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Copyright Joseph Anthony of the Wonder Child Blog
Category Archives: Short Stories
Storm and Starcoat: The Story Begins
Storm
and Starcoat
The
Story Begins
By
Joseph
Anthony
Storm, the
dragon, unfurled her wings and the sun loosened and rose in the sky. Starcoat slipped from between her front legs
and yawned and stretched. Storm lifted
herself and shook giving a low purred growl.
“Morning,”
she said.
“Morning,”
said Starcoat wiping his eyes.
“Shall we continue
the lessons?”
“Yes,
please,” he said standing up.
“Stretch
first,” she said.
“Stretch
first,” he said with a groan.
“Come on
Starcoat, you know the value of stretching.”
“I know, I
know,” he said reaching his arms towards the sky and standing on his tip-toes,
“I just like the action.”
“No action,”
she smiled, “until after we’ve stretched.”
The two
began stretching like new born babies as beams of light filtered through the
trees. Some would say they were an
unlikely pair—a lavender colored dragon and a young man. Truth is they were made for each other. Both had saved the other’s life on more than
one occasion. Both had reason to suffer and yet both had transformed their
suffering into healing for themselves and the world. Both were full of adventure and wonder, and
surely they knew that the road to their heart’s desire was made warmer and
kinder by each other’s company.
“Alright,
Dear Starcoat, take my hand.”
He stepped
towards her and took her hand.
“Ah,
action,” he said.
“Music,” Storm
said, looking up at the trees. From the
surrounding treetops a thousand birds awoke at once in a chorus of sunlight and
morning air, they twittered and peeped like an orchestra settling in to play,
rustling sheet music printed on leaves and shaking out their wings.
“Waltz of
the Flowers,” she instructed, and after a brief pause to test their voices, the
birds began and together with the forest sounds they wove a charming arrangement
of Tchaikovsky’s timeless waltz.
“Remember,
start with the left foot. And when you
grip my hand, do it as if I am an angel. Not too tight.”
“You are an
angel,” he laughed.
“You know
what I mean,” Storm said, “no death-grips while holding hands.”
“I know,”
Starcoat said, “you’re still an angel.”
“Shoulders
back,” she said smiling, and relax, remember to breathe. Chin parallel to the floor.”
And with
that she swept him across the forest floor in a waltz that awoke the world
around them. Rabbits emerged from
crowded warrens, deer stepped from the edges of the woods. Even the bears snorted and padded into the
open space.
Rising and
falling they traveled the floor sending leaves pirouetting around them. Starcoat’s tattered coat of silver stars
swelled in the current of their flowing movements like a black river flowing at
night.
“Lengthen
your steps,” said Storm, “concentrate.”
Starcoat had
trouble concentrating whenever they started lessons. He would get lost in her eyes and forget to
relax his knees so compelled he was to just stop and stare. But he wanted to learn to dance. And he wanted Storm to teach him. And he knew how much she loved to teach and
to dance. So he forced himself to focus
on his body, and in this forcing he often lost the flow.
“Starcoat,”
she said, drawing to a pause, “You’re doing it again.”
“Sorry,” he
said, “I can’t help it.”
“It’s alright,”
she said, lifting his face and looking deep into his eyes. “I feel the same way.”
“You do?” he
said dropping his arms as his smile dawned like the morning sun.
It was the
first time she had ever admitted it.
“Yes,” she
said, and Starcoat could see her lavender skin grow deep royal purple.
With tears
in his eyes he pulled her close. He had
always known, but to hear her say it–his heart opened like a once clogged
river. The animals drew closer as the
two embraced.
“Alrighty
then,” Starcoat said after a long time, “let’s dance.”
“Wait,” she
said, and she looked at him with a deep gratitude. “Thank you. Thank you for sharing the stars with me. The light you shine helps me honor my own
fire.”
“You’re
welcome,” he said, fairly trembling with joy, “We’re a team. Thank you for
teaching me to dance, now my light can truly shine.”
And then he
placed his right hand on her back, just inside her left shoulder blade, thumb
up, fingers spread. She smiled.
“You’re
leading?” she asked.
“I am,” he
said, with his right arm rounded and elbow high, “Orchestra: music please.”
And the
orchestra sighed with reverence and joy and once again began the Waltz of the
Flowers, and each bear gathered there reached out a paw to the deer next to him
and each deer stood and reached out a hoof.
And each bear touched the inside of their partner’s left forearm and
placed their paws gently inside their shoulder blades. And every creature took
a partner, the rabbits, the foxes, and the otters (who were always dancing in
the water anyway, but took a moment to slip out and dance on the riverbank),
and the trees locked branches and swayed, and the mountains bowed and joined hands,
and the moon, still awake, received the sun’s invitation, and the Milky Way
joined Andromeda’s embrace and all the universe danced with Storm and Starcoat,
as their journey together officially began.
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Copyright Joseph Anthony of the Wonder Child Blog
Summer Re-Run: The Artistic X-Ray Technician: A Story of Possibilities
Dear Wonder Child Blog Readers,
Exactly two years ago today I wrote and published this story about an X-ray technician who had a visionary way of looking at his patients. It remains my most popular story by both comments and repeated visits. Whether you’re reading it for the first time or for the hundredth time, I hope it leaves you inspired.
Peace,
Joseph
The Artistic X-Ray Technician:
A Story of Possibilities
by
Joseph Anthony
All of the other x-ray technicians said he couldn’t take artistic x-rays. It just wasn’t possible. The gamma-cameras were too precise and exacting. There was no room for any type of artistic anything.
Moreover the doctors said he shouldn’t take artistic x-rays, even if it were possible, which, of course everybody knew it wasn’t. The doctors warned that any artistic flares would jeopardize the integrity of the image.
So he took artistic x-rays anyway.
