jumping mouse's wife

I just read the Native American legend of "Jumping Mouse and the Sacred Mountains". I am always deeply affected by such stories of spiritual transcendence. I think I crave my own pilgrimage toward self-discovery and I know that the 'sound of the river' has haunted me my entire life. I also know that I have never stretched myself and caught sight of my own 'sacred mountains'.

Somehow I started thinking about this from the context of why more people don't put aside the busyness of being a mouse and allow themselves to hear the river, or their life, roaring past in the distance. Then it struck me! It's the same reason most people I know who have moved to the prairie do so: it is for their children! So now I tell the story...

'Jumping Mouse the Deadbeat Dad and his Wife'.

Little Mouse left every morning at the same time to spend his days working on the busy paths that mouse love. He kissed his wife good-bye and patted each one of his little baby mice on the head before leaving. Every day at the same time, Little Mouse would return to his home and scamper in through the opening to his hole and kiss his wife hello and pat each one of his little baby mice on the head.

One day, Little Mouse told his wife that he had been hearing a strange noise. He could hear it when he was in the clearing between the chokeberries and the tall grass. It was a distant rumble, a roar, and sometimes he could almost feel the ground itself shake as if a Buffalo was coming near. His wife, who was feeding the children at that moment, didn't understand him. "If you didn't see or smell anything, then it wasn't anything. It was just a noise, maybe the wind or some distant creature of the prairie. Pay more attention to your work, the children are growing fast and they need more seeds!" she said to him.

So Little Mouse went back to his paths and twitched his whiskers and swished his tail. But when he came to the clearing between the Chokeberries and the tall grass, the sound was there, waiting for him. The sun shone down on his back and the breeze swept down to the ground and carried with it exotic smells and sounds. Little Mouse couldn't help himself. He turned off the path he and his mouse brothers had always followed and he walked off into the tall grass.

The sun had almost set and Little Mouse's wife was becoming concerned. The baby mice were hungry and their father had not returned with any seeds. Mrs. Little Mouse could not remember a time when Little Mouse was late. She started to panic, imagining Little Mouse eaten by all manner of strange creatures. Perhaps a coyote had captured him, maybe an Eagle had come down and taken the Little Mouse back to his offspring.

Mrs. Little Mouse was about to venture out herself to find some seeds for the babies when she heard the sound of Little Mouse coming up their path. Her fear turned into anger as she imagined him wasting his day in that clearing, listening to that sound only he seemed to hear.

Little Mouse burst into his home, out of breath and excited. He was so excited all the baby mice burst into tears, unsure about all the commotion. Mrs. Little Mouse turned to confront her husband, but when her eyes fell on him, all the anger turned back to fear. Her husband was dripping wet, water falling on the floor of their home.

"Did it rain in the clearing?" she asked, her voice trembling. She did not remember any rain this day. If it did not rain, how did her husband come to be wet? She was frightened. The only other thing that made a mouse wet was the mouth of a hunter. Perhaps her husband had been picked up by a coyote or an eagle, but he tasted like poison and they spit him out. Her husband could be poisoned!

Little Mouse shook his head and answered, "I have been to the Great River and I have seen the Sacred Mountains! I have a new name today. I am Jumping Mouse!"

Mrs. Little Mouse didn't like this at all. She had no idea what a river or a mountain could be and she had always liked the name Little Mouse. She didn't like to jump and she certainly didn't know any other mice who did. She did not like the name and she became convinced that her husband had been nearly eaten, but for some poison in him, the brother spit him out and now he was mad!

"Get away from my babies!" she screamed at him. "You are mad! You're mind is crazy, you have forgotten what it means to be a mouse! You have failed your family, you have not brought us any seeds and now you frighten our children! You are poisoned, leave this house at once!"

Jumping Mouse was confused. He had been so excited after seeing the Sacred Mountains and meeting the Frog and the Raccoon. Why was his wife so upset? She was preparing to throw things at him, so he turned and left. He wandered the paths of the mice until he found a dark corner where others would not bother him and he slept.

The next day, Mrs. Little Mouse had to get her neighbor to watch the babies while she went out to gather seeds. She explained to them what had happened and how her husband had gone mad, speaking of mountains and rivers. This news soon spread through all the mousetown. Everywhere that Jumping Mouse went the other mice looked at him with fear and anger. Some of them threw things at him and called him names. "Why don't you feed your family?" "Go back to your River and never come back!" "Leave us in peace, we have work to do!"

After a few days of this type of behavior, Jumping Mouse was tired of his people. He stood on the small root in the center of the mousetown and gave his final speech.

"You are so busy sniffing and running and doing mouse busyness that you can not hear the River. The River is great, it is filled with life rushing past. If you would go to the River you could see the Sacred Mountains and then you would be like me!"

