Category Archives: Short Stories

On the Value of Being a Crack-Pot

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On the Value of Being a Crack-Pot
Dear Wonder Child Blog Readers,
I was sent this story yesterday from a friend in India.  
I like it a lot and so I am sharing it with you.  
Peace and Light, Peace and Light.
Joseph 
A water-bearer in India had two large pots, each hung on each end of a pole which he carried across his neck. One of the pots had a crack in it, and while the other pot was perfect and always delivered a full portion of water at the end of the long walk from the stream to the master’s house, the cracked pot arrived only half full.

For a full two years this went on daily, with the bearer delivering only one and a half pot full of water in his master’s house. Of course, the perfect pot was proud of its accomplishments, perfect to the end for which it was made. But the poor cracked pot was ashamed of its own imperfection, and miserable that it was able to accomplish only half of what it had been made to do.

After two years of what it perceived to be a bitter failure, it spoke to the water-bearer one day by the stream. “I am ashamed of myself, and I want to apologize to you.” “Why?” asked the bearer. “What are you ashamed of?” “I have been able, for these past two years, to deliver only half my load because this crack in my side causes water to leak out all the way back to your master’s house. Because of my flaws, you have to do all of this work, and you don’t get full value from your efforts,” the pot said.

The water-bearer felt sorry for the old cracked pot, and in his compassion he said, “As we return to the master’s house, I want you to notice the beautiful flowers along the path.” Indeed, as they went up the hill, the old cracked pot took notice of the sun warming the beautiful wild flowers on the side of the path, and this cheered it some. But at the end of the trail, it still felt bad because it had leaked out half its load, and so again it apologized to the bearer for its failure.

The bearer said to the pot, “Did you notice that there were flowers only on your side of your path, but not on the other pot’s side? That’s because I have always known about your flaw, and I took advantage of it. I planted flower seeds on your side of the path, and every day while we walk back from the stream, you’ve watered them. For two years I have been able to pick these beautiful flowers to decorate my master’s table. Without you being just the way you are, he would not have this beauty to grace his house.”

Each of us has our own unique flaws. We’re all cracked pots. Don’t be afraid of your flaws. Acknowledge them and go out boldly, knowing that in our weakness we can find strength .


Copyright Joseph Anthony of the Wonder Child Blog

Going Home, the Story of a Soul

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Going Home, the Story of a Soul

soul (n.1) 
O.E. sawol “spiritual and emotional part of a person, animate existence,”…of uncertain origin. Sometimes said to mean originally “coming from or belonging to the sea.” (Online Etymology Dictionary)

Once there
was a country that existed on the edges of things.  It was a beautiful country of waving wheat
fields, rolling, verdant hills, meadows of wild flowers, and lakes and rivers
so clear and refreshing that one sip from them would set you reeling into conscious
immortal life. 

I say it
existed on the edges of things because it did. 
If you looked out of the corner of your eyes it was there, flashing its
heavenly light, but when you looked at it full on it seemed to vanish into thin
air.  Sometimes you could catch a glimpse
of it in the eyes of children or senior citizens.  There were those too, who, after years of
hard work, could see it shining over their shoulders while looking in the
mirror.

It had a
fragrance that was famous throughout history for being the sweetest, most
intoxicating fragrance that ever wafted through the atmosphere.  It was coveted; people tried to bottle it,
smoke it, manufacture it, imitate it, or to make matters simpler in their own
minds, deny it was there.  Denying it seemed
to make them feel better if they couldn’t smell it for whatever reason. But it
was there and it rose from behind the sweetest memories.  Sometimes one could sense it on the wind and
swoon into an ecstasy of heart-wrenching nostalgia and not understand why. 

One of the strangest
things about this country is that everyone from every other country in the
world came from there originally.  Everyone lived there for years and years long
ago, and loved it.  But for reasons still
unexplained, they became restless, wanted adventure, wanted to go out, as we
sometimes want to go out today, to a carnival, circus, or to see a movie, to learn
something new, or to simply go looking for cheap thrills and trinkets at a
local flea market.  Whatever the reasons
people would simply get the urge to go and they would go.  Of course, they needed the blessing of the
king and queen before they could leave, but the royal couple, named Amore and
Sophia, never refused such requests, even though they knew the explorer would
not return for many, many years.  They
certainly never returned the same.  And
once they left, the journey was so arduous and wrought with dangers and
pleasures that their memories of their beloved homeland were erased in the same
way a drunkards would be after a night of drinking.  Amore and Sophie knew these things would
happen, yet they always left their people free to make the choice for
themselves.

One day, an adolescent
citizen of that country asked to venture into the so-called, real world.  Her name was Sawol.  She was beautiful, and infinitely deep with
knowledge and wisdom, curiosity, love, and passion, all couched in a rich desire
to express herself, and to know herself. 
She was like a living body of water, she moved with such fluidity,
grace, and mystery.  The king and queen
loved her dearly, so much so that they wanted to be sure she felt free to go,
and when they gave their blessing, she was off on her journey in the blink of
an eye.

She traveled
many winding roads, many dark and unclear passageways, she navigated many
illuminated roads—roads lit with candles of vigils of those who had gone
before.  After many days which seemed
like many years she came to an enchanted country she had never seen
before.  It was gorgeous, almost an exact
copy of her homeland, expect that it held a touch of grayness and stain that
she couldn’t quite explain.  Still, it
was beautiful and filled with adventures. 
So much so that she quickly fell in love with it and decided to stay. 

The locals
were a rowdy, full-hearted bunch, easy to love, yet hard to understand.  She loved their language and customs.  They danced, sang, and played.  They worked hard and defended their land with
their own blood.  They created dramas and
comedies, tragedies and operas out of the fabric of their daily lives, and
Sawol got so swept up into the action that, by and by, she forgot who she was
and where she came from.