“How could I do otherwise?” He said during his most recent employee review. “I am taking pictures of people’s hearts and every heart I see is beautiful. I look at the images forming on the computer screen and I see babies instead of hearts. I see clay impressed with the fingerprints of God. I see flower bulbs in glowing soil. I see owls sleeping with their faces covered by their own wings. I see angels bowing their heads. And sometimes, especially in the hearts of children, I see galaxies just ready to unfurl their arms.
“So I am compelled to let the camera linger at the end. I program it to slide, ever so slightly as it completes the image. This creates a subtle blurring of the edges of the picture. It looks as if the image was framed in soft grass or a gentle fire. And if I am really careful with my strokes the whole image–and I reiterate–without compromising the findings of the x-ray–looks as if it were gilded with gold like an old Byzantine picture of the face of Jesus.
“I realize my efforts to create artistic x-rays bothers some doctors, but I’ve done some checking and every single person I have ever x-rayed has had full and complete recoveries or else their hearts were found to be healthier than ever. I believe these findings prove my work is crucial to our patient’s well being.
“How do I account for these extraordinary findings? I think it’s because once the heart is viewed as beautiful, it responds by healing. You see, the heart usually gets seen only when something is wrong or something wrong is suspected. But the heart–the physical form of the heart–is actually the outward manifestation of the soul’s heart. And both forms, the physical and the spiritual, are exquisitely beautiful, and therefore long to be seen, honored, and shared. So in otherwords, when I see the things I see in the images of the hearts–like yesterday, I looked at the heart of a dear old woman who had such a cheerful disposition, and I saw a dancer crouching with her arms folded around her knees, ready to rise up and act out the movements of the dawn–it simply makes the heart happy to be seen in such light. And she left the room ready to skip down the hallway!”
The doctors couldn’t argue with his findings. Everyone being wheeled back to their rooms reported feeling lighter than air, as if they were kings and queens riding chariots instead of gurneys. They feel like children with futures as bright as the afternoon sun in June.
So even though everyone says it isn’t possible, he continues to take artistic x-rays. In fact, soon he is going to open the world’s first art school for x-ray technicians.
“After all,” he said as his review was wrapping up, “if it works for the heart, it would work for other parts of the body. So when we take pictures say, of the brain, for instance, perhaps if we saw them as bundles of tree roots wrapped in silken cloth, or if, when we x-rayed the spine and saw a glittering Chinese dragon, perhaps the owners of those brains and spines would miraculously heal also. It’s worth a try I think. That’s why I am going to open up the x-ray art school. I’m thinking of calling it The Art Institute of Inner Beauty. It’s motto would be, anything’s possible for the one who believes.”
Copyright Joseph Anthony of the Wonder Child Blog
Gifts of Shadow and Light, A Story of Beginnings
Gifts of Shadow and Light
A Story of Beginnings
By Joseph Anthony
“To
own one’s own shadow is to reach a holy place — an inner center —
not attainable in any other way.”
–Robert Johnson
Darkness and
the Young Soul stood together on the shores of a great sea. They watched silently as the waves spilled
over one another in a moiling effort to dance around their feet.
The sun hung
peacefully in the distance, watching yet not intrusively. It watched as a father does wondering when
his child will go make something of himself in the world. The moon too watched from just beyond and
above a range of misty blue mountains.
She smiled and nodded to Darkness.
He returned her nod with one of his own.
And then Darkness
reached into the folds of his cloak and produced a sphere of swirling black
fog. He held it out to the Young Soul
who stared at the roiling ball of blackness with wonder. It looked alive; like animated India ink congealing
into the form of a ball filled with spirals.
“Is it mine?”
asked the Young Soul.
“No,”
Darkness replied, “it is mine. I offer to you it as a loan. Care for it as one would a child, for indeed,
that is what it is. Hold it until you
know it well and it knows you; hold it until you are one.”
Darkness
placed the sphere into the Young Soul’s hands.
“It’s warm,”
said the Young Soul.
“Everyone
expects shadows to be cold,” said Darkness, “owing, I suppose to shade and its
cooling properties, but the shadows I give are filled with light. And light is warm, just as the most
comforting words are warm, not cold.”
“What
happens now?”
“You will lose
it.”
“Lose it?”
said the Young Soul as he stared into the piece of the night that roiled in his
hands. “Why would I do that?”
“It happens
to every soul. They forget the gifts
they carry, lose them, if you will, and then spend the rest of their lives
searching for them.”
“You mean I
am meant to lose it?”
“Destined.”
“Why would I
pick a Destiny like that? Why would I lose
what you just gave me?”
“Adventure. All souls long for adventure; to be able to
explore the jungles of emotions, to sail the rivers of passion; to feel what it
is to inhabit a body and to know hunger, to make love with the Muse and the to
create beauty unlike anything the world has ever seen or heard, tasted or felt.
So they accept my gifts and then lose
them.”
“That all
sounds tempting, but what does losing your shadow have to do with it?”
“It starts
the adventure.”
“I don’t
understand,” said the Young Soul.
“You needn’t,
at least not yet.”
“But why
would you give me a part of yourself knowing it was going to be lost?”
“Every gift
is lost at some point,” said Darkness, “the giver knows that. The joy comes from knowing the gift has been
received with grace and is being passed on from generation to generation, heart
to heart, and from the knowing that the gift will grow, blossom, multiply, and
become many gifts in many forms. That is
the way of all parents and their children.
The children become lost and then found in the most unexpected places
and ways.”
“How does
one go about losing a shadow anyway?” asked the Young Soul testing the black
sphere’s weight. It felt as if he was holding
a ball of air.
“Begin lying
to yourself about yourself. Once you do your attention shifts and you forget
the gift and then it runs off to begin an elaborate game of hide and seek. For, like all children, it loves begin seen,
and when it’s not being seen, it does all sorts of remarkable things to get
your attention. And one of the things it
does is to begin playing.”
The Young
Soul laughed. “Well I am not going to
lose mine. I will never lie to
myself. I intend to live bathed in the
light of truth always.”
