On the Sap line – Day One
Up before the sun and the stars are
still brilliant. Casseopiea in the Northeast. Red Mars still rising in the
Southeast. The Big Dipper must be over my shoulder, behind the cabin roofline.
But I’m just out for a pee – no serious stargazer here.
The sun first shines its rays over the
brim of the third falls catching the rising mist in a golden whirl. I’m planted
in my morning chair, java in hand, trying to scout back up through dreamland.
Later, doing business, chatting on the cell
- the snow bank on the roof drips drips drips each drip a goodbye to winter. It’s
a meditative drum song. drip drip drip. We’ve had an excellent Meditation
teacher these past six weeks at the church. Alex Jones has been connecting with
the God spot for over forty years through the inner channels. He encourages us
to try a mantra to connect with our Joy. I choose “I love my life.”
I find this mantra helps me celebrate
just how good things are – when they are good. It also helps me put the
troubles into perspective. When things are less than “good” I say “I love my
life” and it helps me step back and see.
Pound of bacon fried, then three of
Millar’s Farm Fresh eggs fried in the fat sunny-side up. Three slices of Stricklands’
day old multi-grain big toast. I love my life. A chunk of Ivanhoe extra-old, a
splash of last year’s homemade chilisauce. Finish off the pot of coffee with
Kawartha Dairy cream. I love my life.
Make it out to the bush before noon.
Without snowshoes I drop in to my knees in the soft wet white snowbanks. Even
with the snowshoes I often drop a foot into the drifts. I’m towing an
ice-fishing sled full of pails and spiggots; hammer and drill. It’s not long
before my heart is pumping and my lungs are doing extra duty. But I’m a newly married
man and heavy breathing is nothing new to my system. I love my life.
I get to the first maple. It's a
mid-sized 40 year old, bark still transitioning from smooth to chapped. With
thanks to the forest, thanks to the trees, an admiring word or two for the
beauty of the maple; its wonderous ability to turn sunshine to syrup, and other
such appraisals, the cordless drill finds a sweet spot and enters the tree’s
hide. Right away the drill funnels juice. I put the ¼ inch bit in and enlarge
the opening to spigot size and depth. As fast as I can tap the spigot in and
put a pail on its hook, the drip drip dripping starts tapping that same rhythm
into the metal pail. I fiddle a plywood lid onto the copper wire fastener and
its on to the next. I love my life.
To have a church job that allows for my
absence is such a blessing. I take these study weeks to feed my philosophers
heart. I need empty time like a bell needs to be empty to ring. What a luxury
to be employed to create good words and pass them on. I love my life.
The Mother is next. She’s the big
producer. After all it’s her seeds that planted the stand around her. Two pails
for her. Lots of compliments and good words. On to the next.
Last Sunday I preached on Judgment and
Woe. How our minds battle on, wrestling with harsh scriptures in chase of the
answers. Meanwhile Jesus tells us not to call anyone Reverend or Doctor or
Father. He points instead to the Author of all. Beneath our feet are diamonds
of hope planted deep in our souls. Precious unbreakable ancient stones. Within,
there is the truth of an eternal love that is precious – as precious even as
the enemy we must love.
At the fourth tree there’s no tree
blood in the wound. The wood is dry, the sawdust blows away in the breeze. I
forgot to thank her and compliment her. So I do. Then a trickle. I love my
life. Communication responded to makes a circle complete.
The communion table set “even in the
presence of mine enemies” where my greatest enemy becomes my greatest teacher. Nothing
like a custody battle with an ex-spouse to teach us where the pain resides. If
I can stop defending myself for an instant, I might learn something more about
myself. I only can look in the mirror - but if I can see through the eyes of
the one I’ve hurt - at my most ugly parts - I just might extend the compassion
I give to others to the soul inside my own skin. Drip drip drip. What’s frozen
begins to thaw.
While theology, science, and the
politics of control serve to divide us into camps, the spirit gives us eyes to see
and ears to hear what’s rumbling beneath the text. I love my life. I love my
life. I love my life.
Some of the holes I drill in the Maples
I meet are dry despite my coaxings so I don’t bother to tap in a spigot. If
they aint’ got any to give – why beg? Maybe this particular tree needs the sap
more than we do. No worries. There’s lots here. No need to get greedy.
While species are going extinct, while
babies starve at the same drip drip drip pace, we argue and fight over turf big
enough to hold my ego but not yours. The scientific method chops things down
into categories. Judgment divides us into mine and yours. My truth becomes a
smaller and smaller place.
After the first nine buckets hung I sit
in the snow and rest. Having a sense of place provides the security of roots.
That security allows me to reach up where the tree tops can see beyond the
borders of my precious turf.
The diamond of our souls is a gift. I
didn’t make it. I didn’t find it. It was always there and always will be. My
world becomes larger, more ancient, universal. My essence is absolutely wonder
full and unique and - whether I like it or not – so is yours. This is the
ground beneath the communion table.
This bush is mostly spruce scattered
everywhere. There’s no straight path through. White and Yellow Birch, Ash,
White Pines, Cedar, Cherry, and Elm have found their place in the mix. The
Maples are few and far between. I find them along the creek bed winding beneath
the forty foot bedrock cliff. There are frozen waterfalls here and there. The
frozen water is an opaque white as if these cliffs were milked for truth. The
milk caught frozen for a time lasts only a season. But the cliff has been there
since Adam and Eve danced naked.
While the truth of a joy, peace, and
hope lies deeply buried in all creation. The surface truths we learn in the
push and shove of suffering through season by season are so temporary. If I
hoard my own safe self-directed truths, they will only turn sour. If I only
roll my truths around and around with them like me who know what we know – then
how is that the Jesus path? It’s when we bring our soured truths together that
we can make cheese with them –like us - who are sure they have all they’ll ever
need to know already.
Cheese goes perfectly with wine and
bread at the table. Surely we are fed to take on what really matters –
protecting this earth and all its inhabitants. Time passes while we chew. Drip
drip drip.
Back on the deck. Twenty pails or so
hung. The sun sets across the river. Rays of golden sap-coloured light reach
through the bush to catch pine boughs and branches. I take out my drum – its
frame made from discarded pews – and tap out that drip drip drip. Another day
on the sap line awaits. I love, well, you know.
1 comment:
Alleycat - I was so happy to take this walk along with you. As I write this, here in the Magical Spiritual realm of Easterly, the sun swells through the seasonal curtains. It isn't sap from a tree, I couldn't plough those fields even with snowshoes, but it's the breath of Light. I love my life.
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