I remember during my early years of using a computer - the early '80's - how I printed out copies of my emails and other documents gleaned off the internet to file away in the same way I did before computers. One day It occurred to me that due to the volume of all this paper, I would soon need to install a new file cabinet to hold all this paper, which is the very thing a computer was supposed to eliminate. Well, as anyone will tell you, the digital age has not even come close to eliminating paper but it has changed the way we think of storage, file retrieval and simply looking something up.
At one time I had a library. Four walls full of books, and more. The answer is no. I did not read them all but I knew them all and could look up anything I desired - in a book. I have lightened my book load somewhat since then but there are still several thick and tall volumes down on a dusty bottom shelf waiting for my inquiry. I haven't touched one of those things in years. I do what you do: I Google it.
Here's the thing: the computer age came along because it was time and it could be done. It's almost a fairytale kind of story. It was supposed to eliminate the use of paper in all our transactions, communications and even storage. The people saying all this were engineers. That's important. Engineers are good at engineering. If they find that they can do something they do it. It's what engineers do. In their minds that is progress. Sometimes they are right. When it came to paper, they were wrong. Nobody asked me if I wanted to give up paper. I didn't.
I write something every day. After I started using a computer, everything I wrote started out with a pencil and a notebook. I have stacks of those old journals and notebooks. I would "finish" up on the computer, of course, specially if someone else had to read what I wrote or I wanted to email it or just mail it. It was a two tiered system.
As time moved along I found I could think as well while typing as I could with a pencil and pad. (What "thinking well" actually means is a whole other story). This was a revelation to me. I felt guilty about abandoning a life long passion for scribbling with a pencil on paper. I mean, history was on my side. I nurtured this romantic idea that the "Muse" would be more available in the wee hours by candle light on a bare table with a clean sheet of paper and a pencil or a pen dipped in real ink. What a croc...
I also read all the time. I am a member of the Freeport Community Library and have a couple of their books on my night stand constantly. It's all about paper, clean typefaces and the tactile communication with a familiar medium. Yeah, I also like the smell.
I have recently acquired a Nook device on which I read "E" books. This is a recent addition to my digital life, and one that I really didn't plan on. I said things like, "I'll never do that", and, "Give me a real book any day".
I now read about a third of what I read digitally. I even have a Nook App and a Kindle App on my iPhone. And yes, I have read a couple dozen books on my phone. It works. Now as phones are getting bigger screens, the difference between the phone experience and the actual book size reader will become clouded. I have several books in my shirt pocket all the time for that moment when I have time to read but don't have an actual paper book in my bag.
I have witnessed amazing developments in personal computing in the past 30 years. If that is any indication of what's to be expected in the next 30 years, I am simply unable to imagine it. One thing seems certain: words on paper will diminish while words on a digital device will increase. But, of course, that's been said before.
While you are reading this piece, some young engineers in a college dorm will decide to make the next new thing that they are sure will further transform our lives. They could be right. They could be wrong. Either way, they're going to do it. We'll read about it in the paper. The digital version, of course.
Friday, April 25, 2014
Wednesday, April 16, 2014
THE SEARCH FOR ENLIGHTENMENT
I have, on occasion, sought to touch the truth stone, to find that condition, that place, that formula that opened a special portal into the realm of peace, insight, enlightenment.
I have used various means to do this, from expensive weekend experiences at some mountain top retreat, to the many books of the blessed. For a little while I would feel something, but I was always feeling something. I think that was an unaddressed issue for me. But workshops, retreats and the books of the blessed are signs that the desire is present, not evidence of the condition unfortunately, or we would have enlightenment for a price.
I grew up in a tradition that put great store in burning bushes, parting waters, blinding lights and the transmogrification of water. There was always something good going to happen to me tonight. Hope was a palpable element in my life. My maternal grandfather, we called him Shug, had a way of demystifying things. He used to say, "Hope in one hand and spit in the other and see which one fills up first." He wasn't much for religion and would not claim enlightenment, but he had a clue.
