The Last Days of Pangaea

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April 30, 2012 by • Categorized: Restorying the Sacred.

Pangaea was a supercontinent, and it knew it. In fact, Pangaea was the most super continent, and it knew that, too. Islands? Tiny. Atolls? Please. If you couldn’t be a supercontinent, you might as well not be above water at all.

“Never mind Pangaea,” the mantle told itself. “We’re far bigger than any continent, and our convection does important work moving minerals around and about.”

Pangaea scoffed. “You may be bigger,” it said, “but who can see you? And your convection is so slow, who knows it’s happening?”

a of the supercontinent Pangaea

Pangaea, via Wikimedia Commons. Some rights reserved.

But the mantle kept its convection currents moving, heating and cooling Gaia’s minerals, and it didn’t pay any mind to Pangaea’s taunting. It knew that Pangaea wasn’t the first supercontinent, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. “Supercontinents come and go,” the mantle said, “but convection perseveres.”

One day (and Gaia’s days are very long, indeed, as we know), Pangaea looked at itself and noticed a rift across its middle. Because Pangaea was so big, it was acting like a giant lid that prevented Gaia’s heat from venting, and that head was causing Pangaea to buckle and break. “Well, it’s just a scratch,” it said. “I’m still a supercontinent. In fact, I’m the only supercontinent.” And it went about its life.

But the rift got bigger, stretching day by day across Pangaea’s middle. And as if the crack itself weren’t bad enough, the convection currents were starting to pull the rifting pieces away from each other. Pangaea had no idea what to do. It was the biggest, baddest, most important landmass above water. What would it do if that were no longer true? Who would it be if it wasn’t Pangaea anymore?

“Mantle! Mantle!” Pangaea cried. “I’m breaking apart! Can’t you stop your convections?”

“I’m sorry,” said the mantle—and meant it. “But I have important minerals to transport. I’m sorry it’s changing you.”

It was changing Pangaea; anyone could see that now. At last, with a long, mighty heave and groan, a piece broke off, and the convection current began to carry it away.

Pangaea’s heart broke with its crust. It was no longer the most super continent above water.

But then Pangaea looked around. It could see everything that its parts could see. New views! New perspectives! Water rushed in to fill the hole, creating new oceans. The surface of the planet fractured and transformed, kaleidoscopic, breaking up old ruts and making way for change.

Pangaea smiled, and its slowly drifting parts smiled, too. It was no longer a supercontinent, but it was all continents. And that was super, too.

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The Virus and the Jumping Gene

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April 10, 2012 by • Categorized: Restorying the Sacred.

Oh, that wily virus was back again!

DNA was hopping mad. It had tried everything it could thing of. It had sent antibodies to surround and isolate the virus. It had shut down normal cell process so the virus wouldn’t have anything to do (and wasn’t that a disaster!). It had even dispatched T-cells to kill the virus. But that rascal virus kept changing, kept dodging, kept sneaking back in.

DNA wasn’t mad at the virus. It needed a home like every other living thing. But it was a thoughtless tenant, trashing its residence and then abandoning it for newer climes. This was DNA’s home, and it couldn’t let that virus destroy it. It wasn’t as if DNA could pack up and move somewhere else.

ear of corn with variagated kernels, demonstrating transposable elements

Mu transposon in maize, by Damon Lisch.

But then DNA got to thinking. Maybe it could go somewhere else. Hide somewhere a while. Make that virus scratch its head. “I know,” DNA said, “I’ll jump!” DNA worked, and it copied, and it sent that gene leaping to a different part of the genome.

Well, that jumping gene felt pretty proud of itself. It had snuck away from the virus, and that virus would need a long time, indeed, to find it again. Glad that it had done some good for its host and its genome, it did what all genes do: it danced.

But…what was this? Around it, other genes were doing the dances they had been born to do, and those dances looked very different from the ones from where the jumping gene came from. The jumping gene wondered what would happen if it did its own dance here. Would its dance fit in with the others?  Would its dance do what it was supposed to do?

