Kaleidoscope

 

"Rebirth Through Exodus & Resurrection"

Art Eisenmann, 2003

My mother, Gwen Eisenmann, got her masters degree in creative writing from Antioch College when she was seventy-five.  She'd written poetry from a very young age, even had some poems published in books and magazines.  She'd kept a daily journal for many years, wrote a gardening column for a local newspaper, articles for a bee keeping magazine, and published a book of her own poetry.

As a young woman, she'd attended the Denver School of Nursing, in part because she could pay for her education through their work/study program.  She was a fine nurse, and worked for our family doctor after we children were through elementary school.  But writing was her calling, her chosen path of exploration into the farthest reaches of her own being as well as into the vast universe.  She wrote to express herself and to make sense of it all, or try to, with grace, beauty, wit and humor.

She was a very free and deep thinker, ahead of her time, always searching for answers to life's great mysteries.  She needed to know things.  She and my father were avid readers, and we children reaped the benefits of this, being introduced to the wonders of the written word at an early age.  We had no TV, we read instead.

My parents took a bible study course, joined a Great Books group and met with friends to discuss what they'd read.  But still my mother had questions.  How did humans come to be on the earth?   Where had we come from?  Where were we going?  Somehow, somewhere she needed to find answers.  So the search continued.

After retirement, my parents moved from Ohio to a remote area of the Missouri Ozarks.  There on a seventy acre plot in the Brixey woods, they built a beautiful home and carved out a homestead on a rocky hilltop named Rattail Point.  They built gardens, raised chickens, planted fruit trees, kept bees.  They made friends with a lively community of young, back-to-the-landers, and mingled with the native Ozarkers, absorbing their lore of the land, charmed by their quaint expressions.  They fished and swam in Bryant Creek, explored the hills and hollers, danced to fiddle and banjo music on misty evenings, accompanied by whip-poor-wills and twinkling fireflies. 

My mother relished the free time and solitude of her new life because she could write to her heart's content, but sometimes she chafed at the isolation.  The driveway was three quarters of a mile long, followed by 20 minutes (when the weather was good) of twisting, narrow dirt road to the black top.  No mail delivery at the house; my dad drove out almost every day to the Brixey post office where the postmistress, a retired schoolteacher named Bessie who used to ride her mule to a one room schoolhouse every day, would go behind the counter, push the mail through an open wooden box, enquire about the family and offer you a "cold sody".  There was no internet at home, only an ancient hand-me-down computer, huge and ponderous, that chugged and groaned and slowly recorded her writings.  

It was not an easy place to settle for the light and airy, butterfly-and-bird-loving spirit that was my mother.  The ancient hills of the Ozarks tested the mettle of any who dared disturb its wild and sometimes hostile energies.  There were copperheads and pygmy rattlers, brown recluse spiders, hordes of ticks and chiggers, rampant vines, thorns and poison ivy that needed constant hacking to keep them from encroaching on the homestead.  But my mother was no pushover.  She listened and watched, trying to learn the language of this strange new land.  Beauty and poetry flowed from the elemental voices of  rocks, vegetation, wind and sky and water, discernable to a sensitive poet. She wrote about her garden, the creatures who visited it, the people she met, the daily drama of life in the woods. 

Shortly after their move to Missouri, my parents met an intriguing elderly woman named Rosina.  Fiercely independent, with a brilliant mind and a will of iron, Rosina had raised a son and managed a farm all by herself.  And she knew things, or seemed to.

Rosina introduced our family to Anthroposophy, a term coined by an Austrian philosopher and seer named Rudolf Steiner.  Anthroposophy is a body of ancient wisdom handed down through the ages in mystery schools and small communities.  My mother began reading Steiner's books and lectures, soaking up the knowledge like a thirsty sponge.  Finally, at last, she'd found what she had longed for all her life.  The poetic, imaginative pictures Steiner painted with his words appealed to her artistic nature, the content moved her deeply because it was based on solid, spiritual scientific research by a man who had developed faculties of perception which he claimed lie dormant in all human beings, and which allowed him to read the cosmic script of all events past and present known as the Akasha.  His books and lectures delved deeply into the history of the earth, religions, cultural epochs, influences of planets and constellations and the development and destiny of human beings, woven into a panoramic view of time beginning eons before the earth was formed up to the present. For a writer, these new revelations and the thoughts and feelings they evoked were powerful fuel for the creative fire.