Before she
knew it she met a young sailor names Animus and together they were married and
raised a family, and life was good.  It
was busy–filled with heart aches and joys, victories and defeats. 

But every now
and then Sawol would catch little glimpses of her real home.  She would see it shimmering just behind the
beauty of the flowers or within the heart of a timeless piece of music.  She would smell the fragrance of her homeland
some days in the spring and her heart would suddenly ache for something she
couldn’t quite remember. 

As years
went by she began to see that no matter what she did everything in this country
was touched with some strange, undefinable failure.  Nothing lasted, things eventually got old,
turned gray, faded to black, dissolved into ashes and finely sifted dust.  She began to get restless, as if somewhere
inside her a magnet was trembling under a great weight unable to run to its
mate.  She loved the country she lived
in.  She loved her family and her
community, and yet when she looked closely at her life something was
missing.  It was like looking at a
majestic painting with a corner left untouched. 
Something just wasn’t right and she didn’t know what it was.  A vague depression began to shroud her
heart.  She would explore different
avenues to get rid of her pain, she would try new careers, cultivate old
talents and gifts, try to give herself away to others, and yet, the depression
remained.  She sank into dark times,
drinking and drugging, trying to numb out the depression.  She tried natural cures and unnatural cures
and while some worked for a time, she would always come back to her senses and
feel strangely alone, strangely out of place, even in the arms of her husband.

One day after
living for years in quiet desperation, she wandered far from her village and
grew very weary and hungry.  She hungered
for something in a way she had never felt. 
After many days she stumbled into a tumble-down tavern and sat
down.  As her eyes grew accustomed to the
dim, smoky light, she heard a sound that cut her to the quick—it was a voice
with an accent that she suddenly remembered. 
She looked towards the speaker of the voice and when she did he was
looking at her, more like into her, and Sawol rose, fell at his feet, and
wept.  For he had come from her homeland,
like a wave from the sea.  She suddenly
remembered everything, her true origins, her true home, and wanted desperately
to go back.  The man lovingly lifted her,
whispered the names of her favorite regions of her motherland and some of the
names of her favorite friends into her ear. 
He even told her the names of her mother and father, and she wept when
she realized she had forgotten them during her stay in this foreign
country.  And when she asked him his name
and he told her, his name became a silken, golden thread that wove through everything
she did or said from that moment onward.

He told her
to return to her village, finish out her obligations with love and devotion,
but to keep his name ever on her lips and ever in her heart and mind, to keep
the names of her homeland and friends foremost in her thoughts and to repeat
them over and over in her mind.  He told
her to repeat these names and to imagine he was with her and that she was there
in those regions walking with him. He told her to live like the princess that
she was, noble and worthy of all abundance. 
He told her he would wait for her on the shore, that he would be there
carrying a light and a song that she would recognize and could follow.  He would be, as it were, a living, breathing,
musical lighthouse.  But Sawol wouldn’t
leave him.  She clung to his feet.  He assured her however that he would come
back for her when the time was right.  And
to reassure her that he was telling the truth, he kissed her forehead and when
he did, an image of himself appeared just behind her eyes.  He told her he would be there inside as well,
and that he would guide her back to him from there.  But she must go back to her husband and
family, she must learn to love the world she chose to live in and yet be not of
it.  She must learn to remember her true
origins even while living away.  He told
her when she was able to do this she would realize her beloved country was
inside her the whole time, and that when he knew it was the right time, he
would reel her inside herself and into his arms where she would remain forever.

Sawol
finally rose and, wanting to please her beloved comrade, she returned to her
village and followed his suggestions as best she could, treasuring the knowledge
that she would be going to her true home soon. 
She left elated, lifted up, touched by heaven.  She felt as though she had merged with a wave
of pure compassion and bliss.  He had promised
to take her home, and she believed him.  She
believed him so strongly that somehow, in some strange and wonderful way, she
knew she was already there.

Upon
returning to her village she took up her householder life with grace and an
ease in her being.  Now she knew why she
was never quite happy in this new land, lovely though it was.  She finally understood why no matter what she
did or tried to do she could never be totally or completely happy.  This world wasn’t designed for that.  It was designed for change, like an
elaborate, extravagant play.  It was
designed to illicit different feelings and reactions.  No feeling ever remained, and yet now she
knew why.  This country was truly entrancing
and enchanting and it made one forget life outside the theatre.  But she knew now that she would be returning
home in due time.  So she endeavored to
simply enjoy the play, to love its characters and scenery but not so much that
she forgot her beloved comrade. 

Besides none
of the characters ever seemed to remain on stage for very long, and rarely did they
do what she wanted them to do anyway. 
Some of her favorites would be suddenly written out of the script and it
would outrage her.  Other times the
actors and actresses would step into the seats and hand out treasures and Sawol
would laugh and stuff her pockets.  Once
back at home she would brood over losing them or having them stolen.  Same with the characters she loved.  She had grown to believe she actually
possessed them and could make them do her bidding, but that was all part of the
play.  Somewhere, behind the scenes, her
beloved king and queen were orchestrating the whole show.

By and by
she began making preparations for her journey home.  She remembered the names her beloved comrade
had told her.  She remembered his name
and the names of her parents and friends and her heart swelled with joy and longing.  She kept their names inside her mind like pieces
of the sweetest candy in her mouth.  The
more she remembered those names, the more she saw her beloved comrade in her
mind’s eye, the more she ached to be with him and to go home, and strangely the
more she truly loved her family, for she began to see her husband, children,
and neighbors like herself—explorers looking for home.