“Well,” said the jumping gene, “I’ll do what I was born to do and see what happens.” It unfolded itself and waved about; it did its dance and built its protein.

But the dancers here weren’t used to the jumping gene’s dance. For it to fit in, other dances had to change. Proteins were built that wouldn’t have been otherwise, and proteins that would have been built weren’t. The jumping gene’s dance changed the genome and created a different pattern. It built something that no one had seen before.

That new thing went into the world, beautiful and unique, and took its place in the larger dance. And that jumping gene, who had thought it was only running away from something, discovered it had run toward something, instead. And it jumped for joy.

——

A brief introduction to transposons.

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On the Function of Time on the Magic of Place

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March 23, 2012 by • Categorized: Restorying the Sacred.

Some permutation of us travels to this camp every year: 65 to 80 Witches on a heart-shaped island in a frozen lake in Wisconsin. We reconnect to this land and each other, feeling the magic of the snow-covered landscape. The experiences I have in those five days could fill this column for the rest of the year.

Every place has its sacredness and magic–which is the whole point of No Unsacred Place–but I wonder about the function of time in the magic of place. There have been a few opportunities, over the years, to travel to “our” island in the summer months. I’ve been unable to attend, but I doubt I would’ve been brave enough to go even if I could’ve. How many times in stories do the glittering castles and glamorous gowns of night revert to dilapidated shacks and dirt-stained rags when viewed in daylight? If I visit the island in summer, would I recognize its magic? Would it recognize me?

snow-covered path through trees

Photo by Leora Effinger-Weintraub, 2009, under Creative Commons license. Some rights reserved.

Our winter gathering on the island has a contained, condensed feel, as an acorn wrapping itself in its shell. We cram tremendous activity into a short timespan, and although we have the run of the island, the often harsh realities of Wisconsin winter mean that, in practice, we tend to restrict ourselves to a few buildings, the spaces between, and, for the brave among us, the frozen surface of the lake itself. We are cradled. Cocooned. We love those places dearly, but do we truly know the whole of the place?

When we dwell in a place, we form a deep, special bond with that place. We know all of its faces and moods. We sense its rhythms and know if they are off. Seeing through its disguises, we know its continuity. Our love for it may not be glamorous, and we run the risk of that love becoming stale, but it is deep and abiding.

When we return to a place year after year, but in only one season, we form a bond of a different kind. Our relationship is to the time of our return as well as to the place. We feel ourselves connected to the place and ourselves as we are now, as we were when first we arrived, as we hope to be in the returns to come, but not necessarily to the place and ourselves as we are at different phases of the year. It can be a shallow love, but is also fierce and passionate, helping us maintain an eager newness that lessens the likelihood of taking the place for granted.

Do we stand up differently for places we love in all seasons than for those we merely pass through from time to time? If ecological catastrophe threatened the island, how would I stand up for it differently than I would my home, or than would the people who call the area around the island home? Would I dare to join whatever measures were enacted to defend it? Would I dare not to? How can we harness the best of both kinds of relationships in defense of the places that, at the end of the day, we all just want to love and treat well?

We encounter place in both space and time. Nothing is truly unchanging. We can but meet the place with our full selves, as we are at every moment, and let that moment meet us, as well.

person walking across frozen lake

Photo by Leora Effinger-Weintraub, 2009, under Creative Commons license. Some rights reserved.

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In the Beginning Was the Potential

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February 28, 2012 by • Categorized: Restorying the Sacred.

In the beginning was the Potential. Everything That Was—and Everything That Would Be—existed, or at least had the potential to exist. And it was all crammed into a space smaller than the smallest dot from the smallest lead of the smallest pencil (not that pencils existed yet. Or leads. Or dots).

Outside of the Potential was the Void. The Void was the unimaginably vast see of nothingness in which the Potential floated. The Void was a good home. It was roomy. It was dark. It demanded nothing of the Potential except that it be there, keeping the Void company.

