness by a familiar howl. Even before he opened and focused his eyes (as best he could) he knew that the cat was back. When his eyes and brain finally reached agreement on how to work together, he saw that this time the cat sitting not on the steps, but right there on the porch at the top of the stairs! Crakenberry was furious. “Damnation!” he shouted quite out loud. “Get the hell off my porch you blasted varmint!” The cat didn’t so much as flinch. He jumped out of his chair and stomped his feet (which nearly caused him to fall over due to the disastrous state of his equilibrium). The cat stood his ground. Next, he tried to kick the cat but found that difficult to do since to do so required him to perform the delicate athletic maneuver of standing on one foot, an action of which he was incapable at the moment.

Not to be denied, Midas seized on the perfect solution. He staggered with all possible urgency into the house and reappeared moments later with the .45 caliber pistol he had brought back from the war.

“You get off my porch right now,” he said in a most serious way, “or I swear I’ll blow you right into the next county!” The cat just looked at him for a few moments, then opened its mouth and uttered that awful sound.

That was all Midas needed to push him over the edge into a murderous rage. He raised the pistol and brought it to bear on the blur that he was pretty sure was the cat. As the barrel wandered to and fro, at and around the target, Midas squinted, blinked and eventually, quite by accident, got off a shot. When the smoke cleared and the silence of the summer afternoon returned, the cat was nowhere to be found. All that was left was a small pool of blood on the porch and a few more drops trailing down the steps.

It was then that Midas experienced a strange emotion, one he couldn’t remember ever having felt before. It was not at all pleasant. In fact, it was one of the most unbearable feelings he had ever experienced. Had he lived a life that was within sub-light travel of normality, he would have recognized it as a heady mixture of guilt and remorse. Such not being the case, however, he just flopped down in his chair and took a long pull right from the bottle of Jim Beam.

For over an hour he sat and drank, drank and sat, and all the time he couldn’t quite shake that terrible feeling. In fact, he was pretty sure it was actually getting worse. And if that wasn’t bad enough, he couldn’t seem to get his mind off that damned cat. The worse he felt, the more he thought about the cat, and the more he thought about the cat, the worse he felt.

By mid-afternoon he had worried himself nearly sober. Finally, in an act of monumental desperation, he dragged himself out of the chair and staggered down the steps. He followed the thin trail of blood around the corner of the house and finally to the back. There in the shade of the back stoop he saw the cat. He froze in his tracks and suddenly he felt cooler than he had since January.

Had he killed it? What if he had, the damned thing had been asking for it. Hadn’t he? Well if that was true, then why on earth was he standing there holding his breath, hoping to see it move? For the first time in his life, he was actually sorry he had never learned to pray.

After several minutes of paralyzed staring, he moved slowly to the place where the fallen feline lay. As he approached, he could see a large flap of skin just over the right eye laying wide open. Crouching down, with trembling fingers (not entirely from alcohol narcosis), he reached out and touched the top of the cat’s head. When the cat twitched in response to his touch, he jerked his hand away so fast that he fell right over backward. Was it just a nervous reflex, or was it still alive? He didn’t know.

When he had regained what little was left of his composure, he reached out again and poked the cat’s belly. This time he clearly saw a leg move. It didn’t look like a reflex. Moments later there was more movement without his doing anything to evoke it. The cat was definitely alive.

Another new emotion surged through Midas. Had he ever experienced it before, he would have immediately recognized it as relief followed by elation. He gently slid his hands under the wounded cat, carefully cradling its bleeding head and lifted it off the ground. As quickly as he safely could, Midas carried the cat into the house and lay it down on a folded towel on the kitchen table. With a tenderness he didn’t know he possessed, he delicately washed the wound and, after folding the flap of skin and fur back in place, put a makeshift bandage over the wound. For his part, the cat lay very quietly and, though conscious, offered no resistance. He was a good little patient.

Once the operation had been completed, the cat opened its eyes and looked at Midas. Its lips parted slightly and to Midas’s utter amazement, he felt a damp and scratchy tongue rake across his finger. Suddenly, with neither warning nor prelude, mean old Midas Crakenberry, curmudgeon extraordinaire, started crying. It began with the unfamiliar sensation of a single tear working its way down his left cheek. Within seconds that single tear had lots of company. Before he knew what was happening to him, Midas was sobbing and wailing so loudly that he wondered if people on the road outside might hear him. But he didn’t care. It felt so good to be crying. How could anything feel that good to him? Nothing had felt good to Midas Crakenberry since…he had no idea.

The more he cried, the better it felt and the better it felt, the more he cried. Decades of fear, anger, frustration, disappointment, loneliness and lovelessness gushed out of him like a tsunami, and he reveled in it. He picked the cat up and cradled it in his arms and hugged it, careful not to squeeze it too tight. He raised it high against his chest so that he could rub his cheek against its fur. Again the cat licked him, this time on his still teary cheek. And it kept licking his tears away until they stopped coming quite a long time later.

There’s no point in saying that Midas Crakenberry was a new man after that. In some ways, he didn’t change at all. He still spent most of his time glued to his chair on the front porch, though the inflow of Jim Beam slowed markedly. He still kept pretty much to himself. He still bathed slightly less often than most people paint their houses.

On the other hand, it could be said that nothing in himself or his life was ever quite the same again. He never again shouted obscenities at passersby. Never again did he lay in wait to ambush innocent children. In fact, there are unconfirmed rumors that he was actually caught smiling and waving to one child who walked by one windy autumn morning. But the boy was alone and no one else can corroborate his story.

The cat knows, though. The cat (whom Midas named Phoenix for reasons too obvious to mention) knows more than he tells and we can only suspect that he always did. He knew how to turn Midas Crakenberry inside out. He knew they needed each other. He knew that from that day forward they would make Siamese twins look like total strangers. And he knew that they would one day be found laying frozen side by each on Midas’s rumpled bed, cuddled like sleeping children, smiling through catty lips. Yes indeed, Midas Crakenberry had himself quite a cat. And vice versa.

The wet tarmac glistened under the airport lights as they threaded their way through the parked aircraft. Johanna’s curiosity was growing moment by moment. What on earth was Peter up to? Where was he leading her? All he had said when he asked her to meet him at the airport was that there was a little surprise waiting for her. Not much to go on, but that’s Peter, she thought. Finally, her curiosity was insupportable. “Where are we going, Peter?”

Pointing to a modest twin engine plane shining in the night 50 yards ahead he said, “You see that little number?”

“Yes. So what?”

“That’s where we’re going now. You’ll just have to wait for the rest. Trust me. It’ll be worth the wait.”

This was the greatest day of her life and she was giddy with the thrill of it all. To be offered a one woman show at the Fontaine gallery in New York City was quite an achievement for any artist. To receive such an offer less than three years after her first touch of brush to canvas was incomprehensible. The mere thought of it propelled her into low earth orbit. The joy of sharing this momentous evening with Peter catapulted her into outer-space.

From the moment she had learned of her triumph, she had felt nothing but pure, metaphysical, levitation. Even now, hours later, she hovered as she went through the motions of walking, except that now it was beginning to seem normal.

“Do you remember that scene from Cyrano De Bergerac, where Cyrano and his buddies were drinking at the inn?”, Peter asked.

“Yes”, said Johanna. What was unspoken but understood between them was her invitation to tell her about it anyway, just because she wanted to hear it again from him.

“Well, as you will recall, Cyrano and the boys were tipping a few at the local pub when a beggar came in, angling for a handout. Cyrano, who was not a rich man, carried his net worth in a pouch on his belt. While the others ignored the beggar, Cyrano took the bag from his belt and tossed it to the wretch with reckless abandon. Knowing of his lack of wealth someone audibly muttered, ‘My God, what a fool’. To which Cyrano responded, ‘Yes! But my God - What a gesture!’”.

