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 Finding the Lofty Part

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alj
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alj


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Finding the Lofty Part Empty
PostSubject: Finding the Lofty Part   Finding the Lofty Part EmptyTue Sep 27, 2011 6:23 am

Quote :
Let me now remark, as a comparative mythologist whose professional career has been spent comparing the mythological traditions of mankind, that I find it extremely useful to let the mind range over the whole field, observing that what is said one way in one tradition is said another way in another. They are all mutually illuminating.
Thou Art That: Transforming Religious MetaphorJoseph Campbell

This sums up what Joe's work says to me, and why I keep his little google widget on my home page for inspiration.

He is not the only writer I read, of course, just the only one I know of who has foundation members who care enough to create the little gadget.

I think I've quoted this passage from Richard Bach's Illusions: The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah more than once:

Quote :
Don Shimoda: There is not any problem so big that it cannot be run away from.
Richard: You are quoting Snoopy the dog, I believe.
Don: I'll quote the truth wherever I find it, thank you.

Sometimes, when you read a thing, it just resonates. It can be fiction, drama, a science text, a comic strip...

Truth is out there, everywhere. We come across it everyday. These are difficult times, because much of what we have been accepting as truth is being exposed as lies, so we don't know what to believe or where to turn, or who to listen to.

Maybe it is time for us to listen to ourselves. That's what resonance is, to me, anyway. Sometimes I have said that an image, or a sentence, just sings to me. the property my little house sits on, the first day I walked up the little hill in this small subdivision that had just begun to build a few houses, this lot sang to me. there was a gentle breeze blowing, It was a cool day for a San Antonio August, and I just knew I had found a place to build a new home. It didn't come together right away. At first I was told that the lot was not available to sell, but circumstances changes a few weeks later, and now, nine years later, here I sit and type.

One thing I will miss about bookstores, walking through and musing at the shelves, and having a book call out my name.

I have always loved the work of the poet, Arthur Hugh Clough. I came across him almost accidentally, too. I would probably not ever have taken a course in Victorian Poetry, but I needed a British Lit course that semester, and it was the only upper level one being offered. That was, looking back, one of the best courses I took, partly because of the professor, but also because of the time covered. It was the beginning of the Industrial Age, and God, according to Clough, had disappeared behind a cloud. It was a time that had a lot in common with this time. But Clough was certain that the cloud would one day dissipate, and we would find that a "lofty part" of what we had believed was indeed valid:

Quote :
Some sacred word that he hath heard
Their light and life shall be;
Some lofty part, than which the heart
Adopt no nobler can...
(from "The New Sinai")
http://www.poetrycat.com/arthur-hugh-clough/the-new-sinai

For me, it is "that lofty part," the insight that can be found in all mythological traditions, or as Clough said several times, the branch of the tree that you can grab hold of, that resonates with me, and suggests a direction to take when I am in the middle of the forest and there is no path.

Sometimes the resonance, the "singing," is all I have to go on, but so far, through these last 68 years, it has been enough.

It has been a good ride so far. Lots of songs along the way.

Just me.

Ann
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Betty Fasig
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Finding the Lofty Part Empty
PostSubject: Re: Finding the Lofty Part   Finding the Lofty Part EmptySun Oct 16, 2011 4:58 pm

Dear Ann,

I have read this post of yours so many times. My mind's eye looks out at the world and with every blink comes a new vision and understanding of this space.

You are right about the songs.

Love,

Betty
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alj
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Finding the Lofty Part Empty
PostSubject: Re: Finding the Lofty Part   Finding the Lofty Part EmptySun Oct 16, 2011 6:23 pm

Betty, my readings today have involved the concept of the Muse - that part of our soul that connects with other souls to form a "world-soul."

One of the bits that I read was about how the Muse today can come to us through many sources, including animals, especially our pets.

Sometime in the last day or so, I read that souls are not limited to human beings, that animals have them, too. I've been trying to find that source to share with you here, but my old age is acting up again. I may even have read it right here, about Wooffer.

Here's what I do know: I have never read a work, or been in a place, that resonates more than Wooffer's Stories.

And I just want to make sure you know that Wooffer's soul (I know, of course, that you know he has one), is still singing to you, and will continue to act as your Muse, if that is where you decide your work needs to go.

