Thinking About Taos Crow;
and Other Matters ; Jan 10, 2009
Terry Turner, Copyright 2010
Terry and Gene Discuss Drilling for oil
Many of you know from my remarks or your own experiences that life is, at best uncertain and can be quickly consigned away.
I am, as many of my readers know, facing death daily due to small cell carcinoma in my lungs… it has been a heavy weight to deal with on a daily basis and it is always changing one’s priorities, goals, and objectives. For instance I was thinking of the fall of 2001. That fall Suzi and I had been out of town for some reason.
Upon our return, the barman from the White Horse Saloon, suddenly appeared with two dark beers and instructions to be prepared to go to dinner…this could only mean Brother Gene was on the scene, probably with a friend, and ready to kick around every subject on the planet ranging from politics to the Yellowstone cauldron and don’t duck,
Gene allowed no off topics of any sort.
My half brother had faced, trench by trench, the Nazis and brooked no sort of politically correct speech in his family or his oil field supply stuff…plain straight talk was what he demanded and expected throughout his adult life.
On this particular occasion we had no idea that Gene was literally at death’s door, laid low by a common bacteria (the helicobacter pylori – I’ll append some remark about it as a note at the conclusion of my reflections).
That glorious fall the ancient soaring trees of Taos gathered bright gold round trying to warm themselves with color against the chill night air. The old trees, many soaring over a hundred feet into the sky, are mostly cottonwoods and willows who drop a copious abundance of beautifully colored leaves whose golden coloration is so dramatic that they could have been individually selected by a Hollywood set designer. Suzi and I often drove down Kit Carson, the location of our Gallery; just to see the infinity of colors presented by Mother Nature… it was one of the first visions of Taos color that encouraged us to make the move from the flying-carpet colors that paint the valleys around of Ridgway to the magic-carpet colors of Taos.
In the near mountains, cold winds rush too and fro, while the ancient voices of old God begin rising steadily, as they prepare the blasts of wind, sleet, ice, and snow. The bright blue sky, draws back, back, and yet further back where, with each recession, the sky grows bluer yet. The sky draws back further from mother earth and nearer the fiery furnaces of father sun. Fall colors rise up from earth and pour down from sky. Warm, wonderful colors which speak of harvest, and the steaming festive board, but even these brilliant colors cannot stay the approaching cold.
The Taos crows huddle together and in the chill morning air have only one
word, "Cold. Cold,” they say and say again, “cold, cold, cold.” In the late afternoon sun, their speech recovers a bit, but none can doubt the sure arrival of early winter. If winter be as perfect as fall has been, the snows will be surely deep and we will all take deep comfort from our dry, well stacked wood.
Taos crow mostly meditate in the winter and we are denied the usual proceeds of their speeches until spring when they come out in force to announce the certain end of winter, the promise of new crops and new harvests to feed the land; and, of course, to celebrate the end of death along with the promise of new life which is always connected to spring..
When a fine person, an excellent spiritual being, passes over, the crows huddle and mutter in the chill, crisp morning air to prepare an announcement of the passing. That bulletin is always the same: They have one word, "Gone." Gone they say! And say again. Gone. “Gone, gone, an Angel gone. Where do such as she go? There are few enough folk hereabout; and fewer Angels.” The crow, in this case, are thinking of the passage of a significant crow, in this case, are thinking of the passage of a great hearted lady, known in some circles as the Red Hatted Angel --- so long great hearted Gael, and so long and Clink and Clank residents of Comfort and remembered of Taos.
Gael Montana was a unique life force and left her imprint on everything that she was near. She had a remarkable store of vibrant force that left you no doubt that you had encountered a truly powerful being; other people, as we know touch us lightly and like a shadow are gone like a soft breeze.
Today is beautiful; the clouds are lurking well below the horizon, off in the direction of Canada, and leave only a pure, deep blue sky as backdrop for the two hundred year old cottonwoods and the towering willows that are very yellow this time of year.
We were having snow skiffs just days ago as it is still, barely, winter here even though we are half through December. Only a few trees are beginning to leaf out but the hundred foot green spruce are a welcome spot of green against the brilliant blue.
Black, black, huge crows bark from the tree tops, arguing away. One rough old crow asserts "... it's tomorrow!"
A senior crow rebuffs "... it's yesterday!"
And so they quarrel all day.
Of course all crows know it is today, not yesterday, nor tomorrow. The crow’s muttering of tomorrow and of yesterday are mere reminders to be here now.
