The Green Man

(a piece of creative writing)

Green is the land I come from. Rocky hills and ancient forests, all green as far your mind can dare to dream.

Legends say that the ancient forests are alive. Not merely alive with creatures clawing, or plants climbing, but alive in its own right — thinking, feeling, moving.

On quiet days, the trees seem to whisper on the edge of the turf, welcoming you, tempting you with cool shade and babbling brooks.

And deep in the trees lies the Green Man

Wild and covered with leaves.

The forest's defense and prisoner,

Lord over all that he sees.

Great is the risk to the traveler

Who knows not the threat of the wood

Else a patch of turf or tree appears

Where once a strong man stood

For great is the task of the Green Man

And old is the power he welds

Doom to the corrupt and careless

Only virtuous may gain his shield.

Once while riding through the wood, I came across an elderly man, bent with age, cloaked and leaning on rough-hewn yew cane. I paused to offer him a lift on my steed, but he gently refused. I asked if there was anything else I could do for him, if he had kin that might be missing him I could call upon. He shook his head, and thanked me for my kindness. Unable to aid him, I continued on.

Further down the path, the thicket ahead shook and I slowed my mount.

Silence. Cautiously I pushed forward.   Rustle.   Crack.

Then a tumultuous noise surrounded me. With a shrill cry, my horse bucked, tossing me from my seat. Brigands. Thieves. Dirty, hairy men with knives drawn closed in toward me while others grab my mount.

Six against one, and I unarmed. I eyed the blade and bow strapped firmly to my saddle. I closed my eyes and steadied my breath, readying myself to claw, kick, bite, even though I knew it to be in vain.

A scream. I opened my eyes to witness the thug before me drop heavily to the ground, a single bolt protruding from his back. The men paused. Their countenance paled.

One by one they turned to run. Four more fell to my mysterious savior. The last mounted my horse and pounded away down the road.

I looked up to see a form jump down from the trees. Tall and cloaked in green, spattered with mud, the figure moved toward me.

"You are safe."

There was no sound, yet I heard the words form in my mind. "You are safe, I do not seek to harm you."

He stretched a callused hand out to me. Still in shock, I took it and he lifted me to my feet.

Reaching up he lowered his hood. His countenance was tan and scarred beneath a beard as brown as the dirt on his cloak. In contrast, his eyes were soft and kind, mirroring the brilliant green of the trees. Despite his rough appearance, he was not much older than myself. His knotted hair was tied back, and in it I noticed a hint of green.

I managed a "thank you" and shook the dust from my skirts. He smiled and spoke, "you showed me kindness, I merely returned it."

I looked up sharply. "When did I..." Then I saw it. The cloak was the same that had clothed the old man. As I watched he took the bow from his back and turned it, revealing the cane of yew.

"You offered me a ride, let me do you the same curtesy." He whistled sharply. From the wood appeared a white hart, larger than any stag I had seen before.

Lifting me up, he placed me carefully on the animal's back. I wrapped my arms cautiously around its neck and heard

"Take her home."

In an instant the beast dove into the trees. I thought sure I would be torn from its back, but no branch came near, no bush seemed to hinder him. The forest seemed to move to oblige the stag.

Once home, I dismounted, patted the beast's side and made my way up the walk. When I turned back, the stag was gone.

My family thought me over tired and distressed, not believing the story I told. An illusion, a fantasy.

In the weeks that followed, I traversed the woods in search of my rescuer, to no avail. In the night I heard his voice in the trees, calling to me.

One evening as darkness settled around the edges of the turf, I heard a familiar sound. Near the wood stood my lost steed. He whinnied a greeting to me. I patted his neck and he lent on me, turning toward the trees. I paused, uncertain. A wisp of wind caught my ear.

"Ride."

I mounted and rode,

For I am in love with The Green Man.

Deep in the forest of trees.

He is my defender, my heart, my breath.

From him I will never leave.

Pain free

I am in pain every single day of my life. It's just a matter of to what degree.

I'm not sick — I have no disease or debilitating injury. This leads me to wonder if this is "normal" or not. Yes it's my normal — but does everyone feel this way? Is there really something I could do to "fix" it?

I've had chronic back/neck pain and head aches for about 10 years. Less than two years ago I added hand and wrist pain — which was helped by the carpal tunnel surgeries, but it is not gone.