Johanna smiled with quiet delight at his dramatization.

Peter continued, “Did I ever tell you the story about the boilermaker?” She replied, “No. Or if you did, I don’t remember.”

“Well, there was a boilermaker who was called upon to repair the furnace in a large building. He walked around the furnace for nearly a quarter of an hour and at last, taking a hammer from his tool belt, struck the boiler a single blow. It resumed to operation immediately. The building super was astounded and very grateful. He told the boilermaker to send him the bill, which, of course, he did. The bill was for $1,000. The super then sent a note to the boilermaker asking for an itemized bill. A few days later, the itemized bill arrived. It read:

This time she laughed aloud, for she recognized the poetry and eloquence of his meaning.

Peter continued, “Hold on to those two stories for a few minutes. Their stock is about to rise.”

They were now at the steps leading into the aircraft. Ascending, they found themselves surrounded by the kind of luxury that is known only to the elite of the world of capital. Plush carpeting combined with delicate appointments to frame a portrait of opulence. The cabin lights were so dim that she could see clearly only the area into which they had emerged. Barely visible, near the rear of the compartment, was a cozy lounge.

They buckled themselves into two swivel rockers as the door closed behind them as if by magic. Moments later they were airborne. A world of lights spread out below them as they sat in the near darkness of the their sky capsule. Not a word had passed between them since their embarkation. It was Peter who broke the silence.

“I have another surprise for you.” And as he spoke, the shadow of a human form lit a candle at the rear of the cabin. The candle light revealed the table upon which it rested. On the table were three other objects: a magnum of Champagne and two exquisite silver goblets.

“Shall we adjourn to the salon to begin our celebration?”, he said as he stood, offering her his arm. Together they walked to the table and sat down on the rich leather chairs provided. Johanna stared hypnotically at the light from the candle. “What a wondrous candle”.

The stone walls of the Brightwood Monastery were as smooth as the cheeks of the baby Jesus. The sun warmed them as if from inside, which of course was not the case. Brother Michael had just come from the coolness of the cellar and the touch of the warm stones was a dramatic but somehow exhilarating contrast. It was good to be in the warmth of the sun, thought Brother Michael, and it was just as good that the cellar was so cool, even in summer, so that the candles would keep well. After all, without the income from the candles, they could not support the monastery, and without the monastery, life as they knew it would cease to exist. He loved his life here at Brightwood. He loved the peace, the brotherhood, the spirituality, but secretly, more than anything else, he loved making the candles. They were the one material value he held above all the others. As long as he could keep making candles, nothing else really mattered. He had never given any thought to candles before he came to Brightwood, he recalled as he moved gracefully through the monastery courtyard. It had been a revelation to him, that first time he smelled the tallow simmering in the metal vats. He had felt certain that he recognized that smell from somewhere. It must have been dejavu he had decided.

His skill was now second to none and his candles always brought the very highest prices at market. It had taken him every moment of his 40 years at Brightwood to master his craft, but master it he had. From the first day his only wish had been to create the finest, most beautiful candles possible, and to continue to do so until he joined his creator in that other heaven, the one where he would go after his work was finished in this one.

Peter began again, “You know, of course, that we are here to celebrate your first solo show. What you don’t know is that I too have reason to celebrate.”

“Really? You’ve been holding out on me, haven’t you!”, she responded excitedly.

“Just a bit”, Peter smiled knowingly, “Just a bit”. His smile broadened.

“So what is it you have to celebrate that you haven’t told me about?”

“The story of the boilermaker has been a favorite of mine for a long time. It has been an ideal for me. Not being a boilermaker, I had to adapt the meaning of the story to my own life. What I decided was that the boilermaker was really selling knowledge. And what is that if not an idea, a thought, if you prefer. I have always believed that if a single thought could be worth, genuinely worth, $1,000, why not a million? So that became my goal. To sell single thought for one million dollars.”

She was laughing quietly but convulsively by now. How like him, she thought. How deliciously Peter.

“Well, today I did it.”, he recited rather matter-of-factly. “Today I received a cashier’s check for one million dollars in payment for a single thought.”

Johanna was aghast. At first she thought that he was kidding. One quick look at his face destroyed that illusion. He was plainly in ernest. Regaining her composure she asked, “What was the thought?”

“I’m sorry, love but I am not at liberty to say. It is one of the terms of my agreement with the buyer. I can assure you, however, you will find out soon enough. It will become public knowledge in less than a week. What I can tell you is that it was one hell of a thought!” Whereupon he began to laugh like Satan himself ( or was it Pan, or Shiva, or the Buddha sitting under his tree )? Johanna followed suit.

In the residue of their mirth, Peter reached for the bottle of Champagne and began to work on the cork.

The angry waves of the channel battered Henri Rousseau’s little fishing boat unmercifully. It was not the right season for a crossing to England, thought Marcel, not right at all. But what choice did one have these days? What with Hitler’s thugs on the march and the entire country gone berserk, any sane man would do just what he had done: leave France. Yet he was still a frenchman. Did he not get misty eyed when he heard the strains of the Marseillaise? Was it not he who had burned his own vineyards and broken every bottle of wine, even the 1917, the finest to be bottled since his great-great-grandfather had founded the Chateaux Du Pont label over a century ago? Yes it was he who had vowed that no bosh lips would ever find pleasure in the produce of Chateaux Du Pont soil. Of course, he could not have destroyed all traces of the loving effort of generations of his ancestors. He had only destroyed that which he could not carry.

He had scoured the wharfs of Le Havre until he was satisfied that captain Rousseau’s boat was the largest he could afford to bribe. Then, returning to Champagne for the last time, he had loaded a wagon with all that the boat would carry: three cases of the 1917 and enough seed to replant the vineyard in America. He left behind not only the ashes of his ancestral home and the vineyards, but 200 years of family history. It was a bitter farewell indeed. He was able to do it only because he knew that his progenitors would have done the same thing. They too would have realized that the only priority was the survival of the grape. It all seemed worthwhile, now. The plan had worked and in a few short hours, God willing, he would be in England on his way to America and freedom. He vowed that night to make America as proud of Chateaux Du Pont as he was. In the years to come, he did exactly that.

When Peter had dislodged the cork and the effervescence had subsided, Johanna said, “Allow me.” Taking the bottle from him, she began to pour the fragile liquid into his goblet.

As the first pink glow of dawn trickled into his shop, Claudius was sitting at his work bench, staring at his newest, and greatest, achievement. The hint of a smile was nearly visible on his lips, but no one would have noticed his mouth. Not at that moment - even if there had been someone there to notice - which there was not. It was his eyes they would have been staring at, his eyes that would have entranced them, captured them, held them for outrageous ransom, his eyes and the emotion that expressed itself through them. It flowed out gracefully, gently, yet forcefully, like the beads of water oozing through the first crack in a collapsing dike, like the crystal reflections from the single tear drop at the corner of each eye. Anyone, perhaps even those of us who were not there, could have seen that these were the eyes of a man in devout prayer, a man who had just died well, a man who knew that he would live forever. These were the eyes of innocent worship, not those of a man in awe of a deity, but of a man in awe of himself and his own divinity. They were the eyes of inspired humility. No one understood this better than Claudius. And no one could harness it as he did, to fuel the fires of his own amazement at the beauty he had created, at the process by which it was achieved, at the price he had paid, at his boundless wonder that it had happen at all. Yet there they were, two silver goblets, six years in the making, so identical that even he could not tell them apart, so perfect in every detail that even he could find no flaw, so finished that there was simply no more to be done. These he would present to the guild as his masterpiece, his price of admission to the loftiest ranks among his peers. When the sun settled below the rooftops, Claudius was sitting at his workbench, staring.