Sometimes I think enlightenment is opening one's eyes and seeing what's there. Of course, that means not seeing what's not there. That's the hard part. Western religions took a faith born in the desert east and organized and corporatized it until the simplicity of it became obscured in dogma, professionalism and flashy robes.
I am moved by the stark simplicity of Buddhism. But one thing seems to stand out for me and it is this: enlightenment in that part of the world seems to be a minimalist idea. As in the flame of a single candle, the monotony of a simple mantra, being without things or "being" with an empty mind, or at least a mind focused on one thing at a time. It would seem that it's difficulty lies in it's simplicity. Its product is supposed to be simple kindness, compassion and peace. You would think that would be the aim of all religions. You would think.
After all these years, a few drops seem to have distilled out of all the confusion that help me, on a personal level, to deal with the imponderables.
First and foremost, I believe that truth does not carry a brand.
Secondly, if you believe that you are right and everybody else is wrong, there's medicine for that. Get help.
The competitiveness and exclusiveness seen in much of modern religion is itself evidence of having missed the point - in my opinion.
Yet, I'm not doing much better. Here I am wandering around in the darkness with my little MagLight running on petered out batteries. I keep thinking that other than the natural world, there is just us folks out here who need each other more than we ever imagined. Now there are those who threaten to dissolve the world order in an ocean of blood all in the name of religion in a kind of "My god can whip your god" version of the search for enlightenment and peace. It blows my mind.
The truly tall souls of our day are saying that whatever the truth is, its vessel is compassion. If there is no compassion, there is no truth. I wish I could point to my life as an example of this. I can not. But I know it when I see it, and I know it when I feel it. We all do.
Compassion is the Holy Grail. Drink from that cup and there is hope. It seems so easy. Yet it eludes me too much of the time. First, it seems to me that I have to lay down my sword and shield, and I love my sword and shield. I'm pretty sure nothing much will happen until I am disarmed.
I have heard the words, "Be ye kind one to another", all my life. Could that be the light that shines in the darkness? Could that be the hope of the world? Could that simple dictum be the answer? Could that be all the theology anyone ever needs to know?
Monday, April 7, 2014
LIVING WITH MARGINALIZATION
I think a lot about aging. Probably too much. This really began to happen a few years ago, when I retired, I began to see the attitude others had toward me take an interesting turn. It was as though there was a collection of assumptions about my life that automatically became a part of my reality. It almost seemed like patronization. Society was taking care of me whether I wanted it or not. A new definition was attached to my life and I was given special names to make sure I was "marked". Senior Citizen. Retiree. Or just a simple "Old Guy". My input was not solicited. I just got old. At that point the system kicked in and I became - Mr. Senior Citizen. This may all be in my mind. So what - that's a real place. It can't be ignored. Just today I got a letter from my gastroenterologist. I am, it seems, too old to have a regular colonoscopy, my favorite invasive examination. I suppose if I have a budding colon cancer somewhere in there, I just don't have enough time left to make treatment cost effective. The actuarialists are running the world.
I don't mind being old. As a matter of fact, I rather enjoy it. However, it takes some rather intensive adjusting - not only to being old, but also to the subtile little shifts in attitude the world now has toward me and my contemporaries. I didn't see it coming. More accurately, I didn't want to see it coming. One day I found that I had moved into this alternate universe: the world of being an old person, a retiree, a person with a major history. I began to feel marginalized. A different set of rules now apply to me and I don't like it one damned bit.
To be marginalized is to be socially excluded, treated as unnecessary, unneeded, past tense - was, rather than is. Growing old is by definition a kind of marginalization in itself. Age, at some point, for all of us, brings with it a collection of diminishing abilities. We just ain't what we used to be. In this sense, aging is itself a degenerative condition. The situation is amplified by a seemingly growing list of famous-name degenerative conditions such as, arthritis, Alzheimer's, chronic obstructive pulmonary disease ( my current favorite ), diabetes, Parkinson's, atherosclerosis, heart disease, inflammatory bowel, prostatitis, osteoporosis and, of course, everyone's favorite: cancer - just to name a few, several of which I am coming to terms with. All of these common accompaniments to aging tend to become agents of marginalization. Guess what? It's unavoidable.
