Just My Luck

Just My Luck

by | Feb 22, 2025 | Living

This morning, I saw the slender black cat that slinks around our place driving our near thirteen-year-old black Lab crazy. Pip will rouse from her old dog sleep on the back deck or in the sun by the slider, barking ferociously in what is a very unique bark reserved for this cat alone.

“Slinky pissin’ you off again, girl?” We say, as my wife or I quiet Pip down. We have no idea who this cat belongs to or what her name is, but she slinks around just in Pip’s line of sight or smell and we imagine her delighting in “owning” our dog’s territorial emotions.

This morning I saw “Slinky” walk casually across our front walk. “Oh, no! Just my luck! A black cat walked across the front walk! Now I can’t use the front walk or the front door. I’ll have to go out the back and jump over the railing on the deck, fall and break my ankle. See, black cats are bad luck.”

I didn’t actually do that, but my brain did.

I’m not sure where my superstitions come from, but when I describe good fortune, “At least we’re all healthy,” I quickly look for wood to knock upon and if I’m in the car I rap my knuckles on my forehead.

I cringe when driving, if someone says ‘traffic’s not too bad today,” or going to an outdoor event if someone says “looks like the rain’s gonna hold off.” Jinxes are very real to my brain.

Some superstitions I have mostly grown out of. I was about twelve when I spilled the salt at a big family dinner. I quickly grabbed a pinch of the spilled salt with my right hand and threw it over my left shoulder. Unfortunately, at just that moment, my mother was bringing a full gravy boat to the table and reaching across my left shoulder to place it on the table.

The gravy exploded over half the table, my mother’s Madonna-blue dress, the grey and white table cloth, the sage-green plush rug, my hair, my sister’s hair, and the ceiling.

“What were you doing?”

“I spilled the salt. I was pitching the spill over my left shoulder.”

“Why would you do that?”

“For good luck.” I can still hear the echoes of raucous laughter.

Some superstitions make a lot of sense:

Don’t “walk under a ladder,” is to avoid getting paint spilled on you or knocking someone off a ladder. Ouch.

Don’t “open an umbrella in the house’ is to avoid poking someone in the eye or knocking Victorian bric-a-brac off a front hall shelf.

Other superstitions are at least understandable:

Wood, trees were very important to the Celts as was the wooden cross to Christians, so “knock on wood” probably seemed reasonable to ward off evil spirits and bad luck.

The seven years bad luck from a broken mirror, probably came from the historical expense of mirrors and the “magic” of your reflection, which you wouldn’t want to shatter. Salt was similarly precious; Roman soldiers thought useless were described as “not worth his salt,” the ration given to avoid electrolyte damage in the field.

Triskaidekaphobia, fear of the number 13, is old. Death is the thirteenth card in many Tarot decks. Judas was the thirteenth disciple, perhaps starting the dinner party planning prohibition of “thirteen at table.”  On Friday October 13, 1307 King Phillip IV of France arrested all the leadership of the Knights Templar ultimately killing them all, and starting Friday the 13th trepidation and endless Jason movies.

As children we used to assiduously practice avoiding the “step on a crack, break your mother’s back.” Now in my seventies, I understand the dangers of the dreaded “uneven pavement.”

I get why a lucky penny, found on the ground face up might be considered lucky. Found money is special.

I once won a thousand dollars from the Publisher’s Clearing House, (yes, really). I immediately spent it on a mountain bike. A short time later, I dumped the mountain bike in a big hole in the trail and broke a vertebrae spinous process. A colleague said, “Of course, Alan, everyone knows you don’t spend found money; you save it.”

But why is my brain still superstitious?

People talk about the amygdala, or “lizard brain,”  the part of the brain that holds our deep seated emotions and reactions like “fight or flight” response, Some say that this brain stem holds our ancestral memory, like sabretooth tiger anxiety, and the similarity of an inverted horseshoe to the “sacred vulva” of pagan moon goddess Diana. Maybe.