As he spoke
the sphere cracked open like a black egg and began spilling its black yoke all
over the Young Soul’s hands. He gasped
and cried out in fear. But it was too
late. The shadow spread around and
within him like black ivy until it disappeared within him completely. He shivered as if filled with cold, black
ice. The waves receded and seemed to
wait in the wings for their next instructions from the moon.
“You said
your shadows were warm.”
“They are,
but lies are cold, and ‘never’ and ‘always’ are the coldest of all.”
The Young
Soul straightened himself and trembled.
“So,” he said,
swallowing hard, “now I fill a body, is that it?” He spoke as one resigned, yet
trying to summon as much courage as he could to accept the consequences of his
actions.
“Yes, be
born,” said Darkness, “the adventure has begun.”
“How will I
know where to look for my shadow?”
“Look in the
things you truly love and hate. It will
be revealed in your passions and desires; look for it in your mean criticisms
of others for it will be reflected there.
Look for it in your talents–the ones you develop and the ones you see
in others but are too afraid to try out for yourself. Search your dreams for it
will unveil clues to its whereabouts there; it will move like a black deer through
the forest of your mind; it will swim like a black fish through your deepest
thoughts. And know this: it can leap
from you and enter other people just for a moment to look at you through the
eyes of its host seeing if you can recognize it.”
“It can
merge with other shadows?”
“Shadows
were born to merge. It is their deepest
desire. One day when all of my shadows
become one and return to me, the world will explode into light and a new heaven
will descend upon the earth and spread like the first, eternal morning of
paradise.”
The Young
Soul turned his face away. He seemed to
be listening to something only he could hear.
Darkness
smiled. A small vessel approached the
shore pushed by the unseen hands of an unseen current. In the boat sat a woman dressed in a flowing
gown of silk, colored like the waves and the foam. She was singing. In her arms she held a baby.
The Young
Soul looked on with wonder as the boat touched the shore. He turned to face Darkness.
“Is it time?”
the Young Soul asked.
“Only if you
say so.”
The Young
Soul looked at the woman, she looked down at the infant in her arms with all
the love of the Dawn looking at you through your bedroom window.
“Thank you,”
said the Young Soul to Darkness.
“You’re
welcome. We will meet again.”
The Young
Soul embraced Darkness and then turned, and moved towards the woman in the
boat. He stumbled in the sand and waves,
the first of many stumbles he would make on his journey into and out of
himself.
Darkness
stood and watched them drift away. His
cloak billowed and suddenly became all wings and feathers and he rose and flew
towards the ever welcoming light.
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Copyright Joseph Anthony of the Wonder Child Blog
Thanksgiving, A Little Story on the Nature of Prayer, by Jennifer Angelina Petro
Thanksgiving,
A Little Story on the Nature of Prayer
By
Jennifer Angelina Petro
A prayer hung heavily on a branch of the Tree of Life. Ripening over centuries, it grew sweeter with age and the persistence of faith. One day the Gardener strolled by, singing as usual, and plucked the prayer from the Tree, and with great gusto, took a hearty bite, letting the juices river down his chin.
“Now that,” he said, talking with his mouth full, “is a good prayer.”
He continued to eat the prayer, crunching down to the core. When he got to the star shaped seeds he carefully picked them out and then casually, gracefully, and with intention, dropped them to earth. Weeping for the sheer ecstasy of having been touched by the Gardener’s hands, the seeds fell for days and weeks through open, pristine space, tossed here and there by currents of sound and desire. They danced as they descended—leaning into little pirouettes and whirled in sweeping spirals, down, down, down they drifted and eventually landed precisely where the Gardener intended them to go—right into the hearts of a little boy and his father.
The little boy had prayed prayers of gratitude all night, for his father hadn’t had a drink in over three months; and the father, weeping in thanks for finally having been freed from the chains of his disease, had prayed prayers of gratitude all night as well. The seeds nestled in their hearts and, because they were prayers of thanksgiving, sprouted quickly, spreading their holy fire into entire orchards of flourishing trees right through the dark valleys of the lives of that boy and his father. Soon the boy and his father would be harvesting the fruits of their prayers, and sharing them in heaping bushels with each other, their neighbors and friends, and the world.
“A beautiful day,” the Gardener said as he plucked another prayer from the Tree, “thanksgiving is blossoming everywhere.”
All donations go to medical bills and groceries. <3
The Further Enchanted Adventures of Thought and Feeling, Part II: Let’s Play
The Further Enchanted Adventures of
Thought and Feeling
Part II: Let’s Play
By Joseph Anthony
One day as
Thought and Feeling were sitting in the garden sipping their morning coffee,
they began debating about who was older.
“Oh, I am
definitely older than you,” said Thought, “after all, the Creator spoke things
into existence, and words are thoughts expressed into language.”
“Yes,” said
Feeling, “but the Creatrix was the one moving on the face of the deep which
gave the Creator the inspiration to speak.”
Thought pondered
this for a long time and then said, “Yes, but the face of the deep was the
Creator’s mind, and so you could say, I am older.”
“I think the
Creatrix actually sung things into existence,” said Feeling, “and since music
came before speaking, then I’m older.”
“There’s no
proof music came before speaking. No
dear, if you examine things rationally for just a moment, it only makes sense
that I am the older one.”
“Darling,”
said Feeling setting her coffee cup on the table and then rising to her feet.
“What is it
my Love?”
“Darling,”
she continued, “do you realize how mysterious the exchange we just had is?”
“Yes,” he
said, “I do. We weren’t created. We ARE the creators.”
“It’s funny,”
she said, “to make stories up about ourselves and to not realize they’re really
about us for so many years.”
“That is
kind of funny,” said Thought, “now why do you suppose we would do a thing like
that?”
“We like to
play,” said Feeling rubbing Thought’s shoulders.
“Yes!” said
Thought.
Feeling sat
back down and took a sip from her coffee and then smiled slyly. “Let’s play some more.”