The goblets were filled, the scene was set and there remained nothing but the toast. Johanna lifted her goblet and began, “A toast …”. Peter interrupted, “Not quite yet. There is still one missing square in this crazy quilt. What I have not told you yet is that I spent the entire million on this celebration. Half for the plane, and the rest on this toast.”

Her eyes glistened like Roman silver. His exuded the serenity of monastic contemplation. The ecstacy of consummation was lifting them higher than the plane. Together.

She began again, “To the boilermaker.”

“To Cyrano”, he added.

“To us”, they whispered in unison.

A moment later, in a single heartbeat, their lips touched the silver, the champagne and the robust living light of the candle. And thus began the celebration.

I am the Earth. And while that is your name for me, not my name for myself, it will do for now. I write to you out of love for myself and for all of which I am composed which, of course, includes you. I will refer to myself here as “I” and to you as “you,” even though we are one, because that is the nature of your language. I write because I want you to remember who I am, who you are, who we can be. I want you to understand the context in which you experience yourselves rather than just the details with which you usually are concerned. I write because you have forgotten what all of this is about and it is time for you to remember. I want you to understand why this has happened and why your amnesia is dissolving.

I called myself the Earth. Others have called me the Mother Earth, Mother Nature and names too numerous to mention. Though there are no words to fully describe me, the closest approximation is that I am the soul of the Earth, and you are my body. But we are more than that for I am your body too, as you are also my soul. As I said, words are inadequate. They are finite vessels trying to contain the infinite; a hopeless task at best. I use them now only because they are your most conscious medium of interaction, and because I do want you to understand. I am relying on your inner senses to fill in the spaces between these words. There is, after all, more light than dark on these pages; a very great deal more. Do not omit your reading of the light un-words, for therein lies the true tale I tell. And a fine tale it is, so let me begin.

You think of me in your own way. You know me as dirt, as rock, as water and air, and it is true: I am all of these and more. You may also see me as trees and flowers, grasses and shrubs since these are all rooted within my body. I am all of these and more. I am insects, birds, fish and bears, dogs, cows and dolphins. And I am more. I am seas, continents, mountains and gorges. I am people too, and still I am more, much, much more. For all of these are known to you as objects which exist in space, and events which exit in time. And while I do exist as these in space and time, I also exist in other ways that are so utterly independent of space and time that you cannot even comprehend them with your usual senses. As part of me, you also exist in these ways of which you understand so little. For your being, like mine, is multidimensional, eternal, without limit.

When you perceive yourself as being fully contained within space and time, you must see everything else in that same way and with the same limitations, including me. Why have you forgotten who we are? There are reasons which we will discuss presently. First, though, there is more that I must tell you and as I do, know that I am only reminding you of that which you already know and have forgotten. You will remember only that which you are willing to remember. So stop now, and make a clear decision to remember. You must be willing, or you will see only ink on paper, figure on ground, shadows on the wall. Stop now, close your eyes for a few moments, and find within yourself that willingness to remember who and what we are. Do it now. I will wait.

A Parable

Long before the beginning, long before forever, there was only Mind. Not a Mind, not the Mind, just Mind for there were no others. And Mind dreamed. It dreamed in mists, it dreamed in clouds, it dreamed in images long since gone from time. But as Its dreams became more clear, more distinct, It began to recognize them one from the other and began to see them in increasing detail until each one became individual and unique unto itself. And the dreams of Mind, because of their source, also dreamed and imagined, and their dreams had their own dreams, and Mind was aware of and loved each of Its dreams and their dreams and theirs.

Mind loved all of these so much that It desired to give them actuality such as It Itself had, but It did not know how to do so. This desire grew and grew until Mind was in agony for lack of the means to release Its dreams into realities of their own. It searched within Its limitless imagination until It was completely involved in Its dilemma, even as the dreams and dreams of dreams multiplied infinitely within Its consciousness.

Mind knew that if It could not find a solution, the individual consciousness locked within It would forever be held prisoner and that Mind Itself would face insanity from the ever increasing pressure of Its love and longing. It realized, finally, that It must set them free and in the process lose that portion of Itself which had created them. It knew in that moment that as long as It thought of them as Its own creations, It denied them their own reality, their freedom, their existence.

In an act of primal sympathy and love It released them from Its dream and set them free to create their own realities as It had created them. In a flash of cosmic creation burst forth infinite individual consciousness, all with the creative power and potential of the one Mind. And they have never forgotten It as It has never forgotten them. Ever since, they have all faced that same creative dilemma as It did so long ago; the agony of creation and the joy that each creator takes in each of its creations. Such was the beginning.

Some of these dreams dreamed of themselves as matter, flung out into the cosmos as galaxies, stars and planets. In one small corner of one such galaxy called the Milky Way, there is a star around which circle 9 planets. The third of these planets is a dream called Earth. I am that dream.

So I began as a dream of The One Mind as you began as a dream of mine. We are dreams come true, you and I. And we have been given the gift of gods: we create realities. It is the nature of all consciousness to dream and these dreams each possess that same power to create. And each of them must face that same primal dilemma of creation. We must learn to give actuality to our own dreams even as The One Mind set us free. It is our nature. I tell you this now because I want you to understand the context in which we have our existence.

In my early dreams I created the oceans, continents and sky. Later I created biological life, including humans. Originally the nature of your consciousness was much like that of the animals. Your conscious experience was largely governed by what you would call instincts. In this way you were protected and allowed to develop in safety and comfort. You knew innately, as the animals still do, of your connections to me and through me to All That Is.

But you wished to have more freedom. You dreamed of having a conscious mind that was free to choose to live or die, to be happy or sad, to be or not to be, if I may borrow a phrase. And so it was that human consciousness undertook the free will experiment. It was a bold venture into the realm of pure creativity at a physical level as well as a psychic one. It has taken, in your terms, millions of years for the experiment to reach its present stage of development. During this period it was necessary for you to gradually shift your conscious awareness from the instinctual, subjective focus of the animals, to one which could include both subject and object. You have done this quite well. But there has been one problem that must now be solved.

In turning your consciousness toward the outer world more and more, you have also turned it away from your inner knowing. In the process you have lost much of your sense of connection with others, even yourselves. This has produced some difficult and unfortunate situations.

You now feel isolated from creation and with it from your own true nature. You often see yourselves as isolated, separate, and the victims of circumstances which seem to be not of your own making and not within your power to control. This is one of the things I wish to correct here.

You create your own reality and all that is within it, and it is your sole prerogative to change it in any way you see fit. You are not, therefore, helpless victims at the mercy of a reality which has been thrust unwittingly upon you. You are more like a painter who finds himself in a gallery filled with his own paintings. If he does not like what he sees, it is his own doing– and he can change it so long as he remembers who he is.

You have forgotten who you are and so you do not remember creating yourself, nor your life, nor do you see how to change it. Remember who you are; only then will you regain the insight into the true nature of yourselves, your lives, and the power to change that which is not to your liking.

l have given you an account of creation in terms of time as you understand it, but basically any such account must, of necessity, be quite distorted. Time is simply too limited to encompass any reasonably accurate description of such multidimensional events. Since your language is all but totally dependent on your concept of time, it is not within the scope of language to communicate such a story. It would be like taking a black-and-white photograph of a red rose: it may be recognizable as a rose but its redness will be completely lost. So it is with any verbal account I might give of such events. Important information must necessarily be lost or at best distorted. Here again, I rely on your own inner knowledge and intuition to fill in the blanks.

You see yourselves as the “crown of creation.” You feel superior to the animals and plants, also separate from them and the rest of Nature itself. And yet you yourselves are a part of Nature. You are as firmly rooted in the Earth as any flower or tree. But since you only “officially” recognize physical connections, you do not experience your rootedness because it is not, strictly speaking, physical. This is only one important example among many of the distortions forced upon you by your own erroneous beliefs and perceptions. Yet none of this in any way affects your continued connections to and nurturance by Nature, the Earth, myself. You should be very glad that this is so, because your continued physical existence would be otherwise impossible. Remember who your are.