The longing in
her heart for her true home was terrible, but she bore it with dignity knowing that
this was a choice she had made and that she must finish out what she had
begun.  Some days when she was
contemplating her comrade’s image she would hear music and see fantastic
lights.  And the sound would pull her,
draw her, and she would feel as if she were drifting on a current of bliss, and
then something or someone would draw her back and she would have to get up and
tend to some business, but the fragrance of that sound and light lingered in
her heart and mind.  And even though she
would be temporarily crushed at the parting she knew that the parting was an
illusion, for that music and light were the true realities in her life.  They were the changeless, the eternal, and
somehow they were wrapped in her beloved comrades image, they radiated from his
eyes and voice, and she loved him in ways like no other, and she no longer felt
ashamed to sing his praises even though those around her sometimes felt
threatened and jealous by the intensity of her devotion.  Sawol was home and she was going home, and
this great paradoxical wonder kept her steady and strong the rest of her days.

 

Copyright Joseph Anthony of the Wonder Child Blog

Channels, A Ghost Story in Five Parts, Part Five: Going Home

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We’ve reached the conclusion of our story.  I hope you enjoyed it.  There is always a way to go home.

Channels
Part Five: Going Home

“Alight now” said Piano, dragging out the “all” with his sustain pedal, “get ready, she’s coming.  I feel her footsteps.  Remember.  Just sit down next to her and listen.”


“What if it doesn’t work?” asked Ghost Boy.


“Shhh,” said Tabby, “it will.”


Piano looked at Tabby. 


“Sorry, I couldn’t help it,” Tabby smiled.


“A disturbing trend,” laughed Piano, “people finishing each other’s sentences.  But I suppose it’s only fitting for the kind of work we do here.”

           

And then the Lady entered the room.  Ghost Boy stood stock-still, looking at Floor.  He slowly raised his head only to see her dark, wide eyes staring at him lovingly.  He tried to place where he had seen her before.  Her eyes looked so familiar.


The Lady walked over to the Piano and sat down.  She patted the bench.  Ghost Boy gasped out a laugh and sat down next to her.  She touched his hand (how can this be?) and then ruffled his hair, laughing softly.  “You touched me,” he said.  “And you me,” she replied.


“I know you from somewhere.”


“I am your sister,” she said, and then she placed two pieces of silver candy into his hand.  “Give these to Mother Moon,” she said, tears streaming down her cheeks. 


And before he could answer, before he could respond, she began to play. 



She directed every ounce of her energy to the Piano.  Spirits spiraled instantaneously towards her and from her, dazzling as a snow storm.  Music flooded the room.  The air became Music itself.  Time and space became Music.  And somewhere in the Atlantic, a manta ray leapt from the churning water like a black curtain.  Antelopes sprang straight up with delight, and then ran across the field.  Treasure boxes all over the world suddenly opened and memories, and passageways, secrets, and lost, sunken ships, all were found.  Prisons of fears fell open and were gone.


Ghost Boy listened.  He no longer thought about chords and fevers.  His thoughts were chords, and he felt mysterious stirrings within him.  He stared at the Lady, the sister he never knew.  She had their Mother’s eyes.  He loved her with a love so strong he felt he would burst.  He loved her for being his sister.  He loved her for doing what she did.  She had decided to stay and help others, like him, go home.  He felt a little ashamed that he was choosing to go home, as if maybe he should stay and help her help others.  And as he thought these things she shook her head slowly side to side.  “We all have our work,” she said, “this is mine.  Yours is to help others remember.  You helped me remember.”

Then the Piano began trembling, and the room resounded like a bell of clear brass the size of a house.  Suddenly Ceiling lifted and spun gracefully aside.  Walls parted.  Lamp dimmed in deference to the Moonlight spilling into the opening space.  Spider quickly found a place in a rhododendron bush and watched from the shadows.  Floor sank ever so gently.  Tabby hopped up onto the Lady’s lap.  She laughed and cried at the same time.  And the Ghost Boy rose on the river of music, elevating passed the room, turning like a toy on a music box.  He stood and stretched his arms into the night.  The night was life, infused with music.  It was holy and it was moving, and it was joyful.  As Ghost Boy watched the tree tops, and the rooftops, and the city and the world spin below him and away, he laughed out loud.  His fingers brushed though the fields of stars.  His sister wept and laughed, showering Piano with tears.  She was a fountain, a truth, a promise, a vow.  Even Piano cried.  His tears wove a silver liquidity into the music.  Mother Moon looked down and saw her boy rising on the stream of music, and she wept and laughed.  Melodies burst like fireworks into the night as he ascended higher and higher.  Lightening and snow, thunder and sparks, whirled around him.  Everything danced and rejoiced as the Lady played and played.  And as she played, assured and limitless, the Ghost Boy rose, deeper and deeper, into the Light. 

Copyright Joseph Anthony of the Wonder Child Blog

Channels, A Ghost Story in Five Parts, Part Four

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Channels
Part Four

Silence couldn’t help himself he rushed into the room pretending to dust things.  Tabby hissed him out.


“But if you’re from the moon,” said Aloe, “how’d you end up here?  On earth I mean?”


“I wanted to come,” he said, “I wanted to come and Mother said I could.”


“Mother?” asked Aloe.


“His Mother’s the Moon,” said the Lady. “Oops…I should have let you answer that.  Sorry.”


Ghost Boy smiled.


“But what about your…your… earth mother?” asked the Lamp.


“She’s not my real mother.  She’s my guardian angel that Mother gave to me to help me on my journey. But then, when I died…”  He trailed off and Silence stepped in and put his arm around him.


“Not yet,” said Tabby, “let him finish.”  Silence grunted and stepped away.


“I was nine years old when I caught a fever and died.  I didn’t mean too.  Both mothers were sad.  You see, when I died, the chord that connected me with this world was cut, and when that chord was cut, I got separated from my guardian angel mother…I couldn’t find her, and I didn’t know how to get back to Mother Moon…so… so…I’ve been wandering the streets ever since.”


Ghost Boy couldn’t go on.  Silence stood next to him like a sentinel.  He cast a grave look of intensity and eternity around the room.  No one dared try and break him this time, not even Tabby. 


