Wind,Rain,Winding Roads & Sunshine, The By-Ways of Life

Row

 

 

“Row, row, row your boat,

Gently down the stream,

Merrily, merrily,

Merrily merrily,

Life is but a dream.”¹

 

The Child sang.

The Prophet hummed along.

Mr. Whale drummed the water with his fluke,

Mr. Eagle glided with the wind, singing,

“Gaaaak, gaaaak, gaaaak, gaaaak,

Gaa, Gaa, Gaa, Gaa Gaaaak.”

And the small purple bud on the lily pad sprouted.

 

“Row, row, row your boat,

Gently down the stream,

Merrily, merrily,

Merrily, merrily,

Life is but a dream.²

           

The Child stopped.

“Is it true, Prophet?”

“What, child?”

“That life is but a dream.”

“It depends, Child.”

“Prophet?”

“Yes, Child?”

“Why do people hurt other people?”

“What's on your mind, Child?”

“People dying, women and girls getting kidnapped, children dying on high seas, didn’t they have a dream too?”

“How do you mean that, Child?”

“Like me. Didn’t they have a dream like me?”

“Yes, they had a dream.”

“So what happened?”

“Me first, me better than at the cost of others, destroy dreams, Child.”

“Is that bad?”

“How do you row your lily pad?”

“With care.”

“How do you ride Mr. Whale?”

“Gently.”

“Why, Child?”

“Cause I don’t want to hurt them.”

“Egotistical, me first, me better than at the cost of others, feed destruction. It grabs hold of the heart and turns it into a selfish monster.”

“Can that happen to me, Prophet?”

“That can happen to anyone, Child.”

“Prophet, what if it happens to me?”

“It won’t, Child.”

“Why not?”

“It won’t.”

“Oh,” said The Child, and she started singing,

“Row, row, row your boat

Gently down the stream

Merrily, merrily,

Merrily merrily,

Life is but a dream,³

And The Prophet hummed, and Mr. Whale drummed, and Mr. Eagle gaaaaked while gliding above.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Shalom,

Pat Garcia

 

 

¹This and the preceding repetitions of the nursery rhyme, Row, Row, Row Your Boat are all by Eliphalet Oram Lyte, The Franklin Square Song Collection, Copyright, 1881, New York

 

 

 

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Giggles

Quietness

Quietness hovered over the lily pad as if it were a ship on her maiden voyage.  Early morning, almost wind still, The Child rowed with her oar to make the lily pad float faster.

“I don’t like it when the sea is quiet.”

“Why not, Child?” The Prophet asked.

“The lily pad slows down.”

“Maybe, it likes to float reticently.”

“Well, I don’t want it to float reticently. It slows me down. And what is reticently, Prophet?”

“The botanical world also seeks quietude, Child.”

“You mean the lily pad needs quietude so it can float?”

“Or reproduce,” The Prophet said.

“Prophet?”

“What do you mean by reticently?”

“Reticence, Child.”

“Oh.”

“Listen, Child. What do you hear?”

“Nothing, Prophet.  It’s quiet.”

“Ah, so,” said The Prophet.

“You mean reticently is quiet?”

“They are somewhat related, Child.”

“So, is reticently related to reticence, Prophet?”

“You could call them kissing cousins, Child.”

“Wow, Prophet, then quietude is a state of being calm,” The Child said proudly.

“Yes, Child. You’re beginning to understand the relationship between words.”

“I didn’t know words had relationships, Prophet.”

“Child, relationships exist between everything that was and is and is to come.”

“Really? Then, quiescent and quietness are related too.”

“Yes, Child. Nothing exists independent of itself, not even you.”

The Child stopped rowing and laid her oar on the lily pad.

“Why aren’t you rowing?”

“I think I’ll enjoy the reticence of the lily pad and sink into my dream world and listen to the quietude that surrounds me.”