Rosina loved Mom's poetry and encouraged her to publish it.  She became a close friend, sometimes spending the weekend at the Rattail house.  She discussed politics and current events with my father; books, gardening and anthroposophy with my mother.  She had moved to a low income apartment in town after selling her farm, which she missed dreadfully.  The apartment was like prison to her, but age and health problems had forced her to relocate.  At age 80, she was diagnosed with cancer.  She refused all treatments and prepared for her death quite happily.  Life had grown tiresome and tedious, her body was wearing out and she was eager to move on.  She'd read and studied anthroposophy for so long that the thought of dying held no fear for her.  It was only a minor ripple in the grand scheme of things.  Even as her health failed, she continued to introduce anyone who would listen to spiritual science, including the owner of the nursing home where she now stayed.  He was so impressed with her that for a long time after her death he couldn't bring himself to put anyone else in her room.

As the years passed, the Rattail house, with its gardens, wood stove and staircases grew too difficult for my parents to maintain.  With heavy hearts, they sold it and built a smaller, one story house nearby on the black top.  They had five good years there before my father had a stroke and another move was necessary.  This time they moved to a community in New York based on Rudolf Steiner's vision for the care of the elderly.  It embraced people of all ages, races and religions, and included a large biodynamic farm, a Waldorf school and, for its members and co-workers, art classes, reading groups, music and drama performances and seasonal festivals throughout the year.  Now my mother had much new stimulation for her writing.  She started a poetry class which quickly became very popular.  Her poems graced mealtimes, weddings, births, funerals and parties in the community.

Though she sorely missed her home and gardens in Missouri, and my father after he passed in 2005, she took full advantage of what the community offered.   Story time, movies, art class, reading groups, performances, morning co-worker meetings, processing produce from the fields; Mom always took part.  Her little purple cushion would be placed on a chair in the front row before any gathering, to save the best seat.  

She astounded the doctors by recovering from not one, but two broken hips on different occasions, plus a cracked tailbone, all in her late 80' and 90's.  The doctor insisted she now use a walker, which she hated, pushing it up and down the halls of Hilltop House where she lived as fast as she could, passing up many younger members.  "Beep beep, coming through!"  For as long as she was able, she walked every morning on the hilly, wooded drives and paths that wound through the Fellowship Community, and when the doctor told her she couldn't walk alone, the co-workers took turns walking with her.

She took from life whatever lessons and treasures it offered, held them close, pondered them deeply, then poured them back out through her writing and through the light and fire of her bright spirit.  She passed away on October second, 2018, two days before her 97th birthday.  October was always her favorite month.

A few years before her passing, my mother had given my brother and me each a copy of a book entitled "Staying Connected: How to Continue Your Relationships with Those Who Have Died," a selection of talks and meditations by Rudolf Steiner.  We had both been students of Anthroposophy for decades, so this book was not a revelation, but it did give us much valuable information and opened new doorways for further study and meditation. 

Reading spiritual material is not like reading a book on history or math.  Different faculties are required; the heart and feelings must be engaged as well as the mind so the content becomes a living experience, not just an intellectual exercise.  I lived with the content of "Staying Connected" for a year or two before it came alive for me in a remarkable way.  During a conversation with my brother, he mentioned that he'd been having a powerful urge to write.

"Hmmm," I said, "that's weird, because I have too."  To be sure, I'd always loved to write stories, but now, suddenly, I felt an urgent push to write down my deepest thoughts and share them, and my brother Mark felt the same way.  We were both certain that our mother's spirit was making its presence felt, inspiring us to act.  I began to understand that writing was a tie that connected us, providing a means of communication.  Her thoughts are alive in me; I carry them forward, adding my own perspectives and views.  In this way I can further not only my own spiritual journey, but my mother's as well, and hopefully inspire others. 

Mark began writing poems, I wrote some short articles and a poem for my father.  The more we wrote, the easier it became to sense our mother's presence.  Her insistent voice would not be stilled. 

There are ways of communicating that go beyond the physical senses.  The heart knows how to do this, though its messages are usually ignored or overshadowed by the outer world.  But practice strengthens the connection.  The words flow, the feelings become richly engaged.  A turn of phrase, an expression, a sudden lightness of being or of gravity, a surprising thought that pops up unexpectedly all take on new meaning.  