Their loud arguments are only meant to distract humans from the more serious crow discussions that are conducted further up the mountain around the Sacred Blue Lake.
Cheery robins and great black and white penguin-like magpies take no truck in such discussions because they are relentlessly stalking the perfect twig for their spring nests --- and their discerning mates will accept nothing less than the perfect twig.
Old crow, reminds me, “Governments, nations, and people of importance come and go. The Sacred Blue Lake is eternally tranquil and invisibly reflecting the blue sky invisibly reflecting the lake’s own blue waters.
Governments, nations, and people of importance come and go. The Sacred Blue Lake is forever.
Out the window I see a fresh crop of dandelions shaking their fistful of bright yellow swords at the Sky God, but already the first dandelion crop that had advanced to the attack, lived brightly, lived briefly, and then suddenly died. Victims not of winter, not of summer, but victims only of time.
Only A few yesterdays past they sprang forth with all the power of youth but, in ain a few small moments, they grew mature, suddenly aged, and stepped over the edge to again become the raw stuff of the universe. How important they seemed; how important the games seemed; but as they and we draw near to the edge of eternity, how unimportant it all seems.
Let’s take time to agree that we should all have more hot chocolates, give and take more hugs, have more well steeped teas, take longer and more pleasant breakfasts, read more good books, and spend more time in the afternoon sun ---- and pay less and less attention the fury of social clamor raining, storming out of our radios and televisions.. As old Kahlil Gibran said, "… the moving finger, having writ, moves on.... “and you will have missed writing that thank you note or that sentiment that should have been written weeks ago.
And face it, according to my experience; God does hate cold coffee, cold chocolate, and cold tea.
Personally, I shall listen more to the barking crows and less to the recurring and meaningless chatter, cajoling, and threats of presidents, kings, brokers, bankers’ congressmen, and terrorists. God and karma, in good time, will attend to the just needs of those folks... Those time stealing people are always with us; but the crow is only here today and has only a few words to spare for us ere they are away to speak with angels and other vapor’d creatures.
While walking the canons and trails of the area and speaking with old crow when he permitted, it seems only yesterday that the dry winds of depression and starvation calmed themselves, only yesterday the reverberation of the Nazi boot receded and with them the smell of burning Jewish flesh, only yesterday we rose from our caves and shelters as the threatened glowing atomic flash diminished, only yesterday the bright golden brass ring was within humanity's grasp, only yesterday unsuspected terror leapt from the skies; and only yesterday black hooded death sowing powdery decay stalked all human life, and only yesterday I felt a wispy thread of hate and fury lightly poison my cheerful heart ... only yesterday tomorrow seemed so much better than does tomorrow today.....but enough, how gloomy can one get... I think this is what is called muck racking ---- oh well, I have read too much Thomas Paine of late.
I love the brilliant whiteness of snow. Its unmarred purity suggests better times, better days, and better places. Snow reminds me an old piece, Hemingway’s A Clean Well Lighted Place. A clean place with pristine white tablecloths and bright lights. A place that can delay that which one might prefer not to encounter.
Decades and decades have rolled away since I read it. I can't quite bring it to the foreground of my memory, but white coffee cups on white tablecloths with some good plate or silver and real cream in a heavy creamer will invariably open the doors for a new line of thought. Such images and aromas give one a sense of new potentials for a new virgin day.
The whiteness, the ceremonial whiteness reminds one of a first baptismal, or perhaps the waiter's white shirt, white apron and black tie suggest the feeling of a confessional. But he, or she, who would take the confession, must have a whiter and wider cloth than most, for such as they often hear too much for their own good. So a great blanketing Taos snow is needed to soften, to clean away, to dissolve and wash away dark thoughts, dark words, and dark places.
The snow gathers light and hurls back all manner of darkness. Don’t they say there is no darkness, only the absence of light?
Reflecting on the death of my brother, Gene: He fought for our freedom. Gene survived the Nazis but was killed by Helicobacter Pylori Bacteria. H Pylori infects about one in every two mature adults in the United States and, as it is easily cured, there is NO reason for any to die of such a simple bacteria so easily controlled.
and Other Matters ; Jan 10, 2009
Terry Turner, Copyright 2010
Terry and Gene Discuss Drilling for oil
Many of you know from my remarks or your own experiences that life is, at best uncertain and can be quickly consigned away.
