Seth's Pond

An excerpt from "Bella and Bea," a novel for preteens

Bea got on her bike and went down the hill to the pond.  She put the bike down by the wooden railing and made her way onto the shady path; the coolness of the air inviting like a cloud moving across the hot sun. As she came nearer to the water’s edge she heard whistling.   She began to whistle back. Suddenly the whistling stopped and Bea stood still.

“Hey,” yelled Bea and then she let out a whistle. She looked down the shoreline but it was empty except for some big rocks and  course sand on the shore.

Suddenly, a shrill whistle screeched in the silence. It was so close that Bea jumped.

She turned around and saw Jono

“Hey, what are you doing? That hurt my ears,” said Bea a bit irritated.

Jono just shrugged his shoulders and scampered down the path towards a rock that was half in the water.

Without an invite, Bea followed him thinking that if he didn’t want her there, he would say so.  Near a tree on the shore, Jono had stashed a fishing rod and tackle box.  He took out a fishhook from his tackle box and attached it to his rod. He then held up some bait; a slimy, squirmy worm.

 Bea held out her hand, a gesture that made Jono raise his eyebrow with surprise and curiosity.

“Do you fish?” he asked.

“I have,” said Bea not offering more information.

“Okay, let’s see you hook the worm and set out the line.”

Bea smiled and took the wiggly worm out of Jono’s hand.   She hooked the worm and swung the rod overhead. Jono watched the arc of the line and the spot where the hook landed in the water.

“Nice,” he said.

Bea smiled again and handed the rod to Jono.

For a while all they heard was the soft rustling of leaves and bird songs. Bea broke the silence. “Where’s Lucky?”

“Dad took him to the vet’s,” said Jono looking out into the water.

“Is he okay?” Bea asked with concern.

“Yeah, needs his yearly shots.”

“You must love having him.  He’s such a good dog. So, why the name Lucky?”

Jono’s face darkened as if a stormy cloud covered it.   “Just because,”  he said more quietly.

“Because he gives you luck?” Bea asked

“Not really ...”

“Well, is it because he’s lucky, I mean like being a cat that has nine lives?” Bea persisted.

“Yeah, I guess you could say that.  He was brought to the animal shelter when he was a pup. There was a fire and well his mother and another pup from the litter didn’t get out in time. But Lucky did and we got him. We didn’t name him; the people at the shelter did.” 

“Wow that is so sad and happy at the same time.  Lucky was sure lucky,” said Bea as she stole a glance at Jono.

“Yeah he is,” Jono said glancing back at her.

This time, Bea looked straight at him and said, “I hope he brings you luck, Jono,”

Jono did not say anything but looked out into the pond.  It was a beautiful summer day. The water was smooth, soft and still. Every now and then bullfrogs croaked and dragonflies skimmed the surface of the pond.  The blue sky and clouds reflected in the water. Bea looked out to the other side of the pond.

“Jono, what’s the pond like in winter. Can you skate on it?”

“Winter, yeah, you can,” he mumbled.

Before she could stop herself, Bea asked, “What’s it like here in winter?”

The dark cloud came across Jono’s face again. “Cold, icy. I hate it.”

“Oh,” she said softly and remembered  what Dad had told her about the accident  a few winters ago.  She was ready to change the subject when the fishing rod began to bend.  “Jono,” a fish, she whispered, “Reel it in.”

He stood there on the rock and held onto the fishing rod tightly with his left hand as he reeled in the fishing line with his right. He cranked and cranked as the rod kept bending.  Just as he was pulling back on the rod, Bea yelled, “Faster, Jono, faster. It must be a huge fish!”

And out of the water came a good sized bass flopping on the line. With a wide grin, Jono held the fish up high.  The dark cloud on his face was gone.

Marilyn London-Ewing
December 2011

A Person Can Break A Neck Trying To Write An Honest Poem*

*(With thanks to Charles Simic for this favorite line in one of his poems for the title.)

I have sat zazen my entire life

& committed every infant pink &

bruised purple morning to memory. I

have fasted & grown gaunt seeking visions,

having raised Presence to my soft red lips

as one lifts a chalice filled with Holy Blood

Of saviors, saints & the wisest madmen.

But it was not until the dim flicker

Of simple light, shadowless on the wall

of the cave that is my heart, scratched in an ancient

hand, that I was so stirred to finally

make out the blessing, once too blurry to read:

"let your writing be your practice,” it said,

let your practice be what you bleed."

