The Seasons Tell a Story

According to Science, fall begins in the Northern Hemisphere on September 22, at 10:49 A.M. EDT. 

Seriously.  Not at 11:00 o'clock or even 10:50, but at 10:49 precisely.   

Everyone’s entitled to their opinion, of course—even Science. But I think that autumn is a state of mind. It begins when I get the urge to whip up a pot of chili. Or to sip a mug of apple cider. Or maybe it starts the first morning I see Orion, or when the first clump of yellow leaves appears on the old maple tree. 

Fall has a kind of wistfulness that suddenly overtakes me, and I feel like writing a poem or going for a drive with no destination in mind. The beginning of fall, for me, is impossible to predict. It just happens.

I have a friend who says that fall begins the first day you hear an airplane fly overhead and suddenly realize that the sound is no longer muffled by humidity in the air. I love that bit of folk weather-lore, although I’m pretty sure Science would tap its foot and scowl.

Science does that sometimes. For Science has its seasons, and the heart has its own.

The changing seasons are endlessly fascinating to me—partly because they tell a story. In fact, they tell the story at the heart of all myth, the story of the hero’s journey.

Every hero must set out on a journey (symbolically in spring) and face dangers/perils (summer). And finally he must confront the ultimate test. He must face death (winter). And in some sense, he must die, but then go through a resurrection into a new life.

Sometimes the hero faces his worst fear and, against all odds, emerges victorious. (Yay!) Sometimes he dies to his old self or mindset, but emerges with a changed heart. (Hmmmm.) Sometimes he actually dies (Boo!), but he lives on in his work/dream/beloved. (Ahhhhh.) But at its core, the mythic journey is about facing death.

In the seasons we have the seeming death of nature, as autumn leaves fall and many animals migrate or hibernate and the earth is buried beneath a silent shroud of snow. I can’t help but feel a sense of dread as winter approaches, even though I know the story well, and I know that spring will come again.

According to Science, the seasons are a random byproduct of the earth getting knocked a little crooked—so that the axis of rotation isn’t perpendicular to the plane of revolution around the sun. Yeah, whatever.

But I think the seasons are a message to the people of this planet. “Hang in there. No matter how dark or cold or gray your world may become, there will always be a spring. Never be afraid to hope. Never give up.”

We are the travelers on this journey, heroes in the making, facing our fears--not always by choice. And on this journey, we have only our friends, our faith, and messages of hope. Some of these messages were written on clay tablets by the ancients, some by a blogger in Indiana only yesterday. Some were written as fiction, some as poems. And some were written into the fabric of the universe.

I love Science. Our friendship goes back to my childhood. But sometimes Science and I just have to give each other some space. 

So Science can hang around the lab and wait for autumn, while I go on a hayride or start shopping for the perfect pumpkin. Because I know fall is already here.

Mythic Places

I recently reconnected with a high school friend on Facebook. She told me that a few years ago, she and her husband had moved to Benton, Kentucky.


So you're thinking, that is just too (yawn) interesting. Please tell me more.  


Or not. 


But here's the thing.


She might as well have told me she had moved to Never Never Land. Or Camelot. Or Flatland. Or Tatooine. Or Oz. 


In my mind, Benton, Kentucky isn't the sort of place that a real person can move to. It doesn't exist in the same universe as say, Chicago, London, and Yellowstone National Park.


When I was growing up, my dad usually took his vacation to paint the house or work on cars. Boring, responsible stuff. But two or three times we took a mythic journey in the green Oldsmobile to visit my brother's family in Benton.

Happy memories. Eating watermelon with my nephews and niece down in the creekbed, so we wouldn't get hopelessly messy. (We did anyway.) Visiting a crazy, colorful, and wonderful assortment of aunts and uncles. Splashing in a washtub outdoors.  Picking blackberries. Eating catfish at the Pelican in the Land Between the Lakes. Riding a horse. Lazy summer days and sparkling nights with singing crickets and shooting stars. Shopping in Padukah. Aunt Wid's best-ever bean soup and Aunt Luna’s pies with golden curls of meringue. (Even the names are crazy and colorful.)