For most of us, should we be so lucky as to live long, we will be gifted with one or more of the above conditions and because of that will no longer be able to run fast, jump high, lift heavy or step lightly. Just dealing with that reality is what aging is all about. It's making do with marginalization. It's adjusting and being happy about what is possible and not spending the late night hours pining away in despair over lost stamina, Superman/Wonder Woman strength, a movie star profile or the pleasure, often unrealized at the time, of planning a long life. It's a learned skill. There isn't as much stamina or strength, and God knows the profile is history, but it is what it is and not what it's not.
It seems to me that that's the lesson of aging. I deal with it every day. I'm sure we all to to varying degrees. It's tempting to focus on the past. There is so much of it. For me the key is to make some plans. Do something. It's about making one's self necessary. It really doesn't matter much what it is, just be with what you're doing. Cut the grass. Plant those peas. Fix something. Help someone. And, for the good of us all, stay in touch. Hanging out at the margins of life is someone else's idea.
Jerry Henderson
Jerry Henderson
Thursday, January 16, 2014
EXCUSE ME - WOULD YOU REPEAT THAT
One of the most difficult things for me to acknowledge is that I am truly old fashioned. I mean I am connected, on-line, Twitterized, FaceBooked and podcasted, but deep down I am living in the late thirties and forties. The radio days. At least, in part, what I am saying is that my values lie there while all the glitter, pizzazz and speed of present day technology simply give me the chance to run out my outdated values on the unsuspecting friend, family member and the occasional "everyone" who stumbles across my electrified threshold. Caveat Emptor. Translation: Watch your step!
Some years ago while living in Southeast Texas, and while I still had an active interest in flying small airplanes, I used to read Flying Magazine and a columnist in that magazine named Gordon Baxter. His column was called THE BAX SEAT. He described himself as a "pasture pilot" and had a homey way of expressing himself, even about the technicalities of flying small airplanes. He had a radio program which he produced from his back porch at his home on Village Creek, a sometimes robust little stream that I paddled and camped upon many times.
On his show, he talked about whatever seemed to catch his attention. It presaged Jerry Seinfeld's show about nothing by about 30 years. It really was about nothing in particular. He rambled in a most interesting way. You could hear birdsong and a creaking screen door occasionally. His voice was well modulated and I could understand every word. It was quite popular. I'd get to the office and someone was likely to ask if I had heard Baxter that morning, and we'd talk about that. I don't think today's fast talking, hurry up media would give him the time of day.
A friend of mine once told me after listening to one of my podcasts, that I talked too slow and had too many long pauses. Well, I said, that's how I talk. We laughed and he still listens. I think. And I still talk slowly.
I have listened to many programs where someone is supposed to be telling a story or interviewing someone and all the while there is music, or other "environmental" noise (on purpose - by design because we live in an age where noise seems to be the only thing that keeps us from going conscious of our reality) and I am unable to hear the actual content of what the person is saying.
I should pause here and say something like, that's my opinion. And that's the opinion of a person wearing hearing aids which makes it difficult to make sense of noisy environments. And if the truth be known, if you want to communicate real information, every effort should be made to make that easy to do. Right? Well, you'd think so. Hearing aids or not.
So it's my problem. I'm OK with that - I have to be. But I resent being cut out of the process by the process itself. You can observe this going on in just about all media today. So-called realism in broadcasting seems to mean that environmental noise is as important as content. I can just see this sound engineer pushing the slider up on his sound board to increase the noise of the big diesel passing by so it's impossible to understand what is being said. Exciting huh? After all - it's the truth. It's what's happening.
A few years ago there was this guy on NPR's morning classical show who also talked slowly and it became a kind of joke. I could understand his every word however, even if it kind of infuriated me at times. I sometimes wondered whether the guy was somnambulant. Now, I really miss his kind of "delivery". If you have something to say, say it so others can be assured of understanding it. It's communication - get it?
