Ralph and The Singing Forest

  

            Once upon a day in the Great Forest, as Ralph was strolling, in that smooth style that he has, he was attending to the song of each tree, or bush, or flower, as he passed it. It’s true, he could hear them all, in harmony, or separately.
            A great and august Douglas fir sang in massively deep rolling waves, atonally, but there, providing a backdrop of sound all others tuned to.
            A cedar sang in higher tones, almost like a song sung by the human natives of the land. Ralph wondered for a moment if the original humans could hear it too. He put it in the back of his mind to find someone who might know the answer.
            Now that it was summer, the blackberry vines, with ripening fruit sang a sweet low harmony. Just faintly, he could hear the berries themselves humming along.
            Even the grass had a song, which upheld and supported the music of the insects which inhabited its stalks. It had a feminine timbre, welcoming and sweet.
        Ralph noted happily that all this singing was going well. It was an atmosphere of sound, as warm and real as his mother’s embrace had been long ago.
        He heard the creatures of the soil voicing their small concerns.
        He heard the rabbits speaking among themselves. If he listened carefully, he could hear the deer, wondering aloud among themselves, which way to go, what to look out for, and other such business.
        He heard the trout in the river urging their brothers and sisters along, singing their silvery monotonous song, over and over, as if they were the voice of the river itself. A sibilant sound rushing along.
        Rocks are not silent either, you know? Ralph thought that if he had to, he would describe their song as a kind of subliminal rumble, louder or lower depending on the size of each rock.
            All of this was wonderful. It was kind of like listening to an angelic choir, if one could hear such a song. Maybe Ralph could hear that too! We mustn’t put it beyond him.
        But the Great Forest only touches Heaven. It is not Heaven, and something was wrong among the great firs. One was silent. It stood upstream along the whispering, chuckling silver river that ran through the Great forest. Its silence stood out among the choir.
            Ralph drew near the silent tree. He leaned his ear against its bark, to discern if the tree was quite dead or just asleep somehow. But the tree was silent. Instead, he heard weeping, faintly, inside where the tree’s heart had lived. It was very faint, neither you nor I could hear it.
            “Why are you weeping,” Ralph said. He put both arms around the tree and held on there.
            “I am alone,” said a dry light voice.
            “What is your name? How can I help you?” answered the Regent of the Forest.
            “I have no name, Sir, and I am imprisoned here, now that my home has died,” cried the voice, low and distressed.
            “Where will you go if I call you out?” asked Ralph, very softly.
            “I must find another tree,” said the voice.
            “I must give you a name, if I am to call you out and send you to another home,” said Ralph.
            “Then, truly, name me. We tree souls have no name except for the name of the tree we love,” said the voice.
            “Spirit, I know a place for you. There is a house in the meadow nearby made of living alder trees. You may live there, if you will,” said Ralph, standing apart from the fir again.
            “I will go, if you send me, Sir,” said the voice. “What shall my name be?”
            Ralph thought deeply about the tree spirit, and what its name should be. Then he said, “Alderheart. I name you Alderheart, and I call you forth!”
            A nearly visible, translucent, pale green figure, slight and girlish, stood before Ralph then. Her long hair hung below her knees, and she wore a gown as green as pale spring leaves. Her feet were bare.
            “It is a good name, Sir. May I know your name, since you seem to have command here?” said Alderheart.
            “I am called Ralph. The name my mother gave me is known only to myself and a few others,” said Ralph.
            “Ralph, Sir, send me to this house made of living alder trees! The outer air is harsh,” said she.
            “Take my hand, and close your eyes, Alderheart. I will see the place in my mind, and you will go there, and be at home in a blink of an eye,” said Ralph to the tree spirit, so pale and green. “You will find a home there, for some of the trees are very young and also alone.”
            So, she did lay her small hand in Ralph’s big warm hand, and then he stood alone beside the river again. The chorus of the Forest rose up around him, and he blessed it in his heart, for it was very pleasing.
            It made Ralph happy to know that Alderheart would be near his loved ones, for he is wise and very kind.

🍀

Photos for Purrsday Open Thread, May 21

             On May 25th of 2011, we were exploring Arches National Park in Utah. 

            We brought the kid along, to give him a look at something besides the insides of houses, and electronic toys. 

             Looking at these rocks, the sensation of time is overwhelming. Dreamtime?

            It's definitely the great wide open. I'd prefer to live in Nevada or Arizona I think, but Utah is good too.

            There were no stories up my sleeve yesterday, so instead you got a short travelogue! And, the road goes on forever and is always calling!

            Have a wonderful day!