Shortly thereafter, other voices began sounding in my brother and me as well, often at the same time without each others' knowing until later when we talked.  What a precious gift is the knowledge that I can be of service to those who have passed.  It is incredibly comforting, enriching, empowering, uplifting, and deeply sobering to realize that loved ones on the other side of the veil need us as much as we need them.  Our relationships continue, albeit in a different form.

There are thousands of accounts of people communicating with the dead.  If even one of those accounts is true, it means that human beings do possess organs of perception that can be developed to penetrate the nonphysical world.  To begin, one only needs belief and a feeling of reverence.  A grounding in spiritual science helps immensely, though it is not essential.  

It seems vital to me to talk about these things.  Humans still have so much to learn about life and death.  About the mysterious power that splinters itself into endless creations, no two alike, yet all related and interconnected.  I believe our individuality is eternal, each of us a vital piece in the kaleidoscope of creation.  The more we connect with each other, the more beautiful the pattern.  My mother's voice inspired me to write this.  Her spirit, so strong and giving, is just as alive as it always was and will be.

Methinks

The other day it occurred to me

I don't know who I am.

"Be a strong I" the old sage said,

and I thought "I" am Gwen.

But who is Gwen? She was a baby

her parents named long ago.

"Gwendolyn", said her Welsh grandpa,

and she's someone I should know.

The name is familiar; I've worn it so long

the sound is part of my soul,

so underneath the layers of life

there must be someone whole.

Let's see: there's Gwenny, my mother's child,

the one she taught me to be,

and then there's who I imagined myself

when I was grown and free.

I am a mother, a grey grandmother,

a wife with all the rest,

a nurse, a gardener, an ordinary,

but when is Gwen the best?

"Be a strong I" the old sage said,

and I thought "I" am Gwen

in body and soul, but Gwen is just 

a vessel to put an "I" in.

This "I" that thinks me who I am,

then, must indeed be strong

because beneath the layers I find

I've known me all along.

Gwendolyn Eisenmann

The Quiet Stream

 What if the universe were teaming with unseen beings, working ceaselessly to create galaxies, solar systems, constellations, stars and planets and the life forms that dwell on them?  What if some of these beings were the angelic hierarchy spoken of in the bible and in many other spiritual texts?  Angels, archangels, archai, exusiai, dynamis, kyriotetes, thrones, cherubim, seraphim?  Such wonderful names!  You can find them in Webster's dictionary as well, listed under celestial hierarchies, with slightly different names.  Nine levels, each with its own realm of activity.

What if there were other invisible beings who oppose the angelic hierarchy, wanting to use unsuspecting humans to further their own agenda, luring us away from our rightful destiny?    

Supposing a giant celestial battle were taking place right now, with our future hanging in the balance?  Would you want to know?  Would you want to actively participate in the battle, hoping to tip the balance in our favor?

You could say, "These things are unknowable  I'm a good person, that's enough, and in due time, knowledge will come."

But what if those words were exactly what the dark powers want us to say?  What if through our unknowing, they could sneak up on us from the most innocent-looking places where we would never think to look for them, insinuating themselves into our thoughts and feelings.  Masters of masquerade!  Might not knowledge of them be vital to our survival, protecting us from their advances? 

But where do we find such knowledge, and how do we know it's true?  Even the bible is interpreted in countless different ways.  And besides, speaking of spiritual things makes us uncomfortable.  Everyone has different beliefs.  We all know the feeling that arises when someone tries to lay their spiritual trip on us.  The teeth clench, the eyes roll up, the stomach tightens.  We want desperately to run screaming in the opposite direction.  It makes us very reluctant to state our own views, because others might think we're weird, or stupid, or fanatical, or insane!

So best to be quiet and just let it all work itself out.  Knowledge will come in time.  When spiritual topics come up in conversation, we can say "I honor all paths."  That should take care of it, right?  But secretly we know it's not true, otherwise why do we get so upset when others try and persuade us to see things their way?  

Eventually, then, we have to choose a path of higher knowledge and follow it if we want to find answers to life's riddles and participate more consciously in the forming of our future.  If we hesitate too long, a path will be chosen for us; one we may not like.  And once we choose a path, it means having the courage to speak openly about it at appropriate times in appropriate ways, risking ridicule, persecution, even hatred.