Some days I can take a dose of Ibuprofen and be fine. A lot of days I take a "max" dose (four pills) every four-six hours and it merely dulls the pain, doesn't get rid of it. Hell, sometimes I take the max dose of Ibuprofen and one or two Naproxen, and it still only dulls the pain so I can function. (note — none of my pain medications are prescription strength)

Yes, I've spoken to doctors before about my issues, and I know it's probably about time I bring it up again — but that's not the point of this entry.

The point is, I'm hardly ever actually "pain free." Which is what makes me wonder if anyone is...

Gypsy's tale

Young girl drawn by colors bright,
Transfixed by magic in fire light.
Harken! Drums call feet to stir.
In the dark, the dancers blur.

Gypsy, dance for me.

Older now, her heart is torn,
Drum beats move the men to war.
Thunderous cries drive love to ride,
Across the land, to live or die.

Banners snap along the field,
Brave young souls with sword and shield.
Glint of metal as coins once bright,
By the fires, on hips wrapped tight.

Gypsy, dance for me.

She hears the cries, feels the pain
Of foes and kinsmen newly slain.
Heart pounds out a panicked pace,
Whirling, spinning colors race.

Fires burn, but not for them,
Glowing on ships for fallen men.
Drums in the dark to lead them home,
Pulsing beat through blood and bone.

Gypsy, dance for me.

From inner pain comes new life,
Hailed by dancing fire bright.
What was lost, she now reclaims,
In a daughter of the flames.

Gathered round, the women keep,
by the fire, while men folk sleep.
Feet to earth and hands to sky,
Magic in a young one's eyes.

Gypsy, dance for me.

Barefoot in the kitchen

"Don't run around in your stocking feet!"

That was a constant criticism from my mother growing up. I hated wearing shoes. Particularly inside. 

Granted part of the reason for the command was due to my less than stellar cleanliness habits in regards to my room. Watching me cross the room barefoot would cause my father to cringe. When asked why he'd respond he wouldn't walk into my room without steel toed boots, let alone no shoes at all.

I don't know what all the fuss was about — a few sharp edged toys, a carpet coated in staples, and plethora of tacks, needles and sundry other pointy bits of mass destruction. What's the big deal?

Now that I've reached adulthood and home ownership, I am no longer bound by my footwear. I can wander wherever I like in just my socks or entirely barefoot. 

A couple weeks ago, I was baking up a storm when a package arrived from a dear friend. Opening it I found kitchen based treasures in honor of our new home. My husband started grinning — mischievously. 

When asked what he was thinking, he replied "looks like someone thinks you should be barefoot in the kitchen."

My instant reaction was mock indignation and to smack him for his wiseassery. He dodged and laughed saying "Hun, no, wait, look at your feet."

I paused and looked down. Barefoot. I looked over at the oven timer and my husband nodded at me. "We're still working on the pregnant part," he added, eyes twinkling.

Now my husband is about as far from a male chauvinist as a guy can get — he's a sweet hopeless romantic, who now and again likes to get a rise out of me just because he can. And I had unwittingly played into an archaic archetype.

Sometimes I think my husband wishes I'd wear shoes to protect myself from the collateral damage that is my catastrophic klutziness. But all I'm doing is playing with boiling water, knives, heavy objects and a gas stove — what's the worst that could happen? 

The journey

Today's theme is happiness.  About five years ago, I went through a deep depression. 
I tried a lot of things to get out of it, chocolate therapy, St. John's Wart, seeking support from friends and family — nothing seemed to work.
I lived alone, and I felt alone. 
This feeling lasted for a solid year before I stubbled upon a solution — if I want to be happy, I first have to decide, in no uncertain terms, that I am going to be happy. 

It was my New Year's resolution — I was sick of being depressed, so I was going to stop being depressed. 
I joined a belly dance class, signed up for eharmony, and started actively seeking social interaction.
Soon — through some miracle it seemed — I was happy. And six months later, I happened upon an old friend who later became my husband.


At the start of my happiness revolution, I came across this quote, which is still on my fridge to this day. I give a lot of credit for my turnaround to this excerpt:

"For a long time it seemed to me that life was about to begin — real life. But there was always some obstacle in the way, something to be gotten through first, some unfinished business, time still to be served, a debt to be paid. At last it dawned on me that these obstacles were my life. This perspective has helped me to see there is no way to happiness. Happiness is the way. So treasure every moment you have and remember that time waits for no one.

Happiness is a journey, not a destination." -Father Alfred D Souza.