Tears were falling down Ghost Boy’s face.  Tabby locked eyes with Silence.  Silence wouldn’t budge.  “It’s alright,” Tabby thought to Silence, “The Lady has him.”  Silence looked down at Ghost Boy and then reluctantly left the room.


“You’re crying,” said Spider.


“So?” sniffled Ghost Boy.


“Nothing.  It’s OK to cry.  I just didn’t know ghosts cried.”


“That’s about all we do,” said Ghost Boy.


“So are you ready?” said the Lady.

         

The Ghost Boy looked at her in the eyes for the first time.  His own eyes filled with tears.  “Yes,” he said.


“Good,” she said and the Ghost Boy could see she had tears in her eyes as well.


She got up and said the Piano, “Explain what’s going to happen, I need to get something.”  And she left the room. 


“You were right when you said a chord was cut the day you died,” began the Piano, “but there’s another chord that can never be cut.”


“Another chord?” said Ghost Boy


“The one connecting you and Mother Moon.”


“But–“


“Listen.  Not all chords can be cut, but some can be lost or forgotten, or worse–ignored.  Deep inside you know this.  A chord of true music, like the love between a parent and child, echoes and travels forever and ever and ever–”    


“Amen, added the Ceiling.”


“Amen,” echoed the Lamp.


“I don’t remember forgetting any chord,” said the Ghost Boy.


“Nobody does until they hear it again.  All the sudden they remember.  It sounds familiar and then they either pursue the chord or let it go by.  You recognized something familiar in the music the Lady channeled and you chose to pursue it or else you wouldn’t have come.”


“What do I do now?”


“Music is like Light and Love” said the Piano, “it’s for sharing.  When you died you assumed you had nothing left to share, so you became a ghost.  But you do have something to share.”

         

“What do I have to share?”


“You listen child, that is your gift.  You are a good listener.  Most dead people, like most living people, rarely actually listen.  The dead are always crying out to live again.  Living people do this to, by the way–always clambering for someday.  But you listen, and when you listen, you are sharing yourself.  You are giving the Lady and me a great gift.”


“So what do I do?  Just listen?”

         

“Exactly,” said the Piano, “you listened when you first heard Our Lady’s music and wondered where it was coming from and where it would lead you.  And here you are.  When she comes back to play, just listen and gradually begin to wonder where the music will lead.  Imagine your Mother Moon and just listen.  The music will do the work.  You listen.” 

         

Ghost Boy was crying again.  He wanted to hug the Piano, but how do you hug a piano?  He tried.  He bent over and grasped as much of that old upright as he could.  He kissed it and more tears fell, trickling between the keys and right down into the Piano’s heart.


Copyright Joseph Anthony of the Wonder Child Blog

Channels, A Ghost Story in Five Parts: Part Three

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In Part Two, the Ghost Boy is faced with the decision of going back to the Moon or staying on earth.  What does he decide?  Part Three has the answer.

Channels
Part Three

The next day, everyone shushed each other as they heard the Lady’s keys jingling, and the tumbler tumbling, and the door knob turning.  A chilly breeze swirled gold and red leaves into the room much to everyone’s delight as the Lady came in.


She plopped her keys on the sofa next to Tabby.  “You’ll be looking for those in the morning,” he said sniffing them.


She kicked off her shoes and filed through the mail as she walked into the kitchen. 


“She’s so thoughtful,” sighed Floor, “bare feet are so much more pleasant than heels.”


“I hope she doesn’t wait too long to play,” said Ceiling.


“I hope she turns my light on soon.  I’m getting chilly,” said Lamp.


“I wonder if the Ghost Boy will return,” said Aloe.


“He will,” said Tabby, “in fact, he’s coming right now.”


The Walls braced themselves.  It was such an interesting sensation when Ghost Boy passed through.


“Where’s the Lady?” asked Ghost Boy appearing in their midst.


“In the kitchen,” said Ceiling.


“Are you sure?”


“I’m a ceiling,” said Ceiling, “I see everything.”


Satisfied, the Ghost Boy turned and placed two little round pieces of silver on the Piano.


“What’re those?” asked Spider.


“Moon candy,” he said.


“Moon candy, where’d you get moon candy?”


“I’ve been saving them for years.  I never wanted to eat them because they were the last things I had that Mother Moon gave me.”


“Mother Moon?” said Spider.


“So you’re going home then?” interjected Tabby.


“Yes,” said Ghost Boy, “I’m going home.”


“We’re glad for you,” said the Lamp.


“Yes,” said the Spider.


“You’re a nice chap,” said the Aloe.


“Light on your feet,” smiled the Floor.


“And you tickle when you pass through,” said the Walls.


“Safe travels,” said the Ceiling.


“You look like you have a question child,” said Tabby, “what is it?”


“It’s just…I mean…how does it work?  How will her music take me home?”


That’s when the Piano finally spoke.  Everyone turned.  Other than the Lady, none of them had ever heard him speak before.


“First of all boy,” he said, “Our Lady is a channel.  The music comes through her, not from her.  It doesn’t even come from me.  We’re both channels.”  He paused, everyone was riveted, even Silence who had slipped into the room with only Tabby noticing.


“Why is everybody staring?” Piano asked, “I spoke, so what?  I’m not like you people who speak whenever they feel like it.  I listen.  Listeners make good channels.”


“Is that why Silence never touches you?” asked Aloe.


“Yes,” said Piano, “I may listen all the time, but my heart strings are always vibrating.  Every step the Lady takes—anywhere in the house, makes them shimmer.  When thunder rolls outside my heart feels it.  All sounds and movement, every emotion and thought, is heard and collected in my heart.  Eventually the Lady sits down and together we become one channel.  And all the things she’s collected and all the things I’ve collected, and all the things the world wants us to channel, come pouring out.”


“Will I die?” asked the Ghost Boy, “I mean die-die—for good this time?”