Walter Cronkite, Ed Morrow, Erving R. Levine, Martin Agronsky, where are you guys when I need you masters of every syllable? God, how I love every syllable.
Some years ago while living in Southeast Texas, and while I still had an active interest in flying small airplanes, I used to read Flying Magazine and a columnist in that magazine named Gordon Baxter. His column was called THE BAX SEAT. He described himself as a "pasture pilot" and had a homey way of expressing himself, even about the technicalities of flying small airplanes. He had a radio program which he produced from his back porch at his home on Village Creek, a sometimes robust little stream that I paddled and camped upon many times.
On his show, he talked about whatever seemed to catch his attention. It presaged Jerry Seinfeld's show about nothing by about 30 years. It really was about nothing in particular. He rambled in a most interesting way. You could hear birdsong and a creaking screen door occasionally. His voice was well modulated and I could understand every word. It was quite popular. I'd get to the office and someone was likely to ask if I had heard Baxter that morning, and we'd talk about that. I don't think today's fast talking, hurry up media would give him the time of day.
A friend of mine once told me after listening to one of my podcasts, that I talked too slow and had too many long pauses. Well, I said, that's how I talk. We laughed and he still listens. I think. And I still talk slowly.
I have listened to many programs where someone is supposed to be telling a story or interviewing someone and all the while there is music, or other "environmental" noise (on purpose - by design because we live in an age where noise seems to be the only thing that keeps us from going conscious of our reality) and I am unable to hear the actual content of what the person is saying.
I should pause here and say something like, that's my opinion. And that's the opinion of a person wearing hearing aids which makes it difficult to make sense of noisy environments. And if the truth be known, if you want to communicate real information, every effort should be made to make that easy to do. Right? Well, you'd think so. Hearing aids or not.
So it's my problem. I'm OK with that - I have to be. But I resent being cut out of the process by the process itself. You can observe this going on in just about all media today. So-called realism in broadcasting seems to mean that environmental noise is as important as content. I can just see this sound engineer pushing the slider up on his sound board to increase the noise of the big diesel passing by so it's impossible to understand what is being said. Exciting huh? After all - it's the truth. It's what's happening.
A few years ago there was this guy on NPR's morning classical show who also talked slowly and it became a kind of joke. I could understand his every word however, even if it kind of infuriated me at times. I sometimes wondered whether the guy was somnambulant. Now, I really miss his kind of "delivery". If you have something to say, say it so others can be assured of understanding it. It's communication - get it?
Walter Cronkite, Ed Morrow, Erving R. Levine, Martin Agronsky, where are you guys when I need you masters of every syllable? God, how I love every syllable.
Saturday, January 11, 2014
TRANSITIONS
There comes a time - at least, I assume it does - in most of our lives, when the specter of moving into a new and completely different phase of life confronts us. It comes up to consider the possibility of leaving the cherished home site or situation and moving into something more manageable, for instance.
There will come a time when we must move on and leave this treasured spot on the edge of the woods. In gentle preparation for that moment, we have begun culling out those obvious items that are purely meaningless and hauling it off to the dump. It's actually a so-called "transfer station", but nobody is keeping score. But the heavy lifting is yet to come and it could take longer than we imagine. It's the kind of activity that we both dread to do and are anxious to do. I suppose that is the nature of transitions.
The thought of moving on curdles my blood and also heightens my sense of adventure and being alive. The reality is that there will come a time when we will not be able to take care of this place. It's part of the natural rhythm of life. Oh, if one of us wins the big one, we will be able to just hire the work done and be as mobil as we want to be. I read those headlines about someone winning mega millions and think - it's just a matter of time until my number comes up. Yes, I know. There are balms available that can calm such specious thinking.