“Good idea,”
said Thought, “Let’s make up a story where you are the beginning and I am the
end and then let’s act that out for a few centuries and then switch parts.”
“Sounds
wonderful,” said Feeling clapping her hands.
And so
Thought and Feeling acted out stories that they made up as they went
along. You can find detailed
transcriptions of their stories in the poetry, mythology, religion, and
psychology sections of your local library.
Some of the stories were so inspiring that they were made into entire
histories and these can obviously be found in the history section. A few of the more humorous ones are sprinkled
in the science section. Some of their
stories changed over time to suit the particular bias of the teller and these
can be found in the fiction section, although we all know deep down that the
word “fiction” is a fiction, and is, in fact, actually related to an old word
meaning “dough,” as in bread dough. So
you can find some of Feeling and Thought’s most savory stories in the cooking
section. The couple of stories that fell
flat can be found in the politics section.
But the best stories of all, the ones told year after year, can be found
in the children’s section, and most particularly in the fairy tales.
After many
years making up stories and acting them out, Thought finally said, “You know, a
long time ago we began the day debating who was born first—you or me. And since neither of us remembers being born or
has any recollection of their respective parents then we will have to agree
that the question cannot be answered.”
“Very
logical,” said Feeling, “and I can take it a step further: perhaps in some
cosmic and mysterious way we gave birth to one another at the exact same
moment.”
“That’s far
out,” said Thought, “I can’t even wrap my mind around that one.”
Feeling was
very pleased with herself for having baffled her partner. But then he said: “How does it feel to not
know where we came from or how we got here?”
Feeling
became silent. “Thinking?” asked Thought,
leaning in closer on his elbows.
“No,” said
Feeling, “searching.”
Thought gave
her a few moments, and then said, “Baffled?”
“Yes,”
Feeling admitted, “and I’m not sure I like being baffled.”
“Oh,” said
Thought comfortingly, “you just haven’t searched long enough yet. Your feelings will surface when you’re ready
to embrace them.”
“Yes,” she
said, “I think you’re right. And I
suppose the more you ponder the idea about us arising together and giving birth
to one another long enough you too will discover words to cloth your thoughts
about this mystery.”
“Thank you,”
said Thought, “let’s help each other.”
And he offered her his hand. She
accepted and rose and walked with him through the garden, into their palace,
and then back into bed to make up more stories.
Copyright Joseph Anthony of the Wonder Child Blog
The Enchanted Adventures of Thought and Feeling, Part I: Getting Acquainted
The Enchanted Adventures of Thought and
Feeling
Part I: Getting Acquainted
By Joseph Anthony
Once within
a time, Thought and Feeling walked side by side on a late evening stroll.
“Look at
those two starlings swooping and dipping over the field,” said Thought.
“It’s thrilling
to watch,” said Feeling, “they’re beautiful.”
“They’re in
the Sturnidae family.”
“I see.”
“Look at
that sunset,” said Feeling, “Those crimsons splashed with purple–so lovely.”
“Are you
weeping?” asked Thought.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Sometimes such
beauty moves me to tears.”
“Interesting,”
said Thought, “I didn’t know the effects of pollution and dust particles in the
air could illicit such reactions.”
“They do for
me,” said Feeling, sniffling a little laugh.
As they strolled together the shadows
lengthened and the first stars blinked in the navy blue sky, giving birth to the
constellations. Thought described their shapes
and mythologies and Feeling recited poetry.
Thought pointed out the North Star and started giving its history and as
he did Feeling looked over at him looking up at the sky and said, “You so much,”
she said, “I’m impressed.” Thought
brought his gaze to rest on Feeling and looked her in the eye. “I think it’s brilliant,” he said, “how you
get to the heart of the matter.”
They both
laughed and continued walking, but this time hand in hand.
Night
descended, draping her black shawl over the trees. From within its folds, fireflies emerged and
rose and fell, dancing over the fields.
Bats fluttered like tattered pieces of shadow loosened from the gossamer
fabric left to hang in the tree tops.
Deer stepped from the forest and stood looking this way and that over
the swaying grass.
“It’s all so beautiful,” Thought said,
stopping to take it all in. “It feels so…so
holy.”
“I think
it’s beautiful too,” said Feeling, pressing in closer to Thought, “and
definitely holy.”
Thought
looked at her and furrowed his brow slightly.
“Wait,” he said, “you just said you think
the night is beautiful, and I just said it feels
holy.”
“And?” laughed
Feeling already knowing where he was going in his train of thinking.
“And?” said
Thought, “I think we’re influencing each other, don’t you?”
“Yes,”
Feeling answered, “isn’t it wonderful?”
“Well, I
suppose,” said Thought, “but what happens if we begin influencing each other
too much?”
“What do you
mean, by too much? Do you mean you’re afraid you might lose
yourself in me?”
After some
silence, Thought nodded and then said, “But that may not be a bad idea.” And with that he drew her close and kissed
her. She readily received his attentions
and readily gave him her affections and soon they were rolling in the firefly
dappled field beneath the blushing stars and smiling moon.
They awoke
to a shower of bird song. They sat up in
the field and shook the grass from their hair.
They looked at each other and embraced, drenched in iridescent dew.
“Lovely day,” Feeling said.
“I think
so,” Thought replied.
“How do you
feel?” Feeling asked.
“Wonderful,”
he said, “What do you think about our mingling?”
“Wonderful,”
she said, “I think it’s wonderful.”
“From now on
we are one, woven together in song.”
“Melody and
harmony,” she said, “and our children,” she began…
“And our
children,” he continued, “will be called Freedom and Unity.”
“And they
will grow to become Living Trees that will sustain the world for many
generations,” said Feeling.
“That sounds
lovely,” said Thought.
“I think so
too,” said Feeling.
And with
that they rose together and walked home in the newly born light of a newly born
day.