In my case, more likely it’s behavioral training. If any of us kids dropped silverware while setting the table my mother would say, “Company’s coming.” A dropped knife meant a man was coming. A fork indicated a woman would arrive soon and a spoon meant an extra child for dinner. I imagine my mother meant a neighbor child and not that she was pregnant.

When my father fashioned a bobby pin into a screw driver to fix his glasses or some other little improvised innovation, he always called it “workin’ a rabbits foot.” I never understood why a rabbits foot was considered lucky. It certainly wasn’t lucky for the rabbit.

My dad picked up lucky pennies, lucky pebbles, and had many lucky pocket knives. I still have some of his lucky things and have my own collections of clutter. I’m not sure any of it has made me particularly lucky. I’ve learned that gambling isn’t where my luck lies. I always lose at casinos and always lose too much chasing the “my luck’s about to break” delusion. I don’t gamble anymore.

My luck, I’ve learned, is having the love of family and friends, and staying mostly healthy, (knock on wood) and not listening to my lizard brain about spilled salt and black cats.

Language—Story—Writing—AI (?)

Language—Story—Writing—AI (?)

by | Feb 2, 2025 | Living

Writer

“Would you like to write this with AI?”

I am asked this question, by LinkedIn, WordPress, and several other writing tools and sites where I publish my writing. As I skip the AI button inside my head is an existential scream:

NO! I’M TRYING TO BE A WRITER DAMMIT!

I call myself a writer and I do write a fair amount, no great American novel (yet), but ruminations on wisdom I have stumbled upon and share. I have self-published one book Traveling the Consulting Road, and am getting close on a second Change Leader? Who Me?  Still, as my defensive self-talk might indicate, I’m a little insecure in the writer title, but I definitely don’t want computer code doing it for me.

“Here honey, Let me tie your shoes.”

“I CAN DO IT MYSELF!”

I have always been a storyteller. It is a talent (or affliction) I inherited from my father who could spin a yarn to the delight (or annoyance) of many. I’ve discovered that not everyone has patience with my natural communication mode.

“STOP! We don’t have time for one of your stories,” said Kerry, the twenty-five year old consultant who viewed it as her job to keep the old process guy moving. (I was not even fifty then. I hate to think what Kerry would say now.)

Let’s face it, I like words, spoken or written. I think words are what makes us human. I’ve been thinking about human history embodied in the progression: Language—Story—Writing, and the various technologies that have changed communications.

Language

There is no contemporaneous report of how humans learned to talk. There are various theories about the development of language:

  • The continuation of the gestures we see in animals today. Our ancient black lab is very good at communicating when she wants to eat or go out.
  • A unique event in our evolution, specific DNA gene that spontaneously mutated.
  • Some divine creation event.
  • Some social event like collective labor that produced a rhythmic song – “(Hoh! Ah!) (Well don’t you know).That’s the sound of the men, Working on the chain, ga-ang (Hoh! Ah!)”

We may soon have more idea. The FOXP2 gene has been identified as controlling the development of speech in children. Perhaps by analyzing DNA from the oldest hominid remains we may find the point where FOXP2 develops. Or perhaps we will be left with Buonarotti’s Sistene finger touching moment.

When did language show up? One or three hundred thousand years ago? Dunno

Whenever we came up with the first words, it is apparent that they evolved into stories.

Story

In caves in Lascaux and Chauvet  in the south of France, there are some pretty spectacular pre-PowerPoint hunting story illustrations that date to between 17,000-30,000 BCE. Many early stories are an attempt to explain things, like why we all use different words. In Genesis II in the Bible is an old story that exists in many cultures, The Tower of Babel.

“And the whole earth was of one language, and of one speech. . . .And they said, Go to, let us build us a city and a tower, whose top may reach unto heaven. . . . And the LORD said, Behold. . . . now nothing will be restrained from them.  . . . let us . . . confound their language, that they may not understand one another’s speech.”

And that is why, in comedian Steve Martin’s words, “cat is chat, dog is chien, hat is chapeau! Those French! They have a different word for everything!”

