A Believer's Journal

Gathering in the tender hours of a crystalline winter morning in Maine, eleven members of the Deer Isle Writers Group enjoyed the blessed bounty of a Bayley buffet before pausing, after some persistent chatter about Thanksgiving dinners and two-year-old puppies and three-thousand-acre broccoli fields in northern Maine, to listen with careful consideration to a prompt delivered by erudite writer cum gifted artist, Frederica Marshall, the prompt curiously provocative, a line from an Edna St. Vincent Millay poem, “childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies,” prompting, as it were, from some of them immediate protestations to the contrary, those writers maintaining that, of course, goldfish die and pets die and, yes, people die, too, when one is yet a child, except that, if you read Millay’s poem, you realize that is not her point at all, that she readily acknowledges that cats die then to be buried by a weeping child in the backyard in a box bigger than a shoe-box, engendering a grief that, though entirely real, does not burrow deep into one’s soul eliciting an outburst of “Oh, God! Oh, God!” in the middle of the night two years hence, and that distant relatives die that the child hardly knows and, therefore, “cannot really be said to have lived at all,” all of this a prelude to the crux of her poem which is that “childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies that matters,” meaning mothers and fathers, meaning mothers and fathers don’t die, except they do sometimes and do eventually, which is her point, that the death of a mother or a father, of one toward whom all of one’s kingdom is oriented, knowing intimately their routines, their foibles, their quotidian pleasures, their well-earned pride, the death of this mother or this father leaving one standing alone in their house drinking tea now gone cold, is the death of childhood.

The forecast is partly cloudy. Must be the weather-maker can’t make up her mind. Or perhaps it is we who are confused, unable to understand a thing as it is, but only as what it is not, not wholly sunny, not wholly cloudy.

But why must a bluebird day be cloudless? Why can’t a cerulean sky decorated here and there and there with cotton ball clouds be considered perfect in itself, whole in itself, not part this or part that?

August 17 was such a day, a playful breeze rustling skirts and tussling hair as we gathered on the roof of the Harmac in downtown Cedar Rapids, a perfect day, a perfect day for a wedding, bright sun warming our foreheads and sparkling on shirts and dresses and ties, blue and red, yellow and purple, a kaleidoscope of bright colors worn per the bride’s request, all of us sharing her joy, all of us sharing their joy, as huge puffy clouds drifted overhead.

As he said, “I give myself to you to be your husband,” and as she said, “I give myself to you to be your wife,” the day, wind and sun and cloud, gave itself to us, not in part, but in whole, imprinting that time-stilling moment indelibly, not only on our minds and on our hearts, but on our skin, too.

There is little in this world that is all this or all that, but much in this world that is beautiful, beautiful as it is, at any given moment and in any given place an amalgam of this and that, of feeling and color, of sense and mystery, of change and stillness, of sun and cloud.

“Now, to what can I compare the people of this day?,” Jesus said. “They are like children sitting in the marketplace. One group shouts to the other, ‘We played wedding music for you, but you wouldn’t dance! We sang funeral songs, but you wouldn’t cry!’” But you, perhaps neither dancing nor crying, are as you are, and that is whole, that is good, that is perfect, and that is what we must see and love.

April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.

I was born in the cruellest month, this month of dead land, in Maine a time of in-between, of not still and not yet, not still winter but not yet spring, mud season, colorless season unless you count the dull brown of lawn and roadside or the dull grey of bare trunks and branches. I might wish to have been born in July, like my wife, revelling in the brilliant light dancing among the yellows and purples and reds of the lilies, or in October, like my grandson, tramping up a rock-strewn trail among oak and birch and maple exulting in their autumnal dress.

But I was born in the cruellest month, this month mixing memory and desire, each birthday cataloging an ever increasing number of days and months and years irretrievable immutable shaping me but also binding me a looming thatness out of which or against which I now must make myself wanting yearning praying to be free to be able to live in and for and by what is beautiful.

I was born in the cruellest month, this month stirring dull roots with spring rain, asking old limbs to dance and a jaded spirit to soar, teasingly intimating that adventure and revelation and joy are just over the horizon …

Or perhaps they are …

Perhaps April is not the cruellest month, but a month for hope undimmed and unvanquished, undeterred by bleak days and starless nights, unfazed by any accumulation of burdensome remembrance, unfettered by any limitations laid on spirit or body by time or space.

April is the bravest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, infusing
Memory with desire, stirring
Dull roots to new life with spring rain.

When the ball left the right foot of Karen Irasema Luna de los Santos, little did she know. Little did any of us know.

She had collected the ball deep in her own end, her El Tri teammates having dispossessed the American attack. She took a few quick touches and then launched an improbable pass far upfield and across the pitch to the feet of Mayra Pelayo-Bernal streaking up the left wing.

It was unthinkable. It was uncanny. It was brilliant. With her thirty-fifth-ranked side clinging to a precarious one goal lead early in extra time against the second-ranked and perennial superpower United States Women’s National Team, she would be expected simply to clear the ball, to be content with getting it out of her own end, getting it out of trouble, giving her teammates a moment’s pause to collect themselves and regroup.