“Excellent, Child,” The Prophet said, and he clapped his hands. “You’re learning.  Nothing will be more rewarding to you as you move toward your quest as the peaceful state of serenity.”

“Prophet?”

"Yes, Child."

“What is serenity?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Shalom,

Pat Garcia

 

 

 

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Lost

Do

Pause

“What’s wrong, Child?”

“Nothing’s wrong. I’m pausing.”

“Why are you pausing?”

“I need to pause.”

“Is that why you’re lying on Mr. Whale with your back toward me?”

“I need a break, Prophet.”

“So you’re pausing.”

“Yes, I am pausing, so let me pause.”

“And why do you need to pause, may I ask?”

“Because you and I…, oh it doesn’t matter.”

“Quiescent moments are precious for your body, soul, and spirit, Child,” The Prophet said calmly.

The Child sat up and turned toward The Prophet.

“Oh, Prophet. Now you’ve done it again.  What’s quiescent?”

“I thought you were pausing.”

“I was, but…”

“Rest, Child.”

Again, The Child lay down on Mr. Whale, her back facing The Prophet. Her mind drifted as she observed the dark blue sea. The sun was disappearing slowly, and a big shiny round yellow moon winked at her on the horizon.  She closed her eyes; what she saw set her in astonishment.  She was riding the wave, holding on to Mr. Whale’s dorsal fin; then Mr. Eagle was holding her in his beak as he flew her back to her beloved lily pad. The Prophet was there shouting, ‘hold on Child. You can do it,’ and she chuckled.

The Child turned once again to face The Prophet.

“Prophet, where are you?”

“I’m here to your right, Child.”

She looked to her right and saw him standing on the water.

“Are you mad at me Prophet?”

“Child, I’m never angry with you. Peaceful quiescence is good for you.”

“But not without you, Prophet.”

“Oh, why’s that?”

“Cause...”

“Mr. Eagle flying our way. Let him fly you over the sea.”

“And what will you do?”

“I’ll fix your favorite dish so you can eat.”

“And then?”

“I’ll tell you a story.”

“And then?”

“Then we pause, Child, we pause."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Shalom,

Pat Garcia

 

 

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Ah, Awoke, Affinity

Oh...And

“Pass me that oar of yours, Child so you can rest,” The Prophet said.

“Oh, I’m okay, Prophet. I love to oar with this stick. Good thing it floated up from the ocean floor.”

“So now I’m obsolete?”

“Oh, what’s obsolete, Prophet?”

“Obsolescent, Child.”

“Oh, and what’s obsolescent?”

The Prophet chuckled at The Child and observed how relax she was while she oared.

“Child, you’re quite obsequious, at times.”

“Really, Prophet?”

“Yes, you are, and you rub into my soul like the sweet smelling oil of Sheba.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“Prophet?”

“Yes, Child.”

“What’ obsequious?”

“I knew that question was coming.”

“Well, why don’t you give me answers? First you say you’re obsolete; then, you tell me it’s obsol…ah obsolescent, and now, you accuse me of being obsequious.”

“At times, Child, I said, at times.”

“I know you said at times, that why I need to know what it is.”

“Why?”

“Maybe, I need to become less obsequious.”

“Oh,” said The Prophet, covering his mouth.

“It’s not funny, Prophet. You’re laughing at me again.”

“I never laugh at you, Child.”

“Why are you so obscure?” The Child asked.

“Now you’re doing it.”

“Doing what?”

“Oh, and what’s obscure?” The Prophet asked mimicking The Child.

“How do I know?”  The Child shouted.  “I heard you use it.”

“That’s why you’re using it.”

“Of course, Prophet. How can I learn to do what you do if I don’t use your words?”

“Great deduction Child. You’re quite perspicacious.”

The Child’ eyebrows crinkled and a frown appeared on her stern.

“Oh, Prophet?”

“Yes, my dear Child?”

“What’s perspicacious?”