And through the years there would be other Benton memories, not all happy. Funerals for many loved ones who died. The day my boyfriend found my college class ring in Kentucky Lake after it had slipped off my finger. Making my wedding dress on the sewing machine from hell, while I stayed with my dad in Benton for a few months. A baby shower my sister-in-law gave for me, where people I didn't even know knit booties and brought gifts. And for funerals, they came with pies and cakes and sandwiches. A neighborly place, Benton.

Dad with Cousin William's tractor, in Benton

Benton memories are few and far between, but they are all special, all infused with an other-worldliness, with great sorrow or great joy. Whenever I went to Benton, I left this world behind. 


I suspect that we all have mythic places in our lives. Places that loom large in our imaginations. Places we can never quite explain to "outsiders." Sometimes we long to return, as Adam must have longed to return to Eden, but the entrance is barred. The house has been sold. The people have died. The landscape has forever changed. 

Most places we've visited, most places we've lived, are stored in our minds, but mythic places are stored in our hearts. We can visit them only in dreams and memories. And yet, no bulldozer or tornado--not even the slow but certain ravages of entropy--can destroy them. 


In mythic places, the dead still walk and talk in all their endearing quirkiness. What we felt is more important than the facts. What we remember matters more than what really happened.

At Dad's house in Benton,
my brother and sis-in-law with my first baby

And though we can never really return to a mythic place, maybe we don't need to. We carry it with us always--it becomes a part of who we are. And likewise, we become a part of the place, a part of the story.


As King Arthur sings to a boy at the final curtain of Lerner and Lowe's Camelot:



     Don't let it be forgot
     That once there was a spot
     For one brief shining moment
     that was known as Camelot.


We remember, and we share the stories. That is how mythic places live on.

The End Is Near--Save the Books!

Forget toilet paper, duct tape, and beef jerky.

The apocalypse is coming. You need to stock up now. . .on books! And possibly a few shelves from IKEA for storage. Or maybe a lot of shelves. Hey, it's your future.

I figure that when the aliens spray us all with stupid-gas, we'll need to have some sense and sanity preserved in the pages of print books. (Kindle doesn't count. The aliens can scramble the signal.)

The end is near, my friends. The Stark Raving Mythopath recommends that you keep the following books where you can get at them at all times.

Emily Dickinson

After the Media Meltdown, in a world gone gray and non-specific,  you’ll need poetry to bring back the colors, images, and beauty. Poetry will restore the meaning in the mundane, the exotic richness of the commonplace. Keep some William Wordsworth, John Donne, Maya Angelou, Gerard Manley Hopkins, and Emily Dickinson at arm's length.  In the Day of Darkness, you may need "a certain slant of light" to help you find your way.

When dust storms of fuzzy thinking assail, take shelter in collections of essays by J. B. Priestley, Lewis Thomas, Carl Sagan, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Dorothy Sayers, Douglas A. Hofstader. . . . And here’s the beauty of it. You can disagree! Judges on reality shows may tell you how to think, but good essayists invite you to enter into a dialogue with them. They want you to think—for yourself! I know. It's crazy. 

Ah, but when the killer bees of information overload attack--quick--through the wormhole (or rabbit hole) into a fantasy world where you can forget the facts and find the truth! A Wrinkle in Time. The Great Divorce. Lord of the Rings. Alice in Wonderland. The Book of the Dun Cow. It’s not escapism. It’s a way of getting to the very heart of what's real. (I love you, Charles Wallace!)


Earth falling into the sun? Overcome by a sudden surge of too much gravity? The only antidote is levity. You'll need humor by Mark Twain, Dave Barry, Garrison Keillor, Andy Rooney, and Erma Bombeck. This is no laughing matter. It's survival of the funniest.  

When the Video Vampires drink your dreams because you're not young, beautiful, and computer-savvy, turn off their tapioca transmissions and read novels. Peace Like a River, The Brothers Karamozov, The Number One Ladies' Detective Agency. Frederick Buechner's Godric. You can live thousands  of lives and gain wisdom in each one. When it comes to heroes, one size doesn't fit all, and your size is just right.

