Magicial Creatures in The Woods?

I tend to read a lot of fantasy, Robert Jordan a favorite author, Terry Goodkind another. I plead guilty to adoring Harry Potter. Pixies, trolls, fairies, dragons and other magical beasts of lore are make believe...or are they? I tend to think of them as ancients, actually spend time wondering if we are just to blind to see them in their homes. What if this land of make believe isn't so make believe at all, what if there really is and ancient energy force we've simply lost track of? This next small essay is a true story from my days out in California...maybe there is some magic after all.

Fairy Rings and Listening to the Ancients

So many manuscripts had spoken of them, I'd from time to time heard the stories, would never have dreamt I'd actually stumble upon one in this life. Yet I have been blessed with stumbling upon a fully complete and beautiful fairy ring, the mushrooms forming a perfect circle in which fairies are rumored to belong, where fables and stories spoke of passer bys enticed to dance their live?s away.

It was an early morning, the dew still fresh upon the grass, as I made my way along a gently sloping hillside away from my camp. I was Working my way up towards a grove of trees before the heat of the day made hiking to difficult and hot. As I topped a gently sloping meadow there it was, small purple and white wild flowers danced across the entire hillside, Golden rod gently waving in the breeze, at midpoint between myself and the line of trees, each blade of grass sparkling in the early morning rays of sun as if sprinkled with a billion zillion diamonds, and in the center of it all was a perfectly formed circle of mushrooms of varying shapes and sizes beckoning me to step inside...you could sense the magic, you could almost hear the gentle beat of drums as I grouched just outside, too timid or maybe leery to step inside. I?d read the rules, knew the story well and could not take the risk of forever dancing my life away at the start of such a perfect day.

Emotions flooded across my mind, tears of wonder washed across my eyes. I stopped just along the perimeter of this ancient magical circle and sat as peace and love washed across my soul...the magic was there and in some special way I was being blessed by the cosmos, a gift being shared from the wee folk that people insist are make believe. That morning, sitting outside this ring in a meadow of wild flowers I wondered. That morning, the sun's rays washing away the pains, I felt a purity, would swear to this day I heard voices whispering to my soul.

Eventually I made my way on up the hill and moved down the other side to spend the day soaking in the sun at Stenson's Beach before climbing my way back in the waning moments of dusk to my campsite. Coming back down and around the hillside my circle was gone, not a singular mushroom to be found...magic is a strange and mysterious force choosing where and how it will be seen or felt and by whom. Did I miss a chance by not stepping inside...I'll never know, but I do know there was magic in that field.

A Man Writes on the Goddess in Women

My wife was at work a few months ago, called me up to share an invite she'd recieved to attend and event for women to honor the Goddess Within each woman...what a wonderful concept I thought.

Liking the basic premise of such a gathering, I gave voice to this piece, and hope that you all enjoy it as much as my wife did, even if it seems odd to have a man writing it.

Praise of the Goddess within Each of Us

Daily toils, stresses, children and the foibles of a hectic world to often see us as women losing connection with the Goddess which resides within and is a part of the whole we are meant to be. We need reminding of our heavenly and spiritual connection to the cosmos. our oneness with the universal stream of energy which joins each of us singularly and as womankind to the Universe. Today, we are here to remember and pay honor to that special Goddess that is who we are, and who we are meant to be.

A soul laid bare as once again we remember our gossamer wings and with scarcely an effort we take deep breath, eyes closed, our mind's eye focused we lift off into flight, our spirits once again gliding through the heavens as star dust touches and reawakens our hearts to the beauty of who we are, reminds us that we are of and are the Goddess, united in the sisterhood of the heavens.

Be all that we can be, but never lose touch with the temple residing within, find special time, sometimes alone, and sometimes with family or the one you love to honor the Goddess, take time to keep your temple a wondrous and mystical shrine which honors the most important of all things, that which is holy and pure, our Goddess.

Being graced with such a precious gift is an honor, yet with gift and honor comes responsibility…responsibility to hold dear that which is sacred, a responsibility to feed and nourish that which connects you to the heavenly spirits above, a responsibility to remember and pay tribute to yourself, and in that focus life takes on the mystical and magical hues of a rainbow as each day holds a special vivid brightness missing in a shrine that has fallen into disrepair.