           🌸

Emmy's Day Off

 

Most mornings when Emmy awoke, and had some breakfast, she studied for a couple of hours. She had decided to do home school, and she was greatly enjoying not taking the long bus ride into town and spending a lot of each day with just the mechanics of being in school.
            This morning felt different.
The Golden Frog sat in his tiny green house, but she could hear him whispering about going out of doors. “It’s spring,” he said. “All the world is waiting,” he said. He buzzed like a bee in Emmy’s mind.
            She dressed in jeans, canvas sneakers, t-shirt, and a little jacket with zipper pockets. The jacket was red corduroy and had a hood. Beth had sewn it for her.
            She put the Golden Frog in the right side pocket, and zipped him in securely. Her little phone went in the left pocket. Being wise to herself, she kept it in a zip lock sandwich baggie.
            Out in the kitchen, Beth was drinking coffee and checking things out online. Jesse had already left for the day. Honda lay under the table taking a morning nap. She didn’t see Billy, but he was around there somewhere, probably asleep too.
            “Mom, I’m thinking about taking a walk,” Emmy told her mother. “This frog won’t stop talking about going outside.” It was something they frequently joked about, as if the frog did talk.
            “Better eat some of those eggs then,” said Beth, taking her eyes off of the small screen to look at her daughter. Emmy was not a very big girl for her age. She had snappy dark brown eyes, like Jesse’s people, and curly black hair. Those curls are just about all she got from me, Beth thought. But she was smiling.
            Mother and daughter, had coffee together. Emmy liked cream in her coffee. She rolled her eggs up in a flour tortilla, with green salsa.
            “Take your phone, Emmy. Don’t wander too far,” said Beth.
            “It’s in my pocket. I’ll have to come back when I get hungry,” said Emmy.
            Billy turned up, yawning and stretching, from wherever he had been sleeping. For such a large cat he could hide well. Billy mostly kept his own council.
            “Want to come with me, Honda?” Emmy said, looking down under the table. Honda certainly did want to come with her!
            Outside, it was a breezy spring day, cool for Navajo country. Emmy noticed that the hens were still in their hutch. Jesse fed the hens before leaving for his shop. She glanced at their water pan just to make sure. Emmy loved the hens.
            Aunt Julia had loved the hens too.
            The consuming mystery of their lives was Aunt Julia. She was never found, no matter how hard she was searched for. There were theories, but people can’t resist making up theories, and Emmy didn’t believe any of it.
            Emmy and Julia had been very close, and to Emmy she didn’t feel gone. Not really.
            “Which way shall we go, Honda? River or road?”
            Honda headed to the little stream that Emmy called a river. Emmy followed slowly, doing a few fancy little walking steps that she had learned from Julia. It slowed her down, but of course Honda didn’t mind.
            The wind blew a few low clouds in. A little rain splattered Emmy and Honda.
            “Shall we go downstream?” she said, pulling her hood up over her curls.
            There was a path beside the stream. If they followed it for a mile or so, it would meet a larger stream. The water was higher than usual. It always dried up some in the summer.
            Honda dashed in and out of the water, bringing Emmy stones. She put a nice agate in her pocket with the frog, zipping them both in.
            Then the rain came down. The sky darkened. There was a flash of lightning, and thunder. Another flash. Honda walked closely with her now. The thunder bothered him a little.
            “There is something in the water,” murmured the Golden Frog. “Can you see?”
            The phone in Emmy’s pocket buzzed. It was Beth. “Are you hungry yet?”
            “Almost. I’m getting pretty wet!” laughed Emmy. Meanwhile she was looking closely into the little stream. Holding a steady position in the stream was a huge fish.
            It had whiskers! A catfish! Emmy knew he didn’t belong here.
            “Are you lost?” said Emmy to the fish.
            “I’m tired,” said the fish. “A yellow dog told me that if I swam up here that there was a wonderful lake of still water.”
            “Ma’ii is a liar, Fish. He wanted to catch you in shallow water and gobble you up!” said Emmy. “There is no lake up this tiny stream.”
            “Oh, woe!” said the great fish. “Now that I am weary, will you capture me and gobble me up?”
            “No, fish. But I will help you turn around. Then you can swim easily to where you belong,” said Emmy.
            So, Emmy waded out to where the water was knee deep. She wasn’t sure how to help the fish turn around, but she was willing. When she reached him, she saw that his belly lay heavily on the rocks below him.
            While Honda watched, just in case she needed him, Emmy reached both arms down into the water, hugging the fish. Then she lifted him and turned him head for tail so that he was headed back down stream.
            “Go home fish, and never believe a word from Ma’ii!” said Emmy, still standing knee deep in water.
            “May the Maker of All, always grant you mercy,” said the fish as he swam downstream.
            “You’ve gotten me and your phone wet,” said the Golden Frog.
            “I bet I did,” said Emmy, carefully walking up out of the water. She could hardly have gotten any wetter if she dove in. “I may end up living without a phone for a while. Sometimes those bags leak.”
            When Emmy and Honda returned home, they got all dried off, and had some lunch with Beth and Billy.