“Die?” exclaimed the Piano, “For heaven’s sake, and I mean that quite literally, no, of course not.  You’ll live.  The music will cover you and clean you and turn you and fill you and carry you and you will live and you will rest and you will wake and you will find yourself in your mother’s arms and you will be home.”


Just then, the Lady walked into the room and over to the Piano, dropping the letters on the table as she went.  She noticed at the two pieces of moon candy and, after a moment, she looked over at the Ghost Boy, and popped them into her mouth.  Ghost Boy smiled.  So did the Lady as the sweetness of the moon light shimmered through her.

Then she began to play.  And somewhere off the coast of Maine, a whale leapt from the sea, arching its slow, graceful turn as it splashed back into the waves.  A black bear in the Adirondacks shook off a blanket of yellow leaves and ambled to the creek where the trout leapt like living rainbows.  Marigolds turned their lovely full faces towards the house.  Music beamed around the room.  The sweetness of the candy swirled in her mouth.  She laughed.

Ghost Boy closed his eyes and his mouth opened slightly.  His whole, silvery, transparent body glowed.  Waves of music coursed through the Lady.  She rolled the candy around her mouth and suddenly she was channeling storms.  Notes flurried through her as she swayed like a tree in a tempest.  Music blizzarded around the room, whirling in the corners like little tornadoes.  And then, slowly, her fingers crept to a gentle stream, until, at last, she lifted her hands and folded them into her lap.  She bowed her head.  She sighed a deep sigh.  Music shined in the Living Room.  Everything was thrumming.  Spider’s web billowed from the strength of the music.  She dropped down and perched on Lamp’s shade.


The Lady looked over at the Ghost Boy, and smiles. “Well?” she asked, “What did you decide?”   


“I want to go home,” he said quietly.


“Home?” said Spider.  “Where’s home?”


Ghost Boy looked up towards the moon shining in the window.  “There,” he said.


Everyone looked up at the moon.


“That would explain the moon candy,” said Spider.


“How’d you get here?” asked Floor.


“I died.  Before this house was here, before there was even a Mount Airy, I died.”

         


Copyright Joseph Anthony of the Wonder Child Blog

Channels, A Ghost Story in Five Parts: Part Two

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In part one we were introduced to a wayward ghost from the moon.  We also met the Lady and her assortment of inanimate-animate objects.  The story ended with the Lady telling the Ghost Boy that he needed to make a decision.  What about?  Read on.

Channels,
Part Two

“Decision?” he said out loud, “What decision?”  He reentered the house and floated above the living room floor.


“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” he said.


“You were drawn to the music,” she said, “the music draws lost souls.  My job is to help those lost souls get home—if they want to go home, that is.  That’s I why I said you need to make a decision.”


“How do you know where my home is?”


“You’re a Moon Child,” she replied, “Tabby and I knew that from the moment we saw you.”


“But how do you take me home?”


“I don’t.  The music does.”


“How?”


“It drew you here didn’t it?  If you let it, it will draw you home.”


“To the…to my mm…”  He could say no more.  He suddenly found himself crying.


“Yes,” she said, “to the Moon, your Mother.  But you might not want to go home.  You might like haunting the streets of Philadelphia.  You have to decide whether or not you want to go home.  If you don’t, you’re perfectly welcome to stay here.  If you want to go home, I’ll play the music when I get back from work tomorrow and you’ll be home before you know it.”


The Ghost Boy trembled as he wept.


“You think about it,” the Lady said standing up, “I’m off to bed. I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow one way or the other.” 

And with that she left the room, and as she did Silence appeared and began slowly, lovingly, like a grandmother kissing her grandchildren goodnight, touching everything—everything except the Piano.  When he had finished, he draped a silver mesh blanket over the entire room.  It clung to everything except the Piano.  The Lady’s voice could be heard singing quietly from another room.  Silence lifted a little bird that appeared in his hand.  He whispered something to the bird and it flew off in the direction of the Lady.  After a few moments her voice faded.  Silence smiled and turned to the Ghost Boy.  Ghost Boy rose and stepped through the wall and into the street.  He drifted like a wisp of moonlight.  Silence settled down in an easy chair and pulled the drapes aside.  His gaze followed the boy.  Ghost Boy’s weeping could be heard echoing through the trolley lines above the street.  He looked back at the Lady’s house and then up at Mother Moon.  Both had disappeared in the darkness.


Copyright Joseph Anthony of the Wonder Child Blog

Channels, A Ghost Story in Five Parts: Part One

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Dear Wonder Child Blog Readers,

Rarely do I post reruns, but I thought this Halloween season (if it isn’t scary enough with the election) could use an inspirational ghost story.  It’s in five parts, and isn’t your traditional ghost story.  It’s about a boy, a ghost boy, who is trying to find his way home, and a Lady who channels music that just might help him get there, oh and a cat, a lamp, a houseplant, a wall, floor, ceiling, and a guest appearance by Silence. Enjoy.


Joseph

Channels
by Joseph Anthony

Part One

Sitting at the old upright in the living room, she played late into the night.  Her fingers rivered over the keys, pouring music everywhere–into the living room, the attic, the street outside, and into the Ghost Boy wandering aimlessly along Germantown Avenue.  He stopped and stared towards her house. 

“It’s working,” said the Tabby Cat watching him from the window, swishing his tail to the music.

The Lady smiled and continued playing.

Cars drove through the Ghost Boy as he stood, enchanted by the sound.  The music strummed silver strings inside him that he didn’t knew he had and he began drifting towards the sound.  It was as if he had stepped into a stream and lost his footing, and was carried to her house.

“Here he comes,” said Tabby.


“Pretend we don’t notice him,” said the Lamp.


Just then, he wafted in through the drapery, like a wind-blown piece of the moon, and sat down across from the Lady.  She smiled and kept playing.  He closed his eyes. Notes flew around the room like so many audible butterflies, tumbling dizzyingly over one another in ecstatic flight.  The music swelled and somewhere in the Wissahickon Woods, a great blue heron unfolded her wings and lifted into the air.  Deer stopped nibbling the grass and looked up with luminous eyes.  People walking to McKinney’s Tavern up the street from her house suddenly felt happier than they had in years. 