Ann
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Betty Fasig
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Finding the Lofty Part Empty
PostSubject: Re: Finding the Lofty Part   Finding the Lofty Part EmptyMon Oct 17, 2011 1:44 pm

Dear Ann,

Wooffer has sung my song for me. Now, I must sing his.

Love,

Betty
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LC
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PostSubject: Re: Finding the Lofty Part   Finding the Lofty Part EmptyWed Nov 02, 2011 9:53 am

I never understood exactly what a muse was. I thought it was just inspiration. I don't know what my own muse is.
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PostSubject: Re: Finding the Lofty Part   Finding the Lofty Part EmptyWed Nov 02, 2011 10:14 am

You don't have one. You are more bemused than amused. Smile
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dkchristi
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PostSubject: Re: Finding the Lofty Part   Finding the Lofty Part EmptyWed Nov 02, 2011 10:19 am

I always loved Greek Mythology and so you can take the term, "Muse" to many levels when you go there. What is most interesting to me is its association with female. In most interpretations of a muse, it is a female that inspires art and literature.

I take it a step further: for me, a muse is the spark that inspires me to new thoughts, ideas, visions, hopes and dreams regarding writing and the story lines and characters. My muse was a real person. The inspiration lasted for thirty years. I am sorry to say that my scarcity of writing these days is the disappearance of that influence. I am no longer inspired.
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LC
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PostSubject: Re: Finding the Lofty Part   Finding the Lofty Part EmptyWed Nov 02, 2011 11:08 am

DK -who was your muse? It must have been a heck of a person to be the inspiration for 30 years of writing.
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alj
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PostSubject: Re: Finding the Lofty Part   Finding the Lofty Part EmptyWed Nov 02, 2011 11:10 am

The thing about listening to - and hearing - the muse is that you have to let go of left-brain thinking for a while.

Journaling, free-writing, even just deep breathing, and focusing on the idea that "there are more things in Heaven and Earth... than are dreamed of..." as Hamlet said.

Mostly, it's about believing in the possibility, and not defining the term, "Muse," too narrowly.

Ann
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LC
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PostSubject: Re: Finding the Lofty Part   Finding the Lofty Part EmptyWed Nov 02, 2011 11:16 am

Well, not defininig it narrowly will have to work, because I've never been able to find a consistent definiton! A long time ago I read a novel where the character kept referring to a brooch she wore as her muse. I've been completely confused about the word since then.

If a muse is something that inspires us, that leads to a discussion of how you get and stay inspired. Conventional wisdom says to travel and always learn new things to stay inspired. That gets oversold, though.
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PostSubject: Re: Finding the Lofty Part   Finding the Lofty Part EmptyWed Nov 02, 2011 11:37 am

I have this idea that what we perceive as a muse has its background in psychology, especially something like Jungian psychology, as much as mythology. It's about getting beyond the ego and into the soul or self, and realizing that there is more to us than ego and persona.

There has been a strong connection, classically, between muse and anima, Jung's contrasexual "self." The Muse was a man's soul, or Psyche.

Of course, at that time, most writers and poets were men, and, even now, it is hard to come up with a good definition of the animus, the contrasexual element in a woman, especially in our patriarchal society.

My "muses" have always been male. I figure that makes sense, even though, or maybe because, Jung equated psyche's "other half," Eros, with the feminine, even though Eros was clearly a god, not a goddess. Eros has also been equated with the libido, or with the energy and drive that allows us to be proactive, and which has also been equated with the sex drive, which has obvious correlations.

I don't think it's about gender, but about the qualities in both men and women that have been labeled as masculine and/or feminine.

So, sometimes, men have male "muses" and women, female. And sometimes a muse can take the form of a token animal, or of a beloved pet or old friend - or (since I just learned that LC and I have been cross-posting) a prized and valued possession.

Finding your muse is about opening yourself up to that unrecognized and unhonored part of yourself, which is a part of coming to realize that there is more to each of us than we think we are, or perceive in the others we interact with.

Ann
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Betty Fasig
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Finding the Lofty Part Empty
PostSubject: Re: Finding the Lofty Part   Finding the Lofty Part EmptyWed Nov 02, 2011 5:58 pm

I hope you all can remember the cartoon characters whose eyes go into spiraling circles when they have been 'affected' by a force outside their own control.

That, for me is the way my muse visits me. It sounds nuts, of course, but the trance like state is no joke.