The path I chose many years ago is Anthroposophy.  It's not a religion, but rather a body of spiritual knowledge which has been taught through the ages by various teachers.  In each age, it is updated and renewed to include the changes which have taken place in the cosmos and in human beings.  In our age it was taught by Rudolf Steiner, an Austrian philosopher, scientist and clairvoyant who lived at the beginning of the 20th century.  The wisdom he shared came from his ability to read the Akashic record, a cosmic memory of all events, actions and thoughts.  Anthroposophy includes detailed descriptions of the origins of our planet and of humans, as well as the spiritual beings who work to bring it all into manifestation under the direction of the Godhead.  It is a history which includes all religions, cultures and races and what each has contributed to the world.  It sees the deed of Christ as the pivotal point in humanity's evolution, explaining that Christianity is only in it's infancy, barely yet understood.  It's the most complete body of esoteric knowledge I've found in forty plus years of searching.  But it isn't just words and thoughts.  It contains practices to help us attain the ability to do our own spiritual research.  And its teachings have inspired many new initiatives in all walks of life, such as astrosophy, cosmosophy, sacred geometry, eurythmy, biodynamic agriculture, waldorf education, lazure painting, the Camphill initiative, anthroposophical medicine, the threefold social order and many more.  

 Always there must be pioneers who forge ahead into new territory, otherwise we stagnate.  And always there is resistance to change.

But change comes whether we like it or not.  If we don't make changes cooperatively, then it's forced upon us in the form of hurricanes, fires, floods, pandemics, political upheaval and war, catapulting us out of our comfort zone.

Free will, that terrifying, exhilarating, precious gift means we have the power to create our own future.  And the future is already here, quietly gaining a foothold in small groups and gatherings, in far-sighted individuals and in new thought forms.  The knowledge we need is out there.  Seek and you will find it. 

Knowledge is our armor, courage and action our sword which pierces the darkness surrounding us.  Anthroposophy, also called spiritual science, teaches that new sense organs are developing, faster in some than in others, which will allow us to perceive in new ways so the invisible worlds become as real and solid as the ground we walk upon. Until then we can read, listen, speak, meditate and pray, and be aware of new revelations that come to us every day, often fleeting and unnoticed, distracted as we are by more dramatic and sensational daily happenings.  We can live our lives as if every thought and action play a vital role in the forming of our future. Then, as spiritual science intimates, one day in a far distant time we will take our place in the hierarchy of angels, becoming known as the spirits of love and wisdom.

The Steadfast Warrior

The Steadfast Warrior

for A.W.E

The heart speaks

When the tongue cannot,

Unburdened by time, or space, or place,

Or thought.

Its language flows in streams

From star to star, I think,

From heart to heart

In deep, mysterious ways.

Your words grow clearer now,

You and the one you journeyed with,

(She of the silver tongue)

Who braided words together,

Letting them fly

Like darts, like arrows,

Like brightly colored birds,

While you stood silently beside.

You spoke a language all your own

Through your eyes, your deeds,

Through the wisdom in your hands,

Those hands!

Which gentled animals and children,

Fashioned delicate bits of feathers, beads and string,

 Fired rifles, carved wood,

Swung a pick ax against the rocky land.

And though your words were few,

With one small smile, I knew you knew

All I wished to hide!

Ashamed, I was not worthy of your integrity.

Steadfast warrior,

Your sturdy shoulders bore so much

In silence.

Battered by many blows

Along the path,

Still you rose, again and again.

And now your heart, set free,

Speaks in my own.

Together with she who stands beside

You light a pathway

Through the stars

For us who come behind.

You carried me then, and carry me still,

And now I carry you as well.

You gave us life, and love, and name,

You the candle, she the flame.

One True Thing

I am walking down a dirt road on a blustery December morning.  The sky is dark and heavy with clouds.  The road is dark from yesterday's rain.  The woods, too, are somber shades of gray and brown, fading into gloomy shadow off to my right.  The only color in the winter light are mounds of emerald moss and pale lichens clinging to the north road bank, rusty clumps of sedge grass and a few dull green cedars shaking their shaggy arms in the wind.

My footsteps make a steady rhythm against the earth, my mind floats hither and yon above.  I am all alone, and wondering.

Solstice is approaching, and right on its heels, Christmas and the new year.  Now, when days are short and shadows long, while nature rests, inner life blossoms.  This is the time for introspection - a solitary pursuit - hopefully to gain new perspectives and firmer resolve for the coming year.  But it is also a time of joining together; of gathering in groups large and small to celebrate, to spread cheer and fellowship.