But we all know what happens when a large number of creative people get together in a small space. They feed each other. Make each other increasingly more excited about getting out into the world and creating. And in the Potential there was a lot of creative energy. Not just creative people: all of the creative energy that existed or was yet to exist, all in an area smaller than the period at the end of this sentence (not that sentences existed yet. Or periods).

The Potential began to vibrate. Began to hum. Began to feel it just had to get out there and create. And it hummed louder, and it vibrated faster, and it got more and more and more excited until finally it couldn’t take any more and just BURST! out of its tiny space and into the Void.

Stellar Nursery in the Rosette Nebula

Stellar Nursery in the Rosette Nebula. Image Credit: ESA/PACS & SPIRE Consortium/HOBYS Key Programme Consortia

And there was…nothing. The Potential burst out and out, and it quickly began converting its creative energy into manifestation, and nothing impeded its progress. There was only the Void, and the Void was more than happy to stay out of the Potential’s way and let it build stars and nebulae and comets and planets. For the Potential had grown from the Void, and someday, the Void knew, the Potential would return to it.

The Potential became the Cosmos, both held by the Void and holding it. Everything the Cosmos creates, from that limitless store of creative energy that started it all, the Void ultimately takes back. And everything the Void takes back, it ultimately returns.

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An Earth Dweller’s Creed

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February 12, 2012 by • Categorized: Restorying the Sacred.

I believe in the Cosmos, the Mystery at the Heart of All,
Self-creating, self-organizing, self-sustaining.

I believe in Earth, a living planet, our home.
Conceived in the Big Bang,
It evolves myriad forms,
Suffers extinctions and upheavals,
But endures, adapts, and thrives.
To it all life returns;
From it all life rises up.
It makes each moment a heaven
For all who are present to What Is.
It holds the living and the dead and does not judge.

I believe in the holiness of being,
the spiritual authority of the individual,
the communion of loved ones,
the acceptance of consequences,
the recycling of the body,
and the Story everlasting.

Blessed be.

a string of prayer beads on blue background

Beauty Prayer Beads, by Donald L. Engstrom-Reese. Used with the artist's permission.

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The Squirrel and the Story

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January 29, 2012 by • Categorized: Restorying the Sacred.

Five crows have gathered in our backyard labyrinth on a dazzling winter morning. Our neighborhood is pretty hoppin’, corvid-wise, but our yard has never been the murder capital. I wonder what brings them here.

Then I see the sixth crow—and the squirrel. Frozen and decapitated, the squirrel is providing a sumptuous feast for our black-winged visitors.

One of my personal credos is “We are not the Story.” The Cosmos began to spin its tale aeons before any of us arrived, and it will continue to do so long after even our beloved planet is just a memory. When telling our stories of place, perspective—in time as well as space—matters immensely. Seen from the crows’ point of view, this is a story of feast and triumph. Seen from the squirrel’s, it is a one of tragedy and loss.

Or is it? The essence of what that squirrel was when alive has passed; yet, in the sustenance it provides the crows, it continues to participate in the Story. Its last chapter is, in a way, also its first (or, to stretch the metaphor, the first of a sequel): its first chapter in the guts of a crow; its first as nutrient-rich fertilizer on the ground; its first as, perhaps, a Douglas fir or a phlox plant. Altruism plays no part in the gift—the squirrel, given its druthers, would surely have chosen to continue the starring role it was playing in its own life and withhold this particular generosity as long as possible. But that does not minimize the rich story of its gift, of the future tales its death makes possible.

a crow and a squirrel

Crow Attack by Carrie Sloan. Some rights reserved.