As he listened, the Ghost Boy looked out the window as the first stars bloomed in the indigo field of the sky.  The Moon appeared; her face titled, and watched him from all that way. 


As the Lady played, sometimes her fingers barely touched the keys and the Piano’s hammers struck the strings like dew drops dripping onto a spider web.  Other times she fairly pounded the keys, and then the hammers shot off sharp, brilliant notes, like sparks from the hooves of mountain goats somewhere on a rocky ledge a mile above the ground in Southern Utah.


The Ghost Boy turned his face towards the Lady.  Her long, dark hair swayed with her body as she dipped towards the keys and then leaned back and away, as if dancing while sitting–trancelike and possessed.  Her eyes were closed as her fingers alighted over the keys, like sylphs over a garden of white flowers.  She was smiling, pleased as any clear instrument would be, as the sublime music coursed through her.  And somehow she seemed familiar–her pale complexion, her flowing movements. 


He began thinking of home and about how he died so very long ago.  He suddenly remembered the fever and the burning up inside.  He shuddered as he remembered how it felt when the chord that connected him with this world snapped and how he feathered upwards above his clammy, sweat soaked body, frightened and lost, as if he were drowning in space. 


Then she stopped.  He startled.  She lifted her fingers.  Her eyes opened.  She turned her face and looked in his direction.  He could swear she saw him.  He felt embarrassed and confused.  He looked away.  She waited a moment and then Silence entered and stood in the middle of the room, motionless as a hawk; frozen, yet able to shatter into flight any second.  The Lady sighed and then walked into the kitchen.  The Ghost Boy could hear plates clinking and silverware being taken out. 


Suddenly, everything in the room started talking at once and Silence imploded into an unseen void. 


The Aloe Plant on a table by the window spoke first:


“My arms are trembling,” said the Aloe Plant.


“My web is singing,” added Spider in the corner of the ceiling.


“She’s brilliant,” put in a Lamp sitting on a table by the sofa.


“Smooth as linoleum,” said the Floor.


“It’s great being all ears,” laughed the Walls.


“I feel like a cathedral,” said the Ceiling.


“She’s perfect,” said the Tabby Cat as he lifted his head to lick his paws, “what do you think?”  He looked over at Ghost Boy.


“I…I don’t know,” he stammered, “I was walking outside when I heard the Lady’s music.  I guess you could say it drew me here.”


The Lady walked back into the room, and over to the window.  She closed it and drew the drapes.  Ghost Boy could swear he saw the Moon wink at him just before the drapes were closed.  Then the Lady sat down next to Tabby and stroked the back of his head.  He purred, gloating to the others.  “Nevvverrr haaappensss to youuuu,” he purred.  The Lady looked around the room and her eyes settled on the Ghost Boy.  He shivered.


“Does she see me?” he wondered.


“Yes,” she said, “and you’re welcome to stay.  Only tomorrow you need to make your decision.”

He was stunned.  He didn’t know what to do or say.  He sat in the dark for a long time and then drifted through the wall and out into the cold, autumn scented street.

Copyright Joseph Anthony of the Wonder Child Blog

Finding Your Center: A Pedagogical Story For Anxious Children of All Ages

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Finding Your Center

A Pedagogical Story for Anxious Children

of All Ages


As many of
you know I am back in the Waldorf School teaching first grade.  It is such a gift to be able to freely teach
the whole child.  One of the ways this is
done is through stories.  Since the first
day of school I have been telling the children a running story that weaves
around the Great Secret of Beauty.  In
the story a boy and a girl, a grandfather, an angel, a dragon, and various other
characters appear and have many adventures and talks together. The subjects and
themes of the story are culled from where I think the emotional states of the
children are.  Since there are a few students
who are a little nervous or anxious for one reason or another, this part of the
story came out.  It is for all children,
big and small who sometimes feel afraid and do things they wish they didn’t.

One day the
boy was sitting in the grass in his backyard. 
He had been thinking about what the dragon had said to him the day
before.  For sometimes when it seems a
child is not listening, it is well to remember that it only seems that
way.  Children are listening, and when
they are ready they will reflect on what you have said.  And on this particular morning, the boy was
thinking about what his friend the dragon had told him the day before.

“I used to
hit people with my tail,” said the dragon, “In fact, I used to eat people. I
don’t know why I did these things.  I
guess I was actually nervous and afraid and my fears came out like that.  And besides, people are yummy.”

“But how did
you learn to not hit and eat people?” asked the boy.

“Time,” said
the dragon, “it took time and practice.”

“Will I ever
change?” asked the boy, “I don’t want to hit my friends and say mean
things.  I just want to have fun and
sometimes I worry I will never change.”

And as he
was remembering the dragon’s answer he heard another voice, a tiny, slow voice.  One that came as if it measured every word it
said.

“You are
changing,” said the voice, “and your friend was right, it takes time.”

“How did you
know what I was thinking?” the boy asked the keeper of the voice he could not
yet see.

“You were
thinking out loud,” said the voice.

And then the
boy’s ears caught the direction of the sound and when he followed that direction
with his eyes, he found the source of that slow, measured voice.  It was coming from a snail sliding slowly
towards him carrying his great, spiraling house upon his back.

“Oh, hello
snail.”

“Good
morning,” said the snail stopping to rest on the leaf of an autumn colored mum.

“So you
think I can change?” asked the boy, “You really think I will stop hitting other
children?  I really don’t want to hurt
anyone.  It’s just that sometimes I get so
mad, especially when I’m feeling scared, and then before I realize what’s
happened, I’ve hurt someone.”