Unable to withhold his laughter, The Prophet yodeled.

“Why are you yodeling, Prophet?”

“Because you’re quite observant, Child.”

“Is that good, Prophet?”

“It makes my heart sing.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Shalom,

Pat Garcia

 

 

 

 

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No

“No, Prophet. The lily pad has turned north instead of west,” The Child hollered.

The Prophet looked at The Child: her face, hard, like Mt. Rushmore, her eyes spilling over with water: her hands balled into fists, magnifying her frustration.

“The lily pad is moving correctly, Child.”

“Then, why did the speeding boat with people I know go west?”

“You mean those people who waved as they passed by?”

“You know what I mean, Prophet. Why are they going west, and I’m going north?”

“You’re upset Child.”

“No, I’m not. Why don’t you answer me?”

“Come back on the lily pad, and drink this soothing seaweed tea.”

The Child, standing on the sea, stood there shaking her head.

“No. I always listen to you, but this time you’re wrong, Prophet.”

“You don’t have to go to the north if you don’t want to Child. Turn the lily pad westward.”

The Child dried her eyes, walked to the lily pad and turned it to float west.

“I can use that tea now, Prophet.”

“Of course, Child.”

As she drank her tea, the sun eclipsed; darkness hovered over her. Suddenly, Mr. Whale and Mr. Eagle faded; the lily pad got lighter.

“Prophet?”

“Yes, Child.”

“Something’s wrong.  The lily pad’s lighter and Mr. Whale and Mr. Eagle disappeared.

She observed The Prophet. “Prophet, you’re fading!”

“I know, Child.”

“Oh, no,” The Child cried and got up to walk on the water; she sank.

I can no longer walk on water.

Quickly, she turned the lily pad northward and climbed back onto it.

A few knots further, the sun shone; the ocean roared; Mr. Whale appeared, and Mr. Eagle flew over her head.

“What’s wrong, Child?”

“Oh, Prophet,” she cried, “I thought I’d lost you.”

“Come, Child, let me tell you a story.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Shalom,

Pat Garcia

 

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Myriad-Minded

“Mo mo, mo mo, mo mo, more” sang The Child.

Ma ma, ma ma, ma ma, make,

Me me, me me, me me, mel_low,

Mu mu, mu mu, mu mu, Muse.”

The Child was sitting on Mr. Whale; Mr. Eagle was flying back and forth to some unknown place; the lily pad was floating on the sea, and The Prophet was walking on the sea beside her.

“Mi mi, mi mi, mi mi might,”

“My my, my my, my my, myriad-minded.”

“Nice song you’re singing, Child.”

“Do you like it, Prophet?”

“It’s enchanting.“

“What’s enchanting, Prophet?”

“But why are you singing those words, Child?”

“They’re jumping around in my heart.”

“Ah,” said The Prophet.

“Prophet?”

“Yes, Child?”

“Are you my muse?”

“Why do you ask, Child?”

“Cause when you’re around I mellow.”

The Prophet chuckled.

“Which means?”

“I panic when you disappear,” The Child said.

“When panic comes, sing one of your lovely songs.”

“Do you think that will help?”

“Maybe. Try it the next time.”

The Child waited.

“Are you going to answer me?”

“Answer what, Child?”

“Are you my muse?”

“Why do you want to know that?”

“Cause muses make things happen.”

“Whatever made you think that?”

“I just thought…not really sure, Prophet.”

“Child, you’re myriad-minded and audacious with a dash of pertinacity, and your officiousness forced you out of your lassitude. You’re the muse that makes things happen.”

“You mean I’m all that.”

“Of course you are.”

The Child giggled; satisfied, she sang.

“Mo mo, mo mo, mo mo, more,

Ma ma, ma ma, ma ma, make,

Me me, me me, me me, mel_low,

Mu mu, mu mu, mu mu, Muse.”

