My journal, 5 3/4" by 4" is called, The Big Little Notebook. One of the "Rug Rat" characters dons the cover. He has orange hair, purple square glasses, and is wearing a crew neck pullover sweater with a planet on the chest. A thin crooked line - with the exception of two buck teeth - is the artists idea of a mouth. I left my own journal back in South Carolina, so I am using this child's notepad to capture my thoughts; at one time it was Meg's camp journal. For the next 4 days I will be in Maine, and at the cabin whenever I can. My brothers and sisters and I are gathering to put together a plan to care for my father and my mother. Mom and dad are no longer able to maintain their home, so we are securing elderly housing for them and making financial, medical, and legal arrangements for events yet future.
It is not a common occurrence to be able to sit outside in summer weight clothing late in October in Maine! But here I am seated in my red canvas chair taking in the Master's masterpiece, and listening with a spiritual ear for God to speak through the natural world. Great is the change in scenery since I was last here in July. Leaves are fading from brilliant to a blush. Like raindrops hundreds of them fall silently around me. Sweet grass that once swayed and danced with summer breezes along the river's edge look beige and tired and discolored. Beech, oak, maple, and birch once clothed in lush emerald hues look beggarly and scantly clad in bits of tattered rags. What's more, strong winds and driving rain have stripped some trees of all dignity and glory - nothing but their bony skeleton remains. Since I was last here the river has widened its boundaries, picked up its pace, and with impressive determination and outspokenness is heading south. In a rich baritone voice it sings its own compositions and musically flees from the coming winter. Old Man River will forever be an explorer on the move. Today he is excitedly running at full speed. further along he will peacefully meander through meadows and marshes. But he never makes a clean getaway. Frigid winter temperatures chase him down and clog his veins with ice - stranding him frozen solid in his tracks.
Spring and summer and fall disappear have disappeared like a ghost, and now the ledges to the northwest are more visible. Though bland in color - drably gray - they symbolize the beauty of strength and staying power. Neither the angry floods of spring, nor the freezing breath of Old Man Winter, nor tons of retreating ice - so powerful it often carries away islands and splinters massive trees into toothpicks - can so much as nudge the ledges from their subterranean moorings.
I love this place. . .
It speaks to me of change and the cycles of life, death, and rebirth.
It speaks to me of things that do not change, will not change, and should not change.
I constantly need clarity in both . . .