My mind cannot be in it's normal state of worry and work to create.

That is not to say that I go off a deep end or lose contact with reality. It means that I have to set the day, the life I lead, aside and just let a kind of dreaming take over. For that to happen I have to be alone with no dinner to think about fixing, no garden that the bugs are eating out loud and no anger for miles around. I was thinking about the last time I could do that and what I wrote in that creative mode. It was Cora The Cabbage. What a long time ago that was.

I could not find Cora on my computer. I looked for it on the PA message board and found it.



This is a little bit about Cora, who is a cabbage, but I liked it and smiled as I wrote it.
----------------
Cabbage Row

It was perfect weather for cabbages. Sunny days, crisp, moonlit nights, almost cold. The stars shone as brightly as they ever did down upon the cabbages. The whole of Cabbage Row was hunkered in for the night, waiting for the dew of morning, stretching their roots and relaxing, drinking in the lovely fluids of the earth. Life was good!

The sun rose bright and shining in the east and every cabbage there stretched out their leaves and praised God for the sunshine and the new day. It was a day like every other day, of sucking up sunshine, making new leaves. All was well on Cabbage Row.


Down at the end of Cabbage Row, near the part that was not any longer part of the Row, lived Cora. She was a Cabbage that had come up without cultivation. In other words, (gasp) she was a wild one. Cora did not know she was a wild one. She just knew she lived at the end of Cabbage Row.

One day, Cora said to the other Cabbages,

" I want to go somewhere!"

Well, you can imagine what an unusual idea this was for any Cabbage who felt rooted to the spot on which they were planted. In fact, they guffhawed the idea of going anywhere at all! Had many rude and impertinent opinions about the going of somewhere, anywhere, and where was a cabbage to go anyway, and all these opinions were freely expressed.

Cora folded her leaves over her head and calmly said,

" I think I will go to Seed". My grandmother bloomed and went to Seed, and not only that, she came back from Seed!"

The silence that came from this calm statement lasted a long time.

Some innate, inbred, deep rooted urge stirred in the Cabbages. They would bloom! They would go to Seed..

They would return.


***



It is a little thing but it says how long it has been since any muse has visited me! I come to this message board every day just to look in and see who has been inspired.

Through this message board, I am encouraged to make Wooffer's Woods stories as ebooks. I have worked hard on them, not knowing what I am doing with every computer step. Every morning, I look at what I have worked so hard upon and say, "What The Hell!" I keep on going and looking for how to do it right.

We must not give up on one another. Tomorrow is a new day.

Love,



Betty
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alj
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Finding the Lofty Part Empty
PostSubject: Re: Finding the Lofty Part   Finding the Lofty Part EmptyWed Nov 02, 2011 6:53 pm

I have often tried to convince certain people who are vegetarians and who think that I should be one, too, that vegetables are also conscious living creatures.

I don't have to worry about that anymore. I can just tell them about Cora.

Anyone still wonder about how to hear your Muse?

Quote :
...I have to set the day, the life I lead, aside and just let a kind of dreaming take over. For that to happen I have to be alone with no dinner to think about fixing, no garden that the bugs are eating out loud and no anger for miles around.

'Nuff said.

Ann
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PostSubject: Re: Finding the Lofty Part   Finding the Lofty Part EmptyWed Nov 02, 2011 6:59 pm

The life force is in all living things. However, we are dependent on each other for sustenance. Therefore, I think the Indians had it right when they would pray over their food and apologize for taking the life force to sustain their own.

I did that once with a fish The dolphin fish is multi-colored as it flies into the air on the hook When it landed on deck and was whacked in the head to end its misery, I could see the colors fade as the life force left it In that moment I remembered the Indians praying and I, too, said a prayer to thank the fish for its beauty and apologize for killing it for my dinner We didn't fish for sport; we ate what we caught

Back to the muse - sometimes I feel it as a spiritual force
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alj
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Finding the Lofty Part Empty
PostSubject: Re: Finding the Lofty Part   Finding the Lofty Part EmptyThu Nov 03, 2011 6:58 am

dkchristi wrote:
The life force is in all living things. However, we are dependent on each other for sustenance. Therefore, I think the Indians had it right when they would pray over their food and apologize for taking the life force to sustain their own.