Introspection is easy enough, though sometimes painful, but joining together in more than the physical sense seems nigh impossible.  I need not mention all that divides us; anyone with eyes can see.  How can peace and good will prevail?

Religion doesn't get us there.  Instead it creates smaller and smaller factions, each one claiming to be the only true path.

Science, too, has failed, for even the most learned scholars can't agree on their facts.  What we call truth often rests on shifting sand.

If not faith or wisdom, what is left that can join us?  Love comes to mind, though human love wears many colors and often proves false.  Pure love is something we aspire to; the head may grasp the idea, the heart may respond, but the will yet fails.

So we struggle onward, all alone together, separate but intertwined like twigs on the same tree, poking and scraping one another, railing at those who cross us, gloating when the enemy falls.

This is necessary, this strife, in order to learn and grow.  How fast we progress is up to us, but eventually the two largest branches of our family tree - science and religion, wisdom and faith and all their myriad crisscrossing twigs - must join, for without wisdom there can be no love, without love, no wisdom.

I carry these thoughts home with me and let them rest as I go about my day.  In the afternoon I walk again, this time on a path through the woods.  The sky is still gray, though several shades lighter, and the wind is buffered by the trees.

Suddenly the clouds part and a ray of sun streams through.  I walk into the light, watching damp leaves begin to glisten.  A feeling comes over me and I stop a moment, waiting for my thoughts to catch up.

Light is the purest thing I know.  Nothing can hide in its radiance.  Darkness bows before it, all dross is burned away.  Light sacrifices itself endlessly so that we might live.  Without it we perish.  Light illumines our thoughts and warms our heart, bringing head and heart together, healing division by its truth and purity.

Holy Light, Light of the world, born at the darkest time of year; scorned, rejected, misunderstood, yet waiting still.  Precious gift!  You confront us with humility and grace in the smallest of ways, waiting for us to be ready to receive you.  Crystals glitter on the sleeping earth, starlight falls through the cold winter skies, touching the white breath of animals as they step gingerly through frozen fields.  The lights of Christmas are a reminder, softening the harsh angles of life, softening hearts and mellowing thoughts so, even though the world still struggles and suffers, for a brief time we can feel the Light's power, bringing us together in peace and good will.

Punkins, Petals and the Pot o' Gold

Kitchen Alchemy with Sis Shortrib

Children, roll up your sleeves.  We are raising food preparation to an art form.  We are using food as our medicine.  We are taking a teeny, tiny foray into Alchemy, the ancient art of using plants to create medicine.  Our Pot o' Gold holds a symphony of notes carefully blended to bring health and harmony to those who partake.  So, let's assemble our orchestra.

You'll need a pie punkin, organically grown as all the ingredients MUST be, else you are defeating the purpose and wasting your time.  It can be a large or small punkin, depending on how many folks you want to feed.

1.  Cut a circle out of the top and trim off the strings, then take out the seeds and strings from the inside and feed 'em to the chickens.  Waste not, want not.

2. Use a knife and a spoon to scrape out as much of the punkin flesh as you can without cutting clear through.  We don't want our pot to spring a leak.  While you're scraping, you can ponder how punkins are ruled by the moon, as are squash, cucumbers and most melons.  Moon plants are cooling, nourishing and moisturizing.  Think of the dew drops falling at night with the moon shining on them.

            "Penetrating into the earth, I sustain all creatures by my strength,

             By becoming the moon full of juices, I nourish all plants."

             [Bhagavad Gita, 15:13]

Set the punkin, its top and the flesh aside.  For the rest of the symphony, gather the following:

Sun:  A few fresh or dried calendula blossoms.  If you don't have 'em, use chamomile, or better yet, both.   A little fresh ginger root, grated or sliced thin.

Mercury: 2 or three stalks celery, chopped; 1 carrot; a few sprigs of fresh parsley and about 2 or 3 teaspoons toasted caraway seed.  Get the freshest smelling caraway you can find and toast it over medium heat in a frying pan, stirring all the while till a wonderful roasted smell hits your nose.  Remove to a dish, let cool, then grind in a nut and seed grinder.  A coffee grinder works good.  If you don't have one, get one.  O' course the Alchemists of old would've used their mortar and pestle, and if you have one and have a mind to, use it.  Most of us has gotten lazy.