Different languages created a challenge for trade, and there grew up a lingua franca, a traders tongue, a combination of gestures and signs, which you can still see in markets around the world.

There are creation and great flood stories in many cultures; there are explanations for the sun and stars, and animal tales with morals like Aesop’s “Hare and Tortoise.” Slow, but steady wins.

Once, we lived in oral cultures where elders and shaman storytellers kept history and educated the young. The transition to writing was uneven. In Europe Germanic tribes developed an alphabet, but the Celtic tribes (Gauls, Belgae, and Helvetii) aggressively shunned writing

Hearing a story uses different neural pathways in our brains than reading the same stories. This is partly due to using different senses. Hearing develops in the womb, whereas vision is refined later. Early childhood research shows that children who are read to, read earlier and more throughout their lives. Story is powerful and fun.

Writing

People who study the evolution of writing talk about “writing systems, which usually start with a glyph or pictogram which represents a product and/or a count, on clay tablet cuneiform in Sumer – Hieroglyphs in Egypt- Chinese characters – Mayan ideograms and phonetic glyphs in Mesoamerica.

These early pictogram systems would have been most useful to traders and tax collectors. So it should be no surprise that the earliest alphabets were developed by the Phoenicians purple-sailed galley traders from Tyre and the Sumerian empire. These alphabets represented the sounds of speech -The Phoenician and Aramaic right to left represented consonants. The Greek left to right, added vowel sounds and cursive writing where one letter flows to another. The Latin alphabet built on the Greek.

Writing began as a specialized skill, practiced by the very educated, or professional scribes. In  1452, moveable type and the Gutenberg press, destroyed the scribe trade, democratized writing, and ultimately led to Palmer method cursive penmanship instruction, wherein I never earned above a ‘C’ in school. For a while in millennials education, the ubiquity of typing, stopped schools teaching cursive writing. Some are reinstating it now.

Research using electrode-net caps and MRIs has found that handwriting uses different neural pathways than listening to a story, and also different from reading. The synapses are strongest with cursive writing, stronger than printing and much stronger than typing. A stronger signal leads to a deeper pathway, and better memory. I discovered that when I took notes by hand, I could sit down and type a lecture or an interview almost verbatim. When I tried to do that by typing, I couldn’t remember more than about forty percent.

Handwriting, as bad as my penmanship has become, helps me. I often begin writing by handwriting an outline, and first sentences of each section. During times of transition, a handwritten journal helps me move forward. Whenever I am stuck, too many things to do and unable to prioritize, I always find handwriting it down helps me see order and the path.

AI

Now, AI wants to write for me, and I ain’t having any of it..

As I understand it, generative artificial intelligence works like our autopilot brain works, what Daniel Kahneman calls System 1 in Thinking Fast and Slow. System 1 scans all available data looking for patterns of behavior and then frequency gambles (In the past, Alan has turned right here 80% of the time, turn right). We use System 1 most of the time and that’s efficient.

AI has a much larger dataset to work with, because it’s trained on everyone else’s writing and so probably puts out copy that is clear and grammatically correct. I admit I may not always do that, but my writing is me, not a homogenous amalgam of everyone, assembled by computer code.

My mother the mathematician, used to decry my use of calculators. “Don’t use those things, Alan. They rot your brain.” She could do compound interest in her head and I catch myself pulling out my phone to divide by ten.

I’m left wondering about the progress (or rot) of the human brain. What did we lose in transition from oral to written culture? What did we lose from scribes to printing? (Have you seen the Book of Kells?) What are we losing as we type rather than handwrite? And what might we lose to AI generated text?

Maybe we’ll just start over.

 “Word, Dude! Reminds me of a story. Say, is anyone writing this down?”

Patience Redux

Patience Redux

by | Jan 12, 2025 | Living

Some life lessons we are meant to learn. . . over. . . and over again.

Not long ago I wrote about patience.  I quoted a one-time client, who didn’t take well to my advice to “Be Patient.”