You do not mind when a wolf or leopard hunts and kills other wild creatures for food. You think it natural and you are right. Yet you deny equally natural status to many of your own urges and actions. This is not to imply that your wars, for example, are justified. But they are natural outgrowths of the beliefs that you hold both individually and en mass, and it is your nature to hold beliefs and to experiment with your own consciousness. Consciousness creates reality and yours is no exception. Wars are your own creation, not as a consequence of your nature, but as a consequence of your use of it. If you are to eliminate wars from your experience, you will have to release the beliefs which demand war as their expression.

You believe also that the pollutants you create may some day destroy me. I assure you that this will not happen. My existence is my own and nothing you do can deprive me of it. The most that you can do, and even this is extremely unlikely, is to so reduce the quality of life that you yourselves are no longer willing to live it. You would then follow the path of the innumerable species which you call extinct. When the quality of their lives was no longer sufficient, they lost interest in it and disappeared. In a sense dinosaurs cancelled themselves due to lack of interest. You always have that choice individually and as a species. I doubt that you will come to that point of apathy any time soon.

You cling to life too fiercely to let it go so easily. You do this despite many of your most cherished and limiting beliefs. These beliefs reduce the quality of life, but not so drastically that it is not worth living.

A belief in scarcity, for example, will produce apparent lack. A belief in the dangerousness of physical life will produce physical threats. A belief that for one creature to live, another must die will produce competition which will demand that there be winners and losers. You believe that without such competition you would not have achieved many of your proudest accomplishments.

Now I tell you that you have accomplished nothing of value through competition, except that some of you have learned that it is useless. Whatever of value you have achieved has been through cooperation, consciously or unconsciously, and nothing else. Believe me, I know, and so will you as soon as you begin to remember who you are.

You believe that people often act out of basically evil intent, and it is not so. People always act out of basically good intent. It is just that their beliefs as to the means at their disposal becomes so distorted that they are able to behave only in ways which appear evil. And yet neither the act nor the actor is essentially evil, for it is all a means to learning and growth and that is always essentially good. If you could learn what you want to learn by nonphysical means, you would not have gone to all of the trouble to create your physical form and sustain it and continue to live your lives as you know them. This is true whether you understand and accept it or not.

Again, do not misunderstand me, I am not saying that you should rape and murder. If you believe that those things are evil, and you do them anyway, then you will pay the price you think “goes with the territory.” What I am talking about here is the intent behind such acts. Those who believe that power or anything else of value comes out of gun barrels, bombers, missiles, or wallets have already lost contact with the only real power they have or need. That power is LOVE.

It is love that continually creates all realities and this one in which we exist is certainly no exception. It is the love of the song unsung, the life unlived, the dream unrealized. It is the selfsame desire that the One Mind had which gave us our actuality, and that love is without beginning or end. It is eternal, infinite, and because we are part of it, so are we. Remember who you are?

So you look at your world and you see suffering and pain and evil and you come to the obvious conclusion that not only is it working rather badly, but that there is serious doubt that it can really ever work much better. Yet it is only because you do not remember who you are, yourself and your fellow creatures, that you see only these “failures” of men and do not see that it is all love in action. You see only what your beliefs will let you see. So if you do not like what you see, it is your beliefs that must change not a world which seems outside of you and beyond your control. You are the author of your life and all that is in it. You are the artist whose work you are experiencing, and the force of your will is the only power in the universe that can change it.

If you feel that this task is hopeless, if you cower before the specter of a world gone amuck, if you feel helpless to change that which seems to be, then it is only because you have forgotten who you are, for you are the creator of your life and you, collectively, are the creators of your world. It is your belief in your own limitations that has put you in this predicament, and it is your ability to change those beliefs that can get you out of it.

In any event, it is, as always, up to you. I am here to remind you, but you have had others to remind you before and you would not listen. When all is said and done, it is you who must remember who you are and what you’re doing here. No one else can do that for you.

The power of your thoughts is awesome, yet the principle is very simple: what you concentrate upon increases. It is the power to create reality in the strictest sense of the words. Thinking about war creates war, thoughts of peace create peace, dwelling on illness creates illness, and concentrating on health creates health. It is not a complicated lesson, but it is an important one. It is indeed necessary that you learn this lesson yourself, this lesson that cannot be taught, for how else could you call the power of creativity your own? How else could you assume your rightful place in this universe of gods? How indeed?

You live in fear of nuclear war, intentional or not. You see men in many countries that you think might at any moment press the button and destroy the world you know. Many of you are seriously concerned lest some nut, well meaning or insane, should snuff out your lives in an instant. Yet you completely overlook the fact that good men, bad men, sane and insane, have had their fingers on the buttons for decades and that those buttons have never been pressed. Why do you suppose that no “accident” has ever happened? Is that, in itself, an “accident”

No! It is no accident! You have not destroyed your world because you have no intention of actually doing so. What is true is that you have been hanging this terrible ax over your own necks to get you to wake up to the fact that war is no longer an acceptable alternative, to give you the incentive, no the mandate, to

remember who you are

Right Now!

If you will only look around and really see for a change, you will realize that it is working and that it has been working all along. There are millions upon millions of people deeply committed to disarmament, yet you focus on those whom you think want war. And who are they? Usually a handful of political leaders that your beliefs force you to see as possessing more power than the multitudes. Ask yourself what is the source of their power? And if you answer that the power comes from wealth or weaponry, then ask yourself where these come from. The truth is that the led provide the power to the leaders. It is the people who give them the money, and more importantly the support without which they would be just ordinary citizens. The leaders of your political structures are there to accurately reflect the collective beliefs and desires of the people whom they seem to rule. They are not to blame any more than a mirror is to blame if you don’t like what you see when you look into it.

Leaders are just that: leaders. They are In the front where they are visible. They are not, however, the entire parade or even its most important part. They are simply men and women who have volunteered to express, through their roles, the collective consciousness of their respective constituencies. They are just ordinary people in extraordinary roles. They are not responsible any more than any other individual. Their real power extends only to their own lives and their unique contributions to the mass consciousness which is your environment.

Yet you blame them, as you insist on blaming yourselves, for you have become intensely obsessed with blame. At times it is quite obvious that you are far more desirous of finding someone on whom to pin the blame for the ills of your world than you are to actually change those ills in the only way the will work–by changing your own attitudes, thoughts, and beliefs. And that is the simple, unvarnished truth. But don’t believe me just because I say so. Ask your own heart of hearts. For there it is known who you are and why you’re here and what all of this is about. Ask yourself, and you shall know with a certainty that neither I nor anyone else can give you.

You have created governments and laws to try to force yourselves to behave in certain prescribed ways, but they don’t work. You have jails that are literally overflowing, but there is always more and more “crime.” Why? Because you have not changed your own beliefs about what you call “human nature.” Only when you cease to support the belief that man is essentially flawed, greedy, selfish, and stupid, will the evidence of such things disappear. Then you will then need no laws as you know them, because there will be no reason for having them.

Your courts are filled with people who are there for one and only one reasons: to determine who is responsible. For what? For anything you can imagine that you don’t like. If the alleged transgression is “criminal,” then you must determine guilt. If the violation is “civil,” then you must determine who has injured whom. When you reach agreement that each person is solely responsible for the contents of their own life, you will not only have made courts and laws obsolete, but you will have returned to the absolute freedom which is you right as creatures.

This notion of freedom seems horrifying to one who still holds beliefs that define man as evil, flawed, and dangerously wrong. To those who have begun to remember who they are, the prospect of such unqualified freedom seems not only attractive, but absolutely natural. Be among the latter, not the former. Be a liberated creator rather than a god in exile.