Quote :
I have killed the deer
I have crushed the grasshopper.
And the plants he feeds upon.
I have taken fish from the water.
And birds from the sky.
In my life I have needed death
So that my life can be.
When I die I must give life
To what has nourished me.
The earth receives my body
And gives it to the plants
And to the caterpillars
To the birds
And to the coyotes
Each in its own turn so that
The circle of life is never broken.
http://www.blackhawkproductions.com/poetrynative.htm

dkchristi wrote:
I did that once with a fish The dolphin fish is multi-colored as it flies into the air on the hook When it landed on deck and was whacked in the head to end its misery, I could see the colors fade as the life force left it In that moment I remembered the Indians praying and I, too, said a prayer to thank the fish for its beauty and apologize for killing it for my dinner We didn't fish for sport; we ate what we caught

Back to the muse - sometimes I feel it as a spiritual force

Quote :
Surrendering to the Muse Stream is about knowing that the book, poem, song, article or journal entry resides in some other realm and trusting enough to follow the pen as it spills onto the blank sheet the words, sentences, paragraphs and pages that will reveal its already existent form....However your Muse calls, the words lie within you....the voice of your power, carrying you to wherever you need to go....whatever has drawn you to your page starts with you, with the call and voice of your Muse...the voice will always speak the words that you are ready to write. Go within. Trust that voice to guide you...
Mark David Gerson; The Voice of the Muse: Answering Your Call to Write


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PostSubject: Re: Finding the Lofty Part   Finding the Lofty Part EmptyThu Nov 03, 2011 8:16 am

I love that poem. So simple and so profound. If I had it when I wrote Ghost Orchid, Mel would have remembered it as she looked out over the swamp and thought about scattering her ashes there.
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Finding the Lofty Part Empty
PostSubject: Re: Finding the Lofty Part   Finding the Lofty Part EmptySat Jan 28, 2012 5:42 pm

I bump this topic up because finding the lofty part is what we all aspire to. The lofty part is what separates our writing from the ordinary and makes us proud of what we write.

God bless our lofty parts.

Love,
Betty
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Finding the Lofty Part Empty
PostSubject: Re: Finding the Lofty Part   Finding the Lofty Part EmptySat Jan 28, 2012 6:59 pm

This past Thursday I was finishing the last story for my Redstone anthology, and I hit one of those grooves. I was actually typing as I thought, instead of penciling it into a journal first, and got so caught up in the intensity of writing that i was shocked when my anti-virus program popped up to tell me it had updated my protection. This is a relatively new program that my son had recommended. it speaks in a lovely, well-modulated feminine voice. Weird.

I don't know exactly what happened that moment, since I was in trance of sorts, but when I came out of it, I realized that my laptop had frozen and would not unfreeze - still don't know what caused it, but it happened at the moment that lovely voice assured me that my update had been successful.

The problem was that the computer was truly and totally frozen. I eventually had to accept the fact, knowing that I had not hit the save button for several pages of typing, and had almost no idea of what I had written I cannot tell you about the anxiety i was feeling until the computer had restarted and reloaded to the point where I could find out whether or not the auto-recovery system had worked. Fortunately, I only lost the last paragraph, and managed, by focusing intently, to get enough of that paragraph back to continue the story. It does not, I don't think, have quite the intensity of the original that i had lost, but here is the passage that I had been working on, including my reconstruction of that last paragraph:


Quote :
“I have been inquiring of Major Hayes, about a possibly available man who had he ability to shoot straight, both literally and figuratively, hold a keen intelligence, and who, at the same time, would be impeccably trustworthy. He very quickly gave me your name, Jake.”
“My name?”
Daniel heard Jake ask the question and inwardly shook his head, remembering an instance in a San Antonio saloon, when Jake had responded to him in a similar tone, asking, “Why me?” He was reminded, too, that his friend had another, maybe even more important virtue: a true sense of personal humility.
“Fredericksburg is growing into a stable community, Jake, but they will need some help to keep that stability. They are looking for a trustworthy and capable lawman.”
“Lawman.” This time, it wasn’t a question. Jake shook his head. “I’m done with being a lawman, Jack. You should know that better than anyone.”
“Jake,” the ranger leader continued, “I never really understood, why, especially after Bandera Pass, you grew reluctant to stay with the Rangers, but I accepted your decision. I’m not asking you to rejoin. This would be a purely civilian job.”
John Meusebach stepped in, then. “Now that the treaty is about to become official, Jake, Fredericksburg will be applying for official recognition from the state, by making the area around the town into a new county. One of the first positions we will need to fill will be that of sheriff.”
Jake shook his head, “So now, you not only want me to put my gun back out for hire, you want me to become a politician as well.”
“A politician? No, Jake. The town has a candidate in mind for County Sheriff, one of our original settlers. He will be easily elected, and rightfully so.”
“Then just what are you asking, John?”
“This sheriff will take care of the politics, but he will need an assistant, someone to help take care of the town, one who is familiar with the area, and with the requirements of the task. He will need a deputy. We are hoping that you will take the job.”
“You’ve got the wrong man, John.”
Hayes interjected, then, “Jake…”
“Stuff it, Jack.” Jake turned on his heel and walked away.
Daniel nodded an apology and followed his friend. He caught up with him, pacing along the creek that ran along one side of the town, still fuming.
“You want to talk about it?”
Jake ignored him.
“He’s new to the country. He hasn’t had time to learn…”
Jake turned on him, then, his eyes ablaze.
Daniel let him storm.
“You were at Bandera Pass. You saw it.”
“Actually,’ Daniel replied, as evenly as he could, keeping a bit of distance. “ …didn’t see that much…was kind of out of it, thanks to that ranger named Bell. Seems somebody shoved me under a rock…”
“It was a bloodbath. Maybe you didn’t see, but you know. Hell, your own father died there. Kit Ackland butchered him.”
“My father led the charge. He knew what the consequences might be.”
“Did he? Did he know that for every arrow, knife or lance, that there would be five pistol balls, all fired at close range, as fast as we could pull a trigger?”
“It was an ambush, Jake. We were hidden in the rocks, waiting…”
“And why, Two Horses? Whose land was it anyway? What right did we have to ride into it?”
“You want to talk right? Or butchery? Was it right when my grandfather’s party was attacked? He had left Nacogdoches for San Antonio when they struck, my grandparents killed, my mother, a girl of fifteen, captured.” Jake didn’t respond. Daniel wasn’t sure if he was listening or just tired of raging, so he kept talking, as evenly as he could, “I never even knew she was my mother. My older sister, they told me. I only knew that she was unhappy and distant, and frail, and that she died while I was still a boy - out wandering around the world. When I came home, and the secrets came out, and I decided to come here, to find him, my real father, there were family friends who told me to look for a man named James Bowie. I found him in San Antonio, at a place called The Alamo. If I had arrived a month later, it would have been too late. He told me what they found, what was left of my grandparents and their party. You can make a pretty good guess, Jake. You’ve seen it often enough.” He stopped talking, and allowed what he had said to sink in, then continued, “Who is right in all this? Who is wrong? …And who gets to decide?”
Neither of them spoke for a while, they just looked at the stream as the water flowed gently over the granite rocks. Then, suddenly, Daniel laughed.
Jake looked sharply at his friend, not so angry now, but curious to know what in hell the man found so funny.
The crinkles that always appeared around Daniel’s eyes when he was in a good humor had returned. Daniel looked at Jake and asked him, in an exaggerated Louisiana drawl, “Are you gonna try and tell me you weren’t looking for a good reason to stay in Fredericksburg?”
Jake was silent another minute before he let out a deep chuckle.
Daniel suggested, then, “Why don’t you see if you can find her while I go check on the horses.”
“Yeah,” Jake replied, “I might just do that.”