Dark paths and sinister plots seem always about, trying to sway us from our Goddess path, the abyss waiting for us to falter, hoping that the light within will fade and wane, leaving us frail, timid and afraid to make a move. Fear not the darkness, fear not those seemingly dark passages through the forest of life, for your spirit will always show you the way back home if you stay focused on the heavenly light, and keep your Goddess Shrine holy and pure. We are one in the sisterhood, one with our creator, one with the heavens from which we have descended, one with the stars that light up the evening sky, guide ships traveling the turbulent oceans we know as life.

We are women; Goddesses placed here on earth for a spell in the hopes that together each of us in our own special way will make Mother Earth and the world a more beautiful place in which to live. In being who we are, in being the Goddesses that the cosmos intended us to be, we have no reason to fear the darkness, because it is we who were chosen to chase away the demons, it is we who were chosen to bring laughter and joy to this world, it is we who were chosen to brighten up those places where even men are afraid to tread.

So today we pay honor to the Goddess that resides within each and every one of us. We pay honor to those Goddesses who came before us, who shared life lessons that only mothers and sisters could share. We offer up thanks to the heavens, and reconnect to that sacred sisterhood that joins us with the skies.

Written in honor of my beautiful wife who is the Goddess whom I adore, Pina (My Sweet Pea).

Another of My Drabbles, "Traveling Towards Destiny"

Life, from beginning to end is a sometimes precarious, exhilarating, splendid, melancholy, even bittersweet but always exciting and unique journey down the river of time into the Ocean of Forever.

At times our raft is tumbled through rough rushing waves, our boney white fingers desperately clinging to its side as we fear being tossed into the dark depths of the churning tide. At others the calm waters have our raft aimlessly drifting, we hoping, sometimes praying for a breeze to hurry us along.

Life is a inescapable divine journey we each take, the traveling far more important than the destination.

Drive Safely Folks...A First Sentence Challenge..."Joseph's Lament"

"Who are you calling 'Over The Hill,' buster?"

I liked George, he had a quick wit, and for a kid a good work ethic, always the first one on my crew to volunteer for the tough jobs like digging a ditch, or unloading the eighty pound bags of tar patch we used in filling potholes.

Delia was up front standing with a group of friends, her long brunette hair in a braid halfway down her back.

I'd known her for quite some time, an acquaintance from work. She took care of Dispatch for the Highway Patrol, occasionally calling us with a request to put down salt, or to deal with limbs blown onto roadways during a storm.

I'd introduced her to George almost two years before. She'd lost her first husband to a roadside bomb, and George's brother had died at the hands of a sniper in Afghanistan. Should have known better than to play matchmaker, minded my own business, but being me I'd invited the both of them to my annual crew Bar BQ. They became instant friends, by the end of the evening were sitting together on my porch swing watching the stars, whispering in hushed tones about shared pains most could not really understand.

Six months later sharing a beer at Farley's, George had confided his love for her, asked if I would help him pick out a ring. Two weeks later they were engaged, plans already in the works for a spring wedding.

Nine months from the day they said, "I do" they'd given birth to Heather, the apple of her father's eye, the gift of life healing wounds as this loving couple blossomed right before our eyes. Delia invited my wife Rosemary and I over for dinner one Saturday night. Over pecan pie and coffee in the living room we were asked to be God Parents.

Two days ago, rain turning to snow had made the roads a slippery, treacherous mess. We'd been called out to remove a fallen tree. As he always did, George had grabbed the chain saw.

"Get out of the way old man."

On Finding Out-Words Not Spoken

This is a drabble written about learning my wife has breast cancer.

The seconds ticked ominously slow, the minute hand inching forward at a snail's pace as I waited, thumbing through a magazine the fourth time through.

I'd seen the receptionist three times, assured my wife was fine; things were just taking a bit longer than usual, asking, "Would you like something to drink, another cup of coffee?"

"No thank you just worried."

"Everything will be fine."

I heard the door, looked at my wife's face and knew, my eyes welling up as a sob escaped my lips.

No one spoke, her face told all, the woman I love has breast cancer.

Odd Political Musings on Presidential Election 2008

Presidential Candidates-How Some of Us See Your World Through Our Electric Light Moon Glasses

Ride captain ride upon your mystery ship...one of thousands of song snippets that filter through my mind as memories collide one with another fighting for a stolen moment, once again to be in the limelight as part of a story shared, tales of youth being told around a campfire, or perhaps over beers as we wait our turn at the dart board. Oh to know what I know now and go back again and start all over...youth is wasted on the youth until the young grow old and look back on the remarkable lives we lived so many years before.