There are hundreds of books, CDs and cassette tapes. Give them away, I hear you say. Take them to one of those places where they accept boxes of such stuff without a word. Don't do a close inspection of every single book. Actually, I will hold onto Baugh's Literary History of England. About two and three quarter inches on thin paper - it does not miss a point. I'll keep the poetry - a few other volumes that remind me of the loftier aspects of the human experience. OK, I'll probably hold onto some pulp as well, just to keep me honest. God, how I love a mystery.
Around this rambling house are nooks and crannies into which is stuffed every imaginable piece of useful, useless and unused "stuff". There are kayaks, bicycles, snowshoes, badminton sets, bows and arrows, a chainsaw, a wood chipper, a table saw, all kinds of battery powered tools and there is a photographic darkroom - just to give you an idea. Actually, the darkroom equipment is not useful anymore except to a scant few holdouts. If you want it you can have it. This list is only a "symbol" of what is actually stored around this place.
So the task is laid out before us and, as I have said, we are beginning to hack away at it. It's the mechanics of transition. It's not easy work, but it should reveal something important about us. Something I am actually anxious to discover. I really think I already know what it is, and it is this: You can go farther with a lighter load.
There was a time, back in the searching 70s when meaning was attached to everything, that in the middle of a warm night I hauled the contents of a large storage space in my building to a huge dumpster. I needed to make a break and rid myself of stuff, the possession of which, I could no longer justify, and which simply did not hold meaning for my life anymore and needed to be jettisoned into the night sky. It was transition time. I needed to lighten my load.
There was as many as a dozen suits, kitchen ware that drug my memories back decades, dozens of sundry items that filled boxes upon boxes - like rocks and mementos collected from places once visited and which had no function except to remind me of things I did not want to be reminded of and so should be let go. It was one of my finest "grownup" moments.
This cleansing took most of the night. It occurred to me then as it does now that this kind of purging is best done beneath the covering of darkness. It is best not to have too bright a light shine upon every once prized artifact of a past life as it tumbles into the rubbish bin. I think that's the key: begin at midnight and work until dawn.
When my storage room was finally emptied, I felt light of heart, energized and quite hungry. It was time for an early breakfast at the Pig Stand on I-10 where I celebrated with three of my most faithful friends: grits, sausage and egg.
I'm Jerry Henderson Be well and stay tuned.
There will come a time when we must move on and leave this treasured spot on the edge of the woods. In gentle preparation for that moment, we have begun culling out those obvious items that are purely meaningless and hauling it off to the dump. It's actually a so-called "transfer station", but nobody is keeping score. But the heavy lifting is yet to come and it could take longer than we imagine. It's the kind of activity that we both dread to do and are anxious to do. I suppose that is the nature of transitions.
The thought of moving on curdles my blood and also heightens my sense of adventure and being alive. The reality is that there will come a time when we will not be able to take care of this place. It's part of the natural rhythm of life. Oh, if one of us wins the big one, we will be able to just hire the work done and be as mobil as we want to be. I read those headlines about someone winning mega millions and think - it's just a matter of time until my number comes up. Yes, I know. There are balms available that can calm such specious thinking.
There are hundreds of books, CDs and cassette tapes. Give them away, I hear you say. Take them to one of those places where they accept boxes of such stuff without a word. Don't do a close inspection of every single book. Actually, I will hold onto Baugh's Literary History of England. About two and three quarter inches on thin paper - it does not miss a point. I'll keep the poetry - a few other volumes that remind me of the loftier aspects of the human experience. OK, I'll probably hold onto some pulp as well, just to keep me honest. God, how I love a mystery.
Around this rambling house are nooks and crannies into which is stuffed every imaginable piece of useful, useless and unused "stuff". There are kayaks, bicycles, snowshoes, badminton sets, bows and arrows, a chainsaw, a wood chipper, a table saw, all kinds of battery powered tools and there is a photographic darkroom - just to give you an idea. Actually, the darkroom equipment is not useful anymore except to a scant few holdouts. If you want it you can have it. This list is only a "symbol" of what is actually stored around this place.
