Dec 29

An old man told me there was an old story that during the winter solstice time stopped.  Creation ceased and the world was merged once again with eternity-and conjoining with the infinite verities of timelessness, all things came to a standstill. Then, when the sun passed through the last hour of the night, it began to return to the world and as the first rays that were longer than before were shed, time began once more.

He told me it was an old story because obviously this can’t be true. The earth orbits the sun and seasonal markers such as the solstice and equinox were due to its procession. He told me it was an old story so that I would listen and ponder its meaning instead of writing off as a bunch of nonsense people believed in a less scientifically advanced age. His trick worked-I did think about and thought about it for a long time and often since he told me.

I usually think about it during the holidays that attend the solstice. Slight moments of reflection amid celebrations:; in between feasting and drinking and gifting. While gathered with friends and family. Outside the warmth and merriment, the sky is a sheet of hammered zinc. The trees are naked, revealing as they sleep disrobed all the space that was between them. Bare stones, brown grass. Life has descended into the earth.  A thing can be true without being literally so and in fact this lends it a greater and more relevant presence. As shortest day of the year arrives at its final wane and before it begins to fulminate once more, all things meet: what was once before and is remembered exists again, what has yet to be though undecided shows itself in all its myriad potential, and the present exists in the midst of it all but unknowable.

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Open Ended

Sep 05

A story changes you when you hear it or read it or see it. It reaches inside of us and lets us see parts of ourselves that were always there, waiting to be seen. Another facet on occasion given light, sometimes, a hidden or lost coin within our souls, something of immense value brought into the field of our awareness. I’ve always loved a good story-both to hear it and to tell it. Whether it’s actually historical doesn’t mean it hasn’t happened. When we go through good fiction you have lived it and it has been and is part of who we are-we are the ones who have lived and are here to tell the tale.

Good stories keep memory, telling us who we are and what the world is around us. The tale unfolds and its backdrop is reality, sometimes explaining itself, more often, it is, simply landscape, but no less beautiful for it having been so. The story is predicated upon what has preceded it, keeping up what he hold today, it will change again before tomorrow and  in its river like body, course on through to other times and places. The story keeps us going and we live inside of it. and are parts of it.

And so telling a story is a great responsibility because it defines-if only for a moment-reality. I’ve written events and seen them come to life, the print a strange talisman summoning forth through its letters and intention a cascade of people, situations, outcomes. The greater the story, the more the magnitude of what it becomes, opening like a vast blossom, a universal rose. Open ended, we all participate in what we’ve written and the stories that we were and become, shared are who we are.

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