“Patient?! Alan, the world was not built by patient men!”

I went on to note that high performing entrepreneurs and inventors were not known as the soul of patience. Neither, I suppose, are military leaders. It is hard to imagine General Patten, Napolean, or Genghis Khan, being described as patient.

I have in my life been patient, sometimes with children, sometimes too much with people who were behaving badly towards me. One thing I have learned about myself: I am NOT a patient patient. By reasons of my upbringing, it takes a long time for me to concede to see a doctor. When I finally do, I expect miracles, instantaneous miracles, or faster, if possible, please.

I am not patient with my own body, which  (who?) I sometimes accuse of, and demean for, letting me down, even when I have been abusing it (him?). Separating my body from myself and anthropomorphizing that part of me as separate from me, is an artifact of my upbringing too.

For most of my life, I have been fortunate to be extraordinarily healthy.

At seventy and seventy-one, my patience as a patient was tested when I fell running and did some damage to my cervical spinal cord. I wrote how helpful I found Reinhold Niebuhr’s Serenity Prayer:

“Lord, please give me the serenity to accept those things I cannot change,

The courage to change those things I can,

And the wisdom to know the difference.”

A surgeon performed a minor miracle on my neck. I am extraordinarily grateful. I wasn’t patient. I pushed myself in physical therapy (PT) and I recovered use of my disconnected body double. “Good job, body, ole pal. Took you a while, but you got there.”

Now I face another challenge.

As a child my mother reacted to an ugly face I made. “Don’t do that. Your face will freeze that way.”

A week ago, my face froze. Or, at least, the left side of my face stopped working and drooped. Thankfully, my problem is not one of the more disastrous causes of such an effect, stroke, brain tumor, or meningitis. I have an attack of Bell’s Palsy.

Bell’s Palsy is an overload of cranial nerve number seven, which controls facial movement and expression. The cause is “idiopathic,” which is to say that medical science has no clue why it happens. It sometimes happens in response to a virus, or bacterial infection, stress, or multiple minor issues.

Recovery time is indeterminate, five days, three weeks, three, six, nine months. A few unfortunate sufferers need surgery to recover; fewer still fail to heal, smile crookedly, but live otherwise normal lives.

“So, lighten up Alan,” my estranged bod might rightfully respond. “Yeah, drinking coffee through a straw is a pain and you have to remember to chew on the right side so the food stays in your mouth. But quit whining! There are too many people in Greater Los Angeles whose everything has been consumed by fire, and too many in Ukraine, Gaza, Sudan who live with bombs falling on their heads, and too many injured, ill, or hungry, who may not live to see the dawn.”

“Suck it up. Rest. Get through the effects of Prednisone withdrawal, see the neurologist. Do the PT.”

“Yeah and I can practice the lines of side-talkers throughout history:

  • WC Fields: ‘my little chickadee,’
  • Edward G. Robinson: ‘Tough guys don’t dance, see. Tough guys’ guts cut and bleed in a knife fight.’
  • Edward Teach, Jack Sparrow, Pegleg Pete: ‘Arrgh, Matey’ (Actually, I won’t be eighty for three years –  hopefully this’ll be over by then. Arrgh, Matey, I’m 80 – get it?).”

“STOP! Send some money to relief efforts!”

“OK body, bud, I’ll be a more patient, patient. You know we ought to work together more. Integration. That’s the ticket.”

“Yeah? I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men”

“The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men”

by | Dec 28, 2024 | Living

This post will send in the wee hours o’ New Year’s Eve 2024.  Here, in the good ole US of A, New Year’s Eve is amateur alcoholics night, when teetotalers, and even those with a serious drinking problem, know to leave the roads to those idiots who binge drink once a year, loud-singing the Robert Burns anthem, “Should auld acquaintance be fergot an’ nev’r braught ta maieend, . . .” followed by sloppy kisses and hugs.

The still slightly sober may ask, “What the hell does “Auld Lang Syne” mean anyway?” To which a more pedantic tippler-friend may answer, “Old long seen, or days and friends long gone, in short, the ‘good-ole-days.’”