Then, she stopped; her forehead crinkled; her eyebrows furrowed; she looked inquisitively at The Prophet.

“Prophet?”

“Yes, Child?”

“What’s pertinacity and officiousness?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Shalom,

Pat Garcia

 

 

 

 

 

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Lost

“I’m lost, Prophet.”

“How can you be lost, Child? We’ve just left the cove.”

“It seems like it.”

“What makes you think you’re lost?”

“I don’t know. Every now and then, it all seems so hard.”

“What seems so hard? Talk to me.”

“You know.”

“No, I don’t know.  You have to tell me.”

“I just told you. I’m lost.”

“But why do you think you’re lost?”

“Cause everything is so hard, Prophet.”

“Oh.”

“I’ve been sailing with the lily pad for ages and nothing happens.”

“Not ages, Child.”

“But it seems like ages.

“Oh,” said The Prophet. “What’s that coming at you?”

“Where?”

“In front of you, Child.”

“It looks like a shark. Now, I know I’m lost.”

“That shark is getting mighty close.”

“Wait until he gets here, Prophet. I’ll show him a thing or two.”

“Sounds like you’re angry, Child.”

“I’m always angry when I’m impatience.”

“Oh, is that why you think you’re lost?”

“I don’t know.”

A dorsal fin was threading the water, quickly; waves were flooding onto the lily pad; The Child picked up a piece of wood she’d brought from the cove to hit its eyes.

The wind was blowing hard––the ocean, no longer quiet.

“Gaaaak, gaaaak.”  

The Child looked upward toward the white, fluffy, cumulus clouds, astonished.

“Mr. Eagle,” she cried, waving. “Here I am.”

“Gaaaak, gaaaak,” said Mr. Eagle.

“Don’t forget your shark, Child.”   

The big, black, shape closed in and sprang high.

“Mr. Whale! It’s you. Oh, my friend, where have you been?”

The Child danced on the water, and her small arms grabbed his dorsal fin.

“Prophet?”

“Yes, Child.”

“I love friends.”

“Yes, true friends sparkle like diamonds, Child, woven into the pattern of our lives,” The Prophet said, and Mr. Eagle landed at his feet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Shalom,

Pat Garcia

 

 

 

 

 

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Knot

 

 

 

 

“Knots are everywhere; everywhere I look, I see knots,” The Child said.

“Why are you grumbling?”

“Wouldn’t you be grumbling if you had to clear away all these small knots before we left the cove? Some are so tiny; my fingers ache.

“I offered to help you.”

“No!” said The Child. “I’ll do this by myself.”

“But why Child?”

“I don’t want your help cause…” The Child said as her voice died down to a whisper.

“You’re not alone, Child.”

“Sometimes, I feel that way.”

“I know.”

“How, Prophet?”

“Your tummy knots up like the knots you’re untangling.”

“Can you see the knots in my tummy, Prophet?”

“I feel them, Child.”

“But how?”

“Let me help you.”

“No, I want to do this.”

“Ah ha,” said The Prophet,  “Autarkic.”

“What’s autarkic, Prophet?”

“Then, I’ll take a walk on the sea while you’re untying the knots.”

“No. Stay here.”

“But why, Child? You don’t want my help.”

“But that doesn’t mean I want you to leave.”

“What does it mean, then, Child?”

The Child grabbed a strong, tiny knot of seaweed; the resistance from the knot, when she pulled, repelled her backward.

“This knotted seaweed is cantankerous.”

The Prophet chuckled.

“Prophet?”

“Yes, Child.”

“Does autarkic means these knots go away quicker if you help me?”

“Maybe.”

“Then what is autarkic?”

“Shall I help with the knots?”

“Why, Prophet?”

“My dear Child, are you so blind to the consanguinity that runs between us?”

“What’s consanguinity, Prophet?”

“I believe I’ll walk on the sea now.”

“Prophet, I don’t want you to walk on the sea. Help me, please.”