So the task is laid out before us and, as I have said, we are beginning to hack away at it. It's the mechanics of transition. It's not easy work, but it should reveal something important about us. Something I am actually anxious to discover. I really think I already know what it is, and it is this: You can go farther with a lighter load.
There was a time, back in the searching 70s when meaning was attached to everything, that in the middle of a warm night I hauled the contents of a large storage space in my building to a huge dumpster. I needed to make a break and rid myself of stuff, the possession of which, I could no longer justify, and which simply did not hold meaning for my life anymore and needed to be jettisoned into the night sky. It was transition time. I needed to lighten my load.
There was as many as a dozen suits, kitchen ware that drug my memories back decades, dozens of sundry items that filled boxes upon boxes - like rocks and mementos collected from places once visited and which had no function except to remind me of things I did not want to be reminded of and so should be let go. It was one of my finest "grownup" moments.
This cleansing took most of the night. It occurred to me then as it does now that this kind of purging is best done beneath the covering of darkness. It is best not to have too bright a light shine upon every once prized artifact of a past life as it tumbles into the rubbish bin. I think that's the key: begin at midnight and work until dawn.
When my storage room was finally emptied, I felt light of heart, energized and quite hungry. It was time for an early breakfast at the Pig Stand on I-10 where I celebrated with three of my most faithful friends: grits, sausage and egg.
I'm Jerry Henderson Be well and stay tuned.
Sunday, December 22, 2013
IT'S CHRISTMAS
As I have mentioned elsewhere, we decided not to go to the trouble of putting up a full Christmas tree this year. It's not the first time I have made this choice, but it's the first time in 15 years, and it probably will not happen again.
CA has boxes of ornaments, each one with it's history and bag of memories that must be told every year. It's very much an epochal ritual. I suppose it is a kind of validation - a connection to or honoring of who we are and who we have been. This year we decided not to go through the routine and opted for a minimalist presentation as far as the tree thing is concerned. It feels right.
There is a reason for this, of course. It's the season of CA's retirement. She works as a hospice nurse and works 12 hour shifts at night. Her last two nights to work are Christmas Eve and Christmas night. This was a conscious choice that fulfilled, a week earlier, her time in service obligation, and since it is just us two, it seemed the thing to do. It's not a sad thing, it's our chosen reality, and we are quite excited about it. Of course, it would be nice to be with family. Yes, it would be wonderful to be home together with a big bird in the oven on Christmas Day. Yes, it would be fun if it were some kind of Currier & Ives thing with dozens of people, horse drawn sleighs, reindeer and skating on the pond. But it never was that.
We'll celebrate our Christmas on the night after Christmas. I mean, it's already an arbitrary date. We'll go out for Chinese. They don't do Christmas and are always there. Furthermore, we love Chinese. We'll have cocktails and great food and drive home through the woods to our fireside and feel blessed.
Second only to Thanksgiving as a family day, Christmas holds for many of us a great host of memories and traditions long gone into the dusty bins of our past. I've grown used to that tape player in my head that goes off on those same songs, scenes and scenarios that make up my remembrance of decades of Christmases past. It's a kind of comforting sameness.
It's different when kids are around. Kids thrive on myth and festival and Christmas is bursting with myth and festival. There is always that unpredictable, spontaneous quality of life with children. If things go as we think, we'll be surrounded by kids next year. Perhaps, at times, we'll secretly yearn for the quiet warmth of our remote fire.
It's who we are - at least those of us who happened to muddle through life in a Christian tradition. So we'll have our table top tree. There will be presents and a warm fire. We'll do a "FaceTime", or at least speak with distant family and hang on every word. We will feel truly blessed and pleasantly stuffed with spicy Singapore rice noodles.
Jerry Henderson
CA has boxes of ornaments, each one with it's history and bag of memories that must be told every year. It's very much an epochal ritual. I suppose it is a kind of validation - a connection to or honoring of who we are and who we have been. This year we decided not to go through the routine and opted for a minimalist presentation as far as the tree thing is concerned. It feels right.