Daniel was working with one of the mares when Jake walked out to the stable a couple of hours later.
Jake watched him walk her around the corral. “She’s got a nice gait,” he offered. “Ought to bring a fair price.”
“Hope so. We could stand some extra cash by the time we leave. We do have enough for room and board while we are here, though.”
“That big tent at the other end of town serves as an inn. The beds look okay. “
“How about the food? You hungry? I think I could eat.”
“Food’s good. Very good.. I took Kar…, Fraulein Klemens for a late lunch. You know,” Jake looked around toward the tent that was serving as the stable, “These tents may not have held out much cold air during the winter, but they are really much more solid than you would think. I was looking at the one across town while we ate.”
“I’m sure you spent a lot of your time looking at the tent, Jake.”
‘And the architecture – those frame and mortar houses? It’s called fachwerk. They frame the house first, then fill in between the timbers with stones and mortar, and finish many of them with more mortar, so they look like stucco. It makes for a really strong and solid house. Some of the houses in Germany are several hundred years old.”
“That’s fascinating, Jake. Fredericksburg is looking more and more like a good place to stay, if anybody should have a reason for wanting to settle down.”
“I’m not taking the job, …Two Horses.”
“Your call, friend. None of my business.”
“It’s a hell-of-a-way to make a living, and I don’t want any part of it,…even for...’
“And how is the fraulein going to make a living, being an orphan?”
“She hired on as a governess to a family with a slew of children. She’s well educated, Daniel. Her English is fluent, and she speaks some Spanish as well. She will do all right for herself.”
“Yeah, sounds that way.” Daniel paused a little for effect. “Too bad she has to.”
“Daniel…”
“Jake, that carpet bag sitting with our gear inside the stable?”
“Yeah?”
“What did we put inside it just after we got here?”
Jake just looked at Daniel. “You got something in your craw. How about you tell me.”
“Your Paterson; my Walker?”
“And?”
“We put them away when we got to town, but we sure as hell brought them along on the trail.”
”So?”
“Man lives in this part of the world these days, he needs a gun.”
“Well, he don’t need to make a living with it, if that’s what your getting at.”
“I never saw a man could use a pistol as well as you.’
Jake said nothing.
“It’s a gift, Jake. And making a living doing what you are good at is not a bad thing. Think about it.” He hesitated, and finally said one thing more. “There’s a big difference between making war and keeping peace. Think about that, too.”

There is a connection, I think, to this passage from the new ending to the first story, Vision Quest:

Quote :
She opened her eyes slowly, and looked at him. Her eyes were glowing with pride, but with a sadness as well, and something he had never seen in them before. It felt almost like fear, not for herself so much as for him. She put a hand on his shoulder, and rose stiffly, and then walked to a storage basket across the tipi. She opened it, pulled out a much smaller basket – an old one of Hopi design, then came back and sat beside him again. She handed the little basket to him.
“For me?”
“It is yours, now.” Her voice had that same combination of pride and sadness that he had seen in her eyes. He looked down and removed the basket’s lid. Inside, he saw a beaded pouch, decorated with a pattern he had come to associate with her. “A medicine wheel,” he said.
“Tell me what you see.”
“The circle is divided into quarters by a cross. At the center of the cross is a small circle, also divided, into the directions of the four winds. The emblems around the outer ring of the large circle tell the history of your people, before they came north, before they became Hopi.”
“You remember well. Open the pouch.”
He opened it, reached inside, felt something solid, like a stone, but not quite cold. He brought it out – a gold red carved circle, with markings like those on the beaded pouch, but of a size not much over an inch across. As he held it in his open palm, it seemed almost to glow, and grew even more warm. “It is the same stone, the stone I saw in the cave beneath the river.”
“It is a magical stone, from the cave at the center of the world.’
“The Singing Rock is truly the center of the world, as the Penateka have said?”
“The center of the world, Grandson, is in many places.”
He looked at her, puzzled.
“You have been around the world, Two Horses. You have told us of the strange places, and the even stranger customs and the stories those people would tell.”
“Yes,” he said, “but the stories always had a ring of truth to them, as though they were the same, only told by people who looked at what was happening from a different place within its whole.” He continued, “And the signs, like the cross on the medicine wheel, which is a sign for the Christ, the God of many white people, including my mother’s family – I saw them in many places where the Christian God was not known, but still, the sign was revered there, too.
“The signs are often recognized by other peoples, who come to them through their own ways. You will learn more about this with time. The red stone is also a sign, to those who truly see it.” She stopped and looked at him more intently. “You did not find your way to the cave by accident. You were drawn there.”
“It seemed so.”
“Drawn there, as I was drawn here, before your father was born.”
“I’m still not sure I understand.”
“That amulet belonged to my father, and his before him, for many generations. My father had no son. I had thought I would be handing it down to your father, but I was never given a signal that I should do so. Now I understand why.”
“A signal?”
“You were drawn to the cave, and then you felt compelled to come to me, and tell me.”
“Yes.”
“You have been called, Two Horses, to be the stone’s protector, to be the one who keeps its secrets.”
“But, I don’t know them.”
“You know some of them. You know of its power to heal. You will learn more, in time, if you accept the responsibility.”
“The responsibility?”
“The secrets of the stone must be kept hidden, Grandson. If you accept the token, you will accept and receive all that goes with it, its awesome and its terrible aspects.”
Two Horses was beginning to sense that his grandmother was speaking a deep truth, but he still did not fully understand. “Why me, Grandmother?”
“The true power of the stone does not truly reside solely in the stone itself.” She smiled, then, and leaned toward him. She placed her hand over his heart. “It also resides in here, Grandson, in the hearts of those who understand, and who are willing to do whatever must be done to keep the power from falling into the hands of those who would misuse it.”
He looked at the stone in his hand, glowing now, beautiful, sacred, and dreadful, all at the same time. Suddenly it all made sense to him....