Copyright Joseph Anthony of the Wonder Child Blog
Green Man and the Holy Child, A Story for Earth Day 2013
I first published this story almost two years ago. In honor of Earth Day 2013, I am republishing it again with a few minor alterations. Enjoy, and Happy Earth Day!
Green Man and the Holy Child
by
Joseph Anthony
The Little Girl leaned in close staring at the mass of upturned earth and roots that had formed at the base of the fallen birch. There it was: a face; a man’s face, green-hued, eyes closed, sunken deep into the vast system of roots, soil, and lichen. She looked at the face for several minutes, both fascinated and horrified (more fascinated than horrified though). She studied it; wondering just how it got there. And when he suddenly opened his eyes she fell backwards into the ferns. And when a moss covered arm stretched towards her, she screamed. And when he spoke, sending bits of earth and lichen scattering into the air, she couldn’t believe her ears.
“Please,” he whispered, his voice soaked with earth and shadows, “I mean you no harm. Our world will be doomed if you do not come.”
She stepped closer searching his gold-flecked eyes. They were ancient and filled with a sorrow so visible it cut right through her fear and went straight to her heart.
“Why do you need me?” she asked.
“You know about circles,” he smiled, little white moths fluttering from his mouth as he spoke. “You are careful where you walk. You touch with your eyes and hands with reverence and kindness. You give my people secret names and run your fingers through the tops of the ferns like your mother running her hands through your hair. I’ have heard you telling stories to the salamanders and to the stones in the creek. I heard you use foul language when you found the pile of beer bottles and fast food wrappers by the pond. I saw you carry the trash home. And,” he said, lowering his voice, looking into her eyes with a smile, “my bride saw you lay your hands on the wounded deer and heal him.” The Girl blushed.
“OK,” she said, “but that doesn’t answer my question. Why is your world doomed? And who are you?”
“Forgive me, I am Green Man, Father of the Earth. And I misspoke a moment ago. I should have said, “OUR worlds will be doomed if you do not come.”
“But why?” she said, almost shouting, “Why will they be doomed?”
“Disillusionment,” he said with bits of leaves falling from his lips. “There are so few in my world who believe in your kind anymore–so much destruction, poisoning, and senseless ravaging. There are many in my world who want to destroy your race. But they don’t understand the circles like you and I. And so I thought you could teach them.”
“Me?”
“Yes. They hardly listen to me anymore. So I thought if they heard about the circles from one of your kind—one they can trust—then perhaps they would reconsider their plan of destruction. Besides, my bride, the Green Woman, or, as you call her, Mother Earth, thinks it’s a good idea. After she saw that deer spring back to its legs and bound away into the woods, she told me if anyone could save us—it would be you.”
The Little Girl closed her eyes for several minutes. The woods hushed to hear her reply. She knew what she would do. She took a deep breath, opened her eyes, and then reached out placing her hand in his. She half expected his arm to crumble like a rotting log, but instead it was strong and powerful. He smiled and she noticed tears forming in the corners of his eyes like dew forming in the grass.
“Now what?” she asked.
“We go in,” said Green Man, “this is a door.”
“Will it hurt going through? It looks so crowded.”
“No child, the door will widen for you. It will not hurt. Tickle perhaps, maybe a few little scratches, but nothing serious.”
“Shall we?” He asked.
She nodded and then he pulled her through the roots and earth. She felt sticks and cool, moist dirt pass through her. A few twigs got stuck in her hair and more than one stone bumped her sides. The finer roots combed through her body and her soul, removing any last doubts she may have had about herself.
When they arrived on the other side she saw a world of brilliant green infused with golden hues. There were eyes everywhere—every leaf, flower, tree, rock had eyes. All of them watched her curiously. Most looked suspicious. Some filled with tears when they saw her.
As they walked hand in hand she saw Green Man’s full body for the first time. It was completely draped in moss and leaves. It trailed vines and clumps of earth and stood over 9 feet tall. His arms and legs were covered with lichen and sticks, leaves and bits of white, curling bark. His hair was one big mass of ferns and his back was dotted with mushrooms. She smiled and somehow felt safer than she had ever felt before.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“To the council,” he said, stopping suddenly. Someone was running towards them.
“My bride,” he shouted, “what is it?”
“It’s begun,” Green Woman said, her voice trembling.
“What?!” Green Man shouted, “I was not there for the final vote!”
“The council did not want to wait for your return.” Green Woman said. “They did not think she would come.” The Green Woman looked down at the Little Girl with eyes dark as night. “But I knew she would.”
The Little Girl looked up and felt as if she were looking into Mother Nature Herself, which indeed she was.
Green Woman looked a little like her groom, only her hair was studded with morning glories and her dress of vines and leaves flowed like an elegant river of a thousand shades of rippling green.
“We must hurry,” said Green Man.
“Is it too late?” the Little Girl said.
“There is no such thing as too late,” Green Man said, “nonetheless, we must hurry.”
He swept down and lifted the Little Girl onto his shoulders. She felt as if she were riding a walking tree.
They ran along the grass covered street. Flowers and trees ran after them on their legs of roots. Rocks tucked their faces in and began rolling along side them. Frogs, toads, deer, bears, and many other animals followed with them. When the Little Girl looked behind them she even saw a river flowing towards them with fish leaping in and out of the water as it moved.
Meanwhile, back in the Little Girl’s world, trees were snatching unsuspecting hikers and hurtling them down mountains or devouring them instantly in gaping mouths. The ground was opening beneath the boots of loggers. Roots with inescapable grasps were grabbing the ankles of fishermen standing along the riverbanks. Backyards with swing sets and swimming pools suddenly disappeared in massive sink holes. Entire rows of houses lifted, heaved, and feel backwards into the waiting crunching mouths. Storms ignited over lakes and golf courses, sending lighting’s death-inducing fingers crawling everywhere like electric spiders. Within minutes thousands world over were gone.
Green Man burst open the doors of the council.
