Ritual

Old Man Hood

I have this little ritual.  An old friend I turn to in all times --kind and cruel, feast and famine.  Nothing so grand or reassuring as the Catholic Mass, but it's come to serve me well enough over the years. 

I take me up to Mount Tabor, to the top of the rounded old pate, and I stand by the Julija Laenen bench and pay homage to Old Man Hood.  I study him.  I try to fathom his intentions.  Of course it's hopeless, but I never tire of trying.  In winter, he often does not deign to show himself.
 

Witches' work?

From there, I go to visit the sapling white oak.  I have so much hope for this tree.  It's a gift that we, the people of Portland today, are giving to the people of Portland in the many decades to come.

On this day, ashes and crow feathers, carefully arranged around the slender bole.   My ritual intersects with another's, then.  Might it be the witches?

View from the Edgar Francis Conant park bench

The Edgar Francis Conant park bench affords a westward view out onto the canopy of my home.  A nearly straight shot down Hawthorne Boulevard.  The soil in which I've been planted.

In memory of Frank Conant and his dog, Rusty

My ritual is complete when I burn some incense at the feet of good Mr. Harvey Scott.  I'm sure, were he to speak, Mr. Scott would have some interesting tales to tell.  I chased an Irish sprite up this mountain, once.  But I caught her before she reached the top.  So, Harvey Scott didn't see us.  He's seen plenty, though.  Believe me.

In the pride of my youth, I would mock ritual as a crutch for the weak.  But years will change perspectives.

Submission is not weakness.  Submission is strength.  I've come to know that.