Early in the flow of whiskey-wine-and-beer, some may ask, “Got any ‘New Year’s Resolutions?’” In these settings, the answers range from the “Nah, don’t believe in ’em,” to “Oh, the usual, exercise more, spend more time with friends and family.” When I was in with this crowd, I did not encounter any who were truly serious about the annual self-improvement ritual.

In my experience, most New Year’s resolutions spring from the New Year’s Day hangover and timid step upon the bathroom scale, ignored “over the holidays.” It is why the single biggest sale days for gym memberships are January 2nd and 3rd.

The earliest recorded New Year’s resolutions were made around four thousand years ago, in the Babylonian festival of Akitu. This was held around the spring equinox, the beginning of planting season. Babylonians reflected on any of their behaviors, which might have offended their gods, and resolved to change those behaviors so the right amounts of sunshine and rainfall might bless this year’s crops. New Year’s resolutions were serious business, and while I imagine there was some partying in the 12-day long festival of Akitu, the resolutions that were recorded were reaffirmation of loyalty to the king, return of items borrowed, and repayment of debts. These were promises to the gods and probably not made lightly.

For much of history, the New Year, whenever it was celebrated, was a time of religious reflection and rededication. Julius Caesar, in 46 BCE created the Julian calendar, with the first month, January, named for Janus, the two faced god of thresholds and gateways. It was a time to reflect upon the events of the past and to look forward across the threshold into the future.

John Wesley, English founder of the Christian Methodist Church, created the Covenant Renewal Service for New Year’s Day in 1740. Rosh Hashana, the Jewish New Year, is a fall celebration of the creation of the world, the beginning of the Days of Awe, ten days of reflection culminating in Yom Kippur, days of atonement. The Hijiri, the Islamic New Year, is observed in June to commemorate the new beginning when the Prophet and his followers migrated from Mecca to Medina in 622 CE. The Hiriji is a time of prayer, and reflection, and time with family. Some Muslims make resolutions for the new year.

World New Years throughout the year

 New Year’s celebrations that are part of religions are celebrated at a time that makes sense for that religion and culture.

These celebrations are reflective and may or may not include a tradition of resolutions.

If there is a resolution tradition, however, it is conscientious. The faithful who make a public declaration of a future action tend to keep their commitment.

In the ole US of A, such faithful achievement of New Year’s resolutions is more the exception than the rule. Gyms and health clubs are full in January, but empty out by March. Every year in December pollsters ask a sample of us if we kept our resolutions from January 1; on average, seventy percent of us did not.

 

This year I read an analysis that categorized the areas of most American’s resolutions:

  • Spend time with family and friends
  • Find ways to stay active
  • Learn something new
  • Help others
  • Renovate, or clean up our living space
  • Read more
  • Eat better

I have no idea about the survey methodology, but I truly believe if Americans did these things we’d be happier and healthier. Not to be negative, but survey says, we do not, or at least seventy percent of us admit that we do not.

Change isn’t easy. Self-improvement is hard. You have to realize that the current state is unacceptable and reject it. Then you have to have a clear vision of the end state and goals.

The human resource, learning and development mafia have drilled into my head that goals must be S.M.A.R.T.

  • Specific
  • Measurable
  • Achievable
  • Relevant
  • Time Bound

I don’t disagree, even though I rebelled against such goal-setting dogma when someone was trying to manage my personal performance to meet corporate goals. These are good criteria for self-improvement goals. They’re just insufficient.

If I haven’t rejected my Dad-bod, then I’m unlikely to say no to the Häagen Dazs that creates it. If I only have one measure, 165 pounds, then I have no way to track a trend. If my time frame is four months to lose twenty pounds and I don’t break that down to a pound and a half a week and have a maintenance program for month five to forever, it may not happen.

Control and correction: If I want to spend more time with my sister, or my grandchildren or my wife, what does that look like? If I find I didn’t do that in January, what am I going to do in February and March?