Free spirits, that's what we were, the original Indigo Kids before someone coined the term, Bohemians in training without a clue that we were in school. We knew we were different early on, sitting upstairs in the attic bedroom, black light posters of Santana and Hendrix lighting up the night, Janis wailing sullenly because our parents had gone out with friends; would not be back home until around one in the AM. Remember Uriah Heep, King Crimson's Court of the Crimson King, a nickel bag four fingers tall costing you five bucks, and a bottle of Boone's Farm Strawberry wine was a dollar ninety eight.

Midnight saw us leaving a note on the kitchen table telling Mom and Dad we'd gone over too Johnny's house, we'd stop by his home on the way to the dam to leave a note saying he was at Tim's place so that no one would worry about where we'd gone. A Panasonic eight track, our music, party supplies and a dime with which to call home and we were ready to go, thinking nothing of the 12 mile bike ride that laid ahead.

The girls usually drove, would have a camp fire burning when we arrived, had the foresight to bring foodstuffs, and some towels for drying off after everyone went skinny dipping in the cold pool that had been dug over a hundred years down at the base of the dam.

The police knew we were there and left us alone knowing we weren't out to cause trouble were not hurting anyone with our small fire, in taking a swim. Occasionally they'd stop by to check up on us, their flashlights giving their presence away long before they arrived. We'd turn the music down, sometimes cover up and then wave as they came into sight.

"Everything all right?"

"Yes officer, just enjoying the stars, and taking a swim."

"You kids behave yourselves, we have to get back to our rounds."

"Good night officers."

Live and let live. They knew what we were doing, knew we had bottles of Boone's Farm that had been hastily pushed under the closest blanket, that our joints had been quickly hidden out of sight. We wrote poetry and talked about peace, love and cosmic revelations we'd had while listening to the Moody Blues while tripping on acid or coming down into mellow land as we took another Quaalude...how many remember 714's or Christmas Trees. The Dead Poets Society long before Robin Williams became a household name.

No one saw us as college material, though in certain subjects we all were at the top of our class. I took the SAT one Saturday morning while peaking, mesmerized at my perfectly sharpened fist full of brand new number two pencils, most of them less than 4 inches in length from a overnight sharpening vigil while listening to Helter Skelter and the rest of the White Album, smoking Blond Lebanese Hash provided by my friends...I know what you are thinking, but I ended up ranking in the upper five percentile nationwide.

Planet earth is through and there's nothing we can do...God, looking back it seems strange to realize we made that first Earth Day happen, created the Ecology flag, and now some 30 years later the world is just waking up to the reality of Global Warming. As the Moody Blues would say or was that Pink Floyd?... "Is there anybody out there, out there." We wore old faded blue jeans, patches sewn over patches, each one with a special meaning to those who were in the know. We were a world within a world, a perfect utopian dream breathed into life by a few souls who happened to believe there was a better way to make it in this world.

Tricky Dick ran for a second term, we tried to warn everyone to, "Just Say No". I still remember the campaign slogan our parents would wince at, "Don't change dicks in the middle of a screw, vote for Nixon in 72." We wanted to plug into the system, acted as volunteers for George McGovern, actually believing he had a chance. Watergate proved us right, but no one seemed to care. Perhaps that singular event changed us more than we could ever know, in McGovern's defeat, watching as Nixon resigned in shame disenfranchised us, made us in some ways the lost generation, the young Boomers that never quite figured out how to fit in and become a part of the system, figure out how to mainstream the ideas we'd had in our dreams.

It's odd all these years later to see mainstream journalists writing articles with titles like, "The Hippy's Were Right After All". Our dreams, our visions now being touted as the Green Economy, Al Gore winning a Nobel Peace prize about something we had written poems about decades before, but then let's not forget he invented the internet too. Who knows, maybe he is one of us, and old stoner that learned how to fit in...if you think about it, Tipper looks like she's rolled a few, spent a few nights sitting around the campfire joined in song as someone played a guitar or shook a tambourine. "Hey Mr. Tambourine Man play a song for me"...losing track of the lyrics we'd end up singing about Mr. Bo Jangles and slide right into a rousing rendition of Arlo Guthrie's, "City of New Orleans" that was originally done by Steve Goodman.

40 years after I smoked my first joint, rolled up a big old dubbie and took a puff people are still being imprisoned for smoking and selling pot, a whole generation shamed into keeping their stories of youth hidden away. Legalize the stuff and get over yourselves already. Is there anyone that really believes smoking pot is any different than sitting around in some bar slamming down Martini's with exotic names at ten dollars a piece and then getting in your imported car to drive home drunk and take care of the kids...can any one spell H Y P O C R I T E ? The more life changes the more it stays the same, close friends suggesting maybe I should cut my hair and dress my age. Here's a clue, throw away your cell phones, and stop buying your children games that teach them to kill, instill in them a belief that human life is expendable. PEACE MAN, and KEEP THE FAITH.