When you believe that man cannot be trusted and that life is filled with scarcity and lack, then you will be understandably frightened by “anarchy.” You will conjure up visions of rape and murder with nowhere to hide and no choice but to become an “animal” yourself in order to survive. But animals are not like that in their natural environment and neither are people. Only when they are imprisoned and prevented from expressing the boundless joy and exuberance of their creaturehood do animals or men resort to pointless acts of violence and harm. The barriers provided by some of your erroneous beliefs are more confining than any prison.

Be also aware that, since you have never tried a world without “rules,” you really don’t have any idea what would actually happen. Any expectation must necessarily be invented, and it must conform strictly to your beliefs on the subject. It is your beliefs about man that lead you inexorably to the expectation that he would behave so badly given the chance. Look at what he is doing now, and ask yourself what you would have to lose by trying something different. Ask yourself that, and don’t forget to wait patiently for an answer. It will come, and it may surprise you.

It may seem to you that humankind has quite a long way to go before it arrives at this type of world. And that may be so. Yet if everyone on Earth remembered who they are right now, the entire world would be transformed instantly into one where peace, love, and brotherhood were the only rule.

If only half of the human population remembered right now, the pressure place upon the remaining half by the change would make it impossible for them to continue to hold their current views. They would have to give in and remember too in the face of half a world reawakened.

If only one out of ten released their amnesia, it would make an intense and sudden impact on the consciousness of the human race and would lead quickly and certainly to the same end.

Beliefs are far more contagious that the “black plague,” for disease must travel through space and time, while thought travels beyond the speed of light. Thus an entire planet can be transformed in an instant once the chain reaction begins. Anyone, at any time, can start that chain reaction. You could be the first domino to fall. You could be the “carrier” of the new epidemic of love and remembering. You could be the one who remembers so clearly that their mere physical and psychic presence among mankind is enough to overcome the inertia and start the cosmic snowball rolling down the hill.

And if it is not you, then who? Who will be the one that tips the scale that cannot be tipped back? Who will be the final straw that, when removed, saves the camel’s back? You want to “make a difference?” Begin now remembering who you are. If you wish to put an end to war, then stop hating war–for that only serves to prolong it. Concentrate instead on the love of peace for that alone will create peace.

I will help you in every way I can and so will others who have already begun to remember. You will not be alone. Perhaps for the first time your connections with all of creaturehood will be known to you.

I am the Earth. I speak my name, indeed my self, in every leaf, raindrop, and person within my consciousness. My love for you is as eternal and personal as your very soul. I have done what I can for now. The rest is up to you. Just one last time I ask you to…

REMEMBER WHO YOU ARE

The snow will be completely gone soon, thought Joseph Longeyes as he sat, icy still, his legs following the curve of Mirriah’s girth as she stood silently beneath him. He had already decided to head back to the ranch in the morning. The horses, though still in their winter feeding grounds, were safe and sound. It would soon be time for the spring roundup. His boys would be glad to hear his report. They always pretended to worry about the stock, but he knew that he was the true object of their concern.

For some reason he had never quite fathomed, they just didn’t seem to understand why he, a man of 101 summers, insisted on working every day, year round, when he didn’t really have to. But that was just it: he did have to. He had lived his whole, long life in these mountains-except for those first few years when the Nez Pierce were on the run and later forced to live on the reservation. He’d sneaked back to Oregon as soon as he was old enough and had remained there ever since. When was that? He tried to remember. Must have been in the summer of ‘85. Yes, it was in his sixteenth summer that he had made the long and difficult trek across a continent to his ancestral home in the Wallowa Mountains.

A cold puff of wind coaxed an involuntary shiver from Mirriah. He realized that he’d better get the saddle off her and build a fire before the evening chill really got down to business. The air was almost at the freezing point already, and it was not yet dark.

He slid slowly to the ground and began to remove Mirriah’s halter and saddle. He smiled to himself with self-satisfied pleasure. He had slowed down, as age began to take its toll, of that there was no doubt. But he was still strong enough to unsaddle a horse. Not bad, he thought, for an old Indian.

He slipped a long noose over Mirriah’s head and tied the other end to a nearby tree, one near enough to some exposed grasses so she could have a midnight snack if she wanted. He had picked this spot to stop for the night because this was where he had always camped when he was in the area. How many fires he had set in the same stone hearth, under the same trees? Hundreds for sure. Thousands maybe. He had never counted.

He ambled around the area picking up squaw wood, those handy dry branches that littered the floor of the old-growth forest. He made several trips, returning to the hearth after each loop, before he had collected enough to last all night and into the sharp morning. When he had finished, dusk was breaking out all over and he was anxious to feel the heat from a new fire. There was nothing quite like that to comfort old bones.

In minutes the fire was blazing and he sat down on a favorite rock to warm himself in the glow. When he was nice and warm, he started thinking about supper. Unlike his children, he had never taken to eating “white man’s food” when on the trail. He opted instead for a more traditional menu of jerky and whatever he could forage locally. Sometimes he would hunt for small game, a bird or squirrel, but he was tired tonight. He would be happy with a simple meal of jerky and pine nuts.

He mused how lucky he was to still have enough good eeth to chew the stiff strips of cured venison. Strong teeth were vital to longevity when one lived as he had for so long. He walked slowly, though not as stiffly as before, over to his saddle pack and retrieved the bag of berries and other food.

Sitting back down on the rock, he took his hunting knife from its scabbard and cut off a nice piece of jerky, chasing it with a swig of spring water from his canteen. As he chewed, he looked out over Dark Horse Valley, through which he had come earlier, just as the last traces of daylight skittered into the shadows. A broad smile spread across the trenches of his leathered face. God how he loved this country. His heart sang songs of joy in harmony with the whispering breeze coursing through the trees above and the distant rippling of the spring. He found himself humming ancient Nez Pierce chants to himself as he ate. His mind, though not his body, sang the songs. In mental lyrics, he praised the spirits for the bounty of the land he so loved, for the sky and the game, and most of all, for the beauty of the land itself.

When the light died, he closed his ancient eyes and was drawn back into his youth, when he had first camped on this very spot. It had been spring, just as it was now, and he had only recently arrived after his long journey from the east. He had thought much in his months of travel about what he would do when he finally returned to his homeland. He had determined to live alone in these mountains because the white man seemed to fear Indians who traveled in packs.

He had decided that he would become a merchant of horses. Everyone always needed horses and he was, if nothing else, a gifted horseman and trainer. Soon after his return he had collected a small herd composed of wild ponies and other unbranded stock that he found running wild in the mountains. In the remote reaches he had chosen, he seldom saw another soul-white or red-even in the warmer seasons. When the weather turned cold, he could go for months without human contact.

In those early years he lived all but entirely off the land. Game was already becoming somewhat scarce, but he didn’t need much to stay alive. When he did find the need to buy something, he would just bring one of his fine horses into a town and trade it for whatever he needed. Then he would again be swallowed up by the vastness of the wilderness. It had been a lonely life, but a good one.

Having satisfied his belly, he stoked the fire a little and spread his bedroll out on some fir boughs before laying down. Once snuggled in, he looked skyward at the blanket of stars emerging from the darkening sky. His eyes weren’t as eagle-sharp as they had once been, but he could still find familiar patterns up there. What was it the white men called them? Constellations? Yes, that was it. They had names for everything but understood so little. He rolled his head back and forth on the bedroll in lieu of shaking it. How was it that white men could be so stupid about so many things and yet be smart enough to do some of the amazing things they did? This thought sent him into another reverie.

Joseph had been born in 1869, the year in which, he later learned, the transcontinental railroad was completed. The iron horse was one of those amazing accomplishments of the white man that were in such stark contrast to all the stupid things he did. It still boggled his mind how they could do such a wondrous thing, even after a century of living with and around them.

