Lessons from Mabel

Mabel the Maple - picture taken just now.

Sometimes I worry. Don't we all?

And I fret.

Mainly about money.

Lack of.

Fear.

Of the metaphorical poorhouse.

And then I remember Mabel the maple. Who lives with me. A few of you might remember Mabel who technically "died" completely bowled over by a storm, her branches all lopped off for firewood. And then as her trunk was denuded of branches she rose again, she righted herself. And sprouted like a mad thing.

Much like me lately after my fretstorm.

In rapid succession (seriously, in a week!):

One of my stories is being published in an anthology coming out in the fall.

My tigeen is renting out quite nicely.

I was booked for more elder abuse sessions around the island.

Last night I gave a seanachie performance for one of the bigger Canadian magazines. Fingers crossed: a feature.

I sold a great whack of my cards to an inn.

And I was asked to conduct a (paying) writers' workshop in the fall featuring memoir writing.

Lots of little branches.

Just like Mabel.

Renewal

Some of you may recall Mabel the Maple that Hurricane Leslie knocked right over, roots and all. Just about out of the ground. Dead. Her branches were sawn off and as the job was being finished, Mabel rose again and settled back into the vast hole left by her uprooting. So I left her there to dry out so that Craig, a local furniture maker, could make a lovely outside bench from her. She would live on. But Mabel has taken matters into her own hands and as you can see from the picture, festooned herself in leaves and mini-branches. It takes my breath away.

I think of her as I take my morning quiet time and do some readings and reflection and yes, meditation, on the power of life and rejuvenation, adaptation and change. For that is life, n'est pas?

Ruts and routine can be deadly, stultifying the spirit, filling us with anxiety and the entrapment of addictions and thoughtless consumerism.

Mabel keeps teaching me. I can hardly wait to see what she does next.

Connectivity

I've been thinking about connection lately, how all things are. Trite I know, new-agey. Tree huggy. Elder reflections.

The shifting of importances. I really believe small things should be writ large. How well I feel when I know where my food is coming from, who farmed or hunted it, who has the chickens where the eggs are laid, meet the farmer who delivers my meat, when and where the moose was hunted, how far out in the bay were those crab pots laid. That there were scallop beds on the bay in front of my house back in the day, until the huge draggers came in and destroyed the bay forever and the ocean mile limits were set. Far too late. We need to learn from Gaia, our planet. She has much to teach us.

Today, Leo comes in with a load of wood from the barn and is excited. See? he says, see? And he points at a few big logs. Oh, they're maple, I say, impressed. (I do know my trees and wood from refinishing furniture back in the day. I knows me pine from me oak from me maple and walnut and cherry.)

It turns out they're from Mabel the Maple, her branches now dried and still serving me. And her trunk is still standing and I'm going to get someone to take her down and see if we can make one hell of a bench from her so she can live on.

Thank you, Mabel.

Blog Jam

Mitt Romney scares me. As he should everyone. Along with his cohort Paul Ryan.

As does Stephen Harper, he of the glacial blue eyes and hidden agendas.

Isn't it odd how these men are so goodlooking in a mannequinish kind of way?

Then again, so was Ted Bundy.

It's funny that. How we expect the ogres of our time to look like monsters out of fairy-tales. When they're always so good-looking. This is how they access their victims. We should teach our children to beware of the good looking ones with the excellent teeth and perfect hair.

I am reading quite a wonderful book at the moment called Ghost Written by David Mitchell.  It is full of luscious lines like:

"The mountains toss and turn and then lie down until the grasslands begin."

and

          "Sometimes language can't even read the music of meaning."

Books can elevate us out of the mundane. Act like balm to the soul. Fill our imagination to over-flowing. Replace thoughts of bills and work and hunkering down for winter.

I was inspired by the autumnal red in my wee trees out back, even on this dullish day. And sadly, beside the glow of the crimson there is Mabel, all chopped up and drying out to keep me warm through next winter.

Mabel the Maple

Mabel rises.

 

There could be a story written about her. I mean she collapsed. She was levelled. She was totally horizontal, shrouded in her skirts. And then one branch was sawed off, then two, then three.

And very slowly, she rose again and settled back into the hole that was wrenched from the ground by her enemy Leslie.

As if to say: I'm not done yet. I'm far from done.  Figure out how I did this. Maybe you can too.