I’m not saying, don’t set New Year’s Resolutions; I’m saying set them judiciously, religiously, with an eye toward being in the thirty percent who actually achieve them. Cuz as Robert Burns intoned “To a Mouse On Turning her up in her Nest, with the Plough, November 1785.” The best laid plans o’ Mice and Men, gang aft agley.”

And I hope you know, I am not preaching at you; I’m preaching to myself.

I am the only person who I have any right to expect might listen to my sermon.

Have a healthy, engaged, connected New Year, where you learn what interests you, do what you’ve been putting off, and help others. Or whatever kind of New Year makes you happy.

Just please don’t drink and drive.

A Community of Light

A Community of Light

by | Dec 21, 2024 | Living

It is the Winter Solstice. In the cold we huddle around the fire, joined in our communities. At the dark time of year, when the days are short, we celebrate the light. During this time I often imagine ancient peoples in their shelters, with a roof smoke hole above the fire, bringing evergreen boughs inside, so the green reminds them that spring will come again. I even wrote a song about this fantasy called Deep Winter’s Night.

I was encouraged in this fantasy first by the Megalithic monument Stonehenge oriented towards the Summer Solstice. I felt that these people in 2500 BCE were quite attuned to the interaction between the light of the heavens, and the earth on which we still walk. I was amazed at how, what I thought of as a primitive people could orient such a large monument to the sun on one day per year.

When I saw the older Megalithic Passage tomb at Newgrange north of Dublin Ireland, built in 3200 BCE I was further gobsmacked. There is a transom window over the entrance and on the Winter Solstice at sunrise a beam of sunlight comes through the transom and illuminates the altar on which cremated remains were placed. The sunbeam, archeologists speculate, was believed to enable the passage of the spirit from one plane to another.

This fit with my fantasy of the hope of light at the darkest time of the year.

Then I had a “flat forehead moment,” so-called because I have repeatedly struck my forehead with the heal of my hand over the years exclaiming, “Duh!” or “Doh” (like Homer Simson). What prompted this epiphany of blindingly obvious perspective dissonance?

In Australia, New Zeeland, South Africa, Peru and Antarctica it is the Summer Solstice, the longest day of the year. So my annual fantasy is a completely Northern-Hemisphere-centric viewpoint.

Apologies to those who live south of the equator, who may say –“Wha?” And people who come from around the equator where the days are the same length year round, and in most places around the equator one will not be huddling around a fire and bringing conifers inside.

Moreover, this ancient Winter Solstice fantasy is probably a Euro-paleo-centric perspective representing a narrow slice of all the ancient ancestors on the planet.  I have trouble imagining this behavior among Aleuts and Innuits at the Arctic circle or the Navaho, Kiowa, Osage, Chickasaw, Choctaw, or Calusa in what became the United States.

Duh!” Or I think I’m gonna go with “Doh,” because I feel as clueless as Homer.

Here is the story of the triggering of this realization.

As I started my annual rumination on our Winter Solstice and the many festivals of light at this our dark time of year, I observed that Hanukkah, the eight night Jewish celebration, starts on Christmas night this year. It moves dates on the Gregorian calendar as result of the six thousand year old lunar calendar used to fix dates of religious celebrations.

I wondered about lunar calendars. Did hunter gatherers use the phases of the moon to track the movements of animals and know which plants yielded edible food? I dunno. My parents would have sent me to the Encyclopedia Britannica in our living room. “Look in up.” And I still do, though on the Internet version. It turns out that lunar calendars are very old. Archeologists have found some evidence of lunar calendars in caves in Southern France that may be as old as 32,000 BCE.

In the third millennium BCE the lunisolar calendar emerged, lunar months and solar years. In addition to Hebrews, the Sumerians, Assyrians and ancient Egyptians had a lunisolar calendar.