Mike Biegner

Jan. 2012

Afterlife

That line is paper thin,
She told me.
I can hear the footsteps
Even when they fly—
They leave their footprints sometimes two chords deep,
They pass through me,
And when they reach my rib cage, I kind of fold inside,
I stop what I’m doing and I pay attention.
The trees look different when that happens;
They sway the way my grandfather laughed
When I showed him my crayons.
You know my father visits.
Sometimes he hides behind his dahlias
And poof he points out the dew drops
Just as if they’ve been there all along.
And sometimes the clouds spell words
Embedded in my memory

Now Karla, I told her.
This cannot be proven.
You die, I die, this much we know.
But at that point the buddhists think one thing
And the republicans another
And you know that priest
Who told me I was risking heaven,
Me, who follows 8 of the 10 commandments.
I dismissed him, but he could be right.
It would have to be two way communication,
Don’t you think, if the dead could speak?

You shouldn’t doubt, she answered,
Your friend Renee told you yourself
To say fuck as a prayer
And see astonish as a sign.
And I’ve watched you raise a broom to the ceiling,
Knocking a hello from here to there.
You told me yourself,
Time isn’t linear
And love outlasts a fleshy mess.

Why doubt it, she said.
Why be dead
When you might not die?
What mother would leave her children
 here floundering, trying to understand
how something holy cannot hold water?

You might be right, Karla,
i hope you are.
But even thin lines are still lines
And lines have two ends.
i can’t follow two ends.
I’d rather just one
I’m a circle girl, Karla,
And you know what?
Circles might be paper thin too





Karen Jasper
January 2012

Mindful Connections: It is time

It is time …

It is time to shift our focus from needing the attention to giving attention, needing healing to providing healing, approaching the horse through our wounds to wanting to heal theirs.

Horses have been in service to humankind for century after century. Building our roads, logging our woods, fighting our wars, the horse has patiently and diligently helped us evolve. In more recent times the horse has become less utilitarian and more recreational and status enforcing. Nowadays, the horse is part of humanities self-inquiry, therapy and personal healing process. The willingness to reflect back to humans what the horse is faced with provides tremendous help and support for the individuals’ development.

Yet I wonder, what are we doing for the horse? Who is in support of their well-being? Horses have physically adapted to the inadequate housing and keeping arrangement of most domestic settings, mentally adapted to the predatory approach by humans, emotionally submitted themselves to the ongoing domineering and fight for, or lack of, leadership, all while being spiritually broken down for the sake of service. Are we just so used to their kindness and willingness to adapt that we don’t feel for them, of them?

Why, I wonder, do only a few people see the opportunity for all to be well and wholesome?  If we were to take care of the horse, if we were tuning in to the intrinsic need of both, human and horse, to connect mindfully, heart to heart, humanity, the world, would be such a better feeling place.

As I heal the wounded carriage horse, I expand my wisdom.
As I preserve the spirit of the young horse, I expand my abilities to guide and learn.
As I see life through the herd leaders eyes, I understand his role and responsibility for the herd’s wellbeing, and thus I support him by putting my needs second.
As I am mindful with the horse, I become mindful for all.

I believe if humans take care of the soul family of the horse, they will be changed too. They will be lighter, more knowing.

When you see through their eyes, feel of their body, connect spirit to spirit, healing occurs naturally.

Nicole Birkholzer
http://www.mindful-connections.com/

Broken

"You piece of crap."

 

He said it quietly, deliberately, as he looked me in the eyes then walked away.

 

I took a deep breath, rubbed one of his classmates on the head, and turned to walk back inside the school.

 

He was having a bad day, my boy. He's called me names before -- stupid, ugly, dumb, old lady and, most recently, the scum between his toes. I've gotten good at letting it roll off my back.

 

"It's not about me," I tell myself. "I'm just the one standing in front of him, and he doesn't know what to do with all of his anger, frustration, rage, and sadness. He's broken."

 

That was in September, October...but it's December now, and "you piece of crap" kicks me in the gut. Not because of the words, but because it feels like all the work we've done -- all the work I've done -- these past few months has been for nothing. We're back to Square 1. He doesn't trust me.

 

It's a gut check too because we live in a world where an 8 year old boy can be this damaged, this broken.  He is funny, smart, so freakin' charming, sweet even...but sometimes, the light in his eyes goes dark and he is gone...far away in an instant and I can't get him back.

 

"You piece of crap."

 

The words echo on my heart. All the positive recognition, all the playful teasing, all the sideways-secret smiles, the sing-songy "JJ has his homework" on mornings when he approaches the homework bin, all those moments that he raises his hand voluntarily and I dare to hope we've made it -- all of that is dashed on the rocks with those 4 words.

 

It's not about the words -- I'm tough -- the words roll off my back. It's about the look in his eyes that says, "I don't trust you. You can't win this fight. I won't let it happen."