He looked at the rising Moon as it peeked out from behind a nearby tree. Why just a few months ago those crazy white men had actually sent three men to the Moon! He had no idea why they would want to do that, but it was still an astounding accomplishment. For Joseph, however, it just deepened his confusion. They were walking on the Moon, but didn’t have the vaguest idea how to properly care for the Earth. What a strange race they were. A strange race indeed.

The first owl hoot of the evening broke the silence as it echoed through the trees above him. At least there were still some places, places like this one, where one could pretend that the white man and the Oregon Trail and the iron horse were all just part of a bad dream, a dream from which one could awaken into a world that was as it should be, as it had always been, ever since his most ancient ancestors had come here in the time before time.

He thought back to his earliest days, before the great march in which Chief Joseph had led his people to within a scant 40 miles of Canada and freedom, before the pony soldiers captured them and the great Joseph, his namesake, spoke his famous words, “I will fight no more forever.” The boy Joseph had been just eight years old then and was one of the few children to survive the march. The next eight years of his life were spent on reservations until he finally made good his escape and returned to this very spot to live out the rest of his long life.

And what a life he had lived, thought old Joseph as he gazed up at the infinity that surrounds our mother Earth. He was so grateful that he had not had to live it in solitude as he had when he first came home. He had outlived three wives who had, between them born him15 children, all but two of which he had also outlived.

His tired old eyes began to well up now as he thought back to the passing of so many whom he had loved. In his time, Joseph had felt much pain, but none greater than burying 13 children. Even losing his parents and wives was somehow easier to endure. Even now, after 80 years, he could still see the face of his first-born who had succumbed to smallpox at the age of two. Oh how he had loved that baby boy. He had long believed, probably correctly, that the only reason he continued to live was that by then he had another son, one who survived well into his seventies.

He had lost sons in every war in which America had participated, all but this mess going on now in Viet Nam. The only reason he had been spared another loss was because he had no more sons left that were of age. Harold was in his 60s and Birch was nearly 80 now. They don’t draft men of that age no matter how desperate they are. His grandsons and great-grandsons were another matter. Five of them had died in W.W.II. and Korea. Another profound sadness to be endured. There was so much.

Joseph was having to actively fight back the tears now, and it was not an easy battle. A faint rustling in the brush roused him enough to break his concentration. Must be a beaver or other varmint, he judged. In his mind’s eye he saw the beaver he had trapped for his first wife, Two Shoes. He’d used the pelt to trade for a metal cooking pot for her. She’d wanted one since before he’d married her and she was thrilled to tears when he finally came home with it. She promised to cook the best meals he’d ever eaten for the rest of her life. She did not lie. They had 25 wonderful years together, raising children and horses, building a ranch house (something else she had long wanted).

His second wife, Esther, had been all but waiting in the wings for Two Shoes to die. She had been in love with-or if that’s not the right word, infatuated with-Joseph since she was a small child. She only saw him once or twice a year, but he was such a handsome figure of a man, tall and elegant, that her knees just went to jelly whenever he was around.

When Two Shoes died from complications of childbirth after delivering their fourth boy, Esther saw her chance. She waited as long as she could stand, out of courtesy, but the following spring, when Joseph and his sons came out of the mountains, she made it very clear that she meant to have him as a mate. Being over 20 years her senior, he was at first flattered by her shameless advances, but once he realize her sincerity, he made a pretty easy catch.

In the end, Esther was his favorite, and though they both expected that she would outlive him, it was not to be. After 32 years of marriage, she died on VE day of what would later be called cancer. Joseph had taken her deep into the mountains and given her a proper ritual burial. That duty having been performed, he lost himself in the mountains for nearly two months. His children agreed that he was never quite the same after he came back, as if part of him chose to stay forever in the wilderness with his beloved Esther. In Joseph’s mind, she had simply left too big a hole in his heart to ever be filled. And that was so for many years-until he met and married his third and last wife, Maris.

She too was many years his junior, still young enough to bear him one last child; her fourth, his thirteenth. Their relationship was different than those who came before. Joseph’s first marriage to Two Shoes was devoted to carving out a niche in the wilderness, both natural and human. His years with Esther were patterned after the halcyon days of summer, filled with joy and glory and plenty, punctuated only occasionally by tragedy.

Maris, on the other hand, was the woman with whom he had chosen to grow old. She was above all else comfortable. At that time in his life, comfort had risen to a place of honor on his list of values. For her part, Maris was quite content with her role. She was a soft-spoken woman of great pulchritude, with a true gift for pleasing others.

But even she had left him behind, though much more recently. She had simply failed to wake up the morning after they had sat transfixed to the television set in the Ramada Inn in Pendleton, watching Neil Armstrong walk on the Moon. During the few months since then, Joseph had felt like a rudderless ship in becalmed seas. Just drifting  aimlessly through the remainder of winter. The family was fearful he would just fade away, and they were nearly right.

But once the first signs of spring peaked timidly out from behind winter’s cape, Joseph seemed to come back alive. Next thing they knew, he was packing for his annual survey of the herds. They were reluctant to let him go, but they knew they’d have to tie him in bed to stop him, and even that wasn’t sure to work. In the end, they decided that it was his life to use as he chose, and lesson he’d been teaching them for decades, almost as if in preparation for this very moment.

Joseph roused himself enough to place more piece of wood on the fire before laying back again and closing his eyes for the long night ahead. As he drifted off to sleep his thoughts again backtracked over the long and wondrous journey he called his life. The smile on his face was one of the densest imaginable satisfaction, the look of a man who had found his true place on this good Earth and lived there long and well. And as his soul slipped quietly, imperceptibly, from his form, he was sure he could hear Esther calling him to her bosom once again, to the home of his heart, from which he would nevermore have cause to travel.

The ashtray looked like a pile of white driftwood stacked by an angry sea.  It had been a long night and lighting one butt after another had become as natural as, of all things, breathing.  Soon it would be dawn announcing the last day of what had become for Jennifer ordinary life.  In a few hours it would all be over; the boredom, the frustration, the waiting, the oppression — after 2 years, 11 months, 17 days and 15 hours she would be free at last.

She was trying to prepare herself for the explosive change in her environment but she knew that it was no use.  She would just have to wait until they came to escort her through the doors and gates, layered like petrified baklava, and then out into that terrifying open space she hadn’t seen for three years.

Yes, she agreed with herself, she was genuinely afraid of freedom.  It meant she would have to make her own choices again, something she’d never been very good at.  No longer would her life be tightly ordered by others.  Her life was now her own, to do with as she pleased - if only she knew what that would be.

Living in a ten-by-ten cell was a way of life she had become accustomed to and it would be hard to readjust to the outside.  But Jenny was determined.  She had been planning and waiting ever since her parole was granted and at least part of her believed that she knew exactly what she was doing.  The rest of her was feeling the same fear she had felt when her parents died.  That part of her was still just seven years old and knew nothing of real life.

How ironic it was that at the age of 25, so much of her was still back there in the second grade.  And yet wasn’t that where it had all begun, the relentless downhill slide that had culminated in her pumping half a dozen .22 caliber slugs into Carl that night?  It was so clear to her now that she had simply never regained her equilibrium after being orphaned.  Even now, nearly two decades later, two thirds of her life later, it hurt like hell just to think about that night when her aunt told her she was all alone.

Was it any wonder that she was frightened?  Was it any wonder that she was angry?  Anyone would be.  But hers was a different kind of anger, not the anger that makes you throw things and stamp your feet, but the kind that drives you to strike out violently, albeit vainly, at the ghosts who had deserted you.  Could it be true that as Carl raised his hand with the tire iron in it, in that split second before she squeezed off the first round, did she really see her father’s face?  Was it her father’s mouth that begged her not to fire again after every shot?  Was it her father’s eyes that pleaded with her to forgive him just one more time?  She couldn’t be completely sure and it was very difficult to think about.  Not now, not on the verge of a new life.  She rolled over on her cot and lit another cigarette.