The other mice laughed at him and returned to their mouse work. None of them wanted to be like him. Jumping Mouse was sad, but the vision of the Sacred Mountains loomed before him, awake, asleep, dreaming, eating, whatever he did he saw those mountains and knew he must find them. So he left the mousetown and ventured out into the tall grass across the prairie to find the Sacred Mountains.

Mrs. Little Mouse never saw her husband again. She had to work hard to feed her babies and two of them died before they grew up. The rest of her neighbors didn't like her very much. They were afraid that Jumping Mouse's house would be filled with his poison and that his children would be as crazy as their father. Eventually Mrs. Little Mouse and her remaining children decided to move to another mousetown across the tall grass.

She gathered her children and brought them to the edge of the prairie one day. In the sky she could see the spots, the great Eagles that all mice fear. She told her children, "It is dangerous to cross the prairie, the great spots will try to eat us, but we must find a new home. Your father poisoned us and we must try to find a place where we can be cleaned."

Mrs. Little Mouse and her children ran across the prairie, with their tails down low and ignoring all the scents and feelings their nose and whiskers told them about. They ran and ran all night long until they came upon a Chokeberry bush. This was the home of the Old Mouse. He took them in and shared his food and his stories. He told them of Jumping Mouse, how he had passed through there on his way to the Sacred Mountains.

Mrs. Little Mouse asked, "Are there really Sacred Mountains and a River?"

The Old Mouse replied, "There is a River, I saw it just as Jumping Mouse had, but there are no Sacred Mountains. There is only the Prairie and all its brothers, the antelope and the buffalo and the great eagles in the sky."

Mrs. Little Mouse felt bad. Perhaps her husband had been right. If there was a River, then that would explain why he was wet. Perhaps he was not poisoned! She did not tell anyone these thoughts. She and her children moved in with the Old Mouse who told them stories and kept them fed. Mrs. Little Mouse stayed quiet with her thoughts for many days until her babies were full grown. They married and the Old Mouse's bushed became a busy mousetown.

Mrs. Little Mouse was getting old. She had raised her babies and fed those that survived. She had done all this alone and yet she had started to feel bad for her husband. Maybe if she had listened to Jumping Mouse instead of sending him away, he would have taken care of his family first and later, when they were all grown, he could have searched for the Sacred Mountains. Perhaps she could have gone with him. She had missed him since he had left, it became very cold on the prairie at night and the children were no longer there to comfort her.

After many more days, Mrs. Little Mouse decided to leave the new mousetown. It was possible that her husband had made it to the Sacred Mountains. Perhaps if she found the river she could see the mountains. She asked the Old Mouse, "Where is the River?"

The Old Mouse could barely remember. "I think it is in that direction, but it is very far and the spots will get you if you travel across the prairie! I will tell you all I saw at the River, then you won't have to go there yourself to see it!"

Mrs. Little Mouse answered, "Thank you, but I have already heard all your stories about the River. I need to see it for myself. Perhaps I will see it as my husband saw it!" So Mrs. Little Mouse left the new mousetown and journeyed toward the River.

to be continued...

david and goliath

There are few images more disturbing than the vision most people have of Goliath. There is very little sympathy for the man in any corner. He as a freak by all accounts, huge, most likely disturbing in his visage, perhaps even slightly deformed. He had no doubt suffered as a child, growing too fast and too oddly for the liking of his peers. At manhood he discovered that his rage and size gave him a hero's role in the army of his king and people. He was a champion, so much presence and intimidation that he could translate his awkward manner into a path of death among his enemies. He didn't need to land every blow, just one and that would take care of his opponent. Goliath probably lived pretty well for the short duration of his life. Pay and honor among his people came with his military presence. Then that Hebrew shepherd boy ended it all.

Should we feel sorry for Goliath, the freak turned muscle for the king of the Philistines? I wouldn't worry too much about it. He became a part of the system that he himself probably hated. He drank from the cup of his king and was used to an end. When he fell, I'm sure it was a surprise to him as much as the rest of the Philistine army. No one expects the giant to fall to the little boy. That is a take down for the ages. Goliath as co-conspirator. Does a human being's humanity become diminished when they take on roles of power, authority or grandeur? This is a question suited to the modern age. Should our heroes and leaders be judged as human beings, filled with passion, envy, hatred, love, jealousy, imperfection and intentions, or are they monsters, tools of a system that purchased their humanity long ago and now uses them to achieve it's end and perpetuate its survival?

like a storm rolling across the plains

I was talking with a group of very conservative men the other day and for some odd reason, I was struck with an epiphany. I looked around me and realized that these are the men that compose the middle class of America, the working man of the 21st century. They may not work with welding torches or die-cast metal, but they are the men who leave the suburbs and venture into the city daily, climb the glass and steel towers and work-work-work till the day is done and he can trudge back out to the manicured yards and the baseball diamonds that mark the domain of the middle class.