We might all, I think, do well to consider how our physical selves will continue participating in the Story after we die. I often feel saddened by the way in which humans have unbalanced the equation. We have grown so adept at taking, yet two of our greatest opportunities for giving back to Earth’s natural cycles—excreta and remains—many cultures have sealed off almost completely. Our wastes (unless we have composting toilets…dang, I love composting toilets) rush down pipes away from us and away from any fertilizing benefit it might hold. And although there are cultures, and individuals in our own culture, who reverently place the bodies of our beloved dead in the open, to feed the other lives of their place, most of us lock them away the bodies in urns or nearly indestructible coffins that will “protect” us from the natural processes of decay and transformation.

I hope I’ll live long enough to receive burial in a natural or “green” cemetery here in Minnesota, like the one in Wisconsin overseen by Circle Sanctuary (and support the efforts of organizations like the Full Circle Project to make that happen). If I don’t, I hope that my loved ones could find something like Martín Azúa’s Bios Urn. It is my small way of trying to rebalance the equation, of making a real offering back to the Earth in exchange for all I have taken.

We are not the Story, but we participate in its telling every moment of every day, even after this particular chapter of ourselves ends. We all offer one final gift to this planet we love. May we, like the squirrel, make it a generous one.

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The First Song

10

January 7, 2012 by • Categorized: Restorying the Sacred.

East Wind went a-traveling. As the day dawned, it heard Song Sparrow’s trill and blew closer to listen. “Song Sparrow,” it asked, “why do you sing?”

photo of Song Sparrow in tree

Song Sparrow singing by Bow Bridge. Photo by Anders Peltomaa; some rights reserved.

“Today I sing to call a mate,” answered Song Sparrow.

“Will you teach me to sing as you do?” asked East Wind.

“Alas, I cannot,” said Song Sparrow, “for you lack the syrinx I use to sing.”

“Where did you learn your song?” asked East Wind.

“From my father,” said Song Sparrow, “who learned it from his father, who learned it from his father. So long as the world has known Song Sparrows, Song Sparrows have known this song.”

“But where did the first song of the first Song Sparrow come from?” asked East Wind.

This quite stumped Song Sparrow. “I don’t know,” he said. “Perhaps he made it up.”

East Wind traveled on. As evening gathered, it heard Cricket’s rapid stridulation and blew closer to listen. “Cricket,” it asked, “why do you sing?”

“I sing to tell the weather,” answered Cricket. “The warmer the air, the faster I chirp.”

“Will you teach me to sing as you do?” asked East Wind.

“I’m afraid I can’t,” said Cricket, “for you lack the plectrum and stridulitrum I use to sing.”

Grasshopper stridulating

Striduler. Photo by mikael dusenne; some rights reserved.

“Where did you learn your song?” asked East Wind.

“From my father,” said Cricket, “who learned it from his father, who learned it from his father. So long as the world has known crickets, crickets have known this song.”

“But where did the first song of the first cricket come from?” asked East Wind.

Cricket thought a good long while. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Perhaps he made it up.”

East Wind traveled on. As night fell, and most creatures drifted into sleep and fell silent, East Wind heard a round song, full of spheres and rings and waves, deep and quiet and impossible to separate from the trill of Song Sparrow and the stridulation of Cricket and a billion other songs sung by a million other children of Gaia.

“What is this song?” East Wind asked. “Who is the singer?”

And East Wind heard a laugh, as round and deep and quiet and inseparable as the song. “I am the singer,” Gaia said, “and this is the First Song, the one I taught Song Sparrow and Cricket and a million other beings who sing a billion other songs.”

“But their songs sound nothing like this,” East Wind said.

“Ah, so they’ve changed a note or two here and there over millennia, to keep themselves amused. But you can still hear my song in theirs.”

East Wind conceded that this was true. “Will you teach me to sing as you do?”

Photo of Earth from space

Earth from space. Photo by NASA.

Gaia smiled. “But you already do—you and the other winds, and the oceans and rocks and mountains and sky. When Mountain kisses you and Ocean holds your hand; when you bask in Sun’s heat and shiver in Night’s chill—in all of those times you sing the First Song.”

“I don’t remember that,” East Wind confessed. “Why do we do it?”