Summer longing

Hear the beat of the drums. They meld with your pulse urging you to action. War drums. 

The dust on the road billows orange in the August sun. The scent of hay fills your lungs as you approach the field. The rattle bang of carts toting the implements of battle ring in your ears. 

As the heat of the day starts to meld into place, warriors gather by the hundreds, thousands, ready. They smile as they pass friends and foes. At the ready, you wait.

The canon blast shakes the air and screaming, fighters pour onto the field.

It's a good day to die.

It's a good day to die two, three, perhaps half a dozen times...

Spark. As the sun disappears and a blanket of stars replaces her, the heat of battle is replaced with the crackle of fire.

Hear the beat of the drums. Feel them in your feet, urging you out from your shade tents, out from your shelters. Night has come. The tinkling of coin, and jingle of bells join with the drums in a call to all corners — come out and play.  

A bright menagerie colors swirl around the flames, as feet work the clay in a way that hands never could. Feel your feet connect with the earth. Feel the pull of the music. Time and cultures meld in the flames. 

Here there is no judgment, no insecurity. There's just you and the fire. And the drums...

Gather around now. 

The cool of night draws you toward the fire. Words have power here. Time stands still. Tales of adventures of long ago fill your ears. Drink them in. Songs of heroic gestures, beautiful maidens and journeys to far off lands long since gone. Jesters of a sort bring forth lyrics to amuse, while more serious bards talk of Gods of old. Leave this place for awhile. See the grand viking halls where the Jarl sits with his people holding feast. See the market place and vast palaces of India. See the Russian snows, deep and vast. See the great dragons upon the stoney cliffs turn to butterflies in the summer fields...

As you drift to sleep, warm in the comfort of your bed, distant drums beat a lullaby.

www.sca.org

www.pennsicwar.org

Backwards

My mother says I tackle problems backwards. 

While most people think in terms of "best way to do this" my brain goes through an automatic "most difficult solution" process. The worst part is, I think my brain is doing the "best solution" process same as everyone else.

This was a major point of contention when I was an angsty teen, and requested assistance with my homework. Foolishly, mom interpreted this as me wanting help with my homework. She would then attempt to assist me by jumping to the simplest solution. This does not compute. 

Frustration would ensue and we'd spend half an hour yelling at each other, ended with "fine, do it yourself!" 

A begrudging apology would be given to my mother after my brain caught up with the afore mentioned simple solution.

It wasn't until college that I fully understood why I had had such a problem communicating with my mother over these issues.  

Backwards. 

If there is a more difficult, labor intensive, and complex way to do something, that's what my brain jumps to first. Every time. 

Eventually, through hours of mulling and tweaking, the eventuality evolves into a far less frustrating, far less complex conclusion.

Mom call this my "process."

My husband was at first bemused by this, but has since learned how to deal with it. When I go off on one of my tangents, he just nods and waits. Once I actually looked at him at the end of one of my treks and asked "How long have you known that was the solution?" 

To which he replies "Since the beginning." 

If he thinks I might not come to the easiest path soon enough, he'll speak up with "why don't you try...". Particularly if the path I'm headed down might cause mental or physical harm to either myself or others.

If I don't think things through out-loud, some entertaining situations can arise.

While planning our wedding, a task my husband really wanted no part of (show up sober, in tux, on time, got it), one of the first things I did was order Save the Date cards for our 150+ guests. Because I did not do this process out-loud, we ended up with enough cards left over to paper a wall.

Backwards.

It wasn't until we were working on our first house that I found out I'm not alone.

My husband came upstairs with an odd smile on his face and kissed me on the forehead. He had been working with dad for a few hours. He said "at least now I know where you get it from."

Dad is a thinker. He very rarely reveals these thoughts out-loud. Typically when he talks to someone about something, it's long after the thought process has been completed.

Our house broke him. 

Within a month of working on our house, my father started talking to himself. A constant muttering of measurements, sequences, plans and problems. My husband would follow him around to help him with things, so for awhile we thought dad was talking to him. He wasn't. 

It was shortly after that happened when we discovered — my father tackles problems backwards.

My husband found this highly amusing, considering he had been living with me for a few years and was well aquatinted with the "process." 

He said he had started carefully making suggestions to dad, "wouldn't it be easier to.....". He said dad would stop, think about it, and occasionally respond with "huh. You know, that might work."

So if you ever notice me doing something odd, highly labor intensive and unnecessary, don't worry. This is just my process. I'll get there... eventually.