For a moment, I saw the faces of my grandfathers floating around these men. They would have blended right in (except for being dead of course) with the American ethics of God, country and family. But had this collection of men, ghosts and ideals been transported to a voting booth, the outcome would be quite different. My ancestors were Democrats. They looked at that as the party of the working man, the union endorsed politicians who would protect America and her precious role in the world. The flesh and blood men would pull the Republican lever with barely a thought. These men cared about prayer in schools, abortion, homosexual agendas and good versus evil.

I wondered then for a moment before the epiphany hit me, ‘how did the Republicans steal the middle class?’ Two words: culture war.

By casting the conflict in values that defines this society as a ‘culture war’, the sides in this conflict necessarily polarize. The middle class then is torn between the party that represents social and economic progress for their class and the party that represents moral clarity on the battlefield of the ‘culture wars’. Hence the Republican party can continue to maintain its traditional association with the plutocrats and monied interests that fund its victories and split if not dominate the middle class who now vote on value issues like abortion and gay rights.

It is a brilliant strategy and surprisingly did not work in the last election with Gore out-polling Bush by half a million votes. I am not sure why this new coalition of money and morality doesn’t secure a solid majority at the polls, perhaps the college educated, thinking, urban middle class has grown large enough. I however can feel nothing but pity for the middle class conservative who believes in God and country and passionately support men who reshape both in their own image.

blast from the past

I was talking with a gentleman today who waxed nostalgic for the days when neighbors knew one another, when families gathered in the breezeways for their daily meal and sat on the porch rocking and greeting the neighbors as they walked by in the idyllic Norman Rockwell summer evening.

I wondered, does he know his neighbors? Does he want to sit and chat with them? The world is different than it used to be, different than the illusion the boomers were fed. I think of the movie "Blast from the Past" where the 50's dad played by Christopher Walken is shocked after emerging from his bomb shelter in the mid-nineties and describes the street he walks as populated with mutants. It would be shocking to see it all at once (and it was a rough neighborhood) but still, I wonder...

blank slate

I wonder if ancient writers faced a blank tablet of stone and froze in terror. That first dent in the virgin stone would forever spoil its smooth visage. From that first strike, information was recorded for posterity. Even now I follow that same cycle, pressing keys and depositing information in the written history of civilization. Will there come a time when my words are as incomprehensible to the 'people' of that age as the cuneiform is to me? Yes. Examine Beowulf, written just over a thousand years ago and the language is nearly foreign. The alphabet is similar, but the very rules by which words were constructed are different. English speakers have about an even chance of comprehension reading modern French versus old English. Gentle reader, enjoy this moment, the brief spot in which you and I touch and my words pass your eyes and into your mind. They will remain on hard drives and print outs for as long as those tool exist, but the idea will also travel in the minds of the reader. Perhaps one day I will have an idea that resonates strongly with many people in many places and they like it so much that they teach it to their children. Someday maybe I can create a meme.

Purpose

What gives us purpose? Human beings seem to need it but we always have nothing or a million things that drive us. Purpose is also the key to understanding human interaction. It is in the motivations and drives of our co-workers, bosses, friends, family and loved ones that we can understand how to achieve win-win situations where ever possible.

Tonight I was reading from a book by 'the world's greatest salesman'. I'm mixed on reaction to the work, not sure if he is simply following the old fashioned 'think and it becomes true' or if there are some nuggets of wisdom which can be used to realize more of an individual's potential.

That's the ultimate point of all of this isn't it? Realizing more of our potential. I know I am obsessed with efficiency and effectiveness. If these guiding principles are not being realized all I can focus on are the obstacles and I dream of overcoming those barriers and flying forward into a life more real, more authentic, more efficient and effective at achieving my dreams.

this is only a test

were this a real post, you would be intellectually stimulated. Sorry to
get you excited. It won't happen again.

the gauntlet is cast

I invited my brother to the blogosphere this evening. He's really an interesting guy, you'll love him if he shows up. I think he and I could wear out a couple of keyboards a piece if we put our minds to it. I'll keep you informed...

dust to dust...

I have spent most of my life on the great plains of North America, living near the Mississippi River. I have spent most of that time disliking this place, cursing its isolation, its rural nature, its 'flatness'.

But as I have matured and developed, I have found myself drawn to lines. I love long, low, sloping lines, like the ones found in the Prairie style of architecture. Upon realizing this fact, my long standing distaste for the prairie evaporated and was replaced with the realization that I am formed and shaped by the land in which I was raised. We are dust.