🐟

May 24, 2011, Into The Great Wide Open

 That year I rented some big sedan.

My Navigator and my grandson comprised the rest of the crew.

He's her nephew.

It was May, and we headed down through Washington and Oregon,

bound for the Southwest.

The photo was taken by my daughter.

Ridiculously enough, I couldn't get that close to the Canyon.

The effect was visceral and permanent.

I tried.

We hit all the places.

Death Valley.

Bonneville Salt Flats.

Zion.

There were ruins and petroglyphs! 

Given my choice, I would live somewhere in that wide open land.

To place a hand on a rock and feel its living heat, is not nothing.

To see so far, that the curve of Earth is almost discernable, 

is likewise something.

Have a wonderful day!

🤍

 

Millie Still Writes For the Paper

            It had been a while. Seemed like months had gone by since a reader had sent in a question to ask Ralph. This one was a poser. I kept drinking my coffee, thinking about it.
            I knew very little about this reader. She did’t introduce herself like so many of them had. All I had was a name. Lisa. T. Probably a female, right? No idea of her age.
What she said was: “Ask him, since he is so magnificently wise and serene, and can see through time and the forest, to explain what he knows about forgiveness.”
            This sounded to me like a bare question, stripped of all its supporting context. I wondered if she would take the answer back to someone and say, “See, it says right here...” Etc.
            I could but take the question to himself, and see what he made of it and report back to Lisa T. and anyone else who happened to read my column. His advise is usually well received. We shall see.
When Maeve hit my window ledge with her familiar soft thump, I asked her to ask Ralph if I could meet him somewhere or take him for a drive and pick his brain about a reader’s question.
            The next day was a Saturday, so I suggested tomorrow.
            “I’m pretty sure you can assume that’s fine,” said Maeve. “I’ll come back if it’s not. I’ll tell him you’ll be at the parking spot tomorrow morning. Then I’ll fly over and let him know you’re there.”
            “Thanks, Ma’am, I’ll be there unless I hear differently,” I told her.
I didn’t hear differently.
            So, first thing that Saturday morning I dressed for the woods, smooched Colin, and headed out to get some treats for the family. But, when I got to the store, I thought that the last thing they really needed were some of the goofy fruits of human commercial culture.
            It occurred to me that Ramona might rather have some useful practical supplies. With that thought in mind, I gathered up a couple dozen eggs, 4 lbs of butter, salt, sugar, pepper, onions, a 20lb sack of flour, and raisins. I knew they all loved raisins. You can’t pick those off bushes in the meadow!
            The sun had been up for an hour when I arrived at the wide spot on 20. Mist was still rising, and things were drying off.
            Maeve swooped by and then headed back into the forest. In a couple of minutes Ralph appeared.
            “Hey, Millie! Where’ve you been! Good to see you!” he said happily.
            “Oh, you know, working for the local rag, keeping house, and not going anywhere, I guess. You look well! Ramona takes good care of you!” I said.
            And he did look well! No matter how many times I saw Ralph, it was always kind of a shock how massive he was, how darkly shiny, and how he seemed to have an atmospherere of joy surrounding him. He grins a lot too.
            “I brought some things for Ramona. In the back seat there. I’ll wait, if you want to run them down to her, and tell her love from me!” I said.
            “Good idea!” Ralph said.
I sat and watched a few cars drive by, heading east or west. In about ten minutes,
he was back.
            “Mona was very glad to see those things! She sends her love back. Cherry says “Hi!’” he said, while carefully arranging himself in the passenger seat of the Escalade. He fastened the seat belt, but he thinks it’s funny to be tied in like that.
            “Help, help! I’m a test monkey,” he cried.
            “Me too,” I laughed.
            “Where do you want to go?” I said.
            “Let’s just go park up the forest road where we can look out over the land,” said Ralph
            “OK. Sounds nice,”
            I got back out on 20 and took the corner northward onto the nearest forest road. It was a familiar short trip to some pretty fancy scenery. Up there in a certain spot you could see just a bit of Puget Sound on the horizon.
            Parked, I said, “One of my readers asked me to ask you what you think about foregiveness. She didn’t say why she wanted your take. I feel almost like she has a point to make with someone, maybe.”
            “Huh, yeah. I see what you mean. Why ask me? She has all the facilities of mankind to refer to, and yet she wants to know what I think,” mused Ralph.
            He looked out over the landscape silently for a few minutes.
            “I have two main ideas about forgiving. Humans have a tough time with this, so maybe it makes sence to ask me, since I’m related to you guys, but not just the same.
            “First thing. Forgiving is constructive. It repairs a broken place. It makes it possible to continue. So the town is big enough fer the two of you.
            “There’s also something about authority. To not forgive is to assume authority over a situation yourself. You have to know who’s in charge. Is it you, or the Maker of All? He says you’re not the boss, give over. Let it be, right?
            “There is such a thing as being in authority under a higher authority, but maybe that’s not what she needs to hear about right now. I have the feeling that she is very angry at someone and needs to know what to do with that anger,” he said.
            “I think you’re right about that,” I agreed.
            “It’s hard to explain in English what I mean sometimes. Not my first language. Saslingua, is less mechanical, more about internal states. But, anyhow, I’ll try. This isn’t really big deal stuff. It’s everyday level.
            “Tell her that when she looks at the face of someone who has offended her, perhaps for years and very badly, that she has a choice. She can say to herself, “Whatever there is, there, is all there is, and it’s enough. I don’t require more. The question is over. I’ve drawn a line under it.
            “Then she might have another choice, to hang around or not, but at least the wound can close. She might have to forgive the same thing over and over until her own heart believes it,” he said at last.
            “You know what I think, Ralph? I think Lisa’s beef must be with one of your fans!” I said.
            “I bet you’re right! That would explain why she wants my words!” He laughed softly. “It’s odd to have fans, Millie.”
            We looked across the land from our vantage point for a while. Then I remembered that I had a big unopened bag of Gummi Bears in the pocket behind his seat.
            I pulled them out and showed him. “Remember?”
            “I sure do, Millie. I sure do!” Ralph said.
            “You should take them home to Cherry and Mona,” I said, starting the engine up.
            I drove him back home.