A few minutes ago, when my iphone beeped for me to check my email, which had a message telling me that someone had posted to this thread, after all this time, i was rereading from near the last part of that last story. It was another of those passages that just sort of wrote itwself:


Quote :
Daniel finally found Jake, lying on his bed in the boarding house. “You were right, you know, about the quality of the beds here, but in the middle of the day?”
“Go away.”
“I’m not sure that’s good advice.’
“It’s not advice. Not yet, anyway.” There was a threatening quality to that last bit.
“Sure there isn’t something you want to talk about?”
“Damn sure, so go away.”
“Seems I remember saying something like that to you, a few months back. Seems like there was something I wanted to say – needed to say, after all.”
“If you won’t go away, will you at least be quiet.” It wasn’t a question.
“You know,” Daniel persisted. “I was thinking.”
“That’s not a good sign. Best keep it to yourself.”
Daniel ignored his friend and continued. “Carpet bags are good for carrying a lot of things.”
Jake finally looked at his friend. “Carpet bags.”
“Carpet bags, my Kentuckian friend, can hold a lot of diverse things.” At that point, he sat on the foot of Jake’s bed and held up an unopened bottle of a recognizably fine whiskey.”
Jake noticed. “You got that from a carpet bag?”
“Well, when you’re travelling, you never know what might come in handy.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a pair of small crystal glasses and held them in the air.
“And those are?”
“Whiskey tumblers, my friend.”
“It’s good whiskey,” Jake said, rising to his elbows. “Fancy glasses won’t make it any better.”
“Well, they certainly won’t make it worse.’ Daniel had opened the bottle and was deftly pouring into the glasses.”
By this time, Jake had risen to a sitting position. His mood didn’t exactly seem to be improving, but he was eyeing the bottle with an almost friendly attitude. He pushed his pillow to the back of the iron bed as he reached forward and took a filled glass from Daniel’s hand.
“Bottoms up?”
“No, no, no.” Jake replied seriously. “This is Kentucky whiskey, my friend. You don’t just bottom up, no matter what kind of glass you’re drinking it from.” He slowly brought the glass to his lips and sipped lightly, taking his time, and allowing the amber liquid to roll slowly toward the back of his tongue, clearly savoring each step it took along the way before he swallowed.
“That the stuff?”
“That’s the stuff,” Jake whispered, a bit hoarsely.
It was quite a few minutes and several glasses later before either of them spoke again. It was Jake who broke the silence, looking at the, temporarily empty, glass in his hand. It had a gleam to it that was enhanced by little prisms of light sparkling from its cut edges. “Where did you get these, anyway.”
“A gift from my uncle. Old family stuff, to remind me that I had one.”
“A glass.”
“Old family.”
“Ah, then it’s a gentleman’s thing.”
Daniel was still sober enough to know he had to tread gently. It wouldn’t do to give a hint that he knew why Jake brought that term up. “Knew a fellow once who called himself a gentleman. He lived in a house in the Vieux Carre. He paid for it with the money he made from a cane plantation on the river. They say he could whip a field hand half to death, then sleep with the man’s woman just after. I decided early on that if he was a gentleman, I wanted no part of being one.”
“Is there a point to that story?”
“A man is a man when he lives with honor, doing the job he was put here to do.”
“And you believe that? That men were put here?”
“Put here, or they chose to come.”
“And where did you get that notion?”
“First, from my uncle, later my father and grandmother, but mostly, these days, just by watching people, listening to the things they say, seeing what they do and how they do it.”
“And you can still say that, knowing how your “gentleman” friend…”
“Wasn’t my friend.”
“How this man treated the people he was supposed to be looking after?”
Supposed to be.” Daniel poured himself another glass. “it’s all in that notion of “supposed,” isn’t it.”
“Then there is a difference between what’s right and what’s wrong. A few weeks back, you seemed to be questioning that, as I recall.”
“Not questioning that it is. Just saying there isn’t an easy way to figure which is which. You can look at extremes, like that man back in New Orleans, or a man out here who, say, decided that he wanted his neighbor’s cattle, or seed grain, and so he just shot the neighbor and took it.”
“So we need laws.”
“That’s part of the answer, but the laws are no better than the men who make them, or the men whose job it to enforce them.”
“And if the laws aren’t enforced…”
“Or if the wrong people are chosen to enforce them…”
Jake thought a minute. He looked closely at the empty glass in his hand, but this time, he didn’t reach for the bottle. He just twisted it, to let it catch the light. And said softly, “a light to guide, a rod/To check the erring,...
“Wordsworth? Ah, ‘Duty,’ sure, that would be one way of saying it,’’ Daniel nodded, then thought about it, and added, “Who put you on to Wordsworth, anyway?”
“Daniel,” Jake replied, still looking at the prisms in the glass, his mind recalling the image of the ranger, Peter Bell, discharging his pistol in the direction of a brown-haired warrior, “You do not want to know.”