Hillary Clinton's book, "It Takes A Village" was met with rave reviews, yet our attempts at communal living were always shut down, usually with the police using some level of force to chase us off our land and out of town. We grew up, got older, and many of our numbers headed in a different direction becoming the Yuppies that drove the 80's and 90's generation of self satisfaction and loathing, giving birth to children they could put on Ritalin to keep them from being who they are.

First Man: I think, I think I am, therefore I am, I think.

Establishment: Of course you are my bright little star,
I've miles
And miles
Of files
Pretty files of your forefather's fruit
and now to suit our great computer,
You're magnetic ink.

First Man: I'm more than that, I know I am, at least, I think I must be.

Inner Man: There you go man, keep as cool as you can.
Face piles
And piles
Of trials
With smiles.
It riles them to believe
that you perceive
the web they weave
And keep on thinking free.

For those wondering, Moody Blues lyrics from, "In The Beginning".

People think I am boasting when I say our generation lived through the greatest period the music industry has ever known, but it is true. We had our parents music from the 50's, and the cross over stars like James Brown, the whole Motown Sound, and lets not forget what changed the world, that old time Rock and Roll. Smokey Robinson and the Miracles, and Roy Orbison teaching us about love gone bad. As the Vietnam War was ending, stars like the O Jay's began to change and the times changed with them. When a man loves a woman...sing it Percy.

The lost generation, yet we have been here all along. We are the grassroots that has been there quietly preaching our message, taking up causes that no one else had time for, or chose to ignore. We were the dream walkers to stubborn to walk away. Indigo children, hippy freaks, tree hugging fools...pick your label, we've been them all and a few that have yet to be named. We are the elders without the respect, we are the wise men (and women) still walking out in the desert searching for the blind man, or perhaps the fool on the hill who sees the sun coming up. Nowhere man please listen, and if the song is right, isn't he a bit like you and me?

Ride Captain ride, and the world comes fool circle again. In 1969 we had Apollo landing on the moon, and now with it almost 2009 we have a long haired Billionaire, one Lord Branson flying his Virgin Airlines, with plans to run the world's first commercial space flight service...any one want to bet that man has done a bong hit or two? Here's a wake up call...Bio fuel the way it is being done will not work, and if we travel down the nuclear highway far enough it will kill you and most of everyone else. Someone should call up the DOE and tell them the cat's out of the bag. Let out the battery technology you have been suppressing, and bring us the Electric Car...anyone wondered why the most famous electric sports car is called the Tesla?

Feel right now like someone should put on Tubular Bells...not the side with the theme song from the Exorcist on it, but side two...GOD, I miss my LP's. Album covers were works of art, the albums themselves handled with reverence, ever vigilant that one scratch could ruin your favorite song. The IPOD is a wondrous magic box, but have to wonder if it is not marginalizing music, devaluing the experience and sharing in joining together for a night of song. There is no protocol with an IPOD, no chance for romance, the stolen kiss you find in going through your wooden fruit boxes, pulling out some of your favorite Vinyl's from so long ago, admiring the covers, recalling a concert from the days of your youth.

"I am just a poor boy though my story's seldom told"...Simon and Garfunkel from their album, "Bridge Over Troubled Waters.

"Still a man hears what he wants to hear and disregards the rest"...I'd figure out how to raise a million bucks if the Republicans played that as George W. Bush takes the stage at this years Republican National Convention. "Oh Behave!" I can hear Mike Myers now, followed closely by the Church Lady with her renown, "Well isn't that SPECIAL."

Vietnam, Iraq War, the more things change, the more they stay the same. Will Obama be this year's George McGovern? Stay tuned, same bat channel, same bat time. Will the Democrats snatch defeat from victory, give the White House to John McSame, and the Supreme Court to the Evangelicals of the Radical Right Wing? Don't answer that, I don't want to know. Someone stop the world I want to get off.

Bye bye Miss American Pie, drove my Chevy to the levy but the levy was dry...as Red Skelton would say, Good Night and God Bless. Hope you have enjoyed a small slice of my world, a glimpse of your own from the eyes of the Green Cosmic Rabbit, Bud Hasherdashery signing off.