Venus:  1/2 apple, peeled and sliced; a handful of fresh or a Tbs. dried rose petals.  Do NOT use roses from a florist!  They are highly toxic.  Make sure your roses are untreated in any way and try to get the kind that smell good.  4 or 5 dried hibiscus flowers.  Buy them at a health food store.

Mars:  1 or 2 onions, chopped; 1 clove garlic, diced; 1 chili pepper.  It don't have to be a real hot chili.  We ain't aiming to scorch ourselves, just add a little warmth.

Jupiter:  A little freshly grated nutmeg.

Saturn:  1 large mullein leaf, or if you can't find one, use 6 pansy flowers, or a little plantain herb from your yard.  Everybody's got plantain growing nearby, learn it and use it!  If you can't find that either, then the caraway seed will have to do, as it's ruled by Saturn as well as Mercury.

Now then, put a pan of water on the stove, about enough to fill 3/4 of your punkin. Turn on the heat.  While it's heating, put your calendula and chamomile in a bit of old dish cloth or muslin and tie it up with dental floss.  And while you're at it, think about how old that water is in your pan; 4.6 billion years, so they say.  Think how many places it's been - racing down rivers, sailing in oceans, risin' up into the clouds and fallin' to earth again, millions of times, all over the globe.  It's been dew and mist, snowflakes and ice, steam rising from hot springs, in wells and fountains and in the leaves of plants and some places we d'ruther not think about.  And now, to your good fortune, it has landed in your cooking pan.  Oh wonderful water!  Be thankful for it, 'cause many folks on the planet don't have clean water to drink.

When the water's boiling, toss your bag of herbs into it, along with the ginger.  Hallelujah!  We have just added the gold to our pot, as the sun rules these herbs, and its metal is gold.  Think of golden sunlight, Leo the lion, the heart beating in the center of your chest and the sun being the center of the solar system.  All our sun plants are warming, yet anti-inflammatory as well.  That's the power and beauty of the sun.  Take the pan off the heat, put on the lid and let it steep.

Get out your frying pan and put a couple tablespoons olive oil in it.  Turn on the heat.  Drop in the chopped celery, carrot and parsley.  We are adding Mercury and toning our nervous system, enlivening our minds and bringing clarity to our thoughts.

Stir the pan and add the hibiscus.  It is the flute in our orchestra, light and lively, with a sprightly, citrus flavor. Next add the sliced apple and rose petals.  These are Venusian plants.  Venus harmonizes all the notes into a pleasant melody.  And we all know the rose is the flower of love.  Inhale the scent as it hits your nose and feel your heart expand.

Stir some more, then put in the onion, garlic and chili pepper.  Huzzah huzzah, now the cymbals is clashing, for we have just added Martian fire to invigorate ourselves.  We want courage and strength, we want vitality, and Mars has those things a'plenty.

Next comes the grated nutmeg, ruled by Jupiter.  He's a jolly fellow, expanding our outlook and raising our spirits.  Jupiter loves good food and drink, and by adding nutmeg we boost our appetite, our mood, and some say the libido as well, so breathe deep.

Last we come to Saturn, who rules the skeleton.  Mullein and plantain help strengthen the bones, but if you don't have them, don't fret.  The caraway will do, as it is ruled by Saturn as well as Mercury.  Caraway adds the bass note to our symphony; a deep, mysterious spice, with wonderful digestive properties.

Stir it all good, and let it cook a bit.  Now fish out the sack of calendula and chamomile from the pan of water, squeeze out the goodness and discard.  Put your vegetables in the pan, heat it to the boil, then simmer a good while till its soft and well done.  Puree it all in a food processor or blender, till its smooth, add some salt and pepper to taste, and, if you want it richer, a pat of butter or a little cream.  Then, children, pour it into your punkin and serve your Pot o' Gold.  Blessings on the meal.

The Dark Horseman

Do you ever feel a prickle at the back of your neck and glance over your shoulder, certain you are being followed?  That's because you are.  A dark horseman rides in the shadows, always present yet seldom noticed.  You might see the flutter of a long, flowing cloak as the breeze stirs it, or hear the muffled sound of horse's hooves striking the earth.  Maybe a faint melody catches your ear (or is it a bridle's ring?) evoking thoughts that dissolve before they form.