“For the love of it,” Gaia answered. “For the very fact of being! And to remember that, although the melodies change, we are all, at our cores, singing the same song. ”

East Wind thought these very good reasons, indeed, and it traveled on, singing its new, old song.

——

A 2008 article on the phenomenon known as “Earth’s hum”.

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A Song for Dark

10

December 17, 2011 by • Categorized: Restorying the Sacred.

Once upon a time, which is not time as you and I know it, Dark and Light held equal power. They were not universally loved, this is true: some beings flourished in Light and feared Dark, while others thrived in Dark and shunned Light; but everyone understood that each was an unavoidable reality, and that each played a vital role in the life of Gaia.

Then one day, which is not a day as you and I know it, the Upright Folk came to have a bit of power in the world. The Upright Folk loved Light and dreaded Dark; Dark-loving creatures often hunted them, creatures with faster legs and sharper teeth and keener eyes. But the Upright Folk were so clever that they soon discovered ways to store Light to use in times of Dark. They crammed Dark into smaller spaces and times of day and year, until very little remained for it, and the endless celebration of Light left many of Dark’s beings dazed and disordered, blundering about without homes in a bright landscape.

Worst of all was the singing. On Light’s most powerful day, the Upright Folk sang songs of its triumph, as was fitting, but on Dark’s most powerful night, they sang only about their gladness that Light would soon return.

Dark despaired. It could think of nothing it had done wrong, yet the Upright Folk seemed determined to banish it from their lives. Dark moped and fell into a dark mood, which, since it was Dark, was very dark, indeed.

candles in a snow labyrinth on Winter Solstice night

Snow labyrinth. Photo by Leora Effinger-Weintraub.

And then, one night, which is a night as you and I know it, only much, much longer, Dark heard a new song. Some of the Upright Folk were singing songs about Dark — celebrating it! Dark listened deeper, and beneath the songs it heard a silence — a silence in its honor! Dark looked across the world, into the nests of the Upright Folk, and saw that some had turned off their clever Light devices and had chosen, through that long, long night, to sit with Dark. Dark felt loved, and Dark felt stronger.

More nights passed. More days passed. More Upright Folk sat in silence and dark. Some of their tribes even agreed not to use so many of their clever Light devices, because they missed Dark and the beings who loved it. Dark gleamed black with joy. The Upright Folk still feared it, and they would always treasure Light more, but they understood that each was an unavoidable reality, and that each played a vital role in the life of Gaia. Once upon a time, perhaps, equal power would be restored.

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What’s She Building in There?

9

December 4, 2011 by • Categorized: Restorying the Sacred.

(With apologies to Tom Waits.)

So, let me tell you a story. It’s Lammas, and I’m sitting in an area of the Mississippi River bluff known to locals as the “Giggly Hills”, listening to a very talented Witch spin a tale about Lugh. I mean to say, this woman can really tell a story. Yet I keep getting distracted by the carpet of clover, the industrious bees, the way the breeze rustles the leaves of the enormous burr oaks…and I think, Surely these are among the deities of this place. I want to tell their stories.

The Giggly Hills, Mississippi River bluffs

The Giggly Hills. Photo by Leora Effinger-Weintraub

That planted the seed of the idea that is growing “Restorying the Sacred”. The crafting of some new science- and nature-based myths to, if I may be so bold, stand alongside the ancient tales, to add the “here and now” to the “long ago and far away”, interspersed with musings on the what, why, and what next of such story creation. After all, as John noted in the comments of “S and R Dance On”, “Our ancestors put their understanding of the natural world into stories – we should do the same.” And at this time in the human adventure, science is one of the ways in which we understand the natural world.

It’s an ambitious project, possibly fraught with peril, and one danger is of confusing the “real” with the “unreal”. After all, bees and orchids never really made any sort of co-evolutionary “deal”, and the Outcast Star isn’t flying out of the Milky Way because it paid too much attention to its binary partner. Of course, one thing I’ve learned as a Pagan is that reality has many levels; we just need to stay on the appropriate level for a given situation.