There is a reason for this, of course. It's the season of CA's retirement. She works as a hospice nurse and works 12 hour shifts at night. Her last two nights to work are Christmas Eve and Christmas night. This was a conscious choice that fulfilled, a week earlier, her time in service obligation, and since it is just us two, it seemed the thing to do. It's not a sad thing, it's our chosen reality, and we are quite excited about it. Of course, it would be nice to be with family. Yes, it would be wonderful to be home together with a big bird in the oven on Christmas Day. Yes, it would be fun if it were some kind of Currier & Ives thing with dozens of people, horse drawn sleighs, reindeer and skating on the pond. But it never was that.
We'll celebrate our Christmas on the night after Christmas. I mean, it's already an arbitrary date. We'll go out for Chinese. They don't do Christmas and are always there. Furthermore, we love Chinese. We'll have cocktails and great food and drive home through the woods to our fireside and feel blessed.
Second only to Thanksgiving as a family day, Christmas holds for many of us a great host of memories and traditions long gone into the dusty bins of our past. I've grown used to that tape player in my head that goes off on those same songs, scenes and scenarios that make up my remembrance of decades of Christmases past. It's a kind of comforting sameness.
It's different when kids are around. Kids thrive on myth and festival and Christmas is bursting with myth and festival. There is always that unpredictable, spontaneous quality of life with children. If things go as we think, we'll be surrounded by kids next year. Perhaps, at times, we'll secretly yearn for the quiet warmth of our remote fire.
It's who we are - at least those of us who happened to muddle through life in a Christian tradition. So we'll have our table top tree. There will be presents and a warm fire. We'll do a "FaceTime", or at least speak with distant family and hang on every word. We will feel truly blessed and pleasantly stuffed with spicy Singapore rice noodles.
Jerry Henderson
Saturday, December 21, 2013
A LONG NIGHT'S MEDITATION
Seeking forgiveness for yielding unto temptation and making a batch of sugar cookies toward the tail end of an evening, I stumble across an ancient stone given to me by a traveler who once passed through that holiest of lands - that spit of earth called Cornwall. On his way he came upon this old man sorting odd looking stones which he said came from the sea but had been found deep in a cave known only to the few who ventured into those tidal regions where the endless sea molded that coast into its signature façade. He told how there were ancient glyphs on those cave walls that have never been completely deciphered, but which many believe were by the hand of Merlin himself. These stones were laid out in a rough pentagram and covered with the dust and grime of ages.
When asked what was special about those "rocks" the old man said that if these stones were touched by the hand of Merlin, that sage advisor to Author, born of mortal woman but sired by an incubus, then they possessed many powers that transcended our physical world.
As I now hold that stone in my hand, on this longest of nights, I think, surely among those powers would be the gift of forgiveness especially when it came to making a batch of sugar cookies. It is well known that Merlin had a particular affection for sweetmeats and therefore could possibly find reason to make room for others who like himself find themselves powerless beneath the spell of a well made sugar cookie.
It came to me that such a construct was not altogether unlike others upon which entire systems of belief are built. I began to feel the weight of guilt slide from my shoulders. Perhaps, I'm thinking, there is room for just one more cookie before turning in for the rest of this long night.
Behold! The Light Cometh!
When asked what was special about those "rocks" the old man said that if these stones were touched by the hand of Merlin, that sage advisor to Author, born of mortal woman but sired by an incubus, then they possessed many powers that transcended our physical world.
As I now hold that stone in my hand, on this longest of nights, I think, surely among those powers would be the gift of forgiveness especially when it came to making a batch of sugar cookies. It is well known that Merlin had a particular affection for sweetmeats and therefore could possibly find reason to make room for others who like himself find themselves powerless beneath the spell of a well made sugar cookie.
It came to me that such a construct was not altogether unlike others upon which entire systems of belief are built. I began to feel the weight of guilt slide from my shoulders. Perhaps, I'm thinking, there is room for just one more cookie before turning in for the rest of this long night.
Behold! The Light Cometh!
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