“Can change?”
said the snail, “You are changing.  Some
changes are quick, like a shooting star flashing across the night sky; other
changes are slow, like winter melting into spring.  You need to practice of course, find other
ways to move through your fears and worries. 
You need to find your center. But you are changing, rest assured.”

“My center?  What does that mean?”

“It’s how I
built this house I carry with me.  And I
built it without any hands.”

“I’m afraid
I don’t understand,” said the boy, “sometimes I feel like I don’t understand
anything.”

“Well,” said
the snail, “walk the path of my house with me. 
I’ll lead you around the lawn.  As
we walk the shape of my spiraling shell, think of a place you like to go when
you are feeling afraid.  Think of a thing
you like to do that helps you feel calm, peaceful, and happy.  And as we walk this spiraling walk you will
discover your center.”

And so the
snail slipped slowly to the ground and began sliding through the grass a great
spiral, a labyrinth that slowly unfurled inwards towards a still, focused center.  The boy walked behind the snail, careful not
to go ahead or step on the snail, for his steps were much bigger than the
sliding trail of the talking snail.  As
they moved together, the boy thought about times he was mad or afraid, nervous
or scared and he suddenly remembered that when he felt those ways he often
found himself drawing.  In fact, as he
neared the center of the spiral he knew—drawing was his centering place. And as
he stood in the center of the spiral, the spiral drawn by the snail, he felt
happy and relieved to know he had a place to go when he felt uncomfortable
feelings.

“So you see,”
said the snail, with a voice as gradual as the dawn, “we all have a
center.  We all have something we can do,
or a place we can go where we can pause, rest, and calm ourselves down.  And when we go to that place, or do that
thing, over and over, over time and over years, we build ourselves a house, a
house we can carry within, well, in my case on my back, but the point is, we
build ourselves a house of habits—healthy, helpful habits.  And these become a safe place to go.”

“I
understand,” said the boy, “is it OK if I have more than one centering place?”

“Of
course!  You humans are like that.  They have many mansions within themselves
that they can explore when they need to.”

“Oh good,”
said the boy, “because mostly I draw when I’m feeling nervous, but other times
I go for walks, ride my bike, talk with grandfather, and sometimes, and you’re
the first person I’ve ever told this: sometimes I even sing and dance.”

“Wonderful!”
said the snail, “Thank you for telling me. 
Those are all perfect places to go and things to do to find your center.  And the more you go to those places, and the
more you do the things you love, you will find yourself hitting your friends
less and less.  You will find yourself
saying fewer and fewer naughty things. 
In fact you will see that your friends have their own centering places
and things they love and you’ll know then that they too have hearts that
sometimes feel afraid and nervous just like you do, and then you will find
yourself just being nice because you are really so much alike.  And oh, what fun you will have sharing your
centers, inviting your friends to walk with you, draw with you, and sing with
you.”

“That does
sound fun,” said the boy.

“Well,” said
the snail, “I must be off, I have to get into town soon and meet the man who
owns the bicycle store. I am going to buy a bike today!  Toodle-Loo!”

“Wait,” said
the boy, “I have one more question please.”

“Ask away.”

“Well,
sometimes I forget my centering places. 
What should I do then?”

“Breathe,”
said the snail, “Breathe deeply from your belly, still yourself like a mountain,
and that will help center you.”

“Thank you,”
said the boy.

“You’re
welcome,” said the snail, “and another thing you can do to help yourself find
your centering place is to talk with someone you trust.  Sometimes we all need help finding our centering
places.”

And with
that the snail raced towards town, which if you were looking at the snail you would
never have guessed he was racing.  You
would have just thought: “There goes the slowest friend I know.  Look at him go carrying his house upon his back,
carrying his centering place that he built without any hands; that he built
with the slow, patient practice of centering himself.  There he goes to go buy a bike.  A bike? 
How is he going to ride a bike?”

And once the
story was over, without me ever asking: “Do you have a centering place or
something you do that helps you feel better when you’re feeling afraid?”, the
children, one by one, shared their centering places.

“I go to a
still, quiet place.”

“I draw.”

“I go for
walks.”

“I ride my
bike.”

“I
skateboard.”

“I sleep.”

“I read.”

“I pet my cat.”

And while I
did not ask them, I will ask you.  

“Where
is your centering place?  

What do you do
when you’re feeling anxious and afraid?”

Copyright Joseph Anthony of the Wonder Child Blog

The Holy Man and His Shadow, A Story of Redemption in Three Parts, Part Three: Communion

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The Holy Man and His Shadow

A Story of Redemption in Three Parts

Part Three: Communion


He awoke in
a dark chamber surrounded by all manner of animals and beasts, monsters, and
birds, bats, ghosts, skeletons, reptilian creatures, giant toads and frogs,
lizards and snakes, horses and buffalo, giant fish stood around him too on
their fins even though he didn’t feel like he was in water any longer.  Still they were there.  He saw vagabonds and beggers with red, frightened
eyes.  There were women standing around
him in chains, battered and beaten.  Old
men stood around him covered with bloody wounds.  Soldiers stood with rifles and gaping holes
in their chests.  They wore arm bands
which bore his image.  They saluted him
gravely.  All manner of people from every
religion of the world stood around him each with their bodies mangled and tortured-but alive staring at him.  Gnarled trees stood nodding their barren
branches.  And the children—they tore
through his insides like none of the other ghoulish visions.  The children stood around him, some radiant,
some smiling, some playing catch with little rocks and stones, others looked
clearly beaten and abused, but they lived looking at him with wide, hollow
eyes.  As he looked around, blinking at
the horrifying images, he noticed the room was illuminated by a milky blue
light.  He also noticed he was still
bound by the shadows.  He screamed as one
of the ghostly children stepped to where he was kneeling. 

“Do you see
me?” the boy asked, moths fluttering from his open mouth.

“Yes,” said
the holy man, “I see you.”  And he began
weeping.