Sometimes, in a quiet moment, a ray of remembrance lights the horseman up and recognition dawns.  Of course!  He is the past, the bearer of all your yesterdays, bound to you with ties that can't be severed.  His face is deeply etched and battle-scarred, his gaze direct and fathomless with the wisdom of the ages.  Vital and alive, his presence may make you uneasy, uncomfortable, ashamed, because nothing of you is hidden from him.

Then you notice his cloak.  Ah, his cloak!  It is a tapestry woven of many slender threads, in places beautiful to behold, with intricate designs and diamonds glistening throughout.  Other spots are dark and snarled, fraught with broken strands.  Seamlessly it flows down over the horse's back, down and out of sight.

Mostly you pay the horseman no mind, maybe wishing to forget he's there, but his influence touches you in myriad ways.  He is a thief, for he has stolen parts of you that can't be retrieved, and the loss leaves a hollowness deep inside.  He is your worst nightmare, charging at you with his sword drawn and whistling through the air, his horse thundering ahead as if demons pursued, eyes rolling and nostrils flared.  You cower in terror, certain you will be trampled, but the sudden prick of steel propels you forward; there is no other choice.

At times his sword is a beacon of light showing you the path ahead.  There, in the brilliant beam, you catch a glimpse of tomorrow; a rosy-cheeked young miss dressed all in white, only beginning to appear.

Comforter, faithful companion, puzzling enigma and mysterious stranger, all these things he is as well, but most importantly, the horseman is your teacher.  He is the firm foundation beneath your feet, offering you the gifts of memory, conscience and experience.  His wisdom can lead you into the future on a path straight and true instead of a zig-zagging course that veers hither and yon.

To learn from him he demands your attention.  He asks that you wrest yourself away from the present a bit, for today is the temptress, seducing with bright and flitting distractions, consuming time and energy in addictive ways, leaving you dissatisfied and reaching for more.  Enjoy the fruits she offers, but make wise use of her time, and save empty places here and there where her influence can't be felt.  Then the horseman will appear more clearly, bringing you countless revelations.

"Do not long for that which you have left behind," he whispers.  "It is right where it ought to be.  Do not mourn for the loved ones who've gone ahead on their journey.  They are waiting just around the bend and you will catch up to them bye and bye.  Remember this: love and gratitude are the wings that carry you up into higher vistas, you and the ones close to your heart, where sight grows strong.  Then you will see a huge army of horsemen, their cloaks flowing one into the other, marching forward into the future where all things must go, for good or for ill.  May you find the courage and strength to prevail over darkness and bring light to the world."

Ozark Potlikker 101

Original Recipe and Etiquette Tips

by Sis Shortrib, Ozark Alchemist

Get a mess o' greens.  Collards, mustards, turnip, kale, dandelion, nettle - whatever you like, it don't much matter.

Wash 'em good to get the grit out.

Now chop some onions and fry 'em up in hog fat, or you can use coconut oil if you've a mind.  Don't use vegetable oil - it'll kill you.  Not too much fat, but don't skimp neither.  A body needs it to soak up the vitamins.

Add the greens and stir about.  Add some other stuff.  Carrots, peppers, squarsh.  Add some more.  Stir again. 

Throw in a couple o' soup bones if you got 'em, and salt and pepper.  Left over beans if you're extra hungry, but don't use 'em if comp'ny's comin'.

Add a little water, put on the lid and simmer awhile.

Meanwhile, make a batch of cornbread.  Yeller's good, blue if you want to impress, and for the extry nutrition.  So they say.  Get organic corn unless your aim is to die sooner rather than later.  And for heaven's sake don't use one o' them trashy box mixes.  They're not fit for hog slop.  Best is to get whole corn and grind it fresh.  Corn meal goes rancid and gets bitter right quick.  If you've never used fresh ground meal, you've never had corn bread.  Corn meal, milk, one or two eggs, salt, baking powder or sody if you're milk's sour.  Sorghum molasses if you want sweetnin', some fat of your choice.  That's about it; any fool knows how to make it.

When everything's ready, fish out the bones and throw 'em to the dogs.  Ladle the potlikker and all into bowls.

Always have flowers on the table, even if it's a handful o' weeds snatched from the ditch.  It'll aid the digestion and feed the soul.

Now, on the cornbread, there's die-hard dunkers and hidebound crumblers.  It's more polite to use crumbles if you've got comp'ny.  Otherwise, sop it up however you please, but wear a big napkin.  Don't forget to say grace.