But she did not merely clear the ball. She sent the soaring, implausible, astonishing pass across the field to Pelayo. She left the match commentators scrambling for words. Did she or didn’t she? Did she mean to make that pass or was it just a case of a rushed clearance that happened to find a teammate?

Her entire game up to that point had been brilliant — marking and denying, finding space, applying pressure. There can be no reason to believe that remarkable pass was anything but what she intended. But little did she know. Little did any of us know what Pelayo would do next.

Tracked down the bouncing ball. Five deft touches with the right foot running at her defender. Two quick stepovers, a slight tap of the ball to create space and then …

When the ball left the right foot of Mayra Alejandra Pelayo-Bernal she knew. We all knew. It was beautiful. It was audacious. It was glorious. It held in its flight all the effort and emotion her El Tri sisters had poured out of themselves for ninety-plus minutes, all the pent up hopes of a Mexican side denied by their neighbor to the north in sixteen straight matches, all the exquisite joy of a moment in time never to be forgotten.

The ball left the right foot of Mayra Alejandra Pelayo-Bernal and flew hard and straight and true, leaving the leaping goalkeeper no chance, landing in the upper right corner of the back of the net, and, in that instant, birthing a legend.

The name is Stool, Toad Stool, but you can call me Toad. My tale is one of mortal danger, of dire straits and terrifying peril, so if you have any little ones with you, you may want to send them outside to play.

It began on a dreich September morning, but you must know a dreich September morning in Glenbrittle is nothing unusual. The orb of the rusty sun rising over Sgùrr nan Gillean was streaked with clouds, jagged swaths of gunmetal grey, the dull and gloomy light barely illumining the grey-shouldered banks of the Allt Coir’ a’ Mhadaidh. Grey stone, grey mud, grey soil, grey clouds — much of my world is grey  — but that’s why I matter, my ruby red cap unrivaled in this landscape, even standing out among the viridescent green of fern, the azure blue of harebell, the cotton candy pink of bell heather. I am a rare treasure in this glen. You must look very hard to find me, hidden as I am in a narrow crevice cleaving the face of the grey granite lip overhanging one of the coruscating emerald plunge pools they call the Fairy Pools. From the restricted vantage of my little crack, I have never glimpsed one of those elusive sprites myself, but I do not doubt that I have myself been mistaken sometimes for a fairy.

The air on that September morning hung heavy and brooding, still but unquiet, foreboding some unwelcome turn. The cascade at the head of my pool seemed to splosh, not splash, the sound of its crashing waters muffled by the leaden sky. And then, in a moment, it blew a hoolie. A furious wind surged down the glen, whipping the surface of the stream into a frenzy. The jagged clouds of gunmetal grey blew out before the roiling advance of immense thunderheads bearing rain, not gentle, plopping rain, but driving, biting rain, pockmarking the surface of the pool and stinging my leathery skin. The erstwhile quiet sky roared and the stream below me boiled with sudden urgency.

I do not know how long it rained. It may have been hours, it may have been days. The rain came down in relentless torrents, obliterating awareness of anything but itself. We have a saying here that if you don’t like the weather, give it an hour, and I must say we have come by that adage honestly. Is it warm and sunny? Just wait. In an hour, you’ll need that parka. Is it stormy and wet? Just wait. In an hour, you’ll shed that raincoat.

But not that day. That day, the rain was never-ending. It saturated time and space. It submerged memory and desire. I struggled to remember what my world was like before, and I could not begin to conceive of any world after.

The unabating rain deluged the Black Cuillins, flooding the numerous burns and streams that rush down its flanks. Carving its twisting path through Glen Brittle, the Allt Coir’ a’ Mhadaidh is fed by a dozen such tributaries. Near my perch, the burn is less than two kilometers from its confluence with the River Brittle and here achieves its maximum volume. The rains came down and the stream rose up. Minute by minute it rose, the turgid pool below me reaching levels I had never seen before. Its turbid waters swirled and foamed, now inundating the gravel bars at the edges of the pool, now inexorably creeping up the rocky scarp into which my crevice is carved, now surging into the crack itself, now churning around the base of my stem, now sloshing about my gills, now overlapping the edges of my precious cap.

And then … I can’t tell you what happened then. I could see nothing. I could hear nothing. I could feel nothing. I became nothing. All my world was dark. All my world was void. All my world was gone.

Until it wasn’t. I share my crevice home with some orange hawkweed, some marsh marigolds, and a generous sprinkling of meadow-grass. It was the meadow-grass that saved us. It was the meadow-grass that saved me. Its sprawling system of creeping rhizomes clung to the rock and anchored the soil into which my own mycelium were rooted. We emerged, the hawkweed and marigolds and me, well-watered, but in place, watching the once more familiar and no longer threatening waters of the Allt Coir’ a Mhadaidh recede.

I will never forget that day when, for a time, my fairy pool became an ogre’s torrent, and I cherish each day, dreich or sweltering, that I sit here in my cleft on the face of the grey granite lip overlooking the shimmering turquoise pool below me. I still have not seen a fairy, though I sometimes wonder, if fairies do indeed exist if they go about in the guise of meadow-grasses.