“Ah,” I said. “the growth of agriculture?” The moon in her phases pulled upon the waters of the Mediterranean, the Tigris, Euphrates and Nile nourishing the plants that the Mother brought forth. Perhaps with the growth of astronomy in Egypt and Greece solar calendars came to the fore. The distant Sky Father, seeming larger than the Earth, was entrusted with man’s invention, Time.

Lunar calendars now are really lunisolar calendars because there is always an addition of a month every two to three years to maintain accuracy with the ubiquitous 1582 Pope Gregory XIII sponsored DayRunner. China, Mongolia, Korea, Japan, Thailand, Vietnam, and the Banks Islands, part of the nation of Vanuatu in Melanesia in the South Pacific, are all on a lunisolar calendar for cultural celebrations.

It is also true that many religions, including Judaism, Islam, Hinduism, Buddhism, and Jainism  schedule religious festivals according to lunisolar calendars

This brought me back to a puzzle I have always wrestled with. Christianity adopted the pagan Winter Solstice celebration, light at the dark time. It appeared that Judaism did too, Chanukah (traditional spelling). But Diwali, Hindu festival of lights is in the fall. And Islam celebrates light  at Eid at the end of Ramadan in the spring.

Here comes the flat forehead moment.

In the home of these religions, what I thought of as the Winter Solstice, cold, snow, seemingly dead deciduous trees, sprinkled with some evergreens, short days, dark time of year, needing to see the light and be hopeful, wasn’t really like that.

“Doh!”

It is however more than a little interesting that these religions have their own festival of lights. So the timing matters less than my Northern Hemisphere, Euro-paleo-pagan genes would indicate.

There is a cycle of dark and light, of fear and hope, of individual independence, joining hands in community and peace.

We may celebrate that cycle at different times of the year in different seasons, but we all celebrate. We all long for community to wrap us in love. We all hope and feel peace in our hearts.

So whether you celebrate at this time of year or not, whether there is a tree in your living room or a shrine, whether there is a fire or candle you gather at, reach for those you love and those you barely know, and share your hope for the light, and your love.

Peace be upon you, and all of us.

The Grey One’s Gift

The Grey One’s Gift

by | Nov 30, 2024 | Living

The young one had a map of sorts, mostly a list of turns drawn on birchbark – arrow left at the big oak, right after the log bridge, and so on. The path was long for one so young, winding through a deep hardwood forest, crossing a rushing stream on a fallen log, then climbing through fir-filtered sunbeams almost to the tree line.

Finally a small clearing opened to the sky, where one could see up to the first ridge of the mountains and down to the village below. Across the clearing, nestled into the hillside was a cabin, so covered with lichens and mosses it seemed a part of the wood. Before it sat the Grey One, carving a stag from a small piece of wood. The horns of the animal were still blocky as was some of the body, but a near perfect hoof was raised as if the buck would prance off at any moment.

“I am sorry to disturb you, Grey One,” the young one said. “Wind sent me up this path to talk with you.”

“Ah, in trouble with the Elders?”

“No. Well, at least I don’t think so. The village is busy laying up grain and roots for winter, Maybe I was in the way. I ask a lot of questions. Wind just said “Go, it is your time.”

“I see. And what have you been asking about?”

“Oh, everything really. About the stars, and the animals, and where babies come from? Why some things grow and why other things die?”

The Grey One chuckled. “Yes, I see why they sent you. Did you have trouble finding me?”

“No. Wind gave me this drawing of the way.”

“Hold onto that. Come sit by me on the ground and lean your back against this tree. Let us see if we can answer some of those questions.”

The Grey One listened patiently. It seemed to the young one there were more questions asked than answered.

“And what do you think, young one?”

Towards the afternoon, the Grey One served warm soup retrieved from the cabin. After they ate, the Grey One said “I have a small gift for you, something you must practice. Sit with me upon the ground again.”

“Now close your eyes. Breathe softly, in through your nose, and out through your nose.”

After ten breaths breathing together, the Grey One said, “this is the Earth Breath. Through this breath you feel the Earth. Keep breathing as you listen to my voice.