“That is
good,” said the child and he reached up and tore away a piece of the holy man’s
shadow and placed it before him like a communion wafer.

The holy man
opened his trembling mouth and the child placed the piece of shadow on his
tongue.

The holy man
winced as he swallowed the shadow.  It
moved through him like a virus warming him with sickly fever.  He trembled and opened his eyes.  Before him stood another child, this one had
been abused and battered. 

“Do you see
me?” she said.

“I see you,”
wept the holy man.  And then she tore a
piece of his shadow and fed it to him as the little boy had done. 

The holy man
convulsed as the poison flowed through him. 

One by one
the beings of this horrible circle–the monsters and ghosts, beasts and demons,
saints and sinners, the people he had judged and disowned, the nightmares and
visions of ageless beauty, his mother and father, grandparents and ancestors, the
trees and fairies, gods and goddesses–each one asked him the question as they
children had done.  Each time he answered
in the affirmative they fed him his shadow until at long last he could move his
numb, heavy arms. 

A group of
men wearing brightly colored robes approached him.

“We are the
writers of the holy book,” they said, “and we would like it back.”

The holy man
handed it to them.  They wrapped its shadow
around it like a shroud and then turned and disappeared into the circle.

The holy man
lowered his head, exhausted.  And then
the last one to step before him appeared. 

A shiver ran
through his fever-racked body–a shiver of exquisite relief. 

“I knew you
were here,” he said gasping for breath. 

“I know you
did,” the Comforter smiled, and she lifted the last piece of his shadow and held
it in the space between them.  He tilted
his head back and opened his mouth.   He
waited.  Nothing.  He looked at her.  Their eyes locked together.  Finally she moved her hand and placed the
tattered piece of shadow into her own mouth. 
He screamed as deep shame burned through his body.

“It is the
only way,” she said, “No one can digest their entire shadow without the help of
someone who loves them.”

And the holy
man fell into her arms and wept like a baby. 
He sobbed and sobbed clutching her for dear life.  After a long time, he was able to sit up in
her arms.  She cradled him as he opened
his eyes and looked around him.  He wept
again and collapsed into her arms as the intensity of beauty of the vision
flooded his heart and soul and mind—the monstrous circle had become a circle of
luminous angels, each one more beautiful than the next, and all of them
infinitely beautiful.  They were clothed
in deep white robes with crowns of gold. 
Some carried swords and others cups of wine; some carried musical instruments
or baskets of fruit, several of them held infants in their arms.  The angel children waved at him with sweet,
tiny hands.  And as the Comforter rocked
the holy man the angels drew closer and began to sing.  At first their voices were hushed like the
morning but soon were rejoicing with the full strength of day, with the full
glory of spring.  And as they sang the
Comforter carried the holy man in her arms and lead them all on a joyous
procession to the village in the valley of the hill.  As they neared blossoms sprung at their feet,
birds circled and sang out with the angels, and the villagers came running up
the road to meet them and they all joined in the song.  The young woman who had tried to heal him
with the blue streamer embraced the Comforter and the holy man.

“So there
was hope,” she wept. 

“Yes,” said
the Comforter, “you and the others gave it to him and it was ultimately too strong
even for his cold heart.”

“Thank you,”
said the holy man to the young woman, “Thank you for helping me see myself.”

“You’re
welcome,” she said touching his face, “I am so happy for you,” And she turned
to join the singing and the heavenly parade.

“Do you
think you can walk yet?” the Comforter asked the holy man.

“I would
much rather stay in your arms.”

She laughed
and lowered him to the ground and said, “If you’re able, you must walk among
us.”

“Where are
we going?” he asked.

“To the
castle of the King and the Queen.  They
are holding a feast in your honor.  For
you were once lost and now you are found.”


 

Copyright Joseph Anthony of the Wonder Child Blog

The Holy Man and His Shadow, A Story of Redemption in Three Parts, Part Two: The Rapture

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The Holy Man and His Shadow

A Story of Redemption in Three Parts

Part Two: The Rapture


That night,
the holy man knelt alone on the hill top bound in his own shadow and in the
shadow of the holy book.  As the darkness
around him deepened, he began to hear noises; hooves clicking among the rocks;
heavy padded feet crushing the grass, wings fluttering like wind-tossed drapes;
deep, guttural growls and puffed breath from enormous lungs; grunts, shrieks,
and even whispers.  He trembled and fell
to his side, arms bound behind him, eyes slammed shut.  And then he heard the sounds of roots lifting
from the ground and entire trees shuffling towards him.  The night itself seemed to yawn and roar, breaking
away from some ancient hinges; circling around him like a monster.  An ink colored river flowed towards him and
soon surrounded him, lifting him ever so slightly from the ground.  He shook with panic, mumbling prayers and
curses.  The gathered beasts and animals
splashed in the river that now was carrying him down the hillside into the
valley below.  Many times he rolled in
the river, going face down into the black water thinking for sure he would
drown, but at the last moment he would turn face up, gasp for air and then
scream as the river bore him faster and faster. 
The beasts and creatures of the night ran through the river behind him,
growling and shouting with savage fury. 
Bats and ravens clawed at him as he floated on the river.  Dark horses with flaring nostrils and flaming
eyes trampled towards him.  He screamed
in terror as he saw trees running through the liquid-obsidian river towards him
waving their branches as if caught in a storm. Voices from the blackness washed
into his ears and tickled his mind with maddening sensations. 

At last the
river spilled him into a lake.  He
descended down into the water, deeper and deeper, feeling his lungs about to
explode.  He screamed a silent scream as
he saw huge shapes swimming near him, some buffeting him and brushing him with enormous,
rough fins and tales.  Giant crabs and lobsters
snapped at him with claws as big as sharks. 
And as he began to lose consciousness, the last thing he remembered
seeing before the end was a soft, blue light moving towards him like the dawn.

Copyright Joseph Anthony of the Wonder Child Blog