And don’t forget the children’s picture books! Babar and His Children. The Velveteen Rabbit. Where the Wild Things Are. Owl Moon. Madeleine. Anansi the Spider. The Fairy Tales of Oscar Wilde. . . . Feast on simplicity and pure delight. We didn't "grow out" of childhood--we were banished. And we need to get back before the Shadow Government condemns us to eternal adulthood. Yuck.

Feel free to make substitutions within these categories, but do stockpile the good stuff. How else will you feed your soul in the Day of Doom and Dimwittedness?

You may mock now, but when the aliens/zombies/major networks come to suck out your brains, you need to be prepared.

And don’t say I didn’t warn you!

Best Moms of Mythology

Oscars? Lame. Grammies? Who needs 'em! We’re here at the annual Best Moms of Mythology Awards--the B-MOM's--waiting  for the first blingy stilletos to hit the red carpet.

I guess we’ll have to wait a little longer, because here comes Echidna, mother of all monsters in Greek mythology—and she prefers to go. . .barefoot. Is that Valentino or Lauren she’s wearing? Seriously, that off-the-shoulder  gown does nothing to hide her figure flaws. Sure, from the waist up, she’s a knock-out--but from the waist down, she's a writhing serpent. Some of Echidna’s charming children include the Hydra (a many headed sea serpent), Cerberus (a three-headed dog that stands guard at the gate of the underworld), the Chimera (a fire-breathing lion-snake-goat combo), the Caucasian Eagle (a bird that feasted on Prometheus’s liver), and Medusa, the lady with snakes for hair.

And now, a vision in burlap! Feast your eyes on the Corn Mother of Native Amercian lore. The Corn Mother was a beautiful maiden who married her true love. After a long, hard winter, her tribe was facing certain starvation. The young squaw told her husband, "There is only one way to save our people. You must kill me and scatter my body over the ground." The man could not, would not believe her plea. But at last, in utter desperation, he did as she had asked. From the earth sprang a new crop of corn and the tribe was saved. And not long after, corn fritters were invented. So next time you eat a corn dog, you can remember Corn Mother. Or not.

Here’s another interesting design choice. Haumea, a  Hawaian goddess, is wearing a retro muu-muu from Dior? Gucci? No! Judging by certain stylistic elements and the tag hanging from her sleeve, I'd say the Hawaian collection from Walmart. She is the mother of Pele, Kapo, and a bunch of kids with 15-syllable names. The Corn Mother gave the gift of corn, and what did Haumea give us? Childbirth. I kid you not. She is said to have invented the method that we think of as natural childbirth--the kind where you pray for drugs and some wiseacre keeps saying, "Push, push, push." Put down those rocks, Ladies! Before you stone Haumea, bear in mind that according to legend, all births before this were done by C-section. 

Now that’s what I call a stretch limo! The driver is opening the door, and here she is, the mother of Heimdallr, from Norse mythology. The driver is opening another door, and out steps—déjà vu—the mother of Heimdallr. He’s opening a third door. . .and out steps. . .can anybody guess? Yes, these are the Nine Mothers of Heimdallr, nine sisters who somehow collaborated to give birth to one son. A regular kid might expect to forget about his homework or feed his veggies to the dog now and then. With 18 eyes watching him and nine moms nagging him, poor Heimdallr didn't stand a chance.

Hold everything. Now that is one classy chariot. And here comes Isis, worshipped in ancient Egypt as the ideal wife and mother. That dress is a wardrobe malfunction just waiting to happen. The paparazzi went crazy when this nonconformist celebrity married her brother Osirus and gave birth to Horus, the god of war. That iconic headdress is a whopper. It’s shaped like a throne, and I guess that works, since she is also considered to be the mother of the pharaoh.

Who will win the award tonight? Who will be the Best Mom in Mythology? All the B-MOM nominees are impressive. But I'm rooting for Echidna. Mostly because, if she loses, her kids may wreak havoc on the theater and the audience and the planet. 