“How dare you!” He shouted. “How dare you dishonor me by acting without my voice! I demand you stop the destruction at once and hear my witness!”
The room was filled with enormous mushrooms and trees—all with staring eyes. Some of the members bent over scratching crooked letters in tablets of stone.
And when the council saw the Girl it fell silent. She scrambled down Green Man, brushed herself off and walked confidently into the center of the room. She looked back where Green Man and Green Woman stood. They nodded. She bent down and all eyes followed her as she lifted a small stone the size of an almond to her face and whispered something to it. “Thank you,” she said to the stone and then stood up, and to the amazement of the council members, walked behind their chairs and began drawing on the smooth, hard wood floor.
“Is this OK?” She asked the floor.
“Yes,” it whispered like a snake, “Yesss.”
Slowly and carefully she inscribed a huge circle around them all. And when she was finished she stood and turned, looking each council member in the eye.
“You are blind,” she began, “for every one of my kind that you remove, you lose one tree, flower, or stone. And my people are just as blind. For every tree we remove, a person somewhere, someplace, dies. And so it ever shall be. You see,” she continued, gaining momentum and strength as she felt Green Man and Green Woman watching her, “we were spoken from the same Word. The same Word that sang you sang us. We are formed from the same soil and when the Creator breathed Spirit into us, He breathed Spirit into you. We are bound with unbreakable bonds. And so I say again, if you destroy us, you destroy yourselves.”
She paused looking around the great room, and before anyone could respond to what she had just said, she started again.
“The opposite is also true. When one of my kind plants a tree or a flower, one of my kind is born in some other part of the world. When one of my kind is born one of your kind blossoms or hatches from a seed.”
“Is all of this true?” interrupted one of the members, “why were we not informed?”
“It is.” She replied, “and you were informed. You knew. Everyone and everything knows we are connected. It is just so many of us refuse to believe it.”
Just then the doors to the council room were thrown open and in strode an army of silver and white birch trees, each one carrying a dead tree in its giant branches.
The council members rose and gasped.
One of the birches held a dead sapling, and cried, “Stop the destruction! For every one of the humans we destroy one of our kind falls.”
“So it’s true,” whispered the council.
And as the council members erupted into loud discussions, the Little Girl began walking from dead tree to dead tree, touching their petrified faces. One by one the dead trees rose up verdant green. Each one she healed bowed to her and began forming a circle around her. The council fell silent as they watched her resurrect the fallen trees. She laughed as the trees entwined their branches and began dancing in a great circle of green around her. The spruce trees began playing violins that they formed instantly from their own branches. The bamboo trees kept time clapping their hands like claves. The rivers flowed around them in rhythm to the music. All of the animals joined in. Green Man and Green Woman joined hands and spun around sending twigs and leaves and butterflies sailing around the room. And the council rose as one and sent word to all corners of the earth to stop the destruction. It also sent out all the rivers to begin flowing backwards until time turned back to just before the destruction began restoring everything and everyone to its proper, living place.
And while there was still work to be done, much progress was made that day by Green Man, his bride, and a Little Girl who knew a great deal about circles.
Copyright Joseph Anthony of the Wonder Child Blog
The Choice, A Story for Anyone Who Has Ever Lost A Loved One
I originally wrote this story almost two years ago for my friend Jean Raffa. For some reason I never published it. Recently I heard about a new friend who lost a beloved pet and is moving through her grief, and I remembered this story. So I decided now is a good time. This story isn’t just about the loss of a pet, but about anyone–human or animal that has passed to the other world. It is a story about choices. And while it doesn’t completely describe my spiritual beliefs about the afterlife, it is a story of possibilities. It gives a glimpse of a possible answer as to why certain tragic things happen. Perhaps it is naive, that’s OK. I don’t profess to have any answers. It is really meant to bring a little comfort for anyone grieving. It is also meant to stir the imagination and the heart and to help anyone struggling with loss to gradually blossom into healing.
The Choice
The child
walked through the field of light weeping, looking for his dog. He called its name as he brushed his hands
over the tops of the radiant wheat. Suddenly
he heard the soft beating of wings and when he turned towards the sound, an
angel had alighted at his side.
For a long
time they said nothing. She walked beside
him with her hands cupped at her belly, looking straight ahead. He swiped a stick at the ground.
“I miss
him,” he said.
“He is your
friend,” she said.
“But I
thought friends never left you. That’s what the other angel said.”
“They don’t leave
you. But they’re spirits, just like you
and I, and so sometimes–well, sometimes when the unexpected happens, they get
lost for awhile, just like us.”
The boy was
quiet a moment. He knew what she meant by unexpected, for here he was walking the
illuminated fields of heaven with an angel.
“So Bear’s
lost?” He asked.
“In a manner
of speaking. But he’s looking for
you. And he’ll find you, you can count
on that. He’s a clever dog.”
“Do I have
to just wait for him to find me? Couldn’t I look for him too?”
“Of course,”
said the angel, “in fact, your love for him acts as a beacon. Through the hazy distances of memory and
through the corridors of his love for you—he will find you. He will come.”
The angel
placed her hand around his shoulder and pulled him closer.
“Keep
calling him,” she said, “he’s listening.
And keep being yourself—for it is when you are being yourself the most that
you attract your beloved.”
“Do you
suppose he’s upset that I left him?” asked the boy, his voice catching in his
throat.
“Try to stop
thinking about it like that,” the angel answered. “You didn’t leave him. You made a choice. After the accident, when the Great Light
asked if you wanted to remain here, you said yes, that’s all.”
“But I
should have never said yes. I was being
selfish.”
“Selfish?”
said the angel, “So you had the opportunity to stay here, in heaven, away from
the sickness that surrounded you, and you call that selfish?”
“He’s there though. I left him there and you know how daddy
treated him.”
“Your daddy
is a different man after the accident.