So let us make a pledge, you and I who are embarking on this journey together. Let us say:

“I, [name of choice], being sound of body, mind, and spirit, do pledge by myself and by [Divine name of choice] that I will take the stories of “Restorying the Sacred”, and any stories of my own that may be inspired by it, as metaphorical truth, rather than literal. I promise that I will not anthropomorphize the nonhuman beings around me but will acknowledge that they have their own existence that, although connected to me through the Web of All Being, has nothing to do with me. So mote it be.”

There we have it. The groundwork laid for a new adventure. Let sacred story time begin in earnest.

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S and R Dance On

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November 18, 2011 by • Categorized: Restorying the Sacred.

R and S were in love. No two beings in the history of the Cosmos had ever been as in love as they were; they were certain of it. They were so in love that they spent all of their time dancing with each other and shining brightly for each other. Since they were stars, they quite excelled at shining.

As they danced past wise Mother Earth, she called, “Spend time with other loved ones, R and S! No two beings can – or should – be everything to each other. You will lose sight of the Cosmos around you.”

As they danced past sweet Sister Comet, she called, “Explore other passions, R and S! No two beings can – or should – be everything to each other. You will lose sight of the Cosmos around you.”

But R and S cared nothing for other loved ones or other passions. They ignored invitations from planets they passed, and they didn’t even look at other stars, asteroids, and nebulae around them. They cared only for dancing, spinning around and around each other, and for shining at each other, so brightly that most other folks couldn’t even look at them.

Image of binary star system

Photo by NASA/Goddard Space Flight Center

One day, R said, “I feel a curious pull in this direction.”

“That’s nothing to do with us,” said S. “Dance on!” So they did.

Some days later, as these things go, S said, “I feel a strange push in that direction.”

“It’s nothing to do with us,” R said. “Dance on!” So they did.

Some days after that, as these things go, S said, “R, my love, you seem to be pulling away from me.”

R replied, “S, my only, you seem to be rushing away from me!”

For the first time, they looked around outside themselves and saw that they had come too close to the great black hole at the heart of the galaxy. “We will be sucked in!” R cried.

But the truth was much worse than that. For while R was, indeed, being pulled into the black hole, S had been just far enough away in their dance to be flung outward at unfathomable speeds, as though from a giant slingshot.

“My love,” S cried, speeding away, “how I will miss you! Dance on!”

“My only,” R called, sinking fast, “how I will long for you! Dance on!”

Other beings made a fuss over S – the first star ever to leave the Milky Way. “Such sights you will see,” they said. And amazing sights there were – but S cared nothing for them without R.

Other beings made a fuss over R, as well. “There’s not many as get to know what the inside of a black hole is like. Such an adventurer you’ll be,” they said. And such an adventurer R was – but none of it mattered without S.

Yet what could they do but dance on?

***

The 2005 press release from the Harvard-Smithsonian Center for Astrophysics on “Outcast Star” SDSS J090745.0+24507 and its companion. 

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People of the Story: Tom Keith

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November 4, 2011 by • Categorized: Restorying the Sacred.

On Samhain I learned of the death of long-time Minnesota Public Radio Morning Show cohost and Prairie Home Companion sound-effects wizard Tom Keith, and it got me reflecting on the ways in which the people of a place help create its story.

When I moved to Minnesota in 1996, being the good geek that I am, one of my first orders of business was to scope out public radio stations. This search led me to the KSJN morning show and the incomparable talents of Dale Connelly and Tom Keith (working under his nom d’air, Jim Ed Poole).

Nearly every morning for the next four years, I woke up (or, as finals approached, fell asleep) to this duo. In the era of Jackass and Howard Stern, what delight to discover humor that demanded the best from its hearers but was never mean-spirited. Right or wrong, I came to consider this attitude as quintessentially Minnesotan, and I don’t think I’m overstating things to say that my early experiences of listening to Dale and Jim Ed are as much a part of my understanding of the story of this place as are sojourns to the Mississippi River and winter days with -60-degree wind chills. They became part of the story I tell myself and others about my adopted home: Minnesotans are smart, funny, and kind. That story (which contains many other things as well, of course) forms the basis of how I inhabit this now and here.