            Like a living dream, I watched him walk back into the forest.
            “I’ll tell her what you said, Ralph,” I whispered to the spot where he had been. “You bet I will!”
            Then, I drove back down 20, turned onto 530 and went home.
            Monday, I wrote it up. I hoped she could hear it.

🍀

The Voice From Under the Monitor

  

            Four of them live here. Lions, tigers, no bears. Now, who could be lurking behind the monitor? I knew it couldn’t be Mr. Baby Sir. He wouldn’t fit.
            Someone had slipped in behind there when I was out in the kitchen getting coffee or something.
            “What are you doing back there?” I said.
            “Nothing,” said the voice. OK, it wasn’t Suzie either. She mainly walks on the keyboard anyhow.
            “That’s impossible,” I said to the voice. “Are you breathing? Awake? Purring?”
            “Yes, but those things are automatic. I don’t do them myself on purpose,” argued the little debater.
            “You must have a purpose of some kind,” I advanced.
            “Purrr-pose? Porpoise? You’re funny, New Ma,” said the same voice. “I’m lurking and doing research. It’s what we do.”
            “A strange place to do research and lurking. What can you learn back there?” I said.
            “Well, of course I don’t know, until I do it. That’s logical, is it not?” the same debater said.
            “I’ll give you that point,” said I.
            “I love you,” said the hidden voice. A strong gambit!
            I could see paws and a tail, but it’s hard to tell them apart by their paws and tails.
            “I love you too. But, I can’t tell who you are!” I said.
            “I’m me!” mewed the voice, with absolute confidence.
            “Are you the same me who jumped into the fridge and wouldn’t come out this morning?” I inquired.
            A lot of muffled giggling issued forth.
            “He did it! Not me!” said the voice.
            “He would say the same, you know?” said I. “Both of you got into the fridge!”
            I could hear satisfied purring.
            Just then Booker strolled by, elegant, reserved, long bodied and slender, with his tail held straight up. He was heading out to the porch where the One Fast Cat wheel waited for him.
            “It’s you, Sweetie, isn’t it? I should have known,” I said.
            “Mew!” said the now identified voice.
            “Learn anything back there, Sweetie?” I asked him.
            “You have a lot of different stuff in baskets back here,” he said.
            “That stuff is my stuff, dude,” I said quickly.
            “I know,” he said complacently.
            I couldn’t see his paws anymore, but I could hear sinister stealthy little rattling noises.....

😻🧡😸

Catfurday Open Thread, May 16th! Incredible!

             I felt like talking about knitting again, while being lazy and not writing anything.

            Sure, it keeps your hands busy, and you, hopefully, get something useful out of all the fiddling. But what I find interesting is the language of the patterning. A pattern such as that doesn't need a chart. You can read it as you knit it. 

            It becomes as it is becoming. Like many other things.

            I think that's why so many of the old knitters made these types of fabric patterns. You could keep track of it and do the shaping all at once. It's a neat trick.

            Practical math, which teaches awareness and foresight.

🧶