Oh never mind. Chuck Norris' mom just pulled up on her Harley. I think we're safe! 

Happy Mother's Day from the Stark Raving Mythopath!

B-MOM Awards for 2014, click here! 
B-MOM's for 2018, click here!

Buried Alive!

Hel-l-l-l-l-lp! Somebody. Anybody?

He’s trying to kill me — the mean monster with the big stick. Please. You gotta get me out of here. Gasp! I’m running out of air. I’m – hack, cough – waaaaaaah! I’m dying!

You know, I had a pretty good life once. I was just too dumb to know it. I got to hang around the pack with my friends — Daisy, Bud, Clem, the whole gang. It was clean and dry and comfie. 

Oh sure, sometimes Bud rubbed me the wrong way, and Clem could be Mr. Crankypants first thing in the morning. But Daisy was always cheerful, and all in all, it was a great life.

That is, until the day the monster came.

First, he tore the roof right off our pack. We thought it was a tornado. Or zombies coming to suck out our brains
— though Clem said I needn't worry about that.

Then the two-legged leviathan took his pointy thing and dug a grave. Just my size. And then he buried me alive! No, really! It was so Stephen King. I tried to scream. I tried to run. But it was like a dream when you yell but nobody can hear you.

Bl-yeck! Dirt in my ears, dirt in my eyes. I’ve even got dirt in my no-no-nose. A-choo! Not to mention. . .pee-yu! Can you smell that fertilizer!  Grr-oss! What did I ever do to deserve this torture? Nothing—that’s what! Eeeew! Was that a worm?


I think I'm starting to crack. Just this morning, I was stretching my legs — when suddenly I remembered —what the heck! I'm a seed — I don’t have legs. So what are these long, spindly things growing from my south-side? This is re-e-eally creepy. I just don’t know who I am anymore.

So, get this, Mr. Cruel and Unusual.  I’m not gonna take this lyin' down. No sirree. I’m breakin' outta this joint. I'm pushing up with this sort-of-horn-thingie growing out of my top. Yeah, I know. Weird, huh? That’s okay. Once I break through, I’ll hitch a ride back to my old life, back to the pack. I’ll show you! Any minute now. . .push, push, harder, harder, pant, pant, ughhhhhh. . . .

LIGHT! Beautiful, warm, delicious light! Do I hear an angel choir? I’m free, I’m free!

Daisy! Is that you, old friend? I thought I’d never see you again! Hey — you look different! I always thought you were cute, but Girl — you are drop-dead gorgeous! What happened?

No, don’t joke with me. I’ve had a rough couple of weeks. You don’t know what he did to me.

No way! No. Freakin'. Way. That’s the craziest thing I ever heard. You mean. . .I’m a flower? Wow. Who knew? Beautiful? — me? Shut up! You're making me blush!

Daisy, look out! The monster's back! Um, gardener guy — whatever. What’s that big bucket with the spout? Is this more torture?

Ahhhhhhh. That feels so-o-o-o good. Didn’t know I was so thirsty. This is like champagne and a shower all in one. So, he takes care of us? How cool is that!

Hey, Bud! You're here too? Sch-weet! Nah, I wasn’t scared. I had it figured out all along.

Woo-hoo! I can’t believe the view from up here on this stalk. Clouds and sky. I can see the whole garden. Hi, Clem! I see you made it. This is freakin’ amazing.

Um. . .Daisy? Daisy! He's back. But what’s he got this time? This doesn't look good.

Clippers? What do you mean — pruning? Eeeeks. Those things look dangerous. 


Hel-l-l-l-l-lp! Somebody. . . .Anybody?

 I tell you the truth, unless a kernel of wheat 

is planted in the soil and dies, it remains alone. 

But its death will produce many new kernels

—a plentiful harvest of new lives. 

John 12:24 NLT

The Day Heaven Weeps

God laughed, and the light exploded.

Then God called the new‑made Night and Day to stand before Him. “You will serve my many sons and daughters with times for work and times for rest,” said God. “But a day will come when high noon must yield to deep darkness—on The Day Heaven Weeps. Be ready.”