Everything that dwells in a place contributes to the co-creation of that place’s story: the rocks and trees, the algae and fungi, the cats and rats and bats–and the people. At this time of year, when the distance between those of us who live this life and those who have lived it before feels so minute, how fitting to honor our human ancestors of place and the way they have storied our world. Who are the people who co-create the story of your now and here? What tales do they tell? What tales do you tell about them?

Requiescat in pace, Mr. Keith. In the silence, I hear the tale of your remarkable sounds.

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Bee and Orchid • Eli Effinger-Weintraub

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October 26, 2011 by • Categorized: Restorying the Sacred, Science & Religion.

Bee and Orchid by Leora Effinger-Weintraub
Photograph by Leora Effinger-Weintraub

Orchid had to get a package across town, but she was quite stuck here, rooted by her obligations to the challenging work of photosynthesis and transpiration.

Bee buzzed nearby, and Orchid wagged a petal at her. “Sister Bee,” she said, “can you carry this package across town for me?”

Bee settled on a sepal. “I am headed that way; I suppose I could.” She took the package from Orchid’s stamens and flew away. And everyone was happy…for a time.

A few times Bee and her sisters carried messages back and forth for Orchid, but then she put her foot down. “All around, hither and yon, we carry your messages,” she complained. “What do we get for it, besides a hassle?”

“What do you require?” Orchid asked.

“Food,” Bee said. “Something sweet.”

Orchid went to her kitchen and concocted something delicious that Bee and her sisters couldn’t resist. She gave the recipe to her brother and sister orchids, so they could keep the bees contented at every stop on their journey. And everyone was happy…for a time.

But trouble began to brew. Orchid’s concoction was so delicious that other creatures wanted to taste it. But no other creature delivered messages and packages as faithfully as Bee. Bee and Orchid both disliked this change. “You let so many others carry your messages there is very little food left for us,” said Bee.

“I will think of something,” Orchid promised.

Orchid thought of something, but it didn’t work. She thought of something else, and that failed, as well. At last, Orchid arrived at a very good solution, but she needed a promise, too. For it had come to pass that someone had leaked the recipe for her delicious concoction, and now there were many flowers Bee could choose to carry packages for. “Bee,” Orchid said, “I want you and your sisters to carry only my packages.”

“I’m sorry,” said Bee, “but we can’t promise that, for we are too many for your kind alone to feed.” She thought, and then said, “But we can promise that, while you bloom, we will carry only your messages.”

“I accept,” Orchid said. Then she opened her petals and showed Bee the new solution. She had hidden both the food and the package where only Bee could reach them. Larger pollinators could not fit through the passage, and smaller ones would find the door shut in their faces. “There’s nothing wrong with them,” Orchid explained, “but they’re not the messengers for me.”

Bee and Orchid both approved of the new arrangement and benefitted from it greatly. To this day, we still see Bee carrying Orchid’s messages and packages all around, hither and yon. And everyone is happy…for the time.

Eli Effinger-Weintraub practices naturalistic Reclaiming-tradition hearthcraft in the Twin Cities watershed. She plants her beliefs and practices in the Earth and her butt on a bicycle saddle. She writes plays, essays, and short fiction (especially of the steampunk variety) and is attempting to wrestle a novel into submission. Previous works have appeared in Witches & Pagans Magazine, Circle Magazine, and Steampunk Tales, as well as at the Clarion Foundation blog, I’m From Driftwood, and Humanistic Paganism. Eli earns her daily bread as a comma wrangler. She shares her life and art with her wife, visual artist Leora Effinger-Weintraub, and two buffalo disguised as cats. Check out Eli’s corner of the Internet: Back Booth

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