I am, as many of my readers know, facing death daily due to small cell carcinoma in my lungs… it has been a heavy weight to deal with on a daily basis and it is always changing one’s priorities, goals, and objectives. For instance I was thinking of the fall of 2001. That fall Suzi and I had been out of town for some reason.
Upon our return, the barman from the White Horse Saloon, suddenly appeared with two dark beers and instructions to be prepared to go to dinner…this could only mean Brother Gene was on the scene, probably with a friend, and ready to kick around every subject on the planet ranging from politics to the Yellowstone cauldron and don’t duck,
Gene allowed no off topics of any sort.
My half brother had faced, trench by trench, the Nazis and brooked no sort of politically correct speech in his family or his oil field supply stuff…plain straight talk was what he demanded and expected throughout his adult life.
On this particular occasion we had no idea that Gene was literally at death’s door, laid low by a common bacteria (the helicobacter pylori – I’ll append some remark about it as a note at the conclusion of my reflections).
That glorious fall the ancient soaring trees of Taos gathered bright gold round trying to warm themselves with color against the chill night air. The old trees, many soaring over a hundred feet into the sky, are mostly cottonwoods and willows who drop a copious abundance of beautifully colored leaves whose golden coloration is so dramatic that they could have been individually selected by a Hollywood set designer. Suzi and I often drove down Kit Carson, the location of our Gallery; just to see the infinity of colors presented by Mother Nature… it was one of the first visions of Taos color that encouraged us to make the move from the flying-carpet colors that paint the valleys around of Ridgway to the magic-carpet colors of Taos.
In the near mountains, cold winds rush too and fro, while the ancient voices of old God begin rising steadily, as they prepare the blasts of wind, sleet, ice, and snow. The bright blue sky, draws back, back, and yet further back where, with each recession, the sky grows bluer yet. The sky draws back further from mother earth and nearer the fiery furnaces of father sun. Fall colors rise up from earth and pour down from sky. Warm, wonderful colors which speak of harvest, and the steaming festive board, but even these brilliant colors cannot stay the approaching cold.
The Taos crows huddle together and in the chill morning air have only one
word, "Cold. Cold,” they say and say again, “cold, cold, cold.” In the late afternoon sun, their speech recovers a bit, but none can doubt the sure arrival of early winter. If winter be as perfect as fall has been, the snows will be surely deep and we will all take deep comfort from our dry, well stacked wood.
Taos crow mostly meditate in the winter and we are denied the usual proceeds of their speeches until spring when they come out in force to announce the certain end of winter, the promise of new crops and new harvests to feed the land; and, of course, to celebrate the end of death along with the promise of new life which is always connected to spring..
When a fine person, an excellent spiritual being, passes over, the crows huddle and mutter in the chill, crisp morning air to prepare an announcement of the passing. That bulletin is always the same: They have one word, "Gone." Gone they say! And say again. Gone. “Gone, gone, an Angel gone. Where do such as she go? There are few enough folk hereabout; and fewer Angels.” The crow, in this case, are thinking of the passage of a significant crow, in this case, are thinking of the passage of a great hearted lady, known in some circles as the Red Hatted Angel --- so long great hearted Gael, and so long and Clink and Clank residents of Comfort and remembered of Taos.
Gael Montana was a unique life force and left her imprint on everything that she was near. She had a remarkable store of vibrant force that left you no doubt that you had encountered a truly powerful being; other people, as we know touch us lightly and like a shadow are gone like a soft breeze.
Today is beautiful; the clouds are lurking well below the horizon, off in the direction of Canada, and leave only a pure, deep blue sky as backdrop for the two hundred year old cottonwoods and the towering willows that are very yellow this time of year.
We were having snow skiffs just days ago as it is still, barely, winter here even though we are half through December. Only a few trees are beginning to leaf out but the hundred foot green spruce are a welcome spot of green against the brilliant blue.
Black, black, huge crows bark from the tree tops, arguing away. One rough old crow asserts "... it's tomorrow!"
A senior crow rebuffs "... it's yesterday!"
And so they quarrel all day.
Of course all crows know it is today, not yesterday, nor tomorrow. The crow’s muttering of tomorrow and of yesterday are mere reminders to be here now.
Their loud arguments are only meant to distract humans from the more serious crow discussions that are conducted further up the mountain around the Sacred Blue Lake.