She was at least sure of one thing now, that she was glad Carl had lived.  Not for his sake, but for hers.  If she’d actually succeed in snuffing out his life as she had thought she wanted to, she would not be seeing freedom this day or any day for a very long time.  And she knew now that Carl was just a poor sick guy who, in his own violent and ill tempered way, was just trying to make the best of his own bad situation.  Last time she had seen him, he wasn’t doing any better than she was.  Now she was better, much better, and he was as much worse.  If she really wanted revenge, she had it and she didn’t have to do a thing to get it.  He took care of that for her by getting himself blown in half by a police shotgun last year.  Even then all she could think of was that it served him right.  But that was then.

Now she felt differently.  It wasn’t pity or sorrow that she felt, the best word she had come up with was compassion.  After his death she had thought long and hard about his fate and ultimately decided that no one deserves what happened to him, or to herself for that matter.  No one fully earns time in a coffin, whether ten-by-ten or six-by-two, above or below ground.  What they had both needed and never found was love and acceptance, not from others, but from themselves.

Jenny had that now, well some of it anyway, and that is what made her feel that this time would be different.  She had forgiven herself, with a little help from her uncle Roy, for the crime of hating her parents for abandoning her.  It took over 2 years in stir to get to the point where she could even talk about it honestly but she would never forget the day when it finally happened.

Uncle Roy had come to see her again as he had each of the 114 Wednesday’s she’d been inside.  The first 20 times she wouldn’t even see him but he kept coming.  For the next 30 or so she met him with defiance, daring him to accept her as she was.  He did.  Another year was spent gradually moving from tense small talk to real conversation.

The breakthrough came on June 23rd of last year, just one week short of a year ago.  That Wednesday uncle Roy arrived with a book for her.  It was a book he had mentioned before and which, judging from her questions, he had thought she might like to read.  Maybe it was the title that intrigued her: Real Freedom.  He had quoted from it with increasing frequency for many months and as he did, her interest took root from which her openness then flowered.  He had offered it to her nonchalantly and she had accepted it only with the safety a facade of apathy could provide.

She had disciplined herself to leave it alone for a day and a night so as not to feel too anxious, but on the second day she finally opened it up and began.  She had read it twice before his return the following week.  She was ripe and ready then, filled with an enthusiasm he had never seen in her before.  She peppered him with questions about his interpretation of the numberless passages she had underlined in red.  During the hour they spent together that day, the walls and bars melted away, so much so that it shocked her when they reappeared as they stood to say goodbye before parting.  For the first time in all their visits he opened his arms and stood waiting for her to respond.  After only a moment’s hesitation, Jenny stepped forward and they embraced, tentatively at first and then with enthusiasm.

And that was the moment, a singular moment in all of history where the forces of the universe converged on a tiny pin point in her heart causing an explosion of emotion that was so powerful, so irresistible that it captured her like a pirate at sea and spirited her away to feelings long since forgotten.  She began to sob shamelessly, quietly, with a grace that only complete surrender bestows.  At last they were friends, lovers of a sort, joined at the heart never to be torn asunder.  It was glorious.  Only later, back in her cell, did she shake uncontrollably with the fear of what she had unleashed within herself.  Then she knew she had always been afraid of freedom, afraid that she was bound to misuse it, sure that nothing but harm was possible.  Today she saw beyond that image of herself, she saw for the first time her own sweet and loving soul, that center within all of us which knows nothing of fear, hate, greed and jealousy, that one absolutely safe place where you are known most intimately, and her heart had shown her the way.

On this day, the last of her physical imprisonment, she faced her fear again.  This time she could see it coming.  This time it was her body that was being set free.  This time it was her heart that picked the lock and opened the door.  This time it was to be complete.  Jenny smiled as she thought of that day and this and how much they were alike, how they were shadows of each other.  She remembered how exhilarated she had been before and knew that she was about to feel that way again.

She heard the measured footsteps of the guard approaching her cell, stopping just outside.  The door opened and she stepped out in street clothes, carrying a small bag containing her earthly possessions, out of that cell for the last time.  Down the cell block, through the gates and doors and passageways, opening before them, closing behind them, out of the cavernous barracks, and with every passing second the air grew lighter as did her steps. Then they were outside, walking toward the outer gate, the final barrier.

As she emerged into the bar-less world of the outside, there stood uncle Roy, smiling, arms open wide like the bosom of the earth to a returning astronaut.  She tried to walk calmly for a few steps but it was futile.  Her heart erupted again like a year-old after shock and she first bounded, then ran and finally hurled herself into the arms of her waiting mentor.  They stood there wrapped in each others arms almost motionless for a minute before he asked, “How are you, Jen?”

“Free!”

The snow will be completely gone soon, thought Joseph Longeyes as he sat, icy still, his legs following the curve of Mirriah’s girth as she stood silently beneath him. He had already decided to head back to the ranch in the morning. The horses, though still in their winter feeding grounds, were safe and sound. It would soon be time for the spring roundup. His boys would be glad to hear his report. They always pretended to worry about the stock, but he knew that he was the true object of their concern.

For some reason he had never quite fathomed, they just didn’t seem to understand why he, a man of 101 summers, insisted on working every day, year round, when he didn’t really have to. But that was just it: he did have to. He had lived his whole, long life in these mountains—except for those first few years when the Nez Pierce were on the run and later forced to live on the reservation. He’d sneaked back to Oregon as soon as he was old enough and had remained there ever since. When was that? He tried to remember. Must have been in the summer of ’85. Yes, it was in his sixteenth summer that he had made the long and difficult trek across a continent to his ancestral home in the Wallowa Mountains.

A cold puff of wind coaxed an involuntary shiver from Mirriah. He realized that he’d better get the saddle off her and build a fire before the evening chill really got down to business. The air was almost at the freezing point already, and it was not yet dark.

He slid slowly to the ground and began to remove Mirriah’s halter and saddle. He smiled to himself with self-satisfied pleasure. He had slowed down, as age began to take its toll, of that there was no doubt. But he was still strong enough to unsaddle a horse. Not bad, he thought, for an old Indian.

He slipped a long noose over Mirriah’s head and tied the other end to a nearby tree, one near enough to some exposed grasses so she could have a midnight snack if she wanted. He had picked this spot to stop for the night because this was where he had always camped when he was in the area. How many fires he had set in the same stone hearth, under the same trees? Hundreds for sure. Thousands maybe. He had never counted.

He ambled around the area picking up squaw wood, those handy dry branches that littered the floor of the old-growth forest. He made several trips, returning to the hearth after each loop, before he had collected enough to last all night and into the sharp morning. When he had finished, dusk was breaking out all over and he was anxious to feel the heat from a new fire. There was nothing quite like that to comfort old bones.

In minutes the fire was blazing and he sat down on a favorite rock to warm himself in the glow. When he was nice and warm, he started thinking about supper. Unlike his children, he had never taken to eating “white man’s food” when on the trail. He opted instead for a more traditional menu of jerky and whatever he could forage locally. Sometimes he would hunt for small game, a bird or squirrel, but he was tired tonight. He would be happy with a simple meal of jerky and pine nuts.

He mused how lucky he was to still have enough good teeth to chew the stiff strips of cured venison. Strong teeth were vital to longevity when one lived as he had for so long. He walked slowly, though not as stiffly as before, over to his saddle pack and retrieved the bag of berries and other food.

Sitting back down on the rock, he took his hunting knife from its scabbard and cut off a nice piece of jerky, chasing it with a swig of spring water from his canteen. As he chewed, he looked out over Dark Horse Valley, through which he had come earlier, just as the last traces of daylight skittered into the shadows. A broad smile spread across the trenches of his leathered face. God how he loved this country. His heart sang songs of joy in harmony with the whispering breeze coursing through the trees above and the distant rippling of the spring. He found himself humming ancient Nez Pierce chants to himself as he ate. His mind, though not his body, sang the songs. In mental lyrics, he praised the spirits for the bounty of the land he so loved, for the sky and the game, and most of all, for the beauty of the land itself.