Your choice to stay here has changed him. His heart broke in just the perfect way as to
let the Light in. He will never mistreat
anyone or anything again. He is a new
creation. And if you would have gone
back, he would still be steeped in his disease, so no more talk of being selfish.”
“But what
about mom?” said the boy.
“You don’t
think she’s been born again watching your father be born again? You don’t think she’s a better person
too? Your choice to stay here has
changed them both. There’s hope for them
now. They are helping thousands of
families with their project. Many, many
lives will be saved as a result of their
choice to build upon your choice.”
“OK, OK,” so
I’m not selfish, but I still want Bear.”
“Of course,”
said the angel.
“I won’t
stop calling for him until he finds me,” said the boy.
“Or you find
him,” said the angel.
“I’ll keep
praying too,” said the boy.
“You are
praying,” she said, “with every step and tear and word you are praying; by just
being yourself—living the way you are living here in this world of Light and
Use—you are praying. Don’t ever worry
about not praying. Everything you do is
a prayer, Dear Brave Heart.”
And with an unfurling
of wings she was gone.
He stood in
the river of white shining grass and started calling again for Bear. All day he called and walked in the bright field–calling,
calling for his beloved Bear. He walked
past ponds and fields of wild flowers dappled with bees and butterflies. He walked past palaces and through forests of
redwoods that towered into the sky of heaven.
And just as
he was going to give up for the day, he heard angels singing. He spun around. When the angels sing that song—the welcoming song—there is a new arrival. The last time he heard it his great Aunt Ivy
appeared. He ran towards the sound, for
when heaven rejoices at a homecoming, the sound is indescribably wonderful, and
everyone drops what they’re doing and comes running to be a part of the
welcoming of another soul home. As he
ran he forgot about Bear and instead thought about how happy whoever it is will
be to have returned to their dearest, truest loves.
When he reached
the center of heaven he stopped. He
shook his head. He was stunned. The hosts of heaven, the Great Light, and every
soul from every part of the celestial world had gathered around something
sitting in their midst.
It was a
black and white shaggy dog.
“Bear!” He shouted. And at the sound of his name, Bear took off
running–fairly galloping over the snowy white grass. He leapt into the boy’s embrace knocking them
both into a tumble of fur and laughter.
The boy held
him, weeping on his neck. Bear panted
happily, licking the boy’s face with big, sloppy kisses.
His angel
moved towards them, smiling, singing.
“I didn’t
know they sang the welcoming song for animals too,” laughed the boy with his
arms still around Bear.
“All souls,”
she said, “we sing for all souls.”
“When will I
learn the welcoming song?” He asked, sniffling and rubbing Bear behind the
ears.
“Now that
Bear’s with you,” she said, “you are complete. The welcoming song is within you
now—part of your own voice.”
And that’s
when he felt his shoulder blades change their shape. They extended out and upwards, back and open;
and a certain, splendid heaviness sprouted painlessly in two directions. He
opened and closed his newly sprouted wings as he stood, keeping his hand on
Bear’s head. He smiled at Bear and at the angel and began laughing the laugh of
eternal joy.
****
Kneeling by
the side of the road, the police officer put his hand on the side of the dog’s bleeding
head. “He’s gone,” he said. “There was nothing you could do. Don’t blame yourself. It’s dark.
Hard to see.”
“He just
jumped across the road,” the woman said, sniffling and throwing her hands up in
despair. “He was running like he was looking
for something. I didn’t see him until it was too late.”
“I
understand,” said the policeman, “are you sure you’re alright?”
“Yes,” she
said, and then she slowly tilted her head and looked up at the stars.
“Do you hear
that?” she asked.
“What?”
asked the policeman.
“Singing,”
she said, “I hear singing.
Copyright Joseph Anthony of the Wonder Child Blog
The Shadow, the Tree, and the Heart of Darkness, A Story of Hope
Good Day, Dear Wonder Child Blog
Readers,
Today’s entry is a story inspired by
Dr. Jean Raffa and her wonderful blog, Matrignosis. Her last few posts have been about shadow
work, and this story, “The Shadow, The Tree, and the Heart of Darkness,” came
tumbling out in about 20 minutes after reading her latest and beautiful entry,
The Light Shadow. Jeanie is gracious enough
to allow me to submit my stories to her blog as comments. Imagine that, someone who welcomes four-page
comments (I welcome them too, by the way)!
Anywho, this story is about a shadow, a girl playing the recorder, a tree, the Heart of Darkness, and yes, hope.
The Shadow, the
Tree, and the Heart of Darkness
For Jeanie, the wisest
snowy owl I know.
“So,” said
the Shadow, born in the woods, “this is it.
This is where I grow.” She looked
behind her at the sun just beginning to set and she smiled a delicious smile. “Excellent,” she grinned, and as she spoke
she elongated, spidering out, touching everything around her, and everything
around her crumpled just a little bit as her fingers passed over them. Not that it hurt. Her touch was simply cold.
The tree
whose base she was connected to swayed a little as she moved out over the
forest floor. She swayed with him. He leaned just far enough for the squirrel in
a neighboring tree to be able to land in his boughs. The shadow leaned too. When the tree caught the song of the wind in
his highest branches he had to sing. As
he sang he swayed even more than before, and as he did the squirrels and the
birds in his arms closed their eyes, enjoying the ride.
“Ah, excuse
me, tree?” the shadow interrupted.
For a long,
annoying moment, the tree just kept singing and swaying, ignoring her, or
simply not hearing her, she didn’t know which.
“Yo! Tree!” she shouted.
Slowly, in
his own time, the tree swayed to a stop and his voice trailed off over the
hillside like a whispered secret.
“Yes,” he
said softly.
“Would you
mind not moving so much? I’m trying to
spread out here and it’s hard to grab things when you’re dancing.”
“I see,” he
said, “and why are you trying to grab things?”
“That’s what
I do, I’m a shadow. Shadow’s grab
things, take them under their wings, tuck them in the folds of their coats,
stuff them into their pockets, smother them with affection.”
