The Path of No Path

Adventure Sitting in my house Which way is the wind blowing? Walking outside now

How the West was…Not As a kid growing up in the 1960s the sound of Rossini’s Overture to William Tell could mean only one thing. It was time to watch the The Lone Ranger. To be honest, my only memories of those moments were Rossini’s music, the fact that I watched the show, and Tonto. More specifically, Jay Silverheels, the actor. It wasn't until nearly fifty years later that I would realize not only how little I knew of Native Peoples, but what a total sham my education had been. To realize that one’s master narrative has been from day one an enormous lie is a huge moment in one’s life. One that I still struggle to comprehend its effects on my life. I confess I was anxious to see the new Lone Ranger film with Johnny Depp. Mostly I was hoping that Mr. Depp would bring his now legendary character acting prowess into the arena of social debate, and right more than a few wrongs that the original Lone Ranger TV show had perpetrated. I was of course, disappointed.  It is

A new, and already dear friend wrote this today and sent it to me. It is quite lovely. I think of two forest guardians...  One of the day, one of the night. They each wear a key around their necks, emblem of their office, but the sanctum arborus it does not open. Until one day they meet at the eldritch gate, and embracing, the keys pressed between their breasts becomes one key. It fits the ancient portal perfectly. Click.

From Today: My dearest friends, each of us toss many pebbles into this grand, cosmic lake. Though the ripple effect from today's pebbles may never be seen by us, it's effects are still felt. The effectiveness of each pebble we cast, thankfully is not controlled by our ability to see the ripples, but by the amount of love we place inside each and every pebble that we cast. Cast freely. Cast often. Cast from your heart. Breathe. Smile. Take another step, knowing that the world has already started changing because of you.

A Walk Between Worlds    A great blue heron stands silently near the edge of a small lake. Partially concealed by a stand of pampas grass, she waits. It is not quite dawn, and the forest makes no sound. The sounds of last nights crickets and frogs have disappeared into the mist that hugs the shore of the lake. Gone too, is the screeching of owls. The night hunters, who glide silently overhead, patiently searching for that one mouse or vole that has been unwary, and is caught off guard. Throughout the forest there is tension. Tension that comes from the coming change. Everything feels it. The time of the great sleep, the period profound and restorative rest, that great slumber called Winter, is nearly at an end. The silence, the crisp cold, the small patches of remaining snow, are but delicate appetizers, to the prelude, of the bountiful menu that is Spring. Change is indeed coming. It is nearly the full moon. The early morning sky is changing from the void of near blackness, t