Cheery robins and great black and white penguin-like magpies take no truck in such discussions because they are relentlessly stalking the perfect twig for their spring nests --- and their discerning mates will accept nothing less than the perfect twig.
Old crow, reminds me, “Governments, nations, and people of importance come and go. The Sacred Blue Lake is eternally tranquil and invisibly reflecting the blue sky invisibly reflecting the lake’s own blue waters.
Governments, nations, and people of importance come and go. The Sacred Blue Lake is forever.
Out the window I see a fresh crop of dandelions shaking their fistful of bright yellow swords at the Sky God, but already the first dandelion crop that had advanced to the attack, lived brightly, lived briefly, and then suddenly died. Victims not of winter, not of summer, but victims only of time.
Only A few yesterdays past they sprang forth with all the power of youth but, in ain a few small moments, they grew mature, suddenly aged, and stepped over the edge to again become the raw stuff of the universe. How important they seemed; how important the games seemed; but as they and we draw near to the edge of eternity, how unimportant it all seems.
Let’s take time to agree that we should all have more hot chocolates, give and take more hugs, have more well steeped teas, take longer and more pleasant breakfasts, read more good books, and spend more time in the afternoon sun ---- and pay less and less attention the fury of social clamor raining, storming out of our radios and televisions.. As old Kahlil Gibran said, "… the moving finger, having writ, moves on.... “and you will have missed writing that thank you note or that sentiment that should have been written weeks ago.
And face it, according to my experience; God does hate cold coffee, cold chocolate, and cold tea.
Personally, I shall listen more to the barking crows and less to the recurring and meaningless chatter, cajoling, and threats of presidents, kings, brokers, bankers’ congressmen, and terrorists. God and karma, in good time, will attend to the just needs of those folks... Those time stealing people are always with us; but the crow is only here today and has only a few words to spare for us ere they are away to speak with angels and other vapor’d creatures.
While walking the canons and trails of the area and speaking with old crow when he permitted, it seems only yesterday that the dry winds of depression and starvation calmed themselves, only yesterday the reverberation of the Nazi boot receded and with them the smell of burning Jewish flesh, only yesterday we rose from our caves and shelters as the threatened glowing atomic flash diminished, only yesterday the bright golden brass ring was within humanity's grasp, only yesterday unsuspected terror leapt from the skies; and only yesterday black hooded death sowing powdery decay stalked all human life, and only yesterday I felt a wispy thread of hate and fury lightly poison my cheerful heart ... only yesterday tomorrow seemed so much better than does tomorrow today.....but enough, how gloomy can one get... I think this is what is called muck racking ---- oh well, I have read too much Thomas Paine of late.
I love the brilliant whiteness of snow. Its unmarred purity suggests better times, better days, and better places. Snow reminds me an old piece, Hemingway’s A Clean Well Lighted Place. A clean place with pristine white tablecloths and bright lights. A place that can delay that which one might prefer not to encounter.
Decades and decades have rolled away since I read it. I can't quite bring it to the foreground of my memory, but white coffee cups on white tablecloths with some good plate or silver and real cream in a heavy creamer will invariably open the doors for a new line of thought. Such images and aromas give one a sense of new potentials for a new virgin day.
The whiteness, the ceremonial whiteness reminds one of a first baptismal, or perhaps the waiter's white shirt, white apron and black tie suggest the feeling of a confessional. But he, or she, who would take the confession, must have a whiter and wider cloth than most, for such as they often hear too much for their own good. So a great blanketing Taos snow is needed to soften, to clean away, to dissolve and wash away dark thoughts, dark words, and dark places.
The snow gathers light and hurls back all manner of darkness. Don’t they say there is no darkness, only the absence of light?
Reflecting on the death of my brother, Gene: He fought for our freedom. Gene survived the Nazis but was killed by Helicobacter Pylori Bacteria. H Pylori infects about one in every two mature adults in the United States and, as it is easily cured, there is NO reason for any to die of such a simple bacteria so easily controlled.
Oh, Mr. Turner, you really nailed that one.
ReplyDeleteI road every word like a wave lapping at the shore, crashing on the sand and retreating back into the watery abyss. All the while, I know that crow, I know those ravens, that sit on fence posts, streetlights, and share a word or two about the wisdom they heard of late or the husband who will be late to lunch through no fault of his own.. I love the big black breasted birds that sit off in the high tops of things and survey the land looking for something shiny or squirmy.. And I love the white motifs and Hemingways clean white places.. I will think of you over my next cuppa choco or my morning Earl Grey tea to enjoy before it grows cold and raise my cup to your beautiful mind, your way with words and the ability to express them. Thank you sir Terry, an admirer named Judith
Terry, an exquisite prose poem, beautifully written and well executed in the romantic sense.