Day and Night looked at each other, not daring to show their puzzlement.

God made the Sea below and the Sky above, and Sea and Sky sang splashing, crashing praise to the Almighty.

God called the new‑made Sea and Sky to stand before Him. “You will serve my many sons and daughters, sending water into the clouds and rain upon the land. But hear this, Sea. There will come a day when you must yield to one who is your master. And Sky, you must reserve a storm for The Day Heaven Weeps. Await my command."

Then God spoke to the land and said, “Bring forth green growing things—towering and tiny, twirling and twining, beautiful and bizarre.” And plants covered the land.

To the plants, God said, “You will serve my many sons and daughters with your fruits and flowers.”

Then He spoke to one tree. “You will bring forth trees in many generations, and your branch will not wither.”

The tree shook its leaves for joy.

“But one of your descendants will be hewn down to become the wood for a great sacrifice—on The Day Heaven Weeps.”

And the tree felt a sudden stinging sadness, but it was an honor to share in the sadness of Creator.

Then God grabbed great gobs of light and rolled them in His hands like clay to form the golden sun, the silver moon, and all the diamond stars. “You will serve my many sons and daughters,” said God, “lighting their paths by day and by night.” 

And He grabbed another handful of the light that shone from His heart and flung it into space.

“Fly, little star—fly through the years and come to rest at the appointed time, on a wretched night, in a nowhere town, over a sorry‑looking cattle shed.”

And the little star flew through the years and tears and fears of mankind.

Then God made the Fishes that swim in the sea and the Birds that fly through the air.

“You will serve my many sons and daughters. They will learn to catch fish, until He comes who will teach them to fish for men. And Birds, you will teach them that they were not destined for the dust but for the skies.”

And God formed all the living creatures that dwell on the earth. “You will serve my many sons and daughters,” said God to the creatures, “by carrying their burdens and by giving them food and coverings. Your sacrifice for my children will be the greatest among created things—until The Day Heaven Weeps.”

These words were strange to the creatures, for why would sons and daughters of God have burdens or be hungry or need coverings?

And last of all, God made man—both male and female. God clothed them with the light that shone from His heart. And they were splendid, but they didn't know it because they were so taken with the beauty of Creator.

“Look upon your many servants,” said God. “And you shall be my dear children, Adam and Eve.” And God saw that all of His making was very, very good.

+++++

One day at dusk, a great angel flew into the Presence.

“Holy, holy, holy,” shouted the angel. “You are worthy to receive glory and honor and power.”

And all of the heavenly hosts cried, “Holy!”

“Is all in readiness?” asked God.

“Yes, Lord. Every created thing knows the part it must play.”  

The angel  looked perplexed. “Um. . .except. . .um, that is. . .”  The angel blushed. He was unaccustomed to being tongue‑tied.

“Yes,” said Creator sadly. “And it is time to deal with that now.”

And the Lord God went down in the cool of the day to walk in the Garden.

“Adam. . . ?”

No answer.

“Adam. . .why are you hiding?”

God, of course, sees everything, and He could see Adam hiding behind a thick curtain of sorrow. The light was all gone and he had tried to cover himself with leaves.

“You don't know what I've done,” said Adam, and bitter tears filled his eyes.

“I do know,” said God. 


And God looked into time‑to‑come and saw a dark noon, a fierce storm, a hewn tree—His Son dying.

“God, I can't see you anymore,” said Adam.

“It's all right. I can see you.”


Thunder rumbled on the distant horizon.

“I'm naked,” said Adam. And he shivered with cold and with fear.

The whoosh of wings that always surrounded God was 

suddenly silent. And into this silence, God whispered, “I’m naked too.”

The breath of God within the man came in short gasps. “I think I’m dying,” said Adam.

And God stooped down and gathered Adam and all the sorrow of the world into His arms. “I’m dying too,” said God. “I'm dying so that you can live.”

Adam couldn’t understand these words—for he couldn’t see what God could see. But he understood the tears falling on him from the face of God.