“I see,” the
tree said again, “and why do you do these things?”
“It’s just
what I do. Now would you stand still for
a few minutes, please? You see that girl
over there, the one playing the recorder on that rock? I want to reach her next before the sun gets much
lower.”
“What will
happen to her when you reach her?” asked the tree.
“She’ll stop
playing. Doubts will creep in. She’ll think I mean more than I do. She’ll bring to mind her parent’s displeasure
of her music.”
“And then?”
“She’ll stop
playing for years. And a little piece of
my soul will graft onto her and when she gets up to walk home I will go with
her. And the next time she thinks about playing the recorder, she’ll stop and
think about displeasing her parents and she won’t play. She’ll stay nice and cozy in me.”
“I see,”
said the tree, “I think I am going to sing again.”
“No! Wait!”
Damn!” yelled the shadow, but it was too late. The tree was singing, swaying; only this time
his swaying was more of a swirl. This
time his singing was more of a chant.
This time he threw his voice across the path to where the girl sat
playing recorder. He joined her melody,
joined her breath, joined her fingering, and she looked up, felt his presence,
rose and began to dance. She danced
towards him. She bowed with all the
grace of the dawn and he bowed in return.
“Ah, thank
you,” said the shadow, “you have brought her closer.” And as the shadow began climbing the girl’s
leg, the tree bent down and lifted the girl onto his shoulders.
“Damn you,”
yelled the shadow. And before she knew
what was happening, the tree bent down and hoisted her up as well.
“Wait a minute! What are you doing?” the shadow screamed.
But the tree
he just kept singing. The tree he just
kept dancing. And the girl sensed the
shadow’s presence and saw her there on the branch next to her. And in a moment that froze time; in a moment
that stopped the turning of the earth; in a moment where the forest and all of
the trees, and all living things—the hills and the water—the birds and the
planets—all of them paused, stopped, for the girl had reached out and touched
the shadow’s hand. The shadow trembled
like water and instantly burst into tears.
The girl leaned over and embraced her, and the tree threw leaves and
sobs to the wind. He swayed and he
danced, and the sky broke open in waves of silken purples and crimsons; the sun
smiled, winked his eye, and bowed in deference to the moon. The moon appeared, saw the embrace and
instantly sent down a silver shawl to cover them both, and there they sat in
each other’s arms as the world began to turn and dance again.
After a long
while, the girl let go and wiped the shadow’s tears, looking at her dark,
mysterious face.
“I was
playing for you,” she said.
“What?” said
the shadow, “What did you say?”
“I knew you
were there. I saw you coming. I have spent time in many a shadow. I know what’s inside you—the voices of doubt,
self-criticism, shame. I know the fear
you carry. I also know that your desire
to surround me isn’t purely selfish.
There is comfort in your wings, there is silence in the hallways of your
heart, there are theatres in your mind where I can act out the scenes of my
life, and you know very well all that would give me a safe place to hide from
my parents.”
“I did not
mean to harm you,” said the shadow.
“I know,”
said the girl.
“The truth
is I wanted to collect you into my folds with the hope you would one day find
the courage to face your family and just be yourself. You couldn’t do that without me.”
“I know,”
said the girl.
“How do you
know these things?” asked the shadow.
“The tree
tells me,” she said, “he sings to me, so do the birds and the streams, and the
roots and rocks. My dreams tell me, my
music tells me, the caterpillar becoming a butterfly tells me. They tell me that everything shadow-dappled
is beautiful. That shadows are part of
the way of light. In fact, without
shadows there would be no light. On my
long walks in nature I have come to terms with my parent’s disapproval. I have come to terms with my sadness and
pain. I have come to terms with the fact that I will have to strike out on my
own in order to live my dreams.”
“Not alone,”
interjected the tree.
“Yes,”
blushed the girl, “You’re right, not alone.
I carry the tree’s love in my heart, his beauty and steadfastness, his
desire to shelter and…”
“To shade,”
laughed the tree.
“Wait a
minute,” said the shadow sitting up, “you’re a part of all of the work I do, of
course! Why didn’t I see it before?”
“You weren’t
looking,” laughed the tree, “but the fact is without objects, real or imagined,
to block the light, you wouldn’t exist.
I know your coldness can be refreshing.
Your shade can help the weary traveler.
It’s all in how you desire to be used.”
At that
moment the sun went down completely and the woods went entirely black, black as
coal.
“Oh my,”
said the girl, leaping down from the tree, “I’m late. Oh goodness, how am I going to get home? It’s pitch black!”
Then the
shadow leapt down, opened her wings, and said, “Let me take you through the
darkness. I know the heart of the
darkness, we are part and parcel of one another. You may have spent time in a shadow before,
but what I carry deep within me, only those who have eyes that can pierce the
darkness know what I carry deep inside. I
promise to bring you home safely. You
have helped me see my own light, let me share with you the heart of darkness.” The shadow opened her arms and invited the girl
in. The girl turned, embraced the tree
and then walked slowly into the shadow’s arms.
Darkness engulfed her like black water.
She held her breath until she opened her eyes and when she did, in the
heart of the heart of the shadow, was a cathedral lit by a thousand candles,
the moon was there delivering homilies on the alchemy of grieving, the sun was there
smiling, listening from the first row, tears steaming from his face. She felt herself being lifted, the entire
cathedral of the night lifted with her and spun gently, like a giant ship in an
ocean of ink, and turned in the direction of her house. She laughed and sat down next to the sun and
listened far into the night about images, and wonder, about hope and the power
of praise, about how laughter and tears walk hand in hand, about how light and
shadow live and breathe and dance as one.
And the
tree? The tree leaned into the darkness,
and held a place for the sleeping birds and squirrels. He also held a place, high up in his highest
branches, for that winged, piece of the moon—the snowy white owl, who can see
into the shadows and find sustenance where no one else would ever think to
look.
Copyright Joseph Anthony of the Wonder Child Blog