When the light died, he closed his ancient eyes and was drawn back into his youth, when he had first camped on this very spot. It had been spring, just as it was now, and he had only recently arrived after his long journey from the east. He had thought much in his months of travel about what he would do when he finally returned to his homeland. He had determined to live alone in these mountains because the white man seemed to fear Indians who traveled in packs.

He had decided that he would become a merchant of horses. Everyone always needed horses and he was, if nothing else, a gifted horseman and trainer. Soon after his return he had collected a small herd composed of wild ponies and other unbranded stock that he found running wild in the mountains. In the remote reaches he had chosen, he seldom saw another soul—white or red—even in the warmer seasons. When the weather turned cold, he could go for months without human contact.

In those early years he lived all but entirely off the land. Game was already becoming somewhat scarce, but he didn’t need much to stay alive. When he did find the need to buy something, he would just bring one of his fine horses into a town and trade it for whatever he needed. Then he would again be swallowed up by the vastness of the wilderness. It had been a lonely life, but a good one.

Having satisfied his belly, he stoked the fire a little and spread his bedroll out on some fir boughs before laying down. Once snuggled in, he looked skyward at the blanket of stars emerging from the darkening sky. His eyes weren’t as eagle-sharp as they had once been, but he could still find familiar patterns up there. What was it the white men called them? Constellations? Yes, that was it. They had names for everything but understood so little. He rolled his head back and forth on the bedroll in lieu of shaking it. How was it that white men could be so stupid about so many things and yet be smart enough to do some of the amazing things they did? This thought sent him into another reverie.

Joseph had been born in 1869, the year in which, he later learned, the transcontinental railroad was completed. The iron horse was one of those amazing accomplishments of the white man that were in such stark contrast to all the stupid things he did. It still boggled his mind how they could do such a wondrous thing, even after a century of living with and around them.

He looked at the rising Moon as it peeked out from behind a nearby tree. Why just a few months ago those crazy white men had actually sent three men to the Moon! He had no idea why they would want to do that, but it was still an astounding accomplishment. For Joseph, however, it just deepened his confusion. They were walking on the Moon, but didn’t have the vaguest idea how to properly care for the Earth. What a strange race they were. A strange race indeed.

The first owl hoot of the evening broke the silence as it echoed through the trees above him. At least there were still some places, places like this one, where one could pretend that the white man and the Oregon Trail and the iron horse were all just part of a bad dream, a dream from which one could awaken into a world that was as it should be, as it had always been, ever since his most ancient ancestors had come here in the time before time.

He thought back to his earliest days, before the great march in which Chief Joseph had led his people to within a scant 40 miles of Canada and freedom, before the pony soldiers captured them and the great Joseph, his namesake, spoke his famous words, “I will fight no more forever.” The boy Joseph had been just eight years old then and was one of the few children to survive the march. The next eight years of his life were spent on reservations until he finally made good his escape and returned to this very spot to live out the rest of his long life.

And what a life he had lived, thought old Joseph as he gazed up at the infinity that surrounds our mother Earth. He was so grateful that he had not had to live it in solitude as he had when he first came home. He had outlived three wives who had, between them born him15 children, all but two of which he had also outlived.

His tired old eyes began to well up now as he thought back to the passing of so many whom he had loved. In his time, Joseph had felt much pain, but none greater than burying 13 children. Even losing his parents and wives was somehow easier to endure. Even now, after 80 years, he could still see the face of his first-born who had succumbed to smallpox at the age of two. Oh how he had loved that baby boy. He had long believed, probably correctly, that the only reason he continued to live was that by then he had another son, one who survived well into his seventies.

He had lost sons in every war in which America had participated, all but this mess going on now in Viet Nam. The only reason he had been spared another loss was because he had no more sons left that were of age. Harold was in his 60s and Birch was nearly 80 now. They don’t draft men of that age no matter how desperate they are. His grandsons and great-grandsons were another matter. Five of them had died in W.W.II. and Korea. Another profound sadness to be endured. There was so much.

Joseph was having to actively fight back the tears now, and it was not an easy battle. A faint rustling in the brush roused him enough to break his concentration. Must be a beaver or other varmint, he judged. In his mind’s eye he saw the beaver he had trapped for his first wife, Two Shoes. He’d used the pelt to trade for a metal cooking pot for her. She’d wanted one since before he’d married her and she was thrilled to tears when he finally came home with it. She promised to cook the best meals he’d ever eaten for the rest of her life. She did not lie. They had 25 wonderful years together, raising children and horses, building a ranch house (something else she had long wanted).

His second wife, Esther, had been all but waiting in the wings for Two Shoes to die. She had been in love with—or if that’s not the right word, infatuated with—Joseph since she was a small child. She only saw him once or twice a year, but he was such a handsome figure of a man, tall and elegant, that her knees just went to jelly whenever he was around.

When Two Shoes died from complications of childbirth after delivering their fourth boy, Esther saw her chance. She waited as long as she could stand, out of courtesy, but the following spring, when Joseph and his sons came out of the mountains, she made it very clear that she meant to have him as a mate. Being over 20 years her senior, he was at first flattered by her shameless advances, but once he realize her sincerity, he made a pretty easy catch.

In the end, Esther was his favorite, and though they both expected that she would outlive him, it was not to be. After 32 years of marriage, she died on VE day of what would later be called cancer. Joseph had taken her deep into the mountains and given her a proper ritual burial. That duty having been performed, he lost himself in the mountains for nearly two months. His children agreed that he was never quite the same after he came back, as if part of him chose to stay forever in the wilderness with his beloved Esther. In Joseph’s mind, she had simply left too big a hole in his heart to ever be filled. And that was so for many years—until he met and married his third and last wife, Maris.

She too was many years his junior, still young enough to bear him one last child; her fourth, his thirteenth. Their relationship was different than those who came before. Joseph’s first marriage to Two Shoes was devoted to carving out a niche in the wilderness, both natural and human. His years with Esther were patterned after the halcyon days of summer, filled with joy and glory and plenty, punctuated only occasionally by tragedy.

Maris, on the other hand, was the woman with whom he had chosen to grow old. She was above all else comfortable. At that time in his life, comfort had risen to a place of honor on his list of values. For her part, Maris was quite content with her role. She was a soft-spoken woman of great pulchritude, with a true gift for pleasing others.

But even she had left him behind, though much more recently. She had simply failed to wake up the morning after they had sat transfixed to the television set in the Ramada Inn in Pendleton, watching Neil Armstrong walk on the Moon. During the few months since then, Joseph had felt like a rudderless ship in becalmed seas. Just drifting  aimlessly through the remainder of winter. The family was fearful he would just fade away, and they were nearly right.

But once the first signs of spring peaked timidly out from behind winter’s cape, Joseph seemed to come back alive. Next thing they knew, he was packing for his annual survey of the herds. They were reluctant to let him go, but they knew they’d have to tie him in bed to stop him, and even that wasn’t sure to work. In the end, they decided that it was his life to use as he chose, a lesson he’d been teaching them for decades, almost as if in preparation for this very moment.

Joseph roused himself enough to place more piece of wood on the fire before laying back again and closing his eyes for the long night ahead. As he drifted off to sleep his thoughts again backtracked over the long and wondrous journey he called his life. The smile on his face was one of the densest imaginable satisfaction, the look of a man who had found his true place on this good Earth and lived there long and well. And as his soul slipped quietly, imperceptibly, from his form, he was sure he could hear Esther calling him to her bosom once again, to the home of his heart, from which he would nevermore have cause to travel.