The Prophet sat beside The Child and began to untangle knots; The Child untied knots with astonishment on her face; the work seemed easier and quicker.

“Prophet?”

“Yes, Child.”

“What’s consanguinity?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Shalom,

Pat Garcia

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Jot, Jot, Jotting Along

Jotting inside the cove, The Child sang and counted.

“Jot, jot, jotting along­–––

1,2,3,4.

I’m jot, jot, jotting along.

4,3,2,1.”

“Child, that sounds nice, but why are you counting?”

“Counting my joules, Prophet. I’m measuring my effort.”

“Oh, I see, and what will knowing that bring you?”

“Not quite sure yet, Prophet, but I think that’ll prove to you, I’m rested, and then, we can get going.”

“You need another day of rest, Child.”

“But why? I’m rested. It’s time to be moving on,” The Child said, and she stopped jotting.  “Are we hiding out?”

“No, Child. You’re resting.”

“But I’m tired of resting.”

“Then, jot some more.”

The Child started walking, slowly, kicking the water with her feet, her shoulders drooping; her head bent downward.

“You’re not jotting, Child. I thought you wanted to measure your effort.”

“I’m jotting, just slowly.”

“That doesn’t look like jotting to me,” The Prophet said. “Not much effort in that.”

“Does it really matter? If I do a lively jot or slow jot.”

“No, it doesn’t, but you’re not slow jotting.”

“If I’m not slow jotting, then what am I doing, Prophet?”

“You tell me.”

“I’m bored.”

“Then, stop.”

The Prophet watched as the sulking Child came back to the lily pad.  She stomped to her corner and taking her green leafy blanket, she lay down and turned her back to the Prophet.

“Child, you’ll wish for this hiatus, one day.”

“No, I won’t,” The Child said and turned over to sit up and face The Prophet, eyeballs to eyeballs.

“Prophet, I don’t like resting!”

“Nobody does, Child. People love jots cause they’re quickly sprinted actions, but it’s resting that refuels and invigorates.”

“So, when will we jot out of here?”

“Soon enough, Child. Soon enough.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Shalom,

Pat Garcia

 

 

 

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Indomitable

“Indomitable,” murmured the waking Child. “Indomitable. Prophet said I’m indomitable.”

“Good morning, Child. What are you murmuring about?”

“Where are we?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because it’s still dark, and even though we’re on water, there’s no sunlight.”

“How do you know there’s no sunlight, Child?”

“Prophet, that’s easy. When I sleep on the ocean, the sun always wakes me up; unless, a storm is brewing.”

“Look around you, Child.”

The Child looked. She saw green foliage hanging onto the lily pad. A heart shaped opening lay a few feet before them with tall, thin trees springing up from the water, and above and around them were funny shaped rocks that had been hewn by the wind of time.

“The lily pad is in a cove,” The Child said.

“You need to rest.”

“But we were out on the ocean. How did we get to this cove?”

“Rest, Child. Stop trying to figure it out.”

“Prophet?”

“Yes, Child.”

“What is indomitable?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because I woke up during the night, or at least I think I was and heard you call me your indomitable child.”

The Prophet laughed.

“Don’t laugh at me, Prophet!”

“I’m not laughing at you, Child.”

“Then, why are you laughing?”

“Because you’re indomitable.”

“But what does indomitable mean, Prophet?”

“I’ve made you some nice seaweed pancakes with fruit from the trees. Would you like to eat breakfast now?”

“Aren’t you going to tell me?”

“Tell you what, Child?”

“What indomitable means?”

“Would you like to hear another story?”

“Should I stop being indomitable, Prophet?”

“That’s impossible.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s in you.”

“Oh, I didn’t know that. Tell me a story while I eat.”

“About what, Child?”

“About your indomitable child, of course,” The Child said, and The Prophet smiled.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Shalom,

Pat Garcia

 

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The A To Z Blog Challenge 2015