“Breathe in through your nose, and out through your nose. Feel the ground beneath you, each grain of soil, each wet leaf and pebble. You are a part of the ground. As you feel your Connection to the Earth, think also of your Core. Become stronger of body and open of mind.”  Be humble and grateful of spirit. The earth will guide you as you grow and improve your Core.”

Several silent moments passed. Then Grey One gave the young one an apple. “For your journey back. Use the bark drawing, backwards this time. Practice the gift of breath until we meet again.”

Seasons passed. The young one grew, and met the Grey One now and again in the wood near the village. The Grey One always asked “Do you practice the Earth Breath?”

“Yes Grey One.” This young one was diligent, grounding and growing.

Winters later, Wind said, “It is time to visit the Grey One.” The young one still had the birchbark and made the journey.

The Grey One asked. “What gives you joy? Do you sing? Or work with your hands?”

The Grey One listened, then shared a new practice.

“Practice this gift after the Earth Breath, still protect your Core, the health and fitness of your body, mind and spirit, and grow your connection to the Earth.

This is the Fire Breath –  in through the mouth, and out through the nose. The Fire Breath is for your passions, your gifts, talents, your Capability.  Nurture and grow your Capability the way we blow upon the saved coals from yesterday’s hearth to cook today’s meal.”

The young one committed to practice both Earth Breath and Fire Breath building Connection, Core, and Capability.

Seven season circles swirled past.

When the young one next readied for the climb up the path,  Wind said, “Stop by the stream for a few moments and observe; the Grey One will ask you what you see.”

And the Grey One did ask.

“The water moves swiftly in some places; it eddies and pools in others. There is no holding it back. It fills in the spaces among the rocks, moves around them, or over them, it is always there and always moving.”

“Well observed, young one. Now Water Breath, in through the nose, and out through the mouth, can be added. With the Water Breath you connect with others the way the water adapts to the shapes around it. The stream rushes to a river, which glides along the loam banks to the sea, where the tides first hug and then push back from the shore.

Water is the essence of change and the Water Breath shows us how to adapt. Water connects to rocks and the shore, but is always water. So too, your Core connects and adapts to others, and may change with Love, but remains – you. The Water Breath is the first practice where breath leaves your mouth. Take care with your speech.”

“As a young one,” the Grey One said, “I was quick of mind and word, able to see solutions that eluded others. I spoke my mind, but was at times poorly received. I saw in a glass that I have two eyes and two ears, but one mouth. I learned, what is help is not mine to define. Now I watch and listen, but speak less.

Many winters travelled into memory.

Wind was now gray too. A kind face, formed in deep lines traced from years of smiles, spoke to the young one, now a new parent. “The Grey One feels winter’s breath and cannot make the journey to the village. Go now before snow closes the path.

And so this new parent, who practiced Earth, Fire, and Water Breaths, made the journey with no need for the birchbark map.

“I have one more practice to share, the Air Breath, in through the mouth, out through the mouth. It is a breath we all know from being winded; “out of breath” we say. The Air Breath is everything that unites us as people, as animals, and even vegetation, for do not the very trees breathe life into us. So the Air Breath is our beginning and our end. I have taught you this pattern.

Earth breath first, the Connection between your Core and the earth. Fire Breath,  second, burn bright, as you blow on the coals of your gifts and passions. Water Breath third, your Connection through Love to others, never losing yourself. Water reminds us that Change is the primal law of all life. The first three breaths teach you to grow and build upon Core, Connections, and Capability.”

Now the Air Breath, is the symbol of your connection to all life, and bids you share your Contribution. Teach your capability to your family and friends, and with love to the stranger.”

“Breathe in, inspire. Breathe together, conspire with love. Breathe out, expire. You have naught to leave here but your gift to the world, your Contribution.”

A light snow began to fall. The former young one walked slowly back to a new family gathered around the hearth, and was grateful for the Grey One’s Gift.

 

 

Picture above is “River Dave” Lidstone near his woods cabin in Canterbury, NH in 2021  Original photo by Jodie Gedeon via AP