Kristin McCue
Nov. 2011

Before I knew my name

Before I knew my name, my soul was touched by God.
Before my tongue had words, my soul was touched by God.
Before I drew a breath, before I had a face,
Before I nestled in my mother's blood,
My soul was touched by God.
Before my parents clasped their hands,
Before their parents suckled milk,
My soul was touched by God.
Before the rain and ground conjoined,
Before the moon could tend the tides,
Before the sea and land were struck,
Before divine light split the dark, my soul was touched by God.
Oh, my soul        forgive me for the times I do not know you.
For you have been faithful, steadfast       more enduring
Than time itself. 


Anne Lindley
anne.lindley.writes
8/2011

A Fine Year for Moss

In the end, Anne came to a decision. She chose the larger of the two stepping stones and moved on, snapping out of her frozen footsteps and on down the steep and treacherous path through the woods. She now passed through an untouched part of the forest. Lime green ferns laced the edges of fallen logs, Astroturf moss padded comfortable old stones. This moss was thicker and somehow longer than any Anne had ever seen. This was no delicate moss. It carpeted any hard rock or tree trunk it could settle on. It was, thought Anne, a fine year for moss.

Her destination was a particular point by a small brook, which she had discovered at the beginning of the summer. She rarely visited this spot because the path to it was a linear one. She preferred to walk in circles. Usually her hikes headed out from the day’s beginning in one direction and ended by coming home from the opposite direction. Straight lines bothered her. Retracing the steps she’d already taken was redundant. Anne found little grace in the shape of the back-and-forth walk.

But sometimes it wasn’t grace she sought. On some days, she sought solace. And little or no spot offered comfort and solace, and protection, on quite the scale as the little spot by the brook before which she now found herself standing, all underfoot slippery leaves and wobbly rocks forgiven as she stopped and breathed and let the water fall in on her ears, slowing her, soothing her so much, and so swiftly, that in an instant before she knew where she was, she wanted nothing more than to drop to her knees and then to her belly and then to curl up for a deep, deep nap there by the brookling brook.

To the right of the path, the water welled up in a small pool, into which the brook spilled from a series of rock-formed waterfalls. It was the pluck-pluck call of the water from the far side of the mossy rocks into this small pool that Anne found so mesmerizing. When she had first seen this spot it had been enough for her to stand on the path and admire the tiny waterfalls and crystal-clear pool, shrouded from the glare of high noon by the indigo hemlock fronds rising in a military stand on the northern flank of that damp and shaded slope.

But today she stood on the path and weighed the force of her urge to nap against the solid attraction of one particular rock higher up the water fall against the risk of the treacherous leaves that lay in between her fatigue and the rock’s attraction. She knew not what lay underneath those leaves. Just to sit, that’s all she wanted. To sit. To not think, for just a minute. To not think.

She toed the ground.

What would the scarecrow man with the orange jacket do? What would Rachel do? What would dear Richard do?

And so pretending she was anybody but herself, Anne Dexter stepped off the path.

It took her ten minutes, but she did reach the rock higher up. She was a careful person, that much was certain. But finally she attained her destination. She stepped onto the flat rock ledge, looking about her at the falling water, the hemlocks, the pale blue sky peeking through.

She lay down on the rock. Without thinking, she fell asleep

When she woke up just a short while later, she felt something different. Aside from her sore hip, she felt, just, different. She felt alone, most definitely, but also ready to not be alone.

From her spot, she could see a green that hovered just beyond the reach the of the hemlock trunks. The forest floor? She squinted. She dropped back her head. She widened her eyes. She took in her breath, lest it be stolen by what she saw.

What she thought might be the forest floor rising through the trees up a steep hill was no forest floor. It was a rock. The largest of all the rocks around. The largest of all the rocks she’d ever seen. A house was the first thing that came to mind. The rock was a big as a house. Maybe not Jim’s new house or Rachel’s old house, but possibly the size of her little middle-aged house by the Green River. And she hadn’t seen the rock at first because it was entirely grown over in a thick coating of heavy green moss. It was a fine year for moss.

There the rock was. There the rock had always been, staring her in the face. She had not even seen it. How could there be such an impossibly large rock just tossed here in a jumble of already very large rocks beside this wee little brook meandering on the far side of her feet.

For the first time in a long awhile, she found herself wishing Richard were with her. Her mate there, to help her to make her way across the ditches and sinkholes to the large rock, someone who could help her to climb the rock, to best it, to sit astride it.

As it was, she could get nowhere near it. She had her limits, even on this extraordinary day, that she did know.

And so she stared and stared at the rock, trying to memorize the heft and weight and looming impossibility of this moss-covered behemoth.

The path homeward, when at length she regained it, suddenly seemed entirely beside the point. There was now only one way to go and that was back where she’d come from. For the first time since she could remember, she would retrace her steps and redo the thing with pleasure and with grace. Never a word used much in her vocabulary, again had become a word she would begin to use more often.

Linda Stevenson
November 2011