ReplyDeleteBy that I mean that nature is a symbol that moves us into the idea world. Wordsworth, Byron, Shelley, Keats all used nature in this sense. The symbolists, like Rimbaugh, Verlaine, and Baudelaire, also used a similar practice except that any symbol could be a doorway into the idea world.
Anyway your prose poem is very lyrical and very sensitive and a pleasure to read.
Sorry to hear about Gene. Right now I am reading C.G. Jung's Psychology of Religion and Synchronicity by Robert Aziz.
Jung made it clear that although death is seen as tragic from the point of view of the ego, it is seen as a great reunion from the point of view of the Self.
In fact, sometimes in dreams apparently death has been pictured in the dream world as a wedding.
(I can't help but remember the play 'Death Takes a Holiday'.)
Jung had a very interesting statement about the Self. He said, "The Self is related to the conscious and the unconscious, but is identical with neither." I've done a lot of thinking about that sentence.
I watch my own dreams, and the Self would sometimes pop up in the guise of George Bush! LOL Anyway, apparently when we no longer identify with the conscious or the unconscious mind, we are identified with the Self.
Of course my view is that not too many of us actually become this "Atman" or "Adam Kadmon" immediately after our transition. I think a lot of us spend some time in the paradise states of the astral realms (levels of the collective unconsciousness) and bounce around for a few incarnations before we finally have a chance to be completely identified with that part of ourselves that is neither the conscious nor the unconscious, but a part that is related to both. I think many of us have been down here more times than we would like to admit.
I didn't respond to 'God smites my father' because I remember discussing it many years ago. A little Tolstoy, a little Victor Hugo, a little God smites my Father, it's all good.
As far as whether you should keep writing or not, I think it ultimately rests on whether you want to. I like it. I know that it's hard to justify writing if one doesn't feel that one has an audience.
The biggest event about writing for me is when I found out that only 200 American writers actually are able to make a living at it.
Everyone else has to have a part-time job, or have a husband or wife who works or something.
I know a few writers, and they're always scratching around looking for money. Plus today the publishers insist that you put up a web site and correspond with your audience and get heavily involved with the marketing end of it.
This gives one writer I know continual fits. It ain't like the old days.
And I can tell you one of the reasons. In the old days, publishers would pay a young writer a stipend to keep writing and develop their talent.
Today Stephen King will say, "you know, maybe I'll think about writing another book..." And the publishers instantly say, "Hey Stephen, here's a check for $12 million."
And that, my friends, is what happened to the money they used to pay to keep young writer sitting at writing at the kitchen table.
Anyway I was very pleased to read about your general improvement in respect to the cancer. And I say if you like to write, write. If it's too much trouble, the heck with it. But you have talent, there's no question on that score.
You know my theory. There are is a significant number of people out that driving cabs and selling shoes who could be great writers, artists, actors, dancers, if they ever really had a chance, but just never have the breaks. Lightening doesn't strike that often.
Keep it slugging it out, old buddy. I hope the reports just keep getting better.
--Greg
Terry,
ReplyDeleteYou are an incredible human being...I hope you know that and I wish there were more people like you in this world! You have helped so many people by offering your compassion, guidance and love and expecting nothing in return! You are a role model for us all!!!!!
Love, love, love to you and your beautiful and incredible wife, Suzi from Beautiful Ridgway, Colorado. We miss and you are always in our hearts!
Terry,
ReplyDeleteThese are the most beautiful words I've ever read. You have a talent of putting words together to help us appreciate the beauty of nature and to remember things forgotten. I thoroughly enjoyed this and it's one of my favorites. I love you.
Kim
Noone has written a more beautiful description than, "That glorious fall the ancient soaring trees of Taos gathered bright gold round, trying to warm themselves with color against the chill night air." It makes me see a collection of images that has taken a life time to capture. Also, I am going to pledge my future intake of more hot chocolate, more hugs, more steeped teas, pleasant breakfasts, to read more books and to enjoy the afternoon sunshine. Don't you dare leave us, you old goat. We need you! With a heartful of love, admiration and gratitude, Ann (of Montana-I caught that!) And, I am not anonymous!
ReplyDelete