Jung would call it synchronicity, I would call it listening to "That lofty part;" something that I wrote from my muse.

Thank you, Betty. Your timing was perfect.

Ann
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Betty Fasig
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Finding the Lofty Part Empty
PostSubject: Re: Finding the Lofty Part   Finding the Lofty Part EmptySun Jan 29, 2012 4:47 pm

Dear Ann,
Great art is set apart from the ordinary by the obsession of the artist. I beleive that. You, my friend, are an artist that paints with words. Your passion is exquisite.

Hang onto the clouds, my good friend.

Love,
Betty



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alj
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PostSubject: Re: Finding the Lofty Part   Finding the Lofty Part EmptySun Jan 29, 2012 5:16 pm

Mmmm, maybe. If only I could speak from the soul of a cabbage.

Ann
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Finding the Lofty Part Empty
PostSubject: Re: Finding the Lofty Part   Finding the Lofty Part EmptySun Jan 29, 2012 5:49 pm

Dear Ann,
It is a long, long time ago that I flapped out the little story of Cora The Cabbage.

Thank you for the memory of it. I blabbed it out one day and had to look for it. Forgive the formating of it.

I post it here so that people will know what you speak of.

I am not in your league. Ann. You will be recognized for your talents as a story teller, an historian, an author. I beleive it.

Love,
Betty

Here is the story of Cora
This is a little bit about Cora, who is a cabbage, but I liked it and smiled as I wrote it.
----------------
Cabbage Row

It was perfect weather for cabbages. Sunny days, crisp, moonlit nights, almost cold. The stars shone as brightly as they ever did down upon the cabbages. The whole of Cabbage Row was hunkered in for the night, waiting for the dew of morning, stretching their roots and relaxing, drinking in the lovely fluids of the earth. Life was good!

The sun rose bright and shining in the east and every cabbage there stretched out their leaves and praised God for the sunshine and the new day. It was a day like every other day, of sucking up sunshine, making new leaves. All was well on Cabbage Row.


Down at the end of Cabbage Row, near the part that was not any longer part of the Row, lived Cora. She was a Cabbage that had come up without cultivation. In other words, (gasp) she was a wild one. Cora did not know she was a wild one. She just knew she lived at the end of Cabbage Row.

One day, Cora said to the other Cabbages,

" I want to go somewhere!"

Well, you can imagine what an unusual idea this was for any Cabbage who felt rooted to the spot on which they were planted. In fact, they guffhawed the idea of going anywhere at all! Had many rude and impertinent opinions about the going of somewhere, anywhere, and where was a cabbage to go anyway, and all these opinions were freely expressed.

Cora folded her leaves over her head and calmly said,

" I think I will go to Seed". My grandmother bloomed and went to Seed, and not only that, she came back from Seed!"

The silence that came from this calm statement lasted a long time.

Some innate, inbred, deep rooted urge stirred in the Cabbages. They would bloom! They would